[Illustration: "These Are My Dearest Children. "]

THECRYPTOGRAM. 

A Novel. 

By James De Mille, Author of"The Dodge Club, " "Cord and Creese, " "The American Baron, " etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

New York:Harper & Brothers, Publishers, Franklin Square. 1872

CHAPTER I. 

TWO OLD FRIENDS. 

Chetwynde Castle was a large baronial mansion, belonging to thePlantagenet period, and situated in Monmouthshire. It was a grand oldplace, with dark towers, and turrets, and gloomy walls surmountedwith battlements, half of which had long since tumbled down, whilethe other half seemed tottering to ruin. That menacing ruin was onone side of the structure concealed beneath a growth of ivy, whichcontrasted the dark green of its leaves with the sombre hue of theancient stones. Time with its defacing fingers had only lentadditional grandeur to this venerable pile. As it rose there--"standingwith half its battlements alone, and with five hundred yearsof ivy grown"--its picturesque magnificence and its air of hoarantiquity made it one of the noblest monuments of the past whichEngland could show. 

All its surroundings were in keeping with the central object. Herewere no neat paths, no well-kept avenues, no trim lawns. On thecontrary, every thing bore the unmistakable marks of neglect anddecay; the walks were overgrown, the terraces dilapidated, and therose pleasaunce had degenerated into a tangled mass of bushes andbriers. It seemed as though the whole domain were about to revertinto its original state of nature; and every thing spoke either ofthe absence of a master, or else of something more importantstill--the absence of money. 

The castle stood on slightly elevated ground; and from its gray stoneivy-covered portal so magnificent was the view that the most carelessobserver would be attracted by it, and stand wonder-struck at thebeauty of the scene, till he forgot in the glories of nature thedeficiencies of art. Below, and not far away, flowed the silvery Wye, most charming of English streams, winding tortuously through fertilemeadows and wooded copses; farther off lay fruitful vales and rollinghills; while in the distance the prospect was bounded by the giantforms of the Welsh mountains. 

At the moment when this story opens these beauties were but faintlyvisible through the fast-fading twilight of a summer evening; theshadows were rapidly deepening; and the only signs of life about theplace appeared where from some of the windows at the eastern endfaint rays of light stole out into the gloom. 

The interior of the castle corresponded with the exterior inmagnificence and in ruin--in its picturesque commingling of splendorand decay. The hall was hung with arms and armor of past generations, and ornamented with stags' heads, antlers, and other trophies of thechase; but rust, and mould, and dust covered them all. Throughout thehouse a large number of rooms were empty, and the whole western endwas unfurnished. In the furnished rooms at the eastern end everything belonged to a past generation, and all the massive andantiquated furniture bore painful marks of poverty and neglect. Timewas every where asserting his power, and nowhere was any resistancemade to his ravages. Some comfort, however, was still to be found inthe old place. There were rooms which were as yet free from thegeneral touch of desolation. Among these was the dining-room, whereat this time the heavy curtains were drawn, the lamps shone outcheerily, and, early June though it was, a bright wood-fire blazed onthe ample hearth, lighting up with a ruddy glow the heavy panelingsand the time-worn tapestries. Dinner was just over, the dessert wason the table, and two gentlemen were sitting over their wine--thoughthis is to be taken rather in a figurative sense, for theirconversation was so engrossing as to make them oblivious of even thecharms of the old ancestral port of rare vintage which Lord Chetwyndehad produced to do honor to his guest. Nor is this to be wondered at. Friends of boyhood and early manhood, sharers long ago in eachother's hopes and aspirations, they had parted last when youth andambition were both at their height. Now, after the lapse of years, wayworn and weary from the strife, they had met again to recount howthose hopes had been fulfilled. 

The two men were of distinguished appearance. Lord Chetwynde was ofabout the medium size, with slight figure, and pale, aristocraticface. His hair was silver-white, his features were delicatelychiseled, but wore habitually a sad and anxious expression. His wholephysique betokened a nature of extreme refinement and sensibility, rather than force or strength of character. His companion, GeneralPomeroy, was a man of different stamp. He was tall, with a highreceding brow, hair longer than is common with soldiers; thin lips, which spoke of resolution, around which, however, there always dweltas he spoke a smile of inexpressible sweetness. He had a long nose, and large eyes that lighted up with every varying feeling. There wasin his face both resolution and kindliness, each in extreme, asthough he could remorselessly take vengeance on an enemy or lay downhis life for a friend. 

As long as the servants were present the conversation, animatedthough it was, referred to topics of a general character; but as soonas they had left the room the two friends began to refer moreconfidentially to the past. 

"You have lived so very secluded a life, " said General Pomeroy, "thatit is only at rare intervals that I have heard any thing of you, andthat was hardly more than the fact that you were alive. You werealways rather reserved and secluded, you know; you hated, likeHorace, the _profanum vulgus_, and held yourself aloof from them, andso I suppose you would not go into political life. Well, I don't knowbut that, after all, you were right. "

"My dear Pomeroy, " said Lord Chetwynde, leaning back in his chair, "my circumstances have been such that entrance into political lifehas scarcely ever depended on my own choice. My position has been sopeculiar that it has hardly ever been possible for me to obtainadvancement in the common ways, even if I had desired it. I dare say, If I had been inordinately ambitious, I might have done something;but, as it was, I have done nothing. You see me just about where Iwas when we parted, I don't know how many years ago. "

"Well, at any rate, " said the General, "you have been spared thetrouble of a career of ambition. You have lived here quietly on yourown place, and I dare say you have had far more real happiness thanyou would otherwise have had. "

"Happiness!" repeated Lord Chetwynde, in a mournful tone. He leanedhis head on his hand for a few moments, and said nothing. At last helooked up and said, with a bitter smile:

"The story of my life is soon told. Two words will embody itall--disappointment and failure. "

General Pomeroy regarded his friend earnestly for a few moments, andthen looked away without speaking. 

"My troubles began from the very first, " continued Lord Chetwynde, ina musing tone, which seemed more like a soliloquy than any thingelse. "There was the estate, saddled with debt handed down from mygrandfather to my father. It would have required years of economy andgood management to free it from encumbrance. But my father's mottowas always _Dum vivimus vivamus_ and his only idea was to get whatmoney he could for himself, and let his heirs look out forthemselves. In consequence, heavier mortgages were added. He lived inParis, enjoying himself, and left Chetwynde in charge of a factor, whose chief idea was to feather his own nest. So he let every thinggo to decay, and oppressed the tenants in order to collect money formy father, and prevent his coming home to see the ruin that was goingon. You may not have known this before. I did not until after ourseparation, when it all came upon me at once. My father wanted me tojoin him in breaking the entail. Overwhelmed by such a calamity, andindignant with him, I refused to comply with his wishes. Wequarreled. He went back to Paris, and I never saw him again. 

"After his death my only idea was to clear away the debt, improve thecondition of the tenants, and restore Chetwynde to its formercondition. How that hope has been realized you have only to lookaround you and see. But at that time my hope was strong. I went up toLondon, where my name and the influence of my friends enabled me toenter into public life. You were somewhere in England then, and Ioften used to wonder why I never saw you. You must have been inLondon. I once saw your name in an army list among the officers of aregiment stationed there. At any rate I worked hard, and at first allmy prospects were bright, and I felt confident in my future. 

"Well, about that time I got married, trusting to my prospects. Shewas of as good a family as mine, but had no money. "

Lord Chetwynde's tone as he spoke about his marriage had suddenlychanged. It seemed as though he spoke with an effort. He stopped fora time, and slowly drank a glass of wine. "She married me, " hecontinued, in an icy tone, "for my prospects. Sometimes you know itis very safe to marry on prospects. A rising young statesman is oftena far better match than a dissipated man of fortune. Some mothersknow this; my wife's mother thought me a good match, and my wifethought so too. I loved her very dearly, or I would not havemarried--though I don't know, either: people often marry in a whim. "

General Pomeroy had thus far been gazing fixedly at the oppositewall, but now he looked earnestly at his friend, whose eyes weredowncast while he spoke, and showed a deeper attention. 

"My office, " said Lord Chetwynde, "was a lucrative one, so that I wasable to surround my bride with every comfort; and the brightprospects which lay before me made me certain about my future. Aftera time, however, difficulties arose. You are aware that the chiefpoint in my religion is Honor. It is my nature, and was taught me bymy mother. Our family motto is, _Noblesse oblige_, and the fullmeaning of this great maxim my mother had instilled into every fibreof my being. But on going into the world I found it ridiculed amongmy own class as obsolete and exploded. Every where it seemed to havegiven way to the mean doctrine of expediency. My sentiments weregayly ridiculed, and I soon began to fear that I was not suited forpolitical life. 

"At length a crisis arrived. I had either to sacrifice my conscienceor resign my position. I chose the latter alternative, and in doingso I gave up my political life forever. I need not tell thebitterness of my disappointment. But the loss of worldly prospectsand of hope was as nothing compared with other things. The worst ofall was the reception which I met at home. My young, and as Isupposed loving wife, to whom I went at once with my story, and fromwhom I expected the warmest sympathy, greeted me with nothing buttears and reproaches. She could only look upon my act with theworld's eyes. She called it ridiculous Quixotism. She charged me withwant of affection; denounced me for beguiling her to marry a pauper;and after a painful interview we parted in coldness. "

Lord Chetwynde, whose agitation was now evident, here paused anddrank another glass of wine. After some time he went on:

"After all, it was not so bad. I soon found employment. I had mademany powerful friends, who, though they laughed at my scruples, stillseemed to respect my consistency, and had confidence in my ability. Through them I obtained a new appointment where I could be moreindependent, though the prospects were poor. Here I might have beenhappy, had it not been for the continued alienation between my wifeand me. She had been ambitions. She had relied on my future. She wasnow angry because I had thrown that future away. It was a death-blowto her hopes, and she could not forgive me. We lived in the samehouse, but I knew nothing of her occupations and amusements. She wentmuch into society, where she was greatly admired, and seemed to beneglectful of her home and of her child. I bore my misery as best Icould in silence, and never so much as dreamed of the tremendouscatastrophe in which it was about to terminate. "

Lord Chetwynde paused, and seemed overcome by his recollections. 

"You have heard of it, I suppose?" he asked at length, in a scarceaudible voice. 

The General looked at him, and for a moment their eyes met; then helooked away. Then he shaded his eyes with his hand and sat as thoughawaiting further revelations. 

Lord Chetwynde did not seem to notice him at all. Intent upon his ownthoughts, he went on in that strange soliloquizing tone with which hehad begun. 

"She fled--" he said, in a voice which was little more than awhisper. 

"Heavens!" said General Pomeroy. 

There was a long silence. 

"It was about three years after our marriage, " continued LordChetwynde, with an effort. "She fled. She left no word of farewell. She fled. She forsook me. She forsook her child. My God! Why?"

He was silent again. 

"Who was the man?" asked the General, in a strange voice, and with aneffort. 

"He was known as Redfield Lyttoun. He had been devoted for a longtime to my wretched wife. Their flight was so secret and soskillfully managed that I could gain no clew whatever to it--and, indeed, it was better so--perhaps--yes--better so. " Lord Chetwyndedrew a long breath. "Yes, better so, " he continued--"for if I hadbeen able to track the scoundrel and take his life, my vengeancewould have been gained, but my dishonor would have been proclaimed. To me that dishonor would have brought no additional pang. I hadsuffered all that I could. More were impossible; but as it was myshame was not made public--and so, above all--above all--my boy wassaved. The frightful scandal did not arise to crush my darling boy. "

The agitation of Lord Chetwynde overpowered him. His face grew morepallid, his eyes were fixed, and his clenched hands testified to thestruggle that raged within him. A long silence followed, during whichneither spoke a word. 

At length Lord Chetwynde went on. "I left London forever, " said he, with a deep sigh. 

"After that my one desire was to hide myself from the world. I wishedthat if it were possible my very name might be forgotten. And so Icame back to Chetwynde, where I have lived ever since, in the utmostseclusion, devoting myself entirely to the education and training ofmy boy. 

"Ah, my old friend, that boy has proved the one solace of my life. Well has he repaid me for my care. Never was there a nobler ora more devoted nature than his. Forgive a father's emotion, myfriend. If you but knew my noble, my brave, my chivalrous boy, youwould excuse me. That boy would lay down his life for me. In all hislife his one thought has been to spare me all trouble and to brightenmy dark life. Poor Guy! He knows nothing of the horror of shame thathangs over him--he has found out nothing as yet. To him his mother isa holy thought--the thought of one who died long ago, whose memory hethinks so sacred to me that I dare not speak of her. Poor Guy! PoorGuy!"

Lord Chetwynde again paused, overcome by deep emotion. "God onlyknows, " he resumed, "how I feel for him and for his future. It's adark future for him, my friend. For in addition to this grief which Ihave told you of there is another which weighs me down. Chetwynde isnot yet redeemed. I lost my life and my chance to save the estate. Chetwynde is overwhelmed with debt. The time is daily drawing nearwhen I will have to give up the inheritance which has come downthrough so long a line of ancestors. All is lost. Hope itself hasdeparted. How can I bear to see the place pass into alien hands?"

"Pass into alien hands?" interrupted the General, in surprise. "Giveup Chetwynde? Impossible! It can not be thought of. "

"Sad as it is, " replied Lord Chetwynde, mournfully, "it must be so. Sixty thousand pounds are due within two years. Unless I can raisethat amount all must go. When Guy comes of age he must break theentail and sell the estate. It is just beginning to pay again, too, "he added, regretfully. "When I came into it it was utterlyimpoverished, and every available stick of timber had been cut down;but my expenses have been very small, and if I have fulfilled noother hope of my life, I have at least done something for myground-down tenantry; for every which I have saved, after payingthe interest, I have spent on improving their homes and farms, sothat the place is now in very good condition, though I have beenobliged to leave the pleasure-grounds utterly neglected. "

"What are you going to do with your son?" asked the General. 

"I have just got him a commission in the army, " said Lord Chetwynde. "Some old friends, who had actually remembered me all these years, offered to do something for me in the diplomacy line; but if heentered that life I should feel that all the world was pointing thefinger of scorn at him for his mother's sake; besides, my boy is toohonest for a diplomat. No--he must go and make his own fortune. Aviscount with neither money, land, nor position--the only place forhim is the army. "

A long silence followed. Lord Chetwynde seemed to lose himself amongthose painful recollections which he had raised, while the General, falling into a profound abstraction, sat with his head on one hand, while the other drummed mechanically on the table. As much as half anhour passed away in this manner. The General was first to rousehimself. 

"I arrived in England only a few months ago, " he began, in a quiet, thoughtful tone. "My life has been one of strange vicissitudes. Myown country is almost like a foreign land to me. As soon as I couldget Pomeroy Court in order I determined to visit you. This visit waspartly for the sake of seeing you, and partly for the sake of askinga great favor. What you have just been saying has suggested a newidea, which I think may be carried out for the benefit of both of us. You must know, in the first place, I have brought my little daughterhome with me. In fact, it was for her sake that I came home--"

"You were married, then?"

"Yes, in India. You lost sight of me early in life, and so perhapsyou do not know that I exchanged from the Queen's service to that ofthe East India Company. This step I never regretted. My promotion wasrapid, and after a year or two I obtained a civil appointment. Fromthis I rose to a higher office; and after ten or twelve years theCompany recommended me as Governor in one of the provinces of theBengal Presidency. It was here that I found my sweet wife. 

"It is a strange story, " said the General, with a long sigh. "Shecame suddenly upon me, and changed all my life. Thus far I had sodevoted myself to business that no idea of love or sentiment everentered my head, except when I was a boy. I had reached the age offorty-five without having hardly ever met with any woman who hadtouched my heart, or even my head, for that matter. 

"My first sight of her was most sudden and most strange, " continuedthe General, in the tone of one who loved to linger upon even thesmallest details of the story which he was telling--"strange andsudden. I had been busy all day in the audience chamber, and when atlength the cases were all disposed of, I retired thoroughlyexhausted, and gave orders that no one should be admitted on anypretext whatever. On passing through the halls to my privateapartment I heard an altercation at the door. My orderly was speakingin a very decided tone to some one. 

"'It is impossible, ' I heard him say. 'His Excellency has givenpositive orders to admit no one to-day. '

"I walked on, paying but little heed to this. Applications werecommon after hours, and my rules on this point were stringent. Butsuddenly my attention was arrested by the sound of a woman's voice. It affected me strangely, Chetwynde. The tones were sweet and low, and there was an agony of supplication in them which lent additionalearnestness to her words. 

"'Oh, do not refuse me!' the voice said. 'They say the Resident isjust and merciful. Let me see him, I entreat, if only for onemoment. '

"At these words I turned, and at once hastened to the door. A younggirl stood there, with her hands clasped, and in an attitude ofearnest entreaty. She had evidently come closely veiled, but in herexcitement her veil had been thrown back, and her upturned face lentan unspeakable earnestness to her pleading. At the sight of her I wasfilled with the deepest sympathy. 

"'I am the Resident, ' said I. 'What can I do for you?'

"She looked at me earnestly, and for a time said nothing. A changecame over her face. Her troubles seemed to have overwhelmed her. Shetottered, and would have fallen, had I not supported her. I led herinto the house, and sent for some wine. This restored her. 

"She was the most beautiful creature that I ever beheld, " continuedthe General, in a pensive tone, after some silence. "She was tall andslight, with all that litheness and grace of movement which ispeculiar to Indian women, and yet she seemed more European thanIndian. Her face was small and oval, her hair hung round it in richmasses, and her eyes were large, deep, and liquid, and, in additionto their natural beauty, they bore that sad expression which, it issaid, is the sure precursor of an early death. Thank God!" continuedthe General, in a musing tone, "I at least did something to brightenthat short life of hers. 

"As soon as she was sufficiently recovered she told her story. It wasa strange one. She was the daughter of an English officer, who havingfallen in love with an Indian Begum gave up home, country, andfriends, and married her. Their daughter Arauna had been brought upin the European manner, and to the warm, passionate, Indian natureshe added the refined intelligence of the English lady. When she wasfourteen her father died. Her mother followed in a few years. Of herfather's friends she knew nothing, and her mother's brother, who wasthe Rajah of a distant province, was the only one on whom she couldrely. Her mother while dying charged her always to remember that shewas the daughter of a British officer, and that if she were ever inneed of protection she should demand it of the English authorities. After her mother's death the Rajah took her away, and assumed thecontrol of all her inheritance. At the age of eighteen she was tocome into possession, and as the time drew near the Rajah informedher that he wished her to marry his son. But this son was detestableto her, and to her English ideas the proposal was abhorrent. Sherefused to marry him. The Rajah swore that she should. At this shethreatened that she would claim the protection of the Britishgovernment. Fearful of this, and enraged at her firmness, he confinedher in her rooms for several months, and at length threatened that ifshe did not consent he would use force. This threat reduced her todespair. She determined to escape and appeal to the Britishauthorities. She bribed her attendants, escaped, and by good fortunereached my Residency. 

"On hearing her story I promised that full justice should be doneher, and succeeded in quieting her fears. I obtained a suitable homefor her, and found the widow of an English officer who consented tolive with her. 

"Ah, Chetwynde, how I loved her! A year passed away, and she becamemy wife. Never before had I known such happiness as I enjoyed withher. Never since have I known any happiness whatever. She loved mewith such devotion that she would have laid down her life for me. Shelooked on me as her savior as well as her husband. My happiness wastoo great to last. 

"I felt it--I knew it, " he continued, in a broken voice. "Two yearsmy darling lived with me, and then--she was taken away. 

"I was ill for a long time, " continued the General, in a gentlevoice. "I prayed for death, but God spared me for my child's sake. Irecovered sufficiently to attend to the duties of my office, but itwas with difficulty that I did so. I never regained my formerstrength. My child grew older, and at length I determined to returnto England. I have come here to find all my relatives dead, and you, the old friend of my boyhood, are the only survivor. One thing thereis, however, that imbitters my situation now. My health is still veryprecarious, and I may at any moment leave my child unprotected. Sheis the one concern of my life. I said that I had come here to ask afavor of you. It was this, that you would allow me to nominate you asher guardian in case of my death, and assist me also in finding anyother guardian to succeed you in case you should pass away before shereached maturity. This was my purpose. But after what you have toldme other things have occurred to my mind. I have been thinking of aplan which seems to me to be the best thing for both of us. 

"Listen now to my proposal, " he said, with greater earnestness. "Thatyou should give up Chetwynde is not to be thought of for one moment. In addition to my own patrimony and my wife's inheritance I haveamassed a fortune during my residence in India, and I can think of nobetter use for it than in helping my old friend in his time of need. "

Lord Chetwynde raised his hand deprecatingly. 

"Wait--no remonstrance. Hear me out, " said the General. "I do not askyou to take this as a loan, or any thing of the kind. I only ask youto be a protector to my child. I could not rest in my grave if Ithought that I had left her unprotected. "

"What!" cried Lord Chetwynde, hastily interrupting him, "can youimagine that it is necessary to buy my good offices?"

"You don't understand me yet, Chetwynde; I want more than that. Iwant to secure a protector for her all her life. Since you have toldme about your affairs I have formed a strong desire to see herbetrothed to your son. True, I have never seen him, but I know verywell the stock he comes from. I know his father, " he went on, layinghis hand on his friend's arm; "and I trust the son is like thefather. In this way you see there will be no gift, no loan, noobligation. The Chetwynde debts will be all paid off, but it is formy daughter; and where could I get a better dowry?"

"But she must be very young, " said Lord Chetwynde, "if you were notmarried until forty-five. "

"She is only a child yet, " said the General. "She is ten years old. That need not signify, however. The engagement can be made just aswell. I free the estate from all its encumbrances; and as she willeventually be a Chetwynde, it will be for her sake as well as yourson's. There is no obligation. "

Lord Chetwynde wrung his friend's hand. 

"I do not know what to say, " said he. "It would add years to my lifeto know that my son is not to lose the inheritance of his ancestors. But of course I can make no definite arrangements until I have seenhim. He is the one chiefly interested; and besides, " he added, smilingly, "I can not expect you to take a father's estimate of anonly son. You must judge him for yourself, and see whether my accounthas been too partial. "

"Of course, of course. I must see him at once, " broke in the General. "Where is he?"

"In Ireland. I will telegraph to him tonight, and he will be here ina couple of days. "

"He could not come sooner, I suppose?" said the General, anxiously. 

Lord Chetwynde laughed. "I hardly think so--from Ulster. But why suchhaste? It positively alarms me, for I'm an idle man, and have had mytime on my hands for half a lifetime. "

"The old story, Chetwynde, " said the General, with a smile;"petticoat government. I promised my little girl that I would be backtomorrow. She will be sadly disappointed at a day's delay. I shall bealmost afraid to meet her. I fear she has been a little spoiled, poorchild; but you can scarcely wonder, under the circumstances. Afterall, she is a good child though; she has the strongest possibleaffection for me, and I can guide her as I please through heraffections. "

After some further conversation Lord Chetwynde sent off a telegram tohis son to come home without delay. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE WEIRD WOMAN. 

The morning-room at Chetwynde Castle was about the pleasantest onethere, and the air of poverty which prevailed elsewhere was here lostin the general appearance of comfort. It was a large apartment, commensurate with the size of the castle, and the deep bay-windowscommanded an extensive view. 

On the morning following the conversation already mentioned GeneralPomeroy arose early, and it was toward this room that he turned hissteps. Throughout the castle there was that air of neglect alreadyalluded to, so that the morning-room afforded a pleasant contrast. Here all the comfort that remained at Chetwynde seemed to havecentred. It was with a feeling of intense satisfaction that theGeneral seated himself in an arm-chair which stood within the deeprecess of the bay-window, and surveyed the apartment. 

The room was about forty feet long and thirty feet wide. The ceilingwas covered with quaint figures in fresco, the walls were paneledwith oak, and high-backed, stolid-looking chairs stood around. On oneside was the fire-place, so vast and so high that it seemed itselfanother room. It was the fine old fire-place of the Tudor orPlantagenet period--the unequaled, the unsurpassed--whose day haslong since been done, and which in departing from the world has leftnothing to compensate for it. Still, the fireplace lingers in a fewold mansions; and here at Chetwynde Castle was one without a peer. It was lofty, it was broad, it was deep, it was well-paved, it wasornamented not carelessly, but lovingly, as though the hearth was theholy place, the altar of the castle and of the family. There was roomin its wide expanse for the gathering of a household about the fire;its embrace was the embrace of love; and it was the type and model ofthose venerable and hallowed places which have given to the Englishlanguage a word holier even than "Home, " since that word is "Hearth. "

It was with some such thoughts as these that General Pomeroy satlooking at the fire-place, where a few fagots sent up a ruddy blaze, when suddenly his attention was arrested by a figure which enteredthe room. So quiet and noiseless was the entrance that he did notnotice it until the figure stood between him and the fire. It was awoman; and certainly, of all the women whom he had ever seen, no onehad possessed so weird and mystical an aspect. She was a little overthe middle height, but exceedingly thin and emaciated. She wore a capand a gown of black serge, and looked more like a Sister of Charitythan any thing else. Her features were thin and shrunken, her cheekshollow, her chin peaked, and her hair was as white as snow. Yet thehair was very thick, and the cap could not conceal its heavy whitemasses. Her side-face was turned toward him, and he could not seeher fully at first, until at length she turned toward a picture whichhung over the fire-place, and stood regarding it fixedly. 

It was the portrait of a young man in the dress of a British officer. The General knew that it was the only son of Lord Chetwynde, for whomhe had written, and whom he was expecting; and now, as he sat therewith his eyes riveted on this singular figure, he was amazed at theexpression of her face. 

Her eyes were large and dark and mysterious. Her face boreunmistakable traces of sorrow. Deep lines were graven on her paleforehead, and on her wan, thin cheeks. Her hair was white as snow, and her complexion was of an unearthly grayish hue. It was amemorable face--a face which, once seen, might haunt one longafterward. In the eyes there was tenderness and softness, yet thefashion of the mouth and chin seemed to speak of resolution andforce, in spite of the ravages which age or sorrow had made. Shestood quite unconscious of the General's presence, looking at theportrait with a fixed and rapt expression. As she gazed her facechanged in its aspect. In the eyes there arose unutterable longingand tenderness; love so deep that the sight of it thus unconsciouslyexpressed might have softened the hardest and sternest nature; whileover all her features the same yearning expression was spread. Gradually, as she stood, she raised her thin white hands and claspedthem together, and so stood, intent upon the portrait, as though shefound some spell there whose power was overmastering. 

At the sight of so weird and ghostly a figure the General wasstrangely moved. There was something startling in such an apparition. At first there came involuntarily half-superstitious thoughts. Herecalled all those mysterious beings of whom he had ever heard whoseoccupation was to haunt the seats of old families. He thought of theWhite Lady of Avenel, the Black Lady of Scarborough, the Goblin Womanof Hurst, and the Bleeding Nun. A second glance served to show him, however, that she could by no possibility fill the important post ofFamily Ghost, but was real flesh and blood. Yet even thus she wasscarcely less impressive. Most of all was he moved by the sorrow ofher face. She might serve for Niobe with her children dead; she mightserve for Hecuba over the bodies of Polyxena and Polydore. Thesorrows of woman have ever been greater than those of man. The widowsuffers more than the widower; the bereaved mother than the bereavedfather. The ideals of grief are found in the faces of women, andreach their intensity in the woe that meets our eyes in the MaterDolorosa. This woman was one of the great community of sufferers, andanguish both past and present still left its traces on her face. 

Besides all this there was something more; and while the General wasawed by the majesty of sorrow, he was at the same time perplexed byan inexplicable familiarity which he felt with that face of woe. Where, in the years, had he seen it before? Or had he seen it beforeat all; or had he only known it in dreams? In vain he tried torecollect. Nothing from out his past life recurred to his mind whichbore any resemblance to this face before him. The endeavor to recallthis past grew painful, and at length he returned to himself. Then hedismissed the idea as fanciful, and began to feel uncomfortable, asthough he were witnessing something which he had no business to see. She was evidently unconscious of his presence, and to be a witness ofher emotion under such circumstances seemed to him as bad aseaves-dropping. The moment, therefore, that he had overcome hissurprise he turned his head away, looked out of the window, andcoughed several times. Then he rose from his chair, and afterstanding for a moment he turned once more. 

As he turned he found himself face to face with the woman. She hadheard him, and turned with a start, and turning thus their eyes met. 

[Illustration: "She Turned Toward A Picture Which Hung Over TheFire-Place, And Stood Regarding It Fixedly. "]

If the General had been surprised before, he was now still more so atthe emotion which she evinced at the sight of himself. She startedback as though recoiling from him; her eyes were fixed and staring, her lips moved, her hands clutched one another convulsively. Then, bya sudden effort, she seemed to recover herself, and the wild stare ofastonishment gave place to a swift glance of keen, sharp, and eagerscrutiny. All this was the work of an instant. Then her eyes dropped, and with a low courtesy she turned away, and after arranging somechairs she left the room. 

The General drew a long breath, and stood looking at the doorway inutter bewilderment. The whole incident had been most perplexing. There was first her stealthy entry, and the suddenness with which shehad appeared before him; then those mystic surroundings of herstrange, weird figure which had excited his superstitious fancies;then the idea which had arisen, that somehow he had known her before;and, finally, the woman's own strong and unconcealed emotion at thesight of himself. What did it all mean? Had he ever seen her? Notthat he knew. Had she ever known him? If so, when and where? If so, why such emotion? Who could this be that thus recoiled from him atencountering his glance? And he found all these questions utterlyunanswerable. 

In the General's eventful life there were many things which he couldrecall. He had wandered over many lands in all parts of the world, and had known his share of sorrow and of joy. Seating himself oncemore in his chair he tried to summon up before his memory the figuresof the past, one by one, and compare them with this woman whom he hadseen. Out of the gloom of that past the ghostly figures came, andpassed on, and vanished, till at last from among them all two orthree stood forth distinctly and vividly; the forms of those who hadbeen associated with him in one event of his life; that life's firstgreat tragedy; forms well remembered--never to be forgotten. He sawthe form of one who had been betrayed and forsaken, bowed and crushedby grief, and staring with white face and haggard eyes; he saw theform of the false friend and foul traitor slinking away with avertedface; he saw the form of the true friend, true as steel, standingup solidly in his loyalty between those whom he loved and the Ruinthat was before them; and, lastly, he saw the central figure ofall--a fair young woman with a face of dazzling beauty; high-born, haughty, with an air of high-bred grace and inborn delicacy; but thebeauty was fading, and the charm of all that grace and delicacywas veiled under a cloud of shame and sin. The face bore all thatagony of woe which looks at us now from the eyes of Guido's BeatriceCenci--eyes which disclose a grief deeper than tears; eyes whoseglance is never forgotten. 

Suddenly there came to the General a Thought like lightning, whichseemed to pierce to the inmost depths of his being. He started backas he sat, and for a moment looked like one transformed to stone. Atthe horror of that Thought his face changed to a deathly pallor, hisfeatures grew rigid, his hands clenched, his eyes fixed and staringwith an awful look. For a few moments he sat thus, and then with adeep groan he sprang to his feet and paced the apartment. 

The exercise seemed to bring relief. 

"I'm a cursed fool!" he muttered. "The thing's impossible--yes, absolutely impossible. "

Again and again he paced the apartment, and gradually he recoveredhimself. 

"Pooh!" he said at length, as he resumed his seat, "she's insane, or, more probably, _I_ am insane for having had such wild thoughts as Ihave had this morning. "

Then with a heavy sigh he looked out of the window abstractedly. 

An hour passed and Lord Chetwynde came down, and the two took theirseats at the breakfast-table. 

"By-the-way, " said the General at length, after some conversation, and with an effort at indifference, "who is that verysingular-looking woman whom you have here? She seems to be aboutsixty, dresses in black, has very white hair, and looks like a Sisterof Charity. "

"That?" said Lord Chetwynde, carelessly. "Oh, that must be thehousekeeper, Mrs. Hart. "

"Mrs. Hart--the housekeeper?" repeated the General, thoughtfully. 

"Yes; she is an invaluable woman to one in my position. "

"I suppose she is some old family servant. "

"No. She came here about ten years ago. I wanted a housekeeper, sheheard of it, and applied. She brought excellent recommendations, andI took her. She has done very well. "

"Have you ever noticed how very singular her appearance is?"

"Well, no. Is it? I suppose it strikes you so as a stranger. I nevernoticed her particularly. "

"She seems to have had some great sorrow, " said the General, slowly. 

"Yes, I think she must have had some troubles. She has a melancholyway, I think. I feel sorry for the poor creature, and do what I canfor her. As I said, she is invaluable to me, and I owe her positivegratitude. "

"Is she fond of Guy?" asked the General, thinking of her face as hesaw it upturned toward the portrait. 

"Exceedingly, " said Lord Chetwynde. "Guy was about eight years oldwhen she came. From the very first she showed the greatest fondnessfor him, and attached herself to him with a devotion which surprisedme. I accounted for it on the ground that she had lost a son of herown, and perhaps Guy reminded her in some way of him. At any rate shehas always been exceedingly fond of him. Yes, " pursued LordChetwynde, in a musing tone, "I owe every thing to her, for she oncesaved Guy's life. "

"Saved his life? How?"

"Once, when I was away, the place caught fire in the wing where Guywas sleeping. Mrs. Hart rushed through the flames and saved him. Shenearly killed herself too--poor old thing! In addition to this shehas nursed him through three different attacks of disease that seemedfatal. Why, she seems to love Guy as fondly as I do. "

"And does Guy love her?"

"Exceedingly. The boy is most affectionate by nature, and of courseshe is prominent in his affections. Next to me he loves her. "

The General now turned away the conversation to other subjects; butfrom his abstracted manner it was evident that Mrs. Hart was stillforemost in his thoughts. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE BARTER OF A LIFE. 

Two evenings afterward a carriage drove up to the door of ChetwyndeCastle, and a young man alighted. The door was opened by the oldbutler, who, with a cry of delight, exclaimed:

"Master Guy! Master Guy! It's welcome ye are. They've been lookin'for you these two hours back. "

"Any thing wrong?" was Guy's first exclamation, uttered with somehaste and anxiety. 

"Lord love ye, there's naught amiss; but ye're welcome home, rightwelcome, Master Guy, " said the butler, who still looked upon hisyoung master as the little boy who used to ride upon his back, andwhose tricks were at once the torment and delight of his life. 

The old butler himself was one of the heirlooms of the family, andpartook to the full of the air of antiquity which pervaded the place. He looked like the relic of a by-gone generation. His queue, carefully powdered and plaited, stood out stiff from the back of hishead, as if in perpetual protest against any new-fangled notions ofhair-dressing; his livery, scrupulously neat and well brushed, wasthreadbare and of an antediluvian cut, and his whole appearance wasthat of highly respectable antediluvianism. As he stood there withhis antique and venerable figure his whole face fairly beamed withdelight at seeing his young master. 

"I was afraid my father might be ill, " said Guy, "from his sendingfor me in such a hurry. "

"Ill?" said the other, radiant. "My lord be better and cheerfulerlike than ever I have seen him since he came back from Lunnon--thetime as you was a small chap, Master Guy. There be a gentlemanstopping here. He and my lord have been sittin' up half the nighta-talkin'. I think there be summut up, Master Guy, and that he beconnected with it; for when my lord told me to send you the telegramhe said as it were on business he wanted you, but, " he added, lookingperplexed, "it's the first time as ever I heard of business makin' aman look cheerful. "

Guy made a jocular observation and hurried past him into the hall. Ashe entered he saw a figure standing at the foot of the greatstaircase. It was Mrs. Hart. She was trembling from headto foot and clinging to the railing for support. Her face was pale asusual; on each cheek there was a hectic flush, and her eyes werefastened on him. 

"My darling nurse!" cried Guy with the warm enthusiastic tone of aboy, and hurrying toward her he embraced her and kissed her. 

The poor old creature trembled and did not say a single word. 

"Now you didn't know I was coming, did you, you dear old thing?" saidGuy. "But what is the matter? Why do you tremble so? Of course you'reglad to see your boy. Are you not?"

Mrs. Hart looked up to him with an expression of mute affection, deep, fervent, unspeakable; and then seizing his warm young hand inher own wan and tremulous ones, she pressed it to her thin white lipsand covered it with kisses. 

"Oh, come now, " said Guy, "you always break down this way when I comehome; but you must not--you really must not. If you do I won't comehome at all any more. I really won't. Come, cheer up. I don't want tomake you cry when I come home. "

"But I'm crying for joy, " said Mrs. Hart, in a faint voice. "Don't beangry. "

"You dear old thing! Angry?" exclaimed Guy, affectionately. "Angrywith my darling old nurse? Have you lost your senses, old woman? Butwhere is my father? Why has he sent for me? There's no bad news, Ihear, so that I suppose all is right. "

"Yes, all is well, " said Mrs. Hart, in a low voice. "I don't know whyyou were sent for, but there is nothing bad. I think your father sentfor you to see an old friend of his. "

"An old friend?"

"Yes. General Pomeroy, " replied Mrs. Hart, in a constrained voice. "He has been here two or three days. "

"General Pomeroy! Is it possible?" said Guy. "Has he come to England?I didn't know that he had left India. I must hurry up. Good-by, oldwoman, " he added, affectionately, and kissing her again he hurried upstairs to his father's room. 

Lord Chetwynde was there, and General Pomeroy also. The greetingbetween father and son was affectionate and tender, and after a fewloving words Guy was introduced to the General. He shook him heartilyby the hand. 

"I'm sure, " said he, "the sight of you has done my father a world ofgood. He looks ten years younger than he did when I last saw him. Youreally ought to take up your abode here, or live somewhere near him. He mopes dreadfully, and needs nothing so much as the society of anold friend. You could rouse him from his blue fits and ennui, andgive him new life. "

Guy then went on in a rattling way to narrate some events which hadbefallen him on the road. As he spoke in his animated andenthusiastic way General Pomeroy scanned him earnestly and narrowly. To the most casual observer Guy Molyneux must have been singularlyprepossessing. Tall and slight, with a remarkably well-shaped headcovered with dark curling hair, hazel eyes, and regular features, hiswhole appearance was eminently patrician, and bore the marks ofhigh-breeding and refinement; but there was something more than this. Those eyes looked forth frankly and fearlessly; there was a joyouslight in them which awakened sympathy; while the open expression ofhis face, and the clear and ringing accent of his fresh young voice, all tended to inspire confidence and trust. General Pomeroy noted allthis with delight, for in his anxiety for his daughter's future hesaw that Guy was one to whom he might safely intrust the dearest idolof his heart. 

"Come, Guy, " said Lord Chetwynde at last, after his son had rattledon for half an hour or more, "if you are above all considerations ofdinner, we are not. I have already had it put off two hours for you, and we should like to see some signs of preparation on your part. "

"All right, Sir. I shall be on hand by the time it is announced, "said Guy, cheerily; "you don't generally have to complain of me inthat particular, I think. "

So saying, Guy nodded gayly to them and left the room, and theypresently heard him whistling through the passages gems from the lastnew opera. 

"A splendid fellow, " said the General, as the door closed, in a toneof hearty admiration. "I see his father over again in him. I onlyhope he will come into our views. "

"I can answer for his being only too ready to do so, " said LordChetwynde, confidently. 

"He exceeds the utmost hopes that I had formed of him, " said theGeneral. "I did not expect to see so frank and open a face, and suchfreshness of innocence and purity. "

Lord Chetwynde's face showed all the delight which a fond fatherfeels at hearing the praises of an only son. 

Dinner came and passed. The General retired, and Lord Chetwynde thenexplained to his son the whole plan which had been made about him. Itwas a plan which was to affect his whole life most profoundly in itsmost tender part; but Guy was a thoughtless boy, and received theproposal like such. He showed nothing but delight. He never dreamedof objecting to any thing. He declared that it seemed to him too goodto be true. His thoughts did not appear to dwell at all upon his ownshare in this transaction, though surely to him that share was ofinfinite importance, but only on the fact that Chetwynde was saved. 

"And is Chetwynde really to be ours, after all?" he cried, at the endof a burst of delight, repeating the words, boy-like, over and overagain, as though he could never tire of hearing the words repeated. After all, one can not wonder at his thoughtlessness and enthusiasm. Around Chetwynde all the associations of his life were twined. Untilhe had joined the regiment he had known no other home; and beyondthis, to this high-spirited youth, in whom pride of birth and namerose very high, there had been from his earliest childhood a bitterhumiliation in the thought that the inheritance of his ancestors, which had never known any other than a Chetwynde for its master, mustpass from him forever into alien hands. Hitherto his love for hisfather had compelled him to refrain from all expression of hisfeelings about this, for he well knew that, bitter as it would be forhim to give up Chetwynde, to his father it would be still worse--itwould be like rending his very heartstrings. Often had he feared thatthis sacrifice to honor on his father's part would be more than couldbe endured. He had, for his father's sake, put a restraint uponhimself; but this concealment of his feelings had only increased theintensity of those feelings; the shadow had been gradually deepeningover his whole life, throwing gloom over the sunlight of his joyousyouth; and now, for the first time in many years, that shadow seemedto be dispelled. Surely there is no wonder that a mere boy should bereckless of the future in the sunshine of such a golden present. 

When General Pomeroy appeared again, Guy seized his hand in a burstof generous emotion, with his eyes glistening with tears of joy. 

"How can I ever thank you, " he cried, impetuously, "for what you havedone for us! As you have done by us, so will I do by yourdaughter--to my life's end--so help me God!"

And all this time did it never suggest itself to the young man thatthere might be a reverse to the brilliant picture which his fancy wasso busily sketching--that there was required from him something morethan money or estate; something, indeed, in comparison with whicheven Chetwynde itself was as nothing? No. In his inexperience andthoughtlessness he would have looked with amazement upon any one whowould have suggested that there might be a drawback to the happinesswhich he was portraying before his mind. Yet surely this thing camemost severely upon him. He gave up the most, for he gave himself. Tosave Chetwynde, he was unconsciously selling his own soul. He wasbartering his life. All his future depended upon this hasty act of amoment. The happiness of the mature man was risked by the thoughtlessact of a boy. If in after-life this truth came home to him, it wasonly that he might see that the act was irrevocable, and that he mustbear the consequences. But so it is in life. 

That evening, after the General had retired, Guy and his father satup far into the night, discussing the future which lay before them. To each of them the future marriage seemed but a secondary event, anaccident, an episode. The first thing, and almost the only thing, wasthe salvation of Chetwynde. Those day-dreams which they had cherishedfor so many years seemed now about to be realized, and Chetwyndewould be restored to all its former glory. Now, for the first time, each let the other see, to the full, how grievous the loss would havebeen to him. 

It was not until after all the future of Chetwynde had beendiscussed, that the thoughts of Guy's engagement occurred to hisfather. 

"But, Guy, " said he, "you are forgetting one thing. You must not inyour joy lose sight of the important pledge which has been demandedof you. You have entered upon a very solemn obligation, which we bothare inclined to treat rather lightly. "

"Of course I remember it, Sir; and I only wish it were somethingtwenty times as hard that I could do for the dear old General, "answered Guy, enthusiastically. 

"But, my boy, this may prove a severe sacrifice in the future, "said Lord Chetwynde, thoughtfully. 

"What? To marry, father? Of course I shall marry some time; and as tothe question of whom, why, so long as she is a lady (and GeneralPomeroy's daughter must be this), and is not a fright (I own I hateugly women), I don't care who she is. But the daughter of such a manas that ought to be a little angel, and as beautiful as I coulddesire. I am all impatience to see her. By-the-way, how old is she?"

"Ten years old. "

"Ten years!" echoed Guy, laughing boisterously. "I need not distressmyself, then, about her personnel for a good many years at any rate. But, I say, father, isn't the General a little premature in gettinghis daughter settled? Talk of match-making mothers after this!"

The young man's flippant tone jarred upon his father. "He had goodreasons for the haste to which you object, Guy, " said Lord Chetwynde. "One was the friendlessness of his daughter in the event of any thinghappening to him; and the other, and a stronger motive (for under anycircumstances I should have been her guardian), was to assist yourfather upon the only terms upon which he could have acceptedassistance with honor. By this arrangement his daughter reaps thefull benefit of his money, and he has his own mind at ease. And, remember, Guy, " continued Lord Chetwynde, solemnly, "from this timeyou must consider yourself as a married man; for, although no altarvow or priestly benediction binds you, yet by every law of that Honorby which you profess to be guided, you are bound _irrevocably_. "

"I know that, " answered Guy, lightly. "I think you will never find meunmindful of that tie. "

"I trust you, my boy, " said Lord Chetwynde, "as I would trustmyself. "

CHAPTER IV. 

A STARTLING VISITOR. 

After dinner the General had retired to his room, supposing that Guyand the Earl would wish to be together. He had much to think of. First of all there was his daughter Zillah, in whom all his being wasbound up. Her miniature was on the mantle-piece of the room, and tothis he went first, and taking it up in his hands he sat down in anarm-chair by the window, and feasted his eyes upon it. His face borean expression of the same delight which a lover shows when looking atthe likeness of his mistress. At times a smile lighted it up, and sowrapt up was he in this that more than an hour passed before he putthe picture away. Then he resumed his seat by the window and lookedout. It was dusk; but the moon was shining brightly, and threw asilvery gleam over the dark trees of Chetwynde, over the grassyslopes, and over the distant hills. That scene turned his attentionin a new direction. The shadows of the trees seemed to suggest theshadows of the past. Back over that past his mind went wandering, encountering the scenes, the forms, and the faces of long ago--thelost, the never-to-be-forgotten. It was not that more recent past ofwhich he had spoken to the Earl, but one more distant--one whichintermingled with the Earl's past, and which the Earl's story hadsuggested. 

It brought back old loves and old hates; it suggested memories whichhad lain dormant for years, but now rose before him clothed in freshpower, as vivid as the events from which they flowed. There wastrouble in these memories, and the General's mind was agitated, andin his agitation he left the chair and paced the room. He rang forlights, and after they came he seated himself at the table, tookpaper and pens, and began to lose himself in calculations. 

Some time passed, when at length ten o'clock came, and the Generalheard a faint tap at the door. It was so faint that he could barelyhear it, and at first supposed it to be either his fancy or else oneof the death-watches making a somewhat louder noise than usual. Hetook no further notice of it, but went on with his occupation, whenhe was again interrupted by a louder knock. This time there was nomistake. He rose and opened the door, thinking that it was the Earlwho had brought him some information as to his son's views. 

Opening the door, he saw a slight, frail figure, dressed in anun-like garb, and recognized the housekeeper. If possible she seemedpaler than usual, and her eyes were fixed upon him with a strangewistful earnestness. Her appearance was so unexpected, and herexpression so peculiar, that the General involuntarily started back. For a moment he stood looking at her, and then, recovering with aneffort his self-possession, he asked:

"Did you wish to see me about any thing, Mrs. Hart?"

"If I could speak a few words to you I should be grateful, " was theanswer, in a low, supplicating tone. 

"Won't you walk in, then?" said the General, in a kindly voice, feeling a strange commiseration for the poor creature, whose face, manner, and voice exhibited so much wretchedness. 

The General held the door open, and waited for her to enter. Thenclosing the door he offered her a chair, and resumed his former seat. But the housekeeper declined sitting. She stood looking strangelyconfused and troubled, and for some time did not speak a word. TheGeneral waited patiently, and regarded her earnestly. In spite ofhimself he found that feeling arising within him which had occurredin the morning-room--a feeling as if he had somewhere known thiswoman before. Who was she? What did it mean? Was he a precious oldfool, or was there really some important mystery connected with Mrs. Hart? Such were his thoughts. 

Perhaps if he had seen nothing more of Mrs. Hart the Earl's accountof her would have been accepted by him, and no thoughts of her wouldhave perplexed his brain. But her arrival now, her entrance into hisroom, and her whole manner, brought back the thoughts which he hadbefore with tenfold force, in such a way that it was useless tostruggle against them. He felt that there was a mystery, and that theEarl himself not only knew nothing about it, but could not evensuspect it. But _what_ was the mystery? That he could not, or perhapsdared not, conjecture. The vague thought which darted across his mindwas one which was madness to entertain. He dismissed it and waited. 

At last Mrs. Hart spoke. 

"Pardon me, Sir, " she said, in a faint, low voice, "for troublingyou. I wished to apologize for intruding upon you in themorning-room. I did not know you were there. "

She spoke abstractedly and wearily. The General felt that it was notfor this that she had thus visited him, but that something more laybehind. Still he answered her remark as if he took it in good faith. He hastened to reassure her. It was no intrusion. Was she not thehousekeeper, and was it not her duty to go there? What could shemean?

At this she looked at him, with a kind of solemn yet eager scrutiny. "I was afraid, " she said, after some hesitation, speaking still in adull monotone, whose strangely sorrowful accents were marked andimpressive, and in a voice whose tone was constrained and stiff, butyet had something in it which deepened the General's perplexity--"Iwas afraid that perhaps you might have witnessed some marks ofagitation in me. Pardon me for supposing that you could have troubledyourself so far as to notice one like me; but--but--I--that is, I ama little--eccentric; and when I suppose that I am alone thateccentricity is marked. I did not know that you were in the room, andso I was thrown off my guard. "

Every word of this singular being thrilled through the General. Helooked at her steadily without speaking for some time. He tried toforce his memory to reveal what it was that this woman suggested tohim, or who it was that she had been associated with in that dim andshadowy past which but lately he had been calling up. Her voice, too--what was it that it suggested? That voice, in spite of itsconstraint, was woeful and sad beyond all description. It was thevoice of suffering and sorrow too deep for tears--that changelessmonotone which makes one think that the words which are spoken areuttered by some machine. 

Her manner also by this time evinced a greater and a deeperagitation. Her hands mechanically clasped each other in a tight, convulsive grasp, and her slight frame trembled with irrepressibleemotion. There was something in her appearance, her attitude, hermanner, and her voice, which enchained the General's attention, andwas nothing less than fascination. There was something yet to come, to tell which had led her there, and these were only preliminaries. This the General felt. Every word that she spoke seemed to be a mereformality, the precursor of the real words which she wished to utter. What was it? Was it her affection for Guy? Had she come to ask aboutthe betrothal? Had she come to look at Zillah's portrait? Had shecome to remonstrate with him for arranging a marriage between thosewho were as yet little more than children? But what reason had shefor interfering in such an affair? It was utterly out of place in onelike her. No; there was something else, he could not conjecture what. 

All these thoughts swept with lightning speed through his mind, andstill the poor stricken creature stood before him with her eyeslowered and her hands clasped, waiting for his answer. He rousedhimself, and sought once more to reassure her. He told her that hehad noticed nothing, that he had been looking out of the window, andthat in any case, if he had, he should have thought nothing about it. This he said in as careless a tone as possible, willfully misstatingfacts, from a generous desire to spare her uneasiness and set hermind at rest. 

"Will you pardon me, Sir, if I intrude upon your kindness so far asto ask one more question?" said the housekeeper, after listeningdreamily to the General's words. "You are going away, and I shall nothave another opportunity. "

"Certainly, " said the General, looking at her with unfeignedsympathy. "If there is any thing that I can tell you I shall be happyto do so. Ask me, by all means, any thing you wish. "

"You had a private interview with the Earl, " said she, with moreanimation than she had yet shown. 

"Yes. "

"Pardon me, but will you consider it impertinence if I ask youwhether it was about your past life? I know it is impertinent; butoh, Sir, I have my reasons. " Her voice changed suddenly to thehumblest and most apologetic accent. 

The General's interest was, if possible, increased; and, if therewere impertinence in such a question from a housekeeper, he was tooexcited to be conscious of it. To him this woman seemed more thanthis. 

"We were talking about the past, " said he, kindly. "We are very oldfriends. We were telling each other the events of our lives. Weparted early in life, and have not seen one another for many years. We also were arranging some business matters. "

Mrs. Hart listened eagerly, and then remained silent for a long time. 

"His old friend, " she murmured at last; "his old friend! Did you findhim much altered?"

"Not more than I expected, " replied the General, wonderingly. "Hissecluded life here has kept him from the wear and tear of the world. It has not made him at all misanthropical or even cynical. His heartis as warm as ever. He spoke very kindly of you. "

Mrs. Hart started, and her hands involuntarily clutched each othermore convulsively. Her head fell forward and her eyes dropped. 

"What did he say of me?" she asked, in a scarce audible voice, andtrembling visibly as she spoke. 

The General noticed her agitation, but it caused no surprise, foralready his whole power of wondering was exhausted. He had a vagueidea that the poor old thing was troubled for fear she might fromsome cause lose her place, and wished to know whether the Earl hadmade any remarks which might affect her position. So with thisfeeling he answered in as cheering a tone as possible:

"Oh, I assure you, he spoke of you in the highest terms. He told methat you were exceedingly kind to Guy, and that you were quiteindispensable to himself. "

"'Kind to Guy'--'indispensable to him, '" she repeated in low tones, while tears started to her eyes. She kept murmuring the wordsabstractedly to herself, and for a few moments seemed quiteunconscious of the General's presence. He still watched her, on hispart, and gradually the thought arose within him that the easiestsolution for all this was possible insanity. Insanity, he saw, wouldaccount for every thing, and would also give some reason for his ownstrange feelings at the sight of her. It was, he thought, because hehad seen this dread sign of insanity in her face--that sign only lessterrible than that dread mark which is made by the hand of the Kingof Terrors. And was she not herself conscious to some extent of this?he thought. She had herself alluded to her eccentricity. Was she notdisturbed by a fear that he had noticed this, and, dreading adisclosure, had come to him to explain? To her a stranger would be anobject of suspicion, against whom she would feel it necessary to beon her guard. The people of the house were doubtless accustomed toher ways, and would think nothing of any freak, however whimsical;but a stranger would look with different eyes. Few, indeed, were thestrangers or visitors who ever came to Chetwynde Castle; but when onedid come he would naturally be an object of suspicion to this poorsoul, conscious of her infirmity, and struggling desperately againstit. Such thoughts as these succeeded to the others which had beenpassing through the General's mind, and he was just beginning tothink of some plan by which he could soothe this poor creature, whenhe was aware of a movement on her part which made him look uphastily. Her eyes were fastened on his. They were large, luminous, and earnest in their gaze, though dimmed by the grief of years. Tearswere in them, and the look which they threw toward him was full ofagony and earnest supplication. That emaciated face, that snow-whitehair, that brow marked by the lines of suffering, that slight figurewith its sombre vestments, all formed a sight which would haveimpressed any man. The General was so astonished that he satmotionless, wondering what it was now that the diseased fancy of onewhom he still believed to be insane would suggest. It was to him thatshe was looking; it was to him that her shriveled hands wereoutstretched. What could she want with him?

[Illustration: "But The Woman, With A Low Moan, Flung Herself On TheFloor Before Him. "]

She drew nearer to him while he sat thus wondering. She stoopedforward and downward, with her eyes still fixed on his. He did notmove, but watched her in amazement. Again that thought which thesight of her had at first suggested came to him. Again he thrust itaway. But the woman, with a low moan, suddenly flung herself on thefloor before him, and reaching out her hands clasped his feet, and hefelt her feeble frame all shaken by sobs and shudders. He satspell-bound. He looked at her for a moment aghast. Then he reachedforth his hands, and without speaking a word took hers, and tried tolift her up. She let herself be raised till she was on her knees, andthen raised her head once more. She gave him an indescribable look, and in a low voice, which was little above a whisper, but whichpenetrated to the very depths of his soul, pronounced one singlesolitary word, ---. 

The General heard it. His face grew as pale and as rigid as the faceof a corpse; the blood seemed to leave his heart; his lips grewwhite; he dropped her hands, and sat regarding her with eyes in whichthere was nothing less than horror. The woman saw it, and once morefell with a low moan to the floor. 

"My God!" groaned the General at last, and said not another word, butsat rigid and mute while the woman lay on the floor at his feet. Thehorror which that word had caused for some time overmastered him, andhe sat staring vacantly. But the horror was not against the woman whohad called it up, and who lay prostrate before him. She could nothave been personally abhorrent, for in a few minutes, with a start, he noticed her once more, and his face was overspread by an anguishof pity and sympathy. He raised her up, he led her to a couch, andmade her sit down, and then sat in silence before her with his faceburied in his hands. She reclined on the couch with her countenanceturned toward him, trembling still, and panting for breath, with herright hand under her face, and her left pressed tightly against herheart. At times she looked at the General with mournful inquiry, andseemed to be patiently waiting for him to speak. An hour passed insilence. The General seemed to be struggling with recollections thatoverwhelmed him. At last he raised his head, and regarded her insolemn silence, and still his face and his eyes bore that expressionof unutterable pity and sympathy which dwelt there when he raised herfrom the floor. 

After a time he addressed her in a low voice, the tones of which weretender and full of sadness. She replied, and a conversation followedwhich lasted for hours. It involved things of fearful moment--crime, sin, shame, the perfidy of traitors, the devotion of faithful ones, the sharp pang of injured love, the long anguish of despair, thedeathless fidelity of devoted affection. But the report of thisconversation and the recital of these things do not belong to thisplace. It is enough to say that when at last Mrs. Hart arose it waswith a serener face and a steadier step than had been seen in her foryears. 

That night the General did not close his eyes. His friend, hisbusiness, even his daughter, all were forgotten, as though his soulwere overwhelmed and crushed by the weight of some tremendousrevelation. 

[Illustration. ]

CHAPTER V. 

THE FUTURE BRIDE. 

It had been arranged that Guy should accompany General Pomeroy up toLondon, partly for the sake of arranging about the matters relatingto the Chetwynde estates, and partly for the purpose of seeing theone who was some day to be his wife. Lord Chetwynde was unable toundergo the fatigue of traveling, and had to leave every thing to hislawyers and Guy. 

At the close of a wearisome day in the train they reached London, anddrove at once to the General's lodgings in Great James Street. Thedoor was opened by a tall, swarthy woman, whose Indian nationalitywas made manifest by the gay-colored turban which surmounted herhead, as well as by her face and figure. At the sight of the Generalshe burst out into exclamations of joy. 

"Welcome home, sahib; welcome home!" she cried. "Little missy, herfret much after you. "

"I am sorry for that, nurse, " said the General, kindly. As he wasspeaking they were startled by a piercing scream from an adjoiningapartment, followed by a shrill voice uttering some words which endedin a shriek. The General entered the house, and hastened to the roomfrom which the sounds proceeded, and Guy followed him. The uproar wasspeedily accounted for by the tableau which presented itself onopening the door. It was a tableau extremely vivant, and representeda small girl, with violent gesticulations, in the act of rejecting adainty little meal which a maid, who stood by her with a tray, wasvainly endeavoring to induce her to accept. The young lady'sarguments were too forcible to admit of gainsaying, for the servantdid not dare to venture within reach of either the hands or feet ofher small but vigorous opponent. The presence of the tray preventedher from defending herself in any way, and she was about retiring, worsted, from the encounter, when the entrance of the gentlemen gavea new turn to the position of affairs. The child saw them at once;her screams of rage changed into a cry of joy, and the face which hadbeen distorted with passion suddenly became radiant with delight. 

"Papa! papa!" she cried, and, springing forward, she darted to hisembrace, and twined her arms about his neck with a sob which her joyhad wrung from her. 

"Darling papa!" she cried; "I thought you were never coming back. Howcould you leave me so long alone?" and, saying this, she burst into apassion of tears, while her father in vain tried to soothe her. 

At this strange revelation of the General's daughter Guy stoodperplexed and wondering. Certainly he had not been prepared for this. His _fiancée_ was undoubtedly of a somewhat stormy nature, and in themidst of his bewilderment he was conscious of feeling deeplyreconciled to her ten years. 

At length her father succeeded in quieting her, and, taking her armsfrom his neck, he placed her on his knee, and said:

"My darling, here is a gentleman waiting all this time to speak toyou. Come, go over to him and shake hands with him. "

At this the child turned her large black eyes on Guy, and scanned himsuperciliously from head to foot. The result seemed to satisfy her, for she advanced a few steps to take the hand which he had smilinglyheld out; but a thought seemed suddenly to strike her which arrestedher progress half-way. 

"Did _he_ keep you, papa?" she said, abruptly, while a jerk of herhead in Guy's direction signified the proper noun to which thepronoun referred. 

"He had something to do with it, " answered her father, with a smile. 

"Then I sha'n't shake hands with him, " she said, resolutely; and, putting the aforesaid appendages behind her back to prevent anyforcible appropriation of them, she hurried away, and clambered up onher father's knee. The General, knowing probably by painfulexperience the futility of trying to combat any determination of thisvery decided young lady, did not attempt to make any remonstrance, but allowed her to establish herself in her accustomed position. During this process Guy had leisure to inspect her. This he didwithout _any_ feeling of the immense importance of this child'scharacter to his own future life, without thinking that this littlecreature might be destined to raise him up to heaven or thrust himdown to hell, but only with the idle, critical view of anuninterested spectator. Guy was, in fact, too young to estimate thefuture, and things which were connected with that future, at theirright value. He was little more than a boy, and so he looked with aboy's eyes upon this singular child. 

She struck him as the oddest little mortal that he had ever comeacross. She was very tiny, not taller than many children of eight, and so slight and fragile that she looked as if a breath might blowher away. But if in figure she looked eight, in face she lookedfifty. In that face there was no childishness whatever. It was athin, peaked, sallow face, with a discontented expression; herfeatures were small and pinched, her hair, which was of inkyblackness, fell on her shoulders in long, straight locks, without aripple or a wave in them. She looked like an elf, but still thiselfish little creature was redeemed from the hideousness which elsemight have been her doom by eyes of the most wonderful brilliancy. Large, luminous, potent eyes--intensely black, and deep as the depthsof ocean, they seemed to fill her whole face; and in moments ofexcitement they could light up with volcanic fires, revealing theintensity of that nature which lay beneath. In repose they wereunfathomable, and defied all conjecture as to what their possessormight develop into. 

All this Guy noticed, as far as was possible to one so young andinexperienced; and the general result of this survey was a state ofbewilderment and perplexity. He could not make her out. She was apuzzle to him, and certainly not a very attractive one. When she hadfinally adjusted herself on her father's knee, the General, after thefashion of parents from time immemorial, asked:

"Has my darling been a good child since papa has been away?"

The question may have been a stereotyped one. Not so the answer, which came out full and decided, in a tone free alike from penitenceor bravado, but giving only a simple statement of facts. 

"No, " she said, "I have not been a good girl. I've been very naughtyindeed. I haven't minded any thing that was said to me. I scratchedthe ayah, and kicked Sarah. I bit Sarah too. Besides, I spilt my riceand milk, and broke the plates, and I was just going to starve myselfto death. "

At this recital of childish enormities, with its tragical ending, Guyburst into a loud laugh. The child raised herself from her father'sshoulder, and, fixing her large eyes upon him, said slowly, and withset teeth:

"I hate you!"

She looked so uncanny as she said this, and the expression of hereyes was so intense in its malignity, that Guy absolutely started. 

"Hush, " exclaimed her father, more peremptorily than usual; "you mustnot be so rude. "

As he spoke she again looked at Guy, with a vindictive expression, but did not deign to speak. The face seemed to him to be utterlydiabolical and detestable. She looked at him for a moment, and thenher head sank down upon her father's shoulder. 

The General now made an effort to turn the conversation to where ithad left off, and reverting to Zillah's confession he said:

"I thought my little girl never broke her word, and that when shepromised to be good while I was away, I could depend upon her beingso. "

This reproach seemed to touch her. She sprang up instantly andexclaimed, in vehement tones:

"It was you who broke your promise to me. You said you would comeback in two days, and you staid four. I did keep my word. I was goodthe first two days. Ask the ayah. When I found that you had deceivedme, then I did not care. "

"But you should have trusted me, my child, " said the General, in atone of mild rebuke. "You should have known that I must have hadsome good reason for disappointing you. I had very important businessto attend to--business, darling, which very nearly affects yourhappiness. Some day you shall hear about it. "

"But I don't want to hear about any thing that will keep you awayfrom me, " said Zillah, peevishly. "Promise never to leave me again. "

"Not if I can help it, my child, " said the General, kissing herfondly. 

"No; but promise that you won't at all, " persisted Zillah. "Promisenever to leave me at all. Promise, promise, papa; promise--promise. "

"Well, " said the General, "I'll promise to take you with me the nexttime. That will do, won't it?"

"But I don't want to go away, " said this sweet child; "and I won't goaway. "

The General gave a despairing glance at Guy, who he knew was aspectator of this scene. He felt a vague desire to get Guy alone soas to explain to him that this was only occasional and accidental, and that Zillah was really one of the sweetest and most angelicchildren that ever were born. Nor would this good General haveconsciously violated the truth in saying so; for in his heart ofhearts he believed all this of his loved but sadly spoiled child. Theopportunity for such explanations did not occur, however, and theGeneral had the painful consciousness that Guy was seeing his futurebride under somewhat disadvantageous circumstances. Still he trustedthat the affectionate nature of Zillah would reveal itself to Guy, and make a deep impression upon him. 

While such thoughts as these were passing through his mind, andothers of a very varied nature were occurring to Guy, the maid Saraharrived to take her young charge to bed. The attempt to do so rousedZillah to the most active resistance. She had made up her mind notto yield. "I won't, " she cried--"I won't go to bed. I will never goaway from papa a single instant until that horrid man is gone. I knowhe will take you away again, and I hate him. Why don't you make himgo, papa?"

At this remark, which was so flattering to Guy, the General made afresh effort to appease his daughter, but with no better success thanbefore. Children and fools, says the proverb, speak the truth; andthe truth which was spoken in this instance was not very agreeable tothe visitor at whom it was flung. But Guy looked on with a smile, andnothing in his face gave any sign of the feelings that he might have. He certainly had not been prepared for any approach to any thing ofthis sort. On the journey the General had alluded so often to thatdaughter, who was always uppermost in his mind, that Guy had expectedan outburst of rapturous affection from her. Had he been passed byunnoticed, he would have thought nothing of it; but the malignancy ofher look, and the venom of her words, startled him, yet he was toogood-hearted and considerate to exhibit any feeling whatever. 

Sarah's effort to take Zillah away had resulted in such a completefailure that she retired discomfited, and there was rather an awkwardperiod, in which the General made a faint effort to induce hisdaughter to say something civil to Guy. This, however, was anotherfailure, and in a sort of mild despair he resigned himself to herwayward humor. 

At last dinner was announced. Zillah still refused to leave herfather, so that he was obliged, greatly to his own discomfort, tokeep her on his knee during the meal. When the soup and fish weregoing on she was comparatively quiet; but at the first symptoms ofentrées she became restive, and popping up her quaint little head toa level with the table, she eyed the edibles with the air of anhabitué at the Lord Mayor's banquet. Kaviole was handed round. Thisbrought matters to a crisis. 

"A plate and a fork for me, Thomas, " she ordered, imperiously. 

"But, my darling, " remonstrated her father, "this is much too richfor you so late at night. "

"I like kaviole, " was her simple reply, given with the air of one whois presenting an unanswerable argument, and so indeed it proved tobe. 

This latter scene was re-enacted, with but small variations, whenever any thing appeared which met with her ladyship's approval;and Guy found that in spite of her youth she was a decidedconnoisseur in the delicacies of the table. Now, to tell the truth, he was not at all fond of children; but this one excited in him apositive horror. There seemed to be something in her weird anduncanny; and he found himself constantly speculating as to how hecould ever become reconciled to her; or what changes future yearscould make in her; and whether the lapse of time could by anypossibility develop this impish being into any sort of a presentablewoman. From the moment that he saw her he felt that the question ofbeauty must be abandoned forever; it would be enough if she couldprove to be one with whom a man might live with any degree ofdomestic comfort. But the prospect of taking her at some period inthe future to preside over Chetwynde Castle filled him with completedismay. He now began to realize what his father had faintlysuggested--namely, that his part of the agreement might hereafterprove a sacrifice. The prospect certainly looked dark, and for ashort time he felt somewhat downcast; but he was young and hopeful, and in the end he put all these thoughts from him as in some sorttreacherous to his kind old friend, and made a resolutedetermination, in spite of fate, to keep his vow with him. 

After anticipating the dessert, and preventing her father from takingcheese, on the ground that she did not like it, nature at last tookpity on that much enduring and long suffering man, and threw over thedaughter the mantle of sweet unconsciousness. Miss Pomeroy fellasleep. In that helpless condition she was quietly conveyed from herfather's arms to bed, to the unspeakable relief of Guy, who felt, asthe door closed, as if a fearful incubus had been removed. 

On the following morning he started by an early train for Dublin, sothat on this occasion he had no further opportunity of improving hisacquaintance with his lovely bride. Need it be said that the loss wasnot regretted by the future husband?

[Illustration. ]

CHAPTER VI. 

TWO IMPORTANT CHARACTERS. 

About five years passed away since the events narrated in the lastchapter. The General's household had left their London lodgings notlong after Guy's visit, and had removed to the family seat at PomeroyCourt, where they had remained ever since. During these years Guy hadbeen living the life common with young officers, moving about fromplace to place, going sometimes on a visit to his father, and, on thewhole, extracting an uncommonly large amount of enjoyment out oflife. The memory of his betrothal never troubled him; he fortunatelyescaped any affair of the heart more serious than an idle flirtationin a garrison town; the odd scene of his visit to General Pomeroy'slodgings soon faded into the remote past; and the projected marriagewas banished in his mind to the dim shades of a remote future. As forthe two old men, they only met once or twice in all these years. General Pomeroy could not manage very well to leave his daughter, andLord Chetwynde's health did not allow him to visit Pomeroy. He oftenurged the General to bring Zillah with him to Chetwynde Castle, butthis the young lady positively refused to consent to. Nor did theGeneral himself care particularly about taking her there. 

Pomeroy Court was a fine old mansion, with no pretensions tograndeur, but full of that solid comfort which characterizes so manycountry houses of England. It was irregular in shape, and belonged todifferent periods; the main building being Elizabethan, from whichthere projected an addition in that stiff Dutch style which Williamand Mary introduced. A wide, well-timbered park surrounded it, beyondwhich lay the village of Pomeroy. 

One morning in June, 1856, a man came up the avenue and entered thehall. He was of medium size, with short light hair, low brow, lighteyes, and thin face, and he carried a scroll of music in his hand. Heentered the hall with the air of an habitué, and proceeded to thesouth parlor. Here his attention was at once arrested by a figurestanding by one of the windows. It was a young girl, slender andgraceful in form, dressed in black, with masses of heavy black haircoiled up behind her head. Her back was turned toward him, and hestood in silence for some time looking toward her. At last he spoke:

"Miss Krieff--"

The one called Miss Krieff turned and said, in an indifferentmonotone: "Good-morning, Mr. Gualtier. "

Turning thus she showed a face which had in it nothing whatever ofthe English type--a dark olive complexion, almost swarthy, in fact;thick, luxuriant black hair, eyes intensely black and piercinglylustrous, retreating chin, and retreating narrow forehead. In thatface, with its intense eyes, there was the possibility of rare charmand fascination, and beauty of a very unusual kind; but at thepresent moment, as she looked carelessly and almost sullenly at hervisitor, there was something repellent. 

"Where is Miss Pomeroy?" asked Gualtier. 

"About, somewhere, " answered Miss Krieff, shortly. 

"Will she not play to-day?"

"I think not. "

"Why?"

"The usual cause. "

"What?"

"Tantrums, " said Miss Krieff. 

"It is a pity, " said Gualtier, dryly, "that she is so irregular inher lessons. She will never advance. "

"The idea of her ever pretending to take lessons of any body in anything is absurd, " said Miss Krieff. "Besides, it is as much as ateacher's life is worth. You will certainly leave the house some daywith a broken head. "

Gualtier smiled, showing a set of large yellow teeth, and his smalllight eyes twinkled. 

"It is nothing for me, but I sometimes think it must be hard for you, Miss Krieff, " said he, insinuatingly. 

"Hard!" she repeated, and her eyes flashed as she glanced atGualtier; but in an instant it passed, and she answered in a soft, stealthy voice: "Oh yes, it is hard sometimes; but then dependentshave no right to complain of the whims of their superiors andbenefactors, you know. "

Gualtier said nothing, but seemed to wait further disclosures. Aftera time Miss Krieff looked up, and surveyed him with her penetratinggaze. 

"You must have a great deal to bear, I think, " said he at last. 

"Have you observed it?" she asked. 

"Am I not Miss Pomeroy's tutor? How can I help observing it?" was thereply. 

"Have I ever acted as though I was dissatisfied or discontented, ordid you ever see any thing in me which would lead you to suppose thatI was otherwise than contented?"

"You are generally regarded as a model of good-nature, " saidGualtier, in a cautious, noncommittal tone. "Why should I thinkotherwise? They say that no one but you could live with MissPomeroy. "

Miss Krieff looked away, and a stealthy smile crept over herfeatures. 

"Good-nature!" she murmured. A laugh that sounded almost like a sobescaped her. Silence followed, and Gualtier sat looking abstractedlyat his sheet of music. 

"How do you like the General?" he asked, abruptly. 

"How could I help loving Miss Pomeroy's father?" replied Miss Krieff, with the old stealthy smile reappearing. 

"Is he not just and honorable?"

"Both--more too--he is generous and tender. He is above all a fondfather; so fond, " she added, with something like a sneer, "that allhis justice, his tenderness, and his generosity are exerted for theexclusive benefit of that darling child on whom he dotes. I assureyou, you can have no idea how touching it is to see them together. "

"Do you often feel this tenderness toward them?" asked Gualtier, turning his thin sallow face toward her. 

"Always, " said Miss Krieff, slowly. She rose from her chair, whereshe had taken her seat, and looked fixedly at him for some timewithout one word. 

"You appear to be interested in this family, " said she at length. Gualtier looked at her for a moment--then his eyes fell. 

"How can I be otherwise than interested in one like you?" hemurmured. 

"The General befriended you. He found you in London, and offered youa large salary to teach his daughter. "

"The General was very kind, and is so still. "

Miss Krieff paused, and looked at him with keen and vigilantscrutiny. 

"Would you be shocked, " she asked at length, "if you were to hearthat the General had an enemy?"

"That would altogether depend upon who the enemy might be. "

"An enemy, " continued Miss Krieff, with intense bitterness oftone--"in his own family?"

"That would be strange, " said Gualtier; "but I can imagine an enemywith whom I would not be offended. "

"What would you think, " asked Miss Krieff, after another pause, during which her keen scrutinizing gaze was fixed on Gualtier, "ifthat enemy had for years been on the watch, and under a thin veil ofgood-nature had concealed the most vengeful feelings? What would yousay if that enemy had grown so malignant that only one desireremained, and that was--to do some injury in some way to GeneralPomeroy?"

"You must tell me more, " said Gualtier, "before I answer. I am fullycapable of understanding all that hate may desire or accomplish. Buthas this enemy of whom you speak _done_ any thing? Has she found outany thing? Has she ever discovered any way in which her hate may begratified?"

"You seem to take it for granted that his enemy is a woman!"

"Of course. "

"Well, then, I will answer you. She _has_ found out something--or, rather, she is in the way toward finding out something--which may yetenable her to gratify her desires. "

"Have you any objections to tell what that may be?" asked Gualtier. 

Miss Krieff said nothing for some time, during which each lookedearnestly at the other. 

"No, " said she at last. 

"What is it?"

"It is something that I have found among the General's papers, " saidshe, in a low voice. 

"You have examined the General's papers, then?"

"What I said implied that much, I believe, " said Miss Krieff, coolly. 

"And what is it?"

"A certain mysterious document. "

"Mysterious document?" repeated Gualtier. 

"Yes. "

"What?"

"It is a writing in cipher. "

"And you have made it out?"

"No, I have not. "

"Of what use is it, then?"

"I think it may be of some importance, or it would not have been keptwhere it was, and it would not have been written in cipher. "

"What can you do with it?" asked Gualtier, after some silence. 

"I do not yet see what I can do with it, but others may. "

"What others?"

"I hope to find some friend who may have more skill in cryptographythan I have, and may be able to decipher it. "

"Can you not decipher it at all?"

"Only in part. "

"And what is it that you have found out?"

"I will tell you some other time, perhaps. "

"You object to tell me now?"

"Yes. "

"When will you tell me?"

"When we are better acquainted. "

"Are we not pretty well acquainted now?"

"Not so well as I hope we shall be hereafter. "

"I shall wait most patiently, then, " said Gualtier, earnestly, "tillour increased intimacy shall give me some more of your confidence. But might you not give me some general idea of that which you thinkyou have discovered?"

Miss Krieff hesitated. 

"Do not let me force myself into your confidence, " said Gualtier. 

"No, " said Miss Krieff, in that cold, repellent manner which shecould so easily assume. "There is no danger of that. But I have noobjection to tell you what seems to me to be the general meaning ofthat which I have deciphered. "

"What is it?"

"As far as I can see, " said Miss Krieff, "it charges General Pomeroywith atrocious crimes, and implicates him in one in particular, theknowledge of which, if it be really so, can be used against him withterrible--yes, fatal effect. I now can understand very easily why hewas so strangely and frantically eager to betroth his child to theson of Lord Chetwynde--why he trampled on all decency, and bound hisown daughter, little more than a baby, to a stranger--why hepurchased Guy Molyneux, body and soul, for money. All is plain fromthis. But, after all, it is a puzzle. He makes so high a professionof honor that if his profession were real he would have thought of abetrothal any where except _there_. Oh, if Lord Chetwynde only hadthe faintest conception of this!"

"But what is it?" cried Gualtier, with eager curiosity, which wasstimulated to the utmost by Miss Krieff's words and tones. 

"I will tell you some other time, " said Miss Krieff, resuming herrepellent tone--"not now. If I find you worthy of my confidence, Iwill give it to you. "

"I will try to show myself worthy of it, " said Gualtier, and, after atime, took his departure, leaving Miss Krieff to her thoughts. 

Now, who was this Miss Krieff? She was an important member of thenumerous household which the General had brought with him from India. She had been under his guardianship since her infancy; who she was noone knew but the General himself. Her position was an honorable one, and the General always treated her with a respect and affection thatwere almost paternal. Thus her life had been passed, first asplaymate to Zillah, whom she exceeded in age by about four years, andafterward as companion, friend, almost sister, to the spoiled childand wayward heiress. 

Hilda Krieff was a person of no common character. Even in India hernature had exhibited remarkable traits. Child as she then was, herastuteness and self-control were such as might have excited theadmiration of Macchiavelli himself. By persistent flattery, by theindulgence of every whim, and, above all, by the most exaggeratedprotestations of devotion, she had obtained a powerful influence overZillah's uncontrolled but loving nature; and thus she had graduallymade herself so indispensable to her that Zillah could never bear tobe separated from one who so humored all her whims, and bore her mostungovernable fits of passion with such unvarying sweetness. Hilda hadevidently taken her lesson from the General himself; and thus Zillahwas treated with equal servility by her father and her friend. 

Personally, there was some general resemblance between the two girls;though in Hilda the sallow hue of ill health was replaced by a clearolive complexion; and her eyes, which she seldom raised, had asomewhat furtive manner at times, which was altogether absent fromZillah's clear frank gaze. Hilda's voice was low and melodious, nevereven in the abandon of childish play, or in any excitement, had shebeen known to raise its tones; her step was soft and noiseless, andone had no idea that she was in the room till she was found standingby one's side. 

Zillah's maid Sarah described in her own way the characteristics ofHilda Krieff. 

"That Injun girl, " she said, "always giv her a turn. For her part shepreferred Missy, who, though she did kick uncommon, and were awfulcantankerous to manage, was always ready to make it up, and say asshe had been naughty. For my part, " concluded Sarah, "I am free toconfess I have often giv Missy a sly shake when she was in one ofthem tantrums, and I got the chance, and however that girl can bealways meek spoken even when she has books a-shied at her head ismore than I can tell, and I don't like it neither. I see a look inthem eyes of hers sometimes as I don't like. "

Thus we see that Hilda's Christian-like forgiveness of injuries metwith but little appreciation in some quarters. But this matteredlittle, since with the General and Zillah she was always in thehighest favor. 

What had these years that had passed done for Zillah? In personalappearance not very much. The plain sickly child had developed into atall ungainly girl, whose legs and arms appeared incessantly topresent to their owner the insoluble problem--What is to be done withus? Her face was still thin and sallow, although it was redeemed byits magnificent eyes and wealth of lustrous, jet-black hair. As toher hair, to tell the truth, she managed its luxuriant folds in amanner as little ornamental as possible. She would never consent toallow it to be dressed, affirming that it would drive her mad to sitstill so long, and it was accordingly tricked up with more regard toexpedition than to neatness; and long untidy locks might generally beseen straggling over her shoulders. Nevertheless a mind possessed oflively imagination and great faith might have traced in this girl thepossibility of better things. 

In mental acquirements she was lamentably deficient. Her mind was agarden gone to waste; the weeds flourished, but the good seed refusedto take root. It had been found almost impossible to give her eventhe rudiments of a good education. Governess after governess had cometo Pomeroy Court; governess after governess after a short trial hadleft, each one telling the same story: Miss Pomeroy's abilities weregood, even above the average, but her disinclination to learning wasso great--such was the delicately expressed formula in which theymade known to the General Zillah's utter idleness andselfishness--that she (the governess) felt that she was unable to doher justice; that possibly the fault lay in her own method ofimparting instruction, and that she therefore begged to resign theposition of Miss Pomeroy's instructress. Now, as each new teacher hadbegun a system of her own which she had not had time to develop, itmay be easily seen that the little knowledge which Zillah possessedwas of the most desultory character. Yet after all she had somethingin her favor. She had a taste for reading, and this led her to afamiliarity with the best authors. More than this, her father hadinstilled into her mind a chivalrous sense of honor; and from naturalinstinct, as well as from his teachings, she loved all that was nobleand pure. Medieval romance was most congenial to her taste; and ofall the heroes who figure there she loved best the pure, thehigh-souled, the heavenly Sir Galahad. All the heroes of theArthurian or of the Carlovingian epopee were adored by this waywardbut generous girl. She would sit for hours curled up on a window-sillof the library, reading tales of Arthur and the knights of the RoundTable, or of Charlemagne and his Paladins. Fairy lore, and whateverelse our medieval ancestors have loved, thus became most familiar toher, and all her soul became imbued with these bright and radiantfancies. And through it all she learned the one great lesson whichthese romances teach--that the grandest and most heroic of allvirtues is self-abnegation at the call of honor and loyalty. 

The only trouble was, Zillah took too grand a view of this virtue tomake it practically useful in daily life. If she had thus taken it toher heart, it might have made her practice it by giving up her willto those around her, and by showing from day to day the beauty ofgentleness and courtesy. This, however, she never thought of; or, ifit came to her mind, she considered it quite beneath her notice. Herswas simply a grand theory, to carry out which she never dreamed ofany sacrifice but one of the grandest character. 

The General certainly did all in his power to induce her to learn;and if she did not, it was scarcely his fault. But, while Zillah thusgrew up in ignorance, there was one who did profit by theinstructions which she had despised, and, in spite of the constantchange of teachers which Zillah's impracticable character hadrendered necessary, was now, at the age of nineteen, a refined, well-educated, and highly-accomplished young lady. This was HildaKrieff. General Pomeroy was anxious that she should have everypossible advantage, and Zillah was glad enough to have a companion inher studies. The result is easily stated. Zillah was idle, Hilda wasstudious, and all that the teachers could impart was diligentlymastered by her. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE SECRET CIPHER. 

Some time passed away, and Gualtier made his usual visits. Zillah'smoods were variable and capricious. Sometimes she would languidlydeclare that she could not take her lesson; at other times she wouldtake it for about ten minutes; and then, rising hastily from thepiano, she would insist that she was tired, and refuse to study anymore for that day. Once or twice, by an extreme effort, she managedto devote a whole half hour, and then, as though such exertionwas superhuman, she would retire, and for several weeks afterwardplead that half hour as an excuse for her negligence. All thisGualtier bore with perfect equanimity. Hilda said nothing; andgenerally, after Zillah's retirement, she would go to the pianoherself and take a lesson. 

These lessons were diversified by general conversation. Often theyspoke about Zillah, but very seldom was it that they went beyondthis. Miss Krieff showed no desire to speak of the subject which theyonce had touched upon, and Gualtier was too cunning to be obtrusive. So the weeks passed by without any renewal of that confidentialconversation in which they had once indulged. 

While Zillah was present, Hilda never in any instance showed any signwhatever of anger or impatience. She seemed not to notice herbehavior, or if she did notice it she seemed to think it a veryordinary matter. On Zillah's retiring she generally took her place atthe piano without a word, and Gualtier began his instructions. It wasduring these instructions that their conversation generally tookplace. 

One day Gualtier came and found Hilda alone. She was somewhat_distrait_, but showed pleasure at seeing him, at which he felt bothgratified and flattered. "Where is Miss Pomeroy?" he asked, after theusual greetings had been exchanged. 

"You will not have the pleasure of seeing her to-day, " answeredHilda, dryly. 

"Is she ill?"

"Ill? She is never ill. No. She has gone out. "

"Ah?"

"The General was going to take a drive to visit a friend, and shetook it into her head to accompany him. Of course he had to take her. It was very inconvenient--and very ridiculous--but the moment sheproposed it he assented, with only a very faint effort at dissuasion. So they have gone, and will not be back for some hours. "

"I hope you will allow me to say, " remarked Gualtier, in a low voice, "that I consider her absence rather an advantage than otherwise. "

"You could hardly feel otherwise, " said Hilda. "You have not yet gota broken head, it is true; but it is coming. Some day you will notwalk out of the house. You will be carried out. "

"You speak bitterly. "

"I feel bitterly. "

"Has any thing new happened?" he asked, following up the advantagewhich her confession gave him. 

"No; it is the old story. Interminable troubles, which have to beborne with interminable patience. "

There was a long silence. "You spoke once, " said Gualtier at last, ina low tone, "of something which you promised one day to tell me--somepapers. You said that you would show them some day when we werebetter acquainted. Are we not better acquainted? You have seen me nowfor many weeks since that time, and ought to know whether I am worthyto be trusted or not. "

"Mr. Gualtier, " said Hilda, frankly, and without hesitation, "from mypoint of view I have concluded that you are worthy to be trusted. Ihave decided to show you the paper. "

Gualtier began to murmur his thanks, Hilda waved her hand. "There isno need of that, " said she. "It may not amount to any thing, and thenyour thanks will be thrown away. If it does amount to something youwill share the benefit of it with me--though you can not share therevenge, " she muttered, in a lower tone. 

"But, after all, " she continued, "I do not know that any thing can begained by it. The conjectures which I have formed may all beunfounded. "

"At any rate, I shall be able to see what the foundation is, " saidGualtier. 

"True, " returned Hilda, rising; "and so I will go at once and get thepaper. "

"Have you kept it ever since?" he asked. 

"What! the paper? Oh, you must not imagine that I have kept theoriginal! No, no. I kept it long enough to make a copy, and returnedthe original to its place. "

"Where did you find it?"

"In the General's private desk. "

"Did it seem to be a paper of any importance?"

"Yes; it was kept by itself in a secret drawer. That showed itsimportance. "

Hilda then left the room, and in a short time returned with apaper in her hand. 

"Here it is, " she said, and she gave it to Gualtier. Gualtier tookit, and unfolding it, he saw this:

Gualtier took this singular paper, and examined it long andearnestly. Hilda had copied out the characters with painfulminuteness and beautiful accuracy; but nothing in it suggested tohim any revelation of its dark meaning, and he put it down with astrange, bewildered air. 

"What is it all?" he asked. "It seems to contain some mystery, beyond a doubt. I can gather nothing from the characters. They areall astronomical signs; and, so far as I can see, are the signs ofthe zodiac and of the planets. Here, said he, pointing to thecharacter [Sun image], is the sign of the Sun; and here, pointing to[Libra image], is Libra; and here is Aries, pointing to the sign[Aries image]. 

"Yes, " said Hilda; "and that occurs most frequently. "

"What is it all?"

"I take it to be a secret cipher. "

"How?"

"Why, this--that these signs are only used to represent letters ofthe alphabet. If such a simple mode of concealment has been used thesolution is an easy one. "

"Can you solve cipher alphabets?"

"Yes, where there is nothing more than a concealment of the letters. Where there is any approach to hieroglyphic writing, or syllabicciphers, I am baffled. "

"And have you solved this?"

"No. "

"I thought you said that you had, and that it contained chargesagainst General Pomeroy. "

"That is my difficulty. I have tried the usual tests, and have madeout several lines; but there is something about it which puzzles me;and though I have worked at it for nearly a year, I have not beenable to get to the bottom of it. "

"Are you sure that your deciphering is correct?"

"No. "

"Why not?"

"Because it ought to apply to all, and it does not. It only appliesto a quarter of it. "

"Perhaps it is all hieroglyphic, or syllabic writing. "

"Perhaps so. "

"In that case can you solve it?"

[Illustration. ]

"No; and that is one reason why I have thought of you. Have you evertried any thing of the kind?"

[Illustration: "'What Is It All?' He Asked. "]

"No; never. And I don't see how you have learned any thing about it, or how you have been able to arrive at any principle of action. "

"Oh, as to that, " returned Hilda, "the principle upon which I work isvery simple; but I wish you to try the solution with your own unaidedingenuity. So, simple as my plan is, I will not tell you any thingabout it just now. "

Gualtier looked again at the paper with an expression of deepperplexity. 

"How am I even to begin?" said he. "What am I to do? You might aswell ask me to translate late the Peschito version of the Syriacgospels, or the Rig-Veda. "

"I think, " said Hilda, coolly, "that you have sufficient ingenuity. "

"I have, " said Gualtier; "but, unfortunately, my ingenuity does notlie at all in this direction. This is something different from anything that has ever come in my way before. See, " he said, pointing tothe paper, "this solid mass of letters. It is a perfect block, anexact rectangle. How do you know where to begin? Nothing on theletters shows this. How do you know whether you are to read from leftto right, or from right to left, like Hebrew and Arabic; or bothways, like the old Greek Boustrephedon; or vertically, like theChinese; or, for that matter, diagonally? Why, one doesn't know evenhow to begin!"

"That must all be carefully considered, " said Hilda. "I have weighedit all, and know every letter by heart; its shape, its position, andall about it. "

"Well, " said Gualtier, "you must not be at all surprised if I failutterly. "

"At least you will try?"

"Try? I shall be only too happy. I shall devote to this all the timethat I have. I will give up all my mind and all my soul to it. I willnot only examine it while I am by myself, but I will carry this paperwith me wherever I go, and occupy every spare moment in studying it. I'll learn every character by heart, and think over them all day, anddream about them all night. Do not be afraid that I shall neglect it. It is enough for me that _you_ have given this for me to attempt itssolution. "

Gualtier spoke with earnestness and impetuosity, but Hilda did notseem to notice it at all. 

"Recollect, " she said, in her usual cool manner, "it is as much foryour interest as for mine. If my conjecture is right, it may be ofthe utmost value. If I am wrong, then I do not know what to do. "

"You think that this implicates General Pomeroy in some crime?"

"That is my impression, from my own attempt at solving it. But, as Isaid, my solution is only a partial one. I can not fathom the rest ofit, and do not know how to begin to do so. That is the reason why Iwant your help. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

DECIPHERING. 

Many weeks passed away before Gualtier had another opportunity ofhaving a confidential conversation with Miss Krieff. Zillah seemed tobe perverse. She was as capricious as ever as to her music: some daysattending to it for five minutes, other days half an hour; but nowshe did not choose to leave the room. She would quit the piano, and, flinging herself into a chair, declare that she wanted to see howHilda stood it. As Hilda seated herself and wrought out elaboratecombinations from the instrument, she would listen attentively, andwhen it was over she would give expression to some despairing wordsas to her own stupidity. 

Yet Gualtier had opportunities, and he was not slow to avail himselfof them. Confidential intercourse had arisen between himself and MissKrieff, and he was determined to avail himself of the great advantagewhich this gave him. They had a secret in common--she had admittedhim to her intimacy. There was an understanding between them. Eachfelt an interest in the other. Gualtier knew that he was more than anordinary music-teacher to her. 

During those days when Zillah persistently staid in the room he madeopportunities for himself. Standing behind her at the piano he hadchances of speaking words which Zillah could not hear. 

Thus: "Your fingering there is not correct, Miss Krieff, " he wouldsay in a low tone. "You must put the second finger on G. I have notyet deciphered it. "

"But the book indicates the third finger on G. Have you tried?"

"It is a blunder of the printer. Yes, every day--almost every hour ofevery day. "

"Yet it seems to me to be natural to put the third finger there. Areyou discouraged?"

"Try the second finger once or twice, this way;" and he played a fewnotes. "Discouraged? no; I am willing to keep at it for an indefiniteperiod. "

"Yes, I see that it is better. You must succeed. I was three monthsat it before I discovered any thing. "

"That passage is _allegro_, and you played it _andante_. I wish youwould give me a faint hint as to the way in which you deciphered it. "

"I did not notice the directions, " responded Miss Krieff, playing thepassage over again. 

"Will that do? No, I will give no hint. You would only imitate methen, and I wish you to find out for yourself on your own principle. "

"Yes, that is much better. But I have no principle to start on, andhave not yet found out even how to begin. "

"I must pay more attention to 'expression, ' I see. You say my 'time'is correct enough. If you are not discouraged, you will find it outyet. "

"Your 'time' is perfect. If it is possible, I will find it out. I amnot discouraged. "

"Well, I will hope for something better the next time, and now don'tspeak about it any more. The 'brat' is listening. "

"_Allegro_, _allegro_; remember, Miss Krieff. You always confound_andante_ with _allegro_. "

"So I do. They have the same initials. "

Such was the nature of Gualtier's musical instructions. Thesecommunications, however, were brief and hurried, and only served todeepen the intimacy between them. They had now mutually recognizedthemselves as two conspirators, and had thus become alreadyindispensable to one another. 

They waited patiently, however, and at length their patient waitingwas rewarded. One day Gualtier came and found that Zillah was unwell, and confined to her room. It was the slightest thing in the world, but the General was anxious and fidgety, and was staying in the roomwith her trying to amuse her. This Miss Krieff told him with herusual bitterness. 

"And now, " said she, "we will have an hour. I want to know what youhave done. "

"Done! Nothing. "

"Nothing?"

"No, nothing. My genius does not lie in that direction. You might aswell have expected me to decipher a Ninevite inscription. I can donothing. "

"Have you tried?"

"Tried! I assure you that for the last month the only thing that Ihave thought of has been this. Many reasons have urged me to decipherit, but the chief motive was the hope of bringing to you a completeexplanation. "

"Have you not made out at least a part of it?"

"Not a part--not a single word--if there are words in it--which Ivery much doubt. "

"Why should you doubt it?"

"It seems to me that it must consist of hieroglyphics. You yourselfsay that you have only made out a part of it, and that you doubtwhether it is a valid interpretation. After all, then, yourinterpretation is only partial--only a conjecture. Now I have notbegun to make even a conjecture. For see--what is this?" and Gualtierdrew the well-thumbed paper from his pocket. "I have counted up allthe different characters here, and find that they are forty innumber. They are composed chiefly of astronomical signs; but sixteenof them are the ordinary punctuation marks, such as one sees everyday. If it were merely a secret alphabet, there would be twenty-sixsigns only, not forty. What can one do with forty signs?

"I have examined different grammars of foreign languages to see ifany of them had forty letters, but among the few books at my commandI can find none; and even if it were so, what then? What would be theuse of trying to decipher an inscription in Arabic? I thought at onetime that perhaps the writer might have adopted the short-handalphabet, but changed the signs. Yet even when I go from thisprinciple I can do nothing. "

"Then you give it up altogether?"

"Yes, altogether and utterly, so far as I am concerned; but I stillam anxious to know what you have deciphered, and how you havedeciphered it. I have a hope that I may gain some light from yourdiscovery, and thus be able to do something myself. "

"Well, " said Miss Krieff, "I will tell you, since you have failed socompletely. My principle is a simple one; and my deciphering, thoughonly partial, seems to me to be so true, as far as it goes, that Ican not imagine how any other result can be found. 

"I am aware, " she continued, "that there are forty differentcharacters in the inscription. I counted them all out, and wrote themout most carefully. I went on the simple principle that the writerhad written in English, and that the number of the letters might bedisregarded on a first examination. 

"Then I examined the number of times in which each letter occurred. Ifound that the sign [Aries image] occurred most frequently. Next was[Gemini image]; next [Taurus image]; and then [Cancer image], and[Leo image], and [Libra image], and [Sagittarius image], and [Marsimage]. " Miss Krieff marked these signs down as she spoke. 

Gualtier nodded. 

"There was this peculiarity about these signs, " said Miss Krieff, "that they occurred all through the writing, while the othersoccurred some in the first half and some in the second. For thisinscription is very peculiar in this respect. It is only in thesecond half that the signs of punctuation occur. The signs of thefirst half are all astronomical. 

"You must remember, " continued Miss Krieff, "that I did not think ofany other language than the English. The idea of its being anydialect of the Hindustani never entered my head. So I went on thisfoundation, and naturally the first thought that came to me was, whatletters are there in English which occur most frequently? It seemedto me if I could find this out I might obtain some key, partially, atany rate, to the letters which occurred so frequently in thiswriting. 

"I had plenty of time and unlimited patience. I took a large numberof different books, written by standard authors, and counted theletters on several pages of each as they occurred. I think I countedmore than two hundred pages in this way. I began with the vowels, andcounted up the number of times each one occurred. Then I counted theconsonants. "

"That never occurred to me, " said Gualtier. "Why did you not tellme?"

"Because I wanted you to decipher it yourself on your own principle. Of what use would it be if you only followed over my track? You wouldthen have come only to my result. But I must tell you the result ofmy examination. After counting up the recurrence of all the letterson more than two hundred pages of standard authors, I made out anaverage of the times of their recurrence, and I have the paper hereon which I wrote the average down. "

And Miss Krieff drew from her pocket a paper which she unfolded andshowed to Gualtier. On it was the following:

AVERAGE OF LETTERS. 

E..... 222 times per page. N..... 90 times per page. T..... 162 times per page. L..... 62 times per page. A..... 120 times per page. D..... 46 times per page. H..... 110 times per page. C..... 42 times per page. I.. J.. 109 times per page. U.. V.. 36 times per page. S..... 104 times per page. B..... 36 times per page. O..... 100 times per page. W..... 30 times per page. R..... 100 times per page. G..... 30 times per page. 

"The rest, " said Miss Krieff, "occur on the average less than thirtytimes on a page, and so I did not mark them. 'F, ' 'P, ' and 'K' may besupposed to occur more frequently than some others; but they do not. 

"'E, ' then, " she continued, "is the letter of first importance in theEnglish language. 'A, ' and 'T, ' and 'H, ' are the next ones. Now thereare some little words which include these letters, such as 'the. ''And' is another word which may be discovered and deciphered, it isof such frequent occurrence. If these words only can be found, it isa sign at least that one is on the right track. There are alsoterminations which seem to me peculiar to the English language; suchas 'ng, ' 'ing, ' 'ed, ' 'ly, ' and so on. At any rate, from my studiesof the Italian, French, and German, and from my knowledge ofHindustani, I know that there are no such terminations in any of thewords of those languages. So you see, " concluded Miss Krieff, with aquiet smile, "the simple principle on which I acted. "

"Your genius is marvelously acute!" exclaimed Gualtier, inundisguised admiration. "You speak of your principle as a _simple_one, but it is more than I have been able to arrive at. "

"Men, " said Miss Krieff, "reason too much. You have been imaginingall sorts of languages in which this may have been written. Now, women go by intuitions. I acted in that way. "

"Intuitions!" exclaimed Gualtier. "You have reasoned out this thingin a way which might have done honor to Bacon. You have laid down agreat principle as a foundation, and have gone earnestly to workbuilding up your theory. Champollion himself did not surpass you. "

Gualtier's tone expressed profound admiration. It was not idlecompliment. It was sincere. He looked upon her at that moment as asuperior genius. His intellect bowed before hers. Miss Krieff saw theascendency which she had gained over him; and his expressions ofadmiration were not unwelcome. Admiration! Rare, indeed, was it thatshe had heard any expressions of that kind, and when they came theywere as welcome as is the water to the parched and thirsty ground. Her whole manner softened toward him, and her eyes, which wereusually so bright and hard, now grew softer, though none the lessbright. 

"You overestimate what I have done, " said she, "and you forget thatit is only partially effected. "

"Whether partially or not, " replied Gualtier, "I have the mostintense curiosity to see what you have done. Have you any objectionsto show it to me? Now that I have failed by myself, the only hopethat I have is to be able to succeed through your assistance. You canshow your superiority to me here; perhaps, in other things, I may beof service to you. "

"I have no objections, " said Miss Krieff. "Indeed I would rather showyou my results than not, so as to hear what you have to say aboutthem. I am not at all satisfied, for it is only partial. I know whatyou will say. You will see several reasons, all of which are verygood, for doubting my interpretation of this writing. "

"I can assure you that I shall doubt nothing. After my owndisgraceful failure any interpretation will seem to me to be a workof genius. Believe me any interpretation of yours will only fill mewith a sense of my own weakness. "

"Well, " said Miss Krieff, after a pause, "I will show you what I havedone. My papers are in my room. Go and play on the piano till I comeback. "

Saying this she departed, and was absent for about a quarter of anhour or twenty minutes, and then returned. 

"How is Miss Pomeroy?" asked Gualtier, turning round on thepiano-stool and rising. 

"About the same, " said Miss Krieff. "The General is reading Puss inBoots to her, I believe. Perhaps it is Jack and the Bean Stalk, orBeauty and the Beast. It is one of them, however. I am not certainwhich. "

She walked up to a centre-table and opened a paper which she held inher hand. Gualtier followed her, and took a seat by her side. 

"You must remember, " said Miss Krieff, "that this interpretation ofmine is only a partial one, and may be altogether wrong. Yet therevelations which it seemed to convey were so startling that theyhave produced a very deep impression on my mind. I hoped that youwould have done something. If you had arrived at a solution similarto mine, even if it had been a partial one, I should have beensatisfied that I had arrived at a part of the truth at least. As youhave not done so, nothing remains but to show you what I have done. "

Saying this, she opened the paper which she held and displayed it toGualtier:

[Illustration. ]

"In that writing, " said she, "there are twenty lines. I have beenable to do any thing with ten of them only, and that partially. Therest is beyond my conjecture. "

The paper was written so as to show under each character thecorresponding letter, or what Miss Krieff supposed to be thecorresponding letter, to each sign. 

"This, " said Miss Krieff, "is about half of the signs. You see if mykey is applied it makes intelligible English out of most of the signsin this first half. There seems to me to be a block of letters setinto a mass of characters. Those triangular portions of signs at eachend, and all the lower part, seem to me to be merely a mass ofcharacters that mean nothing, but added to conceal and distract. "

"It is possible, " said Gualtier, carefully examining the paper. 

"It must mean something, " said Miss Krieff, "and it can mean nothingelse than what I have written. That is what it was intended toexpress. Those letters could not have tumbled into that position byaccident, so as to make up these words. See, " she continued, "hereare these sentences written out separately, and you can read themmore conveniently. "

She handed Gualtier a piece of paper, on which was the following:

_Oh may God have mercy on my wretched soul AmenO Pomeroy forged a hundred thousand dollarsO N Pomeroy eloped with poor Lady ChetwyndeShe acted out of a mad impulse in flyingShe listened to me and ran off with meShe was piqued at her husband's actFell in with Lady Mary ChetwyndExpelled the army for gamingN Pomeroy of Pomeroy BerksO I am a miserable villain_

Gualtier read it long and thoughtfully. "What are the initials 'O. N. ?'"

"Otto Neville. It is the General's name. "

Silence followed. "Here he is called O Pomeroy, O N Pomeroy, and NPomeroy. "

"Yes; the name by which he is called is Neville. "

"Your idea is that it is a confession of guilt, written by this O. N. Pomeroy himself?"

"It reads so. "

"I don't want to inquire into the probability of the General'swriting out this and leaving it in his drawer, even in cipher, but Ilook only at the paper itself. "

"What do you think of it?"

"In the first place your interpretation is very ingenious. "

"But--?"

"But it seems partial. "

"So it does to me. That is the reason why I want your help. You seethat there are several things about it which give it an incompletecharacter. First, the mixture of initials; then, the interchange ofthe first and third persons. At one moment the writer speaking ofPomeroy as a third person, running off with Lady Chetwynde, and againsaying he himself fell in with her. Then there are incompletesentences, such as, 'Fell in with Lady Mary Chetwynde--'"

"I know all that, but I have two ways of accounting for it. "

"What?"

"First, that the writer became confused in writing the ciphercharacters and made mistakes. "

"That is probable, " said Gualtier. "What is another way?"

"That he wrote it this way on purpose to baffle. "

"I think the first idea is the best: if he had wished to baffle henever would have written it at all. "

"No; but somebody else might have written it in his name thussecretly and guardedly. Some one who wished for vengeance, and triedthis way. "

Gualtier said nothing in reply, but looked earnestly at Miss Krieff. 

[Illustration. ]

CHAPTER IX. 

A SERIOUS ACCIDENT. 

About this time an event took place which caused a total change inthe lives of all at Pomeroy Court. One day, when out hunting, GeneralPomeroy met with an accident of a very serious nature. While leapingover a hedge the horse slipped and threw his rider, falling heavilyon him at the same time. He was picked up bleeding and senseless, andin that condition carried home. On seeing her father thus broughtback, Zillah gave way to a perfect frenzy of grief. She threw herselfupon his unconscious form, uttering wild ejaculations, and it waswith extreme difficulty that she could be taken away long enough toallow the General to be undressed and laid on his bed. She then tookher place by her father's bedside, where she remained without food orsleep for two or three days, refusing all entreaties to leave him. Adoctor had been sent for with all speed, and on his arrival did whathe could for the senseless sufferer. It was a very serious case, andit was not till the third day that the General opened his eyes. Thefirst sight that he saw was the pale and haggard face of hisdaughter. 

"What is this?" he murmured, confusedly, and in a faint voice. "Whatare you doing here, my darling?"

At the sight of this recognition, and the sound of his voice, Zillahuttered a loud cry of joy, and twined her arms about him in an eagerhunger of affection. 

"Oh, papa! papa!" she moaned, "you are getting better! You will notleave me--you will not--you will not!"

All that day the doctor had been in the house, and at this moment hadbeen waiting in an adjoining apartment. The cry of Zillah startledhim, and he hurried into the room. He saw her prostrate on the bed, with her arms around her father, uttering low, half-hysterical wordsof fondness, intermingled with laughter and weeping. 

"Miss Pomeroy, " he said, with some sternness, "are you mad? Did I notwarn you above all things to restrain your feelings?"

Instantly Zillah started up. The reproof of the doctor had so stungher that for a moment she forgot her father, and regarded herreprover with a face full of astonishment and anger. 

"How dare you speak so to me?" she cried, savagely. 

The doctor looked fixedly at her for a few moments, and thenanswered, quietly:

"This is no place for discussion. I will explain afterward. " He thenwent to the General's bedside, and surveyed his patient in thoughtfulsilence. Already the feeble beginnings of returning consciousness hadfaded away, and the sick man's eyes were closed wearily. The doctoradministered some medicine, and after waiting for nearly an hour insilence, he saw the General sink off into a peaceful sleep. 

"Now, " said he, in a low voice, "Miss Pomeroy, I wish to saysomething to you. Come with me. " He led the way to the room where hehad been waiting, while Zillah, for the first time in her life, obeyed an order. She followed in silence. "Miss Pomeroy, " said thedoctor, very gravely, "your father's case is very serious indeed, and I want to have a perfect understanding with you. If you have notthorough confidence in me, you have only to say so, and I will giveyou a list of physicians of good standing, into whose hands you maysafely confide the General. But if, on the contrary, you wish me tocontinue my charge. I will only do so on the condition that I am tobe the sole master in that room, and that my injunctions are to beimplicitly attended to. Now, choose for yourself. "

This grave, stern address, and the idea that he might leave her, frightened Zillah altogether out of her passion. She looked piteouslyat him, and grasped his hand as if in fear that he would instantlycarry out his threat. 

"Oh, doctor!" she cried, "pray forgive me; do not leave me when dearpapa is so ill! It shall be all as you say, only you will not send meaway from him, will you? Oh, say that you will not!"

The doctor retained her hand, and answered very kindly: "My dearchild, I should be most sorry to do so. Now that your father has comeback to consciousness, you may be the greatest possible comfort tohim if you will. But, to do this, you really must try to controlyourself. The excitement which you have just caused him has overcomehim, and if I had not been here I do not know what might havehappened. Remember, my child, that love is shown not by words but bydeeds; and it would be but a poor return for all your father'saffection to give way selfishly to your own grief. "

"Oh, what have I done?" cried Zillah, in terror. 

"I do not suppose that you have done him very serious injury, " saidthe doctor, reassuringly; "but you ought to take warning by this. Youwill promise now, won't you, that there shall be no repetition ofthis conduct?"

"Oh, I will! I will!"

"I will trust you, then, " said the doctor, looking with pity upon hersad face. "You are his best nurse, if you only keep your promise. Sonow, my dear, go back to your place by his side. " And Zillah, with afaint murmur of thanks, went back again. 

On the following day General Pomeroy seemed to have regained his fullconsciousness. Zillah exercised a strong control over herself, andwas true to her promise. When the doctor called he seemed pleased atthe favorable change. But there was evidently something on theGeneral's mind. Finally, he made the doctor understand that he wishedto see him alone. The doctor whispered a few words to Zillah, whoinstantly left the room. 

"Doctor, " said the General, in a feeble voice, as soon as they werealone, "I must know the whole truth. Will you tell it to me frankly?"

"I never deceive my patients, " was the answer. 

"Am I dangerously ill?"

"You are. "

"How long have I to live?"

"My dear Sir, God alone can answer that question. You have a chancefor life yet. Your sickness may take a favorable turn, and we may beable to bring you round again. "

"But the chances are against me, you think?"

"We must be prepared for the worst, " said the doctor, solemnly. "Atthe same time, there is a chance. "

"Well, suppose that the turn should be unfavorable, how long would itbe, do you think, before the end? I have much to attend to, and it isof the greatest important that I should know this. "

"Probably a month--possibly less, " answered the doctor, gravely, after a moment's thought; "that is, if the worst should take place. But it is impossible to speak with certainty until, your symptoms aremore fully developed. "

"Thank you, doctor, for your frankness; and now, will you kindly sendmy daughter to me?"

"Remember, " said the doctor, doubtfully, "that it is of the greatestpossible moment that you be kept free from all excitement. Anyagitation of your mind will surely destroy your last chance. "

"But I must see her!" answered the General, excitedly. "I have toattend to something which concerns her. It is her future. I could notdie easily, or rest in my grave, if this were neglected. "

Thus far the General had been calm, but the thought of Zillah hadroused him into dangerous agitation. The doctor saw that discussionwould only aggravate this, and that his only chance was to humor hisfancies. So he went out, and found Zillah pacing the passage in astate of uncontrollable agitation. He reminded her of her promise, impressed on her the necessity of caution, and sent her to him. Shecrept softly to the bedside, and, taking her accustomed seat, coveredhis hand with kisses. 

"Sit a little lower, my darling, " said the General, "where I may seeyour face. " She obeyed, still holding his hand, which returned withwarmth her caressing pressure. 

The agitation which the General had felt at the doctor's informationhad now grown visibly stronger. There was a kind of feverishexcitement in his manner which seemed to indicate that his brain wasaffected. One idea only filled that half-delirious brain, and this, without the slightest warning, he abruptly began to communicate tohis daughter. 

"You know, Zillah, " said he, in a rapid, eager tone which alarmedher, "the dearest wish of my heart is to see you the wife of GuyMolyneux, the son of my old friend. I betrothed you to him five yearsago. You remember all about it, of course. He visited us at London. The time for the accomplishment of my desire has now arrived. Ireceived a letter from Lord Chetwynde on the day of my accident, telling me that his son's regiment was shortly to sail for India. Iintended writing to ask him to pay us a visit before he left; butnow, " he added, in a dreamy voice, "of course he must come, and--hemust marry you before he goes. "

Any thing more horrible, more abhorrent, to Zillah than suchlanguage, at such a time, could not be conceived. She thought he wasraving. 

A wild exclamation of fear and remonstrance started to her lips; butshe remembered the doctor's warning, and by a mighty effort repressedit. It then seemed to her that this raving delirium, if resisted, might turn to madness and endanger his last chance. In her despairshe found only one answer, and that was something which might soothehim. 

"Yes, dear papa, " she said, quietly; "yes, we will ask him to comeand see us. "

"No, no, " cried the General, with feverish impatience. "That will notdo. You must marry him at once--to-day--to-morrow--do you hear? Thereis no time to lose. "

"But I must stay with you, dearest papa, you know, " said Zillah, still striving to soothe him. "What would you do without your littlegirl? I am sure you can not want me to leave you. "

"Ah, my child!" said the General, mournfully, "I am going to leave_you_. The doctor tells me that I have but a short time to live; andI feel that what he says is true. If I must leave you, my darling, Ican not leave you without a protector. "

At this Zillah's unaccustomed self-control gave way utterly. Overcomeby the horror of that revelation and the anguish of that discovery, she flung her arms around him and clung to him passionately. 

"You shall not go!" she moaned. "You shall not go; or if you do youmust take me with you. I can not live without you. You know that Ican not. Oh, papa! papa!"

The tones of her voice, which were wailed out in a wild, despairingcry, reached the ears of the doctor, who at once hurried in. 

"What is this?" he said, sharply and sternly, to Zillah. "Is thiskeeping your promise?"

"Oh, doctor!" said Zillah, imploringly, "I did not mean to--I couldnot help it--but tell me--it is not true, is it? Tell me that myfather is not going to leave me!"

"I will tell you this, " said he, gravely. "You are destroying everychance of his recovery by your vehemence. "

Zillah looked up at him with an expression of agony on her face suchas, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, he had but seldomencountered. 

"I've killed him, then!" she faltered. 

The doctor put his hand kindly on her shoulder. "I trust not, my poorchild, " said he; "but it is my duty to warn you of the consequencesof giving way to excessive grief. "

"Oh, doctor! you are quite right, and I will try very hard not togive way again. "

During this conversation, which was low and hurried, General Pomeroylay without hearing any thing of what they were saying. His lipsmoved, and his hands picked at the bed-clothes convulsively. Only oneidea was in his mind--the accomplishment of his wishes. Hisdaughter's grief seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Indeed, hedid not appear to notice it. 

"Speak to her, doctor, " said he, feebly, as he heard their voices. "Tell her I can not die happy unless she is married--I can not leaveher alone in the world. "

The doctor looked surprised. "What does he mean?" he said, takingZillah aside. "What is this fancy? Is there any thing in it?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " said Zillah. "It is certainly on his mind, and he can't be argued or humored out of it. It is an arrangementmade some years ago between him and Lord Chetwynde that when I grewup I should marry his son, and he has just been telling me that hewishes it carried out now. Oh! what--what _shall_ I do?" she added, despairingly. "Can't you do something, doctor?"

"I will speak to him, " said the latter; and, approaching the bed, hebent over the General, and said, in a low voice:

"General Pomeroy, you know that the family physician is often a kindof father-confessor as well. Now I do not wish to intrude upon yourprivate affairs; but from what you have said I perceive that there issomething on your mind, and if I can be of any assistance to you Ishall be only too happy. Have you any objection to tell me what it isthat is troubling you?"

While the doctor spoke the General's eyes were fixed upon Zillah withfeverish anxiety. "Tell her, " he murmured, "that she must consent atonce--at once, " he repeated, in a more excited tone. 

"Consent to what?"

"To this marriage that I have planned for her. She knows. It is withthe son of my old friend, Lord Chetwynde. He is a fine lad, and comesof a good stock. I knew his father before him. I have watched himclosely for the last five years. He will take care of her. He willmake her a good husband. And I--shall be able to die--in peace. Butit must be done--immediately--for he is going--to India. "

The General spoke in a very feeble tone, and with frequent pauses. 

"And do you wish your daughter to go with him? She is too young to beexposed to the dangers of Indian life. "

This idea seemed to strike the General very forcibly. For someminutes he did not answer, and it was with difficulty that he couldcollect his thoughts. At last he answered, slowly:

"That is true--but she need not accompany him. Let her stay withme--till all is over--then she can go--to Chetwynde. It will be hernatural home. She will find in my old friend a second father. She canremain with him--till her husband returns. "

A long pause followed. "Besides, " he resumed, in a fainter voice, "there are other things. I can not explain--they are private--theyconcern the affairs of others. But if Zillah were to refuse to marryhim--she would lose one-half of her fortune. So you can understand myanxiety. She has not a relative in the world--to whom I could leaveher. "

Here the General stopped, utterly exhausted by the fatigue ofspeaking so much. As for the doctor, he sat for a time involved indeep thought. Zillah stood there pale and agitated, looking nowat her father and now at the doctor, while a new and deeper anguishcame over her heart. After a while he rose and quietly motioned toZillah to follow him to the adjoining room. 

"My dear child, " said he, kindly, when they had arrived there, "yourfather is excited, but yet is quite sane. His plan seems to be onewhich he has been cherishing for years; and he has so thoroughly sethis heart upon it that it now is evidently his sole idea. I do notsee what else can be done than to comply with his wishes. "

"What!" cried Zillah, aghast. 

"To refuse, " said the doctor, "might be fatal. It would throw himinto a paroxysm. "

"Oh, doctor!" moaned Zillah. "What do you mean? You can not be inearnest. What--to do such a thing when darling papa is--is dying!"

Sobs choked her utterance. She buried her face in her hands and sankinto a chair. 

"He is not yet so bad, " said the doctor, earnestly, "but he iscertainly in a critical state; and unless it is absolutelyimpossible--unless it is too abhorrent to think of--unless anycalamity is better than this--I would advise you to try and think ifyou can not bring yourself to--to indulge his wish, wild as it mayseem to you. There, my dear, I am deeply sorry for you; but I amhonest, and say what I think. "

For a long time Zillah sat in silence, struggling with her emotions. The doctor's words impressed her deeply; but the thing which headvised was horrible to her--abhorrent beyond words. But then therewas her father lying so near to death--whom, perhaps, herself-sacrifice might save, and whom certainly her selfishness woulddestroy. She could not hesitate. It was a bitter decision, but shemade it. She rose to her feet paler than ever, but quite calm. 

"Doctor, " said she, "I have decided. It is horrible beyond words;but I will do it, or any thing, for his sake. I would die to savehim; and this is something worse than death. "

She was calm and cold; her voice seemed unnatural; her eyes weretearless. 

"It seems very hard, " she murmured, after a pause; "I never sawCaptain Molyneux but once, and I was only ten years old. "

"How old are you now?" asked the doctor, who knew not what to say tothis poor stricken heart. 

"Fifteen. "

"Poor child!" said he, compassionately; "the trials of life arecoming upon you early; but, " he added, with a desperate effort atcondolence, "do not be so despairing; whatever may be the result, youare, after all, in the path of duty; and that is the safest and thebest for us all in the end, however hard it may seem to be in thepresent. "

Just then the General's voice interrupted his little homily, soundingquerulously and impatiently: "Zillah! Zillah!"

She sprang to his bedside: "Here I am, dear papa. "

"Will you do as I wish?" he asked, abruptly. 

"Yes, " said Zillah, with an effort at firmness which cost her dear. Saying this, she kissed him; and the beam of pleasure which at thisword lighted up the wan face of the sick man touched Zillah to theheart. She felt that, come what might, she had received her reward. 

"My sweetest, dutiful child, " said the General, tenderly; "you havemade me happy, my darling. Now get your desk and write for him atonce. You must not lose time, my child. "

This unremitting pressure upon her gave Zillah a new struggle, butthe General exhibited such feverish impatience that she dared notresist. So she went to a Davenport which stood in the corner of theroom, and saying, quietly, "I will write here, papa, " she seatedherself, with her back toward him. 

"Are you ready?" he asked. 

"Yes, papa. "

The General then began to dictate to her what she was to write. Itwas as follows:

"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND, --I think it will cause you some grief to hearthat our long friendship is about to be broken up. My days, I fear, are numbered. "

Zillah stifled the sobs that choked her, and wrote bravely on:

"You know the sorrow which has blighted my life; and I feel that Icould go joyfully to my beloved, my deeply mourned wife, if I couldfeel that I was leaving my child--her child and mine--happilyprovided for. For this purpose I should like Guy, before he leavesfor India, to fulfill his promise, and, by marrying my daughter, giveme the comfort of knowing that I leave her in the hands of a husbandupon whom I can confidently rely. "

But at this point Zillah's self-control gave way. She broke downutterly, and, bowing her head in her hands on the desk, burst forthinto a passion of sobs. 

The poor child could surely not be blamed. Her nature was impassionedand undisciplined; from her birth every whim had been humored, andher wildest fancies indulged to the utmost; and now suddenly uponthis petted idol, who had been always guarded so carefully from theslightest disappointment, there descended the storm-cloud of sorrow, and that too not gradually, but almost in one moment. Her love forher father was a passion; and he was to be taken from her, and shewas to be given into the hands of entire strangers. The apparentcalmness, almost indifference, with which her father made thesearrangements, cut her to the quick. She was too young to know howmuch of this eagerness was attributable entirely to disease. Heappeared to her as thinking of only his own wishes, and showing noconsideration whatever for her own crushing grief, and noappreciation of the strength of her affection for him. Theself-sacrificing father had changed into the most selfish of men, whohad not one thought for her feelings. 

"Oh, Zillah!" cried her father, reproachfully, in answer to her lastoutburst of grief. She rose and went to his bedside, strugglingviolently with her emotion. 

"I can not write this, dearest papa, " she said, in a tremulous voice;"I have promised to do just as you wish, and I will keep my word; butindeed, indeed, I can not write this letter. Will it not do as wellif Hilda writes it?"

"To be sure, to be sure, " said the General, who took no notice of herdistress. "Hilda will do it, and then my little girl can come and sitbeside her father. "

Hilda was accordingly sent for. She glided noiselessly in and tookher place at the Davenport; while Zillah, sitting by her father, buried her head in the bed-clothes, his feeble hands the whileplaying nervously with the long, straggling locks of her hair whichscattered themselves over the bed. The letter was soon finished, forit contained little more than what has already been given, except thereiterated injunction that Guy should make all haste to reach PomeroyCourt. It was then sent off to the post, to the great delight of theGeneral, whose mind became more wandering, now that the strain whichhad been placed upon it was removed. 

"Now, " said he, in a flighty way, and with an eager impetuosity whichshowed that his delirium had increased, "we must think of thewedding--my darling must have a grand wedding, " he murmured tohimself in a low whisper. 

A shudder ran through Zillah as she sat by his side, but not a soundescaped her. She looked up in terror. Had every ray of reason lefther father? Was she to sacrifice herself on so hideous an altarwithout even the satisfaction of knowing that she had given himpleasure? Then she thought that perhaps her father was living againin the past, and confounding this fearful thing which he was planningfor her with his own joyous wedding. Tears flowed afresh, butsilently, at the thought of the contrast. Often had her ayahdelighted her childish imagination by her glowing descriptions of themagnificence of that wedding, where the festivities had lasted for aweek, and the arrangements were all made on a scale of Orientalsplendor. She loved to descant upon the beauty of the bride, therichness of her attire, the magnificence of her jewels, the grandeurof the guests, the splendor of the whole display--until Zillah hadinsensibly learned to think all this the necessary adjuncts of awedding, and had built many a day-dream about the pomp which shouldsurround hers, when the glorious knight whom the fairy tales had ledher to expect should come to claim her hand. But at this time it wasnot the sacrifice of all this that was wringing her heart. She gaveit not even a sigh. It was rather the thought that this marriage, which now seemed inevitable, was to take place here, while her heartwas wrung with anxiety on his account--here in this room--by thatbedside, which her fears told her might be a bed of death. There layher father, her only friend--the one for whom she would lay down herlife, and to soothe whose delirium she had consented to thisabhorrent sacrifice of herself. The marriage thus planned was to takeplace thus; it was to be a hideous, a ghastly mockery--a frightfulviolence to the solemnity of sorrow. She was not to be married--shewas to be sold. The circumstances of that old betrothal had neverbeen explained to her; but she knew that money was in some wayconnected with it, and that she was virtually bought and sold like aslave, without any will of her own. Such bitter thoughts as thesefilled her mind as she sat there by her father's side. 

Presently her father spoke again. "Have you any dresses, Zillah?"

"Plenty, papa. "

"Oh, but I mean a wedding-dress--a fine new dress; white satin mydarling wore; how beautiful she looked! and a veil you must have, andplenty of jewels--pearls and diamonds. My pet will be a lovelybride. "

Every one of these words was a stab, and Zillah was dumb; but herfather noticed nothing, of this. It was madness, but, like many casesof madness, it was very coherent. 

"Send for your ayah, dear, " he continued; "I must talk to her--aboutyour wedding-dress. "

Zillah rang the bell. As soon as the woman appeared the Generalturned to her with his usual feverish manner. 

"Nurse, " said he, "Miss Pomeroy is to be married at once. You mustsee--that she has every thing prepared--suitably--and of the verybest. "

The ayah stood speechless with amazement. This feeling was increasedwhen Zillah said, in a cold monotone:

"Don't look surprised, nurse. It's quite true. I am to be marriedwithin a day or two. "

Her master's absurdities the ayah could account for on the ground ofdelirium; but was "Little Missy" mad too? Perhaps sorrow had turnedher brain, she thought. At any rate, it would be best to humor them. 

"Missy had a white silk down from London last week, Sir. "

"Not satin? A wedding-dress should be of satin, " said the General. 

"It does not matter, so that it is all white, " said the nurse, withdecision. 

"Doesn't it? Very well, " said the General. "But she must have a veil, nurse, and plenty of jewels. She must look like my darling. Youremember, nurse, how she looked. "

"Indeed I do, sahib, and you may leave all to me. I will see thatMissy is as fine and grand as any of them. "

The ayah began already to feel excited, and to fall in with this wildproposal. The very mention of dress had excited her Indian love offinery. 

"That is right, " said the General; "attend to it all. Spare noexpense. Don't you go, my child, " he continued, as Zillah rose andwalked shudderingly to the window. "I think I can sleep, now that mymind is at ease. Stay by me, my darling child. "

"Oh, papa, do you think I would leave you?" said Zillah, and she cameback to the bed. 

The doctor, who had been waiting until the General should become alittle calmer, now administered an anodyne, and he fell asleep, hishand clasped in Zillah's, while she, fearful of making the slightestmovement, sat motionless and despairing far into the night. 

CHAPTER X. 

A WEDDING IN EXTREMIS. 

Two days passed; on the second Guy Molyneux arrived. Lord Chetwyndewas ill, and could not travel. He sent a letter, however, full ofearnest and hopeful sympathy. He would not believe that things wereas bad as his old friend feared; the instant that he could leave hewould come up to Pomeroy Court; or if by God's providence the worstshould take place, he would instantly fetch Zillah to ChetwyndeCastle; and the General might rely upon it that, so far as love andtenderness could supply a father's place, she should not feel herloss. 

On Guy's arrival he was shown into the library. Luncheon was laidthere, and the housekeeper apologized for Miss Pomeroy's absence. Guy took a chair and waited for a while, meditating on the time whenhe had last seen the girl who in a short time was to be tied to himfor life. The event was excessively repugnant to him, even though hedid not at all realize its full importance; and he would have givenany thing to get out of it; but his father's command was sacred, andfor years he had been bound by his father's word. Escape was utterlyimpossible. The entrance of the clergyman, who seemed more intent onthe luncheon than any thing else, did not lessen Guy's feelings ofrepugnance. He said but little, and sank into a fit of abstraction, from which he was roused by a message that the General would like tosee him. He hurried up stairs. 

The General smiled faintly, and greeted him with as much warmth ashis weak and prostrated condition would allow. 

"Guy, my boy, " said he, feebly, "I am very glad to see you. "

To Guy the General seemed like a doomed man, and the discovery gavehim a great shock, for he had scarcely anticipated any thing so badas this. In spite of this, however, he expressed a hope that theGeneral might yet recover, and be spared many years to them. 

"No, " said the General, sadly and wearily; "no; my days are numbered. I must die, my boy; but I shall die in peace, if I feel that I do notleave my child uncared for. "

Guy, in spite of his dislike and repugnance, felt deeply moved. 

"You need have no fear of that, Sir, " he went on to say, in solemn, measured tones. "I solemnly promise you that no unhappiness shallever reach her if I can help it. To the end of my life I will try torequite to her the kindness that you have shown to us. My fatherfeels as I do, and he begged me to assure you, if he is not able tosee you again, as he hopes to do, that the instant your daughterneeds his care he will himself take her to Chetwynde Castle, and willwatch over her with the same care and affection that you yourselfwould bestow; and she shall leave his home only for mine. "

The General pressed his hand feebly. "God bless you!" he said, in afaint voice. 

Suddenly a low sob broke the silence which followed. Turning hastily, Guy saw in the dim twilight of the sick-room what he had not beforeobserved. It was a girl's figure crouching at the foot of the bed, her head buried in the clothes. He looked at her--his heart told himwho it was--but he knew not what to say. 

The General also had heard that sob. It raised no pity and compassionin him; it was simply some new stimulus to the one idea of hisdistempered brain. "What, Zillah!" he said, in surprise. "You hereyet? I thought you had gone to get ready. "

Still the kneeling figure did not move. 

"Zillah, " said the General, querulously, and with an excitement inhis feeble voice which showed how readily he might lapse intocomplete delirium--"Zillah, my child, be quick. There is no time tolose. Go and get ready for your wedding. Don't you hear me? Go anddress yourself. "

"Oh, papa!" moaned Zillah, in a voice which pierced to the inmostheart of Guy, "will it not do as I am? Do not ask me to put on fineryat a time like this. " Her voice was one of utter anguish and despair. 

"A time like this?" said the General, rousing himselfsomewhat--"what do you mean, child? Does not the Bible say, Like as abride adorneth herself--for her husband--and ever shall be--worldwithout end--amen--yes--white satin and pearls, my child--ohyes--white pearls and satin--we are all ready--where are you, mydarling?" Another sob was the only reply to this incoherent speech. Guy stood as if petrified. In his journey here he had simply tried tomuster up his own resolution, and to fortify his own heart. He hadnot given one thought to this poor despairing child. Her sorrow, heranguish, her despair, now went to his heart. Yet he knew not what todo. How gladly he would have made his escape from this horriblemockery--for her sake as well as for his own! But for such escape hesaw plainly there was no possibility. That delirious mind, in itsfrenzy, was too intent upon its one purpose to admit of this. Hehimself also felt a strange and painful sense of guilt. Was not he toa great extent the cause of this, though the unwilling cause? Ah! hethought, remorsefully, can wrong be right? and can any thing justifysuch a desecration as this both of marriage and of death? At thatmoment Chetwynde faded away, and to have saved it was as nothing. Willingly would he have given up every thing if he could now havesaid to this poor child--who thus crouched down, crushed by a woman'ssorrow before she had known a woman's years--"Farewell. You are free. I will give you a brother's love and claim nothing in return. I willgive back all, and go forth penniless into the battle of life. "

But the General again interrupted them, speaking impatiently: "Whatare you waiting for? Is not Zillah getting ready?"

Guy scarcely knew what he was doing; but, obeying the instincts ofhis pity, he bent down and whispered to Zillah, "My poor child, Ipity you, and sympathize with you more than words can tell. It is anawful thing for you. But can you not rouse yourself? Perhaps it wouldcalm your father. He is getting too excited. "

Zillah shrunk away as though he were pollution, and Guy at thisresumed his former place in sadness and in desperation, with no otheridea than to wait for the end. 

"Zillah! Zillah!" cried the General, almost fiercely. 

At this Zillah sprang up, and rushed out of the room. She hurried upstairs, and found the ayah in her dressing-room with Hilda. In thenext room her white silk was laid out, her wreath and veil beside it. 

"Here's my jewel come to be dressed in her wedding-dress, " said theayah, joyously. 

"Be quiet!" cried Zillah, passionately. "Don't dare to say any thinglike that to me; and you may put all that trash away, for I'm notgoing to be married at all. I can't do it, and I won't. I hate him! Ihate him! I hate him! I hate him!"

These words she hissed out with the venom of a serpent. Herattendants tried remonstrance, but in vain. Hilda pointed out to herthe handsome dress, but with no greater success. Vainly they tried toplead, to coax, and to persuade. All this only seemed to strengthenher determination. At last she threw herself upon the floor, like apassionate child, in a paroxysm of rage and grief. 

The unwonted self-control which for the last few days she had imposedupon herself now told upon her in the violence of the reaction whichhad set in. When once she had allowed the barriers to be broken down, all else gave way to the onset of passion; and the presence andremonstrances of the ayah and Hilda only made it worse. She forgotutterly her father's condition; she showed herself now as selfish inher passion as he had shown himself in his delirium. Nothing could bedone to stop her. The others, familiar with these outbreaks, retiredto the adjoining room and waited. 

Meanwhile the others were waiting also in the room below. The doctorwas there, and sat by his patient, exerting all his art to soothe himand curb his eagerness. The General refused some medicine which heoffered, and declared with passion that he would take nothingwhatever till the wedding was over. To have used force would havebeen fatal; and so the doctor had to humor his patient. The familysolicitor was there with the marriage settlements, which had beenprepared in great haste. Guy and the clergyman sat apart inthoughtful silence. 

Half an hour passed, and Zillah did not appear. On the General'sasking for her the clergyman hazarded a remark intended to bepleasant, about ladies on such occasions needing some time to adornthemselves--a little out of place under the circumstances, but itfortunately fell in with the sick man's humor, and satisfied him forthe moment. 

Three-quarters of an hour passed. "Surely she must be ready now, "said the General, who grew more excited and irritable every moment. Amessenger was thereupon dispatched for her, but she found the doorbolted, and amidst the outcry and confusion in the room could onlydistinguish that Miss Pomeroy was not ready. This message shedelivered without entering into particulars. 

An hour passed, and another messenger went, with the same result. Itthen became impossible to soothe the General any longer. Guy alsogrew impatient, for he had to leave by that evening's train; and ifthe thing had to be it must be done soon. He began to hope that itmight be postponed--that Zillah might not come--and then he wouldhave to leave the thing unfinished. But then he thought of hisfather's command, and the General's desire--of his own promise--ofthe fact that it must be done--of the danger to the General if itwere not done. Between these conflicting feelings--his desire toescape, and his desire to fulfill what he considered hisobligations--his brain grew confused, and he sat there impatient forthe end--to see what it might turn out to be. 

Another quarter of an hour passed. The General's excitement grewworse, and was deepening into frenzy. Dr. Cowell looked more and moreanxious, and at last, shrewdly suspecting the cause of the delay, determined himself to go and take it in hand. He accordingly left hispatient, and was just crossing the room, when his progress wasarrested by the General's springing up with a kind of convulsivestart, and jumping out of bed, declaring wildly and incoherently thatsomething must be wrong, and that he himself would go and bringZillah. The doctor had to turn again to his patient. The effort was aspasmodic one, and the General was soon put back again to bed, wherehe lay groaning and panting; while the doctor, finding that he couldnot leave him even for an instant, looked around for some one to sendin his place. Who could it be? Neither the lawyer nor the clergymanseemed suitable. There was no one left but Guy, who seemed to thedoctor, from his face and manner, to be capable of dealing with anydifficulty. So he called Guy to him, and hurriedly whispered to himthe state of things. 

"If the General has to wait any longer, he will die, " said thedoctor. "_You'll_ have to go and bring her. You're the only person. You _must_. Tell her that her father has already had one fit, andthat every moment destroys his last chance of life. She must eitherdecide to come at once, or else sacrifice him. "

He then rang the bell, and ordered the servant to lead CaptainMolyneux to Miss Pomeroy. Guy was thus forced to be an actor wherehis highest desire was to be passive. There was no alternative. Inthat moment all his future was involved. He saw it; he knew it; buthe did not shrink. Honor bound him to this marriage, hateful as itwas. The other actor in the scene detested it as much as he did, butthere was no help for it. Could he sit passive and let the Generaldie? The marriage, after all, he thought, had to come off; it wasterrible to have it now; but then the last chance of the General'slife was dependent upon this marriage. What could he do?

What? A rapid survey of his whole situation decided him. He wouldperform what he considered his vow. He would do his part towardsaving the General's life, though that part was so hard. He was calm, therefore, and self-possessed, as the servant entered and led the wayto Zillah's apartments. The servant on receiving the order grinned inspite of the solemnity of the occasion. He had a pretty clear idea ofthe state of things; he was well accustomed to what was styled, inthe servants' hall, "Missy's tantrums;" and he wondered to himselfhow Guy would ever manage her. He was too good a servant, however, tolet his feelings be seen, and so he led the way demurely, andknocking at Zillah's door, announced:

"Captain Molyneux. "

The door was at once opened by the ayah. 

At that instant Zillah sprang to her feet and looked at him in a furyof passion. "_You_!" she cried, with indescribable malignancy. "_You_! _You_ here! How dare _you_ come here? Go down stairs thisinstant! If it is my money you want, take it all and begone. I willnever, never, never, marry you!"

For a moment Guy was overcome. The taunt was certainly horrible. Heturned pale, but soon regained his self-possession. 

"Miss Pomeroy, " said he, quietly, yet earnestly, "this is not thetime for a scene. Your father is in the utmost danger. He has waitedfor an hour and a quarter. He is getting worse every moment. He madeone attempt to get out of bed, and come for you himself. The doctorordered me to come, and that is why I am here. "

"I don't believe you!" screamed Zillah. "You are trying to frightenme. "

"I have nothing to say, " replied Guy, mournfully. "Your father israpidly getting into a state of frenzy. If it lasts much longer hewill die. "

Guy's words penetrated to Zillah's inmost soul. A wild fear arose, which in a moment chased away the fury which had possessed her. Herface changed. She struck her hands against her brow, and uttered anexclamation of terror. 

"Tell him--tell him--I'm coming. Make haste, " she moaned. "I'll bedown immediately. Oh, make haste!"

She hurried back, and Guy went down stairs again, where he waited atthe bottom with his soul in a strange tumult, and his heart on fire. Why was it that he had been sold for all this--he and that wretchedchild?

But now Zillah was all changed. Now she was as excited in her hasteto go down stairs as she had before been anxious to avoid it. Sherushed back to the bedroom where Hilda was, who, though unseen, hadheard every thing, and, foreseeing what the end might be, was nowgetting things ready. 

"Be quick, Hilda!" she gasped. "Papa is dying! Oh, be quick--bequick! Let me save him!"

She literally tore off the dress that she had on, and in less thanfive minutes she was dressed. She would not stop for Hilda to arrangeher wreath, and was rushing down stairs without her veil, when theayah ran after her with it. 

"You are leaving your luck, Missy darling, " said she. 

"Ay--that I am, " said Zillah, bitterly. 

"But you will put it on, Missy, " pleaded the ayah. "Sahib has talkedso much about it. "

Zillah stopped. The ayah threw it over her, and enveloped her in itssoft folds. 

"It was your mother's veil, Missy, " she added. "Give me a kiss forher sake before you go. "

Zillah flung her arms around the old woman's neck. 

"Hush, hush!" she said. "Do not make me give way again, or I cannever do it. "

At the foot of the stairs Guy was waiting, and they entered the roomsolemnly together--these two victims--each summoning up all thatHonor and Duty might supply to assist in what each felt to be asacrifice of all life and happiness. But to Zillah the sacrifice wasworse, the task was harder, and the ordeal more dreadful. For it washer father, not Guy's, who lay there, with a face that already seemedto have the touch of death; it was she who felt to its fullest extentthe ghastliness of this hideous mockery. 

But the General, whose eyes were turned eagerly toward the door, found in this scene nothing but joy. In his frenzy he regarded themas blessed and happy, and felt this to be the full realization of hishighest hopes. 

"Ah!" he said, with a long gasp; "here she is at last. Let us beginat once. "

So the little group formed itself around the bed, the ayah and Hildabeing present in the back-ground. 

In a low voice the clergyman began the marriage service. Far moresolemn and impressive did it sound now than when heard undercircumstances of gayety and splendor; and as the words sank intoGuy's soul, he reproached himself more than ever for never havingconsidered the meaning of the act to which he had so thoughtlesslypledged himself. 

The General had now grown calm. He lay perfectly motionless, gazingwistfully at his daughter's face. So quiet was he, and so fixed washis gaze, that they thought he had sunk into some abstracted fit; butwhen the clergyman, with some hesitation, asked the question, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" the Generalinstantly responded, in a firm voice, "I do. " Then reaching forth, hetook Zillah's hand, and instead of giving it to the clergyman, hehimself placed it within Guy's, and for a moment held both hands inhis, while he seemed to be praying for a blessing to rest on theirunion. 

The service proceeded. Solemnly the priest uttered the warning:"Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. "Solemnly, too, he pronounced the benediction--"May ye so livetogether in this life that in the world to come ye shall have lifeeverlasting. "

And so, for better or worse, Guy Molyneux and Zillah Pomeroy roseup--_man and wife_!

After the marriage ceremony was over the clergyman administered theHoly Communion--all who were present partaking with the General; andsolemn indeed was the thought that filled the mind of each, that erelong, perhaps, one of their number might be--not figuratively, butliterally--"with angels and archangels, and all the company ofheaven. "

After this was all over the doctor gave the General a soothingdraught. He was quite calm now; he took it without objection; and ithad the effect of throwing him soon into a quiet sleep. The clergymanand the lawyer now departed; and the doctor, motioning to Guy andZillah to leave the room, took his place, with an anxiouscountenance, by the General's bedside. The husband and wife went intothe adjoining room, from which they could hear the deep breathing ofthe sick man. 

[Illustration: "The Clergyman Began The Marriage Service. "]

It was an awkward moment. Guy had to depart in a short time. Thatsullen stolid girl who now sat before him, black and gloomy as athunder-cloud, was _his wife_. He was going away, perhaps forever. Hedid not know exactly how to treat her; whether with indifference as awillful child, or compassionate attention as one deeply afflicted. Onthe whole he felt deeply for her, in spite of his own forebodings ofhis future; and so he followed the more generous dictates of hisheart. Her utter loneliness, and the thought that her father mightsoon be taken away, touched him deeply; and this feeling was evidentin his whole manner as he spoke. 

"Zillah, " said he, "our regiment sails for India several days soonerthan I first expected, and it is necessary for me to leave in a shorttime. You, of course, are to remain with your father, and I hope thathe may soon be restored to you. Let me assure you that this wholescene has been, under the circumstances, most painful, for your sake, for I have felt keenly that I was the innocent cause of great sorrowto you. "

He spoke to her calmly, and as a father would to a child, and at thesame time reached out his hand to take hers. She snatched it awayquickly. 

"Captain Molyneux, " said she, coldly, "I married you solely to pleasemy father, and because he was not in a state to have his wishesopposed. It was a sacrifice of myself, and a bitter one. As to you, Iput no trust in you, and take no interest whatever in your plans. Butthere is one thing which I wish you to tell me. What did papa mean bysaying to the doctor, that if I did not marry you I should loseone-half of my fortune?"

Zillah's manner at once chilled all the warm feelings of pity andgenerosity which Guy had begun to feel. Her question also was anembarrassing one. He had hoped that the explanation might come later, and from his father. It was an awkward one for him to make. ButZillah was looking at him impatiently. 

"Surely, " she continued in a stern voice as she noticed hishesitation, "that is a question which I have a right to ask. "

"Of course, " said Guy, hastily. "I will tell you. It was because morethan half your fortune was taken to pay off the debt on ChetwyndeCastle. "

A deep, angry, crimson flush passed over Zillah's face. 

"So that is the reason why I have been sold?" she cried, impetuously. "Well, Sir, your manoeuvring has succeeded nobly. Let me congratulateyou. You have taken in a guileless old man, and a young girl. "

Guy looked at her for a moment in fierce indignation. But with agreat effort he subdued it, and answered, as calmly as possible:

"You do not know either my father or myself, or you would beconvinced that such language could not apply to either of us. Theproposal originally emanated entirely from General Pomeroy. "

"Ah?" said Zilla, fiercely. "But you were base enough to takeadvantage of his generosity and his love for his old friend. Oh!" shecried, bursting into tears, "that is what I feel, that he couldsacrifice me, who loved him so, for your sakes. I honestly believedonce that it was his anxiety to find me a protector. "

Guy's face had grown very pale. 

"And so it was, " he said, in a voice which was deep and tremulousfrom his strong effort at self-control. "He trusted my father, andtrusted me, and wished to protect you from unprincipledfortune-hunters. "

"_Fortune-hunters_!" cried Zillah, her face flushed, and withaccents of indescribable scorn. "Good Heavens! What are _you_ if youare not this very thing? Oh, how I hate you! how I hate you!"

Guy looked at her, and for a moment was on the point of answering herin the same fashion, and pouring out all his scorn and contempt. Butagain he restrained himself. 

"You are excited, " he said, coolly. "One of these days you will findout your mistake. You will learn, as you grow older, that the name ofChetwynde can not be coupled with charges like these. In the meantime allow me to advise you not to be quite so free in your languagewhen you are addressing honorable gentlemen; and to suggest that yourfather, who loved you better than any one in the world, may possiblyhave had _some_ cause for the confidence which he felt in us. "

There was a coolness in Guy's tone which showed that he did not thinkit worth while to be angry with her, or to resent her insults. ButZillah did not notice this. She went on as before:

"There is one thing which I will never forgive. "

"Indeed? Well, your forgiveness is so very important that I shouldlike to know what it is that prevents me from gaining it. "

"The way in which I have been deceived!" burst forth Zillah, fiercely, "if papa had wished to give you half of his money, or allof it, I should not have cared a bit. I do not care for that at all. But why did nobody tell me the truth? Why was I told that it was outof regard to _me_ that this horror, this frightful mockery ofmarriage, was forced upon me, while my heart was breaking withanxiety about my father; when to you I was only a necessary evil, without which you could not hope to get my father's money; and theonly good I can possibly have is the future privilege of living in aplace whose very name I loathe, with the man who has cheated me, andwhom all my life I shall hate and abhor? Now go! and I pray God I maynever see you again. "

With these words, and without waiting for a reply, she left the room, leaving Guy in a state of mind by no means enviable. 

He stood staring after her. "And that thing is mine for life!" hethought; "that she-devil! utterly destitute of sense and of reason!Oh, Chetwynde, Chetwynde! you have cost me dear. See you again, myfiend of a wife! I hope not. No, never while I live. Some of thesedays I'll give you back your sixty thousand with interest. And you, why you may go to the devil forever!"

Half an hour afterward Guy was seated in the dog-cart bowling to thestation as fast as two thorough-breds could take him; every momentcongratulating himself on the increasing distance which wasseparating him from his bride of an hour. 

The doctor watched all that night. On the following morning theGeneral was senseless. On the next day he died. 

CHAPTER XI. 

A NEW HOME. 

Dearly had Zillah paid for that frenzy of her dying father; and theconsciousness that her whole life was now made over irrevocably toanother, brought to her a pang so acute that it counterbalanced thegrief which she felt for her father's death. Fierce anger and bitterindignation nation struggled with the sorrow of bereavement, andsometimes, in her blind rage, she even went so far as to reproach herfather's memory. On all who had taken part in that fateful ceremonyshe looked with vengeful feelings. She thought, and there was reasonin the thought, that they might have satisfied his mind withoutbinding her. They could have humored his delirium without forfeitingher liberty. They could have had a mock priest, who might have read aservice which would have had no authority, and imposed vows whichwould not be binding. On Guy she looked with the deepest scorn, forshe believed that he was the chief offender, and that if he had beena man of honor he might have found many ways to avoid this thing. Possibly Guy as he drove off was thinking the same, and cursing hisdull wit for not doing something to delay the ceremony or make itvoid. But to both it was now too late. 

The General's death took place too soon for Zillah. Had he lived shemight have been spared long sorrows. Had it not been for this, andhis frantic haste in forcing on a marriage, her early betrothal mighthave had different results. Guy would have gone to India. He wouldhave remained there for years, and then have come home. On his returnhe might possibly have won her love, and then they could have settleddown harmoniously in the usual fashion. But now she found herselfthrust upon him, and the very thought of him was a horror. Nevercould the remembrance of that hideous mockery at the bedside of oneso dear, who was passing away forever, leave her mind. All thesolemnities of death had been outraged, and all her memories of thedying hours of her best friend were forever associated withbitterness and shame. 

For some time after her father's death she gave herself up to themotions of her wild and ungovernable temper. Alternations of savagefury and mute despair succeeded to one another. To one like her therewas no relief from either mood; and, in addition to this, there wasthe prospect of the arrival of Lord Chetwynde. The thought of thisfilled her with such a passion of anger that she began to meditateflight. She mentioned this to Hilda, with the idea that of courseHilda would go with her. 

Hilda listened in her usual quiet way, and with a great appearance ofsympathy. She assented to it, and quite appreciated Zillah'sposition. But she suggested that it might be difficult to carry outsuch a plan without money. 

"Money!" said Zillah, in astonishment. "Why, have I not plenty ofmoney? All is mine now surely. "

"Very likely, " said Hilda, coolly; "but how do you propose to get it?You know the lawyer has all the papers, and every thing else underlock and key till Lord Chetwynde comes, and the will is read;besides, dear, " she added with a soft smile, "you forget that amarried woman can not possess property. Our charming English lawgives her no rights. All that you nominally possess in realitybelongs to your husband. "

At this hated word "husband, " Zillah's eyes flashed. She clenched herhands, and ground her teeth in rage. 

"Be quiet!" she cried, in a voice which was scarce audible frompassion. "Can you not let me forget my shame and disgrace for onemoment? Why must you thrust it in my face?"

Hilda's little suggestion thus brought full before Zillah's mind onegalling yet undeniable truth, which showed her an insurmountableobstacle in the way of her plan. To one utterly unaccustomed tocontrol of any kind, the thought added fresh rage, and she now soughtrefuge in thinking how she could best encounter her new enemy, LordChetwynde, and what she might say to show how she scorned him and hisson. She succeeded in arranging a very promising plan of action, andmade up many very bitter and insulting speeches, out of which sheselected one which seemed to be the most cutting, galling, andinsulting which she could think of. It was very nearly the samelanguage which she had used to Guy, and the same taunts were repeatedin a somewhat more pointed manner. 

At length Lord Chetwynde arrived, and Zillah, after refusing to seehim for two days, went down. She entered the drawing-room, her hearton fire, and her brain seething with bitter words, and looked up tosee her enemy. That enemy, however, was an old man whose sight wastoo dim to see the malignant glance of her dark eyes, and the fiercepassion of her face. Knowing that she was coming, he was awaitingher, and Zillah on looking up saw him. That first sight at oncequelled her fury. She saw a noble and refined face, whereon there wasan expression of tenderest sympathy. Before she could recover fromthe shock which the sight of such a face had given to her passion hehad advanced rapidly toward her, took her in his arms, and kissed hertenderly. 

"My poor child, " he said, in a voice of indescribable sweetness--"mypoor orphan child, I can not tell how I feel for you; but you belongto me now. I will try to be another father. "

The tones of his voice were so full of affection that Zillah, who wasalways sensitive to the power of love and kindness, was instantlysoftened and subdued. Before the touch of that kiss of love and thosewords of tenderness every emotion of anger fled away; her passionsubsided; she forgot all her vengeance, and, taking his hand in bothof hers, she burst into tears. 

The Earl gently led her to a seat. In a low voice full of the sametender affection he began to talk of her father, of their oldfriendship in the long-vanished youth, of her father's noble nature, and self-sacrificing character; till his fond eulogies of his deadfriend awakened in Zillah, even amidst her grief for the dead, athousand reminiscences of his character when alive, and she began tofeel that one who so knew and loved her father must himself have beenmost worthy to be her father's friend. 

It was thus that her first interview with the Earl dispelled hervindictive passion. At once she began to look upon him as the one whowas best adapted to fill her father's place, if that place could everbe filled. The more she saw of him, the more her new-born affectionfor him strengthened, and during the week which he spent at PomeroyCourt she had become so greatly changed that she looked back to herold feelings of hate with mournful wonder. 

In due time the General's will was read. It was very simple: Thirtythousand pounds were left to Zillah. To Hilda three thousand poundswere left as a tribute of affection to one who had been to him, as hesaid, "like a daughter. "

Hilda he recommended most earnestly to the care and affection of LordChetwynde, and desired that she and Zillah should never be separatedunless they themselves desired it. To that last request of his dyingfriend Lord Chetwynde proved faithful. He addressed Hilda withkindness and affection, expressed sympathy with her in the loss ofher benefactor, and promised to do all in his power to make good theloss which she had suffered in his death. She and Zillah, he toldher, might live as sisters in Chetwynde Castle. Perhaps the timemight come when their grief would be alleviated, and then they wouldboth learn to look upon him with something of that affection whichthey had felt for General Pomeroy. 

When Hilda and Zillah went with the Earl to Chetwynde Castle therewas one other who was invited there, and who afterward followed. Thiswas Gualtier. Hilda had recommended him; and as the Earl was veryanxious that Zillah should not grow up to womanhood without furthereducation, he caught at the idea which Hilda had thrown out. Sobefore leaving he sought out Gualtier, and proposed that he shouldcontinue his instructions at Chetwynde. 

"You can live very well in the village, " said the Earl. "There arefamilies there with whom you can lodge comfortably. Mrs. Molyneux isacquainted with you and your style of teaching, and therefore I wouldprefer you to any other. "

Gualtier bowed so low that the flush of pleasure which came over hissallow face, and his smile of ill-concealed triumph, could not beseen. 

"You are too kind, my lord, " he said, obsequiously. "I have alwaysdone my best in my instructions, and will humbly endeavor to do so inthe future. "

So Gualtier followed them, and arrived at Chetwynde a short timeafter them, bearing with him his power, or perhaps his fate, toinfluence Zillah's fortunes and future. 

Chetwynde Castle had experienced some changes during these years. Theold butler had been gathered to his fathers, but Mrs. Hart stillremained. The Castle itself and the grounds had changed wonderfullyfor the better. It had lost that air of neglect, decay, and ruinwhich had formerly been its chief characteristic. It was no longerpoverty-stricken. It arose, with its antique towers and venerableivy-grown walls, exhibiting in its outline all that age possesses ofdignity, without any of the meanness of neglect. It seemed like oneof the noblest remains which England possessed of the monuments offeudal times. The first sight of it elicited a cry of admiration fromZillah; and she found not the least of its attractions in the figureof the old Earl--himself a monument of the past--whose figure, as hestood on the steps to welcome them, formed a fore-ground which anartist would have loved to portray. 

Around the Castle all had changed. What had once been little betterthan a wilderness was now a wide and well-kept park. The rosepleasaunce had been restored to its pristine glory. The lawns weresmooth-shaven and glowing in their rich emerald-green. The lakes andponds were no longer overgrown with dank rushes; but had beenreclaimed from being little better than marshes into bright expansesof clear water, where fish swam and swans loved to sport. Longavenues and cool, shadowy walks wound far away through the groves;and the stately oaks and elms around the Castle had lost that ghostlyand gloomy air which had once been spread about them. 

Within the Castle every thing had undergone a corresponding change. There was no attempt at modern splendor, no effort to rival theluxuries of the wealthier lords of England. The Earl had been contentwith arresting the progress of decay, and adding to the restorationof the interior some general air of modern comfort. Within, the scenecorresponded finely to that which lay without; and the medievalcharacter of the interior made it attractive to Zillah's peculiartaste. 

The white-faced, mysterious-looking housekeeper, as she looked sadlyand wistfully at the new-comers, and asked in a tremulous voice whichwas Guy's wife, formed for Zillah a striking incident in the arrival. To her Zillah at once took a strong liking, and Mrs. Hart seemed toform one equally strong for her. From the very first her affectionfor Zillah was very manifest, and as the days passed it increased. She seemed to cling to the young girl as though her loving natureneeded something on which to expend its love; as though there was amaternal instinct which craved to be satisfied, and sought suchsatisfaction in her. Zillah returned her tender affection with afondness which would have satisfied the most exigeant nature. Sheherself had never known the sweetness of a mother's care, and itseemed as though she had suddenly found out all this. The discoverywas delightful to so affectionate a nature as hers; and herenthusiastic disposition made her devotion to Mrs. Hart more marked. She often wondered to herself why Mrs. Hart had "taken such a fancy"to her. And so did the other members of the household. Perhaps it wasbecause she was the wife of Guy, who was so dear to the heart of hisaffectionate old nurse. Perhaps it was something in Zillah herselfwhich attracted Mrs. Hart, and made her seek in her one who mightfill Guy's place. 

Time passed away, and Gualtier arrived, in accordance with the Earl'srequest. Zillah had supposed that she was now free forever from allteachers and lessons, and it was with some dismay that she heard ofGualtier's arrival. She said nothing, however, but prepared to gothrough the form of taking lessons in music and drawing as before. She had begun already to have a certain instinct of obedience towardthe Earl, and felt desirous to gratify his wishes. But whateverchanges of feeling she had experienced toward her new guardian, sheshowed no change of manner toward Gualtier. To her, application toany thing was a thing as irksome as ever. Perhaps her fitful effortsto advance were more frequent; but after each effort she usedinvariably to relapse into idleness and tedium. 

Her manner troubled Gualtier as little as ever. He let her have herown way quite in the old style. Hilda, as before, was always presentat these instructions; and after the hour devoted to Zillah hadexpired she had lessons of her own. But Gualtier remarked that, forsome reason or other, a great change had come over her. Her attitudetoward him had relapsed into one of reticence and reserve. Theapproaches to confidence and familiarity which she had formerly madeseemed now to be completely forgotten by her. The stealthyconversations in which they used to indulge were not renewed. Hermanner was such that he did not venture to enter upon his formerfooting. True, Zillah was always in the room now, and did not leaveso often as she used to do, but still there were times when they werealone; yet on these occasions Hilda showed no desire to return tothat intimacy which they had once known in their private interviews. 

[Illustration: "The White-Faced, Mysterious-Looking Housekeeper AskedIn A Tremulous Voice Which was Guy's Wife. "]

This new state of things Gualtier bore meekly and patiently. He waseither too respectful or too cunning to make any advances himself. Perhaps he had a deep conviction that Hilda's changed manner was buttemporary, and that the purpose which she had once revealed mightstill be cherished in her heart. True, the General's death hadchanged the aspect of affairs; but he had his reasons for believingthat it could not altogether destroy her plans. He had a deepconviction that the time would come one day when he would know whatwas on her mind. He was patient. He could wait. So the time went on. 

As the time passed the life at Chetwynde Castle became more and moregrateful to Zillah. Naturally affectionate, her heart had softenedunder its new trials and experiences, and there was full chance forthe growth of those kindly and generous emotions which, after all, were most natural and congenial to her. In addition to her ownaffection for the Earl and for Mrs. Hart, she found a constraint onher here which she had not known while living the life of a spoiledand indulged child in her own former home. The sorrow through whichshe had passed had made her less childish. The Earl began in realityto seem to her like a second father, one whom she could both revereand love. 

Very soon after her first acquaintance with him she found out that byno possibility could he be a party to any thing dishonorable. Findingthus that her first suspicions were utterly unfounded, she began tothink it possible that her marriage, though odious in itself, hadbeen planned with a good intent. To think Lord Chetwynde mercenarywas impossible. His character was so high-toned, and even sopunctilious in its regard to nice points of honor, that he was noteven worldly wise. With the mode in which her marriage had beenfinally carried out he had clearly nothing whatever to do. Of all hersuspicions, her anger against an innocent and noble-minded man, andher treatment of him on his first visit to Pomeroy Court, she nowfelt thoroughly ashamed. She longed to tell him all about it--toexplain why it was that she had felt so and done so--and waited forsome favorable opportunity for making her confession. 

At length an opportunity occurred. One day the Earl was speaking ofher father, and he told Zillah about his return to England, and hisvisit to Chetwynde Castle; and finally told how the whole arrangementhad been made between them by which she had become Guy's wife. Hespoke with such deep affection about General Pomeroy, and sofeelingly of his intense love for his daughter, that at last Zillahbegan to understand perfectly the motives of the actors in thismatter. She saw that in the whole affair, from first to last, therewas nothing but the fondest thought of herself, and that the verymoney itself, which she used to think had "purchased her, " was insome sort an investment for her own benefit in the future. As thewhole truth flashed suddenly into Zillah's mind she saw now mostclearly not only how deeply she had wronged Lord Chetwynde, butalso--and now for the first time--how foully she had insulted Guy byher malignant accusations. To a generous nature like hers the shockof this discovery was intensely painful. Tears started to her eyes, she twined her arms around Lord Chetwynde's neck, and told him thewhole story, not excepting a single word of all that she had said toGuy. 

"And I told him, " she concluded, "all this--I said that he was a meanfortune-hunter; and that you had cheated papa out of his money; andthat I hated him--and oh! will you ever forgive me?"

This was altogether a new and unexpected disclosure to the Earl, andhe listened to Zillah in unfeigned astonishment. Guy had told himnothing beyond the fact communicated in a letter--that "whatever hisfuture wife might be remarkable for, he did not think that amiabilitywas her forte. " But all this revelation, unexpected though it was, excited no feeling of resentment in his mind. 

"My child, " said he, tenderly, though somewhat sadly, "you certainlybehaved very ill. Of course you could not know us; but surely youmight have trusted your father's love and wisdom. But, after all, there were a good many excuses for you, my poor little girl--so Ipity you very much indeed--it was a terrible ordeal for one so young. I can understand more than you have cared to tell me. "

"Ah, how kind, how good you are!" said Zillah, who had anticipatedsome reproaches. "But I'll never forgive myself for doing you suchinjustice. "

"Oh, as to that, " said Lord Chetwynde; "if you feel that you havedone any injustice, there is one way that I can tell you of by whichyou can make full reparation. Will you try to make it, my littlegirl?"

"What do you want me to do?" asked Zillah, hesitatingly, not wishingto compromise herself. The first thought which she had was that hewas going to ask her to apologize to Guy--a thing which she would byno means care about doing, even in her most penitent mood. LordChetwynde was one thing; but Guy was quite another. The former sheloved dearly; but toward the latter she still felt resentment--afeeling which was perhaps strengthened and sustained by the fact thatevery one at Chetwynde looked upon her as a being who had been placedupon the summit of human happiness by the mere fact of being Guy'swife. To her it was intolerable to be valued merely for his sake. Human nature is apt to resent in any case having its blessingsperpetually thrust in its face; but in this case what they called ablessing, to her seemed the blackest horror of her life; and Zillah'sresentment was all the stronger; while all this resentment shenaturally vented on the head of the one who had become her husband. She could manage to tolerate his praises when sounded by the Earl, but hardly so with the others. Mrs. Hart was most trying to herpatience in this respect; and it needed all Zillah's love for her tosustain her while listening to the old nurse as she grew eloquent onher favorite theme. Zillah felt like the Athenian who was bored todeath by the perpetual praise of Aristides. If she had no othercomplaint against him, this might of itself have been enough. 

The fear, however, which was in her mind as to the reparation whichwas expected of her was dispelled by Lord Chetwynde's answer:

"I want you, my child, " said he, "to try and improve yourself--to geton as fast as you can with your masters, so that when the time comesfor you to take your proper place in society you may be equal toladies of your own rank in education and accomplishments. I want tobe proud of my daughter when I show her to the world. "

"And so you shall, " said Zillah, twining her arms again about hisneck and kissing him fondly. "I promise you that from this timeforward I will try to study. "

He kissed her lovingly. "I am sure, " said he, "that you will keepyour word, my child; and now, " he added, "one thing more: How muchlonger do you intend to keep up this 'Lord Chetwynde?' I must becalled by another name by you--not the name by which you called yourown dear father--that is too sacred to be given to any other. Buthave I not some claim to be called 'Father, ' dear? Or does not mylittle Zillah care enough for me for that?"

At this the warm-hearted girl flung her arms around him once more andkissed him, and burst into tears. 

"Dear father!" she murmured. 

And from that moment perfect confidence and love existed betweenthese two. 

[Illustration. ]

CHAPTER XII. 

CORRESPONDENCE. 

Time sped rapidly and uneventfully by. Guy's letters from Indiaformed almost the only break in the monotony of the household. Zillahsoon found herself, against her will, sharing in the generaleagerness respecting these letters. It would have been a very strongmind indeed, or a very obdurate heart, which could have remainedunmoved at Lord Chetwynde's delight when he received his boy'sletters. Their advent was also the Hegira from which every thing inthe family dated. Apart, however, from the halo which surroundedthese letters, they were interesting in themselves. Guy wrote easilyand well. His letters to his father were half familiar, half filial;a mixture of love and good-fellowship, showing a sort of union, so tospeak, of the son with the younger brother. They were full of humoralso, and made up of descriptions of life in the East, with all itsvaried wonders. Besides this, Guy happened to be stationed at thevery place where General Pomeroy had been Resident for so many years;and he himself had command of one of the hill stations where Zillahherself had once been sent to pass the summer. These places of whichGuy's letters treated possessed for her a peculiar interest, surrounded as they were by some of the pleasantest associations ofher life; and thus, from very many causes, it happened that shegradually came to take an interest in these letters which increasedrather than diminished. In one of these there had once come a noteinclosed to Zillah, condoling with her on her father's death. It wasmanly and sympathetic, and not at all stiff. Zillah had received itwhen her bitter feelings were in the ascendant, and did not think ofanswering it until Hilda urged on her the necessity of doing so. Itis just possible that if Hilda had made use of different argumentsshe might have persuaded Zillah to send some sort of an answer, ifonly to please the Earl. The arguments, however, which she did usehappened to be singularly ill chosen. The "husband" loomed largely inthem, and there were very many direct allusions to marital authority. As these were Zillah's sorest points, such references only served toexcite fresh repugnance, and strengthen Zillah's determination not towrite. Hilda, however, persisted in her efforts; and the result wasthat finally, at the end of one long and rather stormy discussion, Zillah passionately threw the letter at her, saying:

"If you are so anxious to have it answered, do it yourself. It is aworld of pities he is not your husband instead of mine, you seem sowonderfully anxious about him. "

"It is unkind of you to say that, " replied Hilda, in a meek voice, "when you know so well that my sympathy and anxiety are all for you, and you alone. You argue with me as though I had some interest in it;but what possible interest can it be to me?"

"Oh, well, dearest Hilda, " said Zillah, instantly appeased; "I'malways pettish; but you won't mind, will you? You never mind myways. "

"I've a great mind to take you at your word, " said Hilda, after athoughtful pause, "and write it for you. It ought to be answered, andyou won't; so why should I not do the part of a friend, and answer itfor you?"

Zillah started, and seemed just a little nettled. 

"Oh, I don't care, " she said, with assumed indifference. "If youchoose to take the trouble, why I am sure I ought to be underobligations to you. At any rate, I shall be glad to get rid of it solong as I have nothing to do with it. I suppose it must be done. "

Hilda made some protestations of her devotion to Zillah, and somefurther conversation followed, all of which resulted in this--that_Hilda wrote the letter in Zillah's name_, and signed that name _inher own hand_, and under Zillah's own eye, and with Zillah'shalf-reluctant, half-pettish concurrence. 

Out of this beginning there flowed results of an important character, which were soon perceived even by Zillah, though she was forced tokeep her feelings to herself. Occasional notes came afterward fromtime to time for Zillah, and were answered in the same way by Hilda. All this Zillah endured quietly, but with real repugnance, whichincreased until the change took place in her feelings which has beenmentioned at the beginning of this chapter, when she at lengthdetermined to put an end to such an anomalous state of things andassert herself. It was difficult to do so. She loved Hilda dearly, and placed perfect confidence in her. She was too guileless to dreamof any sinister motive in her friend; and the only difficulty ofwhich she was conscious was the fear that Hilda might suspect thechange in her feelings toward Guy. The very idea of Hilda's findingthis out alarmed her sensitive pride, and made her defer for a longtime her intent. At length, however, she felt unable to do so anylonger, and determined to run the risk of disclosing the state of herfeelings. 

So one day, after the receipt of a note to herself, a slight degreemore friendly than usual, she hinted to Hilda rather shyly that shewould like to answer it herself. 

"Oh, I am so glad, darling!" cried Hilda, enthusiastically. "It willbe so much nicer for you to do it yourself. It will relieve me fromembarrassment, for, after all, my position was embarrassing--writingfor you always--and then, you know, you will write far better lettersthan I can. "

"It will be a Heaven-born gift, then, " returned Zillah, laughing, "asI never wrote a letter in my life. "

"That is nothing, " said Hilda. "I write for another; but you will bewriting for yourself, and that makes all the difference in the world, you know. "

"Well, perhaps so. You see, Hilda, I have taken a fancy to try myhand at it, " said Zillah, laughingly, full of delight at the easewith which she had gained her desire. "You see, " she went on, withunusual sprightliness of manner, "I got hold of a 'CompleteLetter-Writer' this morning; and the beauty, elegance, and eveneloquence of those amazing compositions have so excited me that Iwant to emulate them. Now it happens that Guy is the onlycorrespondent that I have, and so he must be my first victim. "

So saying, Zillah laughingly opened her desk, while Hilda's dark eyesregarded her with sharp and eager watchfulness. "You must not make ittoo eloquent, dear, " said she. "Remember the very commonplaceepistles that you have been giving forth in your name. "

"Don't be alarmed, " said Zillah. "If it is not exactly like a child'sfirst composition we shall all have great cause for thankfulness. "

So saying, she took out a sheet of paper. 

"Here, " said she, "is an opportunity of using some of thiselaborately monogrammed paper which poor darling papa got for me, because I wanted to see how they could work my unpromising 'Z' into arespectable cipher. They have made it utterly illegible, and Ibelieve that is the great point to be attained. "

Thus rattling on, she dated her letter, and began to write. She wroteas far as

"MY DEAR GUY"--Then she stopped, and read it aloud. --"This is reallygetting most exciting, " she said, in high good-humor. "Now what comesnext? To find a beginning--there's the rub. I must turn to my'Complete Letter-Writer. ' Let me see. '_Letter from a Son atSchool_'--that won't do. '_From a Lady to a Lover returning aMiniature_--nor that. '_From a Suitor requesting to be allowed to payhis attentions to a Lady_'--worse and worse. '_From a Fatherdeclining the application of a Suitor for his Daughter'shand_'--absurd! Oh, here we are--'_From a Wife to a Husband who isabsent on urgent business_. ' Oh, listen, Hilda!" and Zillah read:

"'_BELOVED AND HONORED HUSBAND, --The grief which wrung my heart atyour departure has been mitigated by the delight which I experiencedat the receipt of your most welcome letters_. ' Isn't that delightful?Unluckily his departure didn't wring my heart at all, and, worsestill, I have no grief at his absence to be mitigated by his letters. Alas! I'm afraid mine must be an exceptional case, for even my'Complete Letter-Writer, ' my vade-mecum, which goes into suchcharming details, can not help me. After all I suppose I must use myown poor brains. "

After all this nonsense Zillah suddenly grew serious. Hilda seemed tounderstand the cause of her extravagant volatility, and watched herclosely. Zillah began to write, and went on rapidly, without amoment's hesitation; without any signs whatever of that childishinexperience at which she had hinted. Her pen flew over the paperwith a speed which seemed to show that she had plenty to say, andknew perfectly well how to say it. So she went on until she hadfilled two pages, and was proceeding to the third. Then anexclamation from Hilda caused her to look up. 

"My dear Zillah, " cried Hilda, who was sitting in a chair a littlebehind her, "what in the world are you thinking of? From thisdistance I can distinguish your somewhat peculiar caligraphy--withits bold down strokes and decided 'character, ' that people talkabout. Now, as you know that I write a little, cramped, German hand, you will have to imitate my humble handwriting, or else I'm afraidCaptain Molyneux will be thoroughly puzzled--unless, indeed, you tellhim that you have been employing an amanuensis. That will require agood deal of explanation, but--" she added, after a thoughtful pause, "I dare say it will be the best in the end. "

At these words Zillah started, dropped her pen, and sat looking atHilda perfectly aghast. "I never thought of that, " she murmured, andsat with an expression of the deepest dejection. At length a longsigh escaped her. "You are right, Hilda, " she said. "Of course itwill need explanation; but how is it possible to do that in a letter?It can't be done. At least I can't do it. What shall I do?"

She was silent, and sat for a long time, looking deeply vexed anddisappointed. 

"Of course, " she said at last, "he will have to know all when hecomes back; but that is nothing. How utterly stupid it was in me notto think of the difference in our writing! And now I suppose I mustgive up my idea of writing a letter. It is really hard--I have not asingle correspondent. "

Her deep disappointment, her vexation, and her feeble attempt toconceal her emotions, were not lost upon the watchful Hilda. But thelatter showed no signs that she had noticed any thing. 

"Oh, don't give it up!" she answered, with apparent eagerness. "Idare say you can copy my hand accurately enough to avoid detection. Here is a note I wrote yesterday. See if you can't imitate that, andmake your writing as like mine as possible. "

So saying she drew a note from her pocket and handed it to Zillah. The other took it eagerly, and began to try to imitate it, but a fewstrokes showed her the utter impossibility of such an undertaking. She threw down the pen, and leaning her head upon her hand, satlooking upon the floor in deeper dejection than ever. 

"I can't copy such horrid cramped letters, " she said, pettishly; "whyshould you write such a hand? Besides, I feel as if I were reallyforging, or doing something dreadful. I suppose, " she added, withunconcealed bitterness of tone, "we shall have to go on as we began, and you must be _Zillah Molyneux_ for some time longer. "

Hilda laughed. 

"Talk of forging!" she said. "What is forging if that is not? Butreally, Zillah, darling, you seem to me to show more feeling aboutthis than I ever supposed you could possibly be capable of. Are youaware that your tone is somewhat bitter, and that if I were sensitiveI might feel hurt? Do you mean by what you said to lay any blame tome?"

She spoke so sadly and reproachfully that Zillah's heart smote her. At once her disappointment and vexation vanished at the thought thatshe had spoken unkindly to her friend. 

"Hilda!" she cried, "you can not think that I am capable of suchingratitude. You have most generously given me your services all thistime. You have been right, from the very first, and I have beenwrong. You have taken a world of trouble to obviate the difficultieswhich my own obstinacy and temper have caused. If any trouble couldpossibly arise, I only could be to blame. But, after all, none canarise. I'm sure Captain Molyneux will very readily believe that Idisliked him too much when he first went away to dream of writing tohim. He certainly had every reason for thinking so. "

"Shall you tell him that?" said Hilda, mildly, without referring toZillah's apologies. 

"Certainly I shall, " said Zillah, "if the opportunity ever arises. The simple truth is always the easiest and the best. I think he isalready as well aware as he can be of that fact; and, after all, whyshould I, or how could I, have liked him under the circumstances? Iknew nothing of him whatever; and every thing--yes, every thing, wasagainst him. "

"You know no more of him now, " said Hilda; "and yet, though you arevery reticent on the subject, I have a shrewd suspicion, my darling, that you do not dislike him. "

As she spoke she looked earnestly at Zillah as if to read her inmostsoul. 

Zillah was conscious of that sharp, close scrutiny, and blushedcrimson, as this question which thus concerned her most sacredfeelings was brought home to her so suddenly. But she answered, aslightly as she could:

"How can you say that, or even hint at it? How absurd you are, Hilda!I know no more of him now than I knew before. Of course I hear verymuch about him at Chetwynde, but what of that? He certainly pervadesthe whole atmosphere of the house. The one idea of Lord Chetwynde isGuy; and as for Mrs. Hart, I think if he wished to use her for atarget she would be delighted. Death at such hands would be bliss toher. She treasures up every word he has ever spoken, from hisearliest infancy to the present day. "

"And I suppose that is enough to account for the charm which you seemto find in her society, " rejoined Hilda. "It has rather puzzled me, Iconfess. For my own part I have never been able to break through thereserve which she chooses to throw around her. I can not get beyondthe barest civilities with her, though I'm sure I've tried to win hergood-will more than I ever tried before, which is rather strange, for, after all, there is no reason whatever why I should try anything of the kind. She seems to have a very odd kind of feelingtoward me. She looks at me sometimes so strangely that she positivelygives me an uncomfortable feeling. She seems frightened to death ifmy dress brushes against hers. She shrinks away. I believe she is notsane. In fact, I'm sure of it. "

"Poor old Mrs. Hart!" said Zillah. "I suppose she does seem a littleodd to you; but I know her well, and I assure you she is as farremoved from insanity as I am. Still she is undoubtedly queer. Do youknow, Hilda, she seems to me to have had some terrible sorrow whichhas crushed all her spirit and almost her very life. I have no ideawhatever of her past life. She is very reticent. She never even somuch as hints at it. "

"I dare say she has very good reasons, " interrupted Hilda. "Don'ttalk that way about her, dear Hilda. You are too ill-natured, and Ican't bear to have ill-natured things said about the dear old thing. You don't know her as I do, or you would never talk so. "

"Oh, Zillah--really--you feel my little pleasantries too much. It wasonly a thoughtless remark. "

"She seems to me, " said Zillah, musingly, after a thoughtful silence, "to be a very--very mysterious person. Though I love her dearly, Isee that there is some mystery about her. Whatever her history may beshe is evidently far above her present position, for when she doesallow herself to talk she has the manner and accent of a refinedlady. Yes, there is a deep mystery about her, which is utterly beyondmy comprehension. I remember once when she had been talking for along time about Guy and his wonderful qualities, I suddenly happenedto ask her some trivial question about her life before she came toChetwynde; but she looked at me so wild and frightened, that shereally startled me. I was so terrified that I instantly changed theconversation, and rattled on so as to give her time to recoverherself, and prevent her from discovering my feelings. "

"Why, how very romantic!" said Hilda, with a smile. "You seem, fromsuch circumstances, to have brought yourself to consider our veryprosaic housekeeper as almost a princess in disguise. I, for my part, look upon her as a very common person, so weak-minded, to say theleast, as to be almost half-witted. As to her accent, that isnothing. I dare say she has seen better days. I have heard more thanonce of ladies in destitute or reduced circumstances who have beenobliged to take to housekeeping. After all, it is not bad. I'm sureit must be far better than being a governess. "

"Well, if I am romantic, you are certainly prosaic enough. At allevents I love Mrs. Hart dearly. But come, Hilda, if you are going towrite you must do so at once, for the letters are to be posted thisafternoon. "

Hilda instantly went to the desk and began her task. Zillah, however, went away. Her chagrin and disappointment were so great that shecould not stay, and she even refused afterward to look at the notewhich Hilda showed her. In fact, after that she would never look atthem at all. 

Some time after this Zillah and Mrs. Hart were together on one ofthose frequent occasions which they made use of for confidentialinterviews. Somehow Zillah had turned the conversation from. Guy inperson to the subject of her correspondence, and gradually told allto Mrs. Hart. At this she looked deeply shocked and grieved. 

"That girl, " she said, "has some secret motive. "

She spoke with a bitterness which Zillah had never before noticed inher. 

"Secret motive!" she repeated, in wonder; "what in the world do youmean?"

"She is bad and deceitful, " said Mrs. Hart, with energy; "you aretrusting your life and honor in the hands of a false friend. "

Zillah started back and looked at Mrs. Hart in utter wonder. 

"I know, " said she at last, "that you don't like Hilda, but I feelhurt when you use such language about her. She is my oldest anddearest friend. She is my sister virtually. I have known her all mylife, and know her to her heart's core. She is incapable of anydishonorable action, and she loves me like herself. "

All Zillah's enthusiastic generosity was aroused in defending againstMrs. Hart's charge a friend whom she so dearly loved. 

Mrs. Hart sadly shook her head. 

"My dear child, " said she, "you know I would not hurt your feelingsfor the world. I am sorry. I will say nothing more about _her_, sinceyou love her. But don't you feel that you are in a very falseposition?"

"But what can I do? There is the difficulty about the handwriting. And then it has gone on so long. "

"Write to him at all hazards, " said Mrs. Hart, "and tell him everything. "

Zillah shook her head. 

"Well, then--will you let me?"

"How can I? No; it must be done by myself--if it ever is done; and asto writing it myself--I can not. "

Such a thought was indeed abhorrent. After all it seemed to her initself nothing. She employed an amanuensis to compose those formalnotes which went in her name. And what fault was there? To Mrs. Hart, whose whole life was bound up in Guy, it was impossible to look atthis matter except as to how it affected him. But Zillah had otherfeelings--other memories. The very proposal to write a "confession"fired her heart with stern indignation. At once all her resentmentwas roused. Memory brought back again in vivid colors that hideousmockery of a marriage over the death-bed of her father, withreference to which, in spite of her changed feelings, she had neverceased to think that it might have been avoided, and ought to havebeen. Could she stoop to confess to this man any thing whatever?Impossible!

Mrs. Hart did not know Zillah's thoughts. She supposed she was tryingto find a way to extricate herself from her difficulty. So she madeone further suggestion. 

"Why not tell all to Lord Chetwynde? Surely you can do that easilyenough. He will understand all, and explain all. "

"I can not, " said Zillah, coldly. "It would be doubting myfriend--the loving friend who is to me the same as a sister--who isthe only companion I have ever had. She is the one that I lovedearest on earth, and to do any thing apart from her is impossible. You do not know her--I do--and I love her. For her I would give upevery other friend. "

At this Mrs. Hart looked sadly away, and then the matter of theletters ended. It was never again brought up. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

POMEROY COURT REVISITED. 

Over a year had passed away since Zillah had come to live atChetwynde Castle, and she had come at length to find her new homealmost as dear to her as the old one. Still that old home was farfrom being forgotten. At first she never mentioned it; but at lengthas the year approached its close, there came over her a great longingto revisit the old place, so dear to her heart and so wellremembered. She hinted to Lord Chetwynde what her desires were, andthe Earl showed unfeigned delight at finding that Zillah's grief hadbecome so far mitigated as to allow her to think of such a thing. Sohe urged her by all means to go. 

"But of course you can't go just yet, " said he. "You must wait tillMay, when the place will be at its best. Just now, at the end ofMarch, it will be too cold and damp. "

"And you will go with me--will you not?" pleaded Zillah. 

"If I can, my child; but you know very well that I am not able tostand the fatigue of traveling. "

"Oh, but you must make an effort and try to stand it this time. I cannot bear to go away and leave you behind. "

Lord Chetwynde looked affectionately down at the face which wasupturned so lovingly toward his, and promised to go if he could. Sothe weeks passed away; but when May came he had a severe attack ofgout, and though Zillah waited through all the month, until theseverity of the disease had relaxed, yet the Earl did not findhimself able to undertake such a journey. Zillah was thereforecompelled either to give up the visit or else to go without him. Shedecided to do the latter. Roberts accompanied her, and her maidMathilde. Hilda too, of course, went with her, for to her it was asgreat a pleasure as to Zillah to visit the old place, and Zillahwould not have dreamed of going any where without her. 

[Illustration. ]

Pomeroy Court looked very much as it had looked while Zillah wasliving there. It had been well and even scrupulously cared for. Thegrounds around showed marks of the closest attention. Inside, the oldhousekeeper, who had remained after the General's death, with someservants, had preserved every thing in perfect order, and in quitethe same state as when the General was living. This perfectpreservation of the past struck Zillah most painfully. As sheentered, the intermediate period of her life at Chetwynde seemed tofade away. It was to her as though she were still living in her oldhome. She half expected to see the form of her father in the hall. The consciousness of her true position was violently forced upon her. With the sharpness of the impression which was made upon her by theunchanged appearance of the old home, there came another none lesssharp. If Pomeroy Court brought back to her the recollection of thehappy days once spent there, but now gone forever, it also brought toher mind the full consciousness of her loss. To her it was _infandumrenovare dolorem_. She walked in a deep melancholy through the dearfamiliar rooms. She lingered in profound abstraction and in thedeepest sadness over the mournful reminders of the past. She lookedover all the old home objects, stood in the old places, and sat inthe old seats. She walked in silence through all the house, andfinally went to her own old room, so loved, so well remembered. Asshe crossed the threshold and looked around she felt her strengthgive way. A great sob escaped her, and sinking into a chair where sheonce used to sit in happier days, she gave herself up to herrecollections. For a long time she lost herself in these. Hilda hadleft her to herself, as though her delicacy had prompted her not tointrude upon her friend at such a moment; and Zillah thought of thiswith a feeling of grateful affection. At length she resumed to somedegree her calmness, and summoning up all her strength, she went atlast to the chamber where that dread scene had been enacted--thatscene which seemed to her a double tragedy--that scene which hadburned itself in her memory, combining the horror of the death of herdearest friend with the ghastly farce of a forced and unhallowedmarriage. In that place a full tide of misery rushed over her soul. She broke down utterly. Chetwynde Castle, the Earl, Mrs. Hart, allwere forgotten. The past faded away utterly. This only was her truehome--this place darkened by a cloud which might never be dispelled. 

"Oh, papa! Oh, papa!" she moaned, and flung herself upon the bedwhere he had breathed his last. 

But her sorrow now, though overwhelming, had changed from its oldvehemence. This change had been wrought in Zillah--the old, unreasoning passion had left her. A real affliction had brought out, by its gradual renovating and creative force, all the good that wasin her. That the uses of adversity are sweet, is a hackneyedShakspeareanism, but it is forever true, and nowhere was its truthmore fully displayed than here. Formerly it happened that an ordinarycheck in the way of her desires was sufficient to send her almostinto convulsions; but now, in the presence of her great calamity, shehad learned to bear with patience all the ordinary ills of life. Herfather had spoiled her; by his death she had become regenerate. 

This tendency of her nature toward a purer and loftier standard wasintensified by her visit to Pomeroy Court. Over her spirit there camea profounder earnestness, caught from the solemn scenes in the midstof which she found herself. Sorrow had subdued and quieted the wildimpulsive motions of her soul. This renewal of that sorrow in thevery place of its birth, deepened the effect of its first presence. This visit did more for her intellectual and spiritual growth thanthe whole past year at Chetwynde Castle. 

They spent about a month here. Zillah, who had formerly been sotalkative and restless, now showed plainly the fullness of the changethat had come over her. She had grown into a life far more seriousand thoughtful than any which she had known before. She had ceased tobe a giddy and unreasoning girl. She had become a calm, grave, thoughtful woman. But her calmness and gravity and thoughtfulnesswere all underlaid and interpenetrated by the fervid vehemence of herintense Oriental nature. Beneath the English exterior lay, deepwithin her, the Hindu blood. She was of that sort which can be calmin ordinary life--so calm as to conceal utterly all ordinary workingsof the fretful soul; but which, in the face of any great excitement, or in the presence of any great wrong, will be all overwhelmed andtransformed into a furious tornado of passionate rage. 

Zillah, thus silent and meditative, and so changed from her old self, might well have awakened the wonder of her friend. But whatever Hildamay have thought, and whatever wonder she may have felt, she kept itall to herself; for she was naturally reticent, and so secretive thatshe never expressed in words any feelings which she might have aboutthings that went on around her. If Zillah chose to stay by herself, or to sit in her company without speaking a word, it was not in Hildato question her or to remonstrate with her. She rather chose toaccommodate herself to the temper of her friend. She could also bemeditative and profoundly silent. While Zillah had been talkative, she had talked with her; now, in her silence, she rivaled her aswell. She could follow Zillah in all her moods. 

At the end of a month they returned to Chetwynde Castle, and resumedthe life which they had been leading there. Zillah's new mood seemedto Hilda, and to others also, to last much longer than any one ofthose many moods in which she had indulged before. But this proved tobe more than a mood. It was a change. 

The promise which she had given to the Earl she had tried to fulfillmost conscientiously. She really had striven as much as possible to"study. " That better understanding, born of affection, which hadarisen between them, had formed a new motive within her, and renderedher capable of something like application. But it was not until afterher visit to Pomeroy Court that she showed any effort that was at alladequate to the purpose before her. The change that then came overher seemed to have given her a new control over herself. And so itwas that, at last, the hours devoted to her studies were filled up byefforts that were really earnest, and also really effective. 

Under these circumstances, it happened that Zillah began at last toengross Gualtier's attention altogether, during the whole of the timeallotted to her; and if he had sought ever so earnestly, he could nothave found any opportunity for a private interview with Hilda. Whather wishes might be was not visible; for, whether she wished it ornot, she did not, in any way, show it. She was always the same--calm, cool, civil, to her music-teacher, and devoted to her own share ofthe studies. Those little "asides" in which they had once indulgedwere now out of the question; and, even if a favorable occasion hadarisen, Gualtier would not have ventured upon the undertaking. He, for his part, could not possibly know her thoughts: whether she wasstill cherishing her old designs, or had given them up altogether. Hecould only stifle his impatience, and wait, and watch, and wait. Buthow was it with her? Was she, too, watching and waiting for someopportunity? He thought so. But with what aim, or for what purpose?That was the puzzle. Yet that there was something on her mind whichshe wished to communicate to him he knew well; for it had at lasthappened that Hilda had changed in some degree from her cool andundemonstrative manner. He encountered sometimes--or thought that heencountered--an earnest glance which she threw at him, on greetinghim, full of meaning, which told him this most plainly. It seemed tohim to say: Wait, wait, wait; when the time comes. I have that to saywhich you will be glad to learn. What it might be he knew not, norcould he conjecture; but he thought that it might still refer to thesecret of that mysterious cipher which had baffled them both. 

Thus these two watched and waited. Months passed away, but noopportunity for an interview arose. Of course, if Hilda had beenreckless, or if it had been absolutely necessary to have one, shecould easily have arranged it. The park was wide, full of lonelypaths and sequestered retreats, where meetings could have been had, quite free from all danger of observation or interruption. She neededonly to slip a note into his hand, telling him to meet her at someplace there, and he would obey her will. But Hilda did not choose todo any thing of the kind. Whatever she did could only be done by herin strict accordance with _les convenances_. She would have waitedfor months before she would consent to compromise herself so far asto solicit a stolen interview. It was not the dread of discovery, however, that deterred her; for, in a place like Chetwynde, that neednot have been feared, and if she had been so disposed, she could havehad an interview with Gualtier every week, which no one would havefound out. The thing which deterred her was something very differentfrom this. It was her own pride. She could not humble herself so faras to do this. Such an act would be to descend from the positionwhich she at present occupied in his eyes. To compromise herself, orin any way put herself in his power, was impossible for one like her. It was not, however, from any thing like moral cowardice that sheheld aloof from making an interview with him; nor was it from anything like conscientious scruples; nor yet from maidenly modesty. Itarose, most of all, from pride, and also from a profound perceptionof the advantages enjoyed by one who fulfilled all that might bedemanded by the proprieties of life. Her aim was to see Gualtierunder circumstances that were unimpeachable--in the room where he hada right to come. To do more than this might lower herself in hiseyes, and make him presumptuous. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

NEW DISCOVERIES. 

At last the opportunity came for which they had waited so long. Formany months Zillah's application to her studies had been incessant, and the Earl began to notice signs of weariness in her. Hisconscience smote him, and his anxiety was aroused. He had recoveredfrom his gout, and as he felt particularly well he determined to takeZillah on a long drive, thinking that the change would be beneficialto her. He began to fear that he had brought too great a pressure tobear on her, and that she in her new-born zeal for study might carryher self-devotion too far, and do some injury to her health. Hildadeclined going, and Zillah and the Earl started off for the day. 

On that day Gualtier came at his usual hour. On looking round theroom he saw no signs of Zillah, and his eyes brightened as they fellon Hilda. 

"Mrs. Molyneux, " said she, after the usual civilities, "has gone outfor a drive. She will not take her lesson to-day. "

"Ah, well, shall I wait till your hour arrives, or will you take yourlesson now?"

"Oh, you need not wait, " said Hilda; "I will take my lesson now. Ithink I will appropriate both hours. "

There was a glance of peculiar meaning in Hilda's eyes which Gualtiernoticed, but he cast his eyes meekly upon the floor. He had an ideathat the long looked for revelation was about to be given, but he didnot attempt to hasten it in any way. He was afraid that anyexpression of eagerness on his part might repel Hilda, and, therefore, he would not endanger his position by asking for anything, but rather waited to receive what she might voluntarily offer. 

Hilda, however, was not at all anxious to be asked. Now that shecould converse with Gualtier, and not compromise herself, she hadmade up her mind to give him her confidence. It was safe to talk tothis man in this room. The servants were few. They were far away. Noone would dream of trying to listen. They were sitting close togethernear the piano. 

"I have something to say to you, " said Hilda at last. 

Gualtier looked at her with earnest inquiry, but said nothing. 

"You remember, of course, what we were talking about the last time wespoke to one another?"

"Of course, I have never forgotten that. "

"It was nearly two years ago, " said Hilda, "At one time I did notexpect that such a conversation could ever be renewed. With theGeneral's death all need for it seemed to be destroyed. But now thatneed seems to have arisen again. "

"Have you ever deciphered the paper?" asked Gualtier. 

"Not more than before, " said Hilda. "But I have made a discovery ofthe very greatest importance; something which entirely confirms myformer suspicions gathered from the cipher. They are additionalpapers which I will show you presently, and then you will see whetherI am right or not. I never expected to find any thing of the kind. Ifound them quite by chance, while I was half mechanically carryingout my old idea. After the General's death I lost all interest in thematter for some time, for there seemed before me no particularinducement to go on with it. But this discovery has changed the wholeaspect of the affair. "

"What was it that you found?" asked Gualtier, who was full ofcuriosity. "Was it the key to the cipher, or was it a fullexplanation, or was it something different?"

"They were certain letters and business papers. I will show them toyou presently. But before doing so I want to begin at the beginning. The whole of that cipher is perfectly familiar to me, all itsdifficulties are as insurmountable as ever, and before I show youthese new papers I want to refresh your memory about the old ones. 

"You remember, first of all, " said she, "the peculiar character of thatcipher writing, and of my interpretation. The part that Ideciphered seemed to be set in the other like a wedge, and while thiswas decipherable the other was not. "

Gualtier nodded. 

"Now I want you to read again the part that I deciphered, " saidHilda, and she handed him a piece of paper on which something waswritten. Gualtier took it and read the following, which the readerhas already seen. Each sentence was numbered. 

1. _ Oh may God have mercy on my wretched soul Amen_2. _O Pomeroy forged a hundred thousand dollars_3. _O N Pomeroy eloped with poor Lady Chetwynde_4. _She acted out of a mad impulse in flying_5. _She listened to me and ran off with me_6. _She was piqued at her husband's act_7. _Fell in with Lady Mary Chetwynd_8. _Expelled the army for gaming_9. _N Pomeroy of Pomeroy Berks_10. _O I am a miserable villain_

Gualtier looked over it and then handed it back. 

"Yes, " said he, "I remember, of course, for I happen to know everyword of it by heart. "

"That is very well, " said Hilda, approvingly. "And now I want toremind you of the difficulties in my interpretation before going onany further. 

"You remember that these were, first, the con fusion in the way ofwriting the name, for here there is 'O Pomeroy, ' 'O N Pomeroy, ' and'N Pomeroy, ' in so short a document. 

"Next, there is the mixture of persons, the writer sometimes speakingin the first person and sometimes in the third, as, for instance, when he says, '_O N Pomeroy_ eloped with poor Lady Chetwynde;' andthen he says, 'She listened to _me_ and ran off with me. '

"And then there are the incomplete sentences, such as, 'Fell in withLady Mary Chetwynd'--'Expelled the army for gaming. '

"Lastly, there are two ways in which the lady's name is spelled, 'Chetwynde, ' and 'Chetwynd. '

"You remember we decided that these might be accounted for in one oftwo ways. Either, first, the writer, in copying it out, grew confusedin forming his cipher characters; or, secondly, he framed the wholepaper with a deliberate purpose to baffle and perplex. "

"I remember all this, " said Gualtier, quietly. "I have not forgottenit. "

"The General's death changed the aspect of affairs so completely, "said Hilda, "and made this so apparently useless, that I thought youmight have forgotten at least these minute particulars. It isnecessary for you to have these things fresh in your mind, so as toregard the whole subject thoroughly. "

"But what good will any discovery be now?" asked Gualtier, withunfeigned surprise. "The General is dead, and you can do nothing. "

"The General is dead, " said Hilda; "but the General's daughterlives. "

Nothing could exceed the bitterness of the tone in which she utteredthese words. 

"His daughter! Of what possible concern can all this be to her?"asked Gualtier, who wished to get at the bottom of Hilda's purpose. 

"I should never have tried to strike at the General, " said Hilda, "ifhe had not had a daughter. It was not him that I wished to harm. Itwas _her_. "

"And now, " said Gualtier, after a silence, "she is out of your reach. She is Mrs. Molyneux. She will be the Countess of Chetwynde. How canshe be harmed?"

As he spoke he looked with a swift interrogative glance at Hilda, andthen turned away his eyes. 

"True, " said Hilda, cautiously and slowly; "she is beyond my reach. Besides, you will observe that I was speaking of the past. I wastelling what I wished--not what I wish. "

"That is precisely what I understood, " said Gualtier. "I only askedso as to know how your wishes now inclined. I am anxious to serve youin any way. "

"So you have said before, and I take you at your word, " said Hilda, calmly. "I have once before reposed confidence in you, and I intendto do so again. "

Gualtier bowed, and murmured some words of grateful acknowledgment. 

"My work now, " said Hilda, without seeming to notice him, "is one ofinvestigation. I merely wish to get to the bottom of a secret. It isto this that I have concluded to invite your assistance. "

"You are assured of that already, Miss Krieff, " said Gualtier, in atone of deep devotion. "Call it investigation, or call it any thingyou choose, if you deign to ask my assistance I will do any thing anddare any thing. "

Hilda laughed harshly. 

"In truth, " said she, dryly, "this does not require much daring, butit may cause trouble--it may also take up valuable time. I do not askfor any risks, but rather for the employment of the most ordinaryqualities. Patience and perseverance will do all that I wish to havedone. "

"I am sorry, Miss Krieff, that there is nothing more than this. Ishould prefer to go on some enterprise of danger for your sake. "

He laid a strong emphasis on these last words, but Hilda did not seemto notice it. She continued, in a calm tone:

"All this is talking in the dark. I must explain myself instead oftalking round about the subject. To begin, then. Since our lastinterview I could find out nothing whatever that tended to throw anylight on that mysterious cipher writing. Why it was written, or whyit should be so carefully preserved, I could not discover. TheGeneral's death seemed to make it useless, and so for a long time Iceased to think about it. It was only on my last visit to PomeroyCourt that it came to my mind. That was six or eight months ago. 

"On going there Mrs. Molyneux gave herself up to grief, and scarcelyever spoke a word. She was much by herself, and brooded over hersorrows. She spent much time in her father's room, and still moretime in solitary walks about the grounds. I was much by myself. Leftthus alone, I rambled about the house, and one day happened to go tothe General's study. Here every thing remained almost exactly as itused to be. It was here that I found the cipher writing, and, onvisiting it again, the circumstances of that discovery naturallysuggested themselves to my mind. "

Hilda had warmed with her theme, and spoke with something likerecklessness, as though she was prepared at last to throw away everyscruple and make a full confidence. The allusion to the discovery ofthe cipher was a reminder to herself and to Gualtier of her formerdishonorable conduct. Having once more touched upon this, it waseasier for her to reveal new treachery upon her part. Neverthelessshe paused for a moment, and looked with earnest scrutiny upon hercompanion. He regarded her with a look of silent devotion whichseemed to express any degree of subserviency to her interests, anddisarmed every suspicion. Reassured by this, she continued:

"It happened that I began to examine the General's papers. It wasquite accidental, and arose merely from the fact that I had nothingelse to do. It was almost mechanical on impart. At any rate I openedthe desk, and found it full of documents of all kinds which had beenapparently undisturbed for an indefinite period. Naturally enough Iexamined the drawer in which I had found the cipher writing, and wasable to do so quite at my leisure. On first opening it I found onlysome business papers. The cipher was no longer there. I searchedamong all the other papers to find it, but in vain. I then concludedthat he had destroyed it. For several days I continued to examinethat desk, but with no result. It seemed to fascinate me. At last, however, I came to the conclusion that nothing more could bediscovered. 

"All this time Mrs. Molyneux left me quite to myself, and my searchin the desk and my discouragement were altogether unknown to her. After about a week I gave up the desk and tore myself away. Still Icould not keep away from it, and at the end of another week Ireturned to the search. This time I went with the intention ofexamining all the drawers, to see if there was not some additionalplace of concealment. 

"It is not necessary for me to describe to you minutely the varioustrials which I made. It is quite enough for me now to say that I atlast found out that in that very private drawer where I had firstdiscovered the cipher writing there was a false bottom of verypeculiar construction. It lay close to the real bottom, fitting invery nicely, and left room only for a few thin papers. The falsebottom and the real bottom were so thin that no one could suspect anything of the kind. Something about the position of the drawer led meto examine it minutely, and the idea of a false bottom came to mymind. I could not find out the secret of it, and it was only by thevery rude process of prying at it with a knife that I at length madethe discovery. "

She paused. 

"And did you find any thing?" said Gualtier, eagerly. 

"I did. "

"Papers?"

"Yes. The old cipher writing was there--shut up--concealed carefully, jealously--doubly concealed, in fact. Was not this enough to showthat it had importance in the eyes of the man who had thus concealedit? It must be so. Nothing but a belief in its immense importancecould possibly have led to such extraordinary pains in theconcealment of it. This I felt, and this conviction only intensifiedmy desire to get at the bottom of the mystery which it incloses. Andthis much I saw plainly--that the deciphering which I have madecarries in itself so dread a confession, that the man who made itwould willingly conceal it both in cipher writing and in secretdrawers. "

[Illustration: The Old Cipher Writing Was There. ]

"But of course, " said Gualtier, taking advantage of a pause, "youfound something else besides the cipher. With that you were alreadyfamiliar. "

"Yes, and it is this that I am going to tell you about. There weresome papers which had evidently been there for a long time, keptthere in the same place with the cipher writing. When I first foundthem I merely looked hastily over them, and then folded them all uptogether, and took them away so as to examine them in my own room atleisure. On looking over them I found the names which I expectedoccurring frequently. There was the name of O. N. Pomeroy and thename of Lady Chetwynde. In addition to these there was another name, and a very singular one. The name is Obed Chute, and seems to me tobe an American name. At any rate the owner of it lived in America. "

"Obed Chute, " repeated Gualtier, with the air of one who is trying tofasten something on his memory. 

"Yes; and he seems to have lived in New York. "

"What was the nature of the connection which he had with the others?"

"I should conjecture that he was a kind of guide, philosopher, andfriend, with a little of the agent and commission-merchant, " repliedHilda. "But it is impossible to find out anything in particular abouthim from the meagre letters which I obtained. I found nothing elseexcept these papers, though I searched diligently. Every thing iscontained here. I have them, and I intend to show them to you withoutany further delay. "

Saying this Hilda drew some papers from her pocket, and handed themto Gualtier. 

On opening them Gualtier found first a paper covered with cipherwriting. It was the same which Hilda had copied, and the characterswere familiar to him from his former attempt to decipher them. Thepaper was thick and coarse, but Hilda had copied the characters veryfaithfully. 

The next paper was a receipt written out on a small sheet which wasyellow with age, while the ink had faded into a pale brown:

"$100, 000. NEW YORK, May 10, 1840. 

"Received from O. N. Pomeroy the sum of one hundred thousand dollarsin payment for my claim. 

"OBED CHUTE. "

It was a singular document in every respect; but the mention of thesum of money seemed to confirm the statement gathered from the cipherwriting. 

The next document was a letter:

"NEW YORK, August 23, 1840. 

"DEAR SIR, --I take great pleasure in informing you that L. C. Hasexperienced a change, and is now slowly recovering. I assure you thatno pains shall be spared to hasten her cure. The best that New Yorkcan afford is at her service. I hope soon to acquaint you with herentire recovery. Until then, believe me, "Yours truly, OBED CHUTE. 

"Capt. O. N. POMEROY. "

The next paper was a letter written in a lady's hand. It was veryshort:

"NEW YORK, September 20, 1840. 

"Farewell, dearest friend and more than brother. After a longsickness I have at last recovered through the mercy of God and thekindness of Mr. Chute. We shall never meet again on earth; but I willpray for your happiness till my latest breath. 

"MARY CHETWYNDE. "

There was only one other. It was a letter also, and was as follows:

"NEW YORK, October 10, 1840. 

"DEAR SIR, --I have great pleasure in informing you that your friendL. C. Has at length entirely recovered. She is very much broken down, however; her hair is quite gray, and she looks twenty years older. She is deeply penitent and profoundly sad. She is to leave meto-morrow, and will join the Sisters of Charity. You will feel withme that this is best for herself and for all. I remain yours, verytruly, "OBED CHUTE. 

"Capt. O. N. POMEROY. "

Gualtier read these letters several times in deep and thoughtfulsilence. Then he sat in profound thought for some time. 

"Well, " said Hilda at length, with some impatience, "what do youthink of these?"

"What do _you_ think?" asked Gualtier. 

"I?" returned Hilda. "I will tell you what I think; and as I havebrooded over these for eight months now, I can only say that I ammore confirmed than ever in my first impressions. To me, then, thesepapers seem to point out two great facts--the first being that of theforgery; and the second that of the elopement. Beyond this I seesomething else. The forgery has been arranged by the payment of theamount. The elopement also has come to a miserable termination. LadyChetwynde seems to have been deserted by her lover, who left herperhaps in New York. She fell ill, very ill, and suffered so that onher recovery she had grown in appearance twenty years older. Broken-hearted, she did not dare to go back to her friends, butjoined the Sisters of Charity. She is no doubt dead long ago. As tothis Chute, he seems to me perhaps to have been a kind of tool of thelover, who employed him probably to settle his forgery business, andalso to take care of the unhappy woman whom he had ruined anddeserted. He wrote these few letters to keep the recreant loverinformed about her fate. In the midst of these there is the lastdespairing farewell of the unhappy creature herself. All these theconscience-stricken lover has carefully preserved. In addition tothese, no doubt for the sake of easing his conscience, he wrote out aconfession of his sin. But he was too great a coward to write it outplainly, and therefore wrote it in cipher. I believe that he wouldhave destroyed them all if he had found time; but his accident cametoo quickly for this, and he has left these papers as a legacy to thediscoverer. "

As Hilda spoke Gualtier gazed at her with unfeigned admiration. 

"You are right, " said he. "Every word that you speak is as true asfate. You have penetrated to the very bottom of this secret. Ibelieve that this is the true solution. Your genius has solved themystery. "

"The mystery, " repeated Hilda, who showed no emotion whatever at thefervent admiration of Gualtier--"the mystery is as far from solutionas ever. "

"Have you not solved it?"

"Certainly not. Mine, after all, are merely conjectures. Much moreremains to be done. In the first place, I must find out somethingabout Lady Chetwynde. For months I have tried, but in vain. I haveventured as far as I dared to question the people about here. Once Ihinted to Mrs. Hart something about the elopement, and she turnedupon me with that in her eyes which would have turned an ordinarymortal into stone. Fortunately for me, I bore it, and survived. Butsince that unfortunate question she shuns me more than ever. Theother servants know nothing, or else they will reveal nothing. Nothing, in fact, can be discovered here. The mystery is yet to beexplained, and the explanation must be sought elsewhere. "

"Where?"

"I don't know. "

"Have you thought of any thing? You must have, or you would not havecommunicated with me. There is some work which you wish me to do. Youhave thought about it, and have determined it. What is it? Is it togo to America? Shall I hunt up Obed Chute? Shall I search through theconvents till I find that Sister who once was Lady Chetwynde? Tellme. If you say so I will go. "

Hilda mused; then she spoke, as though rather to herself than to hercompanion. 

"I don't know. I have no plans--no definite aim, beyond a desire tofind out what it all means, and what there is in it. What can I do?What could I do if I found out all? I really do not know. If GeneralPomeroy were alive, it might be possible to extort from him aconfession of his crimes, and make them known to the world. "

"If General Pomeroy were alive, " interrupted Gualtier, "and were toconfess all his crimes, what good would that do?"

"What good?" cried Hilda, in a tone of far greater vehemence andpassion than any which had yet escaped her. "What good? Humiliation, sorrow, shame, anguish, for his daughter! It is not on his head thatI wish these to descend, but on hers. You look surprised. You wonderwhy? I will not tell you--not now, at least. It is not because she ispassionate and disagreeable; that is a trifle, and besides she haschanged from that; it is not because she ever injured me--she neverinjured me; she loves me; but"--and Hilda's brow grew dark, and hereyes flashed as she spoke--"there are other reasons, deeper than allthis--reasons which I will not divulge even to you, but which yet aresufficient to make me long and yearn and crave for some opportunityto bring down her proud head into the very dust. "

"And that opportunity shall be yours, " cried Gualtier, vehemently. "To do this it is only necessary to find out the whole truth. I willfind it out. I will search over all England and all America till Idiscover all that you want to know. General Pomeroy is dead. Whatmatter? He is nothing to you. But she lives, and is a mark for yourvengeance. "

"I have said more than I intended to, " said Hilda, suddenly resumingher coolness. "At any rate, I take you at your word. If you wantmoney, I can supply it. "

"Money?" said Gualtier, with a light laugh. "No, no. It is somethingfar more than that which I want. When I have succeeded in my search Iwill tell you. To tell it now would be premature. But when shall Istart? Now?"

"Oh no, " said Hilda, who showed no emotion one way or the other atthe hint which he had thrown out. "Oh no, do nothing suddenly. Waituntil your quarter is up. When will it be out?"

"In six weeks. Shall I wait?"

"Yes. "

"Well, then, in six weeks I will go. "

"Very well. "

"And if I don't succeed I shall never come back. "

Hilda was silent. 

"Is it arranged, then?" said Gualtier, after a time. 

"Yes; and now I will take my music lesson. "

And Hilda walked over to the piano. 

After this interview no further opportunity occurred. Gualtier cameevery day as before. In a fortnight he gave notice to the Earl thatpressing private engagements would require his departure. He beggedleave to recommend a friend of his, Mr. Hilaire. The Earl had aninterview with Gualtier, and courteously expressed his regret at hisdeparture, asking him at the same time to write to Mr. Hilaire andget him to come. This Gualtier promised to do. 

Shortly before the time of Gualtier's departure Mr. Hilaire arrived. Gualtier took him to the Castle, and he was recognized as the newteacher. 

In a few days Gualtier took his departure. 

CHAPTER XV. 

FROM GIRLHOOD TO WOMANHOOD. 

One evening Zillah was sitting with Lord Chetwynde in his littlesanctum. His health had not been good of late, and sometimes attacksof gout were superadded. At this time he was confined to his room. 

Zillah was dressed for dinner, and had come to sit with him until thesecond bell rang. She had been with him constantly during hisconfinement to his room. At this time she was seated on a low stoolnear the fire, which threw its glow over her face, and lit up thevast masses of her jet-black hair. Neither of them had spoken forsome time, when Lord Chetwynde, who had been looking steadily at herfor some minutes, said, abruptly:

"Zillah, I'm sure Guy will not know you when he comes back. "

She looked up laughingly. "Why, father? I think every lineament on myface must be stereotyped on his memory. "

"That is precisely the reason why I say that he will not know you. Icould not have imagined that three years could have so thoroughlyaltered any one. "

"It's only fine feathers, " said Zillah, shaking her head. "You mustallow that Mathilde is incomparable. I often feel that were she tohave the least idea of the appearance which I presented, when I firstcame here, there would be nothing left for me but suicide. I couldnot survive her contempt. I was always fond of finery. I have Indianblood enough for that; but when I remember my combinations of colors, it really makes me shudder; and my hair was always streaming over myshoulders in a manner more _negligé_ than becoming. "

"I do Mathilde full justice, " returned Lord Chetwynde. "Your toiletteand coiffure are now irreproachable; but even her power has itslimits, and she could scarcely have turned the sallow, awkward girlinto a lovely and graceful woman. "

Zillah, who was unused to flattery, blushed very red at this tributeto her charms, and answered, quickly:

"Whatever change there may be is entirely due to Monmouthshire. Devonshire never agreed with me. I should have been ill and delicateto this day if I had remained there; and as to sallowness, I mustplead guilty to that. I remember a lemon-colored silk I had, in whichit was impossible to tell where the dress ended and my neck began. But, after all, father, you are a very prejudiced judge. Except thatI am healthy now, and well dressed, I think I am very much the samepersonally as I was three years ago. In character, however, I feelthat I have altered. "

"No, " he replied; "I have been looking at you for the last fewminutes with perfectly unprejudiced eyes, trying to see you as astranger would, and as Guy will when he returns. And now, " he added, laughingly, "you shall be punished for your audacity in doubting mypowers of discrimination, by having a full inventory given you. Wewill begin with the figure--about the middle height, perhaps a littleunder it, slight and graceful; small and beautifully proportionedhead; well set on the shoulders; complexion no longer sallow orlemon-colored, but clear, bright, transparent olive; hair, black asnight, and glossy as--"

But here he was interrupted by Zillah, who suddenly flung her armsabout his neck, and the close proximity of the face which he wasdescribing impeded further utterance. 

"Hush, father, " said she; "I won't hear another word, and don't youdare to talk about ever looking at me with unprejudiced eyes. I wantyou to love me without seeing my faults. "

"But would you not rather that I saw your failings, Zillah, than thatI clothed you with an ideal perfection?"

"No; I don't care for the love that is always looking out for faults, and has a 'but' even at the tenderest moments. That is not the love Igive. Perhaps strangers might not think dear papa, and you, and Hildaabsolutely perfect; but I can not see a single flaw, and I shouldhate myself if I could. "

Lord Chetwynde kissed her fondly, but sighed as he answered:

"My child, you know nothing of the world. I fear life has some verybitter lessons in store for you before you will learn to read itaright, and form a just estimate of the characters of the peopleamong whom you are thrown. "

"But you surely would not have me think people bad until I haveproved them to be so. Life would not be worth having if one must livein a constant state of suspicion. "

"No, nor would I have you think all whom you love to be perfect. Believe me, my child, you will meet with but few friends in theworld. Honor is an exploded notion, belonging to a past generation. "

"You may be right, father, but I do not like the doctrine; so I shallgo on believing in people until I find them to be different from whatI thought. "

"I should say to you, do so, dear--believe as long as you can, and asmuch as you can; but the danger of that is when you find that thosewhom you have trusted do not come up to the standard which you haveformed. After two or three disappointments you will fall into theopposite extreme, think every one bad, and not believe in any thingor any body. "

"I should die before I should come to that, " cried Zillah, passionately. "If what you say is true, I had better not let myselflike any body. " Then, laughing up in his face, she added:"By-the-way, I wonder if you are safe. You see you have made me soskeptical that I shall begin by suspecting my tutor. No, don'tspeak, " she went on, in a half-earnest, half-mocking manner, and puther hand before his mouth. "The case is hopeless, as far as you areconcerned. The warning has come too late. I love you as I thought Ishould never love any one after dear papa. "

Lord Chetwynde smiled, and pressed her fondly to his breast. 

The steady change which had been going on in Zillah, in mind and inperson, was indeed sufficient to justify Lord Chetwynde's remark. Enough has been said already about her change in personal appearance. Great as this was, however, it was not equal to that more subtlechange which had come over her soul. Her nature was intense, vehement, passionate; but its development was of such a kind that shewas now earnest where she was formerly impulsive, and calm where shehad been formerly weak. A profound depth of feeling already was mademanifest in this rich nature, and the thoughtfulness of the West wasadded to the fine emotional sensibility of the East; forming by theirunion a being of rare susceptibility, and of quick yet deep feeling, who still could control those feelings, and smother them, even thoughthe concealed passion should consume like a fire within her. 

Three years had passed since her hasty and repugnant marriage, andthose years had been eventful in many ways. They had matured thewild, passionate, unruly girl into the woman full of sensibility andpassion. They had also been filled with events upon which the worldgazed in awe, which shook the British empire to its centre, and senta thrill of horror to the heart of that empire, followed by a fiercethirst for vengeance. For the Indian mutiny had broken out, thehorrors of Cawnpore had been enacted, the stories of sepoy atrocityhad been told by every English fireside, and the whole nation hadroused itself to send forth armies for vengeance and for punishment. Dread stories were these for the quiet circle at Chetwynde Castle;yet they had been spared its worst pains. Guy had been sent to thenorth of India, and had not been witness of the scenes of Cawnpore. He had been joined with those soldiers who had been summoned togetherto march on Delhi, and he had shared in the danger and in the finaltriumph of that memorable expedition. 

The intensity of desire and the agony of impatience which attendedhis letters were natural. Lord Chetwynde thought only of one thingfor many months, and that was his son's letters. At the outbreak ofthe mutiny, a dread anxiety had taken possession of him lest his sonmight be in danger. At first the letters came regularly, givingdetails of the mutiny as he heard them. Then there was a long break, for the army was on the march to Delhi. Then a letter came from theBritish camp before Delhi, which roused Lord Chetwynde from thelowest depths of despair to joy and exultation and hope. Then therewas another long interval, in which the Earl, sick with anxiety, began to anticipate the worst, and was fast sinking into despondency, until, at last, a letter came, which raised him up in an instant tothe highest pitch of exultation and triumph. Delhi was taken. Guy haddistinguished himself, and was honorably mentioned in the dispatches. He had been among the first to scale the walls and penetrate into thebeleaguered city. All had fallen into their hands. The great dangerwhich had impended had been dissipated, and vengeance had been dealtout to those whose hands were red with English blood. Guy's letter, from beginning to end, was one long note of triumph. Its enthusiastictone, coming, as it did, after a long period of anxiety, completelyovercame the Earl. Though naturally the least demonstrative of men, he was now overwhelmed by the full tide of his emotions. He burstinto tears, and wept for some time tears of joy. Then he rose, andwalking over to Zillah, he kissed her, and laid his hand solemnlyupon her head. 

"My daughter, " said he, "thank God that your husband is preserved toyou through the perils of war, and that he is saved to you, and willcome to you in safety and in honor. "

The Earl's words sank deeply into Zillah's heart. She said nothing, but bowed her head in silence. 

Living, as she did, where Guy's letters formed the chief delight ofhim whom she loved as a father, it would have been hard indeed for agenerous nature like hers to refrain from sharing his feelings. Sympathy with his anxiety and his joy was natural, nay, inevitable. In his sorrow she was forced to console him by pointing out all thatmight be considered as bright in his prospects; in his joy she wasforced to rejoice with him, and listen to his descriptions of Guy'sexploits, as his imagination enlarged upon the more meagre factsstated in the letters. This year of anxiety and of triumph, thereforecompelled her to think very much about Guy, and, whatever herfeelings were, it certainly exalted him to a prominent place in herthoughts. 

And so it happened that, as month succeeded to month; she foundherself more and more compelled to identify herself with the Earl, totalk to him about the idol of his heart, to share his anxiety and hisjoy, while all that anxiety and all that joy referred exclusively tothe man who was her husband, but whom, as a husband, she had onceabhorred. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE AMERICAN EXPEDITION. 

About three years had passed away since Zillah had first come toChetwynde, and the life which she had lived there had gradually cometo be grateful and pleasant and happy. Mr. Hilaire was attentive tohis duty and devoted to his pupil, and Zillah applied herselfassiduously to her music and drawing. At the end of a year Mr. Hilaire waited upon the Earl with a request to withdraw, as he wantedto go to the Continent. He informed the Earl, however, that Mr. Gualtier was coming back, and would like to get his old situation, ifpossible. The Earl consented to take back the old teacher; and so, ina few months more, after an absence of about a year and a half, Gualtier resumed his duties at Chetwynde Castle, _vice_ Mr. Hilaire, resigned. 

On his first visit after his return Hilda's face expressed aneagerness of curiosity which even her fine self-control could notconceal. No one noticed it, however, but Gualtier, and he looked ather with an earnest expression that might mean any thing or nothing. It might tell of success or failure; and so Hilda was left toconjecture. There was no chance of a quiet conversation, and she hadeither to wait as before, perhaps for months, until she could see himalone, or else throw away her scruples and arrange a meeting. Hildawas not long in coming to a conclusion. On Gualtier's second visitshe slipped a piece of paper into his hand, on which he read, afterhe had left, the following:

"_I will be in the West Avenue, near the Lake, this afternoon atthree o'clock. _"

That afternoon she made some excuse and went out, as she said toZillah, for a walk through the Park. As this was a frequent thingwith her, it excited no comment. The West Avenue led from the doorthrough the Park, and finally, after a long detour, ended at the maingate. At its farthest point there was a lake, surrounded by a densegrowth of Scotch larch-trees, which formed a very good place for sucha tryst--although, for that matter, in so quiet a place as ChetwyndePark, they might have met on the main avenue without any fear ofbeing noticed. Here, then, at three o'clock, Hilda went, and onreaching the spot found Gualtier waiting for her. 

She walked under the shadow of the trees before she said a word. 

"You are punctual, " said she at last. 

"I have been here ever since noon. "

"You did not go out, then?"

"No, I staid here for you. "

His tone expressed the deepest devotion, and his eyes, as they restedon her for a moment, had the same expression. 

Hilda looked at him benignantly and encouragingly. 

"You have been gone long, and I dare say you have been gone far, " shesaid. "It is this which I want to hear about. Have you found out anything, and what have you found out?"

"Yes, I have been gone long, " said Gualtier, "and have been far away;but all the time I have done nothing else than seek after what youwish to know. Whether I have discovered any thing of any value willbe for you to judge. I can only tell you of the result. At any rateyou will see that I have not spared myself for your sake. "

"What have you done?" asked Hilda, who saw that Gualtier's devotionwas irrepressible, and would find vent in words if she did notrestrain him. "I am eager to hear. "

Gualtier dropped his eyes, and began to speak in a cool businesstone. 

"I will tell you every thing, then, Miss Krieff, " said he, "from thebeginning. When I left here I went first to London, for the sake ofmaking inquiries about the elopement. I hunted up all whom I couldfind whose memories embraced the last twenty years, so as to see ifthey could throw any light on this mystery. One or two had some faintrecollection of the affair, but nothing of any consequence. At lengthI found out an old sporting character who promised at first to bewhat I wished. He remembered Lady Chetwynde, described her beauty, and said that she was left to herself very much by her husband. Heremembered well the excitement that was caused by her flight. Heremembered the name of the man with whom she had fled. It was_Redfield Lyttoun_. "

"_Redfield Lyttoun_!" repeated Hilda, with a peculiar expression. 

"Yes; but he said that, for his part, he had good reason forbelieving that it was an assumed name. The man who bore the name hadfigured for a time in sporting circles, but after this event it wasgenerally stated that it was not his true name. I asked whether anyone knew his true name. He said some people had stated it, but hecould not tell. I asked what was the name. He said Pomeroy. "

As Gualtier said this he raised his eyes, and those small gray orbsseemed to burn and flash with triumph as they encountered the gaze ofHilda. She said not a word, but held out her hand. Gualtiertremblingly took it, and pressed it to his thin lips. 

"This was all that I could discover. It was vague; it was onlypartially satisfactory; but it was all. I soon perceived that it wasonly a waste of time to stay in London; and after thinking of manyplans, I finally determined to visit the family of Lady Chetwyndeherself. Of course such an undertaking had to be carried out verycautiously. I found out where the family lived, and went there. Onarriving I went to the Hall, and offered myself as music-teacher. Itwas in an out-of-the-way place, and Sir Henry Furlong, LadyChetwynde's brother, happened to have two or three daughters who werestudying under a governess. When I showed him a certificate which theEarl here was kind enough to give me, he was very much impressed byit. He asked me all about the Earl and Chetwynde, and appeared to bedelighted to hear about these things. My stars were certainly lucky. He engaged me at once, and so I had constant access to the place. 

[Illustration: "'You Are Punctual, Said She At Last. '"]

"I had to work cautiously, of course. My idea was to get hold of someof the domestics. There was an old fellow there, a kind of butler, whom I propitiated, and gradually drew into conversations about thefamily. My footing in the house inspired confidence in him, and hegradually became communicative. He was an old gossip, in his dotage, and he knew all about the family, and remembered when Lady Chetwyndewas born. He at first avoided any allusion to her, but I told himlong stories about the Earl, and won upon his sympathies so that hetold me at last all that the family knew about Lady Chetwynde. 

"His story was this: Lord Chetwynde was busy in politics, and lefthis wife very much to herself. A coolness had sprung up between them, which increased every day. Lady Chetwynde was vain, and giddy, andweak. The Redfield Lyttoun of whom I had heard in London was much ather house, though her husband knew nothing about it. People weretalking about them every where, and he only was in the dark. At lastthey ran away. It was known that they had fled to America. That isthe last that was ever heard of her. She vanished out of sight, andher paramour also. Not one word has ever been heard about either ofthem since. From which I conjecture that Redfield Lyttoun, when hehad become tired of his victim, threw her off, and came back toresume his proper name, to lead a life of honor, and to die in theodor of sanctity. What do you think of my idea?"

"It seems just, " said Hilda, thoughtfully. 

"In the three months which I spent there I found out all that thefamily could tell; but still I was far enough away from the object ofmy search. I only had conjectures, I wanted certainty. I thought itall over; and, at length, saw that the only thing left to do was togo to America, and try to get upon their tracks. It was a desperateundertaking; America changes so that traces of fugitives are veryquickly obliterated; and who could detect or discover any after alapse of nearly twenty years? Still, I determined to go. There seemedto be a slight chance that I might find this Obed Chute, who figuresin the correspondence. There was also a chance of tracing LadyChetwynde among the records of the Sisters of Charity. Besides, therewas the chapter of accidents, in which unexpected things often turnup. So I went to America. My first search was after Obed Chute. To myamazement, I found him at once. He is one of the foremost bankers ofNew York, and is well known all over the city. I waited on himwithout delay. I had documents and certificates which I presented tohim. Among others, I had written out a very good letter from SirHenry Furlong, commissioning me to find out about his beloved sister, and another from General Pomeroy, to the effect that I was hisfriend--"

"That was forgery, " interrupted Hilda, sharply. 

Gualtier bowed with a deprecatory air, and hung his head in deepabasement. 

"Go on, " said she. 

"You are too harsh, " said he, in a pleading voice. "It was all foryour sake--"

"Go on, " she repeated. 

"Well, with these I went to see Obed Chute. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, square-headed man, with iron-gray hair, and aface--well, it was one of those faces that make you feel that theowner can do any thing he chooses. On entering his private office Iintroduced myself, and began a long explanation. He interrupted me byshaking hands with me vehemently, and pushing me into a chair. I satdown, and went on with my explanation. I told him that I had come outas representative of the Furlong family, and the friend of GeneralPomeroy, now dead. I told him that there were several things which Iwished to find out. First, to trace Lady Chetwynde, and find out whathad become of her, and bring her back to her friends, if she werealive; secondly, to clear up certain charges relative to a forgery;and, finally, to find out about the fate of Redfield Lyttoun. 

"Mr. Obed Chute at first was civil enough, after his rough way; but, as I spoke, he looked at me earnestly, eying me from head to footwith sharp scrutiny. He did not seem to believe my story. 

"'Well, ' said he, when I had ended, 'is that all?'

"'Yes, ' said I. 

"'So you want to find out about Lady Chetwynde, and the forgery, andRedfield Lyttoun?'

"'Yes. '

"'And General Pomeroy told you to apply to me?'

"'Yes. On his dying bed, ' said I, solemnly, 'his last words were: "Goto Obed Chute, and tell him to explain all. "'

"'To explain all!' repeated Obed Chute. 

"'Yes, ' said I. '"The confession, " said the General, "can not be madeby me. He must make it. "'

"'The confession!' he repeated. 

"'Yes. And I suppose that you will not be unwilling to grant a dyingman's request. '

"Obed Chute said nothing for some time, but sat staring at me, evidently engaged in profound thought. At any rate, he saw throughand through me. 

"'Young man, ' said he at last, 'where are you lodging?'

"'At the Astor House, ' said I, in some surprise. "'Well, then, goback to the Astor House, pack up your trunk, pay your bill, take yourfare in the first steamer, and go right straight back home. When youget there, give my compliments' to Sir Henry Furlong, and tell him ifhe wants his sister he had better hunt her up himself. As to thataffecting message which you have brought from General Pomeroy, I canonly say, that, as he evidently did not explain this business to you, I certainly will not. I was only his agent. Finally, if you want tofind Redfield Lyttoun, you may march straight out of that door, andlook about you till you find him. '

"Saying this, he rose, opened the door, and, with a savage frown, which forbade remonstrance, motioned me out. 

"I went out. There was evidently no hope of doing any thing with ObedChute. "

"Then you failed, " said Hilda, in deep disappointment. 

"Failed? No. Do you not see how the reticence of this Obed Chuteconfirms all our suspicions? But wait till you hear all, and I willtell you my conclusions. You will then see whether I have discoveredany thing definite or not. 

"I confess I was much discouraged at first at my reception by ObedChute. I expected every thing from this interview, and his brutalitybaffled me. I did not venture back there again, of course. I thoughtof trying other things, and went diligently around among the conventsand religious orders, to see if I could find out any thing about thefate of Lady Chetwynde. My letters of introduction from Sir H. Furlong and from Lord Chetwynde led these simple-minded people toreceive me with confidence. They readily seconded my efforts, andopened their records to me. For some time my search was in vain; but, at last, I found what I wanted. One of the societies of the Sistersof Charity had the name of Sister Ursula, who joined them in the year1840. She was Lady Chetwynde. She lived with them eight years, andthen disappeared. Why she had left, or where she had gone, wasequally unknown. She had disappeared, and that was the end of her. After this I came home. "

[Illustration: "With A Savage Frown He Motioned Me Out. "]

"And you have found out nothing more?" said Hilda, in deepdisappointment. 

"Nothing, " said Gualtier, dejectedly; "but are you not hasty indespising what I have found out? Is not this something?"

"I do not know that you have discovered anything but what I knewbefore, " said Hilda, coldly. "You have made some conjectures--that isall. "

"Conjectures!--no, conclusions from additional facts, " said Gualtier, eagerly. "What we suspected is now, at least, more certain. The verybrutality of that beast, Obed Chute, proves this. Let me tell you theconclusions that I draw from this:

"First, General Pomeroy, under an assumed name, that of RedfieldLyttoun, gained Lady Chetwynde's love, and ran away with her toAmerica. 

"Secondly, he forged a hundred thousand dollars, which forgery hehushed up through this Obed Chute, paying him, no doubt, a large sumfor hush-money. 

"Thirdly, he deserted Lady Chetwynde when he was tired of her, andleft her in the hands of Obed Chute. She was ill, and finally, on herrecovery, joined the Sisters of Charity. 

"Fourthly, after eight years she ran away--perhaps to fall into evilcourses and die in infamy. 

"And lastly, all this must be true, or else Obed Chute would not havebeen so close, and would not have fired up so at the very suggestionof an explanation. If it were not true, why should he not explain?But if it be true, then there is every reason why he should notexplain. "

A long silence followed. Hilda was evidently deeply disappointed. From what Gualtier had said at the beginning of the interview, shehad expected to hear something more definite. It seemed to her asthough all his trouble had resulted in nothing. Still, she was notone to give way to disappointment, and she had too much good sense toshow herself either ungrateful or ungracious. 

"Your conclusions are, no doubt, correct, " said she at last, in apleasanter tone than she had yet assumed; "but they are onlyinferences, and can not be made use of--in the practical way in whichI hoped they would be. We are still in the attitude of inquirers, yousee. The secret which we hold is of such a character that we have tokeep it to ourselves until it be confirmed. "

Gualtier's face lighted up with pleasure as Hilda thus identified himwith herself, and classed him with her as the sharer of the secret. 

"Any thing, " said he, eagerly--"any thing that I can do, I will do. Ihope you know that you have only to say the word--"

Hilda waved her hand. 

"I trust you, " said she. "The time will come when you will havesomething to do. But just now I must wait, and attend uponcircumstances. There are many things in my mind which I will not tellyou--that is to say, not yet. But when the time comes, I promise totell you. You may be interested in my plans--or you may not. I willsuppose that you are. "

"Can you doubt it, Miss Krieff?"

"No, I do not doubt it, and I promise you my confidence when anything further arises. "

"Can I be of no assistance now--in advising, or in counseling?" askedGualtier, in a hesitating voice. 

"No--whatever half-formed plans I may have relate to people and tothings which are altogether outside of your sphere, and so you coulddo nothing in the way of counseling or advising. "

"At least, tell me this much--must I look upon all my labor as wastedutterly? Will you at least accept it, even if it is useless, as anoffering to you?"

Gualtier's pale sallow face grew paler and more sallow as he askedthis; his small gray eyes twinkled with a feverish light as he turnedthem anxiously upon Hilda. Hilda, for her part, regarded him with herusual calmness. 

"Accept it?" said she. "Certainly, right gladly and gratefully. Myfriend, if I was disappointed at the result, do not suppose that Ifail to appreciate the labor. You have shown rare perseverance andgreat acuteness. The next time you will succeed. "

This approval of his labors, slight as it was, and spoken as it was, with the air of a queen, was eagerly and thankfully accepted byGualtier. He hungered after her approval, and in his hunger he wasdelighted even with crumbs. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A FRESH DISCOVERY. 

Some time passed away, and Hilda had no more interviews withGualtier. The latter settled down into a patient, painstakingmusic-teacher once more, who seemed not to have an idea beyond hisart. Hilda held herself aloof; and, even when she might haveexchanged a few confidential words, she did not choose to do so. AndGualtier was content, and quiet, and patient. 

Nearly eighteen months had passed away since Zillah's visit toPomeroy Court, and she began to be anxious to pay another visit. Shehad been agitating the subject for some time; but it had beenpostponed from time to time, for various reasons, the chief one beingthe ill health of the Earl. At length, however, his health improvedsomewhat, and Zillah determined to take advantage of this to go. 

This time, the sight of the Court did not produce so strong an effectas before. She did not feel like staying alone, but preferred havingHilda with her, and spoke freely about the past. They wandered aboutthe rooms, looked over all the well-remembered places, rode orstrolled through the grounds, and found, at every step, inside of theCourt, and outside also, something which called up a whole world ofassociations. 

Wandering thus about the Court, from one room to another, it wasnatural that Zillah should go often to the library, where her fatherformerly passed the greater part of his time. Here they chieflystaid, and looked over the hooks and pictures. 

One day the conversation turned toward the desk, and Zillah casuallyremarked that her father used to keep this place so sacred from herintrusion that she had acquired a kind of awe of it, which she hadnot yet quite overcome. This led Hilda to propose, laughingly, thatshe should explore it now, on the spot; and, taking the keys, sheopened it, and turned over some of the papers. At length she opened adrawer, and drew out a miniature. Zillah snatched it from her, and, looking at it for a few moments, burst into tears. 

"It's my mother, " she cried, amidst her sobs; "my mother! Oh, mymother!"

Hilda said nothing. 

"He showed it to me once, when I was a little child, and I often havewondered, in a vague way, what became of it. I never thought oflooking here. "

"You may find other things here, also, if you look, " said Hilda, gently. "No doubt your papa kept here all his most precious things. "

The idea excited Zillah. She covered the portrait with kisses, put itin her pocket, and then sat down to explore the desk. 

There were bundles of papers there, lying on the bottom of the desk, all neatly wrapped up and labeled in a most business-like manner. Outside there was a number of drawers, all of which were filled withpapers. These were all wrapped in bundles, and were labeled, so as toshow at the first glance that they referred to the business of theestate. Some were mortgages, others receipts, others letters, othersreturned checks and drafts. Nothing among these had any interest forZillah. 

Inside the desk there were some drawers, which Zillah opened. Once onthe search, she kept it up most vigorously. The discovery of hermother's miniature led her to suppose that something else of equalvalue might be found here somewhere. But, after a long search, nothing whatever was found. The search, however, only became the moreexciting, and the more she was baffled the more eager did she becometo follow it out to the end. While she was investigating in this way, Hilda stood by her, looking on with the air of a sympathizing friendand interested spectator. Sometimes she anticipated Zillah in openingdrawers which lay before their eyes, and in seizing and examining therolls of papers with which each drawer was filled. The search wasconducted by both, in fact, but Zillah seemed to take the lead. 

"There's nothing more, " said Hilda at last, as Zillah opened the lastdrawer, and found only some old business letters. "You have examinedall, you have found nothing. At any rate, the search has given youthe miniature; and, besides, it has dispelled that awe that you spokeof. "

"But, dear Hilda, there ought to be something, " said Zillah. "I hopedfor something more. I had an idea that I might find something--Idon't know what--something which I could keep for the rest of mylife. "

"Is not the miniature enough, dearest?" said Hilda, in affectionatetones. "What more could you wish for?"

"I don't know. I prize it most highly; but, still, I feeldisappointed. "

"There is no more chance, " said Hilda. 

"No; I have examined every drawer. "

"You can not expect any thing more, so let us go away--unless, " sheadded, "you expect to find some mysterious secret drawer somewhere, and I fancy there is hardly any room here for any thing of thatkind. "

"A secret drawer!" repeated Zillah, with visible excitement. "What anidea! But could there be one? Is there any place for one? I don't seeany place. There is the open place where the books are kept, and, oneach side, a row of drawers. No; there are no secret drawers here. But see--what is this?"

As Zillah said this she reached out her hand toward the lower part ofthe place where the books were kept. A narrow piece of wood projectedthere beyond the level face of the back of the desk. On this piece ofwood there was a brass catch, which seemed intended to be fastened;but now, on account of the projection of the piece, it was notfastened. Zillah instantly pulled the wood, and it came out. 

It was a shallow drawer, not more than half an inch in depth, and thecatch was the means by which it was closed. A bit of brass, thatlooked like an ornamental stud, was, in reality, a spring, bypressing which the drawer sprang open. But when Zillah looked therethe drawer was already open, and, as she pulled it out, she saw itall. 

As she pulled it out her hand trembled, and her heart beat fast. Astrange and inexplicable feeling filled her mind--a kind ofanticipation of calamity--a mysterious foreboding of evil--whichspread a strange terror through her. But her excitement was strong, and was not now to be quelled; and it would have needed somethingfar more powerful than this vague fear to stop her in the search intothe mystery of the desk. 

When men do any thing that is destined to affect them seriously, forgood or evil, it often happens that at the time of the action acertain unaccountable premonition arises in the mind. This is chieflythe case when the act is to be the cause of sorrow. Like the wizardwith Lochiel, some dark phantom arises before the mind, and warns ofthe evil to come. So it was in the present case. The pulling out ofthat drawer was an eventful moment in the life of Zillah. It was acrisis fraught with future sorrow and evil and suffering. There wassomething of all this in her mind at that moment; and, as she pulledit out, and as it lay before her, a shudder passed through her, andshe turned her face away. 

"Oh, Hilda, Hilda!" she murmured. "I'm afraid--"

"Afraid of what?" asked Hilda. "What's the matter? Here is adiscovery, certainly. This secret drawer could never have beensuspected. What a singular chance it was that you should have madesuch a discovery!"

But Zillah did not seem to hear her. Before she had done speaking shehad turned to examine the drawer. There were several papers in it. All were yellow and faded, and the writing upon them was pale withage. These Zillah seized in a nervous and tremulous grasp. The firstone which she unfolded was the secret cipher. Upon this she gazed forsome time in bewilderment, and then opened a paper which was inclosedwithin it. This paper, like the other, was faded, and the ink waspale. It contained what seemed like a key to decipher the letters onthe other. These Zillah placed on one side, not choosing to do anymore at that time. Then she went on to examine the others. What thesewere has already been explained. They were the letters of Obed Chute, and the farewell note of Lady Chetwynde. But in addition to thesethere was another letter, with which the reader is not as yetacquainted. It was as brown and as faded as the other papers, withwriting as pale and as illegible. It was in the handwriting of ObedChute. It was as follows:

"NEW YORK, October 20, 1841. 

"DEAR SIR, --L. C. Has been in the convent a year. The seventythousand dollars will never again trouble you. All is now settled, and no one need ever know that the Redfield Lyttoun who ran away withL. C. Was really Captain Pomeroy. There is no possibility that anyone can ever find it out, unless you yourself disclose your secret. Allow me to congratulate you on the happy termination of thisunpleasant business. 

"Yours, truly, OBED CHUTE. 

"Captain O. N. POMEROY. "

Zillah read this over many times. She could not comprehend one wordof it as yet. Who was L. C. She knew not. The mention of CaptainPomeroy, however, seemed to implicate her father in some "unpleasantbusiness. " A darker anticipation of evil, and a profounder dread, settled over her heart. She did not say a word to Hilda. This, whatever it was, could not be made the subject of girlish confidence. It was something which she felt was to be examined by herself insolitude and in fear. Once only did she look at Hilda. It was whenthe latter asked, in a tone of sympathy:

"Dear Zillah, what is it?" And, as she asked this, she stoopedforward and kissed her. 

Zillah shuddered involuntarily. Why? Not because she suspected herfriend. Her nature was too noble to harbor suspicion. Her shudderrather arose from that mysterious premonition which, according to oldsuperstitions, arises warningly and instinctively and blindly at theapproach of danger. So the old superstition says that thisinvoluntary shudder will arise when any one steps over the placewhich is destined to be our grave. A pleasant fancy!

Zillah shuddered, and looked up at Hilda with a strange dazedexpression. It was some time before she spoke. 

"They are family papers, " she said. "I--I don't understand them. Iwill look over them. "

She gathered up the papers abruptly, and left the room. As the doorclosed after her Hilda sat looking at the place where she hadvanished, with a very singular smile on her face. 

For the remainder of that day Zillah continued shut up in her ownroom. Hilda went once to ask, in a voice of the sweetest andtenderest sympathy, what was the matter. Zillah only replied that shewas not well, and was lying down. She would not open her door, however. Again, before bedtime, Hilda went. At her earnest entreatyZillah let her in. She was very pale, with a weary, anxiousexpression on her face. 

Hilda embraced her and kissed her. 

"Oh, my darling, " said she, "will you not tell me your trouble?Perhaps I may be of use to you. Will you not give me yourconfidence?"

"Not just yet, Hilda dearest. I do not want to trouble you. Besides, there may be nothing in it. I will speak to the Earl first, and thenI will tell you. "

"And you will not tell me now?" murmured Hilda, reproachfully. 

"No, dearest, not now. Better not. You will soon know all, whether itis good or bad. I am going back to Chetwynde to-morrow. "

"To-morrow?"

"Yes, " said Zillah, mournfully. "I must go back to end my suspense. You can do nothing. Lord Chetwynde only can tell me what I want toknow. I will tell him all, and he can dispel my trouble, or elsedeepen it in my heart forever. "

"How terrible! What a frightful thing this must be. My darling, myfriend, my sister, tell me this--was it that wretched paper?"

"Yes, " said Zillah. "And now, dearest, goodnight. Leave me--I am verymiserable. "

Hilda kissed her again. 

"Darling, I would not leave you, but you drive me away. You have noconfidence in your poor Hilda. But I will not reproach you. Goodnight, darling. "

"Good-night, dearest. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A SHOCK. 

The discovery of these papers thus brought the visit to Pomeroy Courtto an abrupt termination. The place had now become intolerable toZillah. In her impatience she was eager to leave, and her one thoughtnow was to apply to Lord Chetwynde for a solution of this darkmystery. 

"Why, Zillah, " he cried, as she came back; "what is the meaning ofthis? You have made but a short stay. Was Pomeroy Court too gloomy, or did you think that your poor father was lonely here without you?Lonely enough he was--and glad indeed he is to see his littleZillah. "

And Lord Chetwynde kissed her fondly, exhibiting a delight whichtouched Zillah to the heart. She could not say any thing then andthere about the real cause of her sudden return. She would have towait for a favorable opportunity, even though her heart wasthrobbing, in her fierce impatience, as though it would burst. Shetook refuge in caresses and in general remarks as to her joy onfinding herself back again, leaving him to suppose that the gloomwhich hung around Pomeroy Court now had been too oppressive for her, and that she had hurried away from it. 

The subject which was uppermost in Zillah's mind was one which shehardly knew how to introduce. It was of such delicacy that the ideaof mentioning it to the Earl filled her with repugnance. For thefirst day she was distrait and preoccupied. Other days followed. Hernights were sleepless. The Earl soon saw that there was something onher mind, and taxed her with it. Zillah burst into tears and satweeping. 

"My child, " said the Earl, tenderly. "This must not go on. There cannot be anything in your thoughts which you need hesitate to tell me. Will you not show some confidence toward me?"

Zillah looked at him, and his loving face encouraged her. Besides, this suspense was unendurable. Her repugnance to mention such a thingfor a time made her silent; but at last she ventured upon the darkand terrible subject. 

"Something occurred at Pomeroy Court, " she said, and then stopped. 

"Well?" said the Earl, kindly and encouragingly. 

"It is something which I want very much to ask you about--"

"Well, why don't you?" said Lord Chetwynde. "My poor child, you can'tbe afraid of me, and yet it looks like it. You are very mysterious. This 'something' must have been very important to have sent you backso soon. Was it a discovery, or was it a fright? Did you find a deadbody? But what is that you can want to ask me about? I have been ahermit for twenty years. I crept into my shell before you were born, and here I have lived ever since. "

The Earl spoke playfully, yet with an uneasy curiosity in his tone. Zillah was encouraged to go on. 

"It is something, " said she, timidly and hesitatingly, "which I foundamong my father's papers. "

Lord Chetwynde looked all around the room. Then he rose. 

"Come into the library, " said he. "Perhaps it is something veryimportant; and if so, there need be no listeners. "

Saying this he led the way in silence, followed by Zillah. Arrivingthere he motioned Zillah to a seat, and took a chair opposite hers, looking at her with a glance of perplexity and curiosity. Amidst thisthere was an air of apprehension about him, as though he feared thatthe secret which Zillah wished to tell might be connected with thoseevents in his life which he wished to remain unrevealed. Thissuspicion was natural. His own secret was so huge, so engrossing, that when one came to him as Zillah did now, bowed down by the weightof another secret, he would naturally imagine that it was connectedwith his own. He sat now opposite Zillah, with this fear in his face, and with the air of a man who was trying to fortify himself againstsome menacing calamity. 

"I have been in very deep trouble, " began Zillah, timidly, and withdowncast eyes. "This time I ventured into dear papa's study--and Ihappened to examine his desk. "

She hesitated. 

"Well?" said the Earl, in a low voice. 

"In the desk I found a secret drawer, which I would not havediscovered except by the merest chance; and inside of this secretdrawer I found some papers, which--which have filled me withanxiety. "

"A secret drawer?" said the Earl, as Zillah again paused. "And whatwere these papers that you found in it?" There was intense anxiety inthe tones of his voice as he asked this question. 

"I found there, " said Zillah, "a paper written in cipher. There was akey connected with it, by means of which I was able to decipher it. "

"Written in cipher? How singular!" said the Earl, with increasinganxiety. "What could it possibly have been?"

Zillah stole a glance at him fearfully and inquiringly. She saw thathe was much excited and most eager in his curiosity. 

"What was it?" repeated the Earl. "Why do you keep me in suspense?You need not be afraid of me, my child. Of course it is nothing thatI am in any way concerned with; and even if it were--why--at anyrate, tell me what it was. "

The Earl spoke in a tone of feverish excitement, which was so unlikeany thing that Zillah had ever seen in him before that herembarrassment was increased. 

"It was something, " she went on, desperately, and in a voice whichtrembled with agitation, "with which you are connected--somethingwhich I had never heard of before--something which filled me withhorror. I will show it to you--but I want first to ask you one thing. Will you answer it?"

"Why should I not?" said the Earl, in a low voice. 

"It is about Lady Chetwynde, " said Zillah, whose voice had died awayto a whisper. 

The Earl's face seemed to turn to stone as he looked at her. He hadbeen half prepared for this, but still, when it finally came, it wasoverwhelming. Once before, and once only in his life, had he told hissecret. That was to General Pomeroy. But Zillah was different, andeven she, much as he loved her, was not one to whom he could speakabout such a thing as this. 

"Well?" said he at last, in a harsh, constrained voice. "Ask what youwish. "

Zillah started. The tone was so different from that in which LordChetwynde usually spoke that she was frightened. 

"I--I do not know how to ask what I want to ask, " she stammered. 

"I can imagine it, " said the Earl. "It is about my dishonor. I toldGeneral Pomeroy about it once, and it seems that he has kindlywritten it out for your benefit. "

Bitterness indescribable was in the Earl's tones as he said this. Zillah shrank back into herself and looked with fear and wonder uponthis man, who a few moments before had been all fondness, but now wasall suspicion. Her first impulse was to go and caress him, andexplain away the cipher so that it might never again trouble him inthis way. But she was too frank and honest to do this, and, besides, her own desire to unravel the mystery had by this time become sointense that it was impossible to stop. The very agitation of theEarl, while it frightened her, still gave new power to her eager andfeverish curiosity. But now, more than ever, she began to realizewhat all this involved. That face which caught her eyes, once alllove, which had never before regarded her with aught but tenderness, yet which now seemed cold and icy--that face told her all the taskthat lay before her. Could she encounter it? But how could she helpit? Dare she go on? Yet she could not go back now. 

The Earl saw her hesitation. 

"I know what you wish to ask, " said he, "and will answer it. Child, she dishonored me--she dragged my name down into the dust! Do you askmore? She fled with a villain!"

That stern, white face, which was set in anguish before her, fromwhose lips these words seemed to be torn, as, one by one, they wereflung out to her ears, was remembered by Zillah many and many a timein after years. At this moment the effect upon her was appalling. Shewas dumb. A vague desire to avert his wrath arose in her heart. Shelooked at him imploringly; but her look had no longer any power. 

"Speak!" he said, impatiently, after waiting for a time. "Speak. Tellme what it is that you have found; tell me what this thing is thatconcerns me. Can it be any thing more than I have said?"

Zillah trembled. This sudden transformation--this complete changefrom warm affection to icy coldness--from devoted love to ironsternness--was something which she did not anticipate. Being thustaken unawares, she was all unnerved and overcome. She could nolonger restrain herself. 

"Oh, father!" she cried, bursting into tears, and flinging herself athis feet in uncontrollable emotion. "Oh, father! Do not look at meso--do not speak so to your poor Zillah. Have I any friend on earthbut you?"

She clasped his thin, white hands in hers, while hot tears fell uponthem. But the Earl sat unmoved, and changed not a muscle of hiscountenance. He waited for a time, taking no notice of her anguish, and then spoke, with no relaxation of the sternness of his tone. 

"Daughter, " said he, "do not become agitated. It was you yourself whobrought on this conversation. Let us end it at once. Show me thepapers of which you speak. You say that they are connected withme--that they filled you with horror. What is it that you mean?Something more than curiosity about the unhappy woman who was once mywife has driven you to ask explanations of me. Show me the papers. "

His tone forbade denial. Zillah said not a word. Slowly she drew fromher pocket those papers, heavy with fate, and, with a trembling hand, she gave them to the Earl. Scarcely had she done so than sherepented. But it was too late. Beside, of what avail would it havebeen to have kept them? She herself had begun this conversation; sheherself had sought for a revelation of this mystery. The end mustcome, whatever it might be. 

"Oh, father!" she moaned, imploringly. 

"What is it?" asked the Earl. 

"You knew my dear papa all his life, did you not, from his boyhood?"

"Yes, " said the Earl, mechanically, looking at the papers whichZillah had placed in his hand; "yes--from boyhood. "

"And you loved and honored him?"

"Yes. "

"Was there ever a time in which you lost sight of one another, or didnot know all about one another?"

"Certainly. For twenty years we lost sight of one another completely. Why do you ask?"

"Did he ever live in London?" asked Zillah, despairingly. 

"Yes, " said the Earl; "he lived there for two years, and I scarcelyever saw him. I was in politics; he was in the army. I was busy everymoment of my time; he had all that leisure which officers enjoy, andleading the life of gayety peculiar to them. But why do you ask? Whatconnection has all this with the papers?"

Zillah murmured some inaudible words, and then sat watching the Earlas he began to examine the papers, with a face on which there werevisible a thousand contending emotions. The Earl looked over thepapers. There was the cipher and the key; and there was also a paperwritten out by Zillah, containing the explanation of the cipher, according to the key. On the paper which contained the key was awritten statement to the effect that two-thirds of the letters had nomeaning. Trusting to this, Zillah had written out her translation ofthe cipher, just as Hilda had before done. 

The Earl read the translation through most carefully. 

"What's this?" he exclaimed, in deeper agitation. Zillah made noreply. In fact, at that moment her heart was throbbing so furiouslythat she could not have spoken a word. Now had come the crisis of herfate, and her heart, by a certain deep instinct, told her this. Beneath all the agitation arising from the change in the Earl therewas something more profound, more dread. It was a continuation ofthat dark foreboding which she had felt at Pomeroy Court--a certainfearful looking for of some obscure and shadowy calamity. 

The Earl, after reading the translation, took the cipher writing andheld up the key beside it, while his thin hands trembled, and hiseyes seemed to devour the sheet, as he slowly spelled out thefrightful meaning. It was bad for Zillah that these papers had falleninto his hands in such a way. Her evil star had been in the ascendantwhen she was drawn on to this. Coming to him thus, from the hand ofZillah herself, there was an authenticity and an authority about thepapers which otherwise might have been wanting. It was to him, atthis time; precisely the same as if they had been handed to him bythe General himself. Had they been discovered by himself originally, it is possible--in fact, highly probable--that he would have lookedupon them with different eyes, and their effect upon him would havebeen far otherwise. As it was, however, Zillah herself had found themand given them to him. Zillah had been exciting him by her agitationand her suffering, and had, last of all, been rousing him graduallyup to a pitch of the most intense excitement, by the conversationwhich she had brought forward, by her timidity, her reluctance, herstrange questionings, and her general agitation. To a task whichrequired the utmost coolness of feeling, and calm impartiality ofjudgment, he brought a feverish heart, a heated brain, and anunreasoning fear of some terrific disclosure. All this prepared himto accept blindly whatever the paper might reveal. 

As he examined the paper he did not look at Zillah, but spelled outthe words from the characters, one by one, and saw that thetranslation was correct. This took a long time; and all the whileZillah sat there, with her eyes fastened on him; but he did not giveher one look. All his soul seemed to be absorbed by the papers beforehim. At last he ended with the cipher writing--or, at least, with asmuch of it as was supposed to be decipherable--and then he turned tothe other papers. These he read through; and then, beginning again, he read them through once more. One only exclamation escaped him. Itwas while reading that last letter, where mention was made of thename Redfield Lyttoun being an assumed one. Then he said, in a lowvoice which seemed like a groan wrung out by anguish from his inmostsoul:

"Oh, my God! my God!"

At last the Earl finished examining the papers. He put them downfeebly, and sat staring blankly at vacancy. He looked ten years olderthan when he had entered the dining-room. His face was as bloodlessas the face of a corpse, his lips were ashen, and new furrows seemedto have been traced on his brow. On his face there was stamped afixed and settled expression of dull, changeless anguish, which smoteZillah to her heart. He did not see her--he did not notice that otherface, as pallid as his own, which was turned toward his, with anagony in its expression which rivaled all that he was enduring. No--he noticed nothing, and saw no one. All his soul was taken up nowwith one thought. He had read the paper, and had at once accepted itsterrific meaning. To him it had declared that in the tragedy of hisyoung life, not only his wife had been false, but his friend also. More--that it was his friend who had betrayed his wife. More yet--andthere was fresh anguish in this thought--this friend, after theabsence of many years, had returned and claimed his friendship, andhad received his confidences. To him he had poured out the grief ofhis heart--the confession of life-long sorrows which had been wroughtby the very man to whom he told his tale. And this was the man who, under the plea of ancient friendship, had bought his son for gold!Great Heaven! the son of the woman whom he had ruined--and for gold!He had drawn away his wife to ruin--he had come and drawn away hisson--into what? into a marriage with the daughter of his own mother'sbetrayer. 

Such were the thoughts, mad, frenzied, that filled Lord Chetwynde'smind as he sat there stunned--paralyzed by this hideous accumulationof intolerable griefs. What was Zillah to him now? The child of afoul traitor. The one to whom his noble son had been sold. That sonhad been, as he once said, the solace of his life. For his sake hehad been content to live even under his load of shame and misery. Forhim he had labored; for his happiness he had planned. And for what?What? That which was too hideous to think of--a living death--a unionwith one from whom he ought to stand apart for evermore. 

Little did Zillah know what thoughts were sweeping and surgingthrough the mind of Lord Chetwynde as she sat there watching him withher awful eyes. Little did she dream of the feelings with which, atthat moment, he regarded her. Nothing of this kind came to her. Oneonly thought was present--the anguish which he was enduring. Thesight of that anguish was intolerable. She looked, and waited, and atlast, unable to bear this any longer, she sprang forward, and torehis hands away from his face. 

"It's not! It's not!" she gasped. "Say you do not believe it! Oh, father! It's impossible!"

The Earl withdrew his hands, and shrank away from her, regarding herwith that blank gaze which shows that the mind sees not the materialform toward which the eyes are turned, but is taken up with its ownthoughts. 

"Impossible?" he repeated. "Yes. That is the word I spoke when Ifirst heard that she had left me. Impossible? And why? Is a friendmore true than a wife? After Lady Chetwynde failed me, why should Ibelieve in Neville Pomeroy? And you--why did you not let me end mylife in peace? Why did you bring to me this frightful--this damningevidence which destroys my faith not in man, but even in Heavenitself?"

"Father! Oh, father!" moaned Zillah. 

But the Earl turned away. She seized his hand again in both hers. Again he shrank away, and withdrew his hand from her touch. She wasabhorrent to him then!

[Illustration: "He Sat Staring Blankly At Vacancy. "]

This was her thought. She stepped back, and at once a wild revulsionof feeling took place within her also. All the fierce pride of herhot, impassioned Southern nature rose up in rebellion against thissudden, this hasty change. Why should he so soon lose faith in herfather? He guilty!--her father!--the noble--the gentle--thestainless--the true--he! the pure in heart--the one who through allher life had stood before her as the ideal of manly honor and loyaltyand truth? Never! If it came to a question between Lord Chetwynde andthat idol of her young life, whose memory she adored, then LordChetwynde must go down. Who was he that dared to think evil for onemoment of the noblest of men! Could he himself compare with thefather whom she had lost, in all that is highest in manhood? No. Thecharge was foul and false. Lord Chetwynde was false for so doubtinghis friend. 

All this flashed over Zillah's mind, and at that moment, in herrevulsion of indignant pride, she forgot altogether all those doubtswhich, but a short time before, had been agitating her own soul--doubts, too, which were so strong that they had forced her to bringon this scene with the Earl. All this was forgotten. Her loyalty toher father triumphed over doubt, so soon as she saw another sharingthat doubt. 

But her thoughts were suddenly checked. 

The Earl, who had but lately shrunk away from her, now turned towardher, and looked at her with a strange, dazed, blank expression offace, and wild vacant eyes. For a moment he sat turned toward herthus; and then, giving a deep groan, he fell forward out of his chairon the floor. With a piercing cry Zillah sprang toward him and triedto raise him up. Her cry aroused the household. Mrs. Hart was firstamong those who rushed to the room to help her. She flung her armsaround the prostrate form, and lifted it upon the sofa. As he laythere a shudder passed through Zillah's frame at the sight which shebeheld. For the Earl, in falling, had struck his head against thesharp corner of the table, and his white and venerable hairs were nowall stained with blood, which trickled slowly over his wan pale face. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

A NEW PERPLEXITY. 

At the sight of that venerable face, as white as marble, now set inthe fixedness of death, whose white hair was all stained with theblood that oozed from the wound on his forehead, all Zillah'stenderness returned. Bitterly she reproached herself. 

"I have killed him! It was all my fault!" she cried. "Oh, save him!Do something! Can you not save him?"

Mrs. Hart did not seem to hear her at all. She had carried the Earlto the sofa, and then she knelt by his side, with her arms flungaround him. She seemed unconscious of the presence of Zillah. Herhead lay on the Earl's breast. At last she pressed her lips to hisforehead, where the blood flowed, with a quick, feverish kiss. Herwhite face, as it was set against the stony face of the Earl, startled Zillah. She stood mute. 

The servants hurried in. Mrs. Hart roused herself, and had the Earlcarried to his room. Zillah followed. The Earl was put to bed. Aservant was sent off for a doctor. Mrs. Hart and Zillah watchedanxiously till the doctor came. The doctor dressed the wound, andgave directions for the treatment of the patient. Quiet above allthings was enjoined. Apoplexy was hinted at, but it was only a hint. The real conviction of the doctor seemed to be that it was mentaltrouble of some kind, and this conviction was shared by those whowatched the Earl. 

Zillah and Mrs. Hart both watched that night. They sat in anadjoining room. But little was said at first. Zillah was busied withher own thoughts, and Mrs. Hart was preoccupied, and more distraitthan usual. 

Midnight came. For hours Zillah had brooded over her own sorrows. Shelonged for sympathy. Mrs. Hart seemed to her to be the one in whomshe might best confide. The evident affection which Mrs. Hart feltfor the Earl was of itself an inducement to confidence. Her ownaffection for the aged housekeeper also impelled her to tell her allthat had happened. And so it was that, while they sat there together, Zillah gradually told her about her interview with the Earl. 

But the story which Zillah told did not comprise the whole truth. Shedid not wish to go into details, and there were many circumstanceswhich she did not feel inclined to tell to the housekeeper. There wasno reason why she should tell about the secret cipher, and very manyreasons why she should not. It was an affair which concerned herfather and her family. That her own fears were well founded she darednot suppose, and therefore she would not even hint about such fearsto another. Above all, she was unwilling to tell what effect thedisclosure of that secret of hers had upon the Earl. Better far, itseemed to her, it would be to carry that secret to the grave than todisclose it in any confidence to any third person. Whatever theresult might be, it would be better to hold it concealed between theEarl and herself. 

What Zillah said was to the effect that she had been asking the Earlabout Lady Chetwynde; that the mention of the subject had produced anextraordinary effect; that she wished to withdraw it, but the Earlinsisted on knowing what she had to say. 

"Oh, " she cried, "how bitterly I lament that I said any thing aboutit! But I had seen something at home which excited my curiosity. Itwas about Lady Chetwynde. It stated that she eloped with a certainRedfield Lyttoun, and that the name was an assumed one; but what, "cried Zillah, suddenly starting forward--"what is the matter?"

While Zillah was speaking Mrs. Hart's face--always pale--seemed toturn gray, and a shudder passed through her thin, emaciated frame. She pressed her hand on her heart, and suddenly sank back with agroan. 

Zillah sprang toward her and raised her up. Mrs. Hart still kept herhand on her heart, and gave utterance to low moans of anguish. Zillahchafed her hands, and then hurried off and got some wine. At thetaste of the stimulating liquor the poor creature revived. She thensat panting, with her eyes fixed on the floor. Zillah sat looking ather without saying a word, and afraid to touch again upon a subjectwhich had produced so disastrous an effect. Yet why should it? Whyshould this woman show emotion equal to that of the Earl at the verymention of such a thing? There was surely some unfathomable mysteryabout it. The emotion of the Earl was intelligible--that of Mrs. Hartwas not so. Such were the thoughts that passed through her mind asshe sat there in silence watching her companion. 

Hours passed without one word being spoken. Zillah frequently urgedMrs. Hart to go to bed, but Mrs. Hart refused. She could not sleep, she said, and she would rather be near the Earl. 

[Illustration. ]

At length Zillah, penetrated with pity for the poor suffering woman, insisted on her lying down on the sofa. Mrs. Hart had to yield. Shelay down accordingly, but not to sleep. The sighs that escaped herfrom time to time showed that her secret sorrow kept her awake. 

Suddenly, out of a deep silence, Mrs. Hart sprang up and turned herwhite face toward Zillah. Her large, weird eyes seemed to burnthemselves into Zillah's brain. Her lips moved. It was but in awhisper that she spoke:

"Never--never--never--mention it again--either to him or to me. It ishell to both of us!"

She fell back again, moaning. 

Zillah sat transfixed, awe-struck and wondering. 

CHAPTER XX. 

A MODEL NURSE, AND FRIEND IN NEED. 

Zillah did not tell Hilda about the particular cause of the Earl'ssickness for some time, but Hilda was sufficiently acute toconjecture what it might be. She was too wary to press matters, andalthough she longed to know all, yet she refrained from asking. Sheknew enough of Zillah's frank and confiding nature to feel sure thatthe confidence would come of itself some day unasked. Zillah was oneof those who can not keep a secret. Warm-hearted, open, andimpulsive, she was ever on the watch for sympathy, and no sooner didshe have a secret than she longed to share it with some one. She haddivulged her secret to the Earl, with results that were lamentable. She had partially disclosed it to Mrs. Hart, with results equallylamentable. The sickness of the Earl and of Mrs. Hart was now addedto her troubles; and the time would soon come when, from thenecessities of her nature, she would be compelled to pour out hersoul to Hilda. So Hilda waited. 

Mrs. Hart seemed to be completely broken down. She made a feebleattempt to take part in nursing the Earl, but fainted away in hisroom. Hilda was obliged to tell her that she would be of more use bystaying away altogether, and Mrs. Hart had to obey. She totteredabout, frequently haunting that portion of the house where the Earllay, and asking questions about his health. Zillah and Hilda were thechief nurses, and took turns at watching. But Zillah wasinexperienced, and rather noisy. In spite of her affectionatesolicitude she could not create new qualities within herself, and inone moment make herself a good nurse. Hilda, on the contrary, seemedformed by nature for the sick-room. Stealthy, quiet, noiseless, shemoved about as silently as a spirit. Every thing was in its place. The medicines were always arranged in the best order. The pillowswere always comfortable. The doctor looked at her out of hisprofessional eyes with cordial approval, and when he visited he gavehis directions always to her, as though she alone could be considereda responsible being. Zillah saw this, but felt no jealousy. Shehumbly acquiesced in the doctor's decision; meekly felt that she hadnone of the qualities of a nurse; and admired Hilda's genius for thatoffice with all her heart. Added to this conviction of her owninability, there was the consciousness that she had brought all thisupon the Earl--a consciousness which brought on self-reproach andperpetual remorse. The very affection which she felt for LordChetwynde of itself incapacitated her. A good nurse should be cool. Like a good doctor or a good surgeon, his affections should not betoo largely interested. It is a mistake to suppose that one's dearfriends make one's best nurses. They are very well to look at, butnot to administer medicine or smooth the pillow. Zillah's face ofagony was not so conducive to recovery as the calm smile of Hilda. The Earl did not need kisses or hot tears upon his face. What he didneed was quiet, and a regular administration of medicines presentedby a cool, steady hand. 

The Earl was very low. He was weak, yet conscious of all that wasgoing on. Zillah's heart was gladdened to hear once more words oflove from him. The temporary hardness of heart which had appalled herhad all passed away, and the old affection had returned. In a fewfeeble words he begged her not to let Guy know that he was sick, forhe would soon recover, and it would only worry his son. Most of thewords which he spoke were about that son. Zillah would have given anything if she could have brought Guy to that bedside. But that wasimpossible, and she could only wait and hope. 

Weeks passed away, and in the interviews which she had with HildaZillah gradually let her know all that had happened. She told herabout the discovery of the papers, and the effect which they had uponthe Earl. At last, one evening, she gave the papers to Hilda. It waswhen Zillah came to sit up with the Earl. Hilda took the paperssolemnly, and said that she would look over them. She reproachedZillah for not giving her her confidence before, and said that shehad a claim before any one, and if she had only told her all about itat Pomeroy Court, this might not have happened. All this Zillah feltkeenly, and began to think that the grand mistake which she had madewas in not taking Hilda into her confidence at the very outset. 

"I do not know what these papers may mean, " said Hilda; "but I tellyou candidly that if they contain what I suspect, I would haveadvised you never to mention it to Lord Chetwynde. It was an awfulthing to bring it all up to him. "

"Then you know all about it?" asked Zillah, wonderingly. 

"Of course. Every body knows the sorrow of his life. It has beenpublic for the last twenty years. I heard all about it when I was alittle girl from one of the servants. I could have advised you togood purpose, and saved you from sorrow, if you had only confided inme. "

Such were Hilda's words, and Zillah felt new self-reproach to thinkthat she had not confided in her friend. 

"I hope another time you will not be so wanting in confidence, " saidHilda, as she retired. "Do I not deserve it?"

"You do, you do, my dearest!" said Zillah, affectionately. "I havealways said that you were like a sister--and after this I will tellyou every thing. "

Hilda kissed her, and departed. 

Zillah waited impatiently to see Hilda again. She was anxious to knowwhat effect these papers would produce on her. Would she scout themas absurd, or believe the statement? When Hilda appeared again torelieve her, all Zillah's curiosity was expressed in her face. ButHilda said nothing about the papers. She urged Zillah to go andsleep. 

"I know what you want to say, " said she, "but I will not talk aboutit now. Go off to bed, darling, and get some rest. You need it. "

So Zillah had to go, and defer the conversation till some other time. She went away to bed, and slept but little. Before her hour she wasup and hastened back. 

"Why, Zillah, " said Hilda, "you are half an hour before your time. You are wearing yourself out. "

"Did you read the papers?" asked Zillah, as she kissed her. 

"Yes, " said Hilda, seriously. 

"And what do you think?" asked Zillah, with a frightened face. 

"My darling, " said Hilda, "how excited you are! How you tremble! Poordear! What is the matter?"

"That awful confession!" gasped Zillah, in a scarce audible voice. 

"My darling, " said Hilda, passing her arm about Zillah's neck, "whyshould you take it so to heart? You have no concern with it. You areGuy Molyneux's wife. This paper has now no concern with you. "

Zillah started back as though she had been stung. Nothing could havebeen more abhorrent to her, in such a connection, than the suggestionof her marriage. 

"You believe it, then?"

"Believe it! Why, don't you?" said Hilda, in wondering tones. "You_do_, or you would not feel so. Why did you ask the Earl? Why did yougive it to me? Is it not your father's own confession?"

Zillah shuddered, and burst into tears. 

"No, " she cried at last; "I do not believe it. I will never believeit. Why did I ask the Earl! Because I believed that he would dispelmy anxiety. That is all. "

"Ah, poor child!" said Hilda, fondly. "You are too young to havetrouble. Think no more of this. "

"Think of it! I tell you I think of it all the time--night and day, "cried Zillah, impetuously. "Think of it! Why, what else can I do thanthink of it?"

"But you do not believe it?"

"No. Never will I believe it. "

"Then why trouble yourself about it?"

"Because it is a stain on my dear papa's memory. It is undeserved--itis inexplicable; but it is a stain. And how can I, his daughter, notthink of it?"

"A stain!" said Hilda, after a thoughtful pause. "If there were astain on such a name, I can well imagine that you would feel anguish. But there is none. How can there be? Think of his noble life spent inhonor in the service of his country! Can you associate any stain withsuch a life?"

"He was the noblest of men!" interrupted Zillah, vehemently. 

"Then do not talk of a stain, " said Hilda, calmly. "As to LordChetwynde, he, at least, has nothing to say. To him General Pomeroywas such a friend as he could never have hoped for. He saved LordChetwynde from beggary and ruin. When General Pomeroy first came backto England he found Lord Chetwynde at the last extremity, andadvanced sixty thousand pounds to help him. Think of that! And it'strue. I was informed of it on good authority. Besides, GeneralPomeroy did more; for he intrusted his only daughter to LordChetwynde--"

"My God!" cried Zillah; "what are you saying? Do you not know, Hilda, that every word that you speak is a stab? What do you mean? Doyou dare to talk as if my papa has shut the mouth of an injuredfriend by a payment of money? Do you mean me to think that, afterdishonoring his friend, he has sought to efface the dishonor by gold?My God! you will drive me mad. You make my papa, and Lord Chetwyndealso, sink down into fathomless depths of infamy. "

"You torture my words into a meaning different from what I intended, "said Hilda, quietly. "I merely meant to show you that LordChetwynde's obligations to General Pomeroy were so vast that he oughtnot even to suspect him, no matter how strong the proof. "

Zillah waved her hands with a gesture of despair. 

"No matter how strong the proof!" she repeated. "Ah! There it isagain. You quietly assume my papa's guilt in every word. You haveread those papers, and have believed every word. "

"You are very unkind, Zillah. I was doing my best to comfort you. "

"Comfort!" cried Zillah, in indescribable tones. 

"Ah, my darling, do not be cross, " said Hilda, twining her armsaround Zillah's neck. "You know I loved your papa only less than youdid. He was a father to me. What can I say? You yourself weretroubled by those papers. So was I. And that is all I will say. Iwill not speak of them again. "

And here Hilda stopped, and went about the room to attend to herduties as nurse. Zillah stood, with her mind full of strange, conflicting feelings. The hints which Hilda had given sank deep intoher soul. What did they mean? Their frightful meaning stood revealedfull before her in all its abhorrent reality. 

Reviewing those papers by the light of Hilda's dark interpretation, she saw what they involved. This, then, was the cause of hermarriage. Her father had tried to atone for the past. He had madeLord Chetwynde rich to pay for the dishonor that he had suffered. Hehad stolen away the wife, and given a daughter in her place. She, then, had been the medium of this frightful attempt at readjustment, this atonement for wrongs that could never be atoned for. Hilda'smeaning made this the only conceivable cause for that prematureengagement, that hurried marriage by the death-bed. And could therebe any other reason? Did it not look like the act of a remorsefulsinner, anxious to finish his expiation, and make amends for crimebefore meeting his Judge in the other world to which he washastening? The General had offered up every thing to expiate hiscrime--he had given his fortune--he had sacrificed his daughter. Whatother cause could possibly have moved him to enforce the hideousmockery of that ghastly, that unparalleled marriage?

Beneath such intolerable thoughts as these, Zillah's brain whirled. She could not avoid them. Affection, loyalty, honor--all bade hertrust in her father; the remembrance of his noble character, of hisstainless life, his pure and gentle nature, all recurred. In vain. Still the dark suspicion insidiously conveyed by Hilda would obtrude;and, indeed, under such circumstances, Zillah would have been morethan human if they had not come forth before her. As it was, she wasonly human and young and inexperienced. Dark days and bitter nightswere before her, but among all none were more dark and bitter thanthis. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

A DARK COMMISSION. 

These amateur nurses who had gathered about the Earl differed verymuch, as may be supposed, in their individual capacities. As for Mrs. Hart, she was very quickly put out of the way. The stroke which hadprostrated her, at the outset, did not seem to be one from which shecould very readily recover. The only thing which she did was tototter to the room early in the morning, so as to find out how theEarl was, and then to totter hack again until the next morning. Mrs. Hart thus was incapable; and Zillah was not very much better. Sinceher conversation with Hilda there were thoughts in her mind so new, so different from any which she had ever had before, and so frightfulin their import, that they changed all her nature. She becamemelancholy, self-absorbed, and preoccupied. Silent and distrait, shewandered about the Earl's room aimlessly, and did not seem able togive to him that close and undivided attention which he needed. Hildafound it necessary to reproach her several times in her usualaffectionate way; and Zillah tried, after each reproach, to rouseherself from her melancholy, so as to do better the next time. Yet, the next time she did just as badly; and, on the whole, acquittedherself but poorly of her responsible task. 

And thus it happened that Hilda was obliged to assume the supremeresponsibility. The others had grown more than ever useless, and she, accordingly, grew more than ever necessary. To this task she devotedherself with that assiduity and patience for which she wasdistinguished. The constant loss of sleep, and the incessant andweary vigils which she was forced to maintain, seemed to have butlittle effect upon her elastic and energetic nature. Zillah, in spiteof her preoccupation, could not help seeing that Hilda was doingnearly all the work, and remonstrated with her accordingly. But toher earnest remonstrances Hilda turned a deaf ear. 

"You see, dear. " said she, "there is no one but me. Mrs. Hart isherself in need of a nurse, and you are no better than a baby, so howcan I help watching poor dear Lord Chetwynde?"

"But you will wear yourself out, " persisted Zillah. 

"Oh, we will wait till I begin to show signs of weariness, " saidHilda, in a sprightly tone. "At present, I feel able to spend a greatmany days and nights here. "

Indeed, to all her remonstrances Hilda was quite inaccessible, and itremained for Zillah to see her friend spend most of her time in thatsick-room, the ruling spirit, while she was comparatively useless. She could only feel gratitude for so much kindness, and express thatgratitude whenever any occasion arose. While Hilda was regardless ofZillah's remonstrances, she was equally so of the doctor's warnings. That functionary did not wish to see his best nurse wear herself out, and warned her frequently, but with no effect whatever. Hilda'sself-sacrificing zeal was irrepressible and invincible. 

While Hilda was thus devoting herself to the Earl with such tirelesspatience, and exciting the wonder and gratitude of all in that littlehousehold by her admirable self-devotion, there was another whowatched the progress of events with perfect calmness, yet with deepanxiety. Gualtier was not able now to give his music lessons, yet, although he no longer could gain admission to the inmates of CastleChetwynde, his anxiety about the Earl was a sufficient excuse forcalling every day to inquire about his health. On those inquiries henot only heard about the Earl, but also about all the others, andmore particularly about Hilda. He cultivated an acquaintance with thedoctor, who, though generally disposed to stand on his dignity towardmusicians, seemed to think that Gualtier had gained from the Earl'spatronage a higher title to be noticed than any which his art couldgive. Besides, the good doctor knew that Gualtier was constantly atthe Castle, and naturally wished to avail himself of so good anopportunity of finding out all about the internal life of this noblebut secluded family. Gualtier humored him to the fullest extent, andwith a great appearance of frankness told him as much as he thoughtproper, and no more; in return for which confidence he received thefullest information as to the present condition of the household. What surprised Gualtier most was Hilda's devotion. He had notanticipated it. It was real, yet what could be her motive? In his ownlanguage--What game was the little thing up to? This was the questionwhich he incessantly asked himself, without being able to answer it. His respect for her genius was too great to allow him for one momentto suppose that it was possible for her to act without some deepmotive. Her immolation of self, her assiduity, her tenderness, herskill, all seemed to this man so many elements in the game which shewas playing. And for all these things he only admired her the morefervently. That she would succeed he never for a moment doubted;though what it was that she might be aiming at, and what it was thather success might involve, were inscrutable mysteries. 

What game is the little thing up to? he asked himself, affectionately, and with tender emphasis. What game? And this becamethe one idea of his mind. Little else were his thoughts engaged in, except an attempt to fathom the depths of Hilda's design. But he wasbaffled. What that design involved could hardly have been discoveredby him. Often and often he wished that he could look into thatsick-chamber to see what the "little thing was up to. " Yet, could hehave looked into that chamber, he would have seen nothing that couldhave enlightened him. He would have seen a slender, graceful form, moving lightly about the room, now stooping over the form of the sickman to adjust or to smooth his pillow, now watchfully and warilyadministering the medicine which stood near the bed. Hilda was notone who would leave any thing to be discovered, even by those whomight choose to lurk in ambush and spy at her through a keyhole. 

But though Hilda's plans were for some time impenetrable, there cameat last an opportunity when he was furnished with light sufficient toreveal them--a lurid light which made known to him possibilities inher which he had certainly not suspected before. 

One day, on visiting Chetwynde Castle, he found her in the chiefparlor. He thought that she had come there purposely in order to seehim; and he was not disappointed. After a few questions as to theEarl's health, she excused herself, and said that she must hurry backto his room; but, as she turned to go, she slipped a piece of paperinto his hand, as she had done once before. On it he saw thefollowing words:

"_Be in the West Avenue, at the former place, at three o'clock_. "

Gualtier wandered about in a state of feverish impatience till theappointed hour, marveling what the purpose might be which had inducedHilda to seek the interview. He felt that the purpose must be offar-reaching importance which would lead her to seek him at such atime; but what it was he tried in vain to conjecture. 

At last the hour came, and Gualtier, who had been waiting so long, was rewarded by the sight of Hilda. She was as calm as usual, butgreeted him with greater cordiality than she was in the habit ofshowing. She also evinced greater caution than even on the formeroccasion, and led the way to a more lonely spot, and looked allaround most carefully, so as to guard against the possibility ofdiscovery. When, at length, she spoke, it was in a low and guardedvoice. 

"I am so worn down by nursing, " she said, "that I have had to comeout for a little fresh air. But I would not leave the Earl till theyabsolutely forced me. Such is my devotion to him that there is animpression abroad through the Castle that I will not survive him. "

"Survive him? You speak as though he were doomed, " said Gualtier. 

"He--is--very--low, " said Hilda, in a solemn monotone. 

Gualtier said nothing, but regarded her in silence for some time. 

"What was the cause of his illness?" he asked at length. "The doctorthinks that his mind is affected. "

"For once, something like the truth has penetrated that heavy brain. "

"Do you know any thing that can have happened?" asked Gualtier, cautiously. 

"Yes; a sudden shock. Strange to say, it was administered by Mrs. Molyneux. "

"Mrs. Molyneux!"

"Yes. "

"I am so completely out of your sphere that I know nothing whateverof what is going on. How Mrs. Molyneux can have given a shock to theEarl that could have reduced him to his present state, I can notimagine. "

"Of course it was not intentional. She happened to ask the Earl aboutsomething which revived old memories and old sorrows in a veryforcible manner. He grew excited--so much so, indeed, that hefainted, and, in falling, struck his head. That is the whole story. "

"May I ask, " said Gualtier, after a thoughtful pause, "if Mrs. Molyneux's ill-fated questions had any reference to those thingsabout which we have spoken together, from time to time?"

"They had--and a very close one. In fact, they arose out of thosevery papers which we have had before us. "

Gualtier looked at Hilda, as she said this, with the closestattention. 

"It happened, " said Hilda, "that Mrs. Molyneux, on her last visit toPomeroy Court, was seized with a fancy to examine her father's desk. While doing so, she found a secret drawer, which, by some singularaccident, had been left started, and a little loose--just enough toattract her attention. This she opened, and in it, strange to say, she found that very cipher which I have told you of. A keyaccompanied it, by which she was able to read as much as we haveread; and there were also those letters with which you are familiar. She took them to her room, shut herself up, and studied them aseagerly as ever either you or I did. She then hurried back toChetwynde Castle, and laid every thing before the Earl. Out of thisarose his excitement and its very sad results. "

"I did not know that there were sufficient materials foraccomplishing so much, " said Gualtier, cautiously. 

"No; the materials were not abundant. There was the cipher, withwhich no one would have supposed that any thing could be done. Thenthere were those other letters which lay with it in the desk, whichcorroborated what the cipher seemed to say. Out of this has suddenlyarisen ruin and anguish. "

"There was also the key, " said Gualtier, in a tone of delicateinsinuation. 

"True, " said Hilda; "had the key not been inclosed with the papers, she could not have understood the cipher, or made any thing out ofthe letters. "

"The Earl must have believed it all. "

"He never doubted for an instant. By the merest chance, I happened tobe in a place where I saw it all, " said Hilda, with a peculiaremphasis. "I thought that he would reject it at first, and that thefirst impulse would be to scout such a charge. But mark this"--andher voice grew solemn--"there must have been some knowledge in hismind of things unknown to us, or else he could never have been soutterly and completely overwhelmed. It was a blow which literallycrushed him--in mind and body. "

There was a long silence. 

"And you think he can not survive this?" asked Gualtier. 

"No, " said Hilda, in a very strange, slow voice, "I do notthink--that--he--can--recover. He is old and feeble. The shock wasgreat. His mind wanders, also. He is sinking slowly, but surely. "

She paused, and looked earnestly at Gualtier, who returned her lookwith one of equal earnestness. 

"I have yet to tell you what purpose induced me to appoint thismeeting, " said she, in so strange a voice that Gualtier started. Buthe said not a word. 

Hilda, who was standing near to him, drew nearer still. She lookedall around, with a strange light in her eyes. Then she turned to himagain, and said, in a low whisper:

"I want you to get me something. "

Gualtier looked at her inquiringly, but in silence. His eyes seemedto ask her, "What is it?"

She put her mouth close to his ear, and whispered something, heardonly by him. But that low whisper was never forgotten. His faceturned deathly pale. He looked away, and said not a word. 

"Good-by, " said Hilda; "I am going now. " She held out her hand. Hegrasped it. At that moment their eyes met, and a look of intelligenceflashed between them. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE JUDAS KISS. 

It has already been said that the Earl rallied a little so torecognize Zillah, all his old affection was exhibited, and thetemporary aversion which he had manifested during that eventful timewhen he had seen the cipher writing had passed off without leavingany trace of its existence. It was quite likely indeed that the wholecircumstance had been utterly obliterated from his memory, and whenhis eyes caught sight of Zillah she was to him simply the one whom heloved next best to Guy. His brain was in such a state that hisfaculties seemed dulled, and his memory nearly gone. Had heremembered the scene he would either have continued to regard Zillahwith horror, or else, if affection had triumphed over a sense ofinjury, he would have done something or said something in his morelucid intervals to assure Zillah of his continued love. But nothingof the kind occurred. He clung to Zillah like a child, and the fewfaint words which he addressed to her simply recognized her as theobject of an affection which had never met with an interruption. Theyalso had reference to Guy, as to whether she had written to him yet, and whether any more letters had been received from him. A letter, which came during the illness, she tried to read, but the poor wearybrain of the sick man could not follow her. She had to tell him ingeneral terms of its contents. 

For some weeks she had hoped that the Earl would recover, andtherefore delayed sending the sad news to Guy. But at length shecould no longer conceal from herself the fact that the illness wouldbe long, and she saw that it was too serious to allow Guy to remainin ignorance. She longed to address him words of condolence, andsympathized deeply with him in the anxiety which she knew would befelt by a heart so affectionate as his. 

And now as she thought of writing to him there came to her, morebitterly than ever, the thought of her false position. She write! Shecould not. It was Hilda who would write. Hilda stood between her andthe one she wished to soothe. In spite of her warm and sisterlyaffection for her friend, and her boundless trust in her, thisthought now sent a thrill of vexation through her; and she bitterlylamented the chain of events by which she had been placed in such aposition. It was humiliating and galling. But could she not yetescape? Might she not even now write in her own name explaining all?No. It could not be--not now, for what would be the reception of suchexplanations, coming as they would with news of his father's illness!Would he treat them with any consideration whatever? Would not hisanxiety about his father lead him to regard them with an impatientdisdain? But perhaps, on the other hand, he might feel softened andaccept her explanation readily, without giving any though to thestrange deceit which had been practiced for so long a time. This gaveher a gleam of hope; but in her perplexity she could not decide, soshe sought counsel from Hilda as usual. Had Mrs. Hart being in thepossession of her usual faculties she might possibly have asked heradvice also; but, as it was, Hilda was the only one to whom she couldturn. 

Hilda listened to her with that sweet smile, and that loving andpatient consideration, which she always gave to Zillah's confidencesand appeals. 

"Darling, " said she, after a long and thoughtful silence, "Iunderstand fully the perplexity which you feel. In fact, this letter_ought_ to come from you, and from you only. I'm extremely sorry thatI ever began this. I'm sure I did it from the _very best_ motives. Who could ever have dreamed that it would become so embarrassing? Andnow I don't know what to do--that is, not just now. "

"Do you think he would be angry at the deceit?"

"Do you yourself think so?" asked Hilda in reply. 

[Illustration: Hilda Writes To Guy Molyneux. ]

"Why, that is what I am afraid of; but then--isn't it possible thathe might be--softened, you know--by anxiety?"

"People don't get softened by anxiety. They get impatient, angry withthe world and with Providence. But the best way to judge is to putyourself in his situation. Suppose you were in India, and a letterwas written to you by your wife--or your husband, I suppose I shouldsay--telling you that your father was extremely ill, and that hehimself had been deceiving you for some years. The writing would bestrange--quite unfamiliar; the story would be almost incredible; youwouldn't know what to think. You'd be deeply anxious, and yet halfbelieve that some one was practicing a cruel jest on you. For mypart, if I had an explanation to make I would wait for a time ofprosperity arid happiness. Misfortune makes people so bitter. "

"That is the very thing that I'm afraid of, " said Zillah, despairingly. "And--oh dear, what _shall_ I do?"

"You must do one thing certainly, and that is write him about hisfather. You yourself must do it, darling. "

"Why, what do you mean? You were just now showing me that this wasthe very thing which I could not do. "

"You misunderstand me, " said Hilda, with a smile. "Why, do youreally mean to say that you do not see how easy it is to get out ofthis difficulty?"

"Easy! It seems to me a terrible one. "

"Why, my darling child, don't you see that after you write yourletter I can _copy_ it? You surely have nothing so very private tosay that you will object to that. I suppose all that you want to dois to break the news to him as gently and tenderly as possible. Youdon't want to indulge in expressions of personal affection, ofcourse. "

"Oh, my dearest Hilda!" cried Zillah, overjoyed. "What an owl I amnot to have thought of that! It meets the whole difficulty. Iwrite--you copy it--and it will be _my_ letter after all. How I couldhave been so stupid I do not see. But I'm always so. As to anyprivate confidences, there is no danger of any thing of that kindtaking place between people who are so very peculiarly situated as weare. "

"I suppose not, " said Hilda, with a smile. 

"But it's such a bore to copy letters. "

"My darling, can any thing be a trouble that I do for you? Besides, you know how very fast I write. "

"You are always so kind, " said Zillah, as she kissed her friendfondly and tenderly. "I wish I could do something for you; but--poorme!--I don't seem able to do any thing for any body--not even for thedear old Earl. What wouldn't I give to be like you!"

"You are far better as you are, darling, " said Hilda, with perhaps adouble meaning in her words. "But now go and write the letter, andbring it to me, and I will copy it as fast as I can, and send it tothe post. "

Under these circumstances that letter was written. 

The Earl lingered on in a low stage, with scarcely any symptoms ofimprovement. At first, indeed, there was a time when he had seemedbetter, but that passed away. The relapse sorely puzzled the doctor. If he had not been in such good hands he might have suspected thenurse of neglect, but that was the last thing that he could havethought of Hilda. Indeed, Hilda had been so fearful of the Earl'sbeing neglected that she had, for his sake, assumed theseall-engrossing cares. Singularly enough, however, it was since herassumption of the chief duties of nursing him that the Earl hadrelapsed. The doctor felt that nothing better in the way of nursinghim could be conceived of. Zillah thought that if it had not been forHilda the Earl would scarcely have been alive. As for Hilda herself, she could only meekly deprecate the doctor's praises, and sigh tothink that such care as hers should prove so unavailing. 

The Earl's case was, indeed, a mysterious one. After making everyallowance for the shock which he might have experienced, and afterlaying all possible stress upon that blow on his head which he hadsuffered when falling forward, it still was a subject of wonder tothe doctor why he should not recover. Hilda had told him in generalterms, and with her usual delicacy, of the cause of the Earl'sillness, so that the doctor knew that it arose from mental trouble, and not from physical ailment. Yet, even under these circumstances, he was puzzled at the complete prostration of the Earl, and at theadverse symptoms which appeared as time passed on. 

The Earl slept most of the time. He was in a kind of stupor. Thispuzzled the doctor extremely. The remedies which he administeredseemed not to have their legitimate effect. In fact they seemed tohave no effect, and the most powerful drugs proved useless in thismysterious case. 

"It must be the mind, " said the doctor to himself, as he rode homeone day after finding the Earl in a lower state than usual. "It mustbe the mind; and may the devil take the mind, for hang me if I canever make head or tail of it!"

Yet on the night when the doctor soliloquized in this fashion achange had come over the Earl which might have been supposed to befor the better. He was exceedingly weak, so weak, indeed, that it wasonly with a great effort that he could move his hand; but he seemedto be more sensible than usual. That "mind" which the doctor cursedseemed to have resumed something of its former functions. He askedvarious questions; and, among others, he wished to hear Guy's lastletter. This Hilda promised he should hear on the morrow. Zillah wasthere at the time, and the Earl cast an appealing glance toward her;but such was her confidence in Hilda that she did not dream of doingany thing in opposition to her decision. So she shook her head, andbending over the Earl, she kissed him, and said, "To-morrow. "

The Earl, by a great effort, reached up his thin, feeble hand andtook hers. "You will not leave me?" he murmured. 

"Certainly not, if you want me to stay, " said Zillah. 

The Earl, by a still greater effort, dragged her down nearer to him. "Don't leave me with _her_, " he whispered. 

Zillah started at the tone of his voice. It was a tone of fear. 

"What is it that he says?" asked Hilda, in a sweet voice. 

The Earl frowned. Zillah did not see it however. She looked back toHilda and whispered, "He wants me to stay with him. "

"Poor dear!" said Hilda. "Well, tell him that you will. It is a whim. He loves you, you know. Tell him that you'll stay. "

And Zillah stooped down and told the Earl that she would stay. 

There was trouble in the Earl's face. He lay silent and motionless, with his eyes fixed upon Zillah. Something there was in his eyeswhich expressed such mute appeal that Zillah wondered what it mightbe. She went over to him and sat by his side. He feebly reached outhis thin hand. Zillah took it and held it in both of hers, kissinghim as she did so. 

"You will not leave me?" he whispered. 

"No, dear father. "

A faint pressure of her hand was the Earl's response, and a faintsmile of pleasure hovered over his thin lips. 

"Have you written to Guy?" he asked again. 

"Yes. I have written for him to come home, " said Zillah, who meantthat Hilda had written in her name; but, in her mind, it was all thesame. 

The Earl drew a deep sigh. There was trouble in his face. Zillahmarked it, but supposed that he was anxious about that son who wasnever absent from his thoughts. She did not attempt to soothe hismind in any way. He was not able to keep up a conversation. Nor didshe notice that the pressure on her hand was stronger whenever Hilda, with her light, stealthy step, came near; nor did she see the fearthat was in his face as his eyes rested upon her. 

The Earl drew Zillah faintly toward him. She bent down over him. 

"Send her away, " said he, in a low whisper. 

"Who? Hilda?" asked Zillah, in wonder. 

"Yes. You nurse me--_you_ stay with me. "

Zillah at once arose. "Hilda, " said she, "he wants me to stay withhim to-night. I suppose he thinks I give up too much to you, andneglect him. Oh dear, I only wish I was such a nurse as you! But, since he wishes it, I will stay tonight; and if there is any troubleI will call you. "

"But, my poor child, " said Hilda, sweetly, "you have been here allday. "

"Oh, well, it is his wish, and I will stay here all night. "

Hilda remonstrated a little; but, finding that Zillah was determined, she retired, and Zillah passed all that night with the Earl. He wasuneasy. A terror seemed to be over him. He insisted on holdingZillah's hand. At times he would start and look fearfully around. Wasit Hilda whom he feared? Whatever his fear was, he said nothing; butafter each start he would look eagerly up at Zillah, and press herhand faintly. And Zillah thought it was simply the disorder of hisnervous system, or, perhaps, the effect of the medicines which he hadtaken. As to those medicines, she was most careful and most regularin administering them. Indeed, her very anxiety about theseinterfered with that watchfulness about the Earl himself which wasthe chief requisite. Fully conscious that she was painfully irregularand unmethodical, Zillah gave her chief thought to the passage of thehours, so that every medicine should be given at the right time. 

It was a long night, but morning came at last, and with it cameHilda, calm, refreshed, affectionate, and sweet. 

"How has he been, darling?" she asked. 

"Quiet, " said Zillah, wearily. 

"That's right; and now, my dearest, go off and get some rest. Youmust be very tired. "

[Illustration: "The Earl Gasped--'Judas!'"]

So Zillah went off, and Hilda remained with the Earl. 

Day was just dawning when Zillah left the Earl's room. She stoopedover him and kissed him. Overcome by fatigue, she did not think muchof the earnest, wistful gaze which caught her eyes. Was it not thesame look which he had fixed on her frequently before?

The Earl again drew her down as she clasped his hand. She stoopedover him. 

"I'm afraid of _her_, " he said, in a low whisper. "Send Mrs. Hart. "

Mrs. Hart? The Earl did not seem to know that she was ill. No doubthis mind was wandering. So Zillah thought, and the idea was natural. She thought she would humor the delirious fancy. So she promised tosend Mrs. Hart. 

"What did he say?" asked Hilda, following Zillah out. Zillah told heraccording to her own idea. 

"Oh, it's only his delirium, " said Hilda. "He'll take me for you whenI go back. Don't let it trouble you. You might send Mathilde if youfeel afraid; but I hardly think that Mathilde would be so useful hereas I. "

"_I_ afraid? My dear Hilda, can I take his poor delirious fancy inearnest? Send Mathilde? I should hardly expect to see him aliveagain. "

"Alive again!" said Hilda, with a singular intonation. 

"Yes; Mathilde is an excellent maid, but in a sick-room she is ashelpless as a child. She is far worse than I am. Do we ever ventureto leave him alone with her?"

"Never mind. Do you go to sleep, darling, and sweet dreams to you. "

They kissed, and Zillah went to her chamber. 

It was about dawn, and the morning twilight but dimly illumined thehall. The Earl's room was dark, and the faint night light madeobjects only indistinctly perceptible. The Earl's white face wasturned toward the door as Hilda entered, with imploring, wistfulexpectancy upon it. As he caught sight of Hilda the expression turnedto one of fear--that same fear which Zillah had seen upon it. Whatdid he fear? What was it that was upon his mind? What fearful thoughtthrew its shadow over his soul?

Hilda looked at him for a long time in silence, her face calm andimpassive, her eyes intent upon him. The Earl looked back upon herwith unchanged fear--looking back thus out of his weakness andhelplessness, with a fear that seemed intensified by theconsciousness of that weakness. But Hilda's face softened not; nogleam of tenderness mitigated the hard lustre of her eyes; herexpression lessened not from its set purpose. The Earl said not oneword. It was not to her that he would utter the fear that was in him. Zillah had promised to send Mrs. Hart. When would Mrs. Hart come?Would she ever come, or would she never come? He looked away fromHilda feverishly, anxiously, to the door; he strained his ears tolisten for footsteps. But no footsteps broke the deep stillness thatreigned through the vast house, where all slept except these two whofaced each other in the sick-room. 

There was a clock at the end of the corridor outside, whose tickingsounded dull and muffled from the distance, yet it penetrated, withclear, sharp vibrations, to the brain of the sick man, and seemed tohim, in the gathering excitement of this fearful hour, to grow louderand louder, till each tick sounded to his sharpened sense like thevibrations of a bell, and seemed to be the funeral knell of hisdestiny; sounding thus to his ears, solemnly, fatefully, bodingly;pealing forth thus with every sound the announcement that secondafter second out of those few minutes of time which were still lefthim had passed away from him forever. Each one of those seconds wasprolonged to his excited sense to the duration of an hour. After eachstroke he listened for the next, dreading to hear it, yet awaitingit, and all the while feeling upon him the eyes of one of whom he wasto be the helpless, voiceless victim. 

There had been but a few minutes since Zillah left, but they seemedlike long terms of duration to the man who watched and feared. Zillahhad gone, and would not return. Would Mrs. Hart ever come? Oh, couldMrs. Hart have known that this man, of all living beings, was thuswatching and hoping for her, and that to this man of all others herpresence would have given a heavenly peace and calm! If she could buthave known this as it was then it would have roused her even from thebed of death, and brought her to his side though it were but to dieat the first sight of him. But Mrs. Hart came not. She knew nothingof any wish for her. In her own extreme prostration she had found, after a wakeful night, a little blessed sleep, and the watcherwatched in vain. 

The clock tolled on. 

Hilda looked out through the door. She turned and went out into thehall. She came back and looked around the room. She went to thewindow and looked out. The twilight was fading. The gloom waslessening from around the dim groves and shadowy trees. Morning wascoming. She went back into the room, and once more into the hall. There she stood and listened. The Earl followed her with hiseyes--eyes that were full of awful expectation. 

Hilda came back. The Earl summoned all his strength, and uttered afaint cry. Hilda walked up to him; she stooped down over him. TheEarl uttered another cry. Hilda paused. Then she stooped down andkissed his forehead. 

The Earl gasped. One word came hissing forth--"Judas!"

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 

Zillah had scarcely fallen asleep when a shrill cry roused her. Shestarted up. Hilda stood by her side with wild excitement in herusually impassive face. A cold thrill ran through Zillah's frame. Tosee Hilda in any excitement was an unknown thing to her; but now thisexcitement was not concealed. 

"Oh, my darling! my darling!" she cried. 

"What? what?" Zillah almost screamed. "What is it? What hashappened?" Fear told her. She knew what had happened. One thing, andone only, could account for this. 

"He's gone! It's over! He's gone! He's gone! Oh, darling! How can Itell it? And so sudden! Oh, calm yourself!" And Hilda flung her armsabout Zillah, and groaned. 

Zillah's heart seemed to stand still. She flung off Hilda's arms, shetore herself away, and rushed to the Earl's room. Such a sudden thingas this--could it be? Gone! And it was only a few moments since shehad seen his last glance, and heard his last words. 

Yes; it was indeed so. There, as she entered that room, where now therays of morning entered, she saw the form of her friend--that friendwhom she called father, and loved as such. But the white face was nolonger turned to greet her; the eyes did not seek hers, nor couldthat cold hand ever again return the pressure of hers. White asmarble was that face now, still and set in the fixedness of death;cold as marble was now that hand which hers clasped in that firstfrenzy of grief and horror; cold as marble and as lifeless. Neveragain--never again might she hold commune with the friend who now wasnumbered with the dead. 

She sat in that room stricken into dumbness by the shock of thissudden calamity. Time passed. The awful news flashed through thehouse. The servants heard it, and came silent and awe-struck to theroom; but when they saw the white face, and the mourner by thebedside, they stood still, nor did they dare to cross the threshold. Suddenly, while the little group of servants stood there in thatdoorway, with the reverence which is always felt for death and forsorrow, there came one who forced her way through them and passedinto the room. This one bore on her face the expression of a mightiergrief than that which could be felt by any others--a griefunspeakable--beyond words, and beyond thought. White-haired, and witha face which now seemed turned to stone in the fixedness of its greatagony, this figure tottered rather than walked into the room. Therewas no longer any self-restraint in this woman, who for years hadlived under a self-restraint that never relaxed; there was nothought as to those who might see or hear; there was nothing but theutter abandonment of perfect grief--of grief which had reached itsheight and could know nothing more; there was nothing less thandespair itself--that despair which arises when all is lost--as thiswoman flung herself past Zillah, as though she had a grief superiorto Zillah's, and a right to pass even her in the terrible precedenceof sorrow. It was thus that Mrs. Hart came before the presence of thedead and flung herself upon the inanimate corpse, and wound her thinarms around that clay from which the soul had departed, and pressedher wan lips upon the cold brow from which the immortal dweller hadpassed away to its immortality. 

In the depths of her own grief Zillah was roused by a cry whichexpressed a deeper grief than hers--a cry of agony--a cry of despair:

"Oh, my God! Oh, God of mercy! Dead! What? dead! Dead--and noexplanation--no forgiveness!"

And Mrs. Hart fell down lifeless over the form of the dead. 

Zillah rose with a wonder in her soul which alleviated the sorrow ofbereavement. What was this? What did it mean?

"Explanation!" "Forgiveness!" What words were these? Hishousekeeper!--could she be any thing else? What had she done whichrequired this lamentation? What was the Earl to her, that his deathshould cause such despair?

But amidst such thoughts Zillah was still considerate about thisstricken one, and she called the servants, and they bore her away toher own room. This grief, from whatever cause it may have arisen, wastoo much for Mrs. Hart. Before this she had been prostrated. She nowlost all consciousness, and lay in a stupor from which she could notbe aroused. 

The wondering questions which had arisen in Zillah's mind troubledher and puzzled her at first; but gradually she thought that shecould answer them. Mrs. Hart, she thought, was wonderfully attachedto the Earl. She had committed some imaginary delinquency in hermanagement of the household, which, in her weak and semi-deliriousstate, was weighing upon her spirits. When she found that he wasdead, the shock was great to one in her weak state, and she had onlythought of some confession which she had wished to make to him. 

When the doctor came that day he found Zillah still sitting there, holding the hand of the dead. Hilda came to tell all that she knew. 

"About half an hour after Zillah left, " she said, "I was sitting bythe window, looking out to see the rising sun. Suddenly the Earl gavea sudden start, and sat upright in bed. I rushed over to him. He fellback. I chafed his hands and feet. I could not think, at first, thatit was any thing more than a fainting fit. The truth gradually cameto me. He was dead. An awful horror rushed over me. I fled from theroom to Mrs. Molyneux, and roused her from sleep. She sprang up andhurried to the Earl. She knows the rest. "

Such was Hilda's account. 

As for the doctor, he could easily account for the sudden death. Itwas _mind_. His heart had been affected, and he had died from asudden spasm. It was only through the care of Miss Krieff that theEarl had lived so long. 

But so great was Hilda's distress that Zillah had to devote herselfto the task of soothing her. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 

Some weeks passed, and Zillah's grief gradually became lessened. Shewas far better able to bear this blow at this time than that firstcrushing blow which a few years before had descended so suddenly uponher young life. She began to rally and to look forward to the future. Guy had been written to, not by her, but, as usual, by Hilda, in hername. The news of her father's death had been broken to him asdelicately as possible. Hilda read it to Zillah, who, after a fewchanges of expression, approved of it. This letter had the effect ofimpressing upon Zillah's mind the fact that Guy must soon come home. The absence must cease. In any case it could not last much longer. Either she would have had to join him, or he come back to her. Theprospect of his arrival now stood before her, and the question arosehow to meet it. Was it welcome or unpleasant? After all, was he not anoble character, and a valiant soldier--the son of a dear friend?Zillah's woman's heart judged him not harshly, and much of herthought was taken up with conjectures as to the probable results ofthat return. She began at length to look forward to it with hope; andto think that she might be happy with such a man for her husband. Theonly thing that troubled her was the idea that any man, howevernoble, should have the right of claiming her as his without thepreliminary wooing. To a delicate nature this was intolerable, andshe could only trust that he would be acceptable to her on his firstappearance. 

In the midst of these thoughts a letter arrived from Guy, addressedto that one who was now beyond its reach. Zillah opened this withouthesitation, for Lord Chetwynde had always been in the habit ofhanding them to her directly he had read them. 

Few things connected with those whom we have loved and lost are morepainful, where all is so exquisitely painful, than the reading ofletters by them or to them. The most trivial commonplaces--thelightest expressions of regard--are all invested with the tenderestpathos, and from our hearts there seems rung out at every line thedespairing refrain of "nevermore--nevermore. " It was thus, and withblending tears, that Zillah read the first part of Guy's letter, which was full of tender love and thoughtful consideration. Soon, however, this sadness was dispelled; her attention was arrested; andevery other feeling was banished in her absorbing interest in whatshe read. After some preliminary paragraphs the letter went on thus:

"You will be astonished, my dear father, and, I hope, pleased, tolearn that I have made up my mind to return to England as soon aspossible. As you may imagine, this resolve is a sudden one, and Ishould be false to that perfect confidence which has always existedbetween us, if I did not frankly acquaint you with the circumstanceswhich have led to my decision. I have often mentioned to you myfriend Captain Cameron of the Royal Engineers, who is superintendingthe erection of some fortifications overlooking the mountain pass. Isolated as we are from all European society, we have naturally beenthrown much together, and a firm friendship has grown up between us. We constituted him a member of our little mess, consisting of my twosubalterns and myself, so that he has been virtually living with usever since our arrival here. 

"Not very long ago our little circle received a very importantaddition. This was Captain Cameron's sister; who, having been left anorphan in England, and having no near relatives there, had come outto her brother. She was a charming girl. I had seen nothing ofEnglish ladies for a long time, and so it did not need muchpersuasion to induce me to go to Cameron's house after Miss Cameronhad arrived. Circumstances, rather than any deliberate design on mypart, drew me there more and more, till at length all my eveningswere spent there, and, in fact, all my leisure time. I always used tojoin Miss Cameron and her brother on their morning rides and eveningwalks; and very often, if duty prevented him from accompanying her, she would ask me to take his place as her escort. She was also asfond of music as I am; and, in the evening, we generally spent mostof the time in playing or singing together. She played accompanimentsto my songs, and I to hers. We performed duets together; and thus, whether in the house or out of it, were thrown into the closestpossible intercourse. All this came about so naturally that severalmonths had passed away in this familiar association before I beganeven to suspect danger, either for myself or for her. Suddenly, however, I awakened to the consciousness of the fact as it was. Allmy life was filled by Inez Cameron--all my life seemed to centrearound her--all my future seemed as black as midnight apart from her. Never before had I felt even a passing interest in any woman. Boundas I had been all my life, in boyhood by honor, and in early manhoodby legal ties, I had never allowed myself to think of any otherwoman; and I had always been on my guard so as not to drift into anyof those flirtations with which men in general, and especially weofficers, contrive to fritter away the freshness of affection. Inexperience, combined with the influence of circumstances, caused meto drift into this position; and the situation became one from whichit was hard indeed to extricate myself. I had, however, been on myguard after a fashion. I had from the first scrupulously avoidedthose _galanteries_ and _façons de parler_ which are more usual inIndian society than elsewhere. Besides, I had long before madeCameron acquainted with my marriage, and had taken it for grantedthat Inez knew it also. I thought, even after I had found out that Iloved her, that there was no danger for her--and that she had alwaysmerely regarded me as a married man and a friend. But one day anaccident revealed to me that she knew nothing about my marriage, andhad taken my attentions too favorably for her own peace of mind. Ah, dear father, such a discovery was bitter indeed in many ways. I hadto crush out my love for my sake and for hers. One way only waspossible, and that was to leave her forever. I at once saw Cameron, and told him frankly the state of the case, so far as I wasconcerned. Like a good fellow, as he was, he blamed himselfaltogether. 'You see, Molyneux, ' he said, 'a fellow is very apt tooverlook the possible attractiveness of his own sister. ' He made noeffort to prevent me from going, but evidently thought it my onlycourse. I accordingly applied at once for leave, and to-night I amabout to start for Calcutta, where I will wait till I gain a formalpermit, and I will never see Inez again. I have seen her for the lasttime. Oh, father! those words of warning which you once spoke to mehave become fatally true. Chetwynde has been too dearly bought. Atthis moment the weight of my chains is too heavy to be borne. If Icould feel myself free once more, how gladly would I give up all myancestral estates! What is Chetwynde to me? What happiness can I everhave in it now, or what happiness can there possibly be to me withoutInez? Besides, I turn from the thought of her, with her refinedbeauty, her delicate nature, her innumerable accomplishments, hertrue and tender heart, and think of that other one, with herungovernable passions, her unreasoning temper, and her fierceintractability, where I can see nothing but the soul of a savage, unredeemed by any womanly softness or feminine grace. Oh; father! wasit well to bind me to a Hindu? You will say, perhaps, that I shouldnot judge of the woman by the girl. But, father, when I saw her firstat ten, I found her impish, and at fifteen, when I married her, shewas no less so, only perhaps more intensified. Fierce words of insultwere flung at me by that creature. My God! it is too bitter to thinkof. Her face is before me now, scowling and malignant, while behindit, mournful and pitying, yet loving, is the pale sweet face of Inez. 

"But I dare not trust myself further. Never before have I spoken toyou about the horror which I feel for that Hindu. I did not wish topain you. I fear I am selfish in doing so now. But, after all, it isbetter for you to know it once for all. Otherwise the discovery of itwould be all the worse. Besides, this is wrung out from me in spiteof myself by the anguish of my heart. 

"Let me do justice to the Hindu. You have spoken of hersometimes--not often, however, and I thank you for it--as a lovingdaughter to you. I thank her for that, I am sure. Small comfort, however, is this to me. If she were now an angel from heaven, shecould not fill the place of Inez. 

"Forgive me, dear father. This shall be the last of complaints. Henceforth I am ready to bear my griefs. I am ready for thesacrifice. I can not see _her_ yet, but when I reach England I mustsee you somehow. If you can not meet me, you must manage to send heroff to Pomeroy, so that I may see you in peace. With you I willforget my sorrows, and will be again a light-hearted boy. 

"Let me assure you that I mean to keep my promise made years ago whenI was a boy. It shall be the effort of my life to make my wife happy. Whether I succeed or not will be another thing. But I must have time. 

"No more now. I have written about this for the first and the lasttime. Give my warmest and fondest love to nurse. I hope to see yousoon, and remain, dear father, "Your affectionate son, "Guy Molyneux. "

For some time after reading this letter Zillah sat as if stunned. Atfirst she seemed scarcely able to take in its full meaning. Gradually, however, it dawned upon her to its widest extent. This, then, was the future that lay before her, and this was the man forwhose arrival she had been looking with such mingled feelings. Littleneed was there now for mingled feelings. She knew well with whatfeeling to expect him. She had at times within the depths of herheart formed an idea that her life would not be loveless; butnow--but now--This man who was her husband, and the only one to whomshe could look for love--this man turned from her in horror; he hatedher, he loathed her--worse, he looked upon her as a Hindu--worsestill, if any thing could be worse, his hate and his loathing weremade eternal; for he loved another with the ardor of a first freshlove, and his wife seemed to him a demon full of malignity, who stoodbetween him and the angel of his heart and the heaven of his desires. His words of despair rang within her ears. The opprobrious epithetswhich he applied to her stung her to the quick. Passionate andhot-hearted, all her woman's nature rose up in arms at this horrible, this unlooked-for assault. All her pride surged up within her in deepand bitter resentment. Whatever she might once have been, she feltthat she was different now, and deserved not this. At this moment shewould have given worlds to be able to say to him, "You are free. Go, marry the woman whom you love. " But it was too late. 

Not the least did she feel Guy's declaration that he would try tomake her happy. Her proud spirit chafed most at this. He was going totreat her with patient forbearance, and try to conceal hisabhorrence. Could she endure this? Up and down the room she paced, with angry vehemence, asking herself this question. 

She who had all her life been surrounded by idolizing love was nowtied for life to a man whose highest desire with regard to her wasthat he might be able to endure her. In an agony of grief, she threwherself upon the floor. Was there no escape? she thought. None? none?Oh, for one friend to advise her!

The longer Zillah thought of her position the worse it seemed to her. Hours passed away, and she kept herself shut up in her room, refusingto admit any one, but considering what was best to do. One thing onlyappeared as possible under these circumstances, and that was to leaveChetwynde. She felt that it was simply impossible for her to remainthere. And where could she go? To Pomeroy Court? But that had beenhanded over to him as part of the payment to him for taking her. Shecould not go back to a place which was now the property of this man. Nor was it necessary. She had money of her own, which would enableher to live as well as she wished. Thirty thousand pounds would giveher an income sufficient for her wants; and she might find some placewhere she could live in seclusion. Her first wild thoughts were adesire for death; but since death would not come, she could at leastso arrange matters as to be dead to this man. Such was her finalresolve. 

It was with this in her mind that she went out to Hilda's room. Hildawas writing as she entered, but on seeing her she hastily shut herdesk, and sprang forward to greet her friend. 

"My darling!" said she. "How I rejoice to see you! Is it some newgrief? Will you never trust me? You are so reticent with me that itbreaks my heart. "

"Hilda, " said she, "I have just been reading a letter from LordChetwynde to his father. He is about to return home. "

Zillah's voice, as she spoke, was hard and metallic, and Hilda sawthat something was wrong. She noticed that Zillah used the words LordChetwynde with stern emphasis, instead of the name Guy, by which she, like the rest, had always spoken of him. 

"I am glad to hear it, dear, " said Hilda, quietly, and in a cordialtone; "for, although you no doubt dread the first meeting, especiallyunder such painful circumstances, yet it will be for your happiness. "

"Hilda, " said Zillah, with increased sternness, "Lord Chetwynde and Iwill never meet again. "

Hilda started back with unutterable astonishment on her face. 

"Never meet again!" she repeated--"not meet Lord Chetwynde--yourhusband? What do you mean?"

"I am going to leave Chetwynde as soon as possible, and shall neveragain cross its threshold. "

Hilda went over to Zillah and put her arms around her. 

"Darling, " said she, in her most caressing tones, "you are agitated. What is it? You are in trouble. What new grief can have come to you?Will you not tell me? Is there anyone living who can sympathize withyou as I can?"

At these accents of kindness Zillah's fortitude gave way. She put herhead on her friend's shoulder and sobbed convulsively. The tearsrelieved her. For a long time she wept in silence. 

"I have no one now in the world but you, dearest Hilda. And you willnot forsake me, will you?"

"Forsake you, my darling, my sister? forsake you? Never while I live!But why do you speak of flight and of being forsaken? What madfancies have come over you?"

Zillah drew from her pocket the letter which she had read. 

"Here, " she said, "read this, and you will know all. "

Hilda took the letter and read it in silence, all through, and thencommencing it again, she once more read it through to the end. 

Then she flung her arms around Zillah, impulsively, and strained herto her heart. 

"You understand all now?"

"All, " said Hilda. 

"And what do you think?"

"Think! It is horrible!"

"What would you do?"

"I?" cried Hilda, starting up. 

"I would kill myself. "

Zillah shook her head. "I am not quite capable of that--notyet--though it may be in me to do it--some time. But now I can not. My idea is the same as yours, though. I will go into seclusion, andbe dead to him, at any rate. "

Hilda was silent for a few moments. Then she read the letter again. 

"Zillah, " said she, with a deep sigh, "it is very well to talk ofkilling one's self, as I did just now, or of running away; but, afterall, other things must be considered. I spoke hastily; but I amcalmer than you, and I ought to advise you calmly. After all, it is avery serious thing that you speak of; and, indeed, are you capable ofsuch a thing? Whatever I may individually think of your resolve, Iknow that you are doing what the world will consider madness; and itis my duty to put the case plainly before you. In the first place, then, your husband does not love you, and he loves another--very hardto bear, I allow; but men are fickle, and perhaps ere many monthshave elapsed he may forget the cold English beauty as he gazes onyour Southern face. You are very beautiful, Zillah; and when he seesyou he will change his tone. He may love you at first sight. "

"Then I should despise him, " said Zillah, hotly. "What kind of loveis that which changes at the sight of every new face? Besides, youforget how he despises me. I am a Hindu in his eyes. Can contemptever change into love? If such a miracle could take place, I shouldnever believe in it. Those bitter words in that letter would alwaysrankle in my heart. "

"That is true, " said Hilda, sorrowfully. "Then we will put thatsupposition from us. But, allowing you never gain your husband'slove, remember how much there is left you. His position, his rank, are yours by right--you are Lady Chetwynde, and the mistress ofChetwynde Castle. You can fill the place with guests, among whom youwill be queen. You may go to London during the season, take theposition to which you are entitled there as wife of a peer, and, inthe best society which the world affords, you will receive all theadmiration and homage which you deserve. Beauty like yours, combinedwith rank and wealth, may make you a queen of society. Have youstrength to forego all this, Zillah?"

"You have left one thing out in your brilliant picture, " repliedZillah. "All this may, indeed, be mine--but--mine on sufferance. If Ican only get this as Lord Chetwynde's wife, I beg leave to declineit. Besides, I have no ambition to shine in society. Had you urged meto remember all that the Earl has done for me, and try to endure theson for the sake of the father, that might possibly have had weight. Had you shown me that my marriage was irrevocable, and that the bestthing was to accept the situation, and try to be a dutiful wife tothe son of the man whom I called father, you might perhaps for amoment have shaken my pride. I might have stifled the promptings ofthose womanly instincts which have been so frightfully outraged, andconsented to remain passively in a situation where I was placed bythose two friends who loved me best. But when you speak to me of thedazzling future which may lie before me as Lord Chetwynde's wife, youremind me how little he is dependent for happiness upon any thingthat I can give him; of the brilliant career in society or inpolitics which is open to him, and which will render domestic lifesuperfluous. I have thought over all this most fully; but what youhave just said has thrown a new light upon it. In the quiet seclusionin which I have hitherto lived I had almost forgotten that there wasan outside world, where men seek their happiness. Can you think thatI am able to enter that world, and strive to be a queen of society, with no protecting love around me to warn me against its perils or toshield me from them? No! I see it all. Under no circumstances can Ilive with this man who abhors me. No toleration can be possible oneither side. The best thing for me to do is to die. But since I cannot die, the next best thing is to sink out of his view intonothingness. So, Hilda, I shall leave Chetwynde, and it is useless toattempt to dissuade me. "

Zillah had spoken in low, measured tones, in words which were soformal that they sounded like a school-girl's recitation--a long, dull monotone--the monotony of despair. Her face drooped--her eyeswere fixed on the floor--her white hands clasped each other, and shesat thus--an image of woe. Hilda looked at her steadily. For a momentthere flashed over her lips the faintest shadow of a smile--the lipscurled cruelly, the eyes gleamed coldly--but it was for a moment. Instantly it had passed, and as Zillah ceased, Hilda leaned towardher and drew her head down upon her breast. 

"Ah, my poor, sweet darling! my friend! my sister! my noble Zillah!"she murmured. "I will say no more. I see you are fixed in yourpurpose. I only wished you to act with your eyes open. But of whatavail is it? Could you live to be scorned--live on sufferance? Never!_I_ would die first. What compensation could it be to be rich, orfamous, when you were the property of a man who loathed you? Ah, mydear one! what am I saying? But you are right. Yes, sooner than livewith that man I would kill myself. "

A long silence followed. 

"I suppose you have not yet made any plans, darling, " said Hilda atlast. 

"Yes I have. A thousand plans at once came sweeping through my mind, and I have some general idea of what I am to do, " said Zillah. "Ithink there will be no difficulty about the details. You remember, when I wished to run away, after dear papa's death--ah, how glad I amthat I did not--how many happy years I should have lost--the questionof money was the insuperable obstacle; but that is effectuallyremoved now. You know my money is so settled that it is payable to myown checks at my bankers', who are not even the Chetwyndes' bankers;for the Earl thought it better to leave it with papa's men ofbusiness. "

"You must be very careful, " said Hilda, "to leave no trace by whichLord Chetwynde can find you out. You know that he will move heavenand earth to find you. His character and his strict ideas of honorwould insure that. The mere fact that you bore his name, would makeit gall and wormwood to him to be ignorant of your doings. Besides, he lays great stress on his promise to your father. "

"He need not fear, " said Zillah. "The dear old name, which I lovealmost as proudly as he does, shall never gain the lightest stainfrom me. Of course I shall cease to use it now. It would be easy totrace Lady Chetwynde to any place. My idea is, of course, to take anassumed name. You and I can live quietly and raise no suspicions thatwe are other than we seem. But, Hilda, are you sure that you arewilling to go into exile with me? Can you endure it? Can you livewith me, and share my monotonous life?"

Hilda looked steadily at Zillah, holding her hand the while. "Zillah, " said she, in a solemn voice, "whither thou goest, I willgo; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be mypeople, and thy God my God!"

[Illustration: "Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go. "]

A deep silence followed. Zillah pressed Hilda's hand and stifled ahalf sob. 

"At any rate, " said Hilda, "whoever else may fail, you--you have, atleast, one faithful heart--one friend on whom you can always rely. No, you need not thank me, " said she, as Zillah fondly kissed her andwas about to speak; "I am but a poor, selfish creature, after all. You know I could never be happy away from you. You know that there isno one in the world whom I love but you; and there is no other wholoves me. Do I not owe every thing to General Pomeroy and to you, mydarling?"

"Not more than I owe to you, dear Hilda. I feel ashamed when I thinkof how much I made you endure for years, through my selfish exactionsand my ungovernable temper. But I have changed a little I think. TheEarl's influence over me was for good, I hope. Dear Hilda, we havenone but one another, and must cling together. "

Silence then followed, and they sat for a long time, each wrapped upin plans for the future. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

CUTTING THE LAST TIE. 

Fearful that her courage might fail if she gave herself any more timeto reflect on what she was doing, Zillah announced to the household, before the close of that day, that the shock of Lord Chetwynde'sdeath rendered a change necessary for her, and that she should leavehome as soon as she could conveniently do so. She also told them oftheir master's expected return, and that every thing must be inreadiness for his reception, so that, on her return, she might haveno trouble before her. She gave some faint hints that she mightprobably meet him at London, in order to disarm suspicion, and alsoto make it easier for Chetwynde himself to conceal the fact of herflight, if he wished to do so. She never ceased to be thoughtfulabout protecting his honor, as far as possible. The few days beforeZillah's departure were among the most wretched she had ever known. The home which she so dearly loved, and which she had thought was tobe hers forever, had to be left, because she felt that she was notwanted there. She went about the grounds, visited every favoritehaunt and nook--the spots endeared to her by the remembrance of manyhappy hours passed among them--and her tears flowed fast and bitterlyas she thought that she was now seeing them for the last time. Thewhole of the last day at Chetwynde she passed in the little church, under which every Molyneux had been buried for centuries back. It wasfull of their marble effigies. Often had she watched the sunlightflickering over their pale sculptured faces. One of these forms hadbeen her especial delight; for she could trace in his features astrong family resemblance to Lord Chetwynde. This one's name was Guy. Formerly she used to see a likeness between him and the Guy who wasnow alive. He had died in the Holy Land; but his bones had beenbrought home, that they might rest in the family vault. She had beenfond of weaving romances as to his probable history and fate; but nothought of him was in her mind to-day, as she wept over theresting-place of one who had filled a father's place to her, or asshe knelt and prayed in her desolation to Him who has promised to bea father to the fatherless. Earnestly did she entreat that Hispresence might be with her, His providence direct her lonely way. Poor child! In the wild impulsiveness of her nature she thought thatthe sacrifice which she was making of herself and her hopes must beacceptable to Him, and pleasing in His sight. She did not know thatshe was merely following her own will, and turning her back upon thepath of duty. That duty lay in simple acceptance of the fate whichseemed ordained for her, whether for good or evil. Happy marriageswere never promised by Him; and, in flying from one which seemed topromise unhappiness, she forgot that "obedience is better thansacrifice, " even though the sacrifice be that of one's self. 

Twilight was fast closing in before she reached the castle, exhaustedfrom the violence of her emotion, and faint and weak from her longfasting. Hilda expressed alarm at her protracted absence, and saidthat she was just about going in search of her. "My darling, " saidshe, "you will wear away your strength. You are too weak now toleave. Let me urge you, for the last time, to stay; give up your madresolution. "

"No, " said Zillah. "You know you yourself said that I was right. "

"I did not say that you were right, darling. I said what I would doin your place; but I did not at all say, or even hint, that it wouldbe right. "

"Never mind, " said Zillah, wearily; "I have nerved myself to gothrough with it, and I can do it. The worst bitterness is over now. There is but one thing more for me to do, and then the ties betweenme and Chetwynde are severed forever. "

At Hilda's earnest entreaty she took some refreshment, and then laydown to rest; but, feeling too excited to sleep, she got up toaccomplish the task she had before her. This was to write a letter toher husband, telling him of her departure, and her reason for doingso. She wished to do this in as few words as possible, to show nosigns of bitterness toward him, or of her own suffering. So she wroteas follows:

"CHETWYNDE CASTLE, March 20, 1859. "

My LORD, --Your last letter did not reach Chetwynde Castle until afteryour dear father had been taken from us. It was therefore opened andread by me. I need not describe what my feelings were on reading it;but will only say, that if it were possible for me to free you fromthe galling chains that bind you to me, I would gladly do so. But, though it be impossible for me to render you free to marry her whomyou love, I can at least rid you of my hated presence. I can not die;but I can be as good as dead to you. To-morrow I shall leaveChetwynde forever, and you will never see my face again. Search forme, were you inclined to make it, will lie useless. I shall probablydepart from England, and leave no trace of my whereabouts. I shalllive under an assumed name, so as not to let the noble name ofChetwynde suffer any dishonor from _me_. If I _die_, I will take careto have the news sent to you. 

"Do not think that I blame you. A man's love is not under his owncontrol. Had I remained, I know that as your wife, I should haveexperienced the utmost kindness and consideration. Such kindness, however, to a nature like mine would have been only galling. Something more than cold civility is necessary in order to renderendurable the daily intercourse of husband and wife. Therefore I donot choose to subject myself to such a life. 

"In this, the last communication between us, I must say to you what Iintended to reserve until I could say it in person. It needed but afew weeks' intimate association with your dear father, whom I lovedas my father, and whom I called by that name, to prove how utterly Ihad been mistaken as to the motives and circumstances that led to ourmarriage. I had his full and free forgiveness for having doubted him;and I now, as a woman, beg to apologize to you for all that I mighthave said as a passionate girl. 

"Let me also assure you, my lord, of my deep sympathy for you in thetrial which awaits you on your return, when you will find ChetwyndeCastle deprived of the presence of that father whom you love. I feelfor you and with you. My loss is only second to yours; for, in yourfather, I lost the only friend whom I possessed. 

"Yours, very respectfully, "ZILLAH. "

Hilda of course had to copy this, for the objection to Zillah'swriting was as strong as before, and an explanation was now moredifficult to make than ever. Zillah, however, read it in Hilda'shandwriting, and then Hilda took it, as she always did to inclose itfor the mail. 

She took it to her own room, drew from her desk a letter which wasaddressed to Guy, and this was the one which she posted. Zillah'sletter was carefully destroyed. Yet Zillah went with Hilda to thepost-office, so anxious was she about her last letter, and saw itdropped in the box, as she supposed. 

Then she felt that she had cut the last tie. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

FLIGHT AND REFUGE. 

About a fortnight after the events narrated in our last chapter acarriage stopped before the door of a small cottage situated in thevillage of Tenby on the coast of Pembrokeshire. Two ladies in deepmourning got out of it, and entered the gate of the garden which laybetween them and the house; while a maid descended from the ramble, and in voluble French, alternating with broken English, besought thecoachman's tender consideration for the boxes which he was handingdown in a manner expressive of energy and expedition, rather than anyregard for their contents. A resounding "thump" on the ground, causedby the sudden descent of one of her precious charges, elicited a cryof agony from the Frenchwoman, accompanied by the pathetic appeal:

"Oh, mon Dieu! Qu'est ce que vous faites la? Prenez garde donc!"

This outbreak attracted the attention of the ladies, who turned roundto witness the scene. On seeing distress depicted on every lineamentof her faithful Abigail's face, the younger of the two said, with afaint smile:

"Poor Mathilde! That man's rough handling will break the boxes andher heart at the same time. But after all it will only anticipate theunhappy end, for I am sure that she will die of grief and ennui whenshe sees the place we have brought her to. She thought it dreadful atChetwynde that there were so few to see and to appreciate the resultsof her skill, yet even there a few could occasionally be found todress me for. But when she finds that I utterly repudiate Frenchtoilettes for sitting upon the rocks, and that the neighboringfishermen are not as a rule judges of the latest coiffure, I amafraid to think of the consequences. Will it be any thing less than asuicide, do you think, Hilda?"

"Well, Zillah, " said Hilda, "I advised you not to bring her. A secretintrusted to many ceases to be a secret. It would have been better toleave behind you all who had been connected with Chetwynde, butespecially Mathilde, who is both silly and talkative. "

"I know that her coming is sorely against your judgment, Hilda; but Ido not think that I run any risk. I know you despise me for myweakness, but I really like Mathilde, and could not give her up andtake a new maid, unless I had to. She is very fond of me, and wouldrather be with me, even in this outlandish place, than in London, even, with any one else. You know I am the only person she has livedwith in England. She has no friends in the country, so her beingFrench is in her favor. She has not the least idea in what county 'cecher mais triste Shateveen' is situated; so she could not do muchharm even if she would, especially as her pronunciation of the nameis more likely to bewilder than to instruct her hearers. "

By this time they had entered the house, and Zillah, putting her armin Hilda's, proceeded to inspect the mansion. It was a very tiny one;the whole house could conveniently have stood in the Chetwyndedrawing-room; but Zillah declared that she delighted in its snugness. Every thing was exquisitely neat, both within and without. The placehad been obtained by Hilda's diligent search. It had belonged to acoast-guard officer who had recently died, and Hilda, by means ofGualtier, obtained possession of the whole place, furniture and all, by paying a high rent to the widow. A housekeeper and servants wereincluded in the arrangements. Zillah was in ecstasies with herdrawing-room, which extended he whole length of the house, having atthe front an alcove window looking upon the balcony and thence uponthe sea, and commanding at the back a beautiful view of the mountainsbeyond. The views from all the windows were charming, and from garretto cellar the house was nicely furnished and well appointed, so thatafter hunting into every nook and corner the two friends expressedthemselves delighted with their new home. 

The account which they gave of themselves to those with whom theywere brought in contact was a very simple one, and not likely toexcite suspicion. They were sisters--the Misses Lorton--the death oftheir father not long before had rendered them orphans. They had nonear relations, but were perfectly independent as to means. They hadcome to Tenby for the benefit of the sea air, and wished to lead asquiet and retired a life as possible for the next two years. They hadbrought no letters, and they wished for no society. 

They soon settled down into their new life, and their days passedhappily and quietly. Neither of them had ever lived near the seabefore, so that it was now a constant delight to them. Zillah wouldsit for hours on the shore, watching the breakers dashing over therocks beyond, and tumbling at her feet; or she would play like achild with the rising tide, trying how far she could run out with thereceding wave before the next white-crested billow should comeseething and foaming after her, as if to punish her for her temerityin venturing within the precincts of the mighty ocean. Hilda alwaysaccompanied her, but her amusements took a much more ambitious turn. She had formed a passion for collecting marine curiosities; and whileZillah sat dreamily watching the waves, she would clamber over therocks in search of sea-weeds, limpets, anemones, and other things ofthe kind, shouting out gladly whenever she had found any thing new. Gradually she extended her rambles, and explored all the coast withineasy walking distance, and became familiar with every bay and outletwithin the circuit of several miles. Zillah's strength had not yetfully returned, so that she was unable to go on these long rambles. 

One day Zillah announced an intention of taking a drive inland, andurged Hilda to come with her. 

"Well, dear, I would rather not unless you really want me to. I wantvery much to go on the shore to-day. I found some beautiful specimenson the cliffs last night; but it was growing too late for me tosecure them, so I determined to do so as early as possible thisafternoon. "

"Oh, " said Zillah, with a laugh, "I should not dream of putting in arivalry with your new passion. I should not stand a chance against ashrimp; but I hope your new aquarium will soon make its appearance, or else some of your pets will come to an untimely end, I fear Iheard the house-maid this morning vowing vengeance against 'themnasty smellin' things as Miss Lorton were always a-litterin' thehouse with. '"

"She will soon get rid of them, then. The man has promised me theaquarium in two or three days, and it will be the glory of the wholeestablishment. But now--good-by, darling--I must be off at once, soas to have as much daylight as possible. "

"You will be back before me, I suppose. "

"Very likely; but if I am not, do not be anxious. I shall stay on thecliffs as late as I can. "

"Oh, Hilda! I do not like your going alone. Won't you take John withyou? I can easily drive by myself. "

"Any fate rather than that, " said Hilda, laughing. "What could I dowith John?"

"Take Mathilde, then, or one of the maids. "

"Mathilde! My dear girl, what are you thinking of? You know she hasnever ventured outside of the garden gate since we have been here. She shudders whenever she looks at 'cette vilaine mer, ' and noearthly consideration could induce her to put her foot on the shore. But what has put it in your head that I should want any one with meto-day, when I have gone so often without a protector?"

"I don't know, " said Zillah. "You spoke about not being home tilllate, and I felt nervous. "

"You need not be uneasy then, darling, on that account. I shall leavethe cliffs early, I only want to be untrammeled, so as to rambleabout at random. At any rate I shall be home in good time for dinner, and will be as hungry as a hunter, I promise you. I only want you notto fret your foolish little head if I am not here at the very momentI expect. "

"Very well, " said Zillah, "I will not, and I must not keep youtalking any longer. "

"Au revoir, " said Hilda, kissing her. "An revoir, " she repeated, gayly. 

Zillah smiled, and as she rose to go and dress for the drive Hildatook her path to the cliffs. 

It was seven o'clock when Zillah returned. 

"Is Miss Lorton in?" she asked, as she entered. 

"No, miss, " answered the maid. 

"I will wait dinner then, " said Zillah; and after changing her thingsshe went out on the balcony to wait for Hilda's return. 

Half an hour passed, and Hilda did not come. 

Zillah grew anxious, and looked incessantly at her watch. Eighto'clock came--a quarter after eight. 

Zillah could stand it no longer. She sent for John. 

"John, " said she, "I am getting uneasy about Miss Lorton. I wish youwould walk along the beach and meet her. It is too late for her to beout alone. "

John departed on his errand, and Zillah felt a sense of relief athaving done something, but this gave way to renewed anxiety as timepassed, and they did not appear. At length, after what seemed an ageto the suffering girl, John returned, but alone. 

"Have you not found her?" Zillah almost shrieked. 

"No, miss, " said the man, in a pitying tone. 

"Then why did you come back?" she cried. "Did I not tell you to go ontill you met her?"

"I went as far as I could, miss. "

"What do you mean?" she asked, in a voice pitched high with terror. 

The man came close up to her, sympathy and sorrow in his face. 

"Don't take on so, miss, " said he; "and don't be downhearted. I daresay she has took the road, and will be home shortly; that way islonger, you know. "

"No; she said she would come by the shore. Why did you not go on tillyou met her?"

"Well, miss, I went as far as Lovers' Bay; but the tide was in, and Icould go no farther. "

Zillah, at this, turned deadly white, and would have fallen if Johnhad not caught her. He placed her on the sofa and called Mathilde. 

Zillah's terror was not without cause. Lovers' Bay was a narrow inletof the sea, formed by two projecting promontories. At low tide aperson could walk beyond these promontories along the shore; but athigh tide the water ran up within; and there was no standing room anywhere within the inclosure of the precipitous cliff. At half tide, when the tide was falling, one might enter here; but if the tide wasrising, it was of course not to be attempted. Several times strangershad been entrapped here, sometimes with fatal results. The place owedits name to the tragical end which was met with here by a lover whowas eloping with his lady. They fled by the shore, and came to thebay, but found that the rising tide had made the passage of thefurther ledge impossible. In despair the lover seized the lady, andtried to swim with her around this obstacle, but the waves provedstronger than love; the currents bore them out to sea; and the nextmorning their bodies were found floating on the water, with theirarms still clasped around one another in a death embrace. Such wasthe origin of the name; and the place had always been looked upon bythe people here with a superstitious awe, as a place of danger anddeath. 

The time, however, was one which demanded action; and Zillah, hastilygulping down some restoratives which Mathilde had brought, began totake measures for a search. 

"John, " said she, "you must get a boat, and go at once in search ofMiss Lorton. Is there nowhere any standing room in the bay--nocrevice in the rocks where one may find a foothold?"

"Not with these spring-tides, miss, " said John. "A man might cling alittle while to the rocks; but a weak lady--" John hesitated. 

"Oh, my God!" cried Zillah, in an agony; "she may be clinging therenow, with every moment lessening her chance! Fly to the nearestfishermen, John! Ten pounds apiece if you get to the bay within halfan hour! And any thing you like if you only bring her back safe!"

Away flew John, descending the rocks to the nearest cottage. There hebreathlessly stated his errand; and the sturdy fisherman and his sonwere immediately prepared to start. The boat was launched, and theyset out. It was slightly cloudy, and there seemed some prospect of astorm. Filled with anxiety at such an idea, and also inspired withenthusiasm by the large reward, they put forth their utmost efforts;and the boat shot through the water at a most unwonted pace. Twentyminutes after the boat had left the strand it had reached the bay. All thought of mere reward faded out soon from the minds of thesehonest men. They only thought of the young lady whom they had oftenseen along the shore, who might even now be in the jaws of death. Nota word was spoken. The sound of the waves, as they dashed on therocks alone broke the stillness. Trembling with excitement, theyswept the boat close around the rocky promontory. John, standing upin the bow, held aloft a lantern, so that every cranny of the rocksmight be brought out into full relief. At length an exclamation burstfrom him. 

"Oh, Heavens! she's been here!" he groaned. 

The men turned and saw in his hand the covered basket which Hildaalways took with her on her expeditions to bring home her specimens. It seemed full of them now. 

"Where did you find it?" they asked. 

"Just on this here ledge of rock. "

"She has put it down to free her hands. She may be clinging yet, "said the old fisherman. "Let us call. "

A loud cry, "Miss Lorton!" rang through the bay. The echo sent itreverberating back; but no human voice mingled with the sound. 

Despondingly and fearfully they continued the search, still callingat times, until at last, as they reached the outer point, the lasthope died, and they ceased calling. 

"I'm afeard she's gone, " said John. 

The men shook their heads. John but expressed the general opinion. 

"God help that poor young thing at the cottage!" said the elderfisherman. "She'll be mighty cut up, I take it, now. "

"They was all in all to each other, " said John, with a sigh. 

By this time they had rounded the point. Suddenly John, who had satdown again, called out:

"Stop! I see something on the water yonder!"

[Illustration: "She Clutched His Arm In A Convulsive Grasp. "]

The men looked in the direction where he pointed, and a small objectwas visible on the surface of the water. They quickly rowed towardit. It was a lady's hat, which John instantly recognized as Hilda's. The long crape veil seemed to have caught in a stake which arose fromthe sandy beach above the water, placed there to mark some waterlevel, and the hat floated there. Reverently, as though they weretouching the dead, did those rough men disentangle the folds, and laythe hat on the basket. 

"There is no hope now, " said the younger fisherman, after a solemnsilence. "May our dear Lord and our Blessed Lady, " he added, crossinghimself as he spoke, "have mercy on her soul!"

"Amen!" repeated the others, gently. 

"However shall I tell my poor little missis, " said John, wiping hiseyes. 

The others made no response. Soon they reached the shore again. Theold man whispered a few words to his son, and then turned to John:

"I say, comrade, " said he; "don't let _her_--" a jerk of his head inthe direction of the cottage indicated to whom the pronounreferred--"don't let _her_ give us that. We've done naught but whatwe'd have done for any poor creature among these rocks. We couldn'ttake pay for this night's job--my son nor me. And all we wish is, that it had been for some good; but it wasn't the Lord's will; and itain't for us to say nothin' agin that; only you'll tell your missis, when she he's a bit better, that we made bold to send her ourrespectful sympathy. "

John gave this promise to the honest fellows, and then went slowlyand sadly back to make his mournful report. 

During John's absence Zillah had been waiting in an agony ofsuspense, in which Mathilde made feeble efforts to console her. Wringing her hands, she walked up and down in front of the house; andat length, when she heard footsteps coming along the road, she rushedin that direction. She recognized John. So great was her excitementthat she could not utter one word. She clutched his arm in aconvulsive grasp. John said nothing. It was easier for him to besilent. In fact he had something which was more eloquent than words. He mournfully held out the basket and the hat. 

In an instant Zillah recognized them. She shrieked, and fellspeechless and senseless on the hard ground. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

AN ASTOUNDING LETTER. 

It needed but this new calamity to complete the sum of Zillah'sgriefs. She had supposed that she had already suffered as much as shecould. The loss of her father, the loss of the Earl, the separationfrom Mrs. Hart, were each successive stages in the descending scaleof her calamities. Nor was the least of these that Indian letterwhich had sent her into voluntary banishment from her home. It wasnot till all was over that she learned how completely her thoughtshad associated themselves with the plans of the Earl, and howinsensibly her whole future had become penetrated with plans aboutGuy, The overthrow of all this was bitter; but this, and all othergriefs, were forgotten in the force of this new sorrow, which, whileit was the last, was in reality the greatest. Now, for the firsttime, she felt how dear Hilda had been to her. She had been more thana friend--she had been an elder sister. Now, to Zillah's affectionateheart, there came the recollection of all the patient love, the kindforbearance, and the wise counsel of this matchless friend. Sincechildhood they had been inseparable. Hilda had rivaled even herdoting father in perfect submission to all her caprices, andindulgence of all her whims. Zillah had matured so rapidly, and hadchanged so completely, that she now looked upon her former willfuland passionate childhood with impatience, and could estimate at itsfull value that wonderful meekness with which Hilda had endured herwayward and imperious nature. Not one recollection of Hilda came toher but was full of incidents of a love and devotion passing the loveof a sister. 

It was now, since she had lost her, that she learned to estimate her, as she thought, at her full value. That loss seemed to her thegreatest of all; worse than that of the Earl; worse even than that ofher father. Never more should she experience that tender love, thatwise patience, that unruffled serenity, which she had always knownfrom Hilda. Never more should she possess one devoted friend--thetrue and tried friend of a life--to whom she might go in any sorrow, and know and feel that she would receive the sympathy of love and thecounsel of wisdom. Nevermore--no, nevermore! Such was the refrainthat seemed constantly to ring in her ears, and she found herselfmurmuring those despairing lines of Poe, where the solitary word ofthe Raven seems

"Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never--nevermore!'"

It was awful to her to be, for the first time in her life, alone inthe world. Hitherto, amidst her bitterest afflictions, she had alwayshad some one whom she loved. After her father's death she had LordChetwynde and Mrs. Hart; and with these she always had Hilda. But nowall were gone, and Hilda was gone. To a passionate and intense naturelike hers, sorrow was capable of giving pangs which are unknown tocolder hearts, and so she suffered to a degree which was commensuratewith her ardent temperament. 

Weeks passed on. Recovering from the first shock, she sank into astate of dreamy listlessness, which, however, was at timesinterrupted by some wild hopes which would intrude in spite ofherself. These hopes were that Hilda, after all, might not be lost. She might have been found by some one and carried off somewhere. Wildenough were these hopes, and Zillah saw this plainly, yet still theywould intrude. Yet, far from proving a solace, they only made hersituation worse, since they kept her in a state of constantsuspense--a suspense, too, which had no shadow of a foundation inreason. So, alone, and struggling with the darkest despair, Zillahpassed the time, without having sufficient energy of mind left tothink about her future, or the state of her affairs. 

As to her affairs--she was nothing better than a child. She had avague idea that she was rich; but she had no idea of where her moneymight be. She knew the names of her London agents; but whether theyheld any funds of hers or not, she could not tell. She took it forgranted that they did. Child as she was, she did not know even thecommon mode of drawing a check. Hilda had done that for her since herflight from Chetwynde. 

The news of the unhappy fate of the elder Miss Lorton had sent ashock through the quiet village of Tenby, and every where might beheard expressions of the deepest sympathy with the younger sister, who seemed so gentle, so innocent, so inexperienced, and soaffectionate. All had heard of the anguish into which she had beenthrown by the news of the fearful calamity, and a respectfulcommiseration for grief so great was exhibited by all. The honestfishermen who had gone first on the search on that eventful night hadnot been satisfied, but early on the following morning had roused allthe fishing population, and fifty or sixty boats started oft' beforedawn to scour the coast, and to examine the sea bottom. This theykept up for two or three days; but without success. Then, at last, they gave up the search. Nothing of this, however, was known toZillah, who, at that particular time, was in the first anguish of hergrief, and lay prostrated in mind and body. Even the chatteringMathilde was awed by the solemnity of woe. 

The people of Tenby were nearly all of the humbler class. The widowwho owned the house had moved away, and there were none with whomZillah could associate, except the rector and his wife. They were oldpeople, and had no children. The Rev. Mr. Harvey had lived there allhis life, and was now well advanced in years. At the first tidings ofthe mournful event he had gone to Zillah's house to see if he couldbe of any assistance; but finding that she was ill in bed, he hadsent his wife to offer her services. Mrs. Harvey had watched overpoor Zillah in her grief, and had soothed her too. Mathilde wouldhave been but a poor nurse for one in such a situation, and Mrs. Harvey's motherly care and sweet words of consolation had something, at least, to do with Zillah's recovery. 

When she was better, Mrs. Harvey urged her to come and stay with themfor a time. It would give her a change of scene, she said, and thatwas all-important. Zillah was deeply touched by her affectionatesolicitude, but declined to leave her house. She felt, she said, asthough solitude would be best for her under such circumstances. 

"My dear child, " said Mrs. Harvey, who had formed almost a maternalaffection for Zillah, and had come to address her always in thatway--"my dear child, you should not try to deepen your grief bystaying here and brooding over it. Every thing here only makes itworse. You must really come with me, if for only a few days, and seeif your distress will not be lightened somewhat. "

But Zillah said that she could not bear to leave, that the houseseemed to be filled with Hilda's presence, and that as long as shewas there there was something to remind her of the one she had lost. If she went away she should only long to go back. 

"But, my child, would it not be better for you to go to yourfriends?" said Mrs. Harvey, as delicately as possible. 

"I have no friends, " said Zillah, in a faltering voice. "They are allgone. "

Zillah burst into tears: and Mrs. Harvey, after weeping with her, took her departure, with her heart full of fresh sympathy for one sosweet, and so unhappy. 

Time passed on, and Zillah's grief had settled down into a quietmelancholy. The rector and his wife were faithful friends to thisfriendless girl, and, by a thousand little acts of sympathy, stroveto alleviate the distress of her lonely situation. For all thisZillah felt deeply grateful, but nothing that they might do couldraise her mind from the depths of grief into which it had fallen. Butat length there came a day which was to change all this. 

That day she was sitting by the front window in the alcove, lookingout to where the sea was rolling in its waves upon the shore. Suddenly, to her surprise, she saw the village postman, who had beenpassing along the road, open her gate, and come up the path. Herfirst thought was that her concealment had been discovered, and thatGuy had written to her. Then a wild thought followed that it wassomehow connected with Hilda. But soon these thoughts were banishedby the supposition that it was simply a note for one of the servants. After this she fell into her former melancholy, when suddenly she wasroused by the entrance of John, who had a letter in his hand. 

"A letter for you, miss, " said John, who had no idea that Zillah wasof a dignity which deserved the title of "my lady. "

Zillah said not a word. With a trembling hand she took the letter andlooked at it. It was covered with foreign post-marks, but this shedid not notice. It was the handwriting which excited her attention. 

"Hilda!" she cried, and sank back breathless in her chair. Her heartthrobbed as though it would burst. For a moment she could not move;but then, with a violent effort, she tore open the letter, and, in awild fever of excited feeling, read the following:

"NAPLES, June 1, 1859. 

"MY OWN DEAREST DARLING, ---What you must have suffered in the way ofwonder about my sudden disappearance, and also in anxiety about yourpoor Hilda, I can not imagine. I know that you love me dearly, andfor me to vanish from your sight so suddenly and so strangely musthave caused you at least some sorrow. If you have been sorrowing forme, my sweetest, do not do so any more. I am safe and almost well, though I have had a strange experience. 

"When I left you on that ill-fated evening, I expected to be back asI said. I walked up the beach thoughtlessly, and did not notice thetide or any thing about it. I walked a long distance, and at lastfelt tired, for I had done a great deal that day. I happened to see aboat drawn up on the shore, and it seemed to be a good place to sitdown and rest. I jumped in and sat down on one of the seats. I tookoff my hat and scarf, and luxuriated in the fresh sea breeze that wasblowing over the water. I do not know how long I sat there--I did notthink of it at that time, but at last I was roused from my pleasantoccupation very suddenly and painfully. All at once I made thediscovery that the boat was moving under me. I looked around in apanic. To my horror, I found that I was at a long distance from theshore. In an instant the truth flashed upon me. The tide had risen, the boat had floated off, and I had not noticed it. I was fully amile away when I made this discovery, and cool as I am (according toyou), I assure you I nearly died of terror when the full reality ofmy situation occurred to me. I looked all around, but saw no chanceof help. Far away on the horizon I saw numerous sails, and nearer tome I saw a steamer, but all were too distant to be of any service. Onthe shore I could not see a living soul. 

"After a time I rallied from my panic, and began to try to get theboat back. But there were no oars, although, if there had been, I donot see how I could have used them. In my desperate efforts I triedto paddle with my hands, but, of course, it was utterly useless. Inspite of all my efforts I drifted away further and further, and aftera very long time, I do not know how long, I found that I was at animmense distance from the shore. Weakened by anxiety and fear, andworn out by my long-continued efforts, I gave up, and, sitting downagain, I burst into a passion of tears. The day was passing on. Looking at the sun I saw that it was the time when you would beexpecting me back. I thought of you, my darling, waiting forme--expecting me--wondering at my delay. How I cursed my folly andthoughtlessness in ever venturing into such danger! I thought of yourincreasing anxiety as you waited, while still I did not come. Ithought, Oh, if she only knew where her poor Hilda is--what agony itwould give her! But such thoughts were heart-breaking, and at last Idared not entertain them, and so I tried to turn my attention to themisery of my situation. Ah, my dearest, think--only think of me, yourpoor Hilda, in that boat, drifting helplessly along over the sea outinto the ocean!

"With each moment my anguish grew greater. I saw no prospect ofescape or of help. No ships came near; no boats of any kind werevisible. I strained my eyes till they ached, but could see nothingthat gave me hope. Oh, my darling, how can I tell you the miseries ofthat fearful time! Worse than all, do what I might, I still could notkeep away from me the thoughts of you, my sweetest. Still they wouldcome--and never could I shake off the thought of your face, palewith loving anxiety, as you waited for that friend of yours who wouldnever appear. Oh, had you seen me as I was--had you but imagined, even in the faintest way, the horrors that surrounded me, what wouldhave been your feelings! But you could never have conceived it. No. Had you conceived it you would have sent every one forth in search ofme. 

[Illustration: Drifting Out To Sea. ]

"To add to my grief, night was coming on. I saw the sun go down, andstill there was no prospect of escape. I was cold and wretched, andmy physical sufferings were added to those of my mind. Somehow I hadlost my hat and scarf overboard. I had to endure the chill wind thatswept over me, the damp piercing blast that came over the waters, without any possibility of shelter. At last I grew so cold andbenumbed that I lay down in the bottom of the boat, with the hope ofgetting out of the way of the wind. It was indeed somewhat moresheltered, but the shelter at best was but slight. I had nothing tocover myself with, and my misery was extreme. 

"The twilight increased, and the wind grew stronger and colder. Worstof all, as I lay down and looked up, I could see that the clouds weregathering, and knew that there would be a storm. How far I was out onthe sea I scarcely dared conjecture. Indeed, I gave myself up forlost, and had scarcely any hope. The little hope that was left wasgradually driven away by the gathering darkness, and at length allaround me was black. It was night. I raised myself up, and lookedfeebly out upon the waves. They were all hidden from my sight. I fellback, and lay there for a long time, enduring horrors, which, in mywildest dreams, I had never imagined as liable to fall to the lot ofany miserable human being. 

"I know nothing more of that night, or of several nights afterward. When I came back to consciousness I found myself in a ship's cabin, and was completely bewildered. Gradually, however, I found out all. This ship, which was an Italian vessel belonging to Naples, and wascalled the _Vittoria_, had picked me up on the morning after I haddrifted away. I was unconscious and delirious. They took me on board, and treated me with the greatest kindness. For the tender care whichwas shown me by these rough but kindly hearts Heaven only can repaythem; I can not. But when I had recovered consciousness several dayshad elapsed, the ship was on her way to Naples, and we were alreadyoff the coast of Portugal. I was overwhelmed with astonishment andgrief. Then the question arose, What was I to do? The captain, whoseemed touched to the heart by my sorrow, offered to take the shipout of her course and land me at Lisbon, if I liked; or he would putme ashore at Gibraltar. Miserable me! What good would it do for me tobe landed at Lisbon or at Gibraltar? Wide seas would still intervenebetween me and my darling. I could not ask them to land me at eitherof those places. Besides, the ship was going to Naples, and thatseemed quite as near as Lisbon, if not more so. It seemed to me to bemore accessible--more in the line of travel--and therefore I thoughtthat by going on to Naples I would really be more within your reachthan if I landed at any intervening point. So I decided to go on. 

"Poor me! Imagine me on board a ship, with no change of clothing, nocomforts or delicacies of any kind, and at the same time prostratedby sickness arising from my first misery. It was a kind of low fever, combined with delirium, that affected me. Most fortunately for me, the captain's wife sailed with him, and to her I believe my recoveryis due. Poor dear Margarita! Her devotion to me saved me from death. I gave her that gold necklace that I have worn from childhood. In noother way could I fittingly show my gratitude. Ah, my darling! theworld is not all bad. It is full of honest, kindly hearts, and ofthem all none is more noble or more pure than my generous friend thesimple wife of Captain Gaddagli. May Heaven bless her for herkindness to the poor lost stranger who fell in her way!

"My sweet Zillah, how does all this read to you? Is it not wildlyimprobable? Can you imagine your Hilda floating out to sea, senseless, picked up by strangers, carried off to foreign countries?Do you not rejoice that it was so, and that you do not have to mournmy death? My darling, I need not ask. Alas! what would I not give tobe sitting with your arms around me, supporting my aching head, whileI told you of all my suffering?

"But I must go on. My exposure during that dreadful night had toldfearfully upon me. During the voyage I could scarcely move. Towardits close, however, I was able to go on deck, and the balmy air ofthe Mediterranean revived me. At length we reached Naples Bay. As wesailed up to the city, the sight of all the glorious scenery on everyside seemed to fill me with new life and strength. The cities alongthe shore, the islands, the headlands, the mountains, Vesuvius, withits canopy of smoke, the intensely blue sky, the clear transparentair, all made me feel as though I had been transported to a newworld. 

"I went at once to the Hotel de l'Europe, on the Strada Toledo. It isthe best hotel here, and is very comfortable. Here I must stay for atime, for, my darling, I am by no means well. The doctor thinks thatmy lungs are affected. I have a very bad cough. He says that even ifI were able to travel, I must not think of going home yet, the air ofNaples is my only hope, and he tells me to send to England for myfriends. My friends! What friends have I? None. But, darling, I knowthat I have a friend--one who would go a long distance for her poorsuffering Hilda. And now, darling, I want you to come on. I have nohesitation in asking this, for I know that you do not feelparticularly happy where you are, and you would rather be with methan be alone. Besides, my dearest, it is to Naples that I inviteyou--to Naples, the fairest, loveliest place in all the world! aheaven upon earth! where the air is balm, and every scene is perfectbeauty! You must come on, for your own sake as well as mine. You willbe able to rouse yourself from your melancholy. We will go togetherto visit the sweet scenes that lie all around here; and when I amagain by your side, with your hand in mine, I will forget that I haveever suffered. 

"Do not be alarmed at the journey. I have thought out all for you. Ihave written to Mr. Gualtier, in London, and asked him to bring youon here. He will be only too glad to do us this service. He is asimple-minded and kind-hearted man. I have asked him to call on youimmediately to offer his services. You will see him, no doubt, verysoon after you get this letter. Do not be afraid of troubling him. Wecan compensate him fully for the loss of his time. 

"And now, darling, good-by. I have written a very long letter, andfeel very tired. Come on soon, and do not delay. I shall count thedays and the hours till you join me. Come on soon, and do notdisappoint your loving

"HILDA. 

"P. S. --When you come, will you please bring on my turquoise broochand my green bracelet. The little writing-desk, too, I should like, if not too much trouble. Of course you need not trouble about thehouse. It will be quite safe as it stands, under the care of yourhousekeeper and servants, till we get back again to England. Oncemore, darling, good-by. 

"H. "

This astonishing letter was read by Zillah with a tumult of emotionsthat may be imagined but not described. As she finished it thereaction in her feelings was too much to be borne. A weight was takenoff her soul. In the first rush of her joy and thankfulness she burstinto tears, and then once more read the letter, though she scarcecould distinguish the words for the tears of joy that blinded hereyes. 

To go to Naples--and to Hilda! what greater happiness could beconceived of? And that thoughtful Hilda had actually written toGualtier! And she was alive! And she was in Naples! What a wonder tohave her thus come back to her from the dead! With such a torrent ofconfused thoughts Zillah's mind was filled, until at length, in herdeep gratitude to Heaven, she flung herself upon her knees and pouredforth her soul in prayer. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

BETRAYED. 

Zillah's excitement was so great that, for all that night, she couldnot sleep. There were many things for her to think about. The ideathat Hilda had been so marvelously rescued, and was still alive andwaiting for her, filled her mind. But it did not prevent her fromdwelling in thought upon the frightful scenes through which she hadpassed. The thought of her dear friend's lonely voyage, drifting overthe seas in an open boat, unprotected from the storm, and sufferingfrom cold, from hunger, and from sorrow till sense left her, was apainful one to her loving heart. Yet the pain of these thoughts didnot disturb her. The joy that arose from the consciousness of Hilda'ssafety was of itself sufficient to counterbalance all else. Hersafety was so unexpected, and the one fact was so overwhelming, thatthe happiness which it caused was sufficient to overmaster anysorrowful sympathy which she might feel for Hilda's misfortunes. So, if her night was sleepless, it was not sad. Rather it was joyful; andoften and often, as the hours passed, she repeated that prayer ofthankfulness which the first perusal of the letter had caused. 

Besides this, the thought of going on to join Hilda was a pleasantone. Her friend had been so thoughtful that she had arranged all forher. 

No companion could be more appropriate or more reliable than Mr. Gualtier, and he would certainly make his appearance shortly. Shethought also of the pleasure of living in Naples, and recalled allthat she had ever heard about the charms of that place. Amidst suchthoughts as these morning came, and it was not until after the sunhad risen that Zillah fell asleep. 

Two days after the receipt of that letter by Zillah, Gualtierarrived. Although he had been only a music-teacher, yet he had beenassociated in the memory of Zillah with many happy hours atChetwynde; and his instructions at Pomeroy Court, though at the timeirksome to her, were now remembered pleasantly, since they wereconnected with the memories of her father; and on this occasion hehad the additional advantage of being specially sent by Hilda. Heseemed thus in her mind to be in some sort connected with Hilda. Shehad not seen him since the Earl's illness, and had understood fromHilda that he had gone to London to practice his profession. 

As Gualtier entered, Zillah greeted him with a warmth which wasunusual from her to him, but which can readily be accounted for underthe circumstances. He seemed surprised and pleased. His small grayeyes twinkled, and his sallow cheeks flushed with involuntary delightat such marks of condescension. Yet in his manner and address he wasas humble and as servile as ever. His story was shortly told. He hadreceived, he said, a short note from Miss Krieff, by which he learnedthat, owing to an act of thoughtlessness on her part, she had goneadrift in a boat, and had been picked up by a ship on its way toNaples, to which place she had been carried. He understood that shehad written to Lady Chetwynde to come and join her. Gualtier hopedthat Lady Chetwynde would feel the same confidence in him which MissKrieff had expressed in making known to him that they had been livingunder an assumed name. Of course, unless this had been communicatedto him it would have been impossible for him to find her. He assuredher that with him her secret was perfectly inviolable, that he wasperfectly reliable, and that the many favors which he had receivedfrom General Pomeroy, from the late Earl, and from herself, would ofthemselves be sufficient to make him guard her secret with watchfulvigilance, and devote himself to her interests with the utmost zealand fidelity. 

To Zillah, however, the voluble assurances of Gualtier's vigilance, secrecy, and fidelity were quite unnecessary. It was enough that shehad known him for so many years. Her father had first made him knownto her. After him her second father, Earl Chetwynde, had made him herteacher. Last of all, at this great hour in her life, Hilda herselfhad sent him to accompany her. It would have been strange indeed if, under such circumstances, any doubt whatever with regard to him hadfor one moment entered her mind. 

On the day after the receipt of Hilda's letter Zillah had gone forthe first time to the rectory, and told the joyful news to her kindfriends there. She read the letter to them, while they listened toevery word with breathless interest, often interrupting her withexclamations of pity, of sympathy, or of wonder. Most of all werethey affected by the change which had come over Zillah, who in onenight had passed from dull despair to life and joy and hope. Sheseemed to them now a different being. Her face was flushed withexcitement; her deep, dark eyes, no longer downcast, flashed withradiant joy; her voice was tremulous as she read the letter, or spokeof her hope of soon rejoining Hilda. These dear old people looked ather till their eyes filled with tears; tears which were half of joyover her happiness, and half of sadness at the thought that she wasto leave them. 

"Ah, my child, " said Mrs. Harvey, in a tremulous voice, "how glad Iam that your dear sister has been saved by our merciful God; but howsad I feel to think that I shall lose you now, when I have come tolove you so!"

Her voice had such inexpressible sadness, and such deep and trueaffection in its tones, that Zillah was touched to the heart. Shetwined her arms fondly about the neck of the old lady, and kissed hertenderly. 

"Ah, my dearest Mrs. Harvey, " said she, "how can I ever repay you forall your loving care of me! Do not think that I did not see all andfeel all that you did for me. But I was so sad. "

"But, my poor child, " said the rector, after a long conversation, inwhich they had exhausted all the possibilities of Hilda's"situation, " "this is a long journey. Who is this Mr. Gualtier? Doyou know him? Would it not be better for me to go with you?"

"Oh, my kind friend, how good you are!" said Zillah, againoverwhelmed with gratitude. "But there is no necessity. I have knownMr. Gualtier for years. He was my music-teacher for a long timebefore my dear father left me. He is very good and very faithful. "

So no more was said on that matter. 

Before Gualtier came Zillah had arranged every thing for her journey. She decided to leave the house just as it was, under the care of thehousekeeper, with the expectation of returning at no very distantdate. The rector promised to exercise a general supervision over heraffairs. She left with him money enough to pay the year's rent inadvance, which he was to transmit to the owner. Such arrangements asthese gave great comfort to these kindly souls, for in them they sawsigns that Zillah would return; and they both hoped that the"sisters" would soon tire even of Italy, and in a fit of homesicknesscome back again. With this hope they bade her adieu. 

On leaving Tenby, Zillah felt nothing but delight. As the coach droveher to the station, as the railway train hurried her to London, asthe tidal train took her to Southampton, as the packet bore heracross the Channel, every moment of the time was filled with joyousanticipations of her meeting Hilda. All her griefs over other lossesand other calamities had in one instant faded away at the news thatHilda was safe. That one thing was enough to compensate for all else. 

Arriving at Paris, she was compelled to wait for one day on accountof some want of connection in the trains for Marseilles. Gualtieracted as cicerone, and accompanied her in a carriage through thechief streets, through the Place de la Concorde, the Champs Elysées, and the Bois de Boulogne. She was sufficiently herself to experiencedelight in spite of her impatience, and to feel the wonder andadmiration which the first sight of that gay and splendid capitalalways excites. But she was not willing to linger here. Naples wasthe goal at which she wished to arrive, and as soon as possible shehurried onward. 

On reaching Marseilles she found the city crowded. The greatmovements of the Italian war were going on, and every thing wasaffected by it. Marseilles was one of the grand centres of action, and one of the chief depots for military supplies. The city wasfilled with soldiers. The harbor was full of transports. The streetswere thronged with representatives of all the different regiments ofthe French army, from the magnificent steel-clad Cuirassiers, and thedashing Chasseurs de Vincennes, to the insouciant Zouaves and thewild Turcos. In addition to the military, the city was filled withcivil officials, connected with the dispatch of the army, who filledthe city, and rendered it extremely difficult for a stranger to findlodgings. 

Zillah was taken to the Hôtel de France, but it was full. Gualtierwent round to all the other hotels, but returned with the unpleasantintelligence that all were likewise filled. But this did not verygreatly disturb Zillah, for she hoped to be on board the steamersoon, and whether she found lodgings or not was a matter ofindifference to her in comparison with prosecuting her journey. Afterseveral hours Gualtier returned once more, with the information thathe had succeeded in finding rooms for her in this hotel. He had madean earnest appeal, he said, to the gallantry of some French officers, and they had given up their rooms for the use of the fair Anglaise. It was thus that Zillah was able to secure accommodation for thenight. 

All that evening Gualtier spent in searching for the Naples steamer. When he made his appearance on the following morning it was with newsthat was very unpleasant to Zillah. He informed her that the regularsteamers did not run, that they had been taken up by the Frenchgovernment as transports for the troops, and, as far as he couldlearn, there were no provisions whatever for carrying the mails. Hecould scarcely think it possible that such should be the case, but soit was. 

At this intelligence Zillah was aghast. 

"No mail steamers?" said she. "Impossible! Even if they had taken upall of them for transports, something would be put on the route. "

"I can assure you, my lady, that it is as I said. I have searchedevery where, and can not find out any thing, " said Gualtier. 

"You need not address me by my title, " said Zillah. "At present I donot choose to adopt it. "

"Pardon me, " said Gualtier, humbly. "It is taken for granted inFrance that every wealthy English lady is titled--every Frenchhotel-keeper will call you 'miladi, ' and why should not I? It is onlya form. "

"Well, " said Zillah, "let it pass. But what am I to do here? I mustgo on. Can I not go by land?"

"You forget, my lady, the war in Lombardy. "

"But I tell you, I _must_ go on, " said Zillah, impatiently. "Costwhat it may--even if I have to buy a steamer. "

Gualtier smiled faintly. 

"Even if you wished to buy a steamer, my lady, you could not. TheFrench government has taken up all for transports. Could you not makeup your mind to wait for a few days?"

"A few days!" cried Zillah, in tones of despair--"a few days! What!after hurrying here through France so rapidly! A few days! No. Iwould rather go to Spain, and catch the steamer at Gibraltar thatMiss Krieff spoke of. "

Gualtier smiled. 

"That would take much longer time, " said he. "But, my lady, I will goout again, and see if I can not find some way more expeditious thanthat. Trust to me. It will be strange if I do not find some way. Would you be willing to go in a sailing vessel?"

"Of course, " said Zillah, without hesitation. "If nothing else can befound I shall be only too happy. "

Upon this, Gualtier departed with the intention of searching for asailing vessel. Zillah herself would have been willing to go in anything. Such was her anxiety to get to Hilda, that rather than stay inMarseilles she would have been willing to start for Naples in an openboat. But on mentioning her situation to Mathilde she encountered, toher surprise, a very energetic opposition. That important personageexpressed a very strong repugnance to any thing of the kind. First, she dreaded a sea voyage in a sailing vessel; and secondly, havinggot back to France, she did not wish to leave it. If the regular mailvessel had been going she might not have objected, but as it was shedid not wish to go. Mathilde was very voluble, and very determined;but Zillah troubled herself very little about this. To get to Hildawas her one and only desire. If Mathilde stood in the way she wouldgo on in spite of her. She was willing to let Mathilde go, and setout unattended. To get to Naples, to join Hilda, whether in a steameror a sailing vessel--whether with a maid or without one--that was heronly purpose. 

On the following morning Gualtier made his appearance, with theannouncement that he had found a vessel. It was a small schoonerwhich had been a yacht belonging to an Englishman, who had sold it atMarseilles for some reason or other to a merchant of the city. Thismerchant was willing to sell it, and Gualtier had bought it in hername, as he could find no other way of going on. The price was large, but "my lady" had said that she was willing to buy a steamer, and toher it would be small. He had ventured, therefore, to conclude thebargain. He had done more, and had even engaged a crew, so that allwas in readiness to start. 

At this news Zillah was overjoyed. Her longing to be with Hilda wasso great that even if she had been a miser she would have willinglypaid the price demanded, and far more. The funds which she hadbrought with her, and which Gualtier had kindly taken charge of, amounted to a considerable sum, and afforded ample means for thepurchase of the vessel. The vessel was therefore regularly purchased, and Zillah at last saw a way by which she could once more proceed onher journey. Gualtier informed her that the remainder of that daywould be needed for the completion of the preparations, and that theywould be ready to leave at an early hour on the following morning. SoZillah awaited with impatience the appointed time. 

Zillah awaked early on the following morning, but Mathilde was not tobe found. Instead of Mathilde, a letter was awaiting her, whichstated, in very respectful language, that the dread which thatpersonage felt at going in a sailing vessel was so strong, and herlove for her own dear country so great, that she had decided toremain where she was. She therefore had come to the conclusion toleave "miladi" without giving warning, although she would therebylose what was due her, and she hoped that "miladi" would forgive her, and bear her in affectionate remembrance. With wishes and prayers for"miladi's" future happiness, Mathilde begged leave to subscribeherself "miladi's" most devoted and grateful servant. 

Such was the final message of Mathilde to her indulgent mistress. But, although at any other time Zillah would have been both woundedand indignant at such desertion of her at such a time, yet now, inthe one engrossing thought that filled her mind, she thought butlittle of this incident. At Naples, she thought, she could veryeasily fill her place. Now she would have to be without a maid fortwo or three days, but after all it would make no very greatdifference. She could rely upon herself, and endure a few days'discomfort very readily for Hilda's sake. It was with such feelingsas these that she awaited the arrival of Gualtier. When he came, andheard of the departure of Mathilde, he appeared to be filled withindignation, and urged Zillah to wait one day more till he could getanother maid for her. But Zillah refused. She was determined to goon, and insisted on starting at once for the yacht. Finding hisremonstrances unavailing, the faithful Gualtier conducted her to theschooner, and, as all things were in readiness, they put out to seaimmediately. 

The schooner was a very handsome one, and on looking over it Zillahfelt delighted with Gualtier's good taste, or his good fortune, whichever it might have been. It was, as has been said, a yacht, which had been the property of an Englishman who had sold it atMarseilles. The cabin was fitted up in the most elegant style, andwas much more roomy than was common in vessels of that size. Therewas an outer cabin with a table in the middle and sofas on eitherside, and an inner cabin with capacious berths. The watchfulattention of Gualtier was visible all around. There were baskets ofrare fruits, boxes of bonbons, and cake-baskets filled with delicatemacaroons and ratafias. There were also several books--volumes of theworks of Lamartine and Chateaubriand, together with two or three ofthe latest English novels. He certainly had been particular to thelast degree in attending to all of her possible wants. 

After inspecting the arrangements of the cabin, Zillah went out ondeck and seated herself at the stern, from which she watched thecity which they were fast leaving behind them. On casting a casualglance around, it struck her for a moment that the crew were aremarkably ill-looking set of men; but she was utterly inexperienced, and she concluded that they were like all sailors, and should not bejudged by the same standard as landsmen. Besides, was not herfaithful Gualtier there, whose delicate attention was so evident evenin the most minute circumstance which she had noticed? If the thoughtof the evil looks of the crew came to her, it was but for a moment;and in a moment it was dismissed. She was herself too guileless to besuspicious, and was far more ready to cast from her all evil thoughtsthan to entertain them. In her innocence and inexperience she wasbold, when one more brave but more experienced would have beenfearful. 

The wind was fair, and the yacht glided swiftly out of the harbor. The sea was smooth, and Zillah could look all around her upon theglorious scene. In a few hours they had left the land far behindthem, and then the grander features of the distant coast became moreplainly visible. The lofty heights rose up above the sea recedingbackward, but ever rising higher, till they reached the Alpinesummits of the inland. All around was the blue Mediterranean, dottedwith white sails. All that she saw was novel and striking; she hadnever sailed in a yacht before; the water was smooth enough to bepleasant, and she gave herself up to a childlike joy. 

On rising on the following morning they were far out of sight ofland. A delicious repast was placed before her for her breakfast. After partaking she sat on deck, looking out upon the glorious sea, with such a feeling of dreamy enjoyment as she had scarcely everknown before. Her one chief thought was that every hour was bringingher nearer to Hilda. When tired of the deck she went below, and laydown in her cabin and read. So the hours passed. On that day Gualtiersurpassed himself in delicate attention to every possible wish ofhers. She herself was surprised at the variety of the dishes whichcomposed her dinner. She could not help expressing her thanks. 

Gualtier smiled, and murmured some scarce audible words. 

Two days passed, and they were now far on their way. Gualtier assuredher respectfully that on the following morning they would see theApennines on the Italian shore. The voyage had not been so rapid asit might have been, but it had been exceedingly pleasant weather, andtheir progress had been satisfactory. That evening Zillah watched thesun as it set in glory below the watery horizon, and retired for thenight with the thought that in two days more she would be with Hilda. 

She slept soundly that night. 

Suddenly she waked with a strange sensation. Her dreams had beentroubled. She thought that she was drowning. In an agony she startedup. Water was all around her in the berth where she was lying. Thedim light of dawn was struggling through the sky-light, and shelooked around bewildered, not knowing at first where she was. Soon, however, she remembered, and then a great horror came over her. _Thevessel was sinking!_

All was still. She gave a wild cry, and started up, wading throughthe water to the door. She cried again and again, till her criesbecame shrieks. In vain. No answer came. Flinging a shawl around hershe went into the outer cabin, and thence ascended to the deck. 

No one was there. 

No man was at the wheel. No watchers were visible. The vessel wasdeserted!

[Illustration: "An Awful Fear Came Over Her. "]

Louder and louder she shrieked. Her voice, borne afar over the widewaste of waters, died out in the distance, but brought no response. She hurried to the forecastle. The door was open. She called over andover again. There was no reply. Looking down in the dim morningtwilight she could see plainly that the water had penetrated there. 

An awful fear came over her. 

The sails were lowered. The boat was gone. No one was on boardbesides herself. The schooner was sinking. She had been deserted. Shehad been betrayed. She would never see Hilda. Who had betrayed her?Was Hilda really at Naples? Had she really written that letter andsent Gualtier to her? A thousand horrid suspicions rushed through hermind. One thought predominated--_she had been betrayed!_

But why?

CHAPTER XXIX. 

TWO NEW CHARACTERS. 

In spite of Gualtier's assurances, a steamer was running regularlybetween Naples and Marseilles, and the war had made no disturbance inthe promptitude and dispatch of its trips. It belonged to a linewhose ships went on to Malta, touching at Italian ports, and finallyconnecting with the steamers of the Peninsular and Oriental Company. The day after Zillah had left Marseilles one of these left Naples onits way to the former port, having on hoard the usual number andvariety of passengers. 

On the stern of this vessel stood two men, looking out over the waterto where the purple Apennines arose over the Italian coast, where thegrand figure of Vesuvius towered conspicuous, its smoke cloudfloating like a pennon in the air. One of these men was tall, broad-shouldered, sinewy, with strong square head, massive forehead, firm chin, and eyes which held in their expression at once gentlenessand determination; no very rare compound in the opinion of some, forthere are those who think that the strongest and boldest natures arefrequently the tenderest. He was a man of about fifty, or perhapseven sixty, but his years sat lightly on him; and he looked like aman whom any one might reasonably dread to meet with in a personalencounter. The other was much younger. His face was bronzed byexposure to a southern sun; he wore a heavy beard and mustache, andhe had the unmistakable aspect of an English gentleman, while themarked military air which was about him showed that he was withoutdoubt a British officer. He was dressed, however, as a civilian. Hishat showed that he was in mourning; and a general sadness of demeanorwhich he manifested was well in keeping with that sombre emblem. 

"Well, Windham, " said the former, after a long silence, "I neverthought that there was a place on this green earth that could takehold of me like that Italian city. I don't believe that there is acity any where that comes up to Naples. Even New York is not itsequal. I wouldn't leave it now--no, _Sir!_--ten team of horsescouldn't drag me away, only my family are waiting for me atMarseilles, you see--and I must join them. However, I'll go backagain as soon as I can; and if I don't stay in that there countrytill I've exhausted it--squeezed it, and pressed out of it all theuseful and entertaining information that it can give--why, then, myname's not Obed Chute. "

The one called Windham gave a short laugh. 

"You'll have a little difficulty in Lombardy, I think, " said he. 

"Why?"

"The war. "

"The war? My friend, are you not aware that the war need not be anyobstacle to a free American?"

"Perhaps not; but you know that armies in the field are not very muchinclined to be respecters of persons, and the freest of freeAmericans might find himself in an Austrian or a French prison as aspy. "

"Even so; but he would soon get out, and have an interestingreminiscence. That is one of the things that he would have to beprepared for. At any rate, I have made up my mind to go to Lombardy, and I'll take my family with me. I should dearly like to get aConcord coach to do it in, but if I can't I'll get the nearestapproach to it I can find, and calmly trot on in the rear of thearmy. Perhaps I'll have a chance to take part in some engagement. Ishould like to do so, for the honor of the flag if nothing else. "

"You remind me of your celebrated countryman, who was, as he said, 'blue moulded for want of a fight. '"

"That man, Sir, was a true representative American, and a type of ourordinary, everyday, active, vivacious Western citizen--the class ofmen that fell the forests, people the prairies, fight the fever, reclaim the swamps, tunnel the mountains, send railroads over theplains, and dam all the rivers on the broad continent. It's a pitythat these Italians hadn't an army of these Western American men tolead them in their struggle for liberty. "

"Do you think they would be better than the French army?"

"The French army!" exclaimed Obed Chute, in indescribable accents. 

"Yes. It is generally conceded that the French army takes the lead inmilitary matters. I say so, although I am a British officer. "

"Have you ever traveled in the States?" said Obed Chute, quietly. 

"No. I have not yet had that pleasure. "

"You have never yet seen our Western population. You don't know it, and you can't conceive it. Can you imagine the original EnglishPuritan turned into a wild Indian, with all his original honor, andmorality, and civilization, combining itself with the intenseanimalism, the capacity for endurance, and the reckless valor of thesavage? Surround all this with all that tenderness, domesticity, andpluck which are the ineradicable characteristics of the Saxon race, and then you have the Western American man--the product of the Saxon, developed by long struggles with savages and by the animatinginfluences of a boundless continent. "

"I suppose by this you mean that the English race in America issuperior to the original stock. "

"That can hardly be doubted, " said Obed Chute, quite seriously. "Themother country is small and limited in its resources. America is nota country. It is a continent, over which our race has spread itself. The race in the mother country has reached its ultimate possibility. In America it is only beginning its new career. To compare Americawith England is not fair. You should compare New York, New England, Virginia, with England, not America. Already we show differences inthe development of the same race which only a continent could cause. Maine is as different from South Carolina as England from Spain. Butyou Europeans never seem able to get over a fashion that you have ofregarding our boundless continent as a small country. Why, I myselfhave been asked by Europeans about the health of friends of theirswho lived in California, and whom I knew no more about than I did ofthe Chinese. The fact is, however, that we are continental, andnature is developing the continental American man to an astonishingextent. 

"Now as to this Lombard war, " continued Obed Chute, as Windham stoodlistening in silence, and with a quiet smile that relieved butslightly the deep melancholy of his face--"as to this Lombard war;why, Sir, if it were possible to collect an army of Western Americansand put them into that there territory"--waving his hand grandlytoward the Apennines--"the way they would walk the Austrians off totheir own country would be a caution. For the Western American man, as an individual, is physically and spiritually a gigantic being, andan army of such would be irresistible. Two weeks would wind up theLombard war. Our Americans, Sir, are the most military people in thewide universe. "

"As yet, though, they haven't done much to show their capacity, " saidWindham. "You don't call the Revolutionary war and that of 1812 anygreater than ordinary wars, do you?"

"No, Sir; not at all, " said Obed Chute. "We are well aware that inactual wars we have as yet done but little in comparison with ourpossibilities and capabilities. In the revolutionary war, Sir, wewere crude and unformed--we were infants, Sir, and our efforts wereinfantile. The swaddling bands of the colonial system had all alongrestrained the free play of the national muscle; and throughout thewar there was not time for full development. Still, Sir, from thatpoint of view, as an infant nation, we did remarkablewell--re-markable. In 1812 we did not have a fair chance. We had gotout of infancy, it is true; but still not into our full manhood. Besides, the war was too short. Just as we began to get intocondition--just as our fleets and armies were ready to _do_something--the war came to an end. Even then, however, we didre-markable well--re-markable. But, after all, neither of theseexhibited the American man in his boundless possibility before theworld. "

"You think, I suppose, that if a war were to come now, you could doproportionally better. "

"Think it!" said Obed; "I know it. The American people know it. Andthey want, above all things, to have a chance to show it. You spokeof that American who was blue-moulded for want of a fight. I saidthat man was a typical American. Sir, that saying is profoundly true. Sir, the whole American nation is blue-moulded, Sir. It is spilin forwant of a fight--a big fight. "

"Well, and what do you intend to do about it?"

"Time will show, " said Obed, gravely. "Already, any one acquaintedwith the manners of our people and the conduct of our government willrecognize the remarkable fact that our nation is the most wrathy, cantankerous, high-mettled community on this green earth. Why, Sir, there ain't a foreign nation that can keep on friendly terms with us. It ain't ugliness, either--it's only a friendly desire to have afight with somebody--we only want an excuse to begin. The onlytrouble is, there ain't a nation that reciprocates our pecooliarnational feeling. "

"What can you do, then?" asked Windham, who seemed to grow quiteamused at this conversation. 

"That's a thing I've often puzzled over, " said Obed, thoughtfully;"and I can see only one remedy for us. "

"And what is that?"

"Well, it's a hard one--but I suppose it's got to come. You see, theonly foreign countries that are near enough to us to afford asatisfactory field of operations are Mexico and British America. Thefirst we have already tried. It was poor work, though. Our armiesmarched through Mexico as though they were going on a picnic. As toBritish America, there is no chance. The population is too small. No, there is only one way to gratify the national craving for a fight. "

"I don't see it. "

"Why, " said Obed, dryly, "to get up a big fight among ourselves. "

"Among yourselves?"

"Yes--quite domestic--and all by ourselves. "

"You seem to me to speak of a civil war. "

"That's the identical circumstance, and nothing else. It is the onlything that is suited to the national feeling; and what's more--it'sgot to come. I see the pointings of the finger of Providence. It'sgot to come--there's no help for it--and mark me, when it does comeit'll be the tallest kind of fightin' that this revolving orb has yetseen in all its revolutions. "

"You speak very lightly about so terrible a thing as a civil war, "said Windham. "But do you think it possible? In so peaceful andwell-ordered a country what causes could there be?"

"When the whole nation is pining and craving and spilin for a fight, "said Obed, "causes will not be wanting. I can enumerate half a dozennow. First, there is the slavery question; secondly, the tariffquestion; thirdly, the suffrage question; fourthly, the question ofthe naturalization of foreigners; fifthly, the bank question;sixthly, the question of denominational schools. "

Windham gave a short laugh. 

"You certainly seem to have causes enough for a war, although, to mycontracted European mind, they would all seem insufficient. Which ofthese, do you think, is most likely to be the cause of that civil warwhich you anticipate?"

"One, pre-eminently and inevitably, " said Obed, solemnly. "All othersare idle beside this one. " He dropped abruptly the half gasconadingmanner in which he had been indulging, and, in a low voice, added, "In real earnest, Windham, there is one thing in America which is, every year, every month, every day, forcing on a war from which therecan be no escape; a war which will convulse the republic and endangerits existence; yes, Sir, a war which will deluge the land with bloodfrom one end to the other. "

His solemn tone, his change of manner, and his intense earnestness, impressed Windham most deeply. He felt that there was some deepmeaning in the language of Obed Chute, and that under his carelesswords there was a gloomy foreboding of some future calamity to hisloved country. 

"This is a fearful prospect, " said he, "to one who loves his country. What is it that you fear?"

"One thing, " said Obed--"one thing, and one only---slavery! It isthis that has divided the republic and made of our country twonations, which already stand apart, but are every day drawing nearerto that time when a frightful struggle for the mastery will beinevitable. The South and the North must end their differences by afight; and that fight will be the greatest that has been seen forsome generations. There is no help for it. It must come. There aremany in our country who are trying to postpone the evil day, but itis to no purpose. The time will come when it can be postponed nolonger. Then the war must come, and it will be the slave Statesagainst the free. "

"I never before heard an American acknowledge the possibility of sucha thing, " said Windham, "though in Europe there are many who haveanticipated this. "

"Many Americans feel it and fear it, " said Obed, with unchangedsolemnity; "but they do not dare to put their feelings or their fearsin words. One may fear that his father, his mother, his wife, or hischild, may die; but to put such a fear in words is heart-breaking. Sowe, who have this fear, brood over it in secret, and in everyshifting scene of our national life we look fearfully for thosecoming events which cast their shadows before. The events which wewatch with the deepest anxiety are the Presidential elections. Everyfour years now brings a crisis; and in one of these the longantagonism between North and South will end in war. But I hate tospeak of this. What were we talking of? Of Lombardy and the Italianwar. What do you think, " he added, abruptly changing theconversation, "of my plan to visit the seat of war?"

"I think, " said Windham, "that if any man is able to do Lombardy atsuch a time, you are that person. "

"Well, I intend to try, " said Obed Chute, modestly. "I may fail, though I generally succeed in what I set my mind on. I'll go, Ithink, as a fighting neutral. "

"Prepared to fight on either side, I suppose. "

"Yes; as long as I don't have to fight against Garibaldi. "

"But, wouldn't you find your family a little embarrassing in case ofa fight?"

"Oh no! they would always be safely in the rear, at the base of myline of operations. There will be no difficulty about it whatever. Americans are welcome all over Italy, especially at this time forthese _I_talians think that America sympathizes with them, and willhelp them; and as to the French--why, Boney, though an emperor, isstill a democrat to his heart's core, and, I have no doubt, wouldgive a warm reception to a fighting volunteer. "

"Have you any acquaintance with any of the French generals, or haveyou any plan for getting access to Napoleon?"

"Oh no! I trust merely to the reason and good feeling of the man. Itseems to me that a request from a free American to take part in afight could hardly meet with any thing else except the most cordialcompliance. "

"Well, all I can say is, that if I were Louis Napoleon, I would putyou on my staff, " said Windham. 

The name of Obed Chute has already been brought forward. He hadembarked at Bombay on board the same steamer with Windham, and theyhad formed a friendship which after circumstances had increased. Atfirst Windham's reserve had repelled advances; his sadness andpreoccupation had repelled any intimacy; but before many days anevent happened which threw them into close association. When abouthalf-way on her voyage the steamer was discovered to be on fire. Panic arose. The captain tried to keep order among the sailors. Thishe was very easily able to do. But with the passengers it was anotherthing. Confusion prevailed every where, and the sailors themselveswere becoming demoralized by the terror which raged among the others. In that moment of danger two men stood forth from among thepassengers, who, by the force of their own strong souls, broughtorder out of that chaos. One of these was Obed Chute. With a revolverin his hand he went about laying hold of each man who seemed to bemost agitated, swearing that he would blow his brains out if hedidn't "stop his infernal noise. " The other was Windham, who acted ina different manner. He collected pipes, pumps, and buckets, andinduced a large number to take part in the work of extinguishing theflames. By the attitude of the two the rest were either calmed orcowed; and each one recognized in the other a kindred spirit. 

After landing at Suez they were thrown more closely together; theirintimacy deepened on the way to Alexandria; and when they embarked onthe Mediterranean they had become stronger friends than ever. Windhamhad told the other that he had recently heard of the death of afriend, and was going home to settle his affairs. He hinted also thathe was in some government employ in India; and Obed Chute did notseek to know more. Contrary to the generally received view of theYankee character, he did not show any curiosity whatever, butreceived the slight information which was given with a delicacy whichshowed no desire to learn more than Windham himself might choose totell. 

But for his own part he was as frank and communicative as thoughWindham had been an old friend or a blood relation. He had been keptin New York too closely, he said, for the last twenty years, and nowwished to have a little breathing space and elbow-room. So he hadleft New York for San Francisco, partly on pleasure, partly onbusiness. He spent some months in California, and then crossed thePacific to China, touching at Honolulu and Nangasaki. He had leftdirections for his family to be sent on to Europe, and meet him at acertain time at Marseilles. He was expecting to find them there. Hehimself had gone from China to India, where he had taken a small tourthough the country, and then had embarked for Europe. Before goingback to America he expected to spend some time with his family inItaly, France, and Germany. 

There was a grandeur of view in this man's way of looking upon theworld which surprised Windham, and, to some degree, amused him. ForObed Chute regarded the whole world exactly as another man mightregard his native county or town; and spoke about going from SanFrancisco to Hong-Kong, touching at Nangasaki, just as another mightspeak of going from Liverpool to Glasgow, touching at Rothsay. Heseemed, in fact, to regard our planet as rather a small affair, easily traversed, and a place with which he was thoroughly familiar. He had written from San Francisco for his family to meet him atMarseilles, and now approached that place with the fullest confidencethat his family would be there according to appointment. This type ofman is entirely and exclusively the product of America, the countryof magnificent distances, and the place where Nature works on sogrand a scale that human beings insensibly catch her style ofexpression. Obed Chute was a man who felt in every fibre theoppressive weight of his country's grandeur. Yet so generous was hisnature that he forbore to overpower others by any allusions to thatgrandeur, except where it was absolutely impossible to avoid it. 

These two had gradually come to form a strong regard for one another, and Obed Chute did not hesitate to express his opinion about hisfriend. 

"I do not generally take to Britishers, " said he, once, "for they aretoo contracted, and never seem to me to have taken in a full breathof the free air of the universe. They seem usually to have been inthe habit of inhaling an enervating moral and intellectualatmosphere. But you suit me, you do. Young man, your hand. "

And grasping Windham's hand, Obed wrung it so heartily that he forcednearly all feeling out of it. 

"I suppose living in India has enabled me to breathe a broader moralatmosphere, " said Windham, with his usual melancholy smile. 

"I suppose so, " said Obed Chute. "Something has done it, any how. Youshowed it when the steamer was burning. "

"How?"

"By your eye. "

"Why, what effect can one's moral atmosphere have on one's eyes?"

"An enormous effect, " said Obed Chute. "It's the same in morals as innature. The Fellahs of the Nile, exposed as they are to the action ofthe hot rays of the sun, as they strike on the sand, are universallytroubled with ophthalmia. In our Mammoth Cave, in Kentucky, there isa subterranean lake containing fishes which have no eyes at all. Soit is in character and in morals. I will point you out men whose eyesare inflamed by the hot rays of passion; and others who show by theireyes that they have lived in moral darkness as dense as that of theKentucky cave. Take a thief. Do you not know him by his eye? It takesan honest man to look you in the face. "

"Yon have done a great many things, " said Windham, at another time. "Have you ever preached in your country?"

"No, " said Obed Chute, with a laugh; "but I've done better--I've beena stump orator; and stump oratory, as it is practiced in America, isa little the tallest kind of preaching that this green earth" (he wasfond of that expression) "has ever listened to. Our orb, Sir, hasseen strange experiences; but it is getting rayther astonished at theperformances of the American man. "

"Generally, " said Windham, "I do not believe in preaching so much asin practice; but when I see a man like you who can do both, I'mwilling to listen, even if it be a stump speech that I hear. Still, Ithink that you are decidedly greater with a revolver in the midst ofa crowd than you could be on a stump with a crowd before you. "

Obed Chute shook his head solemnly. 

"There, " said he, "is one of the pecooliarities of you Europeans. Youdon't understand our national ways and manners. We don't separatesaying and doing. With us every man who pretends to speak must beable to act. No man is listened to unless he is known to be capableof knocking down any one who interrupts him. In a country like oursspeaking and acting go together. The Stump and the Revolver are twogreat American forces--twin born--the animating power of the GreatRepublic. There's no help for it. It must be so. Why, if I giveoffense in a speech, I shall of course be called to accountafterward; and if I can't take care of myself and settle theaccount--why--where am I? Don't you see? Ours, Sir, is a singularstate of society; but it is the last development of the human race, and, of course, the best. "

Conversations like these diverted Windham and roused him from hisbrooding melancholy. Obed Chute's fancies were certainly whimsical;he had an odd love for paradox and extravagance; he seized the ideathat happened to suggest itself, and followed it out with a drygravity and a solemn air of earnestness which made all that he saidseem like his profound conviction. Thus in these conversationsWindham never failed to receive entertainment, and to be roused fromhis preoccupying cares. 

[Illustration. ]

CHAPTER XXX. 

PICKED UP ADRIFT. 

Two days passed since the steamer left Naples, and they were now faron their way. On the morning of the third Windham came on deck at anearly hour. No one was up. The man at the wheel was the only onevisible. Windham looked around upon the glorious scene which the widesea unfolds at such a time. The sun had not yet risen, but all theeastern sky was tinged with red; and the wide waste of waters betweenthe ship and that eastern horizon was colored with the ruddy hueswhich the sky cast downward. But it was not this scene, magnificentthough it was, which attracted the thoughts of Windham as he stood onthe quarter-deck. His face was turned in that direction; but it waswith an abstracted gaze which took in nothing of the glories ofvisible nature. That deep-seated melancholy of his, which was alwaysvisible in his face and manner, was never more visible than now. Hestood by the taffrail in a dejected attitude and with a dejectedface--brooding over his own secret cares, finding nothing in this butfresh anxieties, and yet unable to turn his thoughts to any thingelse. The steamer sped through the waters, the rumble of hermachinery was in the air, the early hour made the solitude morecomplete. This man, whoever he was, did not look as though he weregoing to England on any joyous errand, but rather like one who wasgoing home to the performance of some mournful duty which was neverabsent from his thoughts. 

Standing thus with his eyes wandering abstractedly over the water, hebecame aware of an object upon its surface, which attracted hisattention and roused him from his meditations. It struck him as verysingular. It was at some considerable distance off, and the steamerwas rapidly passing it. It was not yet sufficiently light todistinguish it well, but he took the ship's glass and lookedcarefully at it. He could now distinguish it more plainly. It was aschooner with its sails down, which by its general position seemed tobe drifting. It was very low in the water, as though it were eithervery heavily laden or else water-logged. But there was one thingthere which drew all his thoughts. By the foremast, as he looked, hesaw a figure standing, which was distinctly waving something as if toattract the attention of the passing steamer. The figure looked likea woman. A longer glance convinced him that it was so in very deed, and that this lonely figure was some woman in distress. It seemed toappeal to himself and to himself alone, with that mute yet eloquentsignal, and those despairing gestures. A strange pang shot throughhis heart--a pang sharp and unaccountable--something more than thatwhich might be caused by any common scene of misery; it was a pang ofdeep pity and profound sympathy with this lonely sufferer, from whomthe steamer's course was turned away, and whom the steersman had notregarded. He only had seen the sight, and the woman seemed to call tohim out of her despair. The deep sea lay between; her presence was amystery; but there seemed a sort of connection between him and heras though invisible yet resistless Fate had shown them to oneanother, and brought him here to help and to save. It needed but aninstant for all these thoughts to flash through his mind. In aninstant he flew below and roused the captain, to whom in a fewhurried words he explained what had occurred. 

The captain, who was dressed, hurried up and looked for himself. Butby this time the steamer had moved away much further, and the captaincould not see very distinctly any thing more than the outline of aboat. 

"Oh, it's only a fishing-boat, " said he, with an air of indifference. 

"Fishing-boat! I tell you it is an English yacht, " said Windham, fiercely. "I saw it plainly. The sails were down. It waswater-logged. A woman was standing by the foremast. "

The captain looked annoyed. 

"It looks to me, " said he, "simply like some heavily laden schooner. "

"But I tell you she is sinking, and there is a woman on board, " saidWindham, more vehemently than ever. 

"Oh, it's only some Neapolitan fish-wife. "

"You must turn the steamer, and save her, " said Windham, with savageemphasis. 

"I can not. We shall be behind time. "

"Damn time!" roared Windham, thoroughly roused. "Do you talk of timein comparison with the life of a human being? If you don't turn thesteamer's head, _I_ will. "

"You!" cried the captain, angrily. "Damn it! if it comes to that, I'dlike to see you try it. It's mutiny. "

Windham's face grew white with suppressed indignation. 

"Turn the steamer's head, " said he, in stern cold tones, from whichevery trace of passion had vanished. "If you don't, I'll do itmyself. If you interfere, I'll blow your brains out. As it is, you'llrue the day you ever refused. Do you know who I am?"

He stepped forward, and whispered in the captain's ear some wordswhich sent a look of awe or fear into the captain's face. WhetherWindham was the president of the company, or some British embassador, or one of the Lords of the Admiralty, or any one else in highauthority, need not be disclosed here. Enough to say that the captainhurried aft, and instantly the steamer's head was turned. 

As for Windham, he took no further notice of the captain, but all hisattention was absorbed by the boat. It seemed water-logged, yet stillit was certainly not sinking, for as the steamer drew nearer, thelight had increased, and he could see plainly through the glass thatthe boat was still about the same distance out of the water. 

Meanwhile Obed Chute made his appearance, and Windham, catching sightof him, briefly explained every thing to him. At once all Obed's mostgenerous sympathies were roused. He took the glass, and eagerlyscrutinized the vessel. He recognized it at once, as Windham had, tobe an English yacht; he saw also that it was waterlogged, and he sawthe figure at the mast. But the figure was no longer standing erect, or waving hands, or making despairing signals. It had fallen, and laynow crouched in a heap at the foot of the mast. This Windham alsosaw. He conjectured what the cause of this might be. He thought thatthis poor creature had kept up her signals while the steamer waspassing, until at last it had gone beyond, and seemed to be leavingher. Then hope and strength failed, and she sank down senseless. Itwas easy to understand all this, and nothing could be conceived ofmore touching in its mute eloquence than this prostrate figure, whosedistant attitudes had told so tragical a story. Now all this excitedWindham still more, for he felt more than ever that he was the saviorof this woman's life. Fate had sent her across his path--had givenher life to him. He only had been the cause why she should not perishunseen and unknown. This part which he had been called on to play ofsavior and rescuer--this sudden vision of woe and despair appealingto his mercy for aid--had chased away all customary thoughts, so thatnow his one idea was to complete his work, and save this poorcastaway. 

But meanwhile he had not been idle. The captain, who had been sostrangely changed by a few words, had called up the sailors, and inan instant the fact was known to the whole ship's company that theywere going to save a woman in distress. The gallant fellows, liketrue sailors, entered into the spirit of the time with the greatestardor. A boat was got ready to be lowered, Windham jumped in, Chutefollowed, and half a dozen sailors took the oars. In a short time thesteamer had come up to the place. She stopped; the boat was lowered;down went the oars into the water; and away sped the boat toward theschooner. Obed Chute steered. Windham was in the bow, looking eagerlyat the schooner, which lay there in the same condition as before. Thesun was now just rising, and throwing its radiant beams over the sea. The prostrate figure lay at the foot of the mast. 

Rapidly the distance between the boat and the schooner was lessenedby the vigorous strokes of the seamen. They themselves felt aninterest in the result only less than that of Windham. Nearer andnearer they came. At length the boat touched the schooner, andWindham, who was in the bow, leaped on board. He hurried to theprostrate figure. He stooped down, and with a strange unaccountabletenderness and reverence he took her in his arms and raised her up. Perhaps it was only the reverence which any great calamity may excitetoward the one that experiences such calamity; perhaps it wassomething more profound, more inexplicable--the outgoing of thesoul--which may sometimes have a forecast of more than may beindicated to the material senses. This may seem like mysticism, butit is not intended as such. It is merely a statement of thewell-known fact that sometimes, under certain circumstances, therearise within us unaccountable presentiments and forebodings, whichseem to anticipate the actual future. 

Windham then stooped down, and thus tenderly and reverently raised upthe figure of the woman. The sun was still rising and gleaming overthe waters, and gleaming thus, it threw its full rays into the faceof the one whom he held supported in his arms, whose head was thrownback as it lay on his breast, and was upturned so that he could seeit plainly. 

And never, in all his dreams, had any face appeared before him whichbore so rare and radiant a beauty as this one of the mysteriousstranger whom he had rescued. The complexion was of a rich olive, andstill kept its hue where another would have been changed to thepallor of death; the closed eyes were fringed with long heavy lashes;the eyebrows were thin, and loftily arched; the hair was full ofwaves and undulations, black as night, gleaming with its jetty glossin the sun's rays, and in its disorder falling in rich luxuriantmasses over the arms and the shoulder of him who supported her. Thefeatures were exquisitely beautiful; her nose a slight departure fromthe Grecian; her lips small and exquisitely shapen; her chin roundedfaultlessly. The face was thinner than it might have been, like theface of youth and beauty in the midst of sorrow; but the thinness wasnot emaciation; it had but refined and spiritualized those matchlessoutlines, giving to them not the voluptuous beauty of the Greekideal, but rather the angelic or saintly beauty of the medieval. Shewas young too, and the bloom and freshness of youth were therebeneath all the sorrow and the grief. More than this, the refinedgrace of that face, the nobility of those features, the stamp of highbreeding which was visible in every lineament, showed at once thatshe could be no common person. This was no fisherman's wife--nopeasant girl, but some one of high rank and breeding--some one whosedress proclaimed her station, even if her features had told himnothing. 

"My God!" exclaimed Windham, in bewilderment. "Who is she? How cameshe here? What is the meaning of it?"

But there was no time to be lost in wonder or in vague conjectures. The girl was senseless. It was necessary at once to put her undercareful treatment. For a moment Windham lingered, gazing upon thatsad and exquisite face; and then raising her in his arms, he wentback to the boat. "Give way, lads!" he cried; and the sailors, whosaw it all, pulled with a will. They were soon back again. Thesenseless one was lifted into the steamer. Windham carried her in hisown arms to the cabin, and placed her tenderly in a berth, andcommitted her to the care of the stewardess. Then he waitedimpatiently for news of her recovery. 

Obed Chute, however, insisted on going back to the schooner for thesake of making a general investigation of the vessel. On going onboard he found that she was water-logged. She seemed to have beenkept afloat either by her cargo, or else by some peculiarity in herconstruction, which rendered her incapable of sinking. He tore openthe hatchway, and pushing an oar down, he saw that there was nocargo, so that it must have been the construction of the vessel whichkept her afloat. What that was, he could not then find out. He wascompelled, therefore, to leave the question unsettled for thepresent, and he took refuge in the thought that the one who wasrescued might be able to solve the mystery. This allayed for a timehis eager curiosity. But he determined to save the schooner, so as toexamine it afterward at his leisure. A hasty survey of the cabins, into which he plunged, showed nothing whatever, and so he wascompelled to postpone this for the present. But he had a line madefast between the steamer and the schooner, and the latter was thustowed all the way to Marseilles. It showed no signs of sinking, butkept afloat bravely, and reached the port of destination in about thesame condition in which it had been first found. 

The stewardess treated the stranger with the utmost kindness and thetenderest solicitude, and, at length, the one who had thus been sostrangely rescued came out of that senselessness into which she hadbeen thrown by the loss of the hope of rescue. On reviving she told abrief story. She said that she was English, that her name was Lorton, and that she had been traveling to Marseilles in her own yacht. Thatthe day before, on awaking, she found the yacht full of water andabandoned. She had been a day and a night alone in the vessel, without either food or shelter. She had suffered much, and was inextreme prostration, both of mind and body. But her strongest desirewas to get to Naples, for her sister was there in ill health, and shehad been making the journey to visit her. 

[Illustration: Windham Tenderly And Reverently Raised Her. ]

Windham and Obed Chnte heard this very strange narrative from thestewardess, and talked it over between themselves, considering it inall its bearings. The opinion of each of them was that there had beenfoul play somewhere. But then the question arose: why should therehave been foul play upon an innocent young girl like this? She was anEnglish lady, evidently of the higher classes; her look was certainlyforeign, but her English accent was perfect. In her simple story sheseemed to have concealed nothing. The exquisite beauty of the younggirl had filled the minds of both of these men with a strong desireto find out the cause of her wrongs, and to avenge her. But how to doso was the difficulty. Windham had important business in Englandwhich demanded immediate attention, and would hardly allow him todelay more than a few days. Obed Chute, on the contrary, had plentyof time, but did not feel like trying to intrude himself on herconfidence. Yet her distress and desolation had an eloquence whichswayed both of these men from their common purposes, and eachdetermined to postpone other designs, and do all that was possiblefor her. 

In spite of an hour's delay in rescuing Miss Lorton, the steamerarrived at Marseilles at nearly the usual time, and the questionarose, what was to be done with the one that they had rescued?Windham could do nothing; but Obed Chute could do something, and diddo it. The young lady was able now to sit up in the saloon, and hereit was that Obed Chute waited upon her. 

"Have you any friends in Marseilles?" he asked, in a voice full ofkindly sympathy. 

"No, " said Zillah, in a mournful voice; "none nearer than Naples. "

"I have my family here, ma'am, " said Obed. "I am an American and agentleman. If you have no friends, would you feel any objection tostay with us while you are here? My family consists of my sister, twochildren, and some servants. We are going to Italy as soon aspossible, and if you have no objection we can take you there withus--to Naples--to your sister. "

Zillah looked up at the large honest face, whose kindly eyes beameddown upon her with parental pity, and she read in that face theexpression of a noble and loyal nature. 

"You are very--very kind, " said she, in a faltering voice. "You willlay me under very great obligations. Yes, Sir, I accept your kindoffer. I shall be only too happy to put myself under your protection. I will go with you, and may Heaven bless you!"

She held out her hand toward him. Obed Chute took that little hand inhis, but restrained his great strength, and only pressed it lightly. 

Meanwhile Windham had come in to congratulate the beautiful girl, whose face had been haunting him ever since that time when the sunlighted it up, as it lay amidst its glory of ebon hair upon hisbreast. He heard these last words, and stood apart, modestly awaitingsome chance to speak. 

Zillah raised her face. 

Their eyes met in a long earnest gaze. 

Zillah was the first to speak. "You saved me from a fearful fate, "she said, in low and tremulous tones. "I heard all about it. "

Windham said nothing, but bowed in silence. 

Zillah rose from her chair, and advanced toward him, her faceexpressing strong emotion. Now he saw, for the first time, herwondrous eyes, in all their magnificence of beauty, with their deepunfathomable meaning, and their burning intensity of gaze. On theschooner, while her head lay on his breast, those eyes were closedin senselessness--now they were fixed on his. 

"Will you let me thank you, Sir, " she said, in a voice which thrilledthrough him in musical vibrations, "for my _life_, which you snatchedfrom a death of horror? To thank you, is but a cold act. Believe me, you have my everlasting gratitude. "

She held out her hand to Windham. He took it in both of his, andreverentially raised it to his lips. A heavy sigh burst from him, andhe let it fall. 

"Miss Lorton, " said he, in his deep musical voice, which now trembledwith an agitation to which he was unused, "if I have been the meansof saving you from any evil, my own joy is so great that no thanksare needed from you: or, rather, all thankfulness ought to belong tome. "

A deep flush overspread Zillah's face. Her large dark eyes for amoment seemed to read his inmost soul. Then she looked down insilence. 

As for Windham, he turned away with something like abruptness, andleft her with Obed Chute. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE PREFECT OF POLICE. 

Obed Chute had requested his business agents, Messrs. BourdonnaisFrčres, to obtain a suitable place for his family on their arrival. He went first to their office, and learned that the family were thenin Marseilles, and received their address. He then went immediatelyfor Zillah, and brought her with him. The family consisted of twosmall girls, aged respectively eight and ten, two maids, a nurse, anda valet or courier, or both combined. A sister of Obed's had theresponsibility of the party. 

Delight at getting among any friends would have made this partywelcome to her; but Miss Chute's thorough respectability made herposition entirely unobjectionable. Obed Chute's feelings were not ofa demonstrative character. He kissed his sister, took each of hislittle girls up in his arms, and held them there for about an hour, occasionally walking up and down the room with them, and talking tothem all the time. He had brought presents from all parts of theworld for every member of his family, and when at length they weredisplayed, the children made the house ring with their rejoicings. Zillah was soon on a home footing with this little circle. MissChute, though rather sharp and very angular, was still thoroughlykind-hearted, and sympathized deeply with the poor waif whomProvidence had thrown under her protection. Her kind care andunremitting attention had a favorable effect; and Zillah grew rapidlybetter, and regained something of that strength which she had lostduring the terrors of her late adventure. She was most anxious to goto Naples; but Obed told her that she would have to wait for the nextsteamer, which would prolong her stay in Marseilles at least afortnight. 

As soon as Obed had seen Zillah fairly settled in the bosom of hisfamily, he set out to give information to the police about the wholematter. His story was listened to with the deepest attention. Windham, who was present, corroborated it; and finally the thing wasconsidered to be of such importance that the chief of policedetermined to pay Zillah a visit on the following day, for the sakeof finding out the utmost about so mysterious an affair. Thisofficial spoke English very well indeed, and had spent all his lifein the profession to which he belonged. 

Both Obed Chute and Windham were present at the interview which thechief of police had with Zillah, and heard all that she had to say inanswer to his many questions. The chief began by assuring her thatthe case was a grave one, both as affecting her, and also asaffecting France, and more particularly Marseilles. He apologized forbeing forced to ask a great many questions, and hoped that she wouldunderstand his motives, and answer freely. 

Zillah told her story in very much the same terms that she had toldit on board the steamer. Her father had died some years ago, shesaid. She and her sister had been living together in various parts ofEngland. Their last home was Tenby. She then gave a minute account ofthe accident which had happened to Hilda, and showed the letter whichhad been written from Naples. This the chief of police scanned verycuriously and closely, examining the envelope, the post-marks, andthe stamps. 

Zillah then proceeded to give an account of her journey until thearrival at Marseilles. She told him of the confusion which hadprevailed, and how the mail steamers had been taken off the route, how Gualtier had found a yacht and purchased it for her, and howMathilde had deserted her. Then she recounted her voyage up to thetime when she had seen the steamer, and had fallen prostrate at thefoot of the mast. 

"What was the date of your arrival at Marseilles?" asked the chief, after long thought. 

Zillah informed him. 

"Who is Gualtier?"

"He is a teacher of music and drawing. "

"Where does he live?"

"In London. "

"Do you know any thing about his antecedents?"

"No. "

"Have you known him long?"

"Yes; for five years. "

"Has he generally enjoyed your confidence?"

"I never thought much about him, one way or the other. My fatherfound him in London, and brought him to instruct me. Afterward--"

Zillah hesitated. She was thinking of Chetwynde. 

"Well--afterward--?"

"Afterward, " said Zillah, "that is, after my father's death, he stillcontinued his instructions. "

"Did he teach your sister also?"

"Yes. "

"Your sister seems to have had great confidence in him, judging fromher letter?"

"Yes. "

"Did she ever make use of his services before?"

"No. "

"Might she not have done so?"

"I don't see how. No occasion ever arose. "

"Why, then, did she think him so trustworthy, do you suppose?"

"Why, I suppose because he had been known to us so long, and had beenapparently a humble, devoted, and industrious man. We were quitesolitary always. We had no friends, and so I suppose she thought ofhim. It would have been quite as likely, if I were in her situation, that I would have done the same--that is, if I had her cleverness. "

"Your sister is clever, then?"

"Very clever indeed. She has always watched over me like a--like amother, " said Zillah, while tears stood in her eyes. 

"Ah!" said the chief; and for a time he lost himself in thought. 

"How many years is it, " he resumed, "since your father died?"

"About five years. "

"How long was this Gualtier with you before his death?"

"About six months. "

"Did your father ever show any particular confidence in him?"

"No. He merely thought him a good teacher, and conscientious in hiswork. He never took any particular notice of him. "

"What was your father?"

"A landed gentleman. "

"Where did he live?"

"Sometimes in Berks, sometimes in London, " said Zillah, in generalterms. But the chief did not know any thing about English geography, and did not pursue this question any further. It would have resultedin nothing if he had done so, for Zillah was determined, at allhazards, to guard her secret. 

"Did you ever notice Gualtier's manner?" continued the chief, afteranother pause. 

"No; I never paid any attention to him, nor ever took any particularnotice of any thing about him. He always seemed a quiet andinoffensive kind of a man. "

"What do you think of him now?"

"I can scarcely say what. He is a villain, of course; but why, orwhat he could gain by it, is a mystery. "

"Do you remember any thing that you can now recall which in any waylooks like villainy?"

"No, not one thing; and that is the trouble with me. "

"Did he ever have any quarrel of any kind with any of you?"

"Never. "

"Was any thing ever done which he could have taken as an insult or aninjury?"

"He was never treated in any other way than with the most scrupulouspoliteness. My father, my sister, and myself were all incapable oftreating him in any other way. "

"What was your sister's usual manner toward him?"

"Her manner? Oh, the usual dignified courtesy of a lady to aninferior. "

"Did he seem to be a gentleman?"

"A gentleman? Of course not. "

"He could not have imagined himself slighted, then, by anyhumiliation?"

"Certainly not. "

"Could Gualtier have had any knowledge of your pecuniary affairs?"

"Possibly--in a general way. "

[Illustration: Interview Between The Chief Of Police And Zillah. ]

"You are rich, are you not?"

"Yes. "

"Might he not have had some design on your money?"

"I have thought of that; but there are insuperable difficulties. There is, first, my sister; and, again, even if she had not escaped, how could he ever get possession of the property?"

The chief did not answer this. He went on to ask his own questions. 

"Did you ever hear of the loss of any of your money in any way--bytheft, or by forgery?"

"No. "

"Did any thing of the kind take place in your father's lifetime?"

"Nothing of the kind whatever. "

"Do you know any thing about the antecedents of your maid Mathilde?"

"No; nothing except what little information she may have volunteered. I never had any curiosity about the matter. "

"What is her full name?"

"Mathilde Louise Grassier. "

"Where does she belong?"

"She said once that she was born in Rouen; and I suppose she wasbrought up there, too, from her frequent references to that place. Ibelieve she went from there to Paris, as lady's-maid in an Englishfamily, and from thence to London. "

"How did you happen to get her?"

"My father obtained her for me in London. "

"What is her character? Is she cunning?"

"Not as far as I have ever seen. She always struck me as being quiteweak out of her own particular department. She was an excellentlady's-maid, but in other respects quite a child. "

"Might she not have been very deep, nevertheless?"

"It is possible. I am not much of a judge of character; but, as faras I could see, she was simply a weak, good-natured creature. I don'tthink she would willingly do wrong; but I think she might be veryeasily terrified or persuaded. I think her flight from me was thework of Gualtier. "

"Did she ever have any thing to do with him?"

"I never saw them together; in fact, whenever he was in the house shewas always in my room. I don't see how it is possible that therecould have been any understanding between them. For several years shewas under my constant supervision, and if any thing of the kind hadhappened I would certainly recall it now, even if I had not noticedit at the time. "

"Did you ever have any trouble with Mathilde?"

"None whatever. "

"Weak natures are sometimes vengeful. Did Mathilde ever experienceany treatment which might have excited vengeful feelings?"

"She never experienced any thing but kindness. "

"Did your sister treat her with the same kindness?"

"Oh yes--quite so. "

"When she lived in England did she ever speak about leaving you, andgoing back to France?"

"No, never. "

"She seemed quite contented then?"

"Quite. "

"But she left you very suddenly at last. How do you account forthat?"

"On the simple grounds that she found herself in her own country, anddid not wish to leave it; and then, also, her dread of a sea voyage. But, in addition to this, I think that Gualtier must have worked uponher in some way. "

"How? By bribery?"

"I can scarcely think that, for she was better off with me. Hersituation was very profitable. "

"In what way, then, could he have worked upon her? By menaces?"

"Perhaps so. "

"But how? Can you think of any thing in your situation which would, by any possibility, put any one who might be your maid in any danger, or in any fear of some imaginary danger?"

At this question Zillah thought immediately of her assumed name, andthe possibility that Gualtier might have reminded Mathilde of this, and terrified her in some way. But she could not explain this; and soshe said, unhesitatingly, "No. "

The chief of police was now silent and meditative for some time. 

"Your sister, " said he at length--"how much older is she than you?"

"About four years. "

"You have said that she is clever?"

"She is very clever. "

"And that she manages the affairs?"

"Altogether. I know nothing about them. I do not even know the amountof my income. She keeps the accounts, and makes all the purchases andthe payments--that is, of course, she used to. "

"What is her character otherwise? Is she experienced at all in theworld, or is she easily imposed upon?"

"She is very acute, very quick, and is thoroughly practical. "

"Do you think she is one whom it would be easy to impose upon?"

"I know that such a thing would be extremely difficult. She is one ofthose persons who acquire the ascendency wherever she goes. She isfar better educated, far more accomplished, and far more clever thanI am, or can ever hope to be. She is clear-headed and clear-sighted, with a large store of common-sense. To impose upon her would bedifficult, if not impossible. She is very quick to discerncharacter. "

"And yet she trusted this Gualtier?"

"She did; and that is a thing which is inexplicable to me. I can onlyaccount for it on the ground that she had known him so long, and hadbeen so accustomed to his obsequiousness and apparentconscientiousness, that her usual penetration was at fault. I thinkshe trusted him, as I would have done, partly because there was noother, and partly out of habit. "

"What did you say was the name of the place where you were livingwhen your sister met with her accident?"

"Tenby. "

"Was Gualtier living in the place?"

"No. "

"Where was he?"

"In London. "

"How did your sister know that he was there?"

"I can not tell. "

"Did you know where he was?"

"I knew nothing about him. But my sister managed our affairs; andwhen Gualtier left us I dare say he gave his address to my sister, incase of our wanting his services again. "

"You dismissed Gualtier, I suppose, because you had no longer needfor his services?"

"Yes. "

"You say that she never treated him with any particular attention?"

"On the contrary, she never showed any thing but marked hauteurtoward him. I was indifferent--she took trouble to be dignified. "

"Have you any living relatives?"

"No--none. "

"Neither on the father's side nor the mother's?"

"No. "

"Have you no guardian?"

"At my father's death there was a guardian--a nominal one--but heleft the country, and we have never seen him since. "

"He is not now in England, then?"

"No. "

The chief of police seemed now to have exhausted his questions. Herose, and, with renewed apologies for the trouble which he had given, left the room. Obed and Windham followed, and the former invited himto the library--a room which was called by that name from the factthat there was a book-shelf in it containing a few French novels. Here they sat in silence for a time, and at length the chief began totell his conclusions. 

"I generally keep my mind to myself, " said he, "but it is verynecessary for you to know what I conceive to be the present aspect ofthis very important case. Let us see, then, how I will analyze it. 

"In the first place, remark the _position of the girls_. 

"Two young inexperienced girls, rich, alone in the world, without anyrelatives or any connections, managing their own affairs, living indifferent places--such is the condition of the principals in thismatter. The guardian whom their father left has disappeared--goneperhaps to America, perhaps to India--no matter where. He is out oftheir reach. 

"These are the ones with whom this Gualtier comes in contact. He isapparently a very ordinary man, perhaps somewhat cunning, and nodoubt anxious to make his way in the world. He is one of those menwho can be honest as long as he is forced to be; but, who, the momentthe pressure is taken off, can perpetrate crime for his owninterests, without pity or remorse. I know the typewell--cold-blooded, cunning, selfish, hypocritical, secretive, without much intellect, cowardly, but still, under certaincircumstances, capable of great boldness. So Gualtier seems to me. 

"He was in constant connection with these girls for five or sixyears. During that time he must have learned all about them and theiraffairs. He certainly must have learned how completely they wereisolated, and how rich they were. Yet I do not believe that he everhad any thought during all that time of venturing upon any plotagainst them. 

"It was Fate itself that threw into his hands an opportunity thatcould not be neglected, For mark you, what an unparalleledopportunity it was. One of these sisters--the elder, the manager ofaffairs, and guardian of the other--meets with an accident soextraordinary that it would be incredible, were it not told in herown handwriting. She finds herself in Naples, ill, friendless, butrecently saved from death. She can not travel to join her sister, soshe writers to her sister to come to her in Naples. But how can thatyoung sister come? It is a long journey, and difficult for afriendless girl. She has no friends, so the elder Miss Lorton thinksvery naturally of the faithful music-teacher, whom she has known forso long, and is now in London. She writes him, telling him the stateof affairs, and no doubt offers him a significant sum of money toreward him giving up his practice for a time. The same say that hersister received her letter, he also receives his. 

"Can you not see what effect this startling situation would have onsuch a man? Here, in brief, he could see a chance for making hisfortune, and getting possession of the wealth of these two. By makingway with them, one after the other, it could easily be done. He hadno pity in his nature, and no conscience in particular to troublehim. Nor were there any fears of future consequences to deter him. These friendless girls would never be missed. They could pass awayfrom the scene, and no avenger could possibly rise up to demand anaccount of them at his hands. No doubt he was forming his plans fromthe day of the receipt of the letter all the way to Marseilles. 

"Now, in the plot which he formed and carried out, I see severalsuccessive steps. 

"The first step, of course, was to get rid of the maid Mathilde. MissLorton's description of her enables of to see how easily this couldbe accomplished. She was a timid creature, who does not seem to havebeen malicious, nor does she seem to have any idea of fidelity. Gualitier may either have cajoled her, or terrified her. It is alsopossible he may have bought her. This may afterward be known when wefind the woman herself. 

"The next step is evident. It was to get rid of the younger MissLorton, with whom he was traveling. It was easy to do this on accountof her friendlessness and inexperience. How he succeeded in doing itwe have heard from her own lips. He trumped up that story about thesteamers not running, and obtained her consent to go in yacht. This, of course, placed her alone in his power. He picked up a crew ofscoundrels, set sail, and on the second night scuttled the vessel, and fled. Something prevented the vessel from sinking, and hisintended victim was saved. 

"Now what is the third step?

"Of course there can only be one thing, and that third step will bean attempt of a similar kind against the elder Miss Lorton. If it isnot too late to guard against this we must do so at once. He isprobably with her now. He can easily work upon her. He can representto her that her sister is ill at Marseilles, and induce her to comehere. He can not deceive her about the steamers, but he may happen tofind her just after the departure of the steamer, and she, in herimpatience, may consent to go in a sailing vessel, to meet the samefate which he designed for her sister. 

"After this, to complete my analysis of this man's proceedings, thereremains the fourth step. 

"Having got rid of the sisters, the next purpose will be to obtaintheir property. Now if he is left to himself he will find this veryeasy. 

"I have no doubt that he has made himself fully acquainted with alltheir investments; or, if he has not, he will find enough amongtheir papers, which will now be open to him. He can correspond withtheir agents, or forge drafts, or forge a power of attorney forhimself, and thus secure gradually a control of it all. There aremany ways be which a man in his situation can obtain all that hewishes. Their bankers seem to be purely business agents, and theyhave apparently no one who takes a deeper interest in them. 

"And now the thing to be done is to head him off. This may be done invarious ways. 

"First, to prevent the fulfillment of his design on the elder MissLorton, I can send off a message at once to the Neopolitangovernment, and obtain the agency of the Neapolitan police to securehis arrest. If he is very prompt he may have succeeded in leavingNaples with his victim before this; but there is a chance that he isresting on his oars, and, perhaps, deferring the immediateprosecution of the third step. 

"Secondly, I must put my machinery to work to discover the maidMathilde, and secure her arrest. She will be a most important witnessin the case. If she is a partner in Gualtier's guilt, she can clearup the whole mystery. 

"Thirdly, we must have information of all this sent to Miss Lorton'sbankers in London, and her solicitors, so as to prevent Gualtier fromaccomplishing his fourth step, and also in order to secure theirco-operation in laying a trap for him which will certainly insure hiscapture. 

"As for the younger Miss Lorton, she had better remain in Marseillesfor six or eight weeks, so that if the elder Miss Lorton shouldescape she may find her here. Meantime the Neapolitan police willtake care of her, if she is in Naples, and communicate to her whereher sister is, so that she can join her, or write her. At any rate, Miss Lorton must be persuaded to wait here till he hears from hersister, or of her. "

Other things were yet to be done before the preliminary examinationscould be completed. 

The first was the examination of the man who had disposed of theyacht to Gualtier. He was found without any difficulty, and broughtbefore the chief. It seems he was a common broker, who had bought thevessel at auction, on speculation, because the price was so low. Heknew nothing whatever about nautical matters, and hated the sea. Hehad hardly ever been on board of her, and had never examined her. Hemerely held her in his possession till he could find a chance ofselling her. He had sold her for more than double the money that hehad paid for her, and thought the speculation had turned out verygood. Nothing had ever been told him as to any peculiarity in theconstruction of the yacht. As far as he knew, the existence of suchcould not have been found out. 

On being asked whether the purchaser had assigned any reason forbuying the vessel, he said no; and from that fact the chief seemed toform a more respectful opinion of Gualtier than he had hithertoappeared to entertain. Common cunning would have been profuse instating motives, and have given utterance to any number of lies. ButGualtier took refuge in silence. He bought the vessel, and saidnothing about motives or reasons. And, indeed, why should he havedone so?

Obed and Windham visited the yacht, in company with the chief. Shewas in the dry dock, and the water had flowed out from her, leavingher open for inspection. Zillah's trunks were taken out and conveyedto her, though their contents were not in a condition which mightmake them of any future value. Still, all Zillah's jewelry was there, and all the little keepsakes which had accumulated during her pastlife. The recovery of her trunks gave her the greatest delight. 

A very careful examination of the yacht was made by the chief ofpolice and his two companions. In front was a roomy forecastle; inthe stern was a spacious cabin, with an after-cabin adjoining;between the two was the hold. On close examination, however, an ironbulkhead was found, which ran the whole length of the yacht on eachside. This had evidently been quite unknown to Gualtier. He and hiscrew had scuttled the vessel, leaving it, as they supposed, to sink;but she could not sink, for the air-tight compartments, like those ofa life-boat, kept her afloat. 

[Illustration. ]

CHAPTER XXXII. 

TOO MUCH TOGETHER. 

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

He, on his part, revealed to Zillah unmistakably the same profoundmelancholy which has already been mentioned. She tried to conjecturewhat it was, and thought of no other thing than the bereavement whichwas indicated by the sombre emblem on his hat. Between these twothere was never laughter, rarely levity; but their conversation, whenit turned even on trifles, was earnest and sincere. Day after daypassed, and each interview grew to be more pleasant than thepreceding one. Often Obed Chute joined in the conversation; but theirminds were of a totally different order from his; and never did theyfeel this so strongly as when some hard, dry, practical, andthoroughly sensible remark broke in upon some little delicate flightof fancy in which they had been indulging. 

One day Windham came to propose a ride. Zillah assented eagerly. Obeddid not care to go, as he was anxious to call on the chief of police. So Zillah and Windham rode out together into the country, and tookthe road by the sea coast, where it winds on, commanding magnificentsea views or sublime prospects of distant mountains at almost everyturning. Hitherto they had always avoided speaking of England. Eachseemed instinctively to shun the mention of that name; nor did eitherever seek to draw the other out on that subject. What might be therank of either at home, or the associations or connections, neitherever ventured to inquire. Each usually spoke on any subject of ageneral nature which seemed to come nearest. On this occasion, however, Windham made a first attempt toward speaking about himselfand his past. Something happened to suggest India. It was only with amighty effort that Zillah kept down an impulse to rhapsodize aboutthat glorious land, where all her childhood had been passed, andwhose scenes were still impressed so vividly upon her memory. Theeffort at self-restraint was successful; nor did she by any word showhow well known to her were those Indian scenes of which Windham wenton to speak. He talked of tiger hunts; of long journeys through thehot plain or over the lofty mountain; of desperate fights with savagetribes. At length he spoke of the Indian mutiny. He had been atDelhi, and had taken part in the conflict and in the triumph. Whatparticular part he had taken he did not say, but he seemed to havebeen in the thick of the fight wherever it raged. Carried away by theglorious recollections that crowded upon his memory, he rose to ahigher eloquence than any which he had before attempted. The passionof the fight came back. He mentioned by name glorious companions inarms. He told of heroic exploits--dashing acts of almost superhumanvalor, where human nature became ennobled and man learned thepossibilities of man. The fervid excitement that burned in his soulwas communicated to the fiery nature of Zillah, who was always soquick to catch the contagion of any noble emotion; his admiration forall that was elevated, and true and pure found an echo in the heartof her who was the daughter of General Pomeroy and the pupil of LordChetwynde. Having herself breathed all her life an atmosphere ofnoble sentiments, her nature exulted in the words of thishigh-souled, this chivalric man, who himself, fresh from a scenewhich had tried men's souls as they had not been tried for many anage, had shared the dangers and the triumphs of those who had foughtand conquered there. No, never before had Zillah known such hours asthese, where she was brought face to face with a hero whose eye, whose voice, whose manner, made her whole being thrill, and whosesentiments found an echo in her inmost soul. 

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

Yet in all Zillah's excitement of feeling she never asked anyquestions. No matter what might be the intensity of desire thatfilled her, she never forgot to restrain her curiosity. Had she notheard before of this regiment and that regiment from the letters ofGuy? Windham seemed to have been in many of the places mentioned inthose letters. This was natural, as he belonged to the army which hadtaken Delhi. But in addition to this there was another wonder--therewere those hill stations in which she had lived, of which Windhamspoke so familiarly. Of course--she thought after duereflection--every British officer in the north of India must befamiliar with places which are their common resort; but it affectedher strangely at first; for hearing him speak of them was likehearing one speak of home. 

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

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

Windham, however, said nothing of himself, so that Zillah might havesupposed, for all that he said, that he himself was one of thatpanic-stricken stricken crowd whom Obed Chute had reviled andthreatened. 

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

The days flew by like lightning. Zillah passed them in a kind ofdream. She only seemed awake when Windham came. When he left, all wasbarrenness and desolation. Time passed, but she thought nothing ofNaples. Obed had explained to her the necessity of waiting atMarseilles till fresh news should come from Hilda, and had beensurprised at the ease with which she had been persuaded to stay. Infact, for a time Hilda seemed to have departed out of the sphere ofher thoughts, into some distant realm where those thoughts neverwandered. She was content to remain here--to postpone her departure, and wait for any thing at all. Sometimes she thought of the end ofall this. For Windham must one day depart. This had to end. It couldnot last. And what then? Then? Ah then! She would not think of it. Calamities had fallen to her lot before, and it now appeared to herthat another calamity was to come--dark, indeed, and dreadful; worse, she feared, than others which she had braved in her young life. 

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

Another steamer had arrived from Naples, and yet another, but no wordcame from Hilda. Zillah had written to her address, explaining everything, but no answer came. The chief of police had received an answerto his original message, stating that the authorities at Naples woulddo all in their power to fulfill his wishes; but since then nothingfurther had been communicated. His efforts to search after Gualtierand Mathilde, in France, were quite unsuccessful. He urged Obed Chuteand Miss Lorton to wait still longer, until something definite mightbe found. Windham waited also. Whatever his English business was, hedeferred it. He was anxious, he said, to see how these efforts wouldturn out, and he hoped to be of use himself. 

Meanwhile Obed Chute had fitted up the yacht, and had obliteratedevery mark of the casualty with which she had met. In this the partysometimes sailed. Zillah might perhaps have objected to put her footon board a vessel which was associated with the greatest calamity ofher life; but the presence of Windham seemed to bring acounter-association which dispelled her mournful memories. She mightnot fear to trust herself in that vessel which had once almost beenher grave, with the man who had saved her from that grave. Windhamshowed himself a first-rate sailor. Zillah wondered greatly how hecould have added this to his other accomplishments, but did notventure to ask him. There was a great gulf between them; and to haveasked any personal question, however slight, would have been anattempt to leap that gulf. She dared not ask any thing. She herselfwas in a false position. She was living under an assumed name, andconstant watchfulness was necessary. The name "Lorton" had not yetbecome familiar to her ears. Often when addressed, she caught herselfthinking that some one else was spoken to. But after all, as to thequestion of Windham's seamanship, that was a thing which was not atall wonderful, since every Englishman of any rank is supposed to owna yacht, and to know all about it. 

Often Obed and his family went out with them; but often these twowent out alone. Perhaps there was a conventional impropriety in this;but neither Obed nor his sister thought of it; Windham certainly wasnot the one to regard it; and Zillah was willing to shut her eyes toit. And so for many days they were thrown together. Cruising thusover the Mediterranean, that glory of seas--the blue, the dark, thedeep--where the transparent water shows the sea depths far down, withall the wonders of the sea; where the bright atmosphere shows sharplydefined the outlines of distant objects--cruising here on theMediterranean, where France stretches out her hand to Italy; where onthe horizon the purple hills arise, their tops covered with a diademof snow; where the air breathes balm, and the tideless sea washesevermore the granite base of long mountain chains, evermore wearingaway and scattering the debris along the sounding beach. Cruisingover the Mediterranean--oh! what is there on earth equal to this?Here was a place, here was scenery, which might remain forever fixedin the memories of both of these, who now, day after day, under thesecloudless skies, drifted along. Drifting? Yes, it was drifting. Andwhere were they drifting to? Where? Neither of them asked. In fact, they were drifting nowhere; or, rather, they were drifting to thatpoint where fate would interpose, and sever them, to send them onwardupon their different courses. They might drift for a time; but, atlast, they must separate, and then--what? Would they ever againreunite? Would they ever again meet? Who might say?

Drifting!

Well, if one drifts any where, the Mediterranean is surely the bestplace; or, at least, the most favorable; for there all things combineto favor, in the highest degree, that state of moral "drifting" intowhich people sometimes fall. 

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

Windham said nothing. There was a pallor on the face of each of themas Obed told them his plan--telling it, too, with the air of one whois communicating the most joyful intelligence, and thinking nothingof the way in which such joyous news is received. Zillah made noobservation. Involuntarily her eyes sought those of Windham. She readin his face a depth of despair which was withouthope--profound--unalterable--unmovable. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

They rode home without speaking another word. 

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

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE AGENT'S REPORT. 

On the south coast of Hampshire there is a little village which lookstoward the Isle of Wight. It consists of a single street, and infront is a spacious beach which extends for miles. It is a charmingplace for those who love seclusion to pass the summer months in, forthe view is unsurpassed, and the chances for boating or yachtingexcellent. The village inn is comfortable, and has not yet beendemoralized by the influx of wealthy strangers, while there arenumerous houses where visitors may secure quiet accommodations and alarge share of comfort. 

[Illustration: "They Sat Down On Some Rocks That Rose Above TheSand. "]

It was about six weeks after the disappearance of Hilda, and about afortnight after Zillah's departure in search of her, that a man droveinto this village from Southampton up to a house which was at theextreme eastern end, and inquired for Miss Davis. He was asked tocome in; and after waiting for a few minutes in the snug parlor, alady entered. The slender and elegant figure, the beautiful features, and well-bred air of this lady, need not be again described to thosewho have already become acquainted with Miss Krieff. Nor needGualtier's personal appearance be recounted once more to those whohave already a sufficient acquaintance with his physiognomy. 

She shook hands with him in silence, and then, taking a chair andmotioning him to another, she sat for some time looking at him. Atlength she uttered one single word:

"Well?"

"It's done, " said Gualtier, solemnly. "It's all over. "

Hilda caught her breath--giving utterance to what seemed somethingbetween a sob and a sigh, but she soon recovered herself. 

Gualtier was sitting near to her. He leaned forward as Hilda sat insilence, apparently overcome by his intelligence, and in a lowwhisper he said:

"Do you not feel inclined to take a walk somewhere?"

Hilda said nothing, but, rising, she went up stairs, and in a fewminutes returned dressed for a walk. The two then set out, and Hildaled the way to the beach. Along the beach they walked for a longdistance, until at length they came to a place which was remote fromany human habitation. Behind was the open country, before them thesea, whose surf came rolling in in long, low swells, and on eitherside lay the beach. Here they sat down on some rocks that rose abovethe sand, and for some time said nothing. Hilda was the first tospeak. Before saying any thing, however, she looked all around, asthough to assure herself that they were out of the reach of alllisteners. Then she spoke, in a slow, measured voice:

"Is _she_ gone, then?"

"She is, " said Gualtier. 

There was another long silence. What Hilda's feelings were could notbe told by her face. To outward appearance she was calm and unmoved, and perhaps she felt so in her heart. It was possible that thethought of Zillah's death did not make her heart beat faster by onethrob, or give her one single approach to a pang of remorse. Hersilence might have been merely the meditation of one who, havingcompleted one part of a plan, was busy thinking about the completionof the remainder. And yet, on the other hand, it may have beensomething more than this. Zillah in life was hateful, but Zillah deadwas another thing; and if she had any softness, or any capacity forremorse, it might well have made itself manifest at such a time. Gualtier sat looking at her in silence, waiting for her to speakagain, attending on her wishes as usual; for this man, who could beso merciless to others, in her presence resigned all his will tohers, and seemed to be only anxious to do her pleasure, whatever itmight be. 

"Tell me about it, " said Hilda at length, without moving, and stillkeeping her eyes fixed abstractedly on the sea. 

Gualtier then began with his visit to Zillah at Tenby. He spoke ofZillah's joy at getting the letter, and her eager desire to be oncemore with her friend, and so went on till the time of their arrivalat Marseilles. He told how Zillah all the way could talk of nothingelse than Hilda; of her feverish anxiety to travel as fast aspossible; of her fearful anticipations that Hilda might have arelapse, and that after all she might be too late; how excited shegrew, and how despairing, when she was told that the steamers hadstopped running, and how eagerly she accepted his proposal to go onin a yacht. The story of such affectionate devotion might have movedeven the hardest heart, but Hilda gave no sign of any feelingwhatever. She sat motionless--listening, but saying nothing. WhetherGualtier himself was trying to test her feelings by telling sopiteous a story, or whether some remorse of his own, and somecompassion for so loving a heart, still lingering within him, forcedhim to tell his story in this way, can not be known. Whatever hismotives were, no effect was produced on the listener, as far asoutward signs were concerned. 

"With Mathilde, " said he, "I had some difficulty. She was veryunwilling to leave her mistress at such a time to make a voyagealone, but she was a timid creature, and I was able to work upon herfears. I told her that her mistress had committed a crime against theEnglish laws in running away and living under an assumed name; thather husband was now in England, and would certainly pursue his wife, have her arrested, and punish severely all who had aided or abettedher. This terrified the silly creature greatly; and then, by theoffer of a handsome sum and the promise of getting her a goodsituation, I soothed her fears and gained her consent to desert hermistress. She is now in London, and has already gained a newsituation. "

"Where?" said Hilda, abruptly. 

"In Highgate Seminary, the place that I was connected with formerly. She is teacher of French, on a good salary. "

"Is that safe?" said Hilda, after some thought. 

"Why not?"

"She might give trouble. "

"Oh no. Her situation is a good one, and she need never leave it. "

"I can scarcely see how she can retain it long; she may be turnedout, and then--we may see something of her. "

"You forget that I am aware of her movements, and can easily put astop to any efforts of that kind. "

"Still I should be better satisfied if she were in France--orsomewhere. "

"Should you? Then I can get her a place in France, where you willnever hear of her again. "

Hilda was silent. 

"My plan about the yacht, " said Gualtier, "was made before I leftLondon. I said nothing to you about it, for I thought it might notsucceed. The chief difficulty was to obtain men devoted to myinterests. I made a journey to Marseilles first, and found out thatthere were several vessels of different sizes for sale. The yacht wasthe best and most suitable for our purposes, and, fortunately, itremained unsold till I had reached Marseilles again with _her_. Iobtained the men in London. It was with some difficulty, for it wasnot merely common ruffians that I wanted, but seamen who could sail avessel, and at the same time be willing to take part in the act whichI contemplated. I told them that all which was required of them wasto sail for two days or so, and then leave the vessel. I think theyimagined it was a plan to make money by insuring the vessel and thendeserting her. Such things are often done. I had to pay the rascalsheavily; but I was not particular, and, fortunately, they all turnedout to be of the right sort, except one--but no matter about him. "

"Except one!" said Hilda. "What do you mean by that?"

"I will explain after a while, " said Gualtier. 

"If she had not been so innocent, " said Gualtier, "I do not see howmy plan could have succeeded. But she knew nothing. She didn't evenknow enough to make inquiries herself. She accepted all that I saidwith the most implicit trust, and believed it all as though it wereGospel. It was, therefore, the easiest thing in the world to manageher. Her only idea was to get to you. "

Gualtier paused for a moment. 

"Go on, " said Hilda, coldly. 

"Well, all the preparations were made, and the day came. Mathilde hadleft. _She_ did not seem to feel the desertion much. She said nothingat all to me about the loss of her maid, although after three or fouryears of service it must have been galling to her to lose her maid soabruptly, and to get such a letter as that silly thing wrote at mydictation. She came on board, and seemed very much satisfied with allthe arrangements. I had done every thing that I could think of tomake it pleasant for her--on the same principle, I suppose, " headded, dryly, "that they have in jails--where they are sure to give agood breakfast to a poor devil on the morning of his execution. "

"You may as well omit allusions of that sort, " said Hilda, sternly. 

Gualtier made no observation, but proceeded with his narrative. 

"We sailed for two days, and, at length, came to within about fiftymiles of Leghorn. During all that time she had been cheerful, and wasmuch on deck. She tried to read, but did not seem able to do so. Sheseemed to be involved in thought, as a general thing; and, by theoccasional questions which she asked, I saw that all her thoughtswere about you and Naples. So passed the two days, and the secondnight came. "

Gualtier paused. 

Hilda sat motionless, without saying a word. Gualtier himself seemedreluctant to go on; but he had to conclude his narrative, and so heforced himself to proceed. 

"It was midnight"--he went on, in a very low voice--"it wasexceedingly dark. The day had been fine, but the sky was now alloverclouded. The sea, however, was comparatively smooth, and everything was favorable to the undertaking. The boat was all ready. Itwas a good-sized boat, which we had towed behind us. I had prepared amast and a sail, and had put some provisions in the locker. The menwere all expecting--"

"Never mind your preparations, " exclaimed Hilda, fiercely. "Omit allthat--go on, and don't kill me with your long preliminaries. "

"If you had such a story to tell, " said Gualtier, humbly, "you wouldbe glad to take refuge for a little while in preliminaries. "

Hilda said nothing. 

"It was midnight, " said Gualtier, resuming his story once more, andspeaking with perceptible agitation in the tones of his voice--"itwas midnight, and intensely dark. The men were at the bow, waiting. All was ready. In the cabin all had been still for some time. Herlights had been put out an hour previously--"

"Well?" said Hilda, with feverish impatience, as he again hesitated. 

"Well, " said Gualtier, rousing himself with a start from a momentaryabstraction into which he had fallen--"the first thing I did was togo down into the hold with some augers, and bore holes through thevessel's bottom. "

Another silence followed. 

"_Some_ augers, " said Hilda, after a time. "Did you need more thanone?"

"One might break. "

"Did any one go with you?" she persisted. 

"Yes--one of the men--the greatest ruffian of the lot. 'Black Bill, 'he was called. I've got something to tell you about him. I took himdown to help me, for I was afraid that I might not make a sure thingof it. Between us we did the job. The water began to rush in throughhalf a dozen holes, which we succeeded in making, and we got out ondeck as the yacht was rapidly filling. "

Again Gualtier paused for some time. 

"Why do you hesitate so?" asked Hilda, quite calmly. 

Gualtier looked at her for a moment, with something like surprise inhis face; but without making any reply, he went on:

"I hurried into the cabin and listened. There was no sound. I put myear close to the inner door. All was utterly and perfectly still. Shewas evidently sleeping. I then hurried out and ordered the men intothe boat. Before embarking myself I went back to the hold, andreached my hands down. I felt the water. It was within less thanthree feet of the deck. It had filled very rapidly. I then went onboard the boat, unfastened the line, and we pulled away, steeringeast, as nearly as possible toward Leghorn. We had rowed for abouthalf an hour, when I recollected that I ought to have locked thecabin door. But it was too late to return. We could never have foundthe schooner if we had tried. The night was intensely dark. Besides, by that time the schooner--_was at the bottom of the sea_. "

A long silence followed. Hilda looked steadily out on the water, andGualtier watched her with hungry eyes. At last, as though she felthis eyes upon her, she turned and looked at him. A great change hadcome over her face. It was fixed and rigid and haggard--her eyes hadsomething in them that was awful. Her lips were white--her face wasashen. She tried to speak, but at first no sound escaped. At last shespoke in a hoarse voice utterly unlike her own. 

"_She_ is gone, then. "

"_For evermore_!" said Gualtier. 

Hilda turned her stony face once more toward the sea, while Gualtierlooked all around, and then turned his gaze back to this woman forwhom he had done so much. 

"After a while"--he began once more, in a slow, dull voice--"the windcame up, and we hoisted sail. We went on our way rapidly, and by themiddle of the following day we arrived at Leghorn. I paid the men offand dismissed them. I myself came back to London immediately, overthe Alps, through Germany. I thought it best to avoid Marseilles. Ido not know what the men did with themselves; but I think that theywould have made some trouble for me if I had not hurried away. BlackBill said as much when I was paying them. He said that when he madethe bargain he thought it was only some 'bloody insurance business, 'and, if he had known what it was to have been, he would have made adifferent bargain. As it was, he swore I ought to double the amount Ihad promised. I refused, and we parted with some high words--hevowing vengeance, and I saying nothing. "

[Illustration: "Black Bill Has Kept On My Track. "]

"Ah!" said Hilda, who had succeeded in recovering something of herordinary calm, "that was foolish in you--you ought to have satisfiedtheir demands. "

"I have thought so since. "

"They may create trouble. You should have stopped their mouths. "

"That is the very thing I wished to do; but I was afraid of being toolavish, for fear that they would suspect the importance of the thing. I thought if I appeared mean and stingy and poor they might concludethat I was some very ordinary person, and that the affair was of avery ordinary kind--concerning very common people. If they suspectedthe true nature of the case they would be sure to inform the police. As it is, they will hold their tongues; or, at the worst, they willtry and track me. "

"Track you?" said Hilda, who was struck by something in Gualtier'stone. 

"Yes; the fact is--I suppose I ought to tell you--I have been trackedall the way from Leghorn. "

"By whom?"

"Black Bill--I don't know how he managed it, but he has certainlykept on my track. I saw him at Brieg, in Switzerland, first; next Isaw him in the railway station at Strasbourg; and yesterday I saw himin London, standing opposite the door of my lodgings, as I wasleaving for this place. "

"That looks bad, " said Hilda, seriously. 

"He is determined to find out what this business is, and so hewatches me. He doesn't threaten, he doesn't demand money--he issimply watching. His game is a deep one. "

"Do you suppose that the others are with him?"

"Not at all. I think he is trying to work this up for himself. "

"It is bad, " said Hilda. "How do you know that he is not in thisvillage?"

"As to that, it is quite impossible--and I never expect to see himagain, in fact. "

"Why not?"

"Because I have thrown him off the track completely. While I wasgoing straight to London it was easy for him to follow--especially asI did not care to dodge him on the continent; but now, if he evercatches sight of me again he is much deeper than I take him to be. "

"But perhaps he has followed you here. "

"That is impossible, " said Gualtier, confidently. "My mode of gettingaway from London was peculiar. As soon as I saw him opposite mylodgings my mind was made up; so I took the train for Bristol, andwent about forty miles, when I got out and came back; then I drove tothe Great Northern Station immediately, went north about twentymiles, and came back; after this I took the Southampton train, andcame down last night. It would be rather difficult for one man tofollow another on such a journey. As to my lodgings, I do not intendto go back. He will probably inquire, and find that I have left allmy things there, and I dare say he will watch that place for the nextsix months at least, waiting for my return. And so I think he may beconsidered as finally disposed of. "

"You do not intend to send for your things, then?"

"No. There are articles there of considerable value; but I will letthem all go--it will be taken as a proof that I am dead. My friendBlack Bill will hear of this, and fall in with that opinion. I mayalso arrange a 'distressing casualty' paragraph to insert in thepapers for his benefit. "

Hilda now relapsed into silence once more, and seemed to lose herselfin a fit of abstraction so profound that she was conscious of nothingaround her. Gualtier sat regarding her silently, and wonderingwhither her thoughts were tending. A long time passed. The surf wasrolling on the shore, the wind was blowing lightly and gently overthe sea; afar the blue water was dotted with innumerable sails; therewere ships passing in all directions, and steamers of all sizesleaving behind them great trails of smoke. 

Over two hours had passed since they first sat down here, and now, atlength, the tide, which had all the while been rising, began toapproach them, until at last the first advance waves came within afew inches of Hilda's feet. She did not notice it; but thisoccurrence gave Gualtier a chance to interrupt her meditations. 

"The tide is rising, " said he, abruptly; "the next wave will be up tous. We had better move. " It was with a start that Hilda rousedherself. Then she rose slowly, and walked up the beach with Gualtier. 

"I should like very much to know, " said he, at length, in aninsinuating voice, "if there is any thing more that I can do justnow. "

"I have been thinking, " said Hilda, without hesitation, "of my nextcourse of action, and I have decided to go back to Chetwynde atonce. "

"To Chetwynde!"

"Yes, and to-morrow morning. "

"To-morrow!"

"There is no cause for delay, " said Hilda. "The time has at last comewhen I can act. "

"To Chetwynde!" repeated Gualtier. "I can scarcely understand yourpurpose. "

"Perhaps not, " said Hilda, dryly; "it is one that need not beexplained, for it will not fail to reveal itself in the course oftime under any circumstances. "

"But you have some ostensible purpose for going there. You can not gothere merely to take up your abode on the old footing. "

"I do not intend to do that, " was the cool response. "You may be surethat I have a purpose. I am going to make certain very necessaryarrangements for the advent of Lady Chetwynde. "

"Lady Chetwynde!" repeated Gualtier, with a kind of gasp. 

"Yes, " said Hilda, who by this time had recovered all her usualself-control, and exhibited all her old force of character, herdaring, and her coolness, which had long ago given her such anascendency over Gualtier. "Yes, " she repeated, quietly returning theother's look of amazement, "and why should I not? Lady Chetwynde hasbeen absent for her health. Is it not natural that she should send meto make preparations for her return to her own home? She prefers itto Pomeroy. "

"Good God!" said Gualtier, quite forgetting himself, as a thoughtstruck him which filled him with bewilderment. Could he fathom herpurpose? Was the idea that occurred to him in very deed the one whichwas in her mind? Could it be? And was it for this that he hadlabored?

"Is Lord Chetwynde coming home?" he asked at length, as Hilda lookedat him with a strange expression. 

"Lord Chetwynde? I should say, most certainly not. "

"Do you know for certain?"

"No. I have narrowly watched the papers, but have found out nothing, nor have any letters come which could tell me; but I have reasons forsupposing that the very last thing that Lord Chetwynde would think ofdoing would be to come home. "

"Why do you suppose that? Is there not his rank, his position, andhis wealth?"

"Yes; but the correspondence between him and Lady Chetwynde has foryears been of so very peculiar a character--that is, at least, onLady Chetwynde's part--that the very fact of her being in Englandwould, to a man of his character, be sufficient, I should think, tokeep him away forever. And therefore I think that Lord Chetwynde willendure his grief about his father, and perhaps overcome it, in theIndian residency to which he was lately appointed. Perhaps he may endhis days there--who can tell? If he should, it would be too much toexpect that Lady Chetwynde would take it very much to heart. "

"But it seems to me, in spite of all that you have said, that ninemen out of ten would come home. They could be much happier inEngland, and the things of which you have spoken would notnecessarily give trouble. "

"That is very true; but, at the same time, Lord Chetwynde, in myopinion, happens to be that tenth man who would not come home; for, if he did, it would be Lady Chetwynde's money that he would enjoy, and to a man of his nature this would be intolerable--especially asshe has been diligently taunting him with the fact that he hascheated her for the last five years. "

Gualtier heard this with fresh surprise. 

"I did not know before that there had been so very peculiar acorrespondence, " said he. 

"I think that it will decide him to stay in India. "

"But suppose, in spite of all this, that he should come home. "

"That is a fact which should never be lost sight of, " said Hilda, very gravely--"nor is it ever lost sight of; one must be prepared toencounter such a thing as that. "

"But how?"

"Oh, there are various ways, " said Hilda. 

"He can be avoided, shunned, fled from, " said Gualtier, "but how canhe be encountered?"

"If he does come, " said Hilda, "he will be neither avoided norshunned. He will be most assuredly encountered--and that, too, _faceto face_!"

Gualtier looked at her in fresh perplexity. Not yet had he fathomedthe full depth of Hilda's deep design. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

REMODELING THE HOUSEHOLD. 

Two or three days afterward, Hilda, attended by Gualtier, drove up tothe inn of the little village near Chetwynde Castle. Gualtier stoppedhere, and Hilda drove on to the Castle itself. Her luggage was withher, but it was small, consisting of only a small trunk, which lookedas though it were her intention to make but a short stay. On herarrival the servants all greeted her respectfully, and asked eagerlyafter Lady Chetwynde. Her ladyship, Hilda informed them, was stilltoo unwell to travel, but was much better than when she left. She hadsent her to make certain arrangements for the reception of LordChetwynde, who was expected from India at no very distant date. Shedid not as yet know the time of his probable arrival; but when shehad learned it she herself would come to Chetwynde Castle to receivehim; but until that time she would stay away. The place where she wasstaying just at present was particularly healthy. It was a smallvillage on the coast of Brittany, and Lady Chetwynde was anxious todefer her return to the latest possible moment. Such was theinformation which Hilda condescended to give to the servants, whoreceived the news with unfeigned delight, for they all dearly lovedthat gentle girl, whose presence at Chetwynde had formerly brightenedthe whole house, and with whose deep grief over her last bereavementthey had all most sincerely sympathized. 

Hilda had many things to do. Her first duty was to call on Mrs. Hart. The poor old housekeeper still continued in a miserable condition, hovering, apparently, between life and death, and only conscious atintervals of what was going on around her. That consciousness was notstrong enough to make her miss the presence of Zillah, nor did herfaculties, even in her most lucid intervals, seem to be fully atwork. Her memory did not appear to suggest at any time those sadevents which had brought her down to this. It was only at times thatshe exhibited any recollection of the past, and that was confinedaltogether to "Guy;" to him whom in whispered words she called "herboy. " Mrs. Hart was not at all neglected. Susan, who had once beenthe upper house-maid, had of late filled the place of housekeeper, which she could easily do, as the family was away, and the dutieswere light. She also, with her sister Mary, who was the underhouse-maid, was assiduous in watching at the bedside of the poor oldcreature, who lay there hovering between life and death. Nothing, indeed, could exceed the kindness and tenderness of these two humblebut noble-hearted girls; and even if Zillah herself could have beenbrought to that bedside the poor sufferer could not have met withmore compassionate affection, and certainly could not have found suchcareful nursing. 

Hilda visited Mrs. Hart, and exhibited such tenderness of feelingthat both Susan and Mary were touched by it. They knew that Mrs. Harthad never loved her, but it seemed now as if Hilda had forgotten allthat former coldness, and was herself inspired by nothing but thetenderest concern. But Hilda had much to attend to, and after abouthalf an hour she left the room to look after those more importantmatters for which she had come. 

What her errand was the servants soon found out. It was nothing lessthan a complete change in the household. That household had neverbeen large, for the late Earl had been forced by his circumstances tobe economical. He never entertained company, and was satisfied withkeeping the place, inside and outside, in an ordinary state ofneatness. 

The servants who now remained may easily be mentioned. Mathilde hadgone away. Mrs. Hart lay on a sick-bed. There was Susan, the upperhouse-maid, and Mary, her sister, the under house-maid. There wasRoberts, who had been the late Earl's valet, a smart, active youngman, who was well known to have a weakness for Susan; there was thecook, Martha, a formidable personage, who considered herself the mostimportant member of that household; and besides these there were thecoachman and the groom. These composed the entire establishment. Itwas for the sake of getting rid of these, in as quiet and inoffensivea way as possible, that Hilda had now come; and toward evening shebegan her work by sending for Roberts. 

"Roberts, " said she, with dignity, as that very respectable personmade his appearance, carrying in his face the consciousness of onewho had possessed the late Earl's confidence, "I am intrusted with acommission from her ladyship to you. Lord Chetwynde is coming home, and great changes are going to be made here. But her ladyship can notforget the old household; and she told me to mention to you howgrateful she felt to you for all your unwearied care and assiduity inyour attendance upon your late master, especially through his longand painful illness; and she is most anxious to know in what way shecan be of service to you. Her ladyship has heard Mathilde speak of anunderstanding which exists between you and Susan, the upperhouse-maid; and she is in hopes that she may be able to further yourviews in the way of settling yourself; and so she wished me to findout whether you had formed any plans, and what they were. "

"It's like her ladyship's thoughtfulness and consideration, " saidRoberts, gratefully, "to think of the likes of me. I'm sure I didnothing for my lord beyond what it were my bounden dooty to do; and apleasanter and affabler spoken gentleman than his lordship werenobody need ever want to see. I never expect to meet with suchanother. As to Susan and me, " continued Roberts, looking sheepish, "we was a-thinkin' of a public, when so be as we could see our way toit. "

"Where were you thinking of taking one?"

"Well, miss, you see I'm a Westmorelandshire man; and somehow I've ahankerin' after the old place. "

"And you're quite right, Roberts, " said Hilda, in an encouragingtone. "A man is always happier in his native place among his ownpeople. Have you heard of an opening there?"

Roberts, at this, looked more sheepish still, and did not answeruntil Hilda had repeated her question. 

"Well, to be plain with you, miss, " said he, "I had a letter thisvery week from my brother, telling me of a public in Keswick as wasfor sale--good-will, stock, and all, and a capital situation forbusiness--towerists the whole summer through, and a little somethin'a-doin' in winter. Susan and me was a-regrettin' the limitation ofour means, miss. "

"That seems a capital opening, Roberts, " said Hilda, very graciously. "It would be a pity to lose it. What is the price?"

"Well, miss, it's a pretty penny, but it's the stand makes it, miss--right on the shores of the lake--boats to let at all hours, inquire within. They are a-askin' five hundred pound, miss. "

"Is that unreasonable?"

"Situation considered, on the contrary, miss; and Susan and me hastwo hundred pound between us in the savings-bank. My lord was agenerous master. Now if her ladyship would lend me the extry moneyI'd pay her back as fast as I made it. "

"There is no necessity for that, " said Hilda. 

"Three hundred pounds happens to be the very sum which her ladyshipmentioned to me. So now I commission you in her name to make all thenecessary arrangements with your brother; or, better still, go atonce yourself--a man can always arrange these matters moresatisfactorily himself--and I will let you have the money in threedays, with Lady Chetwynde's best wishes for the success of yourundertaking; and we will see, " she added, with a smile, "if we cannot get pretty Susan a wedding-dress, and any thing else she mayneed. Before a week is over you shall be mine host of the KeswickInn. And now, " she concluded, gayly, "go and make your arrangementswith Susan, and don't let any foolish bashfulness on her part preventyou from hastening matters. It would not do for you to let thischance slip through your fingers. I will see that she is ready. Herladyship has something for her too, and will not let her go to youempty-handed. "

"I never, never can thank her ladyship nor you enough, " said Roberts, "for what you have done for me this day. Might I make so bold as towrite a letter to her ladyship, to offer her my respectful dooty?"

"Yes, Roberts--do so, and give me the letter. I shall be writingto-night, and will inclose it. By-the-by, are not Mary and Susansisters?"

"They be, miss--sisters and orphelins. "

"Well, then, " said she, "see that you do not take more than you areentitled to; for though her ladyship lets you carry Susan off, youmust not cast covetous eyes on Mary too; for though I allow she wouldmake a very pretty little barmaid, she is a particularly goodhouse-maid, and we can't spare her. "

Roberts grinned from ear to ear. 

"I can't pretend to manage the women, miss, " said he; "you must speakto Mary;" and then, with a low bow, Roberts withdrew. 

Hilda gave a sigh of relief. "There are three disposed of, " shemurmured. "This is a fair beginning. "

On the following day she gave Roberts a check for the money, drawn by_Zillah Chetwynde_. Waving off his thanks, she dismissed him, andsent for the cook. That functionary quickly appeared. She was shortof stature, large of bulk, red of face, fluent of speech, hasty oftemper--_au reste_, she was a good cook and faithful servant. Shebobbed to Hilda on entering, and, closing the door, stood with foldedarms and belligerent aspect, like a porcupine armed for defense onthe slightest appearance of hostilities. 

"Good-morning, Martha, " said Hilda, with great suavity. "I hope yourrheumatism has not been troubling you since the warm weather set in?"

Martha bobbed with a more mollified air. 

"Which, exceptin' the elber jints, where it's settled, likewise theknee jints--savin' of your presence, miss--it's the same; for to godown on my bended knees, miss, it's what I couldn't do, not if youwas to give me a thousand-pun note in my blessed hand, and my Easterdooty not bein' able to perform, miss, which it be the first time itever wor the case; an' it owing to the rheumatiz; otherwise I ambetter, miss, and thank you kindly. "

"Her ladyship is very sorry, " continued Hilda. "She is unable toreturn herself just yet, but she has asked me to attend to severalmatters for her, and one of them is connected with you, Martha. Shehas received a letter from his lordship stating that he was bringingwith him a staff of servants, and among them a French cook. "

Here Martha assumed the porcupine again, with every quill on end; butshe said nothing, though Hilda paused for an instant. Martha wishedto commit Miss Krieff to a proposition, that she might have the gloryof rejecting it with scorn. So Hilda went on:

"Your mistress was afraid that you might not care about taking theplace of under-cook where you have been head, and as she was anxiousto avoid hurting your feelings in any way, she wished me to tell youof this beforehand. "

Another moment and the apoplexy which had been threatening since themoment when "under-cook" had been mentioned would have been a fact, but luckily for Martha her overcharged feelings here broke forth withaccents of bitterest scorn:

"Which she's _very_ kind. Hunder-cook, indeed! which it's what Inever abore yet, and never will abear. I've lived at Chetwyn thistwenty year, gurl and woman, and hopes as I 'ave done my dooty andgiv satisfaction, which my lord were a gentleman, an' found no faultwith his wittles, but ate them like a Christian and a nobleman, a-thankin' the Lord, and a-sayin', 'I never asks to see a tidier or a'olesomer dinner than Martha sends, which she's to be depended on asnever bein' raw nor yet done to rags;' an' now when, as you may say, gettin' on in years, though not that old neither as to be dependentor wantin' in sperrit, to have a French cook set over me a talkin'furrin languidgis and a cookin' up goodness ony knows what messes as'nd pison a Christian stomach to as much as look at, and a horderin'about Marthar here and Marthar there, it's what I can't consent toput up with, and nobody as wasn't a mean spereted creetur couldexpect it of me, which it's not as I wish to speak disrespectful ofher ladyship, which I considers a lady and as allers treated me assich, only expectin' to hend my days in Chetwyn it's come, suddenlike; but thanks to the blessed saints, which I 'ave put by as willkeep me from the wukkus and a charge on nobody; and I'd like to givewarnin', if you please, miss, and if so be as I could leave beforemonseer arrive. "

Here Martha paused, not from lack of material, but from sheer want ofbreath. She would have been invincible in conversation but for thatfatal constitutional infirmity--shortness of breath. This brought herto a pause in the full flow of her eloquence. 

Hilda took advantage of the lull. 

"Your mistress, " said she, "feared that you would feel as you do onthe subject, and her instructions to me were these: 'Try and keepMartha if you possibly can--we shall not easily replace her; but ifshe seems to fear that this new French cook may be domineering'"(fresh and alarming symptoms of apoplexy), "'and may make ituncomfortable for her, we must think of her instead of ourselves. Shehas been too faithful a servant to allow her to be trampled upon now;and if you find that she will not really consent to stop, you mustget her a good place--'"

"Which, if you please, mum, " said Martha, interrupting her excitedly, "we won't talk about a place--it is utterly useless, and I might beforgettin' myself; but I never thought, " she continued, brushing awaya hasty tear, "as it was Master Guy, meaning my lord, as would sendold Martha away. "

"Oh, I am sure he did not mean to do that, " said Hilda, kindly; "butgentlemen have not much consideration, you know, and he is accustomedto French cookery. " The softer mood vanished at the hated name. 

"And he'll never grow to be the man his father were, " said she, excitedly, "on them furrin gimcracks and kickshaws as wouldn'tnourish a babby, let alone a full-growed man, and 'e a Henglishman. But it's furrin parts as does it. I never approved of the harmy. "

"Her ladyship told me, " said Hilda, with her usual placidity, andwithout taking any notice of the excited feeling of the other, "thatif you insisted on going I was to give you twenty pounds, with herkind regards, to buy some remembrance. "

"Which she's very kind, " rejoined Martha, rather quickly, and withsome degree of asperity; "and if you'll give her my grateful dooty, I'd like to leave as soon as may be. "

"Well, if you are anxious to do so, I suppose you can. Whatkitchen-maids are there?"

"Well, miss, " said Martha, with dignity, yet severity, "sich drabs ofgirls as I 'ave 'ad would 'ave prevoked a saint, and mayhap I was alittle hasty; but takin' up a sauce-pan, and findin' it that dirty aswere scandlus to be'old, I throwed the water as were hin it over 'er, and the saucepan with it, an' she declared she'd go, which as the'ousekeeper bein' in bed, as you know, miss, an' there likely toremain for hevermore, she did, an' good riddance to her, sayI--ungrateful hussy as had jist got her wages the day before, and 'ada comfortable 'ome. "

"It does not matter. I suppose the French cook will bring his ownsubordinates. "

"Wery like, miss, " said Martha, sharply. "I leave this very day. Good-mornin', miss. "

"Oh no; don't be in such a hurry, " said Hilda. "You have a weekbefore you. Let me see you before evening, so that I may give youwhat your mistress has sent. "

Martha sullenly assented, and withdrew. 

The most difficult part of Hilda's business had thus been quietlyaccomplished. Nothing now remained but to see the coachman and groom, each of whom she graciously dismissed with a handsome present. Shetold them, however, to remain for about a week, until theirsuccessors might arrive. The large present which the liberality ofLady Chetwynde had given them enabled them to bear their lot withpatience, and even pleasure. 

After about a week Gualtier came up to Chetwynde Castle. He had beenaway to London, and brought word to Hilda that some of the newservants were expected in a few days. It was soon known to Roberts, Susan, and Mary that Gualtier had been made steward by LadyChetwynde. He took possession of one of the rooms, and at onceentered upon the duties of this office. On the day of his arrivalHilda left, saying to the remaining servants that she would nevercome back again, as she intended to live in the south of France. Sheshook hands with each of them very graciously, making each one apresent in her own name, and accompanying it with a neat littlespeech. She had never been popular among them; but now the thoughtthat they would never see her again, together, perhaps, with thevery handsome presents which she had made, and her very kind words, affected them deeply, and they showed some considerable feeling. 

Under such circumstances Hilda took her departure from ChetwyndeCastle, leaving Gualtier in charge. In a few days the new servantsarrived, and those of the old ones who had thus far remained now tooktheir departure. The household was entirely remodeled. The new onestook up their places; and there was not one single person there whoknew any thing whatever about the late Earl, or Hilda, or Gualtier. The old ones were scattered abroad, and it was not within the boundsof ordinary possibility that any of them would ever come near theplace. 

In thus remodeling the household it was somewhat enlarged. There wasthe new housekeeper, a staid, matronly, respectable-looking woman;three house-maids, who had formerly lived, in the north of England; acoachman, who had never before been out of Kent; a butler, who hadformerly served in a Scotch family; two footmen, one of whom hadserved in Yorkshire, and the other in Cornwall; two grooms, who hadbeen bred in Yorkshire; a cook, who had hitherto passed all her lifein London; and three kitchen-maids, who also had served in that city. Thus the household was altogether new, and had been carefullycollected by Gualtier with a view rather to the place from which theyhad come than to any great excellence on the part of any of them. Forso large a place it was but a small number, but it was larger thanthe household which had been dismissed, and they soon settled downinto their places. 

One only was left of the old number. This was Mrs. Hart. But she layon her sick-bed, and Hilda looked upon her as one whose life wasdoomed. Had any thought of her possible recovery entered her mind, she would have contrived in some way to get rid of her. In spite ofher illness, she did not lack attention; for the new housekeeperattached herself to her, and gave her the kindliest care and warmestsympathy. 

Last of all, so complete had been Hilda's precautions in view ofpossible future difficulties, that when Gualtier came as the newsteward, he came under a new name, and was known to the household as_Mr. M'Kenzie_. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. 

The new household had been led to expect the arrival of LadyChetwynde at any moment. They understood that the old household hadnot given satisfaction, that after the death of the late Earl LadyChetwynde had gone away to recruit her health, and, now that she wasbetter, she had determined to make a complete change. When sheherself arrived other changes would be made. This much Gualtiermanaged to communicate to them, so as to give them some tangible ideaof the affairs of the family and prevent idle conjecture. He let themknow, also, that Lord Chetwynde was in India, and might come home atany moment, though his engagements there were so important that itmight be impossible for him to leave. 

After a few days Lady Chetwynde arrived at the Castle, and wasgreeted with respectful curiosity by all within the house. Her coldand aristocratic bearing half repelled them, half excited theiradmiration. She was very beautiful, and her high breeding was evidentin her manner; but there was about her such frigidity and suchloftiness of demeanor that it repelled those who would have beenwilling to give her their love. She brought a maid with her who hadonly been engaged a short time previously; and it was soon known thatthe maid stood in great awe of her mistress, who was haughty andexacting, and who shut herself off altogether from any of thoseattempts at respectful sympathy which some kind-hearted lady's-maidsmight be inclined to show. The whole household soon shared in thisfeeling; for the lady of the Castle showed herself rigid in herrequirements of duty and strict in her rule, while, at the same time, she made her appearance but seldom. She never visited Mrs. Hart, butonce or twice made some cold inquiries about her of the housekeeper. She also gave out that she would not receive any visitors--aprecautionary measure that was not greatly needed; for ChetwyndeCastle was remote from the seats of the county families, and anychanges there would not be known among them for some time. 

The lady of the Castle spent the greater part of her time in herboudoir, alone, never tolerating the presence of even her maid exceptwhen it was absolutely necessary, but requiring her to be always nearin case of any need for her presence arising. The maid attributedthis strange seclusion to the effects of grief over her recentbereavement, or perhaps anxiety about her husband; while the otherservants soon began to conjecture that her husband's absence arosefrom some quarrel with a wife whose haughty and imperious demeanorthey all had occasion to feel. 

It was thus, then, that Hilda had entered upon her new and perilousposition, to attain to which she had plotted so deeply and dared somuch. Now that she had attained it, there was not an hour, not amoment of the day, in which she did not pay some penalty for the pastby a thousand anxieties. To look forward to such a thing as this wasone thing; but to be here, where she had so often longed to be, wasquite another thing. It was the hackneyed fable of Damocles with thesword over his head over again. She was standing on treacherousground, which at any moment might give way beneath her feet andplunge her in an abyss of ruin. To live thus face to face withpossible destruction, to stare death in the face every day, was not athing conducive either to mildness or to tenderness in any nature, much less in one like hers. 

In that boudoir where she spent so much of her time, while her maidwondered how she employed herself, her occupation consisted of butone thing. It was the examination of papers, followed by deep thoughtover the result of that examination. Every mail brought to heraddress newspapers both from home and abroad. Among the latter were anumber of Indian papers, published in various places, including somethat were printed in remote towns in the north. There were the Delhi_Gazette_, the Allahabad _News_, and the Lahore _Journal_, all ofwhich were most diligently scanned by her. Next to these were the_Times_ and the _Army and Navy Gazette_. No other papers or books, orprints of any kind, had any interest in her eyes. 

It was natural that her thoughts should thus refer to India. All herplans had succeeded, as far as she could know, and, finally, she hadremodeled the household at Chetwynde in such a way that not oneremained who could by any possibility know about the previousinmates. She was here as Lady Chetwynde, the lady of ChetwyndeCastle, ruler over a great estate, mistress of a place that mighthave excited the envy of any one in England, looked up to with awfulreverence by her dependents, and in the possession of every luxurythat wealth could supply. But still the sword was suspended over herhead, and by a single hair--a sword that at any moment might fall. What could she know about the intentions of Lord Chetwynde all thistime? What were his plans or purposes? Was it not possible, in spiteof her firmly expressed convictions to the contrary, that he mightcome back again to England? And then what? Then--ah! that was thething beyond which it was difficult for her imagination to go--thecrisis beyond which it was impossible to tell what the future mightunfold. It was a moment which she was ever forced to anticipate inher thoughts, against which she had always to arm herself, so as tobe not taken at unawares. 

She had thrown herself thus boldly into Chetwynde Castle, into thevery centre of that possible danger which lay before her. But was itnecessary to run so great a risk? Could she not at least have gone toPomeroy Court, and taken up her abode there? Would not this also havebeen a very natural thing for the daughter of General Pomeroy? Itwould, indeed, be natural, and it might give many advantages. In thefirst place, there would be no possibility that Lord Chetwynde, evenif he did return from India, would ever seek her out there. She mightcommunicate with him by means of those letters which for years he hadreceived. She might receive his answers, and make known to himwhatever she chose, without being compelled to see him face to face. By such a course she might gain what she wished without endangeringher safety. All this had occurred to her long before, and she hadregarded it in all its bearings. Nevertheless, she had decidedagainst it, and had chosen rather to encounter the risk of herpresent action. It was from a certain profound insight into thefuture. She thought that it was best for Lady Chetwynde to go toChetwynde Castle, not to Pomeroy Court. By such an act scandal wouldbe avoided. If Lord Chetwynde did not come, well and good; if he did, why then he must be met face to face; and in such an event shetrusted to her own genius to bring her out of so frightful a crisis. That meeting would bring with it much risk and many dangers; but itwould also bring its own peculiar benefits. If it were oncesuccessfully encountered her position would be insured, and the fearof future danger would vanish. For that reason, if for no other, shedetermined to go to Chetwynde Castle, run every risk, and meet herfate. 

While Hilda was thus haughty and repellent to her servants, there wasone to whom she was accessible; and this was the new steward, Gualtier, with whom she had frequent communications about thebusiness of the estate. Their interviews generally took place in thatmorning-room which has already been described, and which was sopeculiarly situated that no prying servants could easily watch themor overhear their conversation, if they were careful. 

One day, after she had dined, she went to this room, and ordered hermaid to tell the steward that she would like to see him. She had thatday received a number of Indian papers, over which she had passedmany hours; for there was something in one of them which seemed toexcite her interest, and certainly gave occupation to all her mind. 

Gualtier was prompt to obey the mandate. In a few minutes after Hildahad entered the room he made his appearance, and bowed in silence. Hilda motioned him to a chair, in which he seated himself. Theintercourse of these two had now become remarkable for this, thattheir attitude toward one another had undergone a changecorresponding to their apparent positions. Hilda was Lady Chetwynde, and seemed in reality, even in her inmost soul, to feel herself to beso. She had insensibly caught that grand air which so lofty aposition might be supposed to give; and it was quite as much her ownfeeling as any power of consummate acting which made her carry outher part so well. A lofty and dignified demeanor toward the rest ofthe household might have been but the ordinary act of one who wasplaying a part; but in Hilda this demeanor extended itself even toGualtier, toward whom she exhibited the same air of conscious socialsuperiority which she might have shown had she been in reality allthat she pretended to be. Gualtier, on his part, was equallysingular. He seemed quietly to accept her position as a true andvalid one, and that, too, not only before the servants, when it wouldhave been very natural for him to do so, but even when they werealone. This, however, was not so difficult for him, as he had alwaysbeen in the habit of regarding her as his social superior; yet still, considering the confidences which existed between this extraordinarypair, it was certainly strange that he should have preserved withsuch constancy his attitude of meek subservience. Here, at Chetwynde, he addressed her as the steward of the estates should have done; andeven when discussing the most delicate matters his tone and demeanorcorresponded with his office. 

On this occasion he began with some intelligence about the state ofthe north wall, which bounded the park. Hilda listened wearily tillhe had finished. Then she abruptly brought forward all that was inher thoughts. Before doing so, however, she went to the door to seethat no one was present and listening there, as she had herself oncelistened. To those who were at all on their guard there was nodanger. The morning-room was only approached by a long, narrow hall, in which no one could come without being detected, if any one in theroom chose to watch. Hilda now took her seat on a chair from whichshe could look up the hall, and thus, feeling secure from observationor from listeners, she began, in a low voice:

"I received the Indian papers to-day. "

"I was aware of that, my lady, " said Gualtier, respectfully. "Did yousee any thing in them of importance?"

"Nothing certain, but something sufficient to excite concern. "

"About Lord Chetwynde?"

"Yes. "

"He can not be coming home, surely?" said Gualtier, interrogatively. 

"I'm afraid that he is. "

Gualtier looked serious. 

"I thought, " said he, "my lady, that you had nearly given up allexpectation of seeing him for some time to come. "

"I have never yet given up those expectations. I have all alongthought it possible, though not probable; and so I have alwayswatched all the papers to see if he had left his station. "

"I suppose he would not write about his intentions. "

"To whom could he think of writing?" asked Hilda, with a half sneer. 

"I thought that perhaps he might write to Lady Chetwynde. "

"Lady Chetwynde's letters to him have been of such a character thatit is not very likely that he will ever write to her again, exceptunder the pressure of urgent necessity. "

"Have you seen any thing in particular in any of the papers abouthim?" asked Gualtier, after some silence. 

"Yes. In one. It is the Allahabad _News_. The paragraph happened tocatch my eye by the merest accident, I think. There is nothing aboutit in any of the other Indian papers. See; I will show it to you. "

And Hilda, drawing a newspaper from her pocket, unfolded it, andpointing to a place in one of the inside columns, she handed it toGualtier. He took it with a bow, and read the following:

"PERSONAL. --We regret to learn that Lord Chetwynde has recentlyresigned his position as Resident at Lahore. The recent death of hisfather, the late Earl of Chetwynde, and the large interests whichdemand his personal attention, are assigned as the causes for thisstep. His departure for England will leave a vacancy in ourAnglo-Indian service which will not easily be filled. LordChetwynde's career in this important part of the empire has been sobrilliant, that it is a matter for sincere regret that he isprevented, by any cause, from remaining here. In the late war he madehis name conspicuous by his valor and consummate military genius. Inthe siege of Delhi he won laurels which will place his name high onthe roll of those whom England loves to honor. Afterward, in theoperations against Tantia Toupi, his bold exploits will not soon beforgotten. His appointment to the Residency at Lahore was made only afew months since; yet in that short time he has shown anadministrative talent which, without any reflection on our other ableofficials, we may safely pronounce to be very rare in the departmentsof our civil service. He is but a young man yet; but seldom has ithappened that one so young has exhibited such mature intellectualpowers, and such firm decision in the management of the most delicatecases. A gallant soldier, a wise ruler, and a genial friend, LordChetwynde will be missed in all those departments of public andprivate life of which he has been so conspicuous an ornament. Asjournalists, we wish to record this estimate of his virtues and hisgenius, and we feel sure that it will be shared by all who have beenin any way familiar with the career of this distinguished gentleman. For the rest, we wish him most cordially a prosperous voyage home;and we anticipate for him in the mother country a careercorresponding with his illustrious rank, and commensurate with thebrilliant opening which he made in this country during those recent'times which tried men's souls. '"

Gualtier read this paragraph over twice, and then sat for some timein thought. At last he looked up at Hilda, who had all this time beenintently watching him. 

"That's bad, " exclaimed he, and said no more. 

"It seems that, after all, he is coming, " said Hilda. 

"Have you seen his name in any of the lists of passengers?"

"No. "

"Then he has not left yet. "

"Perhaps not; but still I can not trust to that altogether. His namemay be omitted. "

"Would such a name as his be likely to be omitted?"

"I suppose not; and so he can not have left India as yet--unless, indeed, he has come under an assumed name. "

"An assumed name! Would he be capable of that? And if he were, whatmotive could he have?"

"Ah! there I am unable to find an answer. I'm afraid I have beenjudging of Lord Chetwynde by that. " And Hilda pointed to the portraitof the young officer, Guy Molyneux, over the fireplace. "Years havechanged him, and I have not made allowance for the years. I think nowthat this Lord Chetwynde must be very different from that GuyMolyneux. This hero of Delhi; this assailant of Tantia Toupi; thisdashing officer, who is at once brilliant in the field and in thesocial circle; this man who, in addition to all this, has provedhimself to be a wise ruler, with a 'genius for administration, ' is aman who, I confess, dawns upon me so suddenly that it gives me ashock. I have been thinking of an innocent boy. I find that this boyhas grown to be a great, brave, wise, strong man! There, I think, isthe first mistake that I have made. "

Hilda's words were full of truth and meaning. Gualtier felt thatmeaning. 

"You have an alternative still, " said he. 

"What is that?"

"You need not stay here. "

"What! Run away from him--in fear?" said Hilda, scornfully. "Run awayfrom this place before I even know for certain that he is coming?That, at least, I will not do. "

"There is Pomeroy Court, " hinted Gualtier. 

"No. Chetwynde Castle is my only home. I live here, or--nowhere. If Ihave to encounter him, it shall be face to face, and here in thishouse--perhaps in this room. Had I seen this a month ago my decisionmight have been different, though I don't know even that; but now, under any circumstances, it is too late to go back, or to swerve byone hair's breadth from the path which I have laid down for myself. It is well that I have seen all this"--and she pointed to thenewspaper--"for it has given me a new view of the man. I shall not beso likely to underrate him now; and being forewarned I will beforearmed. "

"There is still the probability, " said Gualtier, thoughtfully, "thathe may not come to England. "

"There is a possibility, " said Hilda, "certainly; but it is notprobable, after so decided an act performed by one in so important aposition, that he will remain in India. For why should he remainthere? What could possibly cause him to resign, except the fixedintention of coming home? No; there can not be the slightest doubtthat he is coming home us as certain as the dawn of to-morrow. What Iwonder at, however, is, that he should delay; I should have expectedto hear of his arrival in London. Yet that can not be, for his nameis not down at all; and if he had come, surely a name like his couldnot by any possibility be omitted. No, he can not have come just yet. But he will, no doubt, come in the next steamer. "

"There is yet another chance, " said Gualtier. 

"What is that?"

"He may come to England, and yet not come here to Chetwynde. "

"I have thought of that too, " said Hilda, "and used to think of it asvery probable indeed; but now a ray of light has been let into mymind, and I see what manner of man he is. That boy"--and she againpointed to the portrait--"was the one who misled me. Such a one as hemight have been so animated by hate that he might keep away so as notto be forced to see his detested wife. But this man is different. This soldier, this ruler, this mature man--who or what is his wife, hated though she be, or what is she to him in any way, that _she_should prove the slightest obstacle in the path of one like _him_? Hewould meet her as her lord and master, and brush her away as he woulda moth. "

"You draw this absent man in grand colors, " said Gualtier. "Perhaps, my lady, your imagination is carrying you away. But if he is all thisthat you say, how can you venture to meet him? Will you risk beingthus 'brushed away, ' as you say, 'like a moth?'"

Hilda's eyes lighted up. "I am not one who can be brushed away, " saidshe, calmly; "and, therefore, whatever he is, and whenever he comes, I will be prepared to meet him. "

Hilda's tone was so firm and decided that it left no room for furtherargument or remonstrance. Nor did Gualtier attempt any. Someconversation followed, and he soon took his departure. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

FACE TO FACE. 

Some time passed away after the conversation related in the lastchapter, and one evening Hilda was in her boudoir alone, as usual. She was somewhat paler, more nervous, and less calm than she had beena few months previously. Her usual stealthy air had now developedinto one of wary watchfulness, and the quiet noiselessness of heractions, her manner, and her movements had become intensified into ahabit of motionless repose, accompanied by frequent fits of deepabstraction. On the present occasion she was reclining on her couch, with her hand shading her eyes. She had been lying thus for sometime, lost in thought, and occasionally rousing herself sharply fromher meditations to look around her with her watchful and suspiciouseyes. In this attitude she remained till evening came, and then, withthe twilight, she sank into a deep abstraction, one so deep that shecould not readily rouse herself. 

It was with a great start, therefore, that she rose to her feet as asudden noise struck her ears. It was the noise of a carriage movingrapidly up through the avenue toward the house. For a carriage tocome to Chetwynde Castle at any time was a most unusual thing; butfor one to come after dark was a thing unheard of. At once there cameto Hilda a thought like lightning as to who it might be that thusdrove up; the thought was momentous and overwhelming; it might havebeen sufficient to have destroyed all courage and all presence ofmind had her nerves been, by the slightest degree, less strong. Butas it was, her nerve sustained her, and her courage did not falterfor one single instant. With a calm face and firm step she advancedto the window. With a steady hand she drew the curtains aside andlooked out. Little could lie seen amidst the gloom at first; but atlength, as she gazed, she was able to distinguish the dim outline ofa carriage, as it emerged from the shadows of the avenue and drove upto the chief door. 

Then she stepped back toward the door of her boudoir, and listened, but nothing could be heard. She then lighted two lamps, and, turningto a cheval-glass at one end of her room, she put one lamp on eachside, so that the light might strike on her to the best advantage, and then scrutinized herself with a steady and critical glance. Thusshe stood for a long time, watchful and motionless, actuated by amotive far different from any thing like vanity; and if she receivedgratification from a survey of herself, it was any thing butgratified pride. It was a deeper motive than girlish curiosity thatinspired such stern self-inspection; and it-was a stronger feelingthan vanity that resulted from it. It was something more than thingslike these which made her, at so dread a moment, look so anxiously ather image in the glass. 

As she stood there a tap came at the door. 

"Come in, " said Hilda, in her usual calm tone, turning as she spoketo face the door. 

It was the maid. 

"My lady, " said she, "his lordship has just arrived. "

To her, at that moment, such intelligence could have been nothingless than tremendous. It told her that the crisis of her life hadcome; and to meet it was inevitable, whatever the result might be. Hehad come. He, the one whom she must face; not the crude boy, but theman, tried in battle and in danger and in judgment, in the camp andin the court; the man who she now knew well was not surpassed by manymen among that haughty race to which he belonged. This man wasaccustomed to face guilt and fear; he had learned to read the soul;he had become familiar with all that the face may make known of thesecret terrors of conscience. And how could she meet the calm eyes ofone who found her here in such a relation toward him? Yet all thisshe had weighed before in her mind; she was not unprepared. The hourand the man had come. She was found ready. 

She regarded the maid for a few moments in silence. At last shespoke. 

"Very well, " she said, coldly, and without any perceptible emotion ofany kind. "I will go down to meet his lordship. "

His lordship has just arrived! The words had been spoken, and thespeaker had departed, but the words still echoed and re-echoedthrough the soul of the hearer. What might this involve? and whatwould be the end of this arrival?

Suddenly she stepped to the door and called the maid. 

"Has any one accompanied his lordship?"

"No, my lady. "

"He came alone?"

"Yes, my lady. "

"Did Mr. M'Kenzie see him?"

"No, my lady. He is not in the house. "

Hilda closed the door, went back, and again stood before the mirror. Some time elapsed as she stood there regarding herself, with strangethoughts passing through her mind. She did not find it necessary, however, to make any alterations in her appearance. She did notchange one fold in her attire, or vary one hair of her head from itsplace. It was as though this present dress and this presentappearance had been long ago decided upon by her for just such ameeting as this. Whether she had anticipated such a meeting sosuddenly--whether she was amazed or not--whether she was at all takenby surprise or not, could not appear in any way from her action orher demeanor. In the face of so terrible a crisis, whose full meaningand import she must have felt profoundly, she stood there, calm andself-contained, with the self-poise of one who has been longprepared, and who, when the hour big with fate at last may come, isnot overwhelmed, but rises with the occasion, goes forth to theencounter, and prepares to contend with destiny. 

It was, perhaps, about half an hour before Hilda went down. She wentwith a steady step and a calm face down the long corridor, down thegreat stairway, through the chief hall, and at length entered thedrawing-room. 

On entering she saw a tall man standing there, with his back turnedtoward the door, looking up at a portrait of the late Earl. Sointently was he occupied that he did not hear her entering; but aslight noise, made by a chair as she passed it, startled him, and heturned and looked at her, disclosing to her curious yet apprehensivegaze the full features and figure of the new Lord Chetwynde. On thatinstant, as he turned and faced her, she took in his whole face andmien and stature. She saw a broad, intellectual brow, covered withdark clustering hair; a face bronzed by the suns of India and theexposure of the campaign, the lower part of which was hidden by aheavy beard and mustache; and a tall, erect, stalwart frame, with theunmistakable air of a soldier in every outline. His mien had in it acertain indescribable grace of high breeding, and the commanding airof one accustomed to be the ruler of men. His eyes were dark, andfull of quiet but resistless power; and they beamed upon herlustrously, yet gloomily, and with a piercing glance of scrutiny fromunder his dark brows. His face bore the impress of a sadness deeperthan that which is usually seen--sadness that had reigned therelong--a sadness, too, which had given to that face a more sombre castthan common, from some grief which had been added to former ones. Itwas but for a moment that he looked at her, and then he bowed withgrave courtesy. Hilda also bowed without a word, and then waited forLord Chetwynde to speak. 

But Lord Chetwynde did not speak for some time. His earnest eyes werestill fixed upon the one before him, and though it might have beenrudeness, yet it was excusable, from the weight which lay on hissoul. 

[Illustration: "Hilda Stood There, Calm, Watchful, And Expectant. "]

Hilda, for her part, stood there, calm, watchful, and expectant. Thatslender and graceful figure, with its simple and elegant dress, whichset off to the utmost the perfection of her form, looked certainlyunlike the ungrown girl whom Lord Chetwynde had seen years before. Still more unlike was the face. Pale, with delicate, transparentskin, it was not so dark as that face which had dwelt in his memory. Her eyes did not seem so wild and staring as those of the imp whom hehad married; but deep, dark, and strong in their gaze, as they lookedback steadily into his. The hair was now no longer disordered, butenfolded in its dark, voluminous masses, so as to set off to the bestadvantage the well-shaped head, and slender, beautifully roundedneck. The one whom he remembered had been hideous; this one wasbeautiful. But the beauty that he saw was, nevertheless, hard, cold, and repellent. For Hilda, in her beauty and grace and intellectualsubtilty, stood there watchful and vigilant, like a keen fencer onguard, waiting to see what the first spoken word might disclose;waiting to see what that grand lordly face, with its air of command, its repressed grief, its deep piercing eyes, might shadow forth. 

A singular meeting; but Lord Chetwynde seemed to think it naturalenough, and after a few moments he remarked, in a quiet voice:

"Lady Chetwynde, the morning-room will be more suitable for theinterview which I wish, and, if you have no objection, we will gothere. "

At the sound of these words a great revulsion took place in Hilda'sfeelings, and a sense of triumph succeeded to that intense anxietywhich for so long a time had consumed her. The sound of that name bywhich he had addressed her had shown her at once that the worst partof this crisis had passed away. He had seen her. He had scrutinizedher with those eyes which seemed to read her soul, and the end wasthat he had taken her for what she professed to be. He had called her"Lady Chetwynde!" After this what more was there which could excitefear? Was not her whole future now secured by the utterance of thosetwo words? Yet Hilda's self-control was so perfect, and her vigilanceso consummate, that no change whatever expressed in her face theimmense revolution of feeling within her. Her eyes fell--that wasall; and as she bowed her head silently, by that simple gesture whichwas at once natural and courteous, she effectually concealed herface; so that, even if there had been a change in its expression, itcould not have been seen. Yet, after all, the triumph was butinstantaneous. It passed away, and soon there came another feeling, vague, indefinable--a premonition of the future--a presentiment ofgloom; and though the intensity of the suspense had passed, therestill remained a dark anxiety and a fear which were unaccountable. 

Lord Chetwynde led the way to the morning-room, and on arriving therehe motioned her to a seat. Hilda sat down. He sat opposite in anotherchair, not far off. On the wall, where each could see it, hung hisportrait--the figure of that beardless, boyish, dashing youngofficer--very different from this matured, strong-souled man; sodifferent, indeed, that it seemed hardly possible that they could bethe same. 

Lord Chetwynde soon began. 

"Lady Chetwynde, " said he, again addressing her by that name, andspeaking in a firm yet melancholy voice, "it is not often that ahusband and a wife meet as you and I do now; but then it is not oftenthat two people become husband and wife as you and I have. I havecome from India for the sake of having a full understanding with you. I had, until lately, an idea of coming here under an assumed name, with the wish of sparing you the embarrassment which I supposed thatthe presence of Lord Chetwynde himself might possibly cause you. Infact, I traveled most of the way home from India under an assumedname with that intent. But before I reached England I concluded thatthere was no necessity for trying to guard against any embarrassmenton your part, and that it would be infinitely better to see you in myown person and talk to you without disguise. "

He paused for a moment. 

"Had you chosen to come all the way in your own name, my lord, " saidHilda, speaking now for the first time, "I should have seen your namein the list of passengers, and should have been better prepared forthe honor of your visit. "

"Concealment would have been impossible, " continued Lord Chetwynde, gloomily, half to himself, and without appearing to have heardHilda's words, "here, in my home. Though all the old servants aregone, still the old scenes remain; and if I had come here as astranger I should have shown so deep an interest in my home that Imight have excited suspicion. But the whole plan was impossible, and, after all, there was no necessity for it, as I do not see that yourfeelings have been excited to madness by my appearance. So far, then, all is well. And now to come to the point; and you, I am sure, willbe the first to excuse my abruptness in doing so. The unfortunatebond that binds us is painful enough to you. It is enough for me tosay that I have come home for two reasons: first, to see my home, possibly for the last time; and secondly, to announce to you thedecision at which I have arrived with regard to the position which weshall hereafter occupy toward one another. "

Hilda said nothing. Awe was a feeling which was almost unknown toher; but something of that had come over her as, sitting in thepresence of this man, she heard him say these words; for he spokewithout any particular reference to her, and said them with a grand, authoritative air, with the tone of one accustomed to rule and todispense justice. In uttering these concluding words it seemed to behis will, his decision, that he was announcing to some inferiorbeing. 

"First, " he went on to say, "let me remind you of our unhappybetrothal. You were a child, I a boy. Our parents are responsible forthat. They meant well. Let us not blame them. 

"Then came our marriage by the death-bed of your father. You wereexcited, and very naturally so. You used bitter words to me thenwhich I have never forgotten. Every taunt and insult which you thenuttered has lived in my memory. Why? Not because I am inclined totreasure up wrong. No. Rather because you have taken such extremepains to keep alive the memory of that event. You will remember thatin every one of those letters which you have written to me since Ileft England there has not been one which has not been filled withinnuendoes of the most cutting kind, and insults of the most gallingnature. My father loved you. I did not. But could you not, for hissake, have refrained from insult? Why was it necessary to turn whatat first was merely coolness into hate and indignation?

"I speak bitterly about those letters of yours. It was those whichkept me so long in India. I could not come to see my father becauseyou were here, and I should have to come and see you. I could notgive him trouble by letting him know the truth, because he loved you. Thus you kept me away from him and from my home at a time when I waslonging to be here; and, finally, to crown your cruelty, yousedulously concealed from me the news of my father's illness till itwas too late. He died; and then--then you wrote that hideous letter, that abomination of insult and vindictiveness, that cruel andcowardly stab, which you aimed at a heart already wrung by the griefof bereavement! In the very letter which you wrote to tell me of thatsudden and almost intolerable calamity you dared to say that myfather--that gentle and noble soul, who so loved you and trustedyou--that he, the stainless gentleman, the soul of honor--_he_ hadcheated _you_, and that his death was the punishment inflicted byProvidence for his sin; that he had made a cunning and dishonest planto get you for the sake of your fortune; that _I_ had been hisaccomplice; and that by his death the vengeance of Divine justice wasmanifested on both of us!"

Deep and low grew the tones of Lord Chetwynde's voice as he spokethese words--deep and low, yet restrained with that restraint whichis put over the feelings by a strong nature, and yet can not hidethat consuming passion which underlies all the words, and makes themburn with intensest heat. Here the hot fire of his indignation seemedto be expressed in a blighting and withering power; and Hilda shrankwithin herself involuntarily in fear, trembling at this terrificdenunciation. 

Lord Chetwynde made a slight gesture. "Calm yourself, " said he; "youcan not help your nature. Do you suppose for one moment that I, byany possibility, can expect an explanation? Not at all. I havementioned this for the first and for the last time. Even while yourletters were lying before me I did not deign to breathe one wordabout them to my father, from whom I kept no other secret, eventhough I knew that, while he loved you and trusted you, both his loveand his trust were thrown away. I would not add to his troubles byshowing him the true character of the woman to whom he had sold meand bound me fast, and whom he looked on with affection. That sorrowI determined to spare him, and so I kept silent. So it was that Ialways spoke of you with the formulas of respect, knowing well allthe time that you yourself did not deserve even that much. But hedeserved it, and I quenched my own indignation for his sake. But nowthere is no longer any reason why I should play the hypocrite, and soI speak of these things. I say this simply to let you know how yourconduct and character are estimated by one whose opinion is valued bymany honorable gentlemen. 

"Even after his death, " continued Lord Chetwynde, "I might possiblyhave had some consideration for you, and, perhaps, would not haveused such plain language as I now do. But one who could takeadvantage of the death of my father to give vent to spleen, and tooffer insult to one who had never offended her, deserves noconsideration. Such conduct as yours, Lady Chetwynde, toward me, hasbeen too atrocious to be ever forgiven or forgotten. To this you willno doubt say, with your usual sneer, that my forgiveness is notdesired. I am glad if it is not. 

"To your father, Lady Chetwynde, I once made a vow that I wouldalways be careful about your happiness. I made it thoughtlessly, notknowing what I was promising, not in any way understanding its fullimport. I made it when full of gratitude for an act of his which Iregarded only by itself, without thinking of all that was required ofme. I made it as a thoughtless boy. But that vow I intend now, as amature man, to fulfill, most sacredly and solemnly. For I intend tocare for your happiness, and that, too, in a way which will be mostagreeable to you. I shall thus be able to keep that rash and hastyvow, which I once thought I would never be able to keep. The way inwhich I intend to keep it is one, Lady Chetwynde, which will insureperfect happiness to one like you; and as you are, no doubt, anxiousto know how it is possible for me to do such a thing, I will hastento inform you. 

"The way in which I intend, Lady Chetwynde, to fulfill my vow andsecure your perfect happiness is, first of all, by separating myselffrom you forever. This is the first thing. It is not such anaccomplishment of that vow as either your father or mine anticipated;but in your eyes and mine it will be a perfect fulfillment. Fortunateit is for me that the thing which you desire most is also the verything which I most desire. Your last letter settled a problem whichhas been troubling me for years. 

"This, however, is only part of my decision. I will let you know therest as briefly as possible. When your father came from India, andmade that memorable visit to my father, which has cost us both sodear, Chetwynde was covered with mortgages to the extent of sixtythousand pounds. Your father made an unholy bargain with mine, and inorder to secure a protector for you, he gave to my father the moneywhich was needed to disencumber the estate. It was, in fact, yourdowry, advanced beforehand. 

"The principals in that ill-omened arrangement are both dead. I am nolonger a boy, but a man; the last of my line, with no one to considerbut myself. An atrocious wrong has been done, unintentionally, to me, and also to you. That wrong I intend to undo, as far as possible. Ihave long ago decided upon the way. I intend to give back to you thisdowry money; and to do so I will break the entail, sell Chetwynde, and let it go to the hands of strangers. My ancient line ends in me. Be it so. I have borne so many bitter griefs that I can bear thiswith resignation. Never again shall you, Lady Chetwynde, have thepower of flinging at me that taunt which you have so often flung. Youshall have your money back, to the last farthing, and with interestfor the whole time since its advance. In this way I can also bestkeep my vow to General Pomeroy; for the only mode by which I cansecure your happiness is to yield the care of it into your own hands. 

"For the present you will have Chetwynde Castle to live in until itssale. Every thing here seems quite adapted to make you happy. Youseem to have appropriated it quite to yourself. I can not find one ofthose faithful old domestics with whom my boyhood was passed. Youhave surrounded yourself with your own servants. Until your money ispaid you will be quite at liberty to live here, or at Pomeroy Court, whichever you prefer. Both are yours now, the Castle as much asPomeroy Court, as you remarked, with your usual delicacy, in yourlast letter, since they both represent your own money. 

"And now, " said Lord Chetwynde, in conclusion, "we understand oneanother. The time for taunts and sneers, for you, is over. Anyletters hereafter that may come to me in your handwriting will bereturned unopened. The one aim of my life hereafter shall be to undo, as far as possible, the wrong done to us both by our parents. Thatcan never be all undone; but, at any rate, you may be absolutelycertain that you will get back every penny of the money which is soprecious to you, with interest. As to my visit here, do not let itdisturb you for one moment. I have no intention of making a scene forthe benefit of your gaping servants. My business now is solely to seeabout my father's papers, to examine them, and take away with methose that are of immediate use. While I am here we will meet at thesame table, and will be bound by the laws of ordinary courtesy. Atall other times we need not be conscious of one another's existence. I trust that you will see the necessity of avoiding any opendemonstrations of hatred, or even dislike. Let your feelings beconfined to yourself, Lady Chetwynde; and do not make them known tothe servants, if you can possibly help it. "

Lord Chetwynde seemed to have ended; for he arose and sauntered up tothe portrait, which he regarded for some time with fixed attention, and appeared to lose himself in his thoughts. During the remarkswhich he had been making Hilda had sat looking at the floor. Unableto encounter the stern gaze of the man whom she felt to be hermaster, she had listened in silence, with downcast eyes. There wasnothing for her to say. She therefore did the very best thing thatshe could do under the circumstances--she said nothing. Nor did shesay any thing when he had ended. She saw him absorb himself inregarding his own portrait, and apparently lose himself in hisrecollections of the past. Of her he seemed to have now noconsciousness. She sat looking at him, as his side face was turnedtoward her, and his eyes fixed on the picture. The noble profile, with its clear-cut features, showed much of the expression of theface--an expression which was stern, yet sad and softened--that facewhich, just before, had been before her eyes frowning, wrathful, clothed with consuming terrors--a face upon which she could not look, but which now was all mournful and sorrowful. And now, as she gazed, the hard rigidity of her beautiful features relaxed, the sharpglitter of her dark eyes died out, their stony lustre gave place to asoft light, which beamed upon him with wonder, with timid awe--withsomething which, in any other woman, would have looked liketenderness. She had not been prepared for one like this. In herformer ideas of him he had been this boy of the portrait, with hisboyish enthusiasm, and his warm, innocent temperament. This idea shehad relinquished, and had known that he had changed during the yearsinto the heroic soldier and the calm judge. She had tried tofamiliarize herself with this new idea, and had succeeded in doing soto a certain extent. But, after all, the reality had been too muchfor her. She had not been prepared for one like this, nor for such aneffect as the sight of him had produced. At this first interview hehad overpowered her utterly, and she had sat dumb and motionlessbefore him. All the sneering speeches which she had prepared inanticipation of the meeting were useless. She found no place forthem. But there was one result to this interview which affected herstill more deeply than this discovery of his moral superiority. Theone great danger which she had always feared had passed away. She nolonger had that dread fear of discovery which hitherto had harassedher; but in the place of this there suddenly arose another fear--afear which seemed as terrible as the other, which darkened over herduring the course of that scene till its close, and afterward--suchan evil as she never before could have thought herself capable ofdreading, yet one which she had brought upon herself. 

What was that?

His contempt--his hate--his abhorrence--this was the thing which nowseemed so terrible to her. 

For in the course of that interview a sudden change had come over allher feelings. In spite of her later judgment about him, which she hadexpressed to Gualtier, there had been in her mind a half contempt forthe man whom she had once judged of by his picture only, and whom sherecollected as the weak agent in a forced marriage. That paragraph inthe Indian paper had certainly caused a great change to take place inher estimate of his character; but, in spite of this, the oldcontempt still remained, and she had reckoned upon finding beneaththe mature man, brave though he was, and even wise though he mightbe, much of that boy whom she had despised. But all this passed awayas a dream, out of which she had a rude awakening. She awoke suddenlyto the full reality, to find him a strong, stern, proud man, to whomher own strength was as weakness. While he uttered his grandmaledictions against her he seemed to her like a god. He was a mightybeing, to whom she looked up from the depths of her soul, half infear, half in adoration. In her weakness she admired his strength;and in her wily and tortuous subtlety she worshiped thisstraightforward and upright gentleman, who scorned craft and cunning, and who had sat in stern judgment upon her, to make known to her _hiswill_. 

For some time she sat looking at him as he stood, with her wholenature shaken by these new, these unparalleled emotions, till, finally, with a start, she came to herself, and, rising slowly, sheglided out of the room. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

AN EFFORT AT CONCILIATION. 

Lord Chetwynde's occupations kept him for the greater part of histime in his father's library, where he busied himself in examiningpapers. Many of these he read and restored to their places, but somehe put aside, in order to take them with him. Of the new steward hetook no notice whatever. He considered the dismissal of the old oneand the appointment of Gualtier one of those abominable acts whichwere consistent with all the other acts of that woman whom hesupposed to be his wife. Besides, the papers which he sought hadreference to the past, and had no connection with the affairs of thepresent. In the intervals of his occupation he used to go about thegrounds, visiting every one of those well-known places which wereassociated with his childhood and boyhood. He sought out his father'sgrave, and stood musing there with feelings which were made up ofsadness, mingled with something like reproach for the fearful mistakewhich his father had made in the allotment of the son's destiny. True, he had been one of the consenting parties; but when he firstgave that consent he was little more than a boy, and not at allcapable of comprehending the full meaning of such an engagement. Hisfather had ever since solemnly held him to it, and had appealed tohis sense of honor in order to make him faithful. But now the fatherwas dead, the son was a mature man, tried in a thousand scenes ofdifficulty and danger--one who had learned to think for himself, whohad gained his manhood by a life of storms, in which of late therehad been crowded countless events, each of which had had their weightin the development of his character. They had left him a calm, strong, resolute man--a man of thought and of action--a graduate ofthe school of Indian affairs--a school which, in times that triedmen's souls, never failed to supply men who were equal to everyemergency. 

[Illustration: "He Sought Out His Father's Grave, And Stood MusingThere. "]

At the very outset he had found out the condition of Mrs. Hart. Thesight of his loved nurse, thus prostrated, filled him with grief. Thehousekeeper who now attended her knew nothing whatever of the causeof her prostration. Lord Chetwynde did not deign to ask any questionsof Hilda; but in his anxiety to learn about Mrs. Hart, he sought outthe doctor who had attended his father, and from him he learned thatMrs. Hart's illness had been caused by her anxiety about the Earl. The knowledge of this increased, if possible, his own care. He madethe closest inquiry as to the way in which she was treated, engagedthe doctor to visit her, and doubled the housekeeper's salary oncondition that she would be attentive to his beloved nurse. Thesemeasures were attended with good results, for under this increasedcare Mrs. Hart began to show signs of improvement. Whether she wouldever again be conscious was yet a question. The doctor considered hermind to be irretrievably affected. 

Meanwhile, throughout all these days, Hilda's mind was engrossed withthe change which had come over her--a change so startling and sounexpected that it found her totally unprepared to deal with it. Theymet every day at the dinner-table, and at no other times. Here LordChetwynde treated her with scrupulous courtesy; yet beyond theextreme limits of that courtesy she found it impossible to advance. Hilda's manner was most humble and conciliatory. She who all her lifehad felt defiant of others, or worse, now found herself enthralledand subdued by the spell of this man's presence. Her wiliness, herstealthiness, her constant self-control, were all lost and forgotten. She had now to struggle incessantly against that new tenderness whichhad sprung up unbidden within her. She caught herself looking forwardwistfully every day to the time when she could meet him at the tableand hear his voice, which, even in its cold, constrained tones, wasenough for her happiness. It was in vain that she reproached and evencursed herself for her weakness. The weakness none the less existed;and all her life seemed now to centre around this man, who hated her. Into a position like this she had never imagined that she couldpossibly be brought. All her cunning and all her resources wereuseless here. This man seemed so completely beyond her control thatany effort to win him to her seemed useless. He believed her to behis wife, he believed himself bound by honor to secure her happiness, and yet his abhorrence of her was so strong that he never made anyeffort to gain her for himself. Now Hilda saw with bitterness thatshe had gone too far, and that her plans and her plots were recoilingupon her own head. They had been too successful. The sin of LordChetwynde's wife had in his eyes proved unpardonable. 

Hilda's whole life now became a series of alternate struggles againsther own heart, and longings after another who was worse thanindifferent to her. Her own miserable weakness, so unexpected, andyet so complete and hopeless, filled her at once with anger anddismay. To find all her thoughts both by day and night filled withthis one image was at once mortifying and terrible. The veryintensity of her feelings, which would not stop short at death itselfto gain their object, now made her own sufferings all the greater. Every thing else was forgotten except this one absorbing desire; andher complicated schemes and far-reaching plans were thrust away. Theyhad lost their interest. Henceforth all were reduced to onethought--how to gain Lord Chetwynde to herself. 

As long as he staid, something like hope remained; but when he wouldleave, what hope could there be? Would he not leave her forever? Wasnot this the strongest desire of his heart? Had he not said so? Everyday she watched, with a certain chilling fear at her heart, to see ifthere were signs of his departure. As day succeeded to day, however, and she found him still remaining, she began to hope that he mightpossibly have relented somewhat, and that the sentence which he hadspoken to her might have become modified by time and furtherobservation of her. 

So at the dinner-table she used to sit, looking at him, when his eyeswere turned away, with her earnest, devouring gaze, which, as soon ashe would look at her again, was turned quickly away with the timidityof a young bashful child. Such is the tenderness of love that Hilda, who formerly shrank at nothing, now shrank away from the gaze of thisman. Once, by a great effort, as he entered the dining-room she heldout her hand to greet him. Lord Chetwynde, however, did not seem tosee it, for he greeted her with his usual distant civility, andtreated her as before. Once more she tried this, and yet once again, but with the same result; and it was then that she knew that LordChetwynde refused to take her hand. It was not oversight--it was adeliberate purpose. At another time it would have seemed an insultwhich would have filled her with rage; now it seemed a slight whichfilled her with grief. So humiliated had she become, and socompletely subdued by this man, that even this slight was not enough, but she still planned vague ways of winning his attention to her, andof gaining from him something more than a remark about the weather orabout the dishes. 

At length one day she formed a resolution, which, after muchhesitation, she carried out. She was determined to make one boldeffort, whatever the result might be. It was at their usual place ofmeeting--the dinner-table. 

"My lord, " said she, with a tremulous voice, "I wish to have aninterview with you. Can you spare me the time this evening?"

She looked at him earnestly, with mute inquiry. Lord Chetwynderegarded her in some surprise. He saw her eyes fixed upon him with atimid entreaty, while her face grew pale with suspense. Her breathingwas rapid from the agitation that overcame her. 

"I had some business this evening, " said Lord Chetwynde, coldly, "butas you wish an interview, I am at your service. "

"At what time, my lord?"

"At nine, " said Lord Chetwynde. 

Nine o'clock came, and Hilda was in the morning-room, which she hadmentioned as the place of meeting, and Lord Chetwynde came therepunctually. She was sitting near the window. Her pale face, her richblack locks arranged in voluminous masses about her head, her darkpenetrating eyes, her slender and graceful figure, all conspired tomake Hilda beautiful and attractive in a rare degree. Added to thisthere was a certain entreaty on her face as it was turned toward him, and a soft, timid lustre in her eyes which might have affected anyother man. She rose as Lord Chetwynde entered, and bowed herbeautiful head, while her graceful arms, and small, delicately shapedhands hung down at her side. 

Lord Chetwynde bowed in silence. 

"My lord, " said Hilda, in a voice which was tremulous from anuncontrollable emotion, "I wished to see you here. We met here oncebefore; you said what you wished; I made no reply; I had nothing tosay; I felt your reproaches; they were in some degree just andwell-merited; but I might have said something--only I was timid andnervous, and you frightened me. "

Here Hilda paused, and drew a long breath. Her emotion nearly chokedher, but the sound of her own voice sustained her, and, making aneffort, she went on:

"I have nothing to say in defense of my conduct. It has made you hateme. Your hate is too evident. My thoughtless spite has turned backupon myself. I would willingly humiliate myself now if I thought thatit would affect you or conciliate you. I would acknowledge any follyof mine if I thought that you could be brought to look upon me withleniency. What I did was the act of a thoughtless girl, angry atfinding herself chained up for life, spiteful she knew not why. I hadonly seen you for a moment, and did not know you. I was mad. I wasguilty; but still it is a thing that may be considered as notaltogether unnatural under the circumstances. And, after all, it wasnot sincere--it was pique, it was thoughtlessness--it was not thatdeep-seated malice which you have laid to my charge. Can you notthink of this? Can you not imagine what may have been the feelings ofa wild, spoiled, untutored girl, one who was little better than achild, one who found herself shackled she knew not how, and whochafed at all restraint? Can you not understand, or at least imagine, such a case as this, and believe that the one who once sinned has nowrepented, and asks with tears for your forgiveness?"

Tears? Yes, tears were in the eyes of this singular girl, this girlwhose nature was so made up of strength and weakness. Her eyes weresuffused with tears as she looked at Lord Chetwynde, and finally, asshe ceased, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud. 

Now, nothing in nature so moves a man as a woman's tears. If thewoman be beautiful, and if she loves the man to whom she speaks, theyare irresistible. And here the woman was beautiful, and her love forthe man whom she was addressing was evident in her face and in thetones of her voice. Yet Lord Chetwynde sat unmoved. Nothing in hisface or in his eyes gave indications of any response on his part. Nothing whatever showed that any thing like soft pity or tenderconsideration had modified the severity of his purpose or thesternness of his fixed resolve. Yet Lord Chetwynde by nature was nothard-hearted, and Hilda well knew this. In the years which she hadspent at the Castle she had heard from every quarter--from the Earl, from Mrs. Hart, and from the servants--tales without number about hisgenerosity, his self-denial, his kindliness, and tender considerationfor I the feelings of others. Besides this, he had received from hisfather along with that chivalrous nature the lofty sentiments of aknight-errant, and in his boyish days had always been ready toespouse the cause of any one in distress with the warmest enthusiasm. In Hilda's present attitude, in her appearance, in her words, andabove all in her tears, there was every thing that would move such anature to its inmost depths. Had he ever seen any one at once sobeautiful and so despairing; and one, too, whose whole despair arosefrom her feelings for him? Even his recollections of former disdainmight lose their bitterness in the presence of such utterhumiliation, such total self-immolation as this. His nature could nothave changed, for the Indian paper alluded to his "genial" character, and his "heroic qualities. " He must be still the same. What, then, could there be which would be powerful enough to harden his feelingsand steel his heart against such a woeful and piteous sight as thatwhich was now exhibited to him? All these things Hilda thought as shemade her appeal, and broke down so completely at its close; thesethings, too, she thought as the tears streamed from her eyes, and asher frame was shaken by emotion. 

Lord Chetwynde sat looking at her in silence for a long time. Notrace whatever of commiseration appeared upon his face; but hecontinued as stern, as cold, and as unmoved, as in that firstinterview when he had told her how he hated her. Bitter indeed mustthat hate have been which should so crush out all those naturalimpulses of generosity which belonged to him; bitter must the hatehave been; and bitter too must have been the whole of his pastexperience in connection with this woman, which could end in suchpitiless relentlessness. 

At length he answered her. His tone was calm, cool, and impassive, like his face; showing not a trace of any change from that tone inwhich he always addressed her; and making known to her, as she satwith her face buried in her hands, that whatever hopes she hadindulged in during his silence, those hopes were altogether vain. 

"Lady Chetwynde, " he began, "all that you have just said I havethought over long ago, from beginning to end. It has all been in mymind for years. In India there were always hours when the day'sduties were over, and the mind would turn to its own private andsecret thoughts. From the very first, you, Lady Chetwynde, werenaturally the subject of those thoughts to a great degree. Thatmarriage scene was too memorable to be soon forgotten, and therevelation of your character, which I then had, was the first thingwhich showed me the full weight of the obligation which I had sothoughtlessly accepted. Most bitterly I lamented, on my voyage out, that I had not contrived some plan to evade so hasty a fulfillment ofmy boyish promise, and that I had not satisfied the General in someway which would not have involved such a scene. But I could notrecall the past, and I felt bound by my father's engagement. As toyourself, I assure you that in spite of your malice and your insultsI felt most considerately toward you. I pitied you for being, likemyself, the unwilling victim of a father's promise and of a sickman's whim, and learned to make allowance for every word and actionof yours at that time. Not one of those words or actions had thesmallest effect in imbittering my mind toward you. Not one of thosewords which you have just uttered has suggested an idea which I havenot long ago considered, and pondered over in secret, in silence, andin sorrow. I made a large allowance also for that hate which you musthave felt toward one who came to you as I did, in so odious acharacter, to violate, as I did, the sanctities of death by themockery of a hideous marriage. All this--all this has been in mymind, and nothing that you can say is able in any way to bring anynew idea to me. There are other things far deeper and far morelasting than this, which can not be answered, or excused, orexplained away--the long persistent expressions of unchanging hate. "

Lord Chetwynde was silent. Hilda had heard all this without moving orraising her head. Every word was ruin to her hopes. But she stillhoped against hope, and now, since she had an opportunity to speak, she still tried to move this obdurate heart. 

"Hate!" she exclaimed, catching at his last word--"hate! what isthat? the fitful, spitefull feeling arising out of the recollectionof one miserable scene--or perhaps out of the madness of anger at aforced marriage. What is it? One kind word can dispel it. "

As she said this she did not look up. Her face was buried in herhands. Her tone was half despairing, half imploring, and broken byemotion. 

"True, " said Lord Chetwynde. "All that I have thought of, and I usedto console myself with that. I used to say to myself, 'When we meetagain it will be different. When she knows me she can not hate me. '"

"You were right, " faltered Hilda, with a sob which was almost agroan. "And what then? Say--was it a wonder that I should have felthate? Was there ever any one so tried as I was? My father was my onlyfriend. He was father and mother and all the world to me. He wasbrought home one day suddenly, injured by a frightful accident, anddying. At that unparalleled moment I was ordered to prepare formarriage. Half crazed with anxiety and sorrow, and anticipating thevery worst--at such a time death itself would have been preferable tothat ceremony. But all my feelings were outraged, and I was draggeddown to that horrible scene. Can you not see what effect therecollection of this might afterward have? Can you not once againmake allowances, and think those thoughts which you used to think?Can you not still see that you were right in supposing that when wemight meet all would be different, and that she who might once haveknown you could not hate you?"

"No, " said Lord Chetwynde, coldly and severely. 

Hilda raised her head, and looked at him with mute inquiry. 

"I will explain, " said Lord Chetwynde. "I have already said all thatI ought to say; but you force me to say more, though I am unwilling. Your letters, Lady Chetwynde, were the things which quelled andfinally killed all kindly feelings. "

"Letters!" burst in Hilda, with eager vehemence. "They were theletters of a hot-tempered girl, blinded by pique and self-conceit, and carelessly indulging in a foolish spite which in her heart shedid not seriously feel. "

"Pardon me, " said Lord Chetwynde, with cold politeness, "I think youare forgetting the circumstances under which they were written--forthis must be considered as well as the nature of the compositionsthemselves. They were the letters of one whom my father loved, and ofwhom he always spoke in the tenderest language, but who yet was sofaithless to him that she never ceased to taunt me with what shecalled our baseness. She never spared the old man who loved her. Formonths and for years these letters came. It was something more thanpique, something more than self-conceit or spite, which lay at thebottom of such long-continued insults. The worst feature about themwas their cold-blooded cruelty. Nothing in my circumstances orcondition could prevent this--not even that long agony beforeDelhi"--added Lord Chetwynde, in tones filled with a deeperindignation--"when I, lost behind the smoke and cloud and darkness ofthe great struggle, was unable to write for a long time; and, finally, was able to give my account of the assault and the triumph. Not even that could change the course of the insults which were sofreely heaped upon me. And yet it would have been easy to avoid allthis. Why write at all? There was no heavy necessity laid upon you. That was the question which I used to put to myself. But youpersisted in writing, and in sending to me over the seas, withdiabolical pertinacity, those hideous letters in which every word wasa stab. "

While Lord Chetwynde had been speaking Hilda sat looking at him, andmeeting his stern glance with a look which would have softened anyone less bitter. Paler and paler grew her face, and her handsclutched one another in tremulous agitation, which showed her strongemotion. 

"Oh, my lord!" she cried, as he ceased, "can you not have mercy?Think of that black cloud that came down over my young life, fillingit with gloom and horror. I confess that you and your father appearedthe chief agents; but I learned to love _him_, and then all mybitterness turned on _you_--you, who seemed to be so prosperous, sobrave, and so honored. It was you who seemed to have blighted mylife, and so I was animated by a desire to make you feel something ofwhat I had felt. My disposition is fiery and impetuous; my father'straining made it worse. I did not know you; I only felt spite againstyou, and thus I wrote those fatal letters. I thought that you couldhave prevented that marriage if you had wished, and therefore couldnever feel any thing but animosity. But now the sorrows through whichI have passed have changed me, and you yourself have made me see howmad was my action. But oh, my lord, believe me, it was notdeliberate, it was hasty passion! and now I would be willing to wipeout every word in those hateful letters with my heart's blood!"

Hilda's voice was low but impassioned, with a certain burning fervorof entreaty; her words had become words almost of prayer, so deep washer humiliation. Her face was turned toward him with an imploringexpression, and her eyes were fixed on his in what seemed an agony ofsuspense. But not even that white face, with its ashen lips and itsanguish, nor those eyes with their overflowing tears, nor that voicewith its touching pathos of woe, availed in any way to call up anyresponse of pity and sympathy in the breast of Lord Chetwynde. 

"You use strong language, Lady Chetwynde, " said he, in his usualtone. "You forget that it is you yourself who have transformed all myformer kindliness, in spite of myself, into bitterness and gall. Youforget, above all, that last letter of yours. You seem to show anemotion which I once would have taken as real. Pardon me if I now saythat I consider it nothing more than consummate acting. You speak ofconsideration. You hint at mercy. Listen, Lady Chetwynde"--and hereLord Chetwynde raised his right hand with solemn emphasis. "Youturned away from the death-bed of my father, the man who loved youlike a daughter, to write to me that hideous letter which youwrote--that letter, every word of which is still in my memory, andrises up between us to sunder us for evermore. You went beyondyourself. To have spared the living was not needed; but it was themisfortune of your nature that you could not spare the dead. While hewas, perhaps, yet lying cold in death near you, you had the heart towrite to me bitter sneers against him. Even without that you had doneenough to turn me from you always. But when I read that, I then knewmost thoroughly that the one who was capable, under suchcircumstances, of writing thus could only have a mind and heartirretrievably bad--bad and corrupt and base. Never, never, never, while I live, can I forget the utter horror with which that letterfilled me!"

"Oh, my God!" said Hilda, with a groan. 

Lord Chetwynde sat stern and silent. 

"You are inflexible in your cruelty, " said Hilda at length, as shemade one last and almost hopeless effort. "I have done. But will younot ask me something? Have you nothing to ask about your father? Heloved me as a daughter. I was the one who nursed him in his lastillness, and heard his last words. His dying eyes were fixed on me!"

As Hilda said this a sharp shudder passed through her. 

"No, " said Lord Chetwynde, "I have nothing to ask--nothing from_you_! Your last letter has quelled all desire. I would rather remain in ignorance, and know nothing of the last words of him whom I soloved than ask of _you_. "

"He called me his daughter. He loved me, " said Hilda, in a brokenvoice. 

"And yet you were capable of turning away from his death-bed andwriting that letter to his son. You did it coolly and remorselessly. "

"It was the anguish of bereavement and despair. "

"No; it was the malignancy of the Evil One. Nothing else could haveprompted those hideous sneers. In real sorrow sneering is the lastthing that one thinks of. But enough. I do not wish to speak in thisway to a lady. Yet to you I can speak in no other way. I willtherefore retire. "

And, with a bow, Lord Chetwynde withdrew. 

Hilda looked after him, as he left, with staring eyes, and with aface as pallid as that of a corpse. She rose to her feet. Her handswere clenched tight. 

"He loves another, " she groaned; "otherwise he never, never, nevercould have been so pitiless!"

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

SETTING THE DOG ON THE LION'S TRACK. 

After this failure in the effort to come to an understanding withLord Chetwynde, Hilda sank into despondency. She scarcely knew whatthere was to be done when such an appeal as this had failed. She hadhumbled herself in the dust before him--she had manifestedunmistakably her love, yet he had disregarded all. After this whatremained? It was difficult to say. Yet, for herself, she still lookedforward to the daily meeting with him: glad of this, since fate wouldgive her nothing better. The change which had come over her was notone which could be noticed by the servants, so that there was nochance of her secret being discovered by them; but there was anotherat Chetwynde Castle who very quickly discovered all, one who was ledto this perhaps by the sympathy of his own feelings. There was thatsecret within his own heart which made him watchful and attentive andobservant. No change in her face and manner, however slight, couldfail to be noticed by this man, who treasured up every varyingexpression of hers within his heart. And this change which had comeover her was one which affected him by much more than the merevariation of features. It entered into his daily life and disarrangedall his plans. 

Before the arrival of Lord Chetwynde, Gual tier, in his capacity ofsteward, had been accustomed to have frequent interviews with Hilda. Now they were all over. Since that arrival he had not spoken to heronce, nor had he once got so much as a glance of her eye. At first heaccounted for it from very natural causes. He attributed it to theanxiety which she felt at the presence of Lord Chetwynde, and at thedesperate part which she had to play. For some time this seemedsufficient to account for every thing. But afterward he learnedenough to make him think it possible that there were other causes. Heheard the gossip of the servants' hall, and from that he learned thatit was the common opinion of the servants that Lady Chetwynde wasvery fond of Lord Chetwynde, but that the latter was very distant andreserved in his manner toward her. This started him on a new trackfor conjecture, and he soon learned and saw enough to get somegeneral idea of the truth. Yet, after all, it was not the actualtruth which he conjectured. His conclusion was that Hilda was playinga deep game in order to win Lord Chetwynde's affection to herself. The possibility of her actually loving him did not then suggestitself. He looked upon it as one of those profound pieces of policyfor which he was always on the look-out from her. The discovery ofthis disturbed him. The arrival of Lord Chetwynde had troubled him;but this new plan of Hilda's troubled him still more, and all themore because he was now shut out from her confidence. 

"The little thing is up to a new game; and she'll beat, " he said tohimself; "she'll beat, for she always beats. She's got a long head, and I can only guess what it is that she is up to. She'll never tellme. " And he thought, with some pensiveness, upon the sadness of thatone fact, that she would never tell him. Meanwhile he contentedhimself with watching until something more definite could be known. 

Lord Chetwynde had much to occupy him in his father's papers. Hespent the greater part of his time in the library, and though weekspassed he did not seem to be near the end of them. At other times herode about the grounds or sauntered through the groves. The seclusionin which the Castle had always been kept was not disturbed. Thecounty families were too remote for ordinary calling, or else theydid not know of his arrival. Certain it is that no one entered thesesolitary precincts except the doctor. The state of things here waspuzzling to him. He saw Lord Chetwynde whenever he came, but he neversaw Lady Chetwynde. On his asking anxiously about her he was toldthat she was well. It was surprising to him that she never showedherself, but he attributed it to her grief for the dead. He did notknow what had become of Miss Krieff, whose zeal in the sick-room hadwon his admiration. Lord Chetwynde was too haughty for him toquestion, and the servants were all new faces. It was therefore withmuch pleasure that he one day saw Gualtier. Him he accosted, shakinghands with him earnestly, and with a familiarity which he had nevercared to bestow in former days. But curiosity was stronger than hissense of personal dignity. Gualtier allowed himself to be questioned, and gave the doctor that information which he judged best for thebenefit of the world without. Lady Chetwynde, he told him, was stillmourning over the loss of her best friend, and even the return of herhusband had not been sufficient to fill the vacant place. MissKrieff, he said, had gone to join her friends in North Britain, andhe, Gualtier, had been appointed steward in place of the former one, who had gone away to London. This information was received by thedoctor with great satisfaction, since it set his mind at restcompletely about certain things which had puzzled him. 

That evening one of the servants informed Gualtier that LadyChetwynde wished to see him in the library. His pale face flushed up, and his eyes lightened as he walked there. She was alone. He bowedreverentially, yet not before he had cast toward her a look full ofunutterable devotion. She was paler than before. There was sadness onher face. She had thrown herself carelessly in an arm-chair, and herhands were nervously clutching one another. Never before had he seenany thing approaching to emotion in this singular being. Her presentagitation surprised him, for he had not suspected the possibility ofany thing like this. 

She returned his greeting with a slight bow, and then fell for a timeinto a fit of abstraction, during which she did not take any furthernotice of him. Gualtier was more impressed by this than by any otherthing. Always before she had been self-possessed, with all herfaculties alive and in full activity. Now she seemed so dull and sochanged that he did not know what to think. He began to fear theapproach of some calamity by which all his plans would be ruined. 

"Mr. M'Kenzie, " said Hilda, rousing herself at length, and speakingin a harsh, constrained voice, which yet was low and not audibleexcept to one who was near her, "have you seen Lord Chetwynde sincehis arrival?"

"No, my lady, " said Gualtier, respectfully, yet wondering at theabruptness with which she introduced the subject. For it had alwayshitherto been her fashion to lead the conversation on by gradualapproaches toward the particular thing about which she might wish tomake inquiries. 

"I thought, " she continued, in the same tone, "that he might havecalled you up to gain information about the condition of the estate. "

"No, my lady, he has never shown any such desire. In fact, he doesnot seem to be conscious that there is such a person as myself inexistence. "

"Since he came, " said Hilda, dreamily, "he has been altogetherabsorbed in the investigation of papers relating to his father'sbusiness affairs; and as he has not been here for many years, duringwhich great changes must have taken place in the condition of things, I did not know but that he might have sought to gain information fromyou. "

"No, my lady, " said Gualtier once more, still preserving thatunfaltering respect with which he always addressed her, and wonderingwhither these inquiries might be tending, or what they might mean. That she should ask him any thing about Lord Chetwynde filled himwith a vague alarm, and seemed to show that the state of things wasunsatisfactory, if not critical. He was longing to ask about thatfirst meeting of hers with Lord Chetwynde, and also about theposition which they at present occupied toward one another--aposition most perplexing to him, and utterly inexplicable. Yet onsuch subjects as these he did not dare to speak. He could only hopethat she herself would speak of them to him, and that she had chosenthis occasion to make a fresh confidence to him. 

After his last answer Hilda did not say any thing for some time. Hernervousness seemed to increase. Her hands still clutched one another;and her bosom heaved and fell in quick, rapid breathings which showedthe agitation that existed within her. 

"Lord Chetwynde, " said Hilda at last, rousing herself with a visibleeffort, and looking round with something of her old stealthywatchfulness--"Lord Chetwynde is a man who keeps his own counsel, anddoes not choose to give even so much as a hint about the nature ofhis occupations. He has now some purpose on his mind which he doesnot choose to confide to me, and I do not know how it is possible forme to find it out. Yet it is a thing which must be of importance, forhe is not a man who would stay here so long and labor so hard on amere trifle. His ostensible occupation is the business of the estate, and certain plans arising in connection with this; but beneath thisostensible occupation there is some purpose which it is impossiblefor me to fathom. Yet I must find it out, whatever it is, and I haveinvited you here to see if I could not get your assistance. You oncewent to work keenly and indefatigably to investigate something forme; and here is an occasion on which, if you feel inclined, you canagain exercise your talents. It may result in something of thegreatest importance. "

Hilda had spoken in low tones, and as she concluded she looked atGualtier with a penetrating glance. Such a request showed him that hewas once more indispensable. His heart beat fast, and his facelighted up with joy. 

"My lady, " said he, in a low, earnest voice, "it surely can not benecessary for me to tell you that I am always ready to do yourbidding, whatever it may be. There is no necessity to remind me ofthe past. When shall I begin this? At once? Have you formed any planof action which you would like me to follow?"

"Only in a general way, " said Hilda. "It is not at Chetwynde that Iwant you to work, but elsewhere. You can do nothing here. I myselfhave already done all that you could possibly do, and more too, inthe way of investigation in this house. But in spite of all myefforts I have found nothing, and so I see plainly that the searchmust be carried on in another place. "

"And where may that be?" asked Gualtier. 

"He has some purpose in his mind, " Hilda went on to say--"some oneengrossing object, I know not what, which is far more important thanany thing relating to business, and which is his one great aim inlife at present. This is what I wish to find out. It may threatendanger, and if so I wish to guard against it. "

"Is there any danger?" asked Gualtier, cautiously. 

"Not as yet--that is, so far as I can see. "

"Does he suspect any thing?" said Gualtier, in a whisper. 

"Nothing. "

"You seem agitated. "

"Never mind what I seem, " said Hilda, coldly; "my health is not good. As to Lord Chetwynde, he is going away in a short time, and the placeto which he goes will afford the best opportunity for finding outwhat his purpose is. I wish to know if it is possible for you in anyway to follow him so as to watch him. You did something once beforethat was not more difficult. "

Gualtier smiled. 

"I think I can promise, my lady, " said he, "that I will do all thatyou desire. I only wish that it was something more difficult, so thatI could do the more for you. "

"You may get your wish, " said Hilda, gloomily, and in a tone thatpenetrated to the inmost soul of Gualtier. "You may get your wish, and that, too, before long. But at present I only wish you to dothis. It is a simple task of watchfulness and patient observation. "

"I will do it as no man ever did it before, " said Gualtier. "Youshall know the events of every hour of his life till he comes backagain. "

"That will do, then. Be ready to leave whenever he does. Choose yourown way of observing him, either openly or secretly; you yourselfknow best. "

Hilda spoke very wearily, and rose to withdraw. As she passed, Gualtier stood looking at her with an imploring face. She carelesslyheld out her hand. He snatched it in both of his and pressed it tohis lips. 

"My God!" he cried, "it's like ice! What is the matter?"

Hilda did not seem to hear him, but walked slowly out of the room. 

About a week after this Lord Chetwynde took his departure. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

OBED STANDS AT BAY. 

On leaving Marseilles all Zillah's troubles seemed to return to heronce more. The presence of Windham had dispelled them for a time; nowthat he was present no longer there was nothing to save her fromsorrow. She had certainly enough to weigh down any one, and among allher sorrows her latest grief stood pre-eminent. The death of theEarl, the cruel discovery of those papers in her father's drawer bywhich there seemed to be a stain on her father's memory, theintolerable insult which she had endured in that letter from Guy tohis father, the desperate resolution to fly, the anguish which shehad endured on Hilda's account, and, finally, the agony of that lonevoyage in the drifting schooner--all these now came back to her withfresher violence, recurring again with overpowering force from thefact that they had been kept off so long. Yet there was not onememory among all these which so subdued her as the memory of theparting scene with Windham. This was the great sorrow of her life. Would she ever meet him again? Perhaps not. Or why should she? Ofwhat avail would it be?

Passing over the seas she gave herself up to her recollections, andto the mournful thoughts that crowded in upon her. Among otherthings, she could not help thinking and wondering about Windham'sdespair. What was the reason that he had always kept such a closewatch over himself? What was the reason why he never ventured toutter in words that which had so often been expressed in his eloquentface? Above all, what was the cause of that despairing cry which hadescaped him when they exchanged their last farewell? It was therecognition on his part of some insuperable obstacle that lay betweenthem. That was certain. Yet what could the obstacle be? Clearly, itcould not have been the knowledge of her own position. It wasperfectly evident that Windham knew nothing whatever about her, andcould have not even the faintest idea of the truth. It must thereforebe, as she saw it, that this obstacle could only be one which was inconnection with himself. And what could that be? Was he a priestunder vows of celibacy? She smiled at the preposterous idea. Was heengaged to be married in England, and was he now on the way to hisbride? Could this be it? and was his anguish the result of theconflict between love and honor in his breast? This may have been thecase. Finally, was he married already? She could not tell. She ratherfancied that it was an engagement, not a marriage; and it was in thisthat she thought she could find the meaning of his passionate anddespairing words. 

Passing over those waters where once she had known what it was to bebetrayed, and had tasted of the bitterness of death, she did not findthat they had power to renew the despair which they once had caused. Behind the black memory of that hour of anguish rose up anothermemory which engrossed all her thoughts. If she had tears, it was forthis. It was Windham, whose image filled all her soul, and whose lastwords echoed through her heart. For as she gazed on these waters itwas not of the drifting schooner that she thought, not of the hoursof intense watchfulness, not of the hope deferred that graduallyturned into despair; it was rather of the man who, as she had oftenheard since, was the one who first recognized her, and came to her inher senselessness, and bore her in his arms back to life. Had he donewell in rescuing her? Had he not saved her for a greater sorrow?Whether he had or not mattered not. He had saved her, and her lifewas his. That strange rescue constituted a bond between them whichcould not be dissolved. Their lives might run henceforth in lineswhich should never meet, but still they belonged henceforth to oneanother, though they might never possess one another. Out from amongthese waters there came also sweeter memories--the memories ofvoyages over calm seas, under the shadow of the hoary Alps, wherethey passed away those golden hours, knowing that the end must come, yet resolved to enjoy to the full the rapture of the present. Thesewere the thoughts that sustained her. No grief could rob her ofthese; but in cherishing them her soul found peace. 

Those into whose society she had been thrown respected her grief andHer reticence. For the first day she had shut herself up in her room;but the confinement became intolerable, and she was forced to go outon deck. She somewhat dreaded lest Obed Chute, out of the verykindness of his heart, would come and try to entertain her. She didnot feel in the mood for talking. Any attempt at entertaining her shefelt would be unendurable. But she did not know the perfectrefinement of sentiment that dwelt beneath the rough exterior ofObed. He seemed at once to divine her state of mind. With the utmostdelicacy he found a place for her to sit, but said little or nothingto her, and for all the remainder of the voyage treated her with asilent deference of attention which was most grateful. She knew thathe was not neglectful. She saw a hundred times a day that Obed's mindwas filled with anxiety about her, and that to minister to hercomfort was his one idea. But it was not in words that this wasexpressed. It was in helping her up and down from the cabin to thedeck, in fetching wraps, in speaking a cheerful word from time totime, and, above all, in keeping his family away from her, that heshowed his watchful attention. Thus the time passed, and Zillah wasleft to brood over her griefs, and to conjecture hopelessly and atrandom about the future. What would that future bring forth? Wouldthe presence of Hilda console her in any way? She did not see how itcould. After the first joy of meeting, she felt that she wouldrelapse into her usual sadness. Time only could relieve her, and heronly hope was patience. 

At last they landed at Naples. Obed took the party to a handsomehouse on the Strada Nuova, where he had lodged when he was in Naplesbefore, and where he obtained a suite of apartments in front, whichcommanded a magnificent view of the bay, with all its unrivaledscenery, together with the tumultuous life of the street below. Herehe left them, and departed himself almost immediately to begin hissearch after Hilda. Her letter mentioned that she was stopping at the"Hotel de l'Europe, " in the Strada Toledo; and to this place he firstdirected his way. 

On arriving here he found a waiter who could speak English, which wasa fortunate thing, in his opinion, as he could not speak a word ofany other language. He at once asked if a lady by the name of MissLorton was stopping here. 

The waiter looked at him with a peculiar glance, and surveyed himFrom head to foot. There was something in the expression of his facewhich appeared very singular to Obed--a mixture of eager curiosityand surprise, which to him, to say the least, seemed uncalled forunder the circumstances. He felt indignant at such treatment from awaiter. 

"If you will be kind enough to stare less and answer my question, "said he, "I will feel obliged; but perhaps you don't understandEnglish. "

"I beg pardon, " said the other, in very good English; "but what wasthe name of the lady?"

"Miss Lorton, " said Obed. 

The waiter looked at him again with the same peculiar glance, andthen replied:

"I don't know, but I will ask. Wait here a moment. "

Saying this, he departed, and Obed saw him speaking to some half adozen persons in the hall very earnestly and hurriedly; then he wentoff, and in about five minutes returned in company with the master ofthe hotel. 

"Were you asking after a lady?" said he, in very fair English, andbowing courteously to Obed. 

"I was, " said Obed, who noticed at the same time that this man wasregarding him with the same expression of eager and scrutinizingcuriosity which he had seen on the face of the other. 

"And what was the name?"

"Miss Lorton. "

"Miss Lorton?" repeated the other; "yes, she is here. Will you bekind enough to follow me to the parlor until I see whether she is athome or not, and make her acquainted with your arrival?"

At this information, which was communicated with extreme politeness, Obed felt such immense relief that he forgot altogether about thevery peculiar manner in which he had been scrutinized. A great weightseemed suddenly to have been lifted off his soul. For the first timein many weeks he began to breathe freely. He thought of the joy whichhe would bring to that poor young girl who had been thrown sostrangely under his protection, and who was so sad. For a moment hehesitated whether to wait any longer or not. His first impulse was tohurry away and bring her here; but then in a moment he thought itwould be far better to wait, and to take back Miss Lorton with him intriumph to her sister. 

The others watched his momentary hesitation with some apparentanxiety; but at length it was dispelled by Obed's reply:

"Thank you. I think I had better wait and see her. I hope I won't bedetained long. "

"Oh no. She is doubtless in her room. You will only have to wait afew minutes. "

Saying this, they led the way to a pleasant apartment looking out onthe Strada Toledo, and here Obed took a seat, and lost himself inspeculations as to the appearance of the elder Miss Lorton. In aboutfive minutes the door was opened, and the master of the hotel madehis appearance again. 

"I find, " said he, politely, "that Miss Lorton is not in. She wentout only a few minutes before you came. She left word with her maid, however, that she was going to a shop up the Strada Toledo to buysome jewelry. I am going to send a messenger to hasten her return. Shall I send your name by him?"

"Well, " said Obed, "I don't know as it's necessary. Better wait tillI see her myself. "

The landlord said nothing, but looked at him with strangeearnestness. 

"By-the-way, " said Obed, "how is she?"

"She?"

"Yes; Miss Lorton. "

"Oh, " said the landlord, "very well. "

"She recovered from her illness then?"

"Oh yes. "

"Is she in good spirits?"

"Good spirits?"

"Yes; is she happy?"

"Oh yes. "

"I am glad to hear it. I was afraid she might be melancholy. "

"Oh no, " said the landlord, with some appearance of confusion; "ohno. She's very well. Oh yes. "

His singular behavior again struck Obed rather oddly, and he staredat him for a moment. But he at last thought that the landlord mightnot know much about the health or the happiness of his guest, and wasanswering from general impressions. 

"I will hasten then, Sir, " said the landlord, advancing to the door, "to send the messenger; and if you will be kind enough to wait, shewill be here soon. "

He bowed, and going out, he shut the door behind him. Obed, who hadwatched his embarrassment, thought that he heard the key turn. Thething seemed very odd, and he stepped up to the door to try it. Itwas locked!

"Well, I'll be darned!" cried Obed, standing before the door andregarding it with astonishment. "I've seen some curious foreignfashions, but this here _I_talian fashion of locking a man in is alittle the curiousest. And what in thunder is the meaning of it?"

He looked at the door with a frown, while there was that on his facewhich showed that he might be deliberating whether to kick throughthe panels or not. But his momentary indignation soon subsided, and, with a short laugh, he turned away and strolled up to the window withan indifferent expression. There he drew up an arm-chair, and seatinghimself in this, he looked out into the street. For some time hisattention and his thoughts were all engaged by the busy scene; but atlength he came to himself, and began to think that it was about timefor the return of Miss Lorton. He paced up and down the roomimpatiently, till growing tired of this rather monotonous employment, he sought the window again. Half an hour had now passed, and Obed'spatience was fast failing. Still he waited on, and another half hourpassed. Then he deliberated whether it would not be better to go backto his rooms, and bring the younger Miss Lorton here to see hersister. But this thought he soon dismissed. Having waited so long forthe sake of carrying out his first plan, it seemed weak to give it upon account of a little impatience. He determined, however, toquestion the landlord again; so he pulled at the bell. 

No answer came. 

He pulled again and again for some minutes. 

Still there was no answer. 

He now began to feel indignant, and determined to resort to extrememeasures. So going to the door, he rapped upon it with his stickseveral times, each time waiting for an answer. But no answer came. Then he beat incessantly against the door, keeping up a long, rolling, rattling volley of knocks without stopping, and making noiseenough to rouse the whole house, even if every body in the houseshould happen to be in the deepest of slumbers. Yet even now for sometime there was no response; and Obed at length was beginning to thinkof his first purpose, and preparing to kick through the panels, whenhis attention was aroused by the sound of heavy footsteps in thehall. They came nearer and nearer as he stood waiting, and at lengthstopped in front of the door. His only thought was that thiswas the lady whom he sought so he stepped back, and hastily composedhis face to a pleasant smile of welcome. With this pleasant smile heawaited the opening of the door. 

But as the door opened his eyes were greeted by a sight verydifferent from what he anticipated. No graceful lady-like form wasthere--no elder and maturer likeness of that Miss Lorton whose facewas now so familiar to him, and so dear--but a dozen or so gensd'armes, headed by the landlord. The latter entered the room, whilethe others stood outside in the hall. 

"Well, " said Obed, angrily. "What is the meaning of this parade?Where is Miss Lorton?"

"These gentlemen, " said the landlord, with much politeness, "willconvey you to the residence of that charming lady. "

"It seems to me, " said Obed, sternly, "that you have been humbuggingme. Give me a civil answer, or I swear I'll wring your neck. Is MissLorton here or not?"

The landlord stepped back hastily a pace or two, and made a motion tothe gens d'armes. A half dozen of these filed into the room, andarranged themselves by the windows. The rest remained in the hall. 

"What is the meaning of this?" said Obed. "Are you crazy?"

"The meaning is this, " said the other, sharply and fiercely. "I amnot the landlord of the Hotel de l'Europe, but sub-agent of theNeapolitan police. And I arrest you in the name of the king. "

"Arrest _me_!" cried Obed. "What the deuce do you mean?"

"It means, Monsieur, that you are trapped at last. I have watched foryou for seven weeks, and have got you now. You need not try toresist. That is impossible. "

Obed looked round in amazement. What was the meaning of it all? Therewere the gens d'armes--six in the hall, and six in the room. Allwere armed. All looked prepared to fall on him at the slightestsignal. 

"Are you a born fool?" he cried at last, turning to the "agent. " "Doyou know what you are doing? I am an American, a native of the greatrepublic, a free man, and a gentleman. What do you mean by thisinsult, and these beggarly policemen?"

[Illustration: "Don't Move, Or I'll Blow Your Brains Out!"]

"I mean this, " said the other, "that you are my prisoner. "

"I am, am I?" said Obed, with a grim smile. 

"A prisoner! My friend, that is a difficult thing to come to passwithout my consent. "

And saying this, he quietly drew a revolver from his breast pocket. 

"Now, " said he, "my good friend, look here. I have this littleinstrument, and I'm a dead shot. I don't intend to be humbugged. Ifany one of you dare to make a movement I'll put a bullet through you. And you, you scoundrel, stand where you are, or you'll get the firstbullet. You've got hold of the wrong man this time, but I'm going toget satisfaction for this out of your infernal beggarly government. As to you, answer my questions. First, who the deuce do you take meto be? You've made some infernal mistake or other. "

The agent cowered beneath the stern eye of Obed. He felt himselfcovered by his pistol, and did not dare to move. The gens d'armeslooked disturbed, but made no effort to interfere. They felt thatthey had to do with a desperate man, and waited for orders. 

"Don't you hear my question?" thundered Obed. "What the deuce is themeaning of this, and who the deuce do you take me for? Don't move, "he cried, seeing a faint movement of the agent's hand; "or I'll blowyour brains out; I will, by the Eternal!"

"Beware, " faltered the agent; "I belong to the police. I am doing myduty. "

"Pooh! What is your beggarly police to me, or your beggarly kingeither, and all his court? There are a couple of Yankee frigates outthere that could bring down the whole concern in a half hour'sbombardment. You've made a mistake, you poor, pitiful concern; butI'm in search of information, and I'm bound to get it. Answer me nowwithout any more humbugging. What's the meaning of this?"

"I was ordered to watch for any one who might come here and ask for'_Miss Lorton_, '" said the agent, who spoke like a criminal to ajudge. "I have watched here for seven weeks. You came to-day, and youare under arrest. "

"Ah?" said Obed, as a light began to flash upon him. "Who ordered youto watch?"

"The prefect. "

"Do you know any thing about the person whom you were to arrest?"

"No. "

"Don't you know his crime?"

"No. It had something to do with the French police. "

"Do you know his name?"

"Yes. "

"What was it?"

"_Gualtier_, " said the agent. 

"And you think I am Gualtier?"

"Yes. "

"And so there is no such person as Miss Lorton here?"

"No. "

"Hasn't she been here at all?"

"No; no such person has ever been here. "

"That'll do, " said Obed, gravely, and with some sadness in his face. As he spoke, he put back his revolver into his pocket. "My goodfriend, " said he, "you've made a mistake, and put me to someannoyance, but you've only done your duty. I forgive you. I am notthis man Gualtier whom you are after, but I am the man that is afterhim. Perhaps it would have been better for me to have gone straightto the police when I first came, but I thought I'd find her here. However, I can go there now. I have a message and a letter ofintroduction to the prefect of police here from the prefect atMarseilles, which I am anxious now to deliver as soon as possible. So, my young friend, I'll go with you after all, and you needn'tbe in the least afraid of me. "

The agent still looked dubious; but Obed, who was in a hurry now, andhad got over his indignation, took from his pocket-book some officialdocuments bearing the marks of the French prefecture, and addressedto that of Naples. This satisfied the agent, and, with manyapologies, he walked off with Obed down to the door, and thereentering a cab, they drove to the prefecture. 

CHAPTER XL. 

GLIMPSES OF THE TRUTH. 

Meanwhile, during Obed's absence, Zillah remained in the StradaNuova. The windows looked out upon the street and upon the bay, commanding a view of the most glorious scenery on earth, and also ofthe most exciting street spectacles which any city can offer. Full ofimpatience though she was, she could not remain unaffected by thatfirst glimpse of Naples, which she then obtained from those windowsby which she was sitting. For what city is like Naples? Beauty, life, laughter, gayety, all have their home here. The air itself isintoxication. The giddy crowds that whirl along in every directionseem to belong to a different and a more joyous race than sorrowinghumanity. For ages Naples has been "the captivating, " and still shepossesses the same charm, and she will possess it for ages yet tocome. 

The scene upon which Zillah gazed was one which might have broughtdistraction and alleviation to cares and griefs even heavier thanhers. Never had she seen such a sight as this which she now beheld. There before her spread away the deep blue waters of Naples Bay, dotted by the snow-white sails of countless vessels, from the smallfishing-boat up to the giant ship of war. On that sparkling bosom ofthe deep was represented almost every thing that floats, from thelight, swift, and curiously rigged lateen sloop, to the modernmail-packet. Turning from the sea the eye might rest upon thesurrounding shores, and find there material of even deeper interest. On the right, close by, was the projecting castle, and sweepingbeyond this the long curving beach, above which, far away, rose thegreen trees of the gardens of the Villa Reale. Farther away rose thehills on whose slope stands what is claimed to be the grave ofVirgil, whose picturesque monument, whether it be really his or not, suggests his well-known epitaph:

 "I sing flocks, tillage, heroes. Mantua gave Me life; Brundusium death; Naples a grave. "

Through those hills runs the Titanic grotto of Posilippo, which leadsto that historic land beyond--the land of the Cumaeans and Oscans;or, still more, the land of the luxurious Romans of the empire; whereSylla lived, and Cicero loved to retire; which Julius loved, andHorace, and every Roman of taste or refinement. There spread away thelake Lucrine, bordered by the Elysian Fields; there was the longgrotto through which Aeneas passed; where once the Cumaean Sibyldwelt and delivered her oracles. There was Misenum, where once theRoman navy rode at anchor; Baiae, where once all Roman luxury lovedto pass the summer season; Puteoli, where St. Paul landed when on hisway to Caesar's throne. There were the waters in which Nero thoughtto drown Agrippina, and over which another Roman emperor built thatcolossal bridge which set at defiance the prohibition of nature. There was the rock of Ischia, terminating the line of coast; and outat sea, immediately in front, the isle of Capri, forever associatedwith the memory of Tiberius, with his deep wiles, his treachery, andhis remorseless cruelty. There, too, on the left and nearest Capri, were the shores of Sorrento, that earthly paradise whose trees arealways green, whose fruits always ripe; there the cave of Polyphemuspenetrates the lofty mountains, and brings back that song of Homer bywhich it is immortalized. Coming nearer, the eye rested on thewinding shores of Castellamare, on vineyards and meadows andorchards, which fill all this glorious land. Nearer yet the scene wasdominated by the stupendous form of Vesuvius, at once the glory andthe terror of all this scene, from whose summit there never ceases tocome that thin line of smoke, the symbol of possible ruin to all whodwell within sight of it. Round it lie the buried cities, whosecharred remains have been exhumed to tell what may yet be the fate ofthose other younger cities which have arisen on their ashes. 

While the scene beyond was so enthralling, there was one nearer bywhich was no less so. This was the street itself, with that wild, never-ending rush of riotous, volatile, multitudinous life, which canbe equaled by no other city. There the crowd swept along onhorseback, on wheels, on foot; gentlemen riding for pleasure, ordragoons on duty; parties driving into the country; tourists on theirway to the environs; market farmers with their rude carts;wine-sellers; fig-dealers; peddlers of oranges, of dates, ofanisette, of water; of macaroni. Through the throng innumerablecalashes dashed to and fro, crowded down, in true Neapolitan fashion, with inconceivable numbers; for in Naples the calash is not fullunless a score or so are in some way clinging to it--above, below, before, behind. There, too, most marked of all, were the lazaroni, whose very existence in Naples is a sign of the ease with which lifeis sustained in so fair a spot, who are born no one knows where, wholive no one knows how, but who secure as much of the joy of life asany other human beings; the strange result of that endlesscombination of races which have come together in Naples--the Greek, the Italian, the Norman, the Saracen, and Heaven only knows whatelse. 

Such scenes as these, such crowds, such life, such universalmovement, for a long time attracted Zillah's attention; and shewatched them with childish eagerness. At last, however, the noveltywas over, and she began to wonder why Obed Chute had not returned. Looking at her watch, she found, to her amazement, that two hours hadpassed since his departure. He had left at ten; it was then mid-day. What was keeping him? She had expected him back before half an hour, but he had not yet returned. She had thought that it needed but ajourney to the Hotel de l'Europe to find Hilda, and bring her here. Anxiety now began to arise in her mind, and the scenes outside lostall charm for her. Her impatience increased till it becameintolerable. Miss Chute saw her agitation, and made some attempt tosoothe her, but in vain. In fact, by one o'clock, Zillah had givenherself up to all sorts of fears. Sometimes she thought that Hildahad grown tired of waiting, and had gone back to England, and was nowsearching through France and Italy for her; again she thought thatperhaps she had experienced a relapse and had died here in Naples, far away from all friends, while she herself was loitering inMarseilles; at another time her fears took a more awful turn--herthoughts turned on Gualtier--and she imagined that he had, perhaps, come on to Naples to deal to Hilda that fate which he had tried todeal to her. These thoughts were all maddening, and filled her withuncontrollable agitation. She felt sure at last that some dread thinghad happened, which Obed Chute had discovered, and which he feared toreveal to her. Therefore he kept away; and on no other grounds couldshe account for his long-continued absence. 

Two o'clock passed--and three, and four, and five. The suspense wasfearful to Zillah, so fearful, indeed, that at last she felt that itwould be a relief to hear any news--even the worst. 

At length her suspense was ended. About half past five Obed returned. Anxiety was on his face, and he looked at Zillah with an expressionof the deepest pity and commiseration. She on her part advanced tomeet him with white lips and trembling frame, and laid on his handher own, which was like ice. 

"You have not found her?" she faltered, in a scarce audible voice. 

Obed shook his head. 

"She is dead, then!" cried Zillah; "she is dead! She died here--amongstrangers--in Naples, and I--I delayed in Marseilles!"

A deep groan burst from her, and all the anguish of self-reproach andkeen remorse swept over her soul. 

Obed Chute looked at her earnestly and mournfully. 

"My child, " said he, taking her little hand tenderly in both ofhis--"my poor child--you need not be afraid that your sister is dead. She is alive--as much as you are. "

"Alive!" cried Zillah, rousing herself from her despair. "Alive! Godbe thanked! Have you found out that? But where is she?"

"Whether God is to be thanked or not I do not know, " said Obed; "butit's my solemn belief that she is as much alive as she ever was. "

"But where is she?" cried Zillah, eagerly. "Have you found out that?"

"It would take a man with a head as long as a horse to tell that, "said Obed, sententiously. 

"What do you mean? Have you not found out that? How do you know thatshe is alive? You only hope so--as I do. You do not know so. Oh, donot, do not keep me in suspense. "

"I mean, " said Obed, slowly and solemnly, "that this sister of yourshas never been in Naples; that there is no such steamer in existenceas that which she mentions in her letter which you showed me; thatthere is no such ship, and no such captain, and no such captain'swife, as those which she writes about; that no such person was everpicked up adrift in that way, and brought here, except your own poorinnocent, trustful, loving self--you, my poor dear child, who havebeen betrayed by miserable assassins. And by the Eternal!" criedObed, with a deeper solemnity in his voice, raising up at the sametime his colossal arm and his clenched fist to heaven--"by theEternal! I swear I'll trace all this out yet, and pay it out in fullto these infernal devils!"

"Oh, my God!" cried Zillah. "What do you mean? Do you mean that Hildahas not been here at all?"

"No such person has ever been in Naples. "

"Why, was she not picked up adrift? and where could they have takenher?"

"She never was picked up. Rely upon that. No such ship as the one shementions has ever been here. "

"Then she has written down 'Naples' in mistake, " cried Zillah, whilea shudder passed through her at Obed's frightful insinuation. 

"No, " said Obed. "She wrote it down deliberately, and wrote itseveral times. Her repetition of that name, her description of thecharms of Naples, show that she did this intentionally. Besides, yourenvelope has the Naples postage stamps and the Naples post-marks. Itwas mailed here, whether it was written here or not. It was sent fromhere to fetch you to this place, on this journey, which resulted asyou remember. "

"Oh, my God!" cried Zillah, as the full horror of Obed's meaningbegan to dawn upon her. "What do you mean? What do you mean? Do youwish to drive me to utter despair? Tell me where you have been andwhat you have done. Oh, my God! Is any new grief coming?"

"My child, the Lord on high knows, " said Obed Chute, with solemnemphasis, "that I would cut off my right hand with my ownbowie-knife, rather than bring back to you the news I do. But whatcan be done? It is best for you to know the whole truth, bitter as itis. "

"Go on, " said Zillah, with an effort to be calm. 

"Come, " said Obed, and he led her to a seat. "Calm yourself, andprepare for the worst. For at the outset, and by way of preparationand warning, I will say that yours is a little the darkest case thatI ever got acquainted with. The worst of it is that there is ever somuch behind it all which I don't know any thing about. "

Zillah leaned her head upon her hand and looked at him with awfulforebodings. 

"When I left you, " said Obed Chute, "I went at once to the Hotel del'Europe, expecting to find her there, or at least to hear of her. Iwill not relate the particulars of my inquiry there. I will only saythat no such person as Miss Lorton had been there. I found, however, that the police had been watching there for seven weeks for Gualtier. I went with them to the Prefecture of Police. I gave my letter ofintroduction from the prefect of Marseilles, and was treated with theutmost attention. The prefect himself informed me that they had beensearching into the whole case for weeks. They had examined all thevessels that had arrived, and had inspected all their logs. They hadsearched through foreign papers. They had visited every house in thecity to which a stranger might go. The prefect showed me hisvoluminous reports, and went with me to the Harbor Bureau to show methe names of ships which arrived here and were owned here. Nevercould there be a more searching investigation than this had been. What was the result?

"Listen, " said Obed, with impressive emphasis, yet compassionately, as Zillah hung upon his words. "I will tell you all in brief. First, no such person as Miss Lorton ever came to the Hotel de l'Europe. Secondly, no such person ever came to Naples at all. Thirdly, no shiparrived here at the date mentioned by your sister. Fourthly, no shipof that name ever came here at all. Fifthly, no ship arrived here atany time this year that had picked up any one at sea. The whole thingis untrue. It is a base fiction made up for some purpose. "

"A fiction!" cried Zillah. "Never--never--she could not so deceiveme. "

"Can the writing be forged?"

"I don't see how it can, " said Zillah, piteously. "I know her writingso well, " and she drew the letter from her pocket. "See--it is a verypeculiar hand--and then, how could any one speak as she does aboutthose things of hers which she wished me to bring? No--it can not bea forgery. "

"It is not, " said Obed Chute. "It is worse. "

"Worse?"

"Yes, worse. If it had been a forgery she would not have beenimplicated in this. But now she does stand implicated in thishorrible betrayal of you. "

"Heavens! how terrible! It must be impossible. Oh, Sir! we have livedtogether and loved one another from childhood. She knows all myheart, as I know hers. How can it be? Perhaps in her confusion shehas imagined herself in Naples. "

"No, " said Obed, sternly. "I have told you about the post-marks. "

"Oh, Sir! perhaps her mind was wandering after the suffering of thatsea voyage. "

"But she never had any voyage, " said Obed Chute, grimly. "This letterwas written by her somewhere with the intention of making you believethat she was in Naples. It was mailed here. If she had landed inPalermo or any other place you would have had some sign of it. Butsee--there is not a sign. Nothing but 'Naples' is here, inside andout--nothing but 'Naples;' and she never came to Naples! She wrotethis to bring you here. "

"Oh, my God! how severely you judge her! You will drive me mad byinsinuating such frightful suspicions. How is it possible that onewhom I know so well and love so dearly could be such a demon as this?It can not be. "

"Listen, my child, " said Obed Chute, tenderly. "Strengthen yourself. You have had much to bear in your young life, but this is easier tobear than that was which you must have suffered that morning when youfirst woke and found the water in your cabin. Tell me--in that hourwhen you rushed up on deck and saw that you were betrayed--in thathour--did no thought come to your mind that there was some other thanGualtier who brought this upon you?"

Zillah looked at him with a frightened face, and said not a word. 

"Better to face the worst. Let the truth be known, and face it, whatever it is. Look, now. She wrote this letter which brought youhere--this letter--every word of which is a lie; she it was who sentGualtier to you to bring you here; she it was who recommended to youthat miscreant who betrayed you, on whose tracks the police of Franceand Italy are already set. How do you suppose she will appear in theeyes of the French police? Guilty, or not guilty?"

Zillah muttered some inarticulate words, and then suddenly gaspedout, "But the hat and the basket found by the fishermen?"

"Decoys--common tricks, " said Obed Chute, scornfully. "Clumsy enough, but in this case successful. "

Zillah groaned, and buried her face in her hands. 

A long silence followed. 

"My poor child, " said Obed Chute at last, "I have been all the daymaking inquiries every where, and have already engaged the police tosearch out this mystery. There is one thing yet, however, which Iwish to know, and you only can tell it. I am sorry to have to talk inthis way, and give you any new troubles, but it is for your sakeonly, and for your sake there is nothing which I would not do. Willyou answer me one question?"

Zillah looked up. Her face had now grown calm. The agitation hadpassed. The first shock was over, but this calm which followed wasthe calm of fixed grief--a grief too deep for tears. 

"My question is this, and it is a very important one: Do you know, orcan you conceive of any motive which could have actuated this personto plot against you in this way?"

"I do not. "

"Think. "

Zillah thought earnestly. She recalled the past, in which Hilda hadalways been so devoted; she thought of the dying Earl by whosebedside she had stood so faithfully; she thought of her deep sympathywith her when the writings were found in her father's desk; shethought of that deeper sympathy which she had manifested when Guy'sletter was opened; she thought of her noble devotion in giving up allfor her and following her into seclusion; she thought of their happylife in that quiet little sea-side cottage. As all these memoriesrose before her the idea of Hilda being a traitor seemed moreimpossible than ever. But she no longer uttered any indignantremonstrance. 

"I am bewildered, " she said. "I can think of nothing but love andfidelity in connection with her. All our lives she has lived with meand loved me. I can not think of any imaginable motive. I can imaginethat she, like myself, is the victim of some one else, but not thatshe can do any thing else than love me. "

"Yet she wrote that letter which is the cause of all your grief. Tellme, " said he, after a pause, "has she money of her own?"

"Yes--enough for her support. "

"Is she your sister?"

Zillah seemed startled. 

"I do not wish to intrude into your confidence--I only ask this togain some light while I am groping in the dark. "

"She is not. She is no relation. But she has lived with me all mylife, and is the same as a sister. "

"Does she treat you as her equal?"

"Yes, " said Zillah, with some hesitation, "that is--of late. "

"But you have been her superior until of late?"

"Yes. "

"Would you have any objection to tell her name?"

"Yes, " said Zillah; "I can not tell it. I will tell this much: Lortonis an assumed name. It belongs neither to her nor to me. My name isnot Lorton. "

"I knew that, " said Obed Chute. "I hope you will forgive me. It wasnot curiosity. I wished to investigate this to the bottom; but I amsatisfied--I respect your secret. Will you forgive me for the pain Ihave caused you?"

Zillah placed her cold hand in his, and said:

"My friend, do not speak so. It hurts me to have you ask myforgiveness. "

Obed Chute's face beamed with pleasure. 

"My poor child, " he said, "you must go and rest yourself. Go andsleep; perhaps you will be better for it. "

And Zillah dragged herself out of the room. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

OBED ON THE RAMPAGE. 

A long illness was the immediate result of so much excitement, suffering, and grief. Gradually, however, Zillah struggled throughit; and at last, under the genial sky of Southern Italy, she began toregain her usual health. The kindness of her friends was unfalteringand incessant. Through this she was saved, and it was Obed's sisterwho brought her back from the clutches of fever and the jaws ofdeath. She had as tender a heart as her brother, and had come to loveas a sister or a daughter this poor, friendless, childlike girl, whohad been thrown upon their hands in so extraordinary a manner. Brought up in that puritanical school which is perpetually on thelook-out for "special providences, " she regarded Zillah's arrivalamong them as the most marked special providence which she had everknown, and never ceased to affirm that something wonderful wasdestined to come of all this. Around this faithful, noble-hearted, puritanical dame, Zillah's affections twined themselves withsomething like filial tenderness, and she learned in the course ofher illness to love that simple, straightforward, but high-souledwoman, whose love she had already won. Hitherto she had associatedthe practice of chivalrous principles and the grand code of honorexclusively with lofty gentlemen like the Earl and her father, orwith titled dames; now, however, she learned that here, in ObedChute, there was as fine an instinct of honor, as delicate asentiment of loyalty to friendship, as refined a spirit ofknight-errantry, as strong a zeal to succor the weak and to becomethe champion of the oppressed, and as profound a loathing for allthat is base and mean, as in either of those grand old gentlemen bywhom her character had been moulded. Had Obed Chute been born anEnglish lord his manners might have had a finer polish, but notraining known among the sons of men could have given him a truerappreciation of all that is noble and honorable and chivalrous. Thisman, whose life had been passed in what Zillah considered as "vulgartrade, " seemed to her to have a nature as pure and as elevated asthat of the Chevalier Bayard, that hero _sans peur et sans reproche_. 

Obed, as has already been seen, had a weakness for Neapolitan life, and felt in his inmost soul that strange fascination which this citypossesses. He had traversed every nook and corner of Naples, and hadvisited, with a strange mixture of enthusiasm and practicalobservation, all its environs. In the course of his wanderings he hadfallen in with a party of his countrymen, all of whom were kindredspirits, and who hailed his advent among them with universalappreciation. Without in any way neglecting Zillah, he joined himselfto these new friends, and accompanied them in many an excursion intothe country about Naples--to Capua, to Cumae, to Paestum, and to manyother places. To some of these places it was dangerous to go in theseunsettled times; but this party laughed at dangers. They had acquireda good-natured contempt for Italians and Italian courage; and as eachman, in spite of the Neapolitan laws, carried his revolver, they wereaccustomed to venture any where with the most careless ease, and themost profound indifference to any possible danger. In fact, anyapproach to danger they would have hailed with joy, and to theiradventurous temper the appearance of a gang of bandits would havebeen the greatest blessing which this land could afford. 

The whole country was in a most disturbed condition. The Lombard warhad diffused a deep excitement among all classes. Every day newrumors arose, and throughout the Neapolitan dominions the populationwere filled with strange vague desires. The government itself wasdemoralized--one day exerting its utmost power in the most repressivemeasures, and on the next recalling its own acts, and retreating infear from the position which it had taken up. The troops were asagitated as the people. It was felt that in case of an attempt atrevolution they could not be relied upon. In the midst of all otherfears one was predominant, and was all comprised in one magicword--the name of that one man who alone, in our age, has shownhimself able to draw nations after him, and by the spell of hispresence to paralyze the efforts of kings. That one word was"Garibaldi. "

What he was, or what he was to do, were things which were but littleknown to these ignorant Neapolitans. They simply accepted the name asthe symbol of some great change by which all were to be benefited. Hewas, in their thoughts, half hero, half Messiah, before whom allopposing armies should melt away, and by whom all wrongs should beredressed. Through the heart of this agitated mass there penetratedthe innumerable ramifications of secret societies, whose agentsguided, directed, and intensified the prevalent excitement. Thesewere the men who originated those daily rumors which threw bothgovernment and people into a fever of agitation; who taught new hopesand new desires to the most degraded population of Christendom, andinspired even the lazaroni with wild ideas of human rights--ofliberty, fraternity, and equality. These agents had a far-reachingpurpose, and to accomplish this they worked steadily, in all partsand among all classes, until at last the whole state was ripe forsome vast revolution. Such was the condition of the people among whomObed and his friends pursued their pleasures. 

The party with which Obed had connected himself was a varied one. There were two officers from those "Yankee frigates" which he hadhurled in the teeth of the police agent at the Hotel de l'Europe; twoyoung fellows fresh from Harvard, and on their way to Heidelberg, whohad come direct from New York to Naples, and were in no hurry toleave; a Southerner, fresh from a South Carolina plantation, makinghis first tour in Europe; a Cincinnati lawyer; and a Boston clergymantraveling for his health, to recruit which he had been sent away byhis loving congregation. With all these Obed at once fraternized, andsoon became the acknowledged leader, though, as he could not speakItalian, he was compelled to delegate all quarrels with the nativesto the two Heidelbergians, who had studied Italian on their way out, and had aired it very extensively since their arrival. 

Having exhausted the land excursions, the party obtained a yacht, inwhich they intended to make the circuit of the bay. On their firstvoyage they went around its whole extent, and then, rounding theisland of Capri, they sailed along the coast to the southeast withoutany very definite purpose. 

The party presented a singular appearance. All were dressed in themost careless manner, consulting convenience without any regard tofashion. The Heidelbergians had ade their appearance in red flannelshirts and broad-brimmed felt hats, which excited such admirationthat the others at once determined to equal them. Obed, the officers, and the South Carolinian went off, and soon returned with red flannelshirts and wide-awake hats of their own, for which they soonexchanged their more correct costume. The lawyer and the clergymancompromised the matter by donning reefing jackets; and thus the wholeparty finally set out, and in this attire they made their cruise, with many loud laughs at the strange transformation which a change ofdress had made in each other's appearance. 

In this way they made the circuit of the bay, and proceeded along thecoast until they came opposite to Salerno. It was already fouro'clock, and as they could not get back to Naples that day theydecided to land at this historic town, with the hope that they mightbe rewarded by some adventure. The yacht, therefore, was headedtoward the town, and flew rapidly over the waves to her destination. 

On rounding a headland which lay between them and the town theirprogress was slow. As they moved toward the harbor they sat lazilywatching the white houses as they stretched along the winding beach, and the Boston clergyman, who seemed to be well up in his medievalhistory, gave them an account of the former glories of this place, when its university was the chief medical school of Europe, andArabian and Jewish professors taught to Christian students themysteries of science. With their attention thus divided between thelearned dissertation of the clergyman and the charms of the town, they approached their destination. 

It was not until they had come quite near that they noticed anunusual crowd along the shore. When they did notice it they at firstsupposed that it might be one of those innumerable saints' days whichare so common in Italy. Now, as they drew nearer, they noticed thatthe attention of the crowd was turned to themselves. This excitedtheir wonder at first, but after a time they thought that in so dulla place as Salerno the arrival of a yacht was sufficient to excitecuriosity, and with this idea many jokes were bandied about. Atlength they approached the principal wharf of the place, and directedthe yacht toward it. As they did so they noticed a universal movementon the part of the crowd, who made a rush toward the wharf, and in ashort time filled it completely. Not even the most extravagant ideasof Italian laziness and curiosity could account for this intenseinterest in the movements of an ordinary yacht; and so our Americanssoon found themselves lost in an abyss of wonder. 

Why should they be so stared at? Why should the whole population ofSalerno thus turn out, and make a wild rush to the wharf at whichthey were to land? It was strange; it was inexplicable; it was alsoembarrassing. Not even the strongest curiosity could account for suchexcitement as this. 

"What 'n thunder does it all mean?" said Obed, after a long silence. 

"There's something up, " said the Cincinnati lawyer, sententiously. 

"Perhaps it is a repetition of the landing at Naples on a granderscale, " said the clergyman. "I remember when I landed there at leastfifty lazaroni followed me to carry my carpet-bag. "

"Fifty?" cried one of the Heidelbergians. "Why, there are fivehundred after us!"

"But these are not lazaroni, " said Obed. "Look at that crowd! Did youever see a more respectable one?"

In truth, the crowd was in the highest degree respectable. There weresome workmen, and some lazaroni. But the greater number consisted ofwell-dressed people, among whom were intermingled priests andsoldiers, and even women. All these, whatever their rank, bore intheir faces an expression of the intensest curiosity and interest. The expression was unmistakable, and as the yacht came nearer, thoseon board were able to see that they were the objects of no commonattention. If they had doubted this, this doubt was soon dispelled;for as the yacht grazed the wharf a movement took place among thecrowd, and a confused cry of applause arose. 

For such a welcome as this the yachting party were certainly notprepared. All looked up in amazement, with the exception of Obed. Healone was found equal to the occasion. Without stopping to considerwhat the cause of such a reception might be, he was simply consciousof an act of public good-will, and prepared to respond in a fittingmanner. He was standing on the prow at the time, and drawing his tallform to its full height, he regarded the crowd for a moment with abenignant smile; after which he removed his hat and bowed with great_empressement_. 

At this there arose another shout of applause from the whole crowd, which completed the amazement of the tourists. Meanwhile the yachtswung up close to the wharf, and as there was nothing else to be donethey prepared to land, leaving her in charge of her crew, whichconsisted of several sailors from one of the American frigates. Theblue shirts of these fellows formed a pleasing contrast to the redshirts and reefing jackets of the others, and the crowd on the wharfseemed to feel an indiscriminate admiration for he crew as well asfor the masters. Such attentions were certainly somewhatembarrassing, and presented to these adventurous spirits a novel kindof difficulty; but whether novel or not, there was now no honorableescape from it, and they had to encounter it boldly by plunging intothe midst of the crowd. So they landed--eight as singular figures asever disturbed the repose of this peaceful town of Salerno. Obedheaded the procession, dressed in a red shirt with black trowsers, and a scarf tied round his waist, while a broad-brimmed felt hatshaded his expansive forehead. His tall form, his broad shoulders, his sinewy frame, made him by far the most conspicuous member of thiscompany, and attracted to him the chief admiration of the spectators. Low, murmured words arose as he passed amidst them, expressive of theprofound impression which had been produced by the sight of hismagnificent physique. After him came the others in Indian file; forthe crowd was dense, and only parted sufficiently to allow of theprogress of one man at a time. The Southerner came next to Obed, thenthe Heidelbergians, then the naval officers, while the clergyman andthe Cincinnati lawyer, in their picturesque pea-jackets, brought upthe rear. Even in a wide-awake American town such a company wouldhave attracted attention; how much more so in this sleepy, secluded, quiet, Italian town! especially at such a time, when all men everywhere were on the look-out for great enterprises. 

Obed marched on with his friends till they left the wharf and wereable to walk on together more closely. The crowd followed. TheAmericans took the middle of the street, and walked up into the townthrough what seemed the principal thoroughfare. The crowd pressedafter them, showing no decrease whatever in their ardent curiosity, yet without making any noisy demonstrations. They seemed like men whowere possessed by some conviction as to the character of thesestrangers, and were in full sympathy with them, but were waiting tosee what they might _do_. The Americans, on their side, were more andmore surprised at every step, and could not imagine any causewhatever for so very singular a reception. They did not even knowwhether to view it as a hostile demonstration, or as a sort oftriumphant reception. They could not imagine what they had done whichmight merit either the one or the other. All that was left for themto do, therefore, they did; and that means, they accepted thesituation, and walked along intent only upon the most prosaic ofpurposes--the discovery of a hotel. At length, after a few minutes'walk, they found the object of their search in a large stucco edificewhich bore the proud title of "Hôtel de l'Univers" in French. Intothis they turned, seeking refuge and refreshment. The crowd withoutrespected their seclusion. They did not pour into the hotel and fillit to overflowing from top to bottom, but simply stood outside, infront, in a densely packed mass, from which arose constantly the deephum of earnest, animated, and eager conversation. 

On entering they were accosted by the landlord, who received themwith the utmost obsequiousness, and a devotion which was absolute. Heinformed them that the whole hotel was at their disposal, and wishedto know at what time their excellencies would be pleased to dine. Their excellencies informed him, through the medium of theHeidelbergians, that they would be pleased to dine as soon aspossible; whereupon the landlord led them to a large upper room andbowed himself out. 

Their room looked out upon the street. There was a balcony in frontof the windows; and, as they sat there waiting, they could see thedense crowd as it stood in front of the hotel--quiet, orderly, waiting patiently; yet waiting for what? That was the problem. It wasso knotty a problem that it engaged all their thoughts anddiscussions while they were waiting for dinner, and while they wereeating their dinner. At last that solemn meal was over, and theyarose refreshed; but the peaceful satisfaction that generally ensuesafter such an important meal was now very seriously disturbed, intheir case, by the singular nature of their situation. There was thecrowd outside still, though it was already dusk. 

"I think, " said Obed, "that I'll step out and see what is going on. I'll just look around, you know. "

Saying this, Obed passed through the open window, and went out on thebalcony. His appearance was the cause of an immense sensation. For amoment the crowd was hushed, and a thousand eyes were fixed in aweand admiration upon his colossal form. Then the silence was suddenlybroken by loud, long, and wild acclamations, "_Viva la Liberia_!""_Viva la Republica_!" "_Viva l'Italia_!" "_Viva Vittore Emmanuele_!""_Viva Garibaldi_!"

This last word was caught up with a kind of mad enthusiasm, andpassed from mouth to mouth till it drowned all other cries. 

"What'n thunder's all this?" cried Obed, putting his head into theroom, and looking at the Heidelbergians. "See here--come out here, "he continued, "and find out what in the name of goodness it allmeans, for I'll be durned if I can make head or tail of it. "

At this appeal the Heidelbergians stepped out, and after them camethe naval officers, while the rest followed, till the whole eightstood on the balcony. 

Their appearance was greeted with a thunder of applause. 

Obed knew not what it all meant, nor did any of the others; but as hewas the acknowledged leader he felt upon him the responsibility ofhis situation, and so, with this feeling animating him, he respondedto the salutation of the crowd by a low bow. 

It was now dusk, and the twilight of this southern climate wasrapidly deepening, when suddenly the Americans were aware of a soundin the distance like the galloping of horses. The sound seemed tostrike the crowd below at the same moment. Cries arose, and they fellback quickly on either side of the road, leaving a broad path intheir midst. The Americans did not have a long time left to them forconjecture or for wonder. The sounds drew nearer and nearer, until atlast, through the gloom, a body of dragoons were plainly seengalloping down the street. They dashed through the crowd, they reinedin their horses in front of the hotel, and, a the sharp word ofcommand from their leader, a number of them dismounted, and followedhim inside, while the rest remained without. 

The crowd stood breathless and mute. The Americans saw in this a verysingular variation to the events of the evening, and, as they couldno more account for this than for those which had preceded it, theywaited to see the end. 

They did not have to wait long. 

A noise in the room which they had left roused them. Looking in theysaw about a dozen dragoons with the captain and the landlord. Thedragoons had arranged themselves in line at the word of command, andthe landlord stood with a terror-stricken face beside the captain. 

"Ah!" said Obed, who had looked through the window into the room, "this looks serious. There's some absurd mistake somewhere, but justnow it does seem as though they want us, so I move that we go in andshow ourselves. "

Saying this he entered the room, followed by the others, and theeight Americans ranged themselves quietly opposite the dragoons. Thesight of these red-shirted strangers produced a very peculiar effecton the soldiers, as was evident by their faces and their looks; andthe captain, as he regarded the formidable proportions of Obed, seemed somewhat overawed. But he soon overcame his emotion, and, stepping forward, he exclaimed:

"Siete nostri prigionieri. Rendetevi. "

"What's that he says?" asked Obed. 

"He says we're his prisoners, " said one of the Heidelbergians, "andcalls on us to surrender. "

"Tell him, " said Obed, unconsciously parodying Leonidas--"Tell him tocome on and take us. "

The Heidelbergian translated this verbatim. 

The captain looked puzzled. 

"Boys, " said Obed, "you may as well get your revolvers ready. "

At this quiet hint every one of the Americans, including even theBoston clergyman, drew forth his revolver, holding it carelessly, yetin such a very handy fashion that the captain of the dragoons lookedaghast. 

"I will have no resistance, " said he. "Surrender, or you will be shotdown. "

"Ha, ha!" said the Heidelbergian. "Do you see our revolvers? Do youthink that we are the men to surrender?"

"I have fifty dragoons outside, " said the officer. 

"Very well, we have forty-eight shots to your fifty, " said theHeidelbergian, whose Italian, on this occasion, "came out uncommonlystrong, " as Obed afterward said when the conversation was narrated tohim. 

"I am commanded to arrest you, " said the officer. 

"Well, go back and say that you tried, and couldn't do it, " said theHeidelbergian. 

"Your blood will be on your own heads. "

"Pardon me; some of it will be on yours, and some of your own bloodalso, " retorted the Heidelbergian, mildly. 

"Advance!" cried the officer to his soldiers. "Arrest these men. "

The soldiers looked at their captain, then at the Americans, then attheir captain again, then at the Americans, and the end of it wasthat they did not move. 

"Arrest them!" roared the officer. 

The Americans stood opposite with their revolvers leveled. Thesoldiers stood still. They would not obey. 

"My friend, " said the Heidelbergian, "if your men advance, youyourself will be the first to fall, for I happen to have you coveredby my pistol. I may as well tell you that it has six shots, and ifthe first fails, the second will not. "

The officer turned pale. He ordered his men to remain, and went out. After a few moments he returned with twelve more dragoons. TheAmericans still stood watchful, with their revolvers ready, takingaim. 

"You see, " cried the officer, excitedly, "that you are overpowered. There are as many men outside. For the last time I call on you tosurrender. If you do not I will give no quarter. You need not try toresist. "

"What is it that he says?" asked Obed. 

The Heidelbergian told him. 

Obed laughed. 

"Ask him why he does not come and take us, " said he, grimly. "We havealready given him leave to do so. "

The Heidelbergian repeated these words. 

The captain, in a fury, ordered his men to advance. 

The Americans fully expected an attack, and stood ready to pour in avolley at the first movement on the part of the enemy. But the enemydid not move. The soldiers stood motionless. They did not seemafraid. They seemed rather as if they were animated by some totallydifferent feeling. It had been whispered already that the Neapolitanarmy was unreliable. This certainly looked like it. 

"Cowards!" cried the captain, who seemed to think that their inactionarose from fear. "You will suffer for this, you scoundrels! Then, ifyou are afraid to advance, make ready! present! fire!"

His command might as well have been addressed to the winds. The gunsof the soldiers stood by their sides. Not one of them raised hispiece. The captain was thunder-struck; yet his surprise was notgreater than that of the Americans when this was hastily explained tothem by the Heidelbergians. Evidently there was disaffection amongthe soldiers of his Majesty of Naples when brought into the presenceof _Red Shirts_. 

The captain was so overwhelmed by this discovery that he stood likeone paralyzed, not knowing what to do. This passive disobedience onthe part of his men was a thing so unexpected that he was lefthelpless, without resources. 

Meanwhile the crowd outside had been intensely excited. They hadwitnessed the arrival of the dragoons. They had seen them dismountand enter the hotel after the captain. They had seen the captain comedown after another detachment. They had known nothing of what wasgoing on inside, but conjectured that a desperate struggle wasinevitable between the Red Shirts and the dragoons. As an unarmedcrowd they could offer no active intervention, so they held theirpeace for a time, waiting in breathless suspense for the result. Theresult seemed long delayed. The troopers did not seem to gain thatimmediate victory over the Red Shirts which had been fearfullyanticipated. Every moment seemed to postpone such a victory, andrender it impossible. Every moment restored the courage of the crowd, which at first had been panic-stricken. Low murmurs passed amongthem, which deepened into words of remonstrance, and strengthenedinto cries of sympathy for the Red Shirts; until, at last, thesecries arose to shouts, and the shouts arose wild and high, penetrating to that upper room where the assailants confronted theircool antagonists. The cries had an ominous sound. 

"_Viva la Liberia_!" "_Viva la Republica_!" "_Viva Garibaldi_!" Atthe name _Garibaldi_, a wild yell of applause resounded wide andhigh--a long, shrill yell, and the name was taken up in a kind of madfervor till the shout rose to a frenzy, and nothing was heard but theconfused outcries of a thousand discordant voices, all uttering thatone grand name, "_Garibaldi_!" "_Garibaldi_!" "_Garibaldi_!"

The Americans heard it. What connection there was between themselvesand Garibaldi they did not then see, but they saw that somehow thepeople of Salerno had associated them with the hero of Italy, andwere sympathizing with them. Obed Chute himself saw this, andunderstood this, as that cry came thundering to his ears. He turnedto his friends. 

"Boys, " said he, "we came here for a dinner and a night's rest. We'vegot the dinner, but the night's rest seems to be a little remote. There's such an infernal row going on all around that, if we want tosleep this blessed night, we'll have to take to the yacht again, andturn in there, sailor fashion. So I move that we adjourn to thatplace, and put out to sea. "

His proposal was at once accepted without hesitation. 

"Very well, " said Obed. "Now follow me. March!"

With his revolver in his extended hand, Obed strode toward the door, followed by the others. The dragoons drew back and allowed them topass out without resistance. They descended the stairs into the hall. As they appeared at the doorway they were recognized by the crowd, and a wild shout of triumph arose, in which nothing was conspicuousbut the name of Garibaldi. The mounted dragoons outside did notattempt to resist them. They looked away, and did not seem to seethem at all. The crowd had it all their own way. 

Through the crowd Obed advanced, followed by his friends, and led theway toward the yacht. The crowd followed. They cheered; they shouted;they yelled out defiance at the king; they threw aside all restraint, and sang the Italian version of the "Marseillaise. " A wild enthusiasmpervaded all, as though some great victory had been won, or somesignal triumph achieved. But amidst all their shouts and cries andapplause and songs one word was pre-eminent, and that one word wasthe name of "_Garibaldi_!"

But the Americans made no response. They marched on quietly to theiryacht, and pushed off from the wharf. A loud, long cheer followedthem from the crowd, which stood there watching their departure; and, as the yacht moved away, cheer after cheer arose, which graduallydied away in the distance. 

They passed that night on the sea instead of at the hotel at Salerno. But they did not have much sleep. Their wonderful adventure formedthe theme of discussion all night long. And at last the onlyconclusion which they could come to was this, that the red-shirtedstrangers had been mistaken for Garibaldini; that Obed Chute had beenaccepted as Garibaldi himself; and, finally, that the subjects of theking of Naples, and his soldiers also, were in a fearful state ofdisaffection. 

Not long after, when Garibaldi himself passed through this very town, the result confirmed the conjectures of these Americans. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

ANOTHER REVELATION. 

Time passed on, and Zillah once more regained something like her oldspring and elasticity; yet the sadness of her situation was no wayrelaxed. In addition to the griefs of the past, there now arose theproblem of the future. What was she to do? Was she to go on thusforever with these kind friends? or was she to leave them? Thesubject was a painful and a perplexing one, and always brought beforeher the utter loneliness of her position with the most distressingdistinctness. Generally she fought against such feelings, and triedto dismiss such thoughts, but it was difficult to drive them from hermind. 

At length it happened that all her funds were exhausted, and she feltthe need of a fresh supply. So she conferred with Obed Chute, andtold him the name of her London bankers, after which he drew out acheck for her for a hundred pounds, which she signed. The draft wasthen forwarded. 

A fortnight passed away. It was during this interval that Obed hadhis famous Salerno expedition, which he narrated to Zillah on hisreturn, to her immense delight. Never in his life had Obed taken suchpleasure in telling a story as on this occasion. Zillah's eagerinterest, her animated face, her sparkling eyes, all encouraged himto hope that there was yet some spirit left in her in spite of hersorrows; and at length, at the narration of the reception of theNeapolitan's order to surrender, Zillah burst into a fit of laughterthat was childish in its abandon and heartiness. 

About a week or ten days after this, Obed came home one day with avery serious face. Zillah noticed it at once, and asked him anxiouslyif any thing had happened. 

"My poor child, " said he, "I'm afraid that there is more trouble instore for you. I feared as much some time ago, but I had to wait tosee if my fears were true. "

Zillah regarded him fearfully, not knowing what to think of such anominous beginning. Her heart told her that it had some reference toHilda. Had he found out any thing about her? Was she ill? Was shedying? These were her thoughts, but she dared not put them intowords. 

"I've kept this matter to myself till now, " continued Obed; "but I donot intend to keep it from you any longer. I've spoken to sisterabout it, and she thinks that you'd better know it. At any rate, " headded, "it isn't as bad as some things you've borne; only it comes ontop of the rest, and seems to make them worse. "

Zillah said not a word, but stood awaiting in fear this new blow. 

"Your draft, " said Obed, "has been returned. "

"My draft returned?" said Zillah, in astonishment. "What do youmean?"

"I will tell you all I know, " said Obed. "There is villainy at thebottom of this, as you will see. Your draft came back about ten daysago. I said nothing to you about it, but took it upon myself to writefor explanations. Last evening I received this"--and he drew a letterfrom his pocket. "I've meditated over it, and shown it to my sister, and we both think that there are depths to this dark plot against youwhich none of us as yet have even begun to fathom. I've alsoforwarded an account of this and a copy of this letter to the policeat Marseilles, and to the police here, to assist them in theirinvestigations. I'm afraid the police here won't do much, they're soupset by their panic about Garibaldi. "

As Obed ended he handed the letter to Zillah, who opened it without aword, and read as follows:

"LONDON, September 10, 1859. 

"SIR, --In answer to your favor of 7th instant, we beg leave to statethat up to the 15th of June last we held stock and deposits from MissElla Lorton--i. E. , consols, thirty thousand pounds (Ł30, 000); alsocash, twelve hundred and seventy-five pounds ten shillings (Ł127510s. ). On the 15th of June last the above-mentioned Miss Ella Lortonappeared in person, and, with her own check, drew out the cashbalance. On the 17th June she came in person and withdrew the stock, in consols, which she had deposited with us, amounting to thirtythousand pounds (Ł30, 000) as aforesaid. That it was Miss Ella Lortonherself there is no doubt; for it was the same lady who deposited thefunds, and who has sent checks to us from time to time. The party youspeak of, who sent the check from Naples, must be an impostor, and werecommend you to hand her over to the police. 

"We have the honor to be, Sir, your most obedient servants, TILTONAND BROWNE. 

"OBED CHUTE, Esq. "

On reading this Zillah fell back into a chair as though she had beenshot, and sat looking at this fatal sheet with wild eyes and haggardface. Obed made an effort to cry for help, but it sounded like agroan. His sister came running in, and seeing Zillah's condition, shetook her in her arms. 

"Poor child! poor sweet child!" she cried. 

[Illustration: "His Sister, Seeing Zillah's Condition, Took Her InHer Arms. "]

"It's too much! It's too much! She will die if this goes on. "

But Zillah rapidly roused herself. It was no soft mood that was overher now; it was not a broken heart that was now threatening her. Thisletter seemed to throw a flood of light over her dark and mysteriouspersecution, which in an instant put an end to all those tenderlongings after her loved Hilda which had consumed her. Now her eyesflashed, and the color which had left her cheeks flushed hack again, mounting high with the full sweep of her indignant passion. Shestarted to her feet, her hands clenched, and her brows frowningdarkly. 

"You are right, " she said to Obed, in a low, stern voice. "I ambetrayed--and she--_she alone_ has been my betrayer. She! my sister!the one who lived on my father's bounty; who was my companion inchildhood; who shared my bed; who had all my love and trust--she hasbetrayed me! Ah, well, " she added, with a long sigh; "since it is so, it is best for me to know it. Do not be grieved, dear friends. Do notlook so sadly and so tenderly at me. I know your loving hearts. You, at least, do not look as though you believed me to be an impostor. "

And she held out her hands to the brother and sister. Obed took thatlittle hand which she extended, and pressed it reverently to hislips. 

"Sit down, my poor child, " said Miss Chute, tenderly. "You areexcited. Try to be calm, if you can. "

"I am calm, and I will be calm, " said Zillah, faintly. 

"Come, " said Obed. "We will talk no more about it now. To-morrow, ornext day, or next week, we will talk about it. You must rest. Youmust drive out, or sail out, or do something. I'll tell you what I'lldo. I'll order the yacht and take you to Salerno. "

Zillah looked at him with a faint smile, appreciating his well-meantreference to that famous town, and Obed left her with his sister. 

A week passed, and Zillah was not allowed to speak of this subject. But all the time she was oppressed by a sense of her utterlydesperate situation. As long as she had believed herself rich she hadnot felt altogether helpless; but now!--now she found herself apauper, alone in the wide world, a dependent on the kindness of thesenoble-hearted friends. What could she do? This could not go onforever. What could she do--she, a girl without resources? How couldshe ever support herself? What would become of her?

Could she go back to that home from which she had fled? Never! Thatthought came once, and was instantly scouted as impossible. Soonerthan do that she would die of starvation. What, then, could she do?Live on as a burden to these kind friends? Alas! how could she? Shethought wildly of being a governess; but what could she teach?--she, who had idled away nearly all her life. Then she thought of trying toget back her money from those who had robbed her. But how could thisbe done?

For, to do this, it would be necessary to obtain the help of ObedChute; and, in that case, she would have to tell him all. And couldshe do this? Could she reveal to another the secret sorrow of herlife? Could she tell him about their fatal marriage; about the Earl;about Guy's letter, and her flight from home? No; these things weretoo sacred to be divulged to any one, and the very idea of makingthem known was intolerable. But if she began to seek after Hilda itwould be necessary to tell her true name, at least to Obed Chute, andall about her, a thing which would involve the disclosure of all hersecret. It could not be done. Hilda had betrayed her, sought out herlife, and robbed her--of this there no longer remained any doubt; andshe was helpless; she could neither seek after her rights, norendeavor to obtain redress for her wrongs. 

At length she had a conversation with Obed Chute about her draft. Shetold him that when she first went to Tenby her sister had persuadedher to withdraw all her money from her former bankers and deposit itwith Messrs. Tilton and Browne. Hilda herself had gone to London tohave it done. She told Obed that they were living in seclusion, thatHilda had charge of the finances, and drew all the checks. Of courseMessrs. Tilton and Browne had been led to believe that she was theElla Lorton who had deposited the money. In this way it was easy forher, after getting her sister out of the way, to obtain the moneyherself. 

After Obed Chute heard this he remained silent for a long time. 

"My poor child, " said he at last, in tones full of pity, "you couldnot imagine once what motive this Hilda could have for betraying you. Here you have motive enough. It is a very coarse one; but yet menhave been betraying one another for less than this since the worldbegan. There was once a certain Judas who carried out a plan ofbetrayal for a far smaller figure. But tell me. Have you neverassociated Gualtier and Hilda in your thoughts as partners in thisdevilish plot?"

"I see now that they must have been, " said Zillah. "I can believenothing else. "

"You have said that Gualtier was in attendance on you for years?"

"Yes. "

"Did you ever notice any thing like friendship between these two?"

"She always seemed to hold herself so far above him that I do not seehow they could have had any understanding. "

"Did he seem to speak to her more than to you?"

"Not at all. I never noticed it. He accompanied her to London, though, when she went about the money. "

"That looks like confidence. And then she sent him to take you toNaples to put you out of the way?"

Zillah sighed. 

"Tell me. Do you think she could have loved Gualtier?"

"It seems absurd. Any thing like love between those two isimpossible. "

"It's my full and firm conviction, " said Obed Chute, after deepthought, "that this Gualtier gained your friend's affections, and hehas been the prime mover in this. Both of them must be deep ones, though. Yet I calculate she is only a tool in his hands. Women willdo any thing for love. She has sacrificed you to him. It isn't so bada case as it first looked. "

"Not so bad!" said Zillah, in wonder. "What is worse than to betray afriend?"

"When a woman betrays a friend for the sake of a lover she only doeswhat women have been engaged in doing ever since the world began. This Gualtier has betrayed you both--first by winning your friend'slove, and then by using her against you. And that is the smart gamewhich he has played so well as to net the handsome figure of Ł30, 000sterling--one hundred and fifty thousand dollars--besides thatbalance of Ł1200 and upward--six thousand dollars more. "

Such was Obed Chute's idea, and Zillah accepted it as the only truesolution. Any other solution would force her to believe that Hildahad been a hypocrite all her life--that her devotion was a sham, andher love a mockery. Such a thing seemed incredible, and it seemed farmore natural to her that Hilda had acted from some mad impulse oflove in obedience to the strong temptation held out by a lover. Yes, she thought, she had placed herself in his power, and did whatever hetold her, without thinking of the consequences. The plot, then, mustbe all Gualtier's. Hilda herself never, never, never could haveformed such a plan against one who loved her. She could not haveknown what she was doing. She could not have deliberately sold herlife and robbed her. So Zillah tried to think; but, amidst thesethoughts, there arose the memory of that letter from Naples--thatpicture of the voyage, every word of which showed such devilishingenuity, and such remorseless pertinacity in deceiving. Love may domuch, and tempt to much, she thought; but, after all, could such aletter have emanated from any one whose heart was not utterly andwholly bad and corrupt? All this was terrible to Zillah. 

"If I could but redress your wrongs, " said Obed, one day--"if youwould only give me permission, I would start to-morrow for England, and I would track this pair of villains till I compelled them todisgorge their plunder, and one of them, at least, should make acquaintance with the prison hulks or Botany Bay. But you will notlet me, " he added, reproachfully. 

Zillah looked at him imploringly. 

"I have a secret, " said she, "a secret which I dare not divulge. Itinvolves others. I have sacrificed every thing for this. I can notmention it even to you. And now all is lost, and I have nothing. There is no help for it, none. " She seemed to be speaking to herself. "For then, " she continued, "if they were hunted down, names wouldcome out, and then all would be known. And rather than have allknown"--her voice grew higher and sterner as she spoke, expressing adesperate resolve--"rather than have all known, I would die--yes, bya death as terrible as that which stared me in the face when I wasdrifting in the schooner!"

Obed Chute looked at her. Pity was on his face. He held out his handand took hers. "It shall not be known, " said he. "Keep your secret. The time will come some day when you will be righted. Trust in God, my child. "

The time passed on, but Zillah was now a prey to this new trouble. How could she live? She was penniless. Could she consent to remainthus a burden on kind friends like these? These thoughts agitated herincessantly, preying upon her mind, and never leaving her by night orby day. She was helpless. How could she live? By what means could shehope to get a living? Her friends saw her melancholy, but attributedit all to the greater sorrows through which she had passed. ObedChute thought that the best cure was perpetual distraction. So hebusied himself with arranging a never-ending series of expeditions toall the charming environs of Naples. Pompeii and Herculaneum openedbefore them the wonders of the ancient world. Vesuvius was scaled, and its crater revealed its awful depths. Baiae, Misenum, andPuzzuoli were explored. Paestum showed them its eternal temples. Theylingered on the beach at Salerno. They stood where never-endingspring abides, and never-withering flowers, in the vale ofSorrento--the fairest spot on earth; best representative of a lostParadise. They sailed over every part of that glorious bay, whereearth and air and sea all combine to bring into one spot all thatthis world contains of beauty and sublimity, of joyousness andloveliness, of radiance and of delight. Yet still, in spite of allthis, the dull weight of melancholy could not be removed, but neverceased to weigh her down. 

At length Zillah could control her feelings no longer. One day, softened by the tender sympathy and watchful anxiety of these lovingfriends, she yielded to the generous promptings of her heart and toldthem her trouble. "I am penniless, " she said, as she concluded herconfession. "You are too generous, and it is your very generositythat makes it bitter for me to be a mere dependent. You are sogenerous that I will ask you to get me something to do. I know youwill. There, I have told you all, and I feel happier already. "

As she ended a smile passed over the face of Obed Chute and hissister. The relief which they felt was infinite. And this was all!

"My child, " said Obed Chute, tenderly, "there are twenty differentthings that I can say, each of which would put you perfectly at ease. I will content myself, however, with merely one or two brief remarks. In the first place allow me to state that you are not penniless. Doyou think that you are going to lose all your property? No--by theEternal! no! I, Obed Chute, do declare that I will get it back someday. So dismiss your fears, and dry your tears, as the hymn-booksays. Moreover, in the second place, you speak of being a dependent and a burden. I can hardly trust myself to speak in reply to that. Iwill leave that to sister. For my own part, I will merely say thatyou are our sunshine--you make our family circle bright as gold. Tolose you, my child, would be--well, I won't say what, only when youleave us you may leave an order at the nearest stone-cutter's for atombstone for Obed Chute. "

He smiled as he spoke--his great rugged features all irradiated by aglow of enthusiasm and of happiness. 

"But I feel so dependent--such a burden, " pleaded Zillah. 

"If that is the case, " said Obed Chute, "then your feelings shall beconsulted. I will employ you. You shall have an honorable position. Among us the best ladies in the land become teachers. PresidentFillmore's daughter taught a school in New England. It is my purposenow to engage you as governess. "

"As governess?"

"Yes, for my children. "

"But I don't know any thing. "

"I don't care--I'm going to engage you as governess all the same. Sister teaches them the rudiments. What I want you to teach them ismusic. "

"Music? I'm such a wretched player. "

"You play well enough for me--well enough to teach them; and thebeauty of it is, even if you don't play well now, you soon will. Doesn't Franklin or somebody say that one learns by teaching?"

Zillah's face spoke unutterable gratitude. 

"This, " said Obed Chute, "is purely a business transaction. I'll onlygive you the usual payment--say five hundred dollars a year, andfound. "

"And--what?"

"Found--that is, board, you know, and clothing, of course, also. Isit a bargain?"

"Oh, my best friend! how can I thank you? What can I say?"

"Say! why, call me again your 'best friend;' that is all the thanks Iwant. "

So the engagement was made, and Zillah became a music-teacher. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE REPORT. 

During Lord Chetwynde's absence Hilda received constantcommunications from Gualtier. He had not very much to tell her, though his watchfulness was incessant. He had contrived to followLord Chetwynde to London, under different disguises, and withinfinite difficulty; and also to put up at the same house. LordChetwynde had not the remotest idea that he was watched, and took nopains to conceal any of his motions. Indeed, to a mind like his, theidea of keeping any thing secret, or of going out of his way to avoidnotice, never suggested itself. He was perfectly open and free fromdisguise. He stopped at the Hastings House, an elegant and quiethotel, avoided the clubs, and devoted himself altogether to business. At this house Gualtier stopped also, but could find out nothing aboutLord Chetwynde's business. He could only learn this much, that LordChetwynde went every day, at eleven o'clock, to the office of hissolicitors, Messrs. Pendergrast Brothers, with whom he was closetedfor an hour or more. Evidently there was some very important businessbetween them; but what that business was, or to whom it might havereference, was a perfect mystery to Gualtier. This was about the sumand substance of the information which his letters conveyed to theanxious Hilda. 

For her part, every thing which Gualtier mentioned about LordChetwynde was read by her with eager curiosity. She found herselfadmiring the grand calm of this man whom she loved, this splendidcarelessness, this frank and open demeanor. That she herself wascunning and wily, formed no obstacle to her appreciation of franknessin others; perhaps, indeed, the absence of those qualities in herselfmade her admire them in others, since they were qualities which shecould never hope to gain. Whatever his motive or purpose might be, hewas now seeking to carry it out in the most open manner, neverthinking of concealment. She was working in the dark; he was actingin the broad light of day. Her path, as she looked back upon it, wound on tortuously amidst basenesses and treacheries and crimes; hiswas straight and clear, like the path of the just man's--not dark, but rather a shining light, where all was open to the gaze of theworld. And what communion could there be between one like him and onelike her? Could any cunning on her part impose upon him? Could sheever conceal from him her wily and tortuous nature? Could he noteasily discover it? Would not his clear, open, honest eyes seethrough and through the mask of deceit with which she concealed hertrue nature? There was something in his gaze which she never couldface--something which had a fearful significance to her--somethingwhich told her that she was known to him, and that all her characterlay open before him, with all its cunning, its craft, its baseness, and its wickedness. No arts or wiles of hers could avail to blind himto these things. This she knew and felt, but still she hoped againsthope, and entertained vague expectations of some final understandingbetween them. 

But what was the business on which he was engaged? What was it thatthus led him so constantly to his solicitors? This was the problemthat puzzled her. Various solutions suggested themselves. One wasthat he was merely anxious to see about breaking the entail so as topay her back the money which General Pomeroy had advanced. This hehad solemnly promised. Perhaps his long search through his father'spapers had reference to this, and his business with his solicitorsconcerned this, and this only. This seemed natural. But there wasalso another solution to the problem. It was within the bounds ofpossibility that he was taking measures for a divorce. How he couldobtain one she did not see, but he might be trying to do so. Sheknew nothing of the divorce law, but had a general idea that nothingexcept crime or cruelty could avail to break the bonds of marriage. That Lord Chetwynde was fixed in his resolve to break all tiesbetween them was painfully evident to her; and whatever his immediatepurpose might now be, she saw plainly that it could only havereference to this separation. It meant that, and nothing else. Heabhorred her, and was determined to get rid of her at all hazards. This she plainly saw. 

At length, after a few weeks' absence, Gualtier returned. Hilda, fullof impatience, sent for him to the morning-room almost as soon as hehad arrived, and went there to wait for his appearance. She did nothave to wait long. In a few minutes Gualtier made his appearance, obsequious and deferential as usual. 

"You are back alone, " said she, as she greeted him. 

"Yes; Lord Chetwynde is coming back tomorrow or next day, and Ithought it better for me to come back first so as to see you beforehe came. "

"Have you found out any thing more?"

"No, my lady. In my letters I explained the nature of the case. Imade all the efforts I could to get at the bottom of this business, and to find out what you called the purpose of his life. But you seewhat insuperable obstacles were in the way. It was absolutelyimpossible for me to find out any thing in particular about hisaffairs. I could not possibly gain access to his papers. I tried togain information from one of the clerks of Pendergrast--formed anacquaintance with him, gave him a dinner, and succeeded in gettinghim drunk; but even that was of no avail. The fellow wascommunicative enough, but the trouble was he didn't know any thinghimself about this thing, and had no more knowledge of LordChetwynde's business or purposes than I myself had. I have done allor purposes than I myself had. I have done all that was possible fora man in my situation, and grieve deeply that I have nothing moredefinite to communicate. "

"You have done admirably, " said Hilda; "nothing more was possible. Ionly wished you to watch, and you have watched to good purpose. Thismuch is evident, from your reports, that Lord Chetwynde has someall-engrossing purpose. What it is can not be known now, but must beknown some day. At present I must be content with the knowledge thathis purpose exists. "

"I have formed some conjectures, " said Gualtier. 

"On what grounds? On any other than those which you have made knownto me?"

"No. You know all. "

"Never mind, then. I also have formed conjectures, and have a largerand broader ground on which to build them. What I want is notconjectures of any kind, but facts. If you have any more facts tocommunicate, I should like very much to hear them. "

"Alas, my lady, I have already communicated to you all the facts thatI know. "

Hilda was silent for some time. 

"You never spoke to Lord Chetwynde, I suppose?" said she at length. 

"Oh no, my lady; I did not venture to come into communication withhim at all. "

"Did he ever see you?"

"He certainly cast his eyes on me, once or twice, but without anyrecognition in them. I really don't think that he is conscious of theexistence of a person like me. "

"Don't be too sure of that. Lord Chetwynde is one who can see everything without appearing to see it. His eye can take in at one glancethe minutest details. He is a man who is quite capable of making thediscovery that you were the steward of Chetwynde. What measure didyou take to avoid discovery?"

Gualtier smiled. 

"The measures which I took were such that it would have puzzledFouché himself to penetrate my disguise. I rode in the samecompartment with him, all the way to London, dressed as an elderlywidow. "

"A widow?"

"Yes; with a thick black veil, and a very large umbrella. It issimply impossible that he could penetrate my disguise, for the veilwas too thick to show my features. "

"But the hotel?"

"At the hotel I was a Catholic priest, from Novara, on my way toAmerica. I wore spectacles, with dark glasses. No friend could haverecognized me, much less a stranger. "

"But if you went with the clerks of Pendergrast, that was an odddisguise. "

"Oh, when I went with them, I dropped that. I became an Americannaval officer, belonging to the ship _Niagara_, which was then inLondon. I wore a heavy beard and mustache, and talked through mynose. Besides, I would drink nothing but whisky and sherry cobblers. My American trip proved highly advantageous. "

"And do you feel confident that he has not recognized you?"

"Confident! Recognition was utterly impossible. It would haverequired my nearest friend or relative to have recognized me, throughsuch disguises. Besides, my face is one which can very easily bedisguised. I have not strongly marked features. My face can easilyserve for an Italian priest, or an American naval officer. I amalways careful to choose only such parts as nature has adapted mefor. "

"And Lord Chetwynde is coming back?"

"Yes. "

"When?"

"To-morrow, or next day. "

"I wonder how long he will stay?"

"That is a thing which no one can find out so well as yourself. "

Hilda was silent. 

"My lady, " said Gualtier, after a long pause. 

"Well?"

"You know how ready I am to serve you. "

"Yes, " said Hilda, dreamily. 

"If this man is in your way he can be removed, as others have beenremoved, " said Gualtier, in a low voice. "Some of them have beenremoved by means of my assistance. Is this man in your way? Is he?Shall I help you? For when he goes away again I can become his valet. I can engage myself, bring good recommendations, and find employmentfrom him, which will bring me into close contact. Then, if you findhim in your way, I can remove the obstacle. "

Hilda's eyes blazed with a lurid light. She looked at Gualtier like awrathful demon. The words which she spoke came hissing out, hot andfierce:

"Curse you! You do not know what you are saying. I would rather losea thousand such as you than lose _him_! I would rather die myselfthan have one hair of his head injured!"

Gualtier looked at her, transfixed with amazement. Then his head sankdown. These words crushed him. 

"Can I ever hope for forgiveness?" he faltered at last. "Imisunderstood you. I am your slave. I--I only wished to serve you. "

Hilda waved her hand. 

"You do not understand, " said she, as she rose. "Some day you willunderstand all. "

"Then I will wait, " said Gualtier, humbly. "I have waited for years. I can still wait. I only live for you. Forgive me. "

Hilda looked away, and Gualtier sat, looking thoughtfully and sadlyat her. 

"There is one thing, " said he, "which you were fortunate to think of. You guarded against a danger which I did not anticipate. "

"Ah!" said Hilda, roused by the mention of danger. "What is that?"

"The discovery of so humble a person as myself. Thanks to you, myassumed name has saved me. But at the same time it led to anembarrassing position, from which I only escaped by my own wit. "

"What do you allude to?" asked Hilda, with languid curiosity. 

"Oh, it's the doctor. You know he has been attending Mrs. Hart. Well, some time ago, before I left for London, he met me, and talked aboutthings in general. Whenever he meets me he likes to get up aconversation, and I generally avoid him; but this time I couldn't. After a time, with a great appearance of concern, he said:

[Illustration: "I Rode With Him All The Way To London, Dressed As AnElderly Widow. "]

"'I am sorry to hear, Mr. Gualtier, that you are about to besuperseded. '

"'Superseded!' said I. 'What do you mean?'

"'I hear from some gossip of the servants that there is a newsteward. '

'"A new steward! This is the first that I have heard of it, ' said I. 'I am the only steward here. '

"'This one, ' said he, 'is--a--Mr. M'Kenzie. '

"'M'Kenzie!' said I, instantaneously--

'M'Kenzie!' And I laughed. 'Why, I am Mr. M'Kenzie. '

"'You!' said he, in utter amazement. 'Isn't your name Gualtier?'

"'Oh no, ' said I; 'that is a name which I adopted, when amusic-teacher, for professional purposes. Foreign names are alwaysliked better than native ones. My real name is M'Kenzie. The lateEarl knew all about it, and so does Lady Chetwynde. '

"The doctor looked a little puzzled, but at last accepted myexplanation and went off. Still I don't like the look of the thing. "

"No, " said Hilda, who had listened with no great interest, "it's notpleasant. But, after all, there was no danger even if he had thoughtyou an impostor. "

"Pardon me, my lady; but doctors are great gossips, and can send astory like this flying through the county. He may do so yet. "

At another time Hilda would have taken more interest in thisnarration, but now she seemed so preoccupied that her usual vigilancehad left her. Gualtier noticed this, but was scarcely surprised. Itwas only a fresh proof of her infatuation. 

So after a few moments of silent thoughtfulness he left the room. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. 

On the day after Gualtier's interview with Hilda, Lord Chetwynde wasstill in London, occupied with the business which had brought himthere. It was between ten and eleven in the morning, and he waswalking down Piccadilly on his way to the City, where he had anappointment with his solicitors. He was very much preoccupied, andscarcely noticed any thing around him. Walking on in this mood hefelt his arm seized by some one who had come up behind him, and avoice exclaimed:

"Windham! by all that's great! How are you, old fellow?" and beforehe had time to recover from his surprise his hand was seized, appropriated, and nearly wrung off by Obed Chute. 

To meet Obed Chute thus in London was certainly strange, yet not sovery much so, after all. London is vast, multitudinous, enormous--anation rather than a city, as De Quincey well remarks--a place whereone may hide and never be discovered; yet after all there are certainstreets where strangers are most frequent, and that two strangersshould meet one another here in one of these few thoroughfares ismore common than one would suppose. After the first surprise at sucha sudden greeting Windham felt it to be a very natural thing for ObedChute to be in London, and evinced as much pleasure at meeting him aswas shown by the other. 

"Have you been here ever since your return to England?" he asked. 

"Oh no, " said Windham, "I've only been here a short time, and I haveto leave this afternoon. "

"I'm sorry for that; I should like to see you--but I suppose it can'tbe helped; and then I must go back immediately. "

"Ah! You are on your way to America, then?"

"America! Oh no. I mean--go back to Italy. "

"Italy?"

"Yes; we're all there yet. "

"I hope Miss Chute and your family are all well?" said LordChetwynde, politely. 

"Never better, " said Obed. 

"Where are you staying now?"

"In Naples. "

"It's a very pleasant place. "

"Too pleasant to leave. "

"By-the-way, " said Lord Chetwynde, after a pause, and speaking withassumed indifference, "were you ever able to find out any thingabout--Miss Lorton?"

His indifference was but poorly carried out. At the mention of thatname he stammered, and then stopped short. 

But Obed did not notice any peculiarity. 

He answered, quickly and earnestly:

"It's that very thing, Windham, that has brought me here. I've lefther in Naples. "

"What?" cried Lord Chetwynde, eagerly; "she is with you yet, then?"

"Yes. "

"In Naples?"

"Yes--with my family. Poor little thing! Windham, I have a story totell about her that will make your heart bleed, if you have the heartof a man. "

"My God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion; "what is it? Hasany thing new happened?"

"Yes, something new--something worse than before. "

"But _she_--_she_ is alive--is she not--she is well--she--"

"Thank God, yes, " said Obed, not noticing the intense emotion of theother; "yes--she has suffered, poor little girl, but she is gettingover it--and one day I hope she may find some kind of comfort. Butat present, and for some time to come, I'm afraid that any thing likehappiness or peace or comfort will be impossible for her. "

"Is she very sad?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in a voice which wastremulous from suppressed agitation. 

"The poor child bears up wonderfully, and struggles hard to make usthink that she is cheerful; but any one who watches her can easilysee that she has some deep-seated grief, which, in spite of all ourcare, may even yet wear away her young life. Windham, I've heard ofcases of a broken heart. I think I once in my life saw a case of thatkind, and I'm afraid that this case will--will come at last to beclassed in that list. "

Lord Chetwynde said nothing. He had nothing to say--he had nothing todo. His face in the few moments of this conversation had grown, ghastly white, his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and an expression ofintense pain spread over his features. He walked along by ObedChute's side with the uncertain step of one who walks in a dream. 

Obed said nothing for some time. His own thoughts were reverting tothat young girl whom he had left in Naples buried under a mountain ofwoe. Could he ever draw her forth from that overwhelming grief whichpressed her down? They went on together through several streetswithout any particular intention, each one occupied with his ownthoughts, until at last they found themselves at St. James's Park. Here they entered, and walked along one of the chief avenues. 

"You remember, Windham, " said Obed at last--"of course you have notforgotten the story which Miss Lorton told about her betrayal. "

Lord Chetwynde bowed, without trusting himself to speak. 

"And you remember the villain's name, too, of course. "

"Yes--Gualtier, " said Lord Chetwynde. 

"I put the case in the hands of the Marseilles police, and you knowthat up to the time when we left nothing had been done. Nothing hasbeen done since of any consequence. On my way here I stopped atMarseilles, and found that the police had been completely baffled, and had found no trace whatever either of Gualtier or of the maidMathilde. When I arrived at Marseilles I found that the police therehad been on the look-out for that man for seven weeks, but in spiteof the most minute inquiry, and the most vigilant watchfulness, theyhad seen no sign of any such person. The conclusion that I have cometo is that he never went to Naples--at least not after his crime. Nor, on the other hand, is it likely that he remained in France. Theonly thing that I can think of is that both he and the maid Mathildewent back to England. "

"There is Germany, " said Lord Chetwynde, who had not lost a word, "orthe other states of Italy. Florence is a pleasant place to go to. Above all, there is America--the common land of refuge to all whohave to fly from the Old World. "

"Yes, all that is true--very true. It may be so; but I have an ideathat the man may still be in England, and I have some hope of gettingon his track now. But this is not the immediate purpose of my coming. That was caused by a discovery of new features in this dark case, which show a deliberate plan on the part of Gualtier and others todestroy Miss Lorton so as to get her money. "

"Have you found out any thing else? Has any fresh calamity fallenupon that innocent head?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in breathlessanxiety. "At any rate, it can not be so bad as what she has alreadysuffered. "

"In one sense it is not so bad, but in another sense it is worse. "

"How?"

"Why, it is not so bad, for it only concerns the loss of money; butthen, again, it is far worse, for"--and Obed's voice droppedlow--"for it shows her that there is an accomplice of Gualtier's, whohas joined with him in this crime, and been a principal in it, andthis accomplice is--_her sister_!"

"Great God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, aghast. "Her sister?"

"Her sister, " said Obed, who did not, as yet, think it necessary totell what Zillah had revealed to him in confidence about their notbeing sisters. 

Lord Chetwynde seemed overwhelmed. 

Obed then began and detailed to him every circumstance of the affairof the draft, to all of which the other listened with rapt attention. A long discussion followed this revelation. Lord Chetwynde could nothelp seeing that Miss Lorton had been betrayed by her sister as wellas by Gualtier, and felt painfully affected by the coldbloodedcruelty with which the abstraction of the money was managed. To himthis "Ella Lorton" seemed wronged as no one had ever been wrongedbefore, and his heart burned to assist Obed Chute in his work ofvengeance. 

He said as much. "But I fear, " he added, "that there is not muchchance. At any rate, it will be a work of years; and long beforethen, in fact, before many weeks, I expect to be on my way back toIndia. As to this wretched, this guilty pair, it is my opinion thatthey have fled to America. Hilda Lorton can not be old in crime, andher first instinct would be to fly from England. If you ever findthose wretches, it will be there. "

"I dare say you are right, " said Obed. "But, " he added, in tones ofgrim determination, "if it takes years to find this out, I am ready. I am willing to spend years in the search. The police of Italy and ofFrance are already on the track of this affair. It is my intention todirect the London police to the same game, and on my way back I'llgive notice at Berlin and Vienna, so as to set the Prussian andAustrian authorities to work. If all these combined can't do anything, then I'll begin to think that these devils are not in Europe. If they are in America, I know a dozen New York detectives that cando something in the way of finding out even more artful scoundrelsthan these. For my own part, if, after ten years of incessant labor, any light is thrown on this, I shall be fully rewarded. I'd spendtwice the time if I had it for her, the poor little thing!"

Obed spoke like a tender, pitying father, and his tones vibrated tothe heart of Lord Chetwynde. 

For a time he was the subject of a mighty struggle. The deepestfeelings of his nature were all concerned here. Might he not now makethis the object of his life--to give up every thing, and search outthese infernal criminals, and avenge that fair girl whose image hadbeen fixed so deeply on his heart? But, then, he feared this task. Already she had chained him to Marseilles, and still he looked backwith anguish upon the horror of that last parting with her. All hisnature yearned and longed to feel once more the sunshine of herpresence; but, on account of the very intensity of that longing, thedictates of honor and duty bade him resist the impulse. The verytenderness of his love--its all-consuming ardor--those very thingswhich impelled him to espouse her cause and fight her battles and winher gratitude, at the very same time held him back and bade him avoidher, and tear her image from his heart. For who was he, and what washe, that he should yield to this overmastering spell which had beenthrown over him by the witchery of this young girl? _Had he not hiswife_? Was she not at Chetwynde Castle? That odious wife, forced onhim in his boyhood, long since grown abhorrent, and now standing up, an impassable barrier between him and the dearest longings of hisheart. So he crushed down desire; and, while assenting to Obed'splans, made no proposal to assist him in any way in theiraccomplishment. 

At the end of about two hours Obed announced his intentions atpresent. He had come first and more especially to see Messrs. Tiltonand Browne, with a hope that he might be able to trace the affairback far enough to reach Hilda Lorton; and secondly, to set theLondon police to work. 

"Will you make any stay?" asked Lord Chetwynde. 

"No, not more than I can help. I can find out soon whether my designsare practicable or not. If they can not be immediately followed out, I will leave it to the police, who can do far better than me, and goback to Naples. Miss Lorton is better there, and I feel liketraveling about Italy till she has recovered. I see that the countryis better for her than all the doctors and medicines in the world. Asail round Naples Bay may rouse her from the deepest melancholy. Shehas set her heart on visiting Rome and Florence. So I must go back tomy little girl, you see. "

"Those names, " said Lord Chetwynde, calmly, and without exhibitingany signs of the emotion which the allusion to that "little girl"caused in his heart--"those names ought certainly to betraceable--'Hilda Lorton, ' 'Ella Lorton. ' The names are neithervulgar nor common. A properly organized effort ought to result insome discovery. 'Hilda Lorton, ' 'Ella Lorton, '" he repeated, "'Hilda, ' 'Ella'--not very common names--' Hilda, ' 'Ella. '"

He repeated these names thus over and over, but the names gave nohint to the speaker of the dark, deep mystery which lay beneath. 

As for Obed, he knew that Hilda was not _Hilda Lorton_, and that asearch after any one by that name would be useless. Zillah had toldhim that she was not her sister. At length the two friends separated, Lord Chetwynde saying that he would remain in London till thefollowing day, and call on Obed at his hotel that evening to learnthe result of his labors. With this each went about his own business;but into the mind of Lord Chetwynde there came a fresh anxiety, whichmade him have vague desires of flying away forever--off to India, toAustralia--any where from the power of his overmastering, hishopeless love. And amidst all this there came a deep longing to go toItaly--to Naples, to give up every thing--to go back with Obed Chute. It needed all the strength of his nature to resist this impulse, andeven when it was overcome it was only for a time. His business thatday was neglected, and he waited impatiently for the evening. 

Evening came at last, and Lord Chetwynde went to Obed's hotel. Hefound his friend there, looking somewhat dejected. 

"I suppose you have accomplished nothing, " he said. "I see it in yourface. "

"You're about right, " said Obed. "I'm going back to Naplesto-morrow. "

"You've failed utterly, then?"

"Yes, in all that I hoped. But still I have done what I could to putthings on the right track. "

"What have you done?"

"Well, I went first to Tilton and Browne. One of my own London agentsaccompanied me there, and Introduced me. They were at once very eagerto do all that they could for me. But I soon found out that nothingcould be done. That girl--Windham--that girl, '' repeated Obed, withsolemn emphasis, "is a little the deepest party that it's ever beenmy lot to come across. How any one brought up with my little girl"(this was the name that Obed loved to give to Zillah) "could developsuch superhuman villainy, and such cool, calculating, far-reachingcraft, is more than I can understand. She knocks me, I confess. But, then, the plan may all be the work of Gualtier. "

"Why, what new thing have you found out?"

"Oh, nothing exactly new; only this, that the deposit of MissLorton's funds and the withdrawal, which were all done by her in MissLorton's name and person, were managed so cleverly that there is notthe slightest ghost of a clew by which either she or the money can betraced. She drew the funds from one banker and deposited them withanother. I thought I should be able to find out the banker from whomthey were drawn, but it is impossible. Before I came here I hadwritten to Tilton and Browne, and they had made inquiries from allthe London bankers, but not one of them had any acquaintance whateverwith that name. It must have been some provincial bank, but which onecan not be known. The funds which she deposited were in Bank ofEngland notes, and these, as well as the consols, gave no indicationof their last place of deposit. It was cleverly managed, and I thinkthe actors in this affair understand too well their business to leavea single mark on their trail. The account had only been with Tiltonand Browne for a short time, and they could not give me the slightestassistance. And so I failed there completely. 

"I then went to the police, and stated my case. The prefect atMarseilles had already been in communication with them about it. Theyhad made inquiries at all the schools and seminaries, had searchedthe directories, and every thing else of that kind, but could find nomusic-teacher mentioned by the name of Gualtier. They took it forgranted that the name was an assumed one. They had also investigatedthe name 'Lorton, ' and had found one or two old county families; butthese knew nothing of the young ladies in question. They promised tocontinue their search, and communicate to me any thing that might bediscovered. There the matter rests now, and there I suppose it mustrest until something is done by somebody. When I have started theAustrian and Prussian police on the same scent I will feel thatnothing more can be done in Europe. I suppose it is no use to go toSpain or Russia or Turkey. By-the-way, there is Belgium. I mustn'tforget that. "

It was only by the strongest effort that Lord Chetwynde was able toconceal the intensity of his interest in Obed's revelations. All thatday his own business had been utterly forgotten, and all his thoughtshad been occupied with Zillah and her mysterious sorrows. When heleft Marseilles he had sought to throw away all concern for heraffairs, and devote himself to the Chetwynde business. But Obed'sappearance had brought back before him in fresh strength Gualtieralso was not unmindful of this. On the day of his arrival he hadlearned that Mrs. Hart was recovering and might soon be well. Heunderstood perfectly all that was involved in her recovery, and thedanger that might attend upon it. For Mrs. Hart would at oncerecognize Hilda, and ask after Zillah. There was now no chance to doany thing. Lord Chetwynde watched over her as a son might watch overa mother. These two thus stood before him as a standing menace, anever-threatening danger in that path from which other dangers hadbeen removed at such a hazard and at such a cost. What could he do?Nothing. It was for Hilda to act in this emergency. He himself waspowerless. He feared also that Hilda herself did not realize the fullextent of her danger. He saw how abstracted she had become, and howshe was engrossed by this new and unlooked for feeling which hadtaken full possession of her heart. One thing alone was possible tohim, and that was to warn Hilda. Perhaps she knew the danger, and wasindifferent to it; perhaps she was not at all aware of it; in anycase, a timely warning could not possibly do any harm, and might do agreat deal of good. Under these circumstances he wrote a few words, which he contrived to place in her hands on the morning when LordChetwynde arrived. The words were these:

"_Mrs. Hart is recovering, and the doctor hopes that she will soon beentirely well_. "

Hilda read these words gloomily, but nothing could be done exceptwhat she had already decided to do. She burned the note, and returnedto her usual meditations. The arrival of Lord Chetwynde soon droveevery thing else out of her mind, and she waited eagerly for the timefor dinner, when she might see him, hear his voice, and feast hereyes upon his face. 

On descending into the dining-room she found Lord Chetwynde alreadythere. Without a thought of former slights, but following only theinstincts of her own heart, which in its ardent passion was nowfilled with joy at the sight of him, she advanced toward him withextended hand. She did not say a word. She could not speak. Heremotion overpowered her. She could only extend her hand and look upinto his face imploringly. 

Lord Chetwynde stood before her, cold, reserved, with a lofty hauteuron his brow, and a coldness in his face which might have repelled anyone less impassioned. But Hilda was desperate. She had resolved tomake this last trial, and stake every thing upon this. Regardless, therefore, of the repellent expression of his face, and the coldnesswhich was manifested in every lineament, she determined to force agreeting from him. It was with this resolve that she held out herhand and advanced toward him. 

But Lord Chetwynde stood unmoved. His hands hung down. He looked ather calmly, yet coldly, without anger, yet without feeling of anykind. As she approached he bowed. 

"You will not even shake hands with me?" faltered Hilda, in astammering voice. 

"Of what avail would that be?" said Lord Chetwynde. "You and I areforever separate. We must stand apart forever. Why pretend to afriendship which does not exist? I am not your friend, LadyChetwynde. "

Hilda was silent. Her hand fell by her side. She shrank back intoherself. Her disappointment deepened into sadness unutterable, asadness that was too profound for anger, a sadness beyond words. Sothe dinner passed on. Lord Chetwynde was calm, stern, fixed in hisfeelings and in his purpose. Hilda was despairing, and voiceless inthat despair. For the first time she began to feel that all was lost. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE TABLES TURNED. 

Lord Chetwynde had the satisfaction of seeing that Mrs. Hartrecovered steadily. Day after day she improved, and at length becameconscious of surrounding objects. After having gained consciousnessher recovery became more rapid, and she was at length strong enoughfor him to visit her. The housekeeper prepared her for the visit, sothat the shock might not be too great. To her surprise she found thatthe idea of his presence in the same house had a better effect on herthan all the medicines which she had taken, and all the care whichshe had received. She said not a word, but lay quiet with a smileupon her face, as one who is awaiting the arrival of some sure andcertain bliss. It was this expression which was on her face when LordChetwynde entered. She lay back with her face turned toward the door, and with all that wistful yet happy expectancy which has beenmentioned. He walked up to her, took her thin, emaciated hands inhis, and kissed her pale forehead. 

"My own dear old nurse, " he said, "how glad I am to find you so muchbetter!"

Tears came to Mrs. Hart's eyes. "My boy!" she cried--"my dearest boy, the sight of you gives me life!" Sobs choked her utterance. She laythere clasping his hand in both of hers, and wept. 

Mrs. Hart had already learned from the housekeeper that she had beenill for many months, and her own memory, as it gradually rallied fromthe shock and collected its scattered energies, brought back beforeher the cause of her illness. Had her recovery taken place at anyother time, her grief might have caused a relapse but now shelearned that Lord Chetwynde was here watching over her--"her boy, ""her darling, " "her Guy"--and this was enough to counterbalance thegrief which she might have felt. So now she lay holding his hand inhers, gazing up into his face with an expression of blissfulcontentment and of perfect peace; feeding all her soul in that gaze, drawing from him new strength at every glance, and murmuring words offondest love and endearment. As he sat there the sternness of LordChetwynde's features relaxed, the eyes softened into love and pity, the hard lines about the month died away. He seemed to feel himself aboy again, as he once more held that hand which had guided hisboyhood's years. 

He staid there for hours. Mrs. Hart would not let him go, and he didnot care to do violence to her affections by tearing himself away. She seemed to cling to him as though he were the only living being onwhom her affections were fixed. He took to himself all the love ofthis poor, weak, fond creature, and felt a strange pleasure in it. She on her part seemed to acquire new strength from his presence. 

"I'm afraid, my dear nurse, " said he, "that I am fatiguing you. Iwill leave you now and come back again. "

"No, no, " said Mrs. Hart, earnestly; "do not leave me. You will leaveme soon enough. Do not desert me now, my own boy--my sweetchild--stay by me. "

"But all this fatigues you. "

"No, my dearest--it gives me new strength--such strength as I havenot known for a long time. If you leave me I shall sink back againinto weakness. Do not forsake me. "

So Lord Chetwynde staid, and Mrs. Hart made him tell her all aboutwhat he had been doing during the years of his absence. Hours passedaway in this conversation. And he saw, and wondered as he saw it, that Mrs. Hart grew stronger every moment. It seemed as if hispresence brought to her life and joy and strength; He laughinglymentioned this. 

"Yes, my dearest, " said Mrs. Hart, "you are right. You bring me newlife. You come to me like some strong angel, and bid me live. I daresay I have something to live for, though what it is I can not tell. Since he has gone I do not see what there is for me to do, or why itshould be that I should linger on in life, unless it may be for you. "

"For me--yes, my dear nurse, " said Lord Chetwynde, fondly kissing herpale brow--"yes, it must be for me. Live, then, for me. "

"You have others who love you and live for you, " said Mrs. Hart, mournfully. "You don't need your poor old nurse now. "

Lord Chetwynde shook his head. 

"No others can supply your place, " said he. "You will always be myown dear old nurse. "

Mrs. Hart looked up with a smile of ecstasy. 

"I am going away, " said Lord Chetwynde, after some furtherconversation, "in a few days, and I do not know when I will be back, but I want you, for my sake, to try and be cheerful, so as to getwell as soon as possible. "

"Going away!" gasped Mrs. Hart, in strong surprise. "Where to?"

"To Italy. To Florence, " said Lord Chetwynde. 

"To Florence?"

"Yes. "

"Why do you leave Chetwynde?"

"I have some business, " said he, "of a most important kind; soimportant that I must leave every thing and go away. "

"Is your wife going with you?"

"No--she will remain here, " said Lord Chetwynde, dryly. 

Mrs. Hart could not help noticing the very peculiar tone in which hespoke of his wife. 

"She will be lonely without you, " said she. 

"Well--business must be attended to, and this is of vitalimportance, " was Lord Chetwynde's answer. 

Mrs. Hart was silent for a long time. 

"Do you expect ever to come back?" she asked at last. 

"I hope so. "

"But you do not know so?"

"I should be sorry to give up Chetwynde forever, " said he. 

"Is there any danger of that?"

"Yes. I am thinking of it. The affairs of the estate are of such anature that I may be compelled to sacrifice even Chetwynde. You knowthat for three generations this prospect has been before us. "

"But I thought that danger was averted by your marriage?" said Mrs. Hart, in a low voice. 

"It was averted for my father's lifetime, but now it remains for meto do justice to those who were wronged by that arrangement; andjustice shall be done, even if Chetwynde has to be sacrificed. "

"I understand, " said Mrs. Hart, in a quiet, thoughtful tone--"and youare going to Florence?"

"Yes, in a few days. But you will be left in the care of those wholove you. "

"Lady Chetwynde used to love me, " said Mrs. Hart; "and I loved her. "

"I am glad to know that--more so than I can say. "

"She was always tender and loving and true. Your father loved herlike a daughter. "

"So I have understood. "

"You speak coldly. "

"Do I? I was not aware of it. No doubt her care will be as much atyour service as ever, and when I come back again I shall find you ina green old age--won't I? Say I shall, my dear old nurse. "

Tears stood in Mrs. Hart's eyes. She gazed wistfully at him, but saidnothing. 

A few more interviews took place between these two, and in a shorttime Lord Chetwynde bade her an affectionate farewell, and left theplace once more. 

On the morning after his departure Hilda was in the morning-roomwaiting for Gualtier, whom she had summoned. Although she knew thatLord Chetwynde was going away, yet his departure seemed sudden, andtook her by surprise. He went away without any notice, just as he haddone before, but somehow she had expected some formal announcement ofhis intention, and, because he had gone away without a word, shebegan to feel aggrieved and injured. Out of this there grew beforeher the memory of all Lord Chetwynde's coolness toward her, of theslights and insults to which he had subjected her, of the abhorrencewhich he had manifested toward her. She felt that she was despised. It was as though she had been foully wronged. To all these this lastact was added. He had gone away without a word or a sign--where, sheknew not--why, she could not tell. It was his abhorrence for her thathad driven him away--this was evident. 

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. " And this woman, who foundherself doubly and trebly scorned, lashed herself into a fury ofindignation. In this new-found fury she found the first relief whichshe had known from the torments of unrequited passion, from thelonging and the craving and the yearning of her hot and fervidnature. Into this new fit of indignation she flung herself withcomplete abandonment. Since he scorned her, he should suffer--thiswas her feeling. Since he refused her love, he should feel hervengeance. He should know that she might be hated, but she was notone who could be despised. For every slight which he had heaped uponher he should pay with his heart's blood. Under the pangs of this newdisappointment she writhed and groaned in her anguish, and all thetumults of feeling which she had endured ever since she saw him nowseemed to congregate and gather themselves up into one outburst offurious and implacable vengefulness. Her heart beat hot and fast inher fierce excitement. Her face was pale, but the hectic flush oneither cheek told of the fires within; and the nervous agitation ofher manner, her clenched hands, and heaving breast, showed that thelast remnant of self-control was forgotten and swept away in thisfurious rush of passion. It was in such a mood as this that Gualtierfound her as he entered the morning-room to which she had summonedhim. 

Hilda at first did not seem to see him, or at any rate did not noticehim. She was sitting as before in a deep arm-chair, in the depths ofwhich her slender figure seemed lost. Her hands were clutchedtogether. Her face was turned toward that portrait over thefire-place, which represented Lord Chetwynde in his early youth. Uponthat face, usually so like a mask, so impassive, and so unapt toexpress the feelings that existed within, there was now visiblyexpressed an array of contending emotions. She had thrown away orlost her self-restraint; those feelings raged and expressedthemselves uncontrolled, and Gualtier for the first time saw her offher guard. He entered with his usual stealthy tread, and watched herfor some time as she sat looking at the picture. He read in her facethe emotions which were expressed there. He saw disappointment, rage, fury, love, vengeance, pride, and desire all contending together. Helearned for the first time that this woman whom he had believed to becold as an icicle was as hot-hearted as a volcano; that she wasfervid, impulsive, vehement, passionate, intense in love and in hate. As he learned this he felt his soul sink within him as he thoughtthat it was not reserved for him, but for another, to call forth allthe fiery vehemence of that stormy nature. 

She saw him at last, as with a passionate gesture she tore her eyesaway from the portrait, which seemed to fascinate her. The sight ofGualtier at once restored her outward calm. She was herself oncemore. She waved her hand loftily to a seat, and the very fact thatshe had made this exhibition of feeling before him seemed to hardenthat proud manner which she usually displayed toward him. 

"I have sent for you, " said she, in calm, measured tones, "for animportant purpose. You remember the last journey on which I sentyou?"

"Yes, my lady. "

"You did that well. I have another one on which I wish you to go. Itrefers to the same person. "

"Lord Chetwynde?"

Hilda bowed. 

"I am ready, " said Gualtier. 

"He left this morning, and I don't know where he has gone, but I wishyou to go after him. "

"I know where he intended to go. "

"How? Where?"

"Some of the servants overheard him speaking to Mrs. Hart about goingto Italy. "

"Italy!"

"Yes. I can come up with him somewhere, if you wish it, and get onhis track. But what is it that you wish me to do?"

"In the first place, to follow him up. "

"How--at a distance--or near him? That is to say, shall I travel indisguise, or shall I get employ near his person? I can be a valet, ora courier, or any thing else. "

"Any thing. This must be left to you. I care not for details. Thegrand result is what I look to. "

"And what is the grand result?"

"Something which you yourself once proposed, " said Hilda, in low, stern tones, and with deep meaning. 

Gualtier's face flushed. He understood her. 

"I know, " said he. "He is an obstacle, and you wish this obstacleremoved. "

"Yes. "

"You understand me exactly, my lady, do you?" asked Gualtier, earnestly. "You wish it removed--_just as other obstacles have beenremoved_. You wish never to see him again. You wish to be your ownmistress henceforth--and always. "

"You have stated exactly what I mean, " said Hilda, in icy tones. 

Gualtier was silent for some time. 

"Lady Chetwynde, " said he at length, in a tone which was strikinglydifferent from that with which for years he had addressed her--"LadyChetwynde, I wish you to observe that this task upon which you nowsend me is far different from any of the former ones which I haveundertaken at your bidding. I have always set out without aword--like one of those Haschishim of whom you have read, when hereceived the mandate of the Sheik of the mountains. But the nature ofthis errand is such that I may never see you again. The task is aperilous one. The man against whom I am sent is a man of singularacuteness, profound judgment, dauntless courage, and remorseless inhis vengeance. His acuteness may possibly enable him to see throughme, and frustrate my plan before it is fairly begun. What then? Forme, at least, there will be nothing but destruction. It is, therefore, as if I now were standing face to face with death, and soI crave the liberty of saying something to you this time, and notdeparting in silence. "

Gualtier spoke with earnestness, with dignity, yet with perfectrespect. There was that in his tone and manner which gave indicationsof a far higher nature than any for which Hilda had ever yet givenhim credit. His words struck her strangely. They were notinsubordinate, for he announced his intention to obey her; they werenot disrespectful, for his manner was full of his old reverence; butthey seemed like an assertion of something like manhood, and like ablow against that undisputed ascendency which she had so longmaintained over him. In spite of her preoccupation, and hertempestuous passion, she was forced to listen, and she listened witha vague surprise, looking at him with a cold stare. 

"You seem to me, " said she, "to speak as though you were unwilling togo--or afraid. "

"Pardon me, Lady Chetwynde, " said Gualtier, "you can not think that. I have said that I would go, but that, as I may never see you again, I wish to say something. I wish, in fact, now, after all these years, to have a final understanding with you. "

"Well?" said Hilda. 

"I need not remind you of the past, " said Gualtier, "or of my blindobedience to all your mandates. Two events at least stand outconspicuously. I have assisted you to the best of my power. Why I didso must be evident to you. You know very well that it was no sordidmotive on my part, no hate toward others, no desire for vengeance, but something far different--something which has animated me foryears, so that it was enough that you gave a command for me to obey. For years I have been thus at your call like a slave, and now, afterall these years--now, that I depart on my last and most perilousmission, and am speaking to you words which may possibly be the lastthat you will ever hear from me--I wish to implore you, to beseechyou, to promise me that reward which you must know I have alwayslooked forward to, and which can be the only possible recompense toone like me for services like mine. "

He stopped and looked imploringly at her. 

"And what is that?" asked Hilda, mechanically, as though she did notfully understand him. 

"_Yourself_, " said Gualtier, in a low, earnest voice, with all hissoul in the glance which he threw upon her. 

The moment that he said the word Hilda started back with a gesture ofimpatience and contempt, and regarded him with an expression of angerand indignation, and with a frown so black that it seemed as if shewould have blasted him with her look had she been able. Gualtier, however, did not shrink from her fierce glance. His eyes were nolonger lowered before hers. He regarded her fixedly, calmly, yetrespectfully, with his head erect, and no trace of his oldunreasoning submission in his face and manner. Surprised as Hilda hadevidently been at his words, she seemed no less surprised at hischanged demeanor. It was the first time in her life that she had seenin him any revelation of manhood; and that view opened up to her veryunpleasant possibilities. 

"This is not a time, " she said at length, in a sharp voice, "for suchnonsense as this. "

"I beg your pardon, Lady Chetwynde, " said Gualtier, firmly, "I thinkthat this and no other is the time. Whether it be 'nonsense' or notneed not be debated. It is any thing but nonsense to me. All my pastlife seems to sweep up to this moment, and now is the crisis of myfate. All my future depends upon it, whether for weal or woe. LadyChetwynde, do not call it nonsense--do not underrate its importance. Do not, I implore you, underrate me. Thus far you have tacitlyassumed that I am a feeble and almost imbecile character. It is truethat my abject devotion to you has forced me to give a blindobedience to all your wishes. But mark this well, Lady Chetwynde, such obedience itself involved some of the highest qualities ofmanhood. Something like courage and fortitude and daring wasnecessary to carry out those plans of yours which I so willinglyundertook. I do not wish to speak of myself, however. I only wish toshow you that I am in earnest, and that though you may treat thisoccasion with levity, I can not. All my life, Lady Chetwynde, hangson your answer to my question. "

Gualtier's manner was most vehement, and indicative of the strongestemotion, but the tones of his voice were low and only audible toHilda. Low as the voice was, however, it still none the lessexhibited the intensity of the passion that was in his soul. 

Hilda, on the contrary, evinced a stronger rage at every word whichhe uttered. The baleful light of her dark eyes grew more fiery in itsconcentrated anger and scorn. 

"It seems to me, " said she, in her most contemptuous tone, "that youengage to do my will only on certain conditions; and that you aretaking advantage of my necessities in order to drive a bargain. "

"You are right, Lady Chetwynde, " said Gualtier, calmly. "I am tryingto drive a bargain; but remember it is not for money--it is for_yourself_. "

"And I, " said Hilda, with unchanged scorn, "will never submit to suchcoercion. When you dare to dictate to me, you mistake my characterutterly. What I have to give I will give freely. My gifts shall neverbe extorted from me, even though my life should depend upon mycompliance or refusal. The tone which you have chosen to adopt towardme is scarcely one that will make me swerve from my purpose, or alterany decision which I may have made. You have deceived yourself. Youseem to suppose that you are indispensable to me, and that this isthe time when you can force upon me any conditions you choose. As faras that is concerned, let me tell you plainly that you may do whatyou choose, and either go on this errand or stay. In any case, by nopossibility, will I make any promise whatever. "

This Hilda said quickly, and in her usual scorn. She thought thatsuch indifference might bring Gualtier to terms, and make him decideto obey her without extorting this promise. For a moment she thoughtthat she had succeeded. At her words a change came over Gualtier'sface. He looked humbled and sad. As she ceased, he turned his eyesimploringly to her, and said:

"Lady Chetwynde, do not say that. I entreat you to give me thispromise. "

"I will not!" said Hilda, sharply. 

"Once more I entreat you, " said Gualtier, more earnestly. 

"Once more I refuse, " said Hilda. "Go and do this thing first, andthen come and ask me. "

"Will you _then_ promise me?"

"I will tell you nothing now. "

"Lady Chetwynde, for the last time I _implore_ you to give me someground for hope at least. Tell me--if this thing be accomplished, will you give me what I want?"

"I will make no engagement whatever, " said Hilda, coldly. 

Gualtier at this seemed to raise himself at once above his dejection, his humility, and his prayerful attitude, to a new and strongerassertion of himself. 

"Very well, " said he, gravely and sternly. "Now listen to me, LadyChetwynde. I will no longer entreat--I insist that you give me thispromise. "

"Insist!"

Nothing can describe the scorn and contempt of Hilda's tone as sheuttered this word. 

"I repeat it, " said Gualtier, calmly, and with deeper emphasis. "_I_insist that you give me your promise. "

"My friend, " said Hilda, contemptuously, "you do not seem tounderstand our positions. This seems to me like impertinence, and, unless you make an apology, I shall be under the very unpleasantnecessity of obtaining a new steward. "

As Hilda said this she turned paler than ever with suppressed rage. 

Gualtier smiled scornfully. 

"It seems to me, " said he, "that you are the one who does not, orwill not, understand our respective positions. You will _not_ dismiss_me_ from the stewardship, Lady Chetwynde, for you will be toosensible for that. You will retain me in that dignified office, foryou know that I am indispensable to you, though you seemed to deny ita moment since. You have not forgotten the relations which we bear toone another. There are certain memories which rise between us twowhich will never escape the recollection of either of us till thelatest moment of our lives; some of these are associated with theGeneral, some with the Earl, and some--with _Zillah_!"

He stopped, as though the mention of that last name had overpoweredhim. As for Hilda, the pallor of her face grew deeper, and shetrembled with mingled agitation and rage. 

"Go!" said she. "Go! and let me never see your face again!"

"No, " said Gualtier, "I will not go till I choose. As to seeing myface again, the wish is easier said than gained. No, Lady Chetwynde. _You are in my power_! You know it. I tell it to you here, andnothing can save you from me if I turn against you. You have neverunderstood me, for you have never taken the trouble to do so. Youhave shown but little mercy toward me. When I have come home fromserving you--_you know how_--hungering and thirsting for some slightact of appreciation, some token of thankfulness, you have alwaysrepelled me, and denied what I dared not request. Had you but givenme the kind attention which a master gives to a dog, I wouldhave followed you like a dog to the world's end, and died foryou--like a dog, too, " he added, in an under-tone. "But you have usedme as a stepping-stone; thinking that, like such, I could be spurnedaside when you were done with me. You have not thought that I am nota stone or a block, but a man, with a man's heart within me. And itis now as a man that I speak to you, because you force me to it. Itell you this, that you are in my power, and you must be mine!"

"Are you a madman?" cried Hilda, overwhelmed with amazement at thisoutburst. "Have you lost your senses? Fool! If you mean what you say, I defy you! Go, and use your power! _I_ in the power of such asyou?--Never!"

Her brows contracted as she spoke, and from beneath her black eyesseemed to shoot baleful fires of hate and rage unutterable. The fullintensity of her nature was aroused, and the expression of her facewas terrible in its fury and malignancy. But Gualtier did not recoil. On the contrary, he feasted his eyes on her, and a smile came to hisfeatures. 

"You are beautiful!" said he. "You have a demon beauty that isoverpowering. Oh, beautiful fiend! You can not resist. You must bemine--and you shall! I never saw you so lovely. I love you best inyour fits of rage. "

"Fool!" cried Hilda. "This is enough. You are mad, or else drunk; ineither case you shall not stay another day in Chetwynde Castle. Go!or I will order the servants to put you out. "

"There will be no occasion for that, " said Gualtier, coolly. "I amgoing to leave you this very night to join Lord Chetwynde. "

"It is too late now; your valuable services are no longer needed, "said Hilda, with a sneer. "You may spare yourself the trouble of sucha journey. Let me know what is due you, and I will pay it. "

"You will pay me only one thing, and that is _yourself_, " saidGualtier. "If you do not choose to pay _that_ price you must take theconsequences. I am going to join Lord Chetwynde, whether you wish meto or not. But, remember this!"--and Gualtier's voice grew menacingin its intonations--"remember this; it depends upon you in whatcapacity I am to join him. You are the one who must say whether Ishall go to him as his enemy or his friend. If I go as his enemy, you know what will happen; if I go as his friend, it is you who mustfall. Now, Lady Chetwynde, do you understand me?"

As Gualtier said this there was a deep meaning in his words whichHilda could not fail to understand, and there was at the same timesuch firmness and solemn decision that she felt that he wouldcertainly do as he said. She saw at once the peril that lay beforeher. An alternative was offered: the one was, to come to terms withhim; the other, to accept utter and hopeless ruin. That ruin, too, which he menaced was no common one. It was one which placed her underthe grasp of the law, and from which no foreign land could shelterher. All her prospects, her plans, her hopes, were in that instantdashed away from before her; and she realized now, to the fullestextent, the frightful truth that she was indeed completely in thepower of this man. The discovery of this acted on her like a shock, which sobered her and drove away her passion. 

She said nothing in reply, but sat down in silence, and remained along time without speaking. Gualtier, on his part, saw the effect ofhis last words, but he made no effort to interrupt her thoughts. Hecould not yet tell what she in her desperation might decide; he couldonly wait for her answer. He stood waiting patiently. 

At last Hilda spoke:

"You've told me bitter truths--but they are truths. Unfortunately, Iam in your power. If you choose to coerce me I must yield, for I amnot yet ready to accept ruin. "

"You promise then?"

"Since I must--I do. "

"Thank you, " said Gualtier; "and now you will not see me again tillall is over either with _him_ or with _me_. "

He bowed respectfully and departed. After he had left, Hilda satlooking at the door with a face of rage and malignant fury. Atlength, starting to her feet, she hurried up to her room. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

HILDA SEES A GULF BENEATH HER FEET. 

The astonishing change in Gualtier was an overwhelming shock toHilda. She had committed the fatal mistake of underrating him, and ofputting herself completely in his power. She had counted on his beingalways humble and docile, always subservient and blindly obedient. She had put from her all thoughts of a possible day of reckoning. Shehad fostered his devotion to her so as to be used for her own ends, and now found that she had raised up a power which might sweep heraway. In the first assertion of that power she had been vanquished, and compelled to make a promise which she had at first refused withthe haughtiest contempt. She could only take refuge in vague plans ofevading her promise, and in punishing Gualtier for what seemed to herhis unparalleled audacity. 

Yet, after all, bitter as the humiliation had been, it did not lessenher fervid passion for Lord Chetwynde, and the hate and the vengeancethat had arisen when that passion had been condemned. After the firstshock of the affair with Gualtier had passed, her madness and furyagainst him passed also, and her wild spirit was once again filledwith the all-engrossing thought of Lord Chetwynde. Gualtier had goneoff, as he said, and she was to see him no more for sometime--perhaps never. He had his own plans and purposes, of thedetails of which Hilda knew nothing, but could only conjecture. Shefelt that failure on his part was not probable, and gradually, soconfident was she that he would succeed, Lord Chetwynde began to seemto her not merely a doomed man, but a man who had already undergonehis doom. And now another change came over her--that change whichDeath can make in the heart of the most implacable of men when hisenemy has left life forever. From the pangs of wounded love she hadsought refuge in vengeance--but the prospect of a gratified vengeancewas but a poor compensation for the loss of the hope of a requitedlove. The tenderness of love still remained, and it struggled withthe ferocity of vengeance. That love pleaded powerfully for LordChetwynde's life. Hope came also, to lend its assistance to thearguments of love. Would it not be better to wait--even foryears--and then perhaps the fierceness of Lord Chetwynde's repugnancemight be allayed? Why destroy him, and her hope, and her love, forever, and so hastily? After such thoughts as these, however, theremembrance of Lord Chetwynde's contempt was sure to return andintensify her vengeance. 

Under such circumstances, when distracted by so many cares, it is notsurprising that she forgot all about Mrs. Hart. She had understoodthe full meaning of Gualtier's warning about her prospectiverecovery, but the danger passed from her mind. Gualtier had gone onhis errand, and she was sure he would not falter. Shut up in her ownchamber, she awaited in deep agitation the first tidings which hemight send. Day succeeded to day; no tidings came; and at last shebegan to hope that he had failed--and the pleasantest sight which shecould have seen at that time would have been Gualtier returningdisappointed and baffled. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hart, left to herself, steadily and rapidlyrecovered. Ever since her first recognition of Lord Chetwynde herimprovement had been marked. New ideas seemed to have come to her;new motives for life; and with these the desire of life; and at thepromptings of that desire health came back. This poor creature, evenin the best days of her life at Chetwynde Castle, had not known anyhealth beyond that of a moderate kind; and so a moderate recoverywould suffice to give her what strength she had lost. To be able towander about the house once more was all that she needed, and thiswas not long denied her. 

In a few days after Gualtier's departure she was able to go about. She walked through the old familiar scenes, traversed the well-knownhalls, and surveyed the well-remembered apartments. One journey wasenough for the first day. The next day she went about the grounds, and visited the chapel, where she sat for hours on the Earl's tomb, wrapped in an absorbing meditation. Two or three days passed on, andshe walked about as she used to. And now a strong desire seized herto see that wife of Lord Chetwynde whom she so dearly loved and sofondly remembered. She wondered that Lady Chetwynde had not come tosee her. She was informed that Lady Chetwynde was ill. A deepsympathy then arose in her heart for the poor friendless lady--thefair girl whom she remembered--and whom she now pictured to herselfas bereaved of her father, and scorned by her husband. For Mrs. Hartrightly divined the meaning of Lord Chetwynde's words. She thoughtlong over this, and at last there arose within her a deep yearningto go and see this poor friendless orphaned girl, whose life had beenso sad, and was still so mournful. 

So one day, full of such tender feelings as these, and carrying inher mind the image of that beautiful young girl who once had been sodear to her, she went up herself to the room where Hilda staid, andasked the maid for Lady Chetwynde. 

"She is ill, " said the maid. 

Mrs. Hart waved her aside with serene dignity and entered. The maidstood awe-struck. For Mrs. Hart had the air and the tone of a lady, and now when her will was aroused she very well knew how to put downan unruly servant. So she walked grandly past the maid, who looked inawe upon her stately figure, her white face, with its refinedfeatures, and her venerable hair, and passed through the half-openeddoor into Hilda's room. 

Hilda had been sitting on the sofa, which was near the window. Shewas looking out abstractedly, thinking upon the great problem whichlay before her, upon the solution of which she could not decide, whensuddenly she became aware of some one in the room. She looked up. Itwas Mrs. Hart!

At the sight her blood chilled within her. Her face was overspreadwith an expression of utter horror. The shock was tremendous. She hadforgotten all about the woman. Mrs. Hart had been to her like thedead, and now to see her thus suddenly was like the sight of thedead. Had the dead Earl come into her room and stood before her inthe cerements of the grave she would not have been one whit morehorrified, more bewildered. But soon in that strong mind of hersreason regained its place. She saw how it had been, and though shestill wondered how Mrs. Hart had come into her room, yet she preparedas best she might to deal with this new and unexpected danger. Shearose, carefully closed the door, and then turning to Mrs. Hart she took her hand, and said, simply, "I'm so glad to see you about again. "

"Where is Lady Chetwynde?"

This was all that Mrs. Hart said, as she withdrew her hand and lookedall about the room. 

Like lightning Hilda's plan was decided upon. "Wait a moment, " saidshe; and, going into the ante-room, she sent her maid away upon someerrand that would detain her for some time. Then she came back andmotioned Mrs. Hart to a chair, while she took another. 

"Did not Lord Chetwynde tell you about Lady Chetwynde?" she asked, very cautiously. She was anxious, first of all, to see how much Mrs. Hart knew. 

"No, " said Mrs. Hart, "he scarcely mentioned her name. " She lookedsuspiciously at Hilda while she spoke. 

"That is strange, " said Hilda. "Had you any conversations with him?"

"Yes, several. "

"And he did not tell you?"

"He told me nothing about her, " said Mrs. Hart, dryly. 

Hilda drew a long breath of relief. 

"It's a secret in this house, " said she, "but you must know it. Iwill tell you all about it. After the Earl's death Lady Chetwyndehappened to come across some letters written by his son, in which theutmost abhorrence was expressed for the girl whom he had married. Idare say the letters are among the papers yet, and you can see them. One in particular was fearful in its denunciations of her. He reviledher, called her by opprobrious epithets, and told his father that hewould never consent to see her. Lady Chetwynde saw all these. Youknow how high-spirited she was. She at once took fire at theseinsults, and declared that she would never consent to see LordChetwynde. She wrote him to that effect, and then departed fromChetwynde Castle forever. "

Mrs. Hart listened with a stern, sad face, and said not a word. 

"I went with her to a place where she is now living in seclusion. Idon't think that Lord Chetwynde would have come home if he had notknown that she had left. Hearing this, however, he at once camehere. "

"And you?" said Mrs. Hart, "what are you doing here? Are you the LadyChetwynde of whom the servants speak?"

"I am, temporarily, " said Hilda, with a sad smile. "It was Zillah'swish. She wanted to avoid a scandal. She sent off all the oldservants, hired new ones, and persuaded me to stay here for a time asLady Chetwynde. She found a dear old creature to nurse you, and neverceases to write about you and ask how you are. "

"And you live here as Lady Chetwynde?" asked Mrs. Hart, sternly. 

"Temporarily, " said Hilda--"that was the arrangement between us. Zillah did not want to have the name of Chetwynde dishonored bystories that his wife had run away from him. She wrote Lord Chetwyndeto that effect. When Lord Chetwynde arrived I saw him in the library, and he requested me to stay here for some months until he hadarranged his plans for the future. It was very considerate in Zillah, but at the same time it is very embarrassing to me, and I am lookingeagerly forward to the time when this deceit can be over, and I canrejoin my friend once more. I am so glad, my dear Mrs. Hart, that youcame in. It is such a relief to have some one to whom I can unburdenmyself. I am very miserable, and I imagine all the time that theservants suspect me. You will, of course, keep this a profoundsecret, will you not, my dear Mrs. Hart? and help me to play thiswretched part, which my love for Zillah has led me to undertake?"

Hilda's tone was that of an innocent and simple girl who foundherself in a false position. Mrs. Hart listened earnestly without aword, except occasionally. The severe rigidity of her features neverrelaxed. What effect this story, so well told, produced upon her, Hilda could not know. At length, however, she had finished, and Mrs. Hart arose. 

"You will keep Zillah's secret?" said Hilda, earnestly. "It is forthe sake of Lord Chetwynde. "

"You will never find me capable of doing any thing that is againsthis interests, " said Mrs. Hart, solemnly; and without a bow, or anadieu, she retired. She went back to her own room to ponder over thisastonishing story. 

Meanwhile, Hilda, left alone to herself, was not altogether satisfiedwith the impression which had been made on Mrs. Hart. She herself hadplayed her part admirably--her story, long prepared in case of somesudden need like this, was coherent and natural. It was spokenfluently and unhesitatingly; nothing could have been better in itsway, or more convincing; and yet she was not satisfied with Mrs. Hart's demeanor. Her face was too stern, her manner too frigid; thequestions which she had asked spoke of suspicion. All these wereunpleasant, and calculated to awaken her fears. Her position hadalways been one of extreme peril, and she had dreaded some visitorwho might remember her face. She had feared the doctor most, and hadcarefully kept out of his way. She had not thought until lately ofthe possibility of Mrs. Hart's recovery. This came upon her with asuddenness that was bewildering, and the consequences she could notforetell. 

And now another fear suggested itself. Might not Lord Chetwyndehimself have some suspicions? Would not such suspicions account forhis coldness and severity? Perhaps he suspected the truth, and waspreparing some way in which she could be entrapped and punished. Perhaps his mysterious business in London related to this alone. Thethought filled her with alarm, and now she rejoiced that Gualtier wason his track. She began to believe that she could never be safe untilLord Chetwynde was "removed. " And if Lord Chetwynde, then others. Whowas this Mrs. Hart that she should have any power of troubling her?Measures might easily be taken for silencing her forever, and for"removing" such a feeble old obstacle as this. Hilda knew means bywhich this could be effected. She knew the way by which the deedcould be done, and she had nerve enough to do it. 

[Illustration: "She Stood For A Little While And Listened. "]

The appearance of this new danger in Chetwynde Castle itself gave anew direction to her troubles. It was as though a gulf had suddenlyyawned beneath her feet. All that night she lay deliberating as towhat was best to do under the circumstances. Mrs. Hart was safeenough for a day or two, but what might she not do hereafter in theway of mischief? She could not be got rid of, either, in an ordinaryway. She had been so long in Chetwynde Castle that it seemed morallyimpossible to dislodge her. Certainly she was not one who could bepaid and packed off to some distant place like the other servants. There was only one way to get rid of her, and to this one way Hilda'sthoughts turned gloomily. 

Over this thought she brooded through all the following day. Eveningcame, and twilight deepened into darkness. At about ten o'clock Hildaleft her room and quietly descended the great staircase, and wentover toward the chamber occupied by Mrs. Hart. Arriving at the doorshe stood without for a little while and listened. There was nonoise. She gave a turn to the knob and found that the door was open. The room was dark. She has gone to bed, she thought. She went back toher own room again, and in about half an hour she returned. The doorof Mrs. Hart's room remained ajar as she had left it. She pushed itfarther open, and put her head in. All was still. There were nosounds of breathing there. Slowly and cautiously she advanced intothe room. She drew nearer to the bed. There was no light whatever, and in the intense darkness no outline revealed the form of the bedto her. Nearer and nearer she drew to the bed, until at last shetouched it. Gently, yet swiftly, her hands passed over its surface, along the quilts, up to the pillows. An involuntary cry burst fromher--

The bed was empty!

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

FROM LOVE TO VENGEANCE, AND FROM VENGEANCE TO LOVE. 

On the night of this last event, before she retired to bed, Hildalearned more. Leaving Mrs. Hart's room, she called at thehousekeeper's chambers to see if the missing woman might be there. The housekeeper informed her that she had left at an early hour thatmorning, without saying a word to any one, and that she herself hadtaken it for granted that her ladyship knew all about it. Hilda heardthis without any comment; and then walked thoughtfully to her ownroom. 

She certainly had enough care on her mind to occupy all her thoughts. The declaration of Gualtier was of itself an ill-omened event, andshe no longer had that trust in his fidelity which she once had, eventhough he now might work in the hope of a reward. It seemed to herthat with the loss of her old ascendency over him she would losealtogether his devotion; nor could the remembrance of his formerservices banish that deep distrust of him which, along with herbitter resentment of his rebellion, had arisen in her mind. Theaffair of Mrs. Hart seemed worse yet. Her sudden appearance, hersharp questionings, her cold incredulity, terminated at last by herprompt flight, were all circumstances which filled her with the mostgloomy forebodings. Her troubles seemed now to increase every day, each one coming with startling suddenness, and each one being of thatsort against which no precautions had been taken, or even thought of. 

She passed an anxious day and a sleepless night. On the followingmorning a letter was brought to her. It had a foreign post-mark, andthe address showed the handwriting of Gualtier. This at once broughtback the old feelings about Lord Chetwynde, and she tore it open withfeverish impatience, eager to know what the contents might be, yethalf fearful of their import. It was written in that tone of respectwhich Gualtier had never lost but once, and which he had now resumed. He informed her that on leaving Chetwynde he had gone at once up toLondon, and found that Lord Chetwynde was stopping at the same hotelwhere he had put up last. He formed a bold design, which he put inexecution, trusting to the fact that Lord Chetwynde had never seenhim more than twice at the Castle, and on both occasions had seemednot even to have looked at him. He therefore got himself up verycarefully in a foreign fashion, and, as he spoke French perfectly, hewent to Lord Chetwynde and offered himself as a valet or courier. Ithappened that Lord Chetwynde actually needed a man to serve him inthis capacity, a fact which Gualtier had found out in the hotel, andso the advent of the valet was quite welcome. After a briefconversation, and an inquiry into his knowledge of the languages andthe routes of travel on the Continent, Lord Chetwynde examined hisletters of recommendation, and, finding them very satisfactory, hetook him into his employ. They remained two days longer in London, during which Gualtier made such good use of his time andopportunities that he managed to gain access to Lord Chetwynde'spapers, but found among them nothing of any importance whatever, fromwhich he concluded that all his papers of any consequence must havebeen deposited with his solicitors. At any rate it was impossible forhim to find out any thing from this source. 

Leaving London they went to Paris, where they passed a few days, butsoon grew weary of the place; and Lord Chetwynde, feeling a kind oflanguor, which seemed to him like a premonition of disease, hedecided to go to Germany. His first idea was to go to Baden, althoughit was not the season; but on his arrival at Frankfort he was soovercome by the fatigue of traveling that he determined to remain fora time in that city. His increasing languor, however, had alarmedhim, and he had called in the most eminent physicians of the place, who, at the time the letter was written, were prescribing for him. The writer said that they did not seem to think that this illness hadany thing very serious in it, and simply recommended certain changesof diet and various kinds of gentle exercise, but he added that inhis opinion there was something in it, and that this illness was moreserious than was supposed. As for the sick man himself, he was muchdiscouraged. He had grown tired of his physicians and of Frankfort, and wished to go on to Baden, thinking that the change might do himgood. He seemed anxious for constant change, and spoke as though hemight leave Baden for some other German city, or perhaps go on toItaly, to which place his thoughts, for some reason or other, seemedalways turning with eager impatience. 

As Hilda read this letter, and took in the whole of its dark andhidden meaning, all her former agitation returned. Once more thequestion arose which had before so greatly harassed her. Thedisappearance of Mrs. Hart, and the increasing dangers which had beengathering around her head, had for a time taken up her thoughts, butnow her great, preoccupying care came back with fresh vehemence, andresumed more than its former sway. Mrs. Hart was forgotten ascompletely as though she had never existed. Gualtier's possibleinfidelity to her suggested itself no more; it was Lord Chetwynde andLord Chetwynde only, his sickness, his peril, his doom, which came toher mind. On one side stood Love, pleading for his life; on theother Vengeance, demanding its sacrifice. 

_Shall he live, or shall he die_?

This was the question which ever and ever rang in her soul. "Shall helive, or die? Shall he go down to death, doomed by me, and thus endall my hope, or shall he live to scorn me?" In his death there wasthe satisfaction of vengeance, but there was also the death of hope. In his death there was fresh security for herself; but in his deathher own life would lie dead. On each side there were motives mostpowerful over a mind like hers, yet so evenly balanced that she knewnot which way to turn, or in which way to incline. Death orlife?--life or death? Thus the question came. 

And the hours passed on; and every hour, she well knew, was freightedwith calamity; every hour was dragging Lord Chetwynde on to thatpoint at which the power to decide upon his fate would be hers nolonger. 

Why hesitate?

This was the form which the question took at last, and under which itforced itself more and more upon her. Why hesitate? To hesitate wasof itself to doom him to death. If he was to be saved, there was notime for delay. He must be saved at once. If he was to be saved, shemust act herself, and that, too, promptly and energetically. Her partcould not be performed by merely writing a letter, for the lettermight be delayed, or it might be miscarried, or it might be neglectedand disobeyed. She could not trust the fulfillment of a command ofmercy to Gualtier. She herself could alone fulfill such a purpose. She herself must act by herself. 

As she thought of this her decision was taken. Yes, she would do it. She herself would arrest his fate, for a time at least. Yes--heshould live, and she herself would fly to his aid, and stand by hisside, and be the one who would snatch him from his doom. 

Now, no sooner was this decision made than there came over her astrange thrill of joy and exultation. He should live! he should live!this was the refrain which rang in her thoughts. He should live; andshe would be the life-giver. At last he would be forced to look uponher with eyes of gratitude at least, if not of affection. It shouldno longer be in his power to scorn her, or to turn away coldly andcruelly from her proffered hand. He should yet learn to look upon heras his best friend. He should learn to call her by tender names; andspeak to her words of fondness, of endearment, and of love. Now, asdeep as her despondency had been, so high rose her joy at this newprospect; and her hope, which rose out of this resolution, was brightto a degree which was commensurate with the darkness of her previousdespair. He shall live; and he shall be mine--these were the wordsupon which her heart fed itself, which carried to that heart a wildand feverish joy, and drove away those sharp pangs which she hadfelt. And now the love which burned within her diffused through allher being those softer qualities which are born of love; and the hateand the vengeance upon which she had of late sustained her soul wereforgotten. Into her heart there came a tenderness all feminine, and athing unknown to her before that fateful day on which she had firstseen Lord Chetwynde; a tenderness which filled her with a yearningdesire to fly to the rescue of this man, whom she had but latelyhanded over to the assassin. She hungered and thirsted to be nearhim, to stand by his side, to see his face, to touch his hand, tohear his voice, to give to him that which should save him from thefate which she herself had dealt out to him by the hands of her ownagent. It was thus that her love at last triumphed over hervengeance, and, sweeping onward, drove away all other thoughts andfeelings. 

Hers was the love of the tigress; but even the love of the tigress isyet love; and such love has its own profound depths of tenderness, its capacity of intense desire, its power of complete self-abnegationor of self-immolation--feelings which, in the tigress kind of love, are as deep as in any other, and perhaps even deeper. 

But from her in that dire emergency the one thing that was requiredabove all else was haste. That she well knew. There was no time fordelay. There was one at the side of Lord Chetwynde whose heart knewneither pity nor remorse, whose hand never faltered in dealing itsblow, and who watched every failing moment of his life with unshakendetermination. To him her cruel and bloody behests had been committedin her mad hour of vengeance; those behests he was now carrying outas much for his own sake as for hers; accomplishing the fulfillmentof his own purposes under the cloak of obedience to her orders. Hewas the destroying angel, and his mission was death. He could notknow of the change which had come over her; nor could he dream of thepossibility of a change. She alone could bring a reprieve from thatdeath, and stay his hand. 

Haste, then--she murmured to herself--oh, haste, or if will soon betoo late! Fly! Leave every thing and fly! Every hour brings himnearer to death until that hour comes when you may save him fromdeath. Haste, or it may be too late--and the mercy and the pity andthe tenderness of love may be all unavailing!

It was with the frantic haste which was born of this new-found pitythat Hilda prepared for her journey. Her preparations were notextensive. A little luggage sufficed. She did not wish a maid. Shehad all her life relied upon herself, and now set forth upon thisfateful journey alone and unattended, with her heart filled with onefeeling only, and only one hope. It needed but a short time tocomplete her preparations, and to announce to the astonisheddomestics her intention of going to the Continent. Without noticingtheir amazement, or caring for it, she ordered the carriage for thenearest station, and in a short time after her first decision she wasseated in the cars and hurrying onward to London. 

Arriving there, she made a short stay. She had some things to procurewhich were to her of infinite importance. Leaving the hotel, she wentdown Oxford Street till she came to a druggist's shop, which sheentered, and, going up to the clerk, she handed him a paper, whichlooked like a doctor's prescription. The clerk took it, and, afterlooking at it, carried it to an inner office. After a time theproprietor appeared. He scanned Hilda narrowly, while she returnedhis glance with her usual haughtiness. The druggist appearedsatisfied with his inspection. 

"Madame, " said he, politely, "the ingredients of this prescriptionare of such a nature that the law requires me to know the name andaddress of the purchaser, so as to enter them on the purchase book. "

"My address, " said Hilda, quietly, "is Mrs. Henderson, 51 EustonSquare. "

The druggist bowed, and entered the name carefully on his book, afterwhich he himself prepared the prescription and handed it to Hilda. 

She asked the price, and, on hearing it, flung down a sovereign, after which she was on the point of leaving without waiting for thechange, when the druggist called her back. 

"Madame, " said he, "you are leaving without your change. "

Hilda started, and then turning back she took the change and thankedhim. 

"I thought you said it was twenty shillings, " she remarked, quietly, seeing that the druggist was looking at her with a strangeexpression. 

"Oh no, madame; I said ten shillings. "

"Ah! I misunderstood you, " and with these words Hilda took herdeparture, carrying with her the precious medicine. 

That evening she left London, and took the steamer for Ostend. Beforeleaving she had sent a telegraphic message to Gualtier at Frankfort, announcing the fact that she was coming on, and asking him, if heleft Frankfort before her arrival, to leave a letter for her at thehotel, letting her know where they might go. This she did for atwofold motive: first, to let Gualtier know that she was coming, andsecondly, to secure a means of tracking them if they went to anotherplace. But the dispatch of this message filled her with freshanxiety. She feared first that the message might not reach itsdestination in time; and then that Gualtier might utterlymisunderstand her motive--a thing which, under the circumstances, hewas certain to do--and, under this misapprehension, hurry up hiswork, so as to have it completed by the time of her arrival. Thesethoughts, with many others, agitated her so much that she graduallyworked herself into an agony of fear; and the swiftest speed ofsteamboat or express train seemed slow to the desire of that stormyspirit, which would have forced its way onward, far beyond the speedwhich human contrivances may create, to the side of the man whom shelonged to see and to save. The fever of her fierce anxiety, thevehemence of her desire, the intensity of her anguish, all workedupon her delicate organization with direful effect. Her brain becameconfused, and thoughts became dreams. For hours she lost allconsciousness of surrounding objects. Yet amidst all this confusionof a diseased and overworked brain, and amidst this delirium of wildthought, there was ever prominent her one idea--her one purpose. Howshe passed that journey she could not afterward remember, but it wasat length passed, and, following the guidance of that strong purpose, which kept its place in her mind when other things were lost, she atlast stood in the station-house at Frankfort. 

"Drive to the Hôtel Rothschild, " she cried to the cabman whom she hadengaged. "Quick! for your life!"

The cabman marked her agitation and frenzy. 

He whipped up his horses, the cab dashed through the streets, andreached the hotel. Hilda hurried out and went up the steps. Totteringrather than walking, she advanced to a mail who had come to meet her. He seemed to be the proprietor. 

"Lord Chetwynde!" she gasped. "Is he here?" She spoke in German. 

The proprietor shook his head. 

"He left the day before yesterday. "

Hilda staggered back with a low moan. She did not really think thathe could be here yet, but she had hoped that he might be, and thedisappointment was great. 

"Is there a letter here, " she asked, in a faint voice, "for LadyChetwynde?"

"I think so. I'll see. "

Hurrying away he soon returned with a letter in his hand. 

"Are you the one to whom it is addressed?" he asked, with deeprespect. 

"I am Lady Chetwynde, " said Hilda, and at the same time eagerlysnatched the letter from his hand. On the outside she at oncerecognized the writing of Gualtier. She saw the address, "LadyChetwynde. " In an instant she tore it open, and read the contents. 

The letter contained only the following words:

"FRANKFORT, HÔTEL ROTHSCHILD, October 30, 1859. 

"We leave for Baden to-day. Our business is progressing veryfavorably. We go to the Hôtel Français at Baden. If you come on youmust follow us there. If we go away before your arrival I will leavea note for you. "

The letter was as short as a telegram, and as unsatisfactory to amind in such a state as hers. It had no signature, but thehandwriting was Gualtier's. 

Hilda's hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold it. She read itover and over again. Then she turned to the landlord. 

"What time does the next train leave for Baden?" she asked. 

"To-morrow morning at 5 A. M. , miladi. "

"Is there no train before?"

"No, miladi. "

"Is there no steamer?"

"No, miladi--not before to-morrow morning. The five o'clock train isthe first and the quickest way to go to Baden. "

"I am in a great hurry, " said Hilda, faintly. "I must be called intime for the five o'clock train. "

"You shall be, miladi. "

"Send a maid--and let me have my room now--as soon as possible--for Iam worn out. "

As she said this she tottered, and would have fallen, but thelandlord supported her, and called for the maids. They hurriedforward, and Hilda was carried up to her room and tenderly put tobed. The landlord was an honest, tender-hearted German. LordChetwynde had been a guest of sufficient distinction to be wellremembered by a landlord, and his ill health had made him moreconspicuous. The arrival of this devoted wife, who herself seemed asill as her husband, but who yet, in spite of weakness, was hasteningto him with such a consuming desire to get to him, affected mostprofoundly this honest landlord, and all others in the hotel. Thatevening, then, Hilda's faith and love and constancy formed the chieftheme of conversation; the visitors of the hotel heard the sad storyfrom the landlord, and deep was the pity, and profound the sympathy, which were expressed by all. To the ordinary pathos of this affectingexample of conjugal love some additional power was lent by theextreme beauty, the excessive prostration and grief, and, above all, the illustrious rank of this devoted woman. 

Hilda was put to bed, but there was no sleep for her. The fever ofher anxiety, the shock of her disappointment, the tumult of her hopesand fears, all made themselves felt in her overworked brain. She didnot take the five o'clock train on the following day. The maid cameto call her, but found her in a high fever, eager to start, but quiteunable to move. Before noon she was delirious. 

In that delirium her thoughts wandered over those scenes which forthe past few months had been uppermost in her mind. Now she was shutup in her chamber at Chetwynde Castle reading the Indian papers; sheheard the roll of carriage wheels; she prepared to meet the new-comerface to face. She followed him to the morning-room, and therelistened to his fierce maledictions. On the occasion itself she hadbeen dumb before him, but in her delirium she had words ofremonstrance. These words were expressed in every varying shade ofentreaty, deprecation, conciliation, and prayer. Again she watched astern, forbidding face over the dinner-table, and sought to appeaseby kind words the just wrath of the man she loved. Again she held outher hand, only to have her humble advances repelled in coldest scorn. Again she saw him leave her forever without a word offarewell--without even a notice of his departure, and she remained togive herself up to vengeance. 

That delirium carried her through many past events. Gualtier againstood up before her in rebellion, proud, defiant, merciless, asserting himself, and enforcing her submission to his will. Againthere came into her room, suddenly, and like a spectre, the awfulpresence of Mrs. Hart, with her white face, her stern looks, hersharp inquiries, and her ominous words. Again she pursued this womanto her own room, in the dark, and ran her hands over the bed, andfound that bed empty. 

But Lord Chetwynde was the central object of her delirious fancies. It was to him that her thoughts reverted from brief wanderings overreminiscences of Gualtier and Mrs. Hart. Whatever thoughts she mighthave about these, those thoughts would always at last revert to him. And with him it was not so much the past that suggested itself to herdiseased imagination as the future. That future was sufficiently darkand terrible to be portrayed in fearful colors by her incoherentravings. There were whispered words--words of frightful meaning, words which expressed those thoughts which in her sober senses shewould have died rather than reveal. Had any one been standing by herbedside who knew English, he might have learned from her words astory of fearful import--a tale which would have chilled his blood, and which would have shown him how far different this sick woman wasfrom the fond, self-sacrificing wife, who had excited the sympathy ofall in the hotel. But there was none who could understand her. Thedoctor knew no language beside his own, except a little French; themaids knew nothing but German. And so it was that while Hildaunconsciously revealed the whole of those frightful secrets which shecarried shut up within her breast, that revelation was notintelligible to any of those who were in contact with her. Well wasit for her at that time that she had chosen to come away without hermaid; for had that maid been with her then she would have learnedenough of her mistress to send her flying back to England in horror, and to publish abroad the awful intelligence. 

Thus a week passed--a week of delirium, of ravings, of incoherentspeeches, unintelligible to all those by whom she was surrounded. Atlength her strong constitution triumphed over the assaults ofdisease. The fever was allayed, and sense returned; and withreturning sense there came the full consciousness of her position. The one purpose of her life rose again within her mind, and evenwhile she was too weak to move she was eager to be up and away. 

"How long will it be, " she asked of the doctor, "before I can go onmy journey?"

"If every thing is favorable, miladi, " answered the doctor, "as Ihope it will be, you may be able to go in about a week. It will be arisk, but you are so excited that I would rather have you go thanstay. "

"A week! A week!" exclaimed Hilda, despairingly. "I can not wait solong as that. No. I will go before then--or else I will die. "

"If you go before a week, " said the doctor, warningly, and withevident anxiety, "you will risk your life. "

"Very well then, I will risk my life, " said Hilda. "What is lifeworth now?" she murmured, with a moan of anguish. "I must and will goon, if I die for it--and in three days. "

The doctor made no reply. He saw her desperation, and perceived thatany remonstrance would be worse than useless. To keep such a resoluteand determined spirit chained here in a sick-chamber would beimpossible. She would chafe at the confinement so fiercely that arenewal of the fever would be inevitable. She would have to beallowed her own way. Most deeply did he commiserate this devotedwife, and much did he wonder how it had happened that her husband hadgone off from her thus, at a time when he himself was threatened withillness. And now, as before, those kindly German hearts in the hotel, on learning this new outburst of conjugal love, felt a sympathy whichwas beyond all expression. To none of them had there ever before beenknown any thing approaching to so piteous a case as this. 

The days passed. Hilda was avaricious about every new sign ofincreasing strength. Her strong determination, her intense desire, and her powerful will, at last triumphed over bodily pain andweakness. It was as she said, and on the third day she managed todrag herself from her bed and prepare for a fresh journey. Inpreparation for this, however, she was compelled to have a maid toaccompany her, and she selected one of those who had been herattendants, an honest, simple-hearted, affectionate Germangirl--Gretchen by name, one who was just suited to her in her presentsituation. 

She made the journey without any misfortune. On reaching Baden shehad to be lifted into the cab. Driving to the Hôtel Français, shereached it in a state of extreme prostration, and had to be carriedto her rooms. She asked for a letter. There was one for her. Gualtierhad not been neglectful, but had left a message. It was very muchlike the last. 

BADEN, HÔTEL FRANÇAIS, November 2, 1859. 

"We leave for Munich to-day, and will stop at the Hôtel desEtrangers. Business progressing most favorably. If we go away fromMunich I will leave a note for you. "

The letter was dated November 2, but it was now the 10th of thatmonth, and Hilda was far behind time. She had nerved herself up tothis effort, and the hope of finding the object of her search atBaden had sustained her. But her newfound strength was now utterlyexhausted by the fatigue of travel, and the new disappointment whichshe had experienced created discouragement and despondency. This toldstill more upon her strength, and she was compelled to wait here fortwo days, chafing and fretting against her weakness. 

Nothing could exceed the faithful attention of Gretchen. She hadheard at Frankfort, from the gossip of the servants, the story of hermistress, and all her German sentiment was roused in behalf of one sosorrowful and so beautiful. Her natural kindness of heart also led tothe utmost devotion to Hilda, and, so far as careful and incessantattention could accomplish any thing, all was done that was possible. By the 13th of November Hilda was ready to start once more, and onthat morning she left for Munich. 

This journey was more fatiguing than the last. In her weak state shewas almost overcome. Twice she fainted away in the cars, and all ofGretchen's anxious care was required to bring her to her destination. The German maid implored her with tears to get out at some of thetowns on the way. But Hilda resolutely refused. She hoped to findrest at Munich, and to stop short of that place seemed to her toendanger her prospect of success. Again, as before, the strong soultriumphed over the infirmity of the body, and the place of herdestination was at last attained. 

She reached it more dead than alive. Gretchen lifted her into a cab. She was taken to the Hôtel des Etrangers. At the very first moment ofher entrance into the hall she had asked a breathless question of theservant who appeared:

"Is Lord Chetwynde here?"

"Lord Chetwynde? No. He has gone. "

"Gone!" said Hilda, in a voice which was like a groan of despair. "Gone! When?"

"Nearly a week ago, " said the servant. 

At this Hilda's strength again left her utterly, and she fell backalmost senseless. She was carried to her room. Then she rallied by amighty effort, and sent Gretchen to see if there was a letter forher. In a short time the maid reappeared, bringing another of thosewelcome yet tantalizing notes, which always seemed ready to mock her, and to lure her on to fresh disappointment. Yet her impatience toread its contents had in no way diminished, and it was with the sameimpetuous fever of curiosity as before that she tore open theenvelope and devoured the contents. This note was much like theothers, but somewhat more ominous. 

It read as follows:

"MUNICH, HÔTEL DES ETRANGES, November 9, 1859. 

"We leave for Lausanne to-day. We intend to stop at the Hôtel Gibbon. It is not probable that any further journey will be made. Businessmost favorable, and prospects are that every thing will soon bebrought to a successful issue. "

CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE ANGUISH OF THE HEART. 

As Hilda read these ominous words a chill like that of death seemedto strike to her inmost soul. Her disappointment on her arrival herehad already been bitter enough. She had looked upon Munich as theplace where she would surely find the end of her journey, and obtainthe reward of her labors. But now the object of her search was oncemore removed, and a new journey more fatiguing than the others wasset before her. Could she bear it?--she who even now felt the oldweakness, and something even worse, coming back irresistibly uponher. Could she, indeed, bear another journey? This question she putto herself half hopelessly; but almost immediately her resolute soulasserted itself, and proudly answered it. Bear such a journey? Ay, this journey she could bear, and not only this, but many more. Eventhough her old weakness was coming back over her frail form, stillshe rose superior to that weakness, and persisted in herdetermination to go on, and still on, without giving up her purpose, till she reached Lord Chetwynde, even though it should only be at themoment of her arrival to drop dead at his feet. 

There was more now to stimulate her than the determination of aresolute and invincible will. The words of that last note had a darkand ominous meaning, which affected her more strongly by far than anyof the others. The messages which they bore had not been of sofearful an import as this. 

The first said that the "business" was progressing _very favorably_. 

The second, that it was progressing _most favorably_. 

This last one told her that the business _would soon be brought to asuccessful issue_. 

Well she knew the meaning of these words. In these different messagesshe saw so many successive stages of the terrific work which wasgoing on, and to avert which she had endured so much, at the cost ofsuch suffering to herself. She saw the form of Lord Chetwynde failingmore and more every day, and still, while he struggled against theapproach of insidious disease, yielding, in spite of himself, to itsresistless progress. She saw him going from place to place, summoningthe physicians of each town where he stopped, and giving up both townand physicians in despair. She saw, also, how all the time therestood by his side one who was filled with one dark purpose, in theaccomplishment of which he was perseveringly cruel and untiringlypatient--one who watched the growing weakness of his victim withcold-blooded interest, noting every decrease of strength, and everysign which might give token of the end--one, too, who thought thatshe was hastening after him to join in his work, and was onlydelaying in order to join him when all was over, so as to give himher congratulations, and bestow upon him the reward which he had madeher promise that she would grant. 

Thoughts like these filled her with madness. Wretched and almosthopeless, prostrated by her weakness, yet consumed by an ardentdesire to rush onward and save the dying man from the grasp of thedestroyer, her soul became a prey to a thousand contending emotions, and endured the extreme of the anguish of suspense. Such a struggleas this proved too much for her. One night was enough to prostrateher once more to that stage of utter weakness which made all hope oftravel impossible. In that state of prostration her mind stillcontinued active, and the thoughts that never ceased to come werethose which prevented her from rallying readily. For the one ideathat was ever present was this, that while she was thus helpless, _her work was still going on_--that work which she had ordered anddirected. That emissary whom she had sent out was now, as she wellknew, fulfilling her mandate but too zealously. The power was now allin his own hands. And she herself--what could she do? He had alreadydefied her authority--would he now give up his purpose, even if shewished? She might have telegraphed from London a command to him tostop all further proceedings till she came; but, even if she had doneso, was it at all probable that he, after what had happened, wouldhave obeyed? She had not done so, because she did not feel in aposition to issue commands any longer in her old style. The servanthad assumed the air and manner of a master, and the message which shehad sent had been non-committal. She had relied upon the prospect ofher own speedy arrival upon the scene, and upon her own power ofconfronting him, and reducing him to obedience in case of his refusalto fall in with her wishes. 

But now it had fallen out far differently from what she had expected, and the collapse of her own strength had ruined all. Now every dayand every hour was taking hope away from her, and giving it to thatman who, from being her tool, had risen to the assertion ofmastership over her. Now every moment was dragging away from her theman whom she sought so eagerly--dragging him away from her love tothe darkness of that place to which her love and her longing mightnever penetrate. 

Now, also, there arose within her the agonies of remorse. Neverbefore had she understood the fearful meaning of this word. Such afeeling had never stirred her heart when she handed over to thebetrayer her life-long friend, her almost sister, the one who soloved her, the trustful, the innocent, the affectionate Zillah; sucha feeling had not interfered with her purpose when Gualtier returnedto tell of his success, and to mingle with his story the recital ofZillah's love and longing after her. But now it was different. Nowshe had handed over to that same betrayer one who had become dearerto her than life itself--one, too, who had grown dearer still eversince that moment when she had first resolved to save him. If she hadnever arrived at such a resolution--if she had borne with thestruggles of her heart, and the tortures of her suspense--if she hadfought out the battle in solitude and by herself, alone at Chetwynde, her sufferings would have been great, it is true, but they wouldnever have arisen to the proportions which they now assumed. Theywould never have reduced her to this anguish of soul which, in itsreaction upon the body, thus deprived her of all strength and hope. That moment when she had decided against vengeance, and in favor ofpity, had borne for her a fearful fruit. It was the point at whichall her love was let loose suddenly from that repression which shehad striven to maintain over it, and rose up to gigantic proportions, filling all her thoughts, and overshadowing all other feelings. Thatlove now pervaded all her being, occupied all her thoughts, andabsorbed all her spirit. Once it was love; now it had grown tosomething more, it had become a frenzy; and the more she yielded toits overmastering power, the more did that power enchain her. 

Tormented and tortured by such feelings as these, her weary, overwornframe sank once more, and the sufferings of Frankfort were renewed atMunich. On the next day after her arrival she was unable to leave. For day after day she lay prostrate, and all her impatient eagernessto go onward, and all her resolution, profited nothing when the poorfrail flesh was so weak. Yet, in spite of all this, her soul wasstrong; and that soul, by its indomitable purpose, roused up oncemore the shattered forces of the body. A week passed away, but at theend of that week she arose to stagger forward. 

Her journey to Lausanne was made somehow--she knew not how--partly bythe help of Gretchen, who watched over her incessantly withinexhaustible devotion--partly through the strength of her ownforceful will, which kept before her the great end which was to crownso much endeavor. She was a shattered invalid on this journey. Shefelt that another such a journey would be impossible. She hoped thatthis one would end her severe trials. And so, amidst hope and fear, her soul sustained her, and she went on. Such a journey as this toone less exhausted would have been one memorable on account of itsphysical and mental anguish, but to Hilda, in that extreme ofsuffering, it was not memorable at all. It was less than a dream. Itwas a blank. How it passed she knew not. Afterward she only couldremember that in some way it did pass. 

On the twenty-second day of November she reached Lausanne. Gretchenlifted her out of the coach, and supported her as she tottered intothe Hôtel Gibbon. A man was standing in the doorway. At first he didnot notice the two women, but something in Hilda's appearance struckhim, and he looked earnestly at her. 

An exclamation burst from him. 

"My God!" he groaned. 

[Illustration: Hilda's Arrival At The Hotel Gibbon. ]

For a moment he stood staring at them, and then advanced with a rapidpace. 

It was Gualtier. 

Hilda recognized him, but said nothing. She could not speak a word. She wished to ask for something, but dreaded to ask that question, for she feared the reply. In that interval of fear and hesitationGualtier had leisure to see, in one brief glance, all the change thathad come over her who had once been so strong, so calm, soself-reliant, so unmoved by the passions, the feelings, and theweaknesses of ordinary humanity. He saw and shuddered. 

Thin and pale and wan, she now stood before him, tottering feeblywith unsteady step, and staying herself on the arm of her maid. Hercheeks, which, when he last saw them, were full and rounded with theoutlines of youth and health, were now hollow and sunken. Around hereyes were those dark clouded marks which are the sure signs ofweakness and disease. Her hands, as they grasped the arms of themaid, were thin and white and emaciated. Her lips were bloodless. Itwas the face of Hilda, indeed, but Hilda in sorrow, in suffering, andin grief--such a face as he had never imagined. But there were somethings in that face which belonged to the Hilda of old, and had notchanged. The eyes still flashed dark and piercing; they at least hadnot failed; and still their penetrating gaze rested upon him with nodiminution in their power. Still the rich masses of ebon hairwreathed themselves in voluminous folds, and from out the luxuriantblack masses of that hair the white face looked forth with its pallorrendered more awful from the contrast. Yet now that white face was aface of agony, and the eyes which, in their mute entreaty, wereturned toward him, were fixed and staring. As he came up to her shegrasped his arm; her lips moved; but for a time no audible soundescaped. At length she spoke, but it was in a whisper:

"_Is he alive_?"

And that was all that she said. She stood there panting, and gaspingfor breath, awaiting his reply with a certain awful suspense. 

"Yes, my lady, " said Gualtier, in a kind of bewilderment, as thoughhe had not yet got over the shock of such an apparition. "He is aliveyet. "

"God be thanked!" moaned Hilda, in a low voice. "I have arrived intime--at last. He must be saved--and he shall be saved. Come. "

She spoke this last word to Gualtier. By her words, as well as by herface and manner, he saw that some great change had come over her, butwhy it was, he knew not yet. He plainly perceived, however, that shehad turned from her purpose, and now no longer desired the death ofthe man whom she had commissioned him to destroy. In that moment ofhurried thought he wondered much, but, from his knowledge of therecent past, he made a conjecture which was not far from the truth. 

"Come, " said Hilda. "I have something to say to you. I wish to seeyou alone. Come. "

And he followed her into the hotel. 

CHAPTER L. 

BLACK BILL. 

On the day after his meeting with Lord Chetwynde Obed had intended tostart for Naples. Lord Chetwynde had not chosen to tell Obed his realname; but this maintenance of his incognito was not at all owing toany love of mystery, or any desire to keep a secret. He chose to be"Windham" because Obed thought him so, and he had no reason for beingotherwise with him. He thought, also, that to tell his real namemight involve a troublesome explanation, which was not desirable, especially since there was no need for it. Had that explanation beenmade, had the true name been made known at this interview, a flood oflight would have poured down upon this dark matter, and Obed wouldhave had at last the key to every thing. But this revelation was notmade, and Windham took his departure from his friend. 

On the following morning, while Obed was dressing, a note was broughtto his room. It was from the police, and requested a visit from him, as matters of importance had been found out with reference to thecase which he had intrusted to them. At this unexpected messageObed's start for Naples was postponed, and he hurried off as rapidlyas possible to the office. 

On arriving there he soon learned the cause of the note. An event hadoccurred which was in the highest degree unexpected, and had notarisen out of the ordinary inquiries of the detectives at all. Itseems that on the evening of the previous day a man had comevoluntarily to lodge information against this same Gualtier for thepurpose of having a search made after him. He was one of the worstcharacters in London, well known to the police, and recognized bythem, and by his own ruffian companions, under the name of "BlackBill. " In order that Obed might himself hear what he had to say, theyhad detained the informer, and sent for him. 

Obed was soon brought face to face with this new actor in the greattragedy of Zillah's life. He was a short, stout, thick-set man, withbull neck, broad shoulders, deep chest, low brow, flat nose, squarechin, and small black eyes, in which there lay a mingled expressionof ferocity and cunning. His very swarthy complexion, heavy blackbeard, and thick, matted, coal-black hair, together with his blackeyes, were sufficiently marked to make him worthy of the name of"Black Bill. " Altogether, he looked like a perfect type of perfectruffianism; and Obed involuntarily felt a cold shudder pass over himas he thought of Zillah falling into the hands of any set of villainsof which this man was one. 

On entering the room Black Bill was informed that Obed was largelyinterested in the affair which he had made known, and was bidden totell his story once more. Thereupon Black Bill took a long and verycomprehensive stare at Obed from head to foot, after which he went onto narrate his story. 

He had been engaged in the month of June, he said, by a man who gavehis name as Richards. He understood that he was to take part in anenterprise which was illegal, but attended with no risk whatever. Itwas simply to assist in sinking a vessel at sea. Black Bill remarked, with much naďveté, that he always was scrupulous in obeying the laws;but just at that time he was out of tin, and yielded to thetemptation. He thought it was a case where the vessel was to be sunkfor the sake of the insurance. Such things were very common, andfriends of his had assisted before in similar enterprises. The priceoffered for his services was not large--only fifty pounds--and thisalso made him think it was only some common case. 

He found that three other men had also been engaged. They wereordered to go to Marseilles, and wait till they were wanted. Moneywas given them for the journey, and a certain house was mentioned asthe place where they should stay. 

They did not have long to wait. In a short time the man who hademployed them called on them, and took them down to the harbor, wherethey found a very handsome yacht. In about an hour afterward hereturned, accompanied this time by a young and beautiful lady. BlackBill and all the men were very much struck by her appearance. Theysaw very well that she belonged to the upper classes. They saw alsothat their employer treated her with the deepest respect, and seemedalmost like her servant. They heard her once call him "_Mr. Gualtier_, " and knew by this that the name "Richards" was an assumedone. They all wondered greatly at her appearance, and could notunderstand what was to be her part in the adventure. Judging fromwhat they heard of the few words she addressed to this Gualtier, theysaw that she was expecting to sail to Naples, and was very eager toarrive there. 

At last the second night came. Gualtier summoned Black Bill atmidnight, and they both went into the hold, where they bored holes. The other men had meanwhile got the boat in readiness, and had putsome provisions and water in her. At last the holes were bored, andthe vessel began to fill rapidly. Black Bill was ordered into theboat, Gualtier saying that he was going to fetch the young lady. Themen all thought then that she had been brought on board merely to beforced into taking part in the sinking of the vessel. None of themunderstood the idea of the thing at all. 

They waited for a time, according to Black Bill. The night wasintensely dark, and they could hear nothing, when suddenly Gualtiercame to the boat and got in. 

"Where's the girl?" said Black Bill. 

"She won't come, " said Gualtier, who at the same time unloosed theboat. "She won't come, " he repeated. "Give way, lads. "

The "lads" refused, and a great outcry arose. They swore that theywould not leave the vessel without the girl, and that if he did notgo back instantly and get her, they would pitch him overboard andsave her themselves. Black Bill told him they thought it was only aninsurance business, and nothing like this. 

Gualtier remained quite calm during this outcry. As soon as he couldmake himself heard he told them, in a cool voice, that he was armedwith a revolver, and would shoot them all down if they did not obeyhim. He had hired them for this, he said, and they were in for it. Ifthey obeyed him, he would pay them when they got ashore; if not, hewould blow their brains out. Black Bill said that at this threat hedrew his own pistol and snapped it at Gualtier. It would not go off. Gualtier then laughed, and said that pistols which had a needle rundown the nipple did not generally explode--by which Black Bill sawthat his pistol had been tampered with. 

There was a long altercation, but the end of it was that Gualtiergave them a certain time to decide, after which he swore that hewould shoot them down. He was armed, he was determined; they wereunarmed, and at his mercy; and the end of it was, they yielded to himand rowed away. One thing which materially influenced them was, thatthey had drifted away from the schooner, and she had been lost in thedeep darkness of the night. Besides, before their altercation wasover, they all felt sure that the vessel had sunk. So they rowed onsullenly all that night and all the next day, with only shortintervals of rest, guarded all the time by Gualtier, who, pistol inhand, kept them to their work. 

They reached the coast at a point not far from Leghorn. It was a wildspot, with wooded shores. Here Gualtier stepped out, paid them, andordered them to go to Leghorn. As for himself, he swore they shouldnever see him again. They took the money, and rowed off for a littledistance along the shore, when Black Bill made them put him ashore. They did so, and rowed on. He plunged into the woods, and walked backtill he got on Gualtier's trail, which he followed up. Black Billhere remarked, with a mixture of triumph and mock contrition, that anaccident in his early life had sent him to Australia, in whichcountry he had learned how to notice the track of animals or of manin any place, however wild. Here Gualtier had been careless, and histrack was plain. Black Bill thus followed him from place to place, and after Gualtier reached the nearest railway station was easilyable to keep him in sight. 

In this way he had kept him in sight through North Italy, over theAlps, through Germany, and, finally, to London, where he followed himto the door of his lodgings. Here he had made inquiries, and hadlearned that Gualtier was living there under the name of Mr. Brown;that he had only been there a few weeks, but seemed inclined to staypermanently, as he had brought there his clothes, some furniture, andall his papers, together with pictures and other valuables. BlackBill then devoted himself to the task of watching him, which he keptup for some time, till one day Gualtier left by rail for the west, and never returned. Black Bill had watched ever since, but had seennothing of him. He thought he must have gone to America. 

Here Black Bill paused for a while, and Obed asked him one or twoquestions. 

"What is the reason, " he asked, "that you did not give information tothe police at first, instead of waiting till now?"

"A question like that there, " said Black Bill, "is easy enough toanswer. You see I wanted for to play my hown little game. I wantedfur to find out who the gal was. If so be as I'd found out that, I'dhave had somethin' to work on. That's fust an' foremost. An' next, you understand, I was anxious to git a hold of him, so as to be ableto pay off that oncommon black score as I had agin him. Arterhumbuggin' me, hocusin' my pistol, an' threat'nin' murder to me, an'makin' me work wuss than a galley-slave in that thar boat, I feltpetiklar anxious to pay him off in the same coin. That's the reasonwhy I sot up a watch on him on my own account, instead of telling thebeaks. "

"Do you know, " asked Obed again, "what has become of the others thatwere with you in the boat?"

"Never have laid eyes on 'em since that blessed arternoon when Istepped ashore to follow Gualtier. P'r'aps they've beennabbed--p'r'aps they're sarvin' their time out in thegalleys--p'r'aps they've jined the _I_talian army--p'r'aps they'vegot back here again. Wot's become of them his Honor here knowsbetter'n me. "

After this Black Bill went on, and told all the rest that he had tosay. He declared that he had watched Gualtier's lodgings for morethan three months, expecting that he would return. At last hedisguised himself and went there to make inquiries. The keeper of thehouse told him that nothing had been heard from "Mr. Brown" since heleft, and he had packed away all his things in hope of his return. But a Liverpool paper had recently been sent to him with a markedparagraph, giving an account of the recovery of the body of a man whohad been drowned, and who in all respects seemed to resemble his latelodger. Why it had been sent to him he did not know; but he thoughtthat perhaps some paper had been found in the pockets of thedeceased, and the authorities had sent this journal to the address, thinking that the notice might thus reach his friends. 

After this Black Bill began to lose hope of success. He did notbelieve that Gualtier had perished, but that it was a common trick togive rise to a belief in the mind of his lodging-house keeper that hehad met with his death. In this belief he waited for a short time tosee if any fresh intelligence turned up; but at length, as Gualtiermade no sign, and Black Bill's own resources were exhausted, he hadconcluded that it would be best to make known the whole circumstanceto the police. 

Such was the substance of his narrative. It was interrupted byfrequent questions; but Black Bill told a coherent tale, and did notcontradict himself. There was not the slightest doubt in the minds ofhis hearers that he was one of the greatest scoundrels that everlived, but at the same time there was not the slightest doubt that onthis occasion he had not taken part willingly against the life of theyoung girl. He and his associates, it was felt, had been tricked andoverreached by the superior cunning of Gualtier. They saw also, byBlack Bill's account, that this Gualtier was bold and courageous to ahigh degree, with a cool calculation and a daring that were notcommon among men. He had drawn these men into the commission of whatthey expected would be some slight offense, and then forced them tobe his unwilling allies in a foul murder. He had paid them a smallprice for the commission of a great crime. He had bullied them, threatened them, and made them his slaves by his own clevermanagement and the force of his own nature, and that, too, althoughthese very men were, all of them, blood-stained ruffians, the mostreckless among the dregs of society. From Black Bill's story Obedgained a new view of Gualtier. 

After Black Bill had been dismissed, the lodging-house keeper, whohad been sent for, made his appearance. His account was quite inaccordance with what had been said. This man, whom he called _Brown_, had taken lodgings with him in May last, and had staid a few weeks. He then had been absent for a fortnight or so. On his return hepassed a few days in the house, and then left, since which time hehad not been heard of. The Liverpool paper which had been sent himgave the only hint at the possible cause of his absence. In reply toan inquiry from Obed, the landlord stated that Mr. Brown's effectsseemed to be very valuable. There was a fine piano, a dozen handsomeoil-paintings, a private desk, an iron box, a jewel box, and a trunk, which, from its weight, was filled with something perhaps of value. On the whole, he could not think that such things would be left byany one without some effort to regain possession of them. If theywere sold at a sacrifice, they would bring a very large sum. 

The lodging-house keeper was then allowed to take his departure, after which Obed and the magistrate discussed for some time the newappearance which had been given to this affair. Their conclusionswere similar, in most respects. 

It seemed to them, first, that this Gualtier, whose names were sonumerous, had planned his crime with a far-reaching ingenuity notoften to be met with, and that after the accomplishment of his crimehe was still as ingenious in his efforts after perfect concealment. He had baffled the police of France, of Italy, and of England thusfar. He had also baffled completely that one enemy who had so long atime followed on his track. His last act in leaving his lodgings waswell done--though putting the notice in the Liverpool paper, andsending it to the landlord, seemed more clumsy than his usualproceedings. It was readily concluded that the notice in that paperwas only a ruse, in order to secure more perfect concealment, or, perhaps, elude pursuit more effectually. 

It seemed also most likely, under the circumstances, that he hadactually gone as far as Liverpool, and from that port to America. Ifthat were the case it would be difficult, if not impossible, ever toget on his track or discover him. The only chance appeared to be inthe probability that he would send, in some way or other, for thosethings which he had left in the lodging-house. Judging by theenumeration which the landlord had given, they were too valuable tobe lost, and in most cases the owner would make some effort torecover them. The magistrate said that he would direct the landlordto keep the things carefully, and, if any inquiry ever came afterthem, to give immediate information to the police. This was evidentlythe only way of ever catching Gualtier. 

The motive for this crime appeared quite plain to these inquirers. Judging by the facts, it seemed as though Gualtier and Hilda had beenlovers, and had planned this so as to secure all the property of theyounger sister. To Obed the motive was still more plain, though hedid not tell what he knew--namely, the important fact that Hilda wasnot the sister at all of her victim, and that her own property wassmall in comparison with that of the one at whose life she aimed. Hethought that to tell this even to the police would be a violation ofsacred confidence. After the commission of the crime it seemed plainthat these criminals had taken to flight together, most probably toAmerica. This they could easily do, as their funds were all portable. 

A careful look-out at the lodging-house was evidently the only meansby which the track of the fugitives could be discovered. Even thiswould take a long time, but it was the only thing that could be done. 

After this a careful examination was made of the things whichGualtier had left behind at the lodging-house. The pictures werefound to be very valuable; the piano, also, was new--one ofCollard's--and estimated to be worth one hundred and fifty pounds. The jewel box was found to contain articles of great value, somediamond rings, and turquoise and pearl. Many of the things lookedlike keepsakes, some of them having inscriptions, such as "ToM. --from G. , " "To M. --from L. , " "From Mother. " These seemed likethings which no living man could willingly give up. How could it beknown that Gualtier had indeed given up such sacred possessions asthese?

On opening the trunks, one was found to contain books, chiefly Frenchnovels, and the other clothes. None of these gave any fresh clew tothe home or the friends of the fugitive. 

Last of all was the writing-desk. This was opened with intensecuriosity. It was hoped that here something might be discovered. 

It was well filled with papers. But a short examination served toshow that, in the first place, the papers were evidently consideredvery valuable by the owner; and, in the second place, that they wereof no earthly value to any one else. They were, in short, threedifferent manuscript novels, whose soiled and faded appearance seemedto speak of frequent offerings to different publishers, and asfrequent refusals. There they lay, still cherished by the author, inclosed in his desk, lying there to be claimed perhaps at somefuture time. There were, in addition to these, a number of receiptedbills, and some season tickets for railways and concerts--and thatwas all. 

Nothing, therefore, was discovered from this examination. Yet theresult gave hope. It seemed as if no man would leave things likethese--this piano, these pictures, these keepsakes--and never seek toget them again. Those very manuscript novels, rejected as they hadbeen, were still things which the author would not willingly give up. The chances, therefore, were very great that at some time, in someway, some application would be made for this property. And on thisthe magistrate relied confidently. 

Obed spent another day in London, and had another interview with themagistrate. He found, however, that nothing more could be done byhim, or by any one else, at present, and so he returned to Naples viaMarseilles. He called on the prefect of police at the latter city toacquaint him with the latest intelligence of this affair; heard thatnothing more had been discovered about Mathilde, and then went on hisway, arriving in due time at his destination. He told his sister theresult of his journey, but to Zillah he told nothing at all about it. Having done all that man could do, Obed now settled himself down oncemore in Naples, beguiling his time between the excitement ofexcursions with his friends, and the calm of domestic life with hisfamily. Naples, on the whole, seemed to him the pleasantest spot tostay in that he had seen for a long time and he enjoyed his lifethere so much that he was in no hurry to leave it. 

CHAPTER LI. 

A STARTLING PROPOSAL. 

Obed and his family thus remained in Naples, and Zillah at last hadan occupation. The new duties which she had undertaken gave her justenough of employment to fill the day and occupy her thoughts. It wasa double blessing. In the first place it gave her a feeling ofindependence; and again, and especially, it occupied her thoughts, and thus prevented her mind from preying upon itself. Then she wasable to gain alleviation for the troubles that had so long oppressedher. She felt most profoundly the change from the feeling of povertyand dependence to one of independence, when she was actually "getting her own living. " She knew that her independence was owing to thedelicate generosity of Obed Chute, and that under any othercircumstances she would probably have had no refuge from starvation;but her gratitude to her friends did not lesson at all her ownself-complacency. There was a childish delight in Zillah over her newposition, which was due, perhaps, to the fact that she had alwayslooked upon herself as hopelessly and incurably dull; but now thediscovery that she could actually fill the position of music-teacherbrought her a strange triumph, which brightened many a dark hour. 

Zillah already had understood and appreciated the delicate feelingand high-toned generosity of Obed Chute and his sister. Nothing couldincrease the deep admiration which she felt for these simple, upright, honest souls, whose pure affection for her had proved such ablessing. If there had been nothing else, her very gratitude to themwould have been a stimulus such as the ordinary governess never has. Under such a stimulus the last vestige of Zillah's old willfulnessdied out. She was now a woman, tried in the crucible of sorrow, andin that fiery trial the dross had been removed, and only the puregold remained. The wayward, impetuous girl had reached her last andfullest development, and she now stood forth in adversity andaffliction, right noble in her character--an earnest woman, devoted, tender, enthusiastic, generous. 

The fondness and admiration of her friends increased every day. Thelittle children, whose musical education she had now begun, hadalready learned to love her; and when she was transformed from afriend to a teacher they loved her none the less. Zillah's capacityfor teaching was so remarkable that it surprised herself, and shebegan to think that she had not been understood in the old days. Butthen, in the old days, she was a petted and spoiled child, and wouldnever try to work until the last year of her life with the Earl, after he had extorted from her a promise to do differently. 

Obed Chute saw her success in her new position with undisguisedsatisfaction. But now that she had become a governess he was not atall inclined to relax his exertions in her behalf. She was of toomuch importance, he said, to waste her life and injure her health inconstant drudgery, and so he determined that she should not sufferfor want of recreation. In Naples there need never be any lack ofthat. The city itself, with its noisy, laughing, jovial population, seems to the English eye as though it was keeping one perpetualholiday. The Strada Toledo looks to the sober northerner as though aconstant carnival were going on. Naples has itself to offer to thevisitor, with its never-ending gayety and its many-sided life--itsbrilliant cafés, its lively theatres, its gay pantomimes, itsbuffooneries, its macaroni, its lazaroni, and its innumerablefestivities. Naples has also a cluster of attractions all around it, which keep their freshness longer than those of any other city. Amongthese Obed Chute continued to take Zillah. To him it was the besthappiness that he could desire when he had succeeded in making thetime pass pleasantly for her. To see her face flush up with thatinnocent girlish enthusiasm, and to hear her merry laugh, which wasstill childlike in its freshness and abandon, was something sopleasant that he would chuckle over it to himself all the eveningafterward. 

So, as before, they drove about the environs or sailed over the bay. Very little did Obed Chute know about that historic past which livedand breathed amidst all these scenes through which he wandered. Nostudent of history was he. To him the cave of Polyphemus brought norecollections; the isle of Capri was a simple isle of the sea, andnothing more; Misenum could not give to his imagination the vanishedRoman navies; Puzzuoli could not show the traces of Saint Paul; andthere was nothing which could make known to him the mighty footprintsof the heroes of the past, from the time of the men of Osca, andCumae, and the builders of Paestum's Titan temples, down through allthe periods of Roman luxury, and through all gradations of men fromCicero to Nero, and down farther to the last, and not the least ofall, Belisarius. The past was shut out, but it did not interfere withhis simple-hearted enjoyment. The present was sufficient for him. Hehad no conception of art; and the proudest cathedrals of Naples, orthe noblest sculptures of her museums, or the most radiant pictures, never awakened any emotion within him. Art was dumb to him; but thenthere remained something greater than art, and that was nature. Nature showed him here her rarest and divinest beauty; and if in thepresence of such beauty as that--beauty which glowed in immortallineaments wherever he turned his eyes--if before this he slightedthe lesser beauties of art, he might be sneered at by the meredilettante, but the emotions of his own soul were none the less trueand noble. 

[Illustration: "Zillah's Capacity For Teaching Surprised Herself. "]

One day they had arranged for a sail to Capri. Miss Chute could notgo, and Zillah went with Obed Chute alone. She had frequently done sobefore. It was a glorious day. Most days in Naples are glorious. TheNeapolitan boatmen sang songs all the way--songs older, perhaps, thanthe time of Massaniello--songs which may have come down from Norman, or even from Roman days. There was one lively air which amusedZillah--

 "How happys is the fisher's life, Eccomi Eccola, The fisher and his faithful wife, Eccola!"

It was a lively, ringing refrain, and the words had in them thatsentiment of domestic life which is not usually found in Continentalsongs. The sea glittered around them. The boat danced lightly overthe waves. The gleaming atmosphere showed all the scenery withstartling distinctness. (Where is there an atmosphere like that ofNaples?) The sky was of an intense blue, and the deep azure of thesea rivaled the color of the sky that bent above it. The breeze thatswept over the sea brought on its wings life and health and joy. Allaround there flashed before them the white sails of countless boatsthat sped in every direction over the surface of the waters. 

They landed in Capri, and walked about the island. They visited thecave, and strolled along the shore. At length they sat down on arock, and looked over the waters toward the city. Before them spreadout the sea, bounded by the white gleaming outline of Naples, whichextended far along the shore; on the left was Ischia; and on theright Vesuvius towered on high, with its smoke cloud hovering overit, and streaming far along through the air. Never before had the Bayof Naples seemed so lovely. Zillah lost herself in her deepadmiration. Obed Chute also sat in profound silence. Usually hetalked; now, however, he said nothing. Zillah thought that he, likeherself, was lost in the beauty of this matchless scene. 

At length the long silence was broken by Obed Chute. 

"My child, " said he, "for the last few weeks I have been thinkingmuch of you. You have wound yourself around my heart. I want to saysomething to you now which will surprise you, perhaps--and, indeed, Ido not know how you will take it. But in whatever way you take it, donot be afraid to tell me exactly how you feel. Whatever you may say, I insist on being your friend. You once called me your 'best friend. 'I will never do any thing to lose that title. "

Zillah looked up in wonder. She was bewildered. Her brain whirled, and all presence of mind left her. She suspected what was coming, butit seemed too extraordinary, and she could scarcely believe it. Shelooked at him thus bewildered and confused, and Obed went calmly on. 

"My child, " said he, "you are so noble and so tender that it is notsurprising that you have fixed yourself fast in my old heart. You arevery dear and very precious to me. I do not know how I could bear tohave you leave me. I hope to have you near me while I live, in someway or other. How shall it be? Will you be a daughter to me--or willyou be a wife?"

Obed Chute paused. He did not look at her as he said this. He did notsee the crimson flush that shot like lightning over that white andbeautiful face. He looked away over the sea. 

But a deep groan from Zillah aroused him. 

He started and turned. 

Her face was upturned to his with an expression of agony. She claspedhis arms with a convulsive grasp, and seemed to gasp for breath. 

"Oh God!" she cried. "Is this so? I must tell you this much, then--Iwill divulge my secret. Oh, my friend--I am married!"

CHAPTER LII. 

A BETTER UNDERSTANDING. 

For a long time not a word was spoken. Obed was thunder-struck bythis intelligence. He looked at her in wonder, as her fair girlishface was turned toward him, not knowing how to receive thisunparalleled communication. 

"Oh, my friend, " said Zillah, "have I ever in any way shown that Icould have expected this? Yes, I am married--and it is about mymarriage that the secret of my life has grown. Forgive me if I cannot tell you more. "

"Forgive you? What are you saying, my child?" said Obed Chute, tenderly. "I am the one who must be forgiven. I have disturbed andtroubled you, when I was only seeking to secure your happiness. "

By this time Obed had recovered from his surprise, and began tocontemplate the present state of affairs in their new aspect. Itcertainly was strange that this young girl should be a married woman, but so it was; and what then? "What then?" was the question whichsuggested itself to Zillah also. Would it make any difference--orrather would it not make all the difference in the world? Hithertoshe had felt unembarrassed in his society, but hereafter all would bedifferent. Never again could she feel the same degree of ease asbefore in his presence. Would he not hereafter seem to her and tohimself as a rejected lover?

But these thoughts soon were diverted into another channel by ObedChute himself. 

"So you are married?" said he, solemnly. 

"Yes, " faltered Zillah. 

"Well, my child, " said Obed, with that same tenderness in his voice, which was now so familiar to her, "whether it is for good or evil Ido not seek to know. I only say this, that if there is any thingwhich I could do to secure your happiness, you could not find any onewho would do more for you than Obed Chute. "

"Oh, my friend!"

"Just now, " said Obed Chute, "I asked you to be my wife. Do not avoidthe subject, my child. I am not ashamed of having made that proposal. It was for your happiness, as I thought, as well as for my own. Iloved you; and I thought that, perhaps, if you were my wife, I couldmake you happier than you now are. But since it is not to be, whatthen? Why, I love you none the less; and if you can not be my wife, you shall be my daughter. Do not look upon me as a passionate youth. My love is deep and tender and self-sacrificing. I think, perhaps, itis much more the love of a father than that of a husband, and that itis just as well that there are obstacles in the way of my proposal. Do not look so sad, my little child, " continued Obed Chute, withincreased tenderness. "Why should you? I am your friend, and you mustlove me as much as you can--like a daughter. Will you be a daughterto me? Will you trust me, my child, and brighten my life as you havebeen doing?"

He held out his hand. 

Zillah took it, and burst into tears. A thousand contending emotionswere in her heart and agitating her. 

"Oh, my friend and benefactor!" said she; "how can I help giving youmy love and my gratitude? You have been to me a father and afriend--"

"Say no more, " said Obed, interrupting her. "It is enough. We willforget that this conversation has taken place. And as for myself, Iwill cherish your secret, my child. It is as safe with me as it wouldbe with yourself only. "

Now as he spoke, with his frank, generous face turned toward her, andthe glow of affection in his eyes, Zillah felt as though it would bebetter to give him her full confidence and tell him all. In tellinghim that she was married she had made a beginning. Why should she nottell every thing, and make known the secret of her life? It would besafe with him. It would be a fair return for his generous affection. Above all, it would be frank and honest. He would then know all abouther, and there would be nothing more to conceal. 

Thus she thought; but still she shrank from such a confession andsuch a confidence. It would involve a disclosure of all the mostsolemn and sacred memories of her life. It would do violence to hermost delicate instincts. Could she do this? It was impossible. Notunless Obed Chute insisted on knowing every thing could she ventureto lay bare her past life, and make known the secrets of her heart. And she well knew that such a thing would never be required of her, at least by this generous friend. Indeed, she knew well that he wouldbe most likely to refuse her confidence, even if she were to offer iton such an occasion as this. 

"I feel, " said Zillah at length, as these thoughts oppressed her, "that I am in a false position. You have been so generous to me thatyou have a right to know all about me. I ought to let you know mytrue name, and make you acquainted with the story of my life. "

"You ought to do nothing of the sort, " said Obed Chute. "There aresome things which can not be breathed to any human being. Do youform so low an estimate of me, my dear child, as to think that Iwould wish to have your confidence unless it was absolutelynecessary, and for your own good? No. You do not understand me. Theaffection which I have for you, which you call generosity, gives meno such claim, and it gives me no desire to tear open those woundswhich your poor heart must feel so keenly. Nothing can prevent myloving you. I tell you you are my daughter. I accept you as you are. I wish to know nothing. I know enough of you from my knowledge ofyour character. I only know this, that you have suffered; and Ishould like very much to be able to console you or make you happier. "

"You have done very much for me, " said Zillah, looking at him withdeep emotion. 

"Nothing, as far as I am concerned; but it is pleasant to me to knowthat any thing which I have done is grateful to you, " said Obed, calmly and benignantly. "Keep your secret to yourself, my dear child. You came to me from the sea; and I only hope that you will continuewith me as long as you can to brighten my life, and let me hear yourvoice and see your face. And that is a simple wish. Is it not, mychild?"

"You are overwhelming me with your goodness, " said Zillah, withanother grateful glance. 

She was most grateful for the way in which Obed had given up his ideaof matrimony. Had he shown the excitement of a disappointed lover, then there would have been a dark future before her. She would havehad to leave his family, among whom she had found a home. But Obedshowed nothing of this kind. He himself said that, if he could nothave her as a wife, he would be satisfied to have her as a daughter. And when he learned that she was married, he at once took up thepaternal attitude, and the affection which he expressed was thattender yet calm feeling which might become a father. At theexpression of such a feeling as this Zillah's generous and lovingheart responded, and all her nature warmed beneath its genialinfluence. Yes, she would be to him as a daughter; she would show himall the gratitude and devotion of which she was capable. Under suchcircumstances as these her life could go on as it had before, and theinterview of to-day would not cast the slightest shadow over thesunshine of the future. So she felt, and so she said. 

Obed took pains to assure her over and over again how entirely he hadsunk all considerations of himself in his regard for her, and thatthe idea of making her his wife was not more precious than that ofmaking her his daughter. 

"It was to have you near me, " said he, "to make you happy, to giveyou a home which should be all yours; but this can be done in anotherand a better way, my child: so I am content, if you are. "

Before they left the place Zillah gave him, in general terms, anoutline of her secret, without mentioning names and places. She saidthat she was married when very young, that her father had died, thatthe man to whom she had been married disliked her, and she had notseen him for years; that once she had seen a letter which he hadwritten to a friend, in which he alluded to her in such insultinglanguage, and with such expressions of abhorrence, that she had goneinto seclusion, and had determined to preserve that seclusion tillshe died. Hilda, she said, had accompanied her, and she had believedher to be faithful until the recent discovery of her treachery. 

This much Zillah felt herself bound to tell Obed Chute. From this hecould at once understand her situation, while at the same time itwould be impossible for him to know who she was or who her friendswere. That she would not tell to any human being. 

All the sympathies of Obed Chute's nature were aroused as he listenedto what Zillah told him. He was indignant that she should have beenled through any motive into such a marriage. In his heart he blamedher friends, whoever they were, and especially her father. But mostof all he blamed this unknown husband of hers, who, after consentingto a marriage, had chosen to insult and revile her. What he thoughthe did not choose to say, but to himself he registered a vow that, ifhe could ever find out this villain, he would avenge all Zillah'swrongs in his heart's blood, which vow brought to his heart a greatpeace and calm. 

This day was an eventful one for Zillah, but the result was not whatmight at one time have been feared. After such an interchange ofconfidence there was an understanding between her and her friend, which deepened the true and sincere friendship that existed betweenthem. Zillah's manner toward him became more confiding, moretrustful--in short, more filial. He, too, insensibly took up the partof a parent or guardian; yet he was as solicitous about her welfareand happiness as in the days when he had thought of making her hiswife. 

CHAPTER LIII. 

BEYOND HIS REACH. 

"Come!"

This was the word which Hilda had addressed to Gualtier in front ofthe Hôtel Gibbon at Lausanne, and, saying this, she tottered towardthe door, supported by Gretchen. That stout German maid upheld her inher strong arms, as a mother might hold up a child as it learns towalk, ere yet its unsteady feet have found out the way to plantthemselves. Gualtier had not yet got over the shock of such asurprise, but he saw her weakness, and was sufficiently himself tooffer his arm to assist his mistress. But Hilda did not seem to seeit. At any rate she did not accept the offer. Her only aim was to getinto the hotel, and the assistance of Gretchen was quite enough forher. 

Although Gretchen thus supported her, still even the slight exertionwhich she made, even the motion of her limbs which was required ofher, though they scarcely felt her weight, was too much for her inher weakness and prostration. She panted for breath in her utterexhaustion, and at length, on reaching the hall, she stood for a fewmoments at the foot of the stairway, as though struggling to regainher breath, and then suddenly fainted away in the arms of Gretchen. 

At this the stout maid took her in her arms, and carried her upstairs, while Gualtier led the way to the suite of apartmentsoccupied by Lord Chetwynde. Here Hilda was placed on a sofa, andafter a time came to herself. 

She then told Gretchen to retire. The maid obeyed, and Hilda andGualtier were left alone. The latter stood regarding her, with hispale face full of deep anxiety and apprehension, dreading he knew notwhat, and seeing in her something which seemed to take her beyond thereach of that coercion which he had once successfully applied to her. 

"Tell me, " cried Hilda, the instant that Gretchen had closed the doorafter her, looking around at the same time with something of her oldsharp vigilance--"tell me, it is not too late yet to save him?"

"To_ save_ him!" repeated Gualtier. 

"Yes. That is what brought me here. "

Gualtier looked at her with eager scrutiny, seeking to fathom herfull meaning. Suspecting the truth, he was yet unwilling to believeit. His answer was given in slow, deliberate tones. 

"No, " said he, "it is--not--yet--too--late--to--save him--if that isreally what you wish. "

"That is what I have come for, " said Hilda; "I am going to take myplace at his bedside, to undo the past, and bring him back to life. That is my purpose. Do you hear?" she said, while her white lipsquivered with excitement, and her shattered frame trembled with theintensity of her emotion. 

"I hear, my lady, " said Gualtier, with his old respect, but with adull light in his gray eyes, and a cold and stern intonation whichtold of the anger which was rising within him. 

Once he had shaken off her authority, and had spoken to her with thetone of a master. It was not probable that he would recede now fromthe stand which he had then taken. But, on the other hand, Hilda didnot now seem like one over whom his old menaces would have anyeffect. There was in her, besides her suffering, an air of recklessself-sacrifice, which made it seem as if no threats of his couldagain affect her. 

"You hear?" said she, with feverish impatience. "Have you nothingmore to say?"

"No, nothing. It is for you to speak, " said Gualtier, gruffly. "Youbegan. "

"He must be saved, " said Hilda; "and I must save him; and you musthelp me. "

Gualtier turned away his head, while a dark frown came over his face. The gesture excited Hilda still more. 

"What!" she hissed, springing to her feet, and grasping his arm, "doyou hesitate? Do you refuse to assist me?"

"Our relations are changed, " said Gualtier, slowly, turning round ashe spoke. "This thing I will not do. I have begun my work. "

As he turned he encountered the eyes of Hilda, which were fixed onhim--stern, wrathful, menacing. 

"You have begun it!" she repeated. "It was my work--not yours. Iorder you to desist, and you must obey. You can not do any thingelse. To go on is impossible, if I stand between you and him. Onlyone thing is left for you, and that is to obey me, and assist me asbefore. "

"Obey you!" said Gualtier, with a cold and almost ferocious glance. "The time for obedience I think is past. That much you ought to know. And what is it that you ask? What? To thrust from me the dearest hopeof my life, and just as it was reaching fruition. "

Hilda's eyes were fastened on Gualtier as he said these words. Thescorn with which he disowned any obedience, the confidence with whichhe spoke of that renunciation of his former subordination, were butill in accordance with those words with which he expressed his"dearest hope. "

"Dearest hope!" said Hilda--"fruition! If you knew any thing, youwould know that the time for that is rapidly passing, and only yourprompt obedience and assistance will benefit you now. "

"Pardon me, " said Gualtier, hastily; "I forgot myself in myexcitement. But you ask impossible things. I can not help you here. The obstacle between you and me was nearly removed--and you ask me toreplace it. "

"Obstacle!" said Hilda, in scorn. "Is it thus that you mention_him_?" In her weakness her wrath and indignation burst forth. "Thatman whom you call an obstacle is one for whose sake I have draggedmyself over hundreds of miles; for whom I am now ready to lay down mylife. Do not wonder. Do not question me. Call itpassion--madness--any thing--but do not attempt to thwart me. Speaknow. Will you help me or not?"

"Help you!" cried Gualtier, bitterly, "help you! to what? to do thatwhich will destroy my last hope--and after I have extorted from youyour promise! Ask me any thing else. "

"I want nothing else. "

"You may yet want my aid. "

"If you do not help me now, I shall never want you. "

"You have needed me before, and will need me again. "

"If _he_ dies, I shall never need you again. "

"If _he_ dies, that is the very time when you will need me. "

"No, I shall not--for if _he_ dies I will die myself!" cried Hilda, in a burst of uncontrollable passion. 

Gualtier started, and his heart sank within him. Long and earnestlyhe looked at her, but he saw that this was more than a fitfuloutburst of passion. Looking on her face with its stern and fixedresolve, with its intense meaning, he knew that what she had said wasnone other than her calm, set purpose. He saw it in every one ofthose faded lineaments, upon which such a change had been wrought inso short a time. He read it in the hollows round her eyes, in hersunken cheeks, in her white, bloodless lips, in her thin, emaciatedhands, which were now clenched in desperate resolve. From this he sawthat there was no appeal. He learned how strong that passion must bewhich had thus overmastered her, and was consuming all the energiesof her powerful nature. To this she was sacrificing the labor ofyears, and all the prospects which now lay before her; to this shegave up all her future life, with all its possibilities of wealth andhonor and station. A coronet, a castle, a princely revenue, rank, wealth, and title, all lay before her within her grasp; yet now sheturned her back upon them, and came to the bedside of the man whosedeath was necessary to her success, to save him from death. Shetrampled her own interests in the dust; she threw to the winds thehard-won results of treachery and crime, and only that she might benear him who abhorred her, and whose first word on coming back toconsciousness might be an imprecation. Beside this man who hated her, he who adored her was as nothing, and all his devotion and all hisadoration were in one moment forgotten. 

All these thoughts flashed through the mind of Gualtier as at thatinstant he comprehended the situation. And what was he to do? Couldhe associate himself with her in this new purpose? He could not. Hemight have refrained from the work of death at the outset, if she hadbid him refrain, but now that he had begun it, it was not easy togive it up. She had set him to the task. It had been doubly sweet tohim. First, it was a delight to his own vindictive nature; andsecondly, he had flattered himself that this would be an offeringwell pleasing to the woman whom he adored. She had set him to thistask, and when it was fully completed he might hope for an adequatereward. From the death of this man he had accustomed himself to lookforward in anticipation of the highest happiness for himself. All hisfuture grew bright from the darkness of this deed. 

Now in one instant his dream was dispelled. The very one who hadcommanded him to do this now came in a kind of frenzy, with a facelike that of death, bidding him to stay his hand. Deep, dark, andbitter was that disappointment, and all the more so from its uttersuddenness. And because he could read in her face and in her wordsnot only the change that had taken place, but also the cause of thatchange, the revulsion of feeling within himself became the moreintolerable. His nature rose up in rebellion against this capriciousbeing. How could he yield to her wishes here? He could not sway withevery varying feeling of hers. He could not thus retire from hisunfinished work, and give up his vengeance. 

Indignant as he was, there was yet something in Hilda's countenancewhich stirred to its depths the deep passion of his soul. Her facehad the expression of one who had made up her mind to die. To such aone what words could he say--what arguments could he use? For a timepity overmastered anger, and his answer was mild. 

"You ask impossibilities, " said he. "In no case can I help you. Iwill not even let you do what you propose. "

Hilda looked at him with a cold glance of scorn. She seated herselfonce more. 

"You will not let me!" she repeated. 

"Certainly not. I shall go on with the work which I have begun. But Iwill see that you receive the best attention. You are excited now. Shall I tell the maid to come to you? You had better put an end tothis interview; it is too much for you. You need rest. "

Gualtier spoke quietly, and seemed really to feel some anxiety abouther excitement. But he miscalculated utterly the nature of Hilda, andrelied too much on the fact that he had once terrified her. Thesecool words threw into Hilda a vivid excitement of feeling, which fora time turned all her thoughts upon this man, who under suchcircumstances dared to resume that tone of impudent superiority whichonce before he had ventured to adopt. Her strength revived under sucha stimulus, and for a time her bitter contempt and indignationstilled the deep sorrow and anxiety of her heart. 

The voice with which she answered was no longer agitated or excited. It was cool, firm, and penetrating--a tone which reminded him of herold domineering manner. 

"You are not asked to give up your work, " said she. "It is done. Youare dismissed. "

"Dismissed!" said Gualtier, with a sneer. "You ought to know that Iam not one who can be dismissed. "

"I know that you can be, and that you are, " said Hilda. "If you werecapable of understanding me you would know this. But you, base andlow-born hireling that you are, what can there be in common betweenone like you and one like me?"

"One thing, " said Gualtier. "_Crime_!"

Hilda changed not a feature. 

"What care I for that? It is over. I have passed into another life. Your coarse and vulgar threats avail nothing. This moment ends allcommunication between us forever. You may do what you like. All yourthreats are useless. Finally, you must go away at once. "

"Go away?"

"Yes--at once--and forever. These rooms shall never see you again. _I_ am here, and will stay here. "

"You?"

"_I_. "

"You have no right here. "

"I have. "

"What right?"

"The right of _love_, " said Hilda. "I come to save him!"

"You tried to kill him. "

"That is passed. I will save him now. "

"You are mad. You know that this is idle. You know that I am adetermined and desperate man. "

"Pooh! What is the determination or the desperation of one like you?I know well what you think. Once you were able to move me by yourthreats. That is passed. My resolve and my despair have placed mebeyond your reach forever. Go--go away. Begone! Take your threatswith you, and do your worst. "

"You are mad--you are utterly mad, " said Gualtier, confounded at thedesperation of one whom he felt was so utterly in his power; one, too, who herself must have known this. "You have forgotten your past. Will you force me to remind you of it?"

"I have forgotten nothing, " said Hilda; "but I care nothing for it. "

"You must care for it. You will be forced to. Your future happens todepend on it. "

"My future happens to be equally indifferent to me, " said Hilda. "Ihave given up all my plans and hopes. I am beyond your reach, at anyrate. You are powerless against me now. "

Gualtier smiled. 

"You speak lightly, " said he, "of the past and the future. You areexcited. If you think calmly about your position, you will see thatyou are now more in my power than ever; and you will see, also, thatI am willing to use that power. Do not drive me to extremes. "

"These are your old threats, " said Hilda, with bitter contempt. "Theyare stale now. "

"Stale!" repeated Gualtier. "There are things which can never bestale, and in such things you and I have been partners. Must I remindyou of them?"

"It's not at all necessary. You had much better leave, and go back toEngland, or any where else. "

These words stung Gualtier. 

"I will recall them, " he cried, in a low, fierce voice. "You have aconvenient memory, and may succeed for a time in banishing yourthoughts, but you have that on your soul which no efforts of yourscan banish--things which must haunt you, cold-blooded as you are, even as they have haunted me--my God!--and haunt me yet. "

"The state of your mind is of no concern to me. You had better obeymy order, and go, so as not to add any more to your present apparenttroubles. "

"Your taunts are foolish, " said Gualtier, savagely. "You are in mypower. What if I use it?"

"Use it, then. "

Gualtier made a gesture of despair. 

"Do you know what it means?" he exclaimed. 

"I suppose so. "

"You do not--you can not. It means the downfall of all your hopes, your desires, your plans. "

"I tell you I no longer care for things like those. "

"You do not mean it--you can not. What! can you come down from beingLady Chetwynde to plain Hilda Krieff?"

"I have implied that, I believe, " said Hilda, in the same tone. "Nowyou understand me. Go and pull me down as fast as you like. "

"But, " said Gualtier, more excitedly, "you do not know what you aresaying. There is something more in store for you than merehumiliation--something worse than a change in station--something moreterrible than ruin itself. You are a criminal. You know it. It is forthis that you must give your account. And, remember, such crimes asyours are not common ones. Such victims as the Earl of Chetwynde andZillah are not those whom one can sacrifice with impunity. It is suchas these that will be traced back to you, and woe be to you whentheir blood is required at your hands! Can you face this prospect? Isthis future so very indifferent to you? If you have nothing likeremorse, are you also utterly destitute of fear?"

"Yes, " said Hilda. 

"I don't believe it, " said Gualtier, rudely. 

"That is because you think I have no alternative, " said Hilda; "it isa mistake into which a base and cowardly nature might naturallyfall. "

"You have no alternative, " said Gualtier. "It's impossible. "

"I have, " said Hilda, calmly. 

"What?"

She whispered one word. It struck upon Gualtier's ear with fearfulemphasis. It was the same word which she had once whispered to him inthe park at Chetwynde. He recoiled with horror. A shudder passedthrough him. Hilda looked at him with calm and unchanged contempt. 

"You dare not, " he cried. 

"Dare not?" she repeated. "What I dare administer to others I dareadminister to myself. Go and perform your threats! Go with yourinformation--go and let loose the authorities upon me! Go! Haste!Go--and see--see how quickly and how completely I will elude yourgrasp! As for you--your power is gone. You made one effort to exertit, and succeeded for the moment. But that has passed away. Never--never more can any threats of yours move me in the slightest. You know that I am resolute. Whether you believe that I am resoluteabout this matter or not makes no difference whatever to me. You areto go from this place at once--away from this place, and this town. That is my mandate. I am going to stay; and, since you have refusedyour assistance, I will do without it henceforth. "

At these words Gualtier's face grew pale with rage and despair. Heknew well Hilda's resolute character. That her last determinationwould be carried out he could scarcely doubt. Yet still his rage andhis pride burst forth. 

"Hilda Krieff, " said he, for the first time discarding the pretenseof respect and the false title by which he had so long addressed her, "do you not know who you are? What right have you to order me away, and stay here yourself--you with the Earl of Chetwynde--you, anunmarried girl? Answer me that, Hilda Krieff. "

"What right?" said Hilda, as loftily as before, utterly unmoved bythis utterance of her true name. "What right? The right of one whocomes in love to save the object of her love. That is all. By thatright I dismiss you. I drive you away, and stand myself by hisbedside. "

"You are very bold and very reckless, " said he, with his white faceturned toward her, half in rage, half in despair. "You are flingingyourself into a position which it will be impossible for you to hold, and you are insulting and defying one who can at any moment have youthrust from the place. I, if I chose, could now, at this instant, have you arrested, and in this very room. "

"You!" said Hilda, with a sneer. 

"Yes, I, " said Gualtier, emphatically. "I have but to lodge myinformation with the authorities against you, and before ten minutesyou would be carried away from this place, and separated from thatman forever. Yes, Hilda Krieff, I can do that, and you know it; andyet you dare to taunt me and insult me, and drive me on to do thingsof which I might afterward repent. God knows I do not wish to do anything but what is in accordance with your will. At this moment Iwould still obey any of your commands but this one; yet you try memore than mortal nature can endure, and I warn you that I will notbear it. "

Hilda laughed. 

Since this interview had commenced, instead of growing weaker, shehad seemed rather to grow stronger. It was as though the excitementhad been a stimulus, and had roused her to a new life. It had tornher thoughts suddenly and violently away from the things over whichshe had long brooded. Pride had been stirred up, and had repaired theravages of love. At this last threat of Gualtier's she laughed. 

"Poor creature!" she said. "And do you really think you can do anything here? Your only place where you have any chance is in England, and then only by long and careful preparation. What could you do herein Lausanne?"

"I could have you flung in prison, and separated from him forever, "said Gualtier, fiercely. 

"You! you! And pray do you know who you are? Lord Chetwynde's valet!And who would take your word against Lord Chetwynde's wife?"

"That you are not. "

"I am, " said Hilda, firmly. 

"My God! what do you mean?"

"I mean that I will stand up for my rights, and crush you into dustif you dare to enter into any frantic attempt against me here. You!why, what are you? You are Lord Chetwynde's scoundrel valet, whoplotted against his master. Here in these rooms are the witnesses andthe proofs of your crimes. You would bring an accusation against me, would you? You would inform the magistrates, perhaps, that I am notLady Chetwynde--that I am an impostor--that my true name is HildaKrieff--that I sent you on an errand to destroy your master? And prayhave you thought how you could prove so wild and so improbable afiction? Is there one thing that you could bring forward? Is thereone living being who would sustain the charge? You know that there isnothing. Your vile slander would only recoil on your own head; andeven if I did nothing--even if I treated you and your charge withsilent contempt, you yourself would suffer, for the charge wouldexcite such suspicion against you that you would undoubtedly bearrested. 

"But, unfortunately for you, I would not be silent. I would comeforward and tell the magistrates the whole truth. And I think, without self-conceit, there is enough in my appearance to win for mebelief against the wild and frenzied fancies of a vulgar valet likeyou. Who would believe you when Lady Chetwynde came forward to tellher story, and to testify against you?

"I will tell you what Lady Chetwynde would have to say. She wouldtell how she once employed you in England; how you suffered someslight from her; how you were dismissed from her service. That thenyou went to London, and engaged yourself as valet to Lord Chetwynde, by whom you were not known; that, out of vengeance, you determined toruin him. That Lady Chetwynde Was anxious about her husband, and, hearing of his illness, followed him from place to place; that, owingto her intense anxiety, she broke down and nearly died; that shefinally reached this place to find her villainous servant--the onewhom she had dismissed--acting as her husband's valet. That sheturned him off on the spot, whereupon he went to the authorities, andlodged some malicious and insane charges against her. But LadyChetwynde would have more than this to say. She could show _certainvials_, which are no doubt in these rooms, to a doctor; and he couldanalyze their contents; and he could tell to the court what it wasthat had caused this mysterious disease to one who had always beforebeen so healthy. And where do you think your charge would be in theface of Lady Chetwynde's story; in the face of the evidence of thevials and the doctor's analysis?"

Hilda paused and regarded Gualtier with cold contempt. Gualtier feltthe terrible truth of all that she had said. He saw that here inLausanne he had no chance. If he wished for vengeance he would haveto delay it. And yet he did not wish for any vengeance on her. Shehad for the present eluded his grasp. In spite of his assertion ofpower over her--in spite of the coercion by which he had onceextorted a promise from her--he was, after all, full of that sameall-absorbing love and idolizing affection for her which had made himfor so many years her willing slave and her blind tool. Now thissudden reassertion of her old supremacy, while it roused all hispride and stimulated his anger, excited also at the same time hisadmiration. 

He spoke at length, and his tone was one of sadness. 

"There is one other thing which is against me, " said he; "my ownheart. I can not do any thing against you. "

"Your heart, " said Hilda, "is very ready to hold you back when yousee danger ahead. "

Gualtier's pale face flushed. 

"That's false, " said he, "and you know it. Did my heart quail on thatmidnight sea when I was face to face with four ruffians and quelledtheir mutiny? You have already told me that it was a bold act. "

"Well, at least you were armed, and they were not, " said Hilda, withunchanged scorn. 

"Enough, " cried Gualtier, flushing a deeper and an angrier red. "Iwill argue with you no more. I will yield to you this time. I willleave the hotel and Lausanne. I will go to England. _He_ shall beunder your care, and you may do what you choose. 

"But remember this, " he continued, warningly. "I have your promise, given to me solemnly, and that promise I will yet claim. This man mayrecover; but, if he does, it will only be to despise you. Hisabhorrence will be the only reward that you can expect for yourpassion and your mad self-sacrifice. But even if it were possible forhim to love you--yes, to love you as you love him--even then youcould not have him. For I live; and while I live you could never behis: No, never. I have your promise, and I will come between you andhim to sunder you forever and to cast you down. That much, at least, I can do, and you know it. 

"And now farewell for the present. In any event you will need meagain. I shall go to Chetwynde Castle, and wait there till I amwanted. The time will yet come, and that soon, when you will againwish my help. I will give you six months to try to carry out thiswild plan of yours. At the end of that time I shall have something todo and to say; but I expect to be needed before then. If I am needed, you may rely upon me as before. I will forget every injury and be asdevoted as ever. "

With these ominous words Gualtier withdrew. 

Hilda sank back in her chair exhausted, and sat for some timepressing her hand on her heart. 

At length she summoned her strength, and, rising to her feet, shewalked feebly through several rooms. Finally she reached one whichwas darkened. A bed was there, on which lay a figure. The figure wasquite motionless; but her heart told her who this might be. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

NURSING THE SICK. 

The figure that lay upon the bed as Hilda entered the room sent ashock to her heart at the first glance. Very different was this onefrom that tall, strong man who but lately, in all the pride of manlybeauty and matured strength, overawed her by his presence. What washe now? Where now was all that virile force, and strong, resistlessnature, whose overmastering power she had experienced? Alas! butlittle of it could be seen in this wasted and emaciated figure thatnow lay before her, seemingly at the last verge of life. His featureshad grown thin and attenuated, his lips were drawn tight over histeeth, his face had the stamp of something like death upon it. He wassleeping fitfully, but his eyes were only half closed. His thin, bonyhands moved restlessly about, and his lips muttered inarticulatewords from time to time. Hilda placed her hand on his forehead. Itwas cold and damp. The cold sent a chill through every nerve. Shebent down low over him. She devoured him with her eyes. That face, worn away by the progress of disease, that now lay unconscious, andwithout a ray of intelligence beneath her, was yet to her the bestthing in all the world, and the one for which she would willinglygive up the world. She stooped low down. She pressed her lips to hiscold forehead. An instant she hesitated, and then she pressed herlips this time to the white lips that were before her. The long, passionate kiss did not wake the slumberer. He knew not that over himwas bending one who had once sent him to death, but who now wouldgive her own life to bring him back from that death to which she hadsent him. 

Such is the change which can be worked in the basest nature by thepower of almighty love. Here it was made manifest. These lips hadonce given the kiss of Judas. On this face of hers the Earl ofChetwynde had gazed in horror; and these hands of hers, that nowtouched tremblingly the brow of the sick man, had once wrought out onhim that which would never be made known. But the lips which oncegave the kiss of Judas now gave that kiss which was the outpouring ofthe devotion of all her soul, and these hands were ready to dealdeath to herself to rescue him from evil. She twined her arms aroundhis neck, and gazed at him as though her longing eyes would devourevery lineament of his features. Again and again she pressed her lipsto his, as though she would thus force upon him life and health andstrength. But the sick man lay unconscious in her arms, all unheedingthat full tide of passionate love which was surging and swellingwithin her bosom. 

At last footsteps aroused her. A woman entered. She walked to thebedside and looked with tender sympathy at Hilda. She had heard fromGretchen that this was Lady Chetwynde, who had come to nurse her husband. 

"Are you the nurse?" asked Hilda, who divined at one glance thecharacter of the newcomer. 

"Yes, my lady. "

"Well, I am to be the nurse after this, but I should like you toremain. You can wait in one of the ante-rooms. "

"Forgive me, my lady, if I say that you yourself are in need of anurse. You will not be able to endure this fatigue. You look overwornnow. Will you not take some rest?"

"No, " said Hilda, sharply and decisively. 

"My lady, " said the nurse, "I will watch while you are resting. "

"I shall not leave the room. "

"Then, my lady, I will spread a mattress on the sofa, and you may liedown. "

"No, I am best here by his side. Here I can get the only rest and theonly strength that I want. I must be near enough to touch his handand to see his face. Here I will stay. "

"But, my lady, you will break down utterly. "

"No, I shall not break down. I shall be strong enough to watch himuntil he is either better or worse. If he gets better, he will bringme back to health; if he gets worse, I will accompany him to thetomb. "

Hilda spoke desperately. Her old self-control, her reticence, andcalm had departed. The nurse looked at her with a face full ofsympathy, and said not a word. The sight of this young and beautifulwife, herself so weak, so wan, and yet so devoted, so young andbeautiful, yet so wasted and emaciated, whose only desire was to liveor die by the side of her husband, roused all the feelings of herheart. To some Hilda's conduct would have been unintelligible; butthis honest Swiss nurse was kind-hearted and sentimental, and thefervid devotion and utter self-abnegation of Hilda brought tears toher eyes. 

"Ah, my lady, " said she, "I see I shall soon have two to nurse. "

"Well, if you have, it will not be for long, " said Hilda. 

The nurse sighed and was silent. 

"May I remain, my lady, or shall I go?" she asked. 

"You may go just now. See how my maid is doing, and if she wants anydirections. "

The nurse retired, and Hilda was again alone with the sick man. Shesat on the bedside leaning over him, and twined her arms about him. There, as he lay, in his weakness and senselessness, she saw her ownwork. It was she, and no other, who had doomed him to this. Too wellhad her agent earned out the fatal commission which she had given. Ashis valet he had had constant access to the person of Lord Chetwynde, and had used his opportunities well. She understood perfectly how itwas that such a thing as this had been brought about. She knew everypart of the dread process, and had read enough to know the inevitableresults. 

And now--would he live or die? Life was low. Would it ever rallyagain? Had she come in time to save him, or was it all too late? Thereproaches which she hurled against herself were now overwhelmingher, and these reproaches alternated with feelings of intensetenderness. She was weak from her own recent illness, from theunwonted fatigue which she had endured, and from the excitement ofthat recent interview with Gualtier. Thus torn and tossed anddistracted by a thousand contending emotions, Hilda sat there untilat length weakness and fatigue overpowered her. It seemed to her thata change was coming over the face of the sick man. Suddenly he moved, and in such a way that his face was turned full toward her as he layon his side. At that moment it seemed to her that the worst hadcome--that at last death himself had placed his stamp there, and thatthere was now no more hope. The horror of this fancy altogetherovercame her. She fell forward and sank down. 

[Illustration: "No; I Am Best Here By His Side. "]

When at length the nurse returned she found Hilda senseless, lying onthe bed, with her arm still under the head of Lord Chetwynde. Shecalled Gretchen, and the two made a bed on the sofa, where theylifted Hilda with tenderest care. She lay long unconscious, but atlast she recovered. Her first thoughts were full of bewilderment, butfinally she comprehended the whole situation. 

Now at length she found that she had been wasting precious momentsupon useless reflections and idle self-reproaches. If she had come tosave, that safety ought not to be delayed. She hurriedly drew fromher pocket a vial and opened it. It was the same which she hadobtained from the London druggist. She smelled it, and then tastedit. After this she rose up, in spite of the solicitations of thenurse and Gretchen, and tottered toward the bed with unsteady steps, supported by her attendants. Then she seated herself on the bedside, and, asking for a spoon, she tried with a trembling hand to pour outsome of the mixture from the vial. Her hands shook so that she couldnot. In despair she allowed the nurse to administer it, whileGretchen supported her, seating herself behind her in such a way thatHilda could lean against her, and still see the face of the sick man. In this position she watched while the nurse put the liquid into LordChetwynde's mouth, and saw him swallow it. 

"My lady, you must lie down, or you will never get over this, " saidthe nurse, earnestly, and passing her arms around Hilda, she gentlydrew her back to the sofa, assisted by Gretchen. Hilda allowedherself to be moved back without a word. For the remainder of thatday she watched, lying on her sofa, and gave directions about theregular administration of the medicine. At her request they drew thesofa close up to the bedside of Lord Chetwynde, and propped her uphigh with pillows. There she Iay weakly, with her face turned towardhim, and her hand clasping his. 

Night came, and Hilda still watched. Fatigue and weakness were fastoverpowering her. Against these she struggled bravely, and lay withher eyes fixed on Lord Chetwynde. In that sharp exercise of hersenses, which were all aroused in his behalf, she became at lastaware of the fact that they were getting beyond her control. Beforeher eyes, as she gazed upon this man, there came other and differentvisions. She saw another sick-bed, in a different room from this, with another form stretched upon it--a form like this, yet unlike, for it was older--a form with venerable gray hairs, with white, emaciated face, and with eyes full of fear and entreaty. At thatsight horror came over her. She tried to rouse herself from thefearful state into which she was drifting. She summoned up all thatremained of her physical and mental energy. The struggle was severe. All things round her seemed to change incessantly into the semblancesof other things; the phantoms of a dead past--a dead but not aforgotten past--crowded around her, and all the force of her will wasunavailing to repel them. She shuddered as she discovered the fullextent of her own weakness, and saw where she was drifting. For shewas drifting helplessly into the realm of shadowy memories; into theplace where the past holds its empire; surrounded by all those formswhich time and circumstance have rendered dreadful; forms from whichmemory shrinks, at whose aspect the soul loses all its strength. Herethey were before her; kept back so long, they now crowded upon her;they asserted themselves, they forced themselves before her in herweakness. Her brain reeled; the strong, active intellect, which inhealth had been so powerful, now, in her hour of weakness, failedher. She struggled against these horrors, but the struggle wasunavailing, and at last she yielded--she failed--she sank downheadlong and helplessly into the abyss of forgotten things, into thethick throng of forms and images from which for so long a time shehad kept herself apart. 

Now they came before her. 

The room changed to the old room at Chetwynde Castle. There was thewindow looking out upon the park. There was the door opening into thehall. Zillah stood there, pale and fearful, bidding her good-night. There was the bed upon which lay the form of a venerable man, whoseface was ever turned toward her with its expression of fear, and ofpiteous entreaty. "Don't leave me, " he murmured to the phantom formof Zillah. "Don't leave me with her, " and his thin finger pointed toherself. But Zillah, ignorant of all danger, promised to send Mrs. Hart. And Zillah walked out, standing at the door for a time to giveher last look--the look which the phantom of this vision now had. Then, with a momentary glance, the phantom figure of Zillah fadedaway, and only the prostrate figure of the Earl appeared before her, with the white face, and the venerable hair, and the imploring eyes. 

Then she walked to the window and looked out; then she walked to thedoor and looked down the hall. Silence was every where. All wereasleep. No eye beheld her. Then she returned. She saw the white faceof the sick man, and the imploring eyes encountered hers. Again shewalked to the window; then she went to his bedside. She stooped down. His white face was beneath her, with the imploring eyes. She kissedhim. 

"Judas!"

That was the sound that she heard--the last sound--for soon in thatabhorrent vision the form of the dead lay before her, and around itthe household gathered; and Zillah sat there, with a face of agony, looking up to her and saying:

"I am the next victim!"

Then all things were forgotten, and innumerable forms and phantomscame confusedly together. 

She was in delirium. 

CHAPTER LV. 

SETTING A TRAP. 

Gualtier was true to his word. On the evening of the day when he hadthat interview with Hilda he left the hotel, and Lausanne also, andset out for England. On the way he had much to think of, and histhoughts were not at all pleasant. This frenzy of Hilda's had takenhim by complete surprise, and her utter recklessness of life, or allthe things most desirable in life, were things on which he had nevercounted. Her dark resolve also which she had announced to him, thecoolness with which she listened to his menaces, and the stern way inwhich she turned on him with menaces of her own, showed him plainlythat, for the present at least, she was beyond his reach, and nothingwhich he might do could in any way affect her. Only one thing gavehim hope, and that was the utter madness and impossibility of herdesign. He did not know what might have passed between her and LordChetwynde before, but he conjectured that she had been treated withinsult great enough to inspire her with a thirst for vengeance. Henow hoped that Lord Chetwynde, if he did recover, would regard her asbefore. He was not a man to change; his mind had been deeplyimbittered against the woman whom he believed his wife, and recoveryof sense would not lessen that bitterness. So Gualtier thought, andtried to believe, yet in his thoughts he also considered thepossibility of a reconciliation. And, if such a thing could takeplace, then his mind was fully made up what to do. He would trampleout all feelings of tenderness, and sacrifice love to full andcomplete vengeance. That reconciliation should be made short-lived, and should end in utter ruin to Hilda, even if he himself descendedinto the same abyss with her. 

Thoughts like these occupied his mind until he reached London. Thenhe drove to the Strand Hotel, and took two front-rooms on the secondstory looking out upon the street, commanding a view of the densecrowd that always went thronging by. 

Here, on the evening of his arrival, his thoughts turned to his oldlodging-house, and to those numerous articles of value which he hadleft there. He had once made up his mind to let them go, and neverseek to regain possession of them. He was conscious that to do sowould be to endanger his safety, and perhaps to put a watchfulpursuer once more on his track. Yet there was something in thethought which was attractive. Those articles were of great intrinsicvalue, and some of them were precious souvenirs, of little worth toany one else, yet to him beyond Would it not be worth while to makean effort at least to regain possession of them? If it could be done, it would represent so much money at the least, and that was a thingwhich it was needful for him to consider. And, in any case, thosemementoes of the past were sufficiently valuable to call for someeffort and some risk. The more he thought of this, the moreresistless became the temptation to make this effort and run thisrisk. 

And what danger was there? What was the risk, and what was there tofear? Only one person was in existence from whom any danger couldpossibly be apprehended. That one was Black Bill, who had tracked himto London, and afterward watched at his lodgings, and whom he hadfeared so much that for his sake, and for his alone, he had given upevery thing. And now the question that arose was this, did Black Billreally require so much precaution, and so great a sacrifice? It wasnot likely that Black Bill could have given any information to thepolice; that would have been too dangerous to himself. Besides, ifthe police had heard of such a story, they would have given somesign. In England every thing is known, and the police are forced towork openly. Their detective system is a clumsy one compared with thevast system of secrecy carried on on the Continent. Had they foundout any thing whatever about so important a case as this, some kindof notice or other would have appeared in the papers. Gualtier hadnever ceased to watch for some such notice, but had never found one. So, with such opinions about the English police, he naturallyconcluded that they knew nothing about him. 

It was therefore Black Bill, and Black Bill only, against whom he hadto guard. As for him it was indeed possible, he thought, that he wasstill watching, but hardly probable. He was not in a position tospend so many months in idle watching, nor was he able to employ aconfederate. Still less was it possible for such a man to win thelandlord over to his side, and thus get his assistance. The more hethought of these things the more useless did it seem to entertain anyfurther fear, and the more irresistible did his desire become toregain possession of those articles, which to him were of so muchvalue. Under such circumstances, he finally resolved to make aneffort. 

Yet, so cautious was he by nature, so wary and vigilant, and soaccustomed to be on his guard, that in this case he determined to runno risk by any exposure of his person to observation. He thereforedeliberated carefully about various modes by which he could apply tothe landlord. At first he thought of a disguise; but finally rejectedthis idea, thinking that, if Black Bill were really watching, hewould expect some kind of a disguise. At last he decided that itwould be safest to find some kind of a messenger, and send him, afterinstructing him what to ask for and what to say. 

With this resolve he took a walk out on the Strand on the followingmorning, looking carefully at the faces of the great multitude whichthronged the street, and trying to find some one who might be suitedto his purpose. In that crowd there were many who would have gladlyundertaken his business if he had asked them, but Gualtier had madeup his mind as to the kind of messenger which would be best suited tohim, and was unwilling to take any other. 

Among the multitude which London holds almost any type of man can befound, if one looks long enough. The one which Gualtier wished is acommon kind there, and he did not have a long search. A street boy, sharp, quick-witted, nimble, cunning--hat was what he wanted, andthat was what he found, after regarding many different specimens ofthat tribe and rejecting them. The boy whom he selected was somewhatless ragged than his companions, with a demure face, which, however, to his scrutinizing eyes, did not conceal the precocious maturity ofmind and fertility of resource which lay beneath. A few wordssufficed to explain his wish, and the boy eagerly accepted the task. Gualtier then took him to a cheap clothing store, and had him dressedin clothes which gave him the appearance of being the son of somesmall tradesman. After this he took him to his room in the hotel, andcarefully instructed him in the part that he was to perform. Theboy's wits were quickened by London life; the promise of a handsomereward quickened them still more, and at length, after a finalquestioning, in which he did his part to satisfaction, Gualtier gavehim the address of the lodging-house. 

"I am going west, " said he; "I will be back before eight o'clock. Youmust come at eight exactly. "

"Yes'r, " said the boy. 

"Very well. Now go. "

And the boy, with a bob of his head, took his departure. The boy wentoff, and at length reached the place which Gualtier had indicated. Herang at the door. 

A servant came. 

"Is this Mr. Gillis's?"

"Yes. "

"Is he in?"

"Do you want to see him?"

"Yes. "

"What for?"

"Particular business. "

"Come in, " said the servant; and the boy entered the hall and waited. In a few moments Mr. Gillis made his appearance. He regarded the boycarefully from head to foot. 

"Come into the parlor, " said he, leading the way into a room on theright. The boy followed, and Mr. Gillis shut the door. 

"Well, " said he, seating himself, "what is it that you want of me?"

"My father, " said the boy, "is a grocer in Blackwall. He got a letterthis morning from a friend of his who stopped here some time back. Hehad to go to America of a sudden and left his things, and wants toget 'em. "

"Ah!" said Mr. Gillis. "What is the name of the lodger?"

"Mr. Brown, " said the boy. 

"Brown?" said Mr. Gillis. "Yes, there was such a lodger, I think; butI don't know about his things. You wait here a moment till I go andask Mrs. Gillis. "

Saying this Mr. Gillis left the room. After about fifteen or twentyminutes he returned. 

"Well, my boy, " said he, "there are some things of Mr. Brown's hereyet, I believe; and you have come for them? Have you a wagon?"

[Illustration: "He Carefully Instructed Him In The Part He Was ToPerform. "]

"No. I only come to see if they were here, and to get your bill. "

"And your father is Mr. Brown's friend?"

"Yes'r. "

"And Mr. Brown wrote to him?"

"Yes'r. "

"Well, you know I wouldn't like to give up the things on anuncertainty. They are very valuable. I would require some order fromyour father. "

"Yes'r. "

Mr. Gillis asked a number of questions of the boy, to which heresponded without hesitation, and then left the room again, sayingthat he would go and make out Mr. Brown's bill. 

He was gone a long time. The boy amused himself by staring at thethings in the room, at the ornaments, and pictures, and began tothink that Mr. Gillis was never coming back, when at last footstepswere heard in the hall, the door opened, and Mr. Gillis entered, followed by two other men. One of these men had the face of aprizefighter, or a ticket-of-leave man, with abundance of black hairand beard; his eyes were black and piercing, and his face was thesame which has already been described as the face of Black Bill. Buthe was respectably dressed in black, he wore a beaver hat, and hadlost something of his desperate air. The fact is, the police hadtaken Black Bill into their employ, and he was doing very well in hisnew occupation. The other was a sharp, wiry man, with a cunning faceand a restless, fidgety manner. Both he and Black Bill lookedcarefully at the boy, and at length the sharp man spoke:

"You young rascal, do you know who I am?"

The boy started and looked aghast, terrified by such an address. 

"No, Sir, " he whimpered. 

"Well, I'm Thomas S. Davis, detective. Do you understand what thatmeans?"

"Yes'r, " said the boy, whose self-possession completely vanished atso formidable an announcement. 

"Come now, young fellow, " said Davis, "you've got to own up. Who areyou?"

"I'm the son of Mr. B. F. Baker, grocer, Blackwall, " said the boy, ina quick monotone. 

"What street?"

"Queen Street, No. 17, " said the boy. 

"There ain't no such street. "

"There is, 'cos he lives there. "

"You young rascal, don't you suppose I know?"

"Well, I oughter know the place where I was bred and bornd, " said theboy. 

"You're a young scamp. You needn't try to come it over me, you know. Why, I know Blackwall by heart. There isn't such a street there. Whosent you here?"

"Father. "

"What for?"

"He got a letter from a man as used to stop here, askin' of him toget his things away. "

"What is the name of the man?"

"Mr. Brown. "

"Brown?"

"Yes'r. "

"Where is this Mr. Brown now?"

"In Liverpool. "

"How did he get there?"

"He's just come back from America. "

"See here, boy, you've got to own up, " said Davis, suddenly. "I'm adetective. We belong to the police. So make a clean breast of it. "

"Oh, Sir!" said the boy, in terror. 

"Never mind 'Oh, Sir!' but own up, " said Davis. "You've got to doit. "

"I ain't got nothin' to own up. I'm sure I don't see why you're sohard on a poor cove as never did you no harm, nor nobody else. "

And saying this the boy sniveled violently. 

"I s'pose your dear mamma dressed you up in your Sunday clothes tocome here?" said the detective, sneeringly. 

"No, Sir, " said the boy, "she didn't, 'cos she's dead, she is. "

"Why didn't your father come himself?"

"'Cos he's too busy in his shop. "

"Did you ever hear the name of this Brown before to-day?"

"No, Sir, never as I knows on. "

"But you said he is a friend of your father's. "

"So he is, Sir. "

"And you never heard his name before?"

"Never, Sir, in my life, Sir--not this Brown. "

"Is your father a religious man?"

"A what, Sir?"

"A religious man. "

"I dunno, Sir. "

"Does he go to church?"

"Oh, yes'r, to meetin' on Sundays. "

"What meeting?"

"Methodist, Sir. "

"Where?"

"At No. 13 King Street, " said the boy, without a moment's hesitation. 

"You young jackass, " said Davis. "No. 13 King Street, and all thenumbers near it in Blackwall, are warehouses--what's the use oftrying to humbug me?"

"Who's a-tryin' to humbug you?" whimpered the boy. "I don't rememberthe numbers. It's somewhere in King Street. I never go myself. "

"You don't, don't you?"

"No, Sir. "

"Now, see here, my boy, " said Davis, sternly, "I know you. You can'tcome it over me. You've got into a nice mess, you have. You've gotmixed in with a conspiracy, and the law's goin' to take hold of youat once unless you make a clean breast of it. "

"Oh Lord!" cried the boy. "Stop that. What am I a-doin' of?"

"Nonsense, you young rascal! Listen to me now, and answer me. Do youknow any thing about this Brown?"

"No, Sir. Father sent me. "

"Well, then, let me tell you the police are after him. He's afraid tocome here, and sent you. Don't you go and get mixed up with him. Ifyou do, it'll be worse for you. This Brown is the biggest villain inthe kingdom, and any man that catches him'll make his blessedfortune. We're on his tracks, and we're bound to follow him up. Sotell me the truth--where is he now?"

"In Liverpool, Sir. "

"You lie, you young devil! But, if you don't own up, it'll be worsefor you. "

"How's a poor cove like me to know?" cried the boy. "I'm the son of ahonest, man, and I don't know any thing about your police. "

"You'll know a blessed sight more about it before you're two hoursolder, if you go on hum-buggin' us this fashion, " said Davis, sternly. 

"I ain't a-humbuggin'. "

"You are--and I won't stand it. Come now. Brown is a _murderer_, doyou hear? There's a reward offered for him. He's got to be caught. You've gone and mixed yourself up with this business, and you'llnever get out of the scrape till you make a clean breast of it. That's all bosh about your father, you know. "

"It ain't, " said the boy, obstinately. 

"Very well, then, " said Davis, rising. "You've got to go with us. We'll go first to Blackwall, and, by the Lord, if we can't find yourfather, we'll take it out of you. You'll be put in the jug for tenyears, and you'll have to tell after all. Come along now. "

Davis grasped the boy's hand tightly and took him out of the room. Acab was at the door. Davis, Black Bill, and the boy got into it anddrove along through the streets. The boy was silent and meditative. At last he spoke:

"It's no use goin' to Blackwall, " said he, sulkily. "I ain't got nofather. "

"Didn't I know that?" said Davis. "You were lying, you know. Are yougoin' to own up?"

"I s'pose I must. "

"Of course you must. "

"Well, will you let me go if I tell you all?"

"If you tell all we'll let you go sometime, but we will want you fora while yet. "

"Well, " said the boy, "I can't help it. I s'pose I've got to tell. "

"Of course you have. And now, first, who sent you here?"

"Mr. Brown. "

"Ah! Mr. Brown himself. Where did you see him?"

"In the Strand. "

"Did you ever see him before?"

"No. He picked me up, and sent me here. "

"Do you know where he is lodging?"

"Yes. "

"Where?"

"At the Strand Hotel. He took me into his room and told me what I wasto do. I didn't know any thing about him or his business. I only wenton an errand. "

"Of course you did, " said Davis, encouragingly. "And, if you tell thetruth, you'll be all right; but if you try to humbug us, " he added, sternly, "it'll be the worse for you. Don't you go and mix yourselfup in a murder case. I don't want any thing more of you than for youto take us to this man's room. You were to see him again to-day--ofcourse. "

"Yes'r. "

"At what time?"

"Eight o'clock. "

"Well--it's now four. You take us to his room, and we'll wait there. "

The boy assented, and the cab drove off for the Strand Hotel. 

The crowd in front of the hotel was so dense that it was some timebefore the cab could approach the entrance. At last they reached itand got out, Black Bill first, and then Davis, who still held thehand of the boy in a tight grasp, for fear that he might try toescape. They then worked their way through the crowd and entered thehotel. Davis said something to the clerk, and then they went upstairs, guided by the boy to Gualtier's room. 

On entering it no one was there. Davis went into the adjoiningbedroom, but found it empty. A carpet-bag was lying on the flooropen. On examining it Davis found only a shaving-case and somechanges of linen. 

"We'll wait here, " said Davis to Black Bill, as he re-entered thesitting-room. "He's out now. He'll be back at eight to see the boy. We've got him at last. "

And then Black Bill spoke for the first time since the boy had seenhim. A grim smile spread over his hard features. 

"Yes, " said he, "_we've got him at last_!"

CHAPTER LVI. 

AT HIS BEDSIDE. 

Meanwhile Hilda's position was a hard one. Days passed on. The onewho came to act as a nurse was herself stricken down, as she hadalready been twice before. They carried her away to another room, andGretchen devoted herself to her care. Delirium came on, and all thepast lived again in the fever-tossed mind of the sufferer. Unconscious of the real world in which she lay, she wandered in aworld of phantoms, where the well-remembered forms of her past lifesurrounded her. Some deliriums are pleasant. All depend upon theruling feelings of the one upon whom it is fixed. But here the rulingfeeling of Hilda was not of that kind which could bring happiness. Her distracted mind wandered again through those scenes through whichshe had passed. Her life at Chetwynde, with all its later horrors andanxieties, came back before her. Again and again the vision of thedying Earl tormented her. What she said these foreign nurses heard, but understood not. They soothed her as best they might, and stoodaghast at her sufferings, but were not able to do any thing toalleviate them. Most of all, however, her mind turned to theoccurrences of the last few days and weeks. Again she was flying tothe bedside of Lord Chetwynde; again the anguish of suspense devouredher, as she struggled against weakness to reach him; and again shefelt overwhelmed by the shock of the first sight of the sick man, onwhom she thought that she saw the stamp of death. 

Meanwhile, as Hilda lay senseless, Lord Chetwynde hovered betweenlife and death. The physician who had attended him came in on themorning after Hilda's arrival, and learned from the nurse that LadyChetwynde had come suddenly, more dead than alive, and was herselfstruck down by fever. She had watched him all night from her owncouch, until at last she had lost consciousness; but all her soulseemed bent on one thing, and that was that a certain medicine shouldbe administered regularly to Lord Chetwynde. The doctor asked to seeit. He smelled it and tasted it. An expression of horror passed overhis face. 

"My God!" he murmured. "I did not dare to suspect it! It must be so!"

"Where is Lord Chetwynde's valet?" he asked at length, after athoughtful pause. 

"I don't know, Sir, " said the nurse. 

"He always is here. I don't see him now. "

"I haven't seen him since Lady Chetwynde's arrival. "

"Did my lady see him?"

"I think she did, Sir. "

"You don't know what passed?"

"No, Sir. Except this, that the valet hurried out, looking very pale, and has not been back since. "

"Ah!" murmured the doctor to himself. "She has suspected something, and has come on. The valet has fled. Could this scoundrel have beenthe guilty one? Who else could it be? And he has fled. I never likedhis looks. He had the face of a vampire. "

The doctor took away some of the medicine with him, and at the sametime he took with him one of the glasses which stood on a table nearthe bed. Some liquid remained in it. He took these away to subjectthem to chemical analysis. The result of that analysis served toconfirm his suspicions. When he next came he directed the nurse toadminister the antidote regularly, and left another mixture also. 

Lord Chetwynde lay between life and death. At the last verge ofmortal weakness, it would have needed but a slight thing to send himout of life forever. The only encouraging thing about him for manydays was that he did not get worse. From this fact the doctor gainedencouragement, though he still felt that the case was desperate. Whatsuspicions he had formed he kept to himself. 

Hilda, meanwhile, prostrated by this new attack, lay helpless, consumed by the fierce fever which rioted in all her veins. Fiercerand fiercer it grew, until she reached a critical point, where hercondition was more perilous than that of Lord Chetwynde himself. But, in spite of all that she had suffered, her constitution was strong. Tender hands were at her service, kindly hearts sympathized with her, and the doctor, whose nature was stirred to its depths by pity andcompassion for this beautiful stranger, who had thus fallen under thepower of so mysterious a calamity, was unremitting in his attentions. The crisis of the fever came, and all that night, while it lasted, hestaid with her, listening to her disconnected ravings, andunderstanding enough of them to perceive that her fancy was bringingback before her that journey from England to Lausanne, whose fatiguesand anxieties had reduced her to this. 

"My God!" cried the doctor, as some sharper lamentation burst fromHilda; "it would be better for Lord Chetwynde to die than to survivea wife like this!"

With the morning the crisis had passed, and, thanks to the doctor'scare, the result was favorable. Hilda fell into a profound sleep, butthe fever had left her, and the change was for the better. 

When the doctor returned once more he found her awake, without fever, yet very feeble. 

"My lady, " said he, "you must be more careful of yourself for thesake of others. Lord Chetwynde is weak yet, and though his symptomsare favorable, yet he requires the greatest care. "

"And do you have hope of him?" asked Hilda, eagerly. This was the onethought of her mind. 

"I do have hope, " said the doctor. 

Hilda looked at him gratefully. 

"At present, " said the doctor, "you must not think or talk about anything. Above all, you must restrain your feelings. It is your anxietyabout Lord Chetwynde that is killing you. Save yourself for hissake. "

"But may I not be carried into his room?" pleaded Hilda, in imploringtones. 

"No; not to-day. Leave it to me. Believe me, my lady, I am anxiousfor his recovery and for yours. His recovery depends most of all uponyou. "

"Yes, " said Hilda, in a faint voice; "far more than you know. Thereis a medicine which he must have. "

"He has been taking it through all his sickness. I have not allowedthat to be neglected, " said the doctor. 

"You have administered that?"

"Most certainly. It is his only hope. "

"And do you understand what it is?"

"Of course. More--I understand what it involves. But do not fear. Thedanger has passed now. Do not let the anguish of such a discoverytorment you. The danger has passed. He is weak now, and it is onlyhis weakness that I have to contend with. "

"You understand all, then?" repeated Hilda. 

"Yes, all. But you must not speak about it now. Have confidence inme. The fact that I understand the disease will show you that I knowhow to deal with it. It baffled me before; but, as soon as I saw themedicine that you gave, I suspected and understood. "

Hilda looked at him with awful inquiry. 

"Be calm, my lady, " said the doctor, in a sympathetic voice. "Theworst is over. You have saved him. "

"Say that again, " said Hilda. "Have I, indeed, done any thing? HaveI, indeed, saved him?"

"Most undoubtedly. Had it not been for you he would by this time havebeen in the other world, " said the doctor, solemnly. 

Hilda drew a deep sigh. 

"That is some consolation, " she said, in a mournful voice. 

"You are too weak now to talk about this. Let me assure you againthat you have every reason for hope. In a few days you may be removedto his apartment, where your love and devotion will soon meet withtheir reward. "

"Tell me one thing, " asked Hilda, earnestly. "Is Lord Chetwynde stilldelirious?"

"Yes--but only slightly so. It is more like a quiet sleep than anything else; and, while he sleeps, the medicines are performing theirappropriate effect upon him. Every thing is progressing favorably, and when he regains his senses he will be changed very much for thebetter. But now, my lady, you must think no more about it. Try andget some sleep. Be as calm in your mind as you can until to-morrow. "

And with these words the doctor left. 

On the following day he came again, but refused to speak on thesubject of Lord Chetwynde's illness; he merely assured Hilda that hewas still in an encouraging condition, and told her that she herselfmust keep calm, so that her recovery might be more rapid. For severaldays he forbade a renewal of the subject of conversation, with theintention, as he said, of sparing her every thing which might agitateher. Whether his precautions were wise or not may be doubted. Hildasometimes troubled herself with fancies that the doctor might, perhaps, suspect all the truth; and though she succeeded indismissing the idea as absurd, yet the trouble which she experiencedfrom it was sufficient to agitate her in many ways. Thatfever-haunted land of delirium, out of which she had of late emerged, was still near enough to throw over her soul its dark and terrificshadows. It needed but a slight word from the doctor, or from any oneelse, to revive the accursed memories of an accursed past. 

Several days passed away, and, in spite of her anxieties, she grewstronger. The longing which she felt to see Lord Chetwynde gavestrength to her resolution to grow stronger; and, as once before, herardent will seemed to sway the functions of the body. The doctornoticed this steady increase of strength one day, and promised herthat on the following day she should be removed to Lord Chetwynde'sroom. She received this intelligence with the deepest gratitude. 

"Lord Chetwynde's symptoms, " continued the doctor, "are stillfavorable. He is no longer in delirium, but in a kind of gentlesleep, which is not so well defined as to be a stupor, but is yetstronger than an ordinary sleep. The medicine which is beingadministered has this effect. Perhaps you are aware of this?"

Hilda bowed. 

"I was told so. "

"Will you allow me to ask how it was that you obtained thatparticular medicine?" he asked. "Do you know what it involves?"

"Yes, " said Hilda; "it is only too well known to me. The horror ofthis well-nigh killed me. "

"How did you discover it--or how did you suspect it?"

Hilda answered, without a moment's hesitation:

"The suddenness of Lord Chetwynde's disease alarmed me. His valetwrote about his symptoms, and these terrified me still more. Ihurried up to London and showed his report to a leading Londonphysician. He looked shocked, asked me much about Lord Chetwynde'shealth, and gave me this medicine. I suspected from his manner whathe feared, though he did not express his fear in words. In short, itseemed to me, from what he said, that this medicine was the _antidoteto some poison_. "

"You are right, " said the doctor, solemnly; and then he remainedsilent for a long time. 

"Do you suspect any one?" he asked at last. 

Hilda sighed, and slowly said:

"Yes--I do. "

"Who is the one?"

She paused. In that moment there were struggling within her thoughtswhich the doctor did not imagine. Should she be so base as to saywhat was in her mind, or should she not? That was the question. Butrapidly she pushed aside all scruples, and in a low, stern voice shesaid:

"I suspect his valet. "

"I thought so, " said the doctor. "It could have been no other. But hemust have had a motive. Can you imagine what motive there could havebeen?"

"I know it only too well, " said Hilda, "though I did not think ofthis till it was too late. He was injured, or fancied himselfinjured, by Lord Chetwynde, and his motive was vengeance. "

"And where is he now?" asked the doctor. 

"He was thunder-struck by my appearance. He saw me nearly dead. Hehelped me up to his master's room. I charged him with his crime. Hetried to falter out a denial. In vain. He was crushed beneath theoverwhelming surprise. He hurried out abruptly, and has fled, Isuppose forever, to some distant country. As for me, I forgot allabout him, and fainted away by the bedside of my husband. "

The doctor sighed heavily, and wiped a tear from his eye. 

He had never known so sad a case as this. 

CHAPTER LVII. 

BACK TO LIFE. 

On the next day, according to the doctor's promise, Hilda was takeninto Lord Chetwynde's room. She was much stronger, and the newfoundhope which she possessed of itself gave her increased vigor. She wascarried in, and gently laid upon the sofa, which had been rolled upclose by the bedside of Lord Chetwynde. Her first eager look showedher plainly that during the interval which had elapsed since she sawhim last a great improvement had taken place. He was stillunconscious, but his unconsciousness was that of a deep, sweet sleep, in which pleasant dreams had taken the place of delirious fancies. His face had lost its aspect of horror; there was no longer to beseen the stamp of death; the lips were full and red; the cheeks wereno longer sunken; the dark circles had passed away from around theeyes; and the eyes themselves were now closed, as in sleep, insteadof having that half-open appearance which before was so terrible andso deathlike. The chill damp had left his forehead. It was the faceof one who is sleeping in pleasant slumber, instead of the face ofone who was sinking rapidly into the realm where the sleep iseternal. All this Hilda saw at the first glance. 

Her heart thrilled within her at the rapture of that discovery. Thedanger was over. The crisis had passed. Now, whether he lay there fora longer or a shorter period, his recovery at last was certain, asfar as any thing human and mortal can be certain. Now her eyes, asthey turned toward him, devoured him with all their old eagerness. Since she had seen him last she too had gone down to the gates ofdeath, and she had come back again to take her place at his side. Astrange joy and a peace that passed all understanding arose withinher. She sent the nurse out of the room, and once more was alone withthis man whom she loved. His face was turned toward her. She flungher arms about him in passionate eagerness, and, weak as she was, shebent down her lips to his. Unconscious he lay there, but the touch ofhis lips was now no longer like the touch of death. 

She herself seemed to gain new strength from the sight of him as hethus lay in that manly beauty, which, banished for a time, had nowreturned again. She lay there on her sofa by his bedside, and heldhis hand in both of hers. She watched his face, and scanned every oneof those noble lineaments, which now lay before her with somethinglike their natural beauty. Hopes arose within her which brought newstrength every moment. This was the life which she had saved. Sheforgot--did not choose to think--that she had doomed this life todeath, and chose only to think that she had saved it from death. Thusshe thought that, when Lord Chetwynde came forth out of hissenselessness, she would be the first object that would meet hisgaze, and he would know that he had been saved from death by her. 

Here, then, she took up her place by his bedside, and saw how everyday he grew better. Every day she herself regained her old strength, and could at length walk about the room, though she was still thinand feeble. So the time passed; and in this room the one who firstescaped from the jaws of death devoted herself to the task ofassisting the other. 

At last, one morning as the sun rose, Lord Chetwynde waked. He lookedaround the room. He lifted himself up on his elbow, and saw Hildaasleep on the sofa near his bed. He felt bewildered at this strangeand unexpected figure. How did she get here? A dim remembrance of hislong sickness suggested itself, and he had a vague idea of thisfigure attending upon him. But the ideas and remembrances were tooshadowy to be grasped. The room he remembered partially, for this wasthe room in which he had sunk down into this last sickness atLausanne. But the sleeping form on the sofa puzzled him. He had seenher last at Chetwynde. What was she doing here? He scanned hernarrowly, thinking that he might be mistaken from some chanceresemblance. A further examination, however, showed that he wascorrect. Yes, this was "his wife, " yet how changed! Pale as death wasthat face; those features were thin and attenuated; the eyes wereclosed; the hair hung in black masses round the marble brow; anexpression of sadness dwelt there; and in her fitful, broken slumbershe sighed heavily. He looked at her long and steadfastly, and thensank wearily down upon the pillows, but still kept his eyes fixedupon this woman whom he saw there. How did she get here? What was shedoing? What did it all mean? His remembrance could not supply himwith facts which might answer this question. He could not understand, and so he lay there in bewilderment, making feeble conjectures. 

When Hilda opened her eyes the first thing that she saw was the faceof Lord Chetwynde, whose eyes were fixed upon hers. She started andlooked confused; but amidst her confusion an expression of joy dartedacross her face, which was evident and manifest to Lord Chetwynde. Itwas joy--eager, vivid, and intense; joy mingled with surprise; andher eyes at last rested on him with mute inquiry. 

"Are you at last awake, my lord?" she murmured. "Are you out of yourstupor?"

"I suppose so, " said Lord Chetwynde. "But I do not understand this. Ithink I must be in Lausanne. "

"Yes, you are in Lausanne, my lord, at the Hôtel Gibbon. "

"The Hôtel Gibbon?" repeated Lord Chetwynde. 

"Yes. Has your memory returned yet?"

"Only partially. I think I remember the journey here, but not verywell. I hardly know where I came from. It must have been Baden. " Andhe tried, but in vain, to recollect. 

"You went from Frankfort to Baden, thence to Munich, and from Munichyou came here. "

"Yes, " said Lord Chetwynde, slowly, as he began to recollect. "Youare right. I begin to remember. But I have been ill, and I was ill atall these places. How long have I been here?"

"Five weeks. "

"Good God!" cried Lord Chetwynde. "Is it possible? I must have beensenseless all the time. "

"Yes, this is the first time that you have come to your senses, mylord. "

"I can scarcely remember any thing. "

"Will you take your medicine now, my lord?"

"My medicine?"

"Yes, " said Hilda, sitting up and taking a vial from the table; "thedoctor ordered this to be given to you when you came out of yourstupor. "

"Where is my nurse?" asked Lord Chetwynde, abruptly, after a shortbut thoughtful silence. 

"She is here, my lord. She wants to do your bidding. I am yournurse. "

"You!"

"Yes, my lord. And now--do not speak, but take your medicine, " saidHilda; and she poured out the mixture into a wine-glass and handed itto him. 

He took it mechanically, and without a word, and then his head fellback, and he lay in silence for a long time, trying to recall hisscattered thoughts. While he thus lay Hilda reclined on the sofa inperfect silence, motionless yet watchful, wondering what he wasthinking about, and waiting for him to speak. She did not venture tointerrupt him, although she perceived plainly that he was fullyawake. She chose rather to leave him to his own thoughts, and to resther fate upon the course which those thoughts might take. At last thesilence was broken. 

"I have been very ill?" he said at last, inquiringly. 

"Yes, my lord, very ill. You have been down to the very borders ofthe grave. "

"Yes, it must have been severe. I felt it coming on when I arrived inFrance, " he murmured; "I remember now. But how did you hear aboutit?"

"Your valet telegraphed. He was frightened, " said she, "and sent forme. "

"Ah?" said Lord Chetwynde. 

Hilda said nothing more on that subject. She would wait for anotherand a better time to tell him about that. The story of her devotionand of her suffering might yet be made known to him, but not now, when he had but partly recovered from his delirium. 

Little more was said. In about an hour the nurse came in and sat nearhim. After some time the doctor came and congratulated him. 

"Let me congratulate you, my lord, " said he, "on your favorablecondition. You owe your life to Lady Chetwynde, whose devotion hassurpassed any thing that I have ever seen. She has done everything--I have done nothing. "

Lord Chetwynde made some commonplace compliment to his skill, andthen asked him how long it would be before he might recover. 

"That depends upon circumstances, " said the doctor. "Rest and quietare now the chief things which are needed. Do not be too impatient, my lord. Trust to these things, and rely upon the watchful care ofLady Chetwynde. "

Lord Chetwynde said nothing. To Hilda, who had listened eagerly tothis conversation, though she lay with closed eyes, his silence wasperplexing, She could not tell whether he had softened toward her ornot. A great fear arose within 'her that all her labor might havebeen in vain; but her matchless patience came to her rescue. Shewould wait--she would wait--she should at last gain the reward of herpatient waiting. 

The doctor, after fully attending to Lord Chetwynde, turned to her. 

"You are weak, my lady, " he said, with respectful sympathy, and fullof pity for this devoted wife, who seemed to him only to live in herhusband's presence. "You must take more care of yourself for _his_sake. "

Hilda murmured some inarticulate words, and the doctor, after somefurther directions, withdrew. 

Days passed on. Lord Chetwynde grew stronger every day. He saw Hildaas his chief attendant and most devoted nurse. He marked her paleface, her wan features, and the traces of suffering which stillremained visible. He saw that all this had been done for his sake. Once, when she was absent taking some short rest, he had missed thatinstant attention which she had shown. With a sick man's impatience, he was troubled by the clumsiness of the hired nurse, and contrastedit with Hilda's instant readiness, and gentle touch, and soft voiceof love. 

At last, one day when Hilda was giving him some medicine, the vialdropped from her hands, and she sank down senseless by his bedside. She was carried away, and it was long before she came to herself. 

"You must be careful of your lady, my lord, " said the doctor, afterhe had seen her. "She has worn herself out for you, and will die someday by your bedside. Never have I seen such tenderness, and such fonddevotion. She is the one who has saved you from death. She is nowgiving herself to death to insure your recovery. Watch over her. Donot let her sacrifice herself now. The time has come when she canspare herself. Surely now, at last, there ought to be some peace andrest for this noble-hearted, this gentle, this loving, this devotedlady!"

And as all Hilda's devotion came before the mind of thistender-hearted physician he had to wipe away his tears, and turn awayhis head to conceal his emotion. 

But his words sank deep into Lord Chetwynde's soul. 

CHAPTER LVIII. 

AN EXPLANATION. 

Time passed away, and Lord Chetwynde steadily recovered. Hilda alsogrew stronger, and something like her former vigor began to comeback. She was able, in spite of her own weakness, to keep up herposition as nurse; and when the doctor remonstrated she declared, piteously, that Lord Chetwynde's bedside was the place where shecould gain the most benefit, and that to banish her from it would beto doom her to death. Lord Chetwynde was perplexed by this devotion, yet he would not have been human if he had not been affected by it. 

As he recovered, the one question before his mind was, what should hedo? The business with reference to the payment of that money whichGeneral Pomeroy had advanced was arranged before he left England. Itwas this which had occupied so much of his thoughts. All was arrangedwith his solicitors, and nothing remained for him to do. He had cometo the Continent without any well-defined plans, merely in searchafter relaxation and distraction of mind. His eventful illness hadbrought other things before him, the most prominent thing among whichwas the extraordinary devotion of this woman, from whom he had beenplanning an eternal separation. He could not now accuse her ofbaseness. Whatever she might once have done she had surely atoned forduring those hours when she stood by his bedside till she herselffell senseless, as he had seen her fall. It would have been but acommon generosity which would have attributed good motives to her;and he could not help regarding her as full of devotion to himself. 

Under these circumstances it became a very troublesome question toknow what he was to do. Where was he to go? Should he loiter aboutthe Continent as he once proposed? But then, he was under obligationsto this devoted woman, who had done so much for him. What was he todo with regard to her? Could he send her home coldly, without a wordof gratitude, or without one sign expressive of that thankfulnesswhich any human being would feel under such circumstances? He couldnot do that. He must do or say something expressive of his sense ofobligation. To do otherwise--to leave her abruptly--would be brutal. What could he do? He could not go back and live with her atChetwynde. There was another, whose image filled all his heart, andthe memory of whose looks and words made all other thingsunattractive. Had it not been for this, he must have yielded to pity, if not to love. Had it not been for this, he would have spoken tenderwords to that slender, white-faced woman who, with her imploringeyes, hovered about him, finding her highest happiness in being hisslave, seeking her only recompense in some kindly look, or someencouraging word. 

All the circumstances of his present position perplexed him. He knewnot what to do; and, in this perplexity, his mind at length settledupon India as the shortest way of solving all difficulties. He couldgo back there again, and resume his old duties. Time might alleviatehis grief over his father, and perhaps it might even mitigate thefervor of that fatal passion which had arisen in his heart foranother who could never be his. There, at any rate, he would havesufficient occupation to take up his thoughts, and break up thatconstant tendency which he now had toward memories of the one whom hehad lost. Amidst all his perplexity, therefore, the only thing leftfor him seemed to be India. 

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

"Italy?" said the doctor. 

"Yes. "

"What part are you going to?"

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

Hilda heard this in her vigilant watchfulness. It awakened fearswithin her that all her devotion had been in vain, and that he wasplanning to leave her. It seemed so. There was, therefore, no feelingof gratitude in his heart for all she had done. What she had done shenow recalled in her bitterness--all the love, the devotion, theidolatry which she had lavished upon him would be as nothing. He hadregained the control of his mind, and his first thought was to fly. The discovery of this indifference of his was terrible. She hadtrusted much to her devotion. She had thought that, in a nature likehis, which was at once so pure, so high-minded, and so chivalrous, the spectacle of her noble self-sacrifice, combined with thediscovery of her profound and all-absorbing love, would have awakenedsome response, if it were nothing stronger than mere gratitude. Andwhy should it not be so? she thought. If she were ugly, or old, itwould be different. But she was young; and, more than this, she wasbeautiful. True, her cheeks were not so rounded as they once were, her eyes were more hollow than they used to be, the pallor of hercomplexion was more intense than usual, and her lips were not so red;but what then? These were the signs and the marks which had beenleft upon her face by that deathless devotion which she had showntoward him. If there was any change in her, he alone was the cause, and she had offered herself up to him. That pallor, that delicacy, that weakness, and that emaciation of frame were all the visiblesigns and tokens of her self-sacrificing love for him. These things, instead of repelling him, ought to attract him. Moreover, in spite ofall these things, even with her wasted form, she could see that shewas yet beautiful. Her dark eyes beamed more darkly than before fromtheir hollow orbs, against the pallor of her face the ebon hair shonemore lustrously, as it hung in dark voluminous masses downward, andthe white face itself showed features that were faultlesslybeautiful. Why should he turn away from so beautiful a woman, who hadso fully proved her love and her devotion? She felt that after thisconspicuous example of her love he could never again bring forwardagainst her those old charges of deceit which he had once uttered. These, at least, were dead forever. All the letters which she hadwritten from the very first, on to that last letter of which he hadspoken so bitterly--all were now amply atoned for by the devotion ofthe last few weeks--a devotion that shrank not from suffering, noreven from death itself. Why then did he not reciprocate? Why was itthat he held himself aloof in such a manner from her caresses? Whywas it that when her voice grew tremulous from the deep love of herheart she found no response, but only saw a certain embarrassment inhis looks? There must be some cause for this. If he had beenheart-whole, she thought, he must have yielded. There is something inthe way. There is some other love. Yes, that is it, she concluded; itis what I saw before. He loves another!

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

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

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

And in this way she did understand them. Her comprehension andapprehension were full and complete. By his tone and his look morethan by his words she perceived that she had gained nothing by allher devotion. He had not meant to inflict actual suffering on her bythese words. He had simply used them because he thought that it wasbest to acquaint her with his resolve in the most direct way, and, ashe had tried for a long time to find some delicate way of doing thiswithout success, he had at length, in desperation, adopted that whichwas most simple and plain. But to Hilda it was abrupt, and althoughshe was not altogether unprepared, yet it came like a thunder-clap, and for a moment she sank down into the depths of despair. 

Then she rallied. In spite of the consciousness of the truth of herposition--a truth which was unknown to Lord Chetwynde--she felt asthough she were the victim of ingratitude and injustice. What she haddone entitled her, she thought, to something more than a colddismissal. All her pride and her dignity arose in arms at thisslight. She regarded him calmly for a few moments as she listened tohis words. Then all the pent-up feelings of her heart burst forthirrepressibly. 

"Lord Chetwynde, " said she, in a low and mournful voice, "I oncewould not have said to you what I am now going to say. I had not theright to say it, nor if I had would my pride have permitted me. Butnow I feel that I have earned the right to say it; and as to mypride, that has long since been buried in the dust. Besides, yourwords render it necessary that I should speak, and no longer keepsilence. We had one interview, in which you did all the speaking andI kept silence. We had another interview in which I made a vainattempt at conciliation. I now wish to speak merely to explain thingsas they have been, and as they are, so that hereafter you may feelthis, at least, that I have been frank and open at last. 

"Lord Chetwynde, you remember that old bond that bound me to you. What was I? A girl of ten--a child. Afterward I was held to that bondunder circumstances that have been impressed upon my memoryindelibly. My father in the last hour of his life, when delirium wasupon him, forced me to carry it out. You were older than I. You werea grown man. I was a child of fourteen. Could you not have found someway of saving me? I was a child. You were a man. Could you not haveobtained some one who was not a priest, so that such a mockery of amarriage might have remained a mockery, and not have become areality? It would have been easy to do that. My father's last hourswould then have been lightened all the same, while you and I wouldnot have been joined in that irrevocable vow. I tell you, LordChetwynde, that, in the years that followed, this thought was oftenin my mind, and thus it was that I learned to lay upon you the chiefblame of the events that resulted. 

"You have spoken to me, Lord Chetwynde, in very plain language aboutthe letters that I wrote. You found in them taunts and sneers whichyou considered intolerable. Tell me, my lord, if you had been in myposition, would you have been more generous? Think how galling it isto a proud and sensitive nature to, discover that it is tied up andbound beyond the possibility of release. Now this is far worse for awoman than it is for a man. A woman, unless she is an Asiatic and aslave, does not wish to be given up unasked. I found myself theproperty of one who was not only indifferent to me, but, as I plainlysaw, averse to me. It was but natural that I should meet scorn withscorn. In your letters I could read between the lines, and in yourcold and constrained answers to your father's remarks about me I sawhow strong was your aversion. In your letters to me this was stillmore evident. What then? I was proud and impetuous, and what youmerely hinted at I expressed openly and unmistakably. You found faultwith this. You may be right, but my conduct was after all natural. 

"It is this, Lord Chetwynde, which will account for my last letter toyou. Crushed by the loss of my only friend, I reflected upon thedifference between you and him, and the thought brought a bitternesswhich is indescribable. Therefore I wrote as I did. My sorrow, instead of softening, imbittered me, and I poured forth all mybitterness in that letter. It stung you. You were maddened by it andoutraged. You saw in it only the symptoms and the proofs of what youchose to call a 'bad mind and heart. ' If you reflect a little youwill see that your conclusions were not so strictly just as theymight have been. You yourself, you will see, were not the immaculatebeing which you suppose yourself to be. 

"I say to you now, Lord Chetwynde, that all this time, instead ofhating you, I felt very differently toward you. I had for you afeeling of regard which, at least, may be called sisterly. Associating with your father as I did, possessing his love, andenjoying his confidence, it would have been strange if I had notsympathized with him somewhat in his affections. Your name was alwayson his lips. You were the one of whom he was always speaking. When Iwished to make him happy, and such a wish was always in my heart, Ifound no way so sure and certain as when I spoke in praise of you. During those years when I was writing those letters which you thinkshowed a 'bad mind and heart, ' I was incessantly engaged in soundingyour praises to your father. What he thought of me you know. If I hada 'bad mind and heart, ' he, at least, who knew me best, neverdiscovered it. He gave me his confidence--more, he gave me his love. 

"Lord Chetwynde, when you came home and crushed me with your cruelwords I said nothing, for I was overcome by your cruelty. Then Ithought that the best way for me to do was to show you by my life andby my acts, rather than by any words, how unjust you had been. Howyou treated my advances you well know. Without being guilty of anydiscourtesy, you contrived to make me feel that I was abhorrent. Still I did not despair of clearing my character in your sight. Iasked an interview. I tried to explain, but, as you well remember, you coolly pushed all my explanations aside as so much hypocriticalpretense. My lord, you were educated by your father in the school ofhonor and chivalry. I will not ask you now if your conduct waschivalrous. I only ask you, was it even just?

"And all this time, my lord, what were my feelings toward you? Let metell you, and you yourself can judge. I will confess them, thoughnothing less than despair would ever have wrung such a confession outof me. Let me tell you then, my lord, what my feelings were. Not asexpressed in empty words or in prolix letters, but as manifested byacts. 

"Your valet wrote me that you were ill. I left immediately, filledwith anxiety. Anxiety and fatigue both overpowered me. When I reachedFrankfort I was struck down by fever. It was because I found that youhad left that my fever was so severe. Scarce had I recovered than Ihurried to Baden, finding out your address from the people of theFrankfort Hotel. You had gone to Munich. I followed you to Munich, soweak that I had to be carried into my cab at Baden, and out of it atMunich. At Munich another attack of fever prostrated me. I had missedyou again, and my anxiety was intolerable. A thousand dreary fearsoppressed me. I thought that you were dying--"

Here Hilda's voice faltered, and she stopped for a time, strugglingwith her emotion. "I thought that you were dying, " she repeated. "Inmy fever my situation was rendered infinitely worse by this tear. Butat length I recovered, and went on. I reached Lausanne. I found youat the last point of life. I had time to give you your medicine andleave directions with your nurse, and then I fell down senseless byyour side. 

"My lord, while _you_ were ill _I_ was worse. My life was despairedof. Would to God that I had died then and there in the crisis of thatfever! But I escaped it, and once more rose from my bed. 

"I dragged myself back to your side, and staid there on my sofa, keeping watch over you, till once more I was struck down. Then Irecovered once more, and gained health and strength again. Tell me, my lord, " and Hilda's eyes seemed to penetrate to the soul of LordChetwynde as she spoke--"tell me, is this the sign of a 'bad mind andheart?'"

As, Hilda had spoken she had evinced the strongest agitation. Herhands clutched one another, her voice was tremulous with emotion, herface was white, and a hectic flush on either cheek showed herexcitement. Lord Chetwynde would have been either more or less thanhuman if he had listened unmoved. As it was, he felt moved to thedepths of his soul. Yet he could not say one word. 

"I am alone in the world, " said Hilda, mournfully. "You promised onceto see about my happiness. That was a vow extorted from a boy, and itis nothing in itself. You said, not long ago, that you intended tokeep your promise by separating yourself from me and giving me somemoney. Lord Chetwynde, look at me, think of what I have done, andanswer. Is this the way to secure my happiness? What is money to me?Money! Do I care for money? What is it that I care for? I? I onlywish to die! I have but a short time to live. I feel that I amdoomed. Your money, Lord Chetwynde, will soon go back to you. Spareyour solicitors the trouble to which you are putting them. If you cangive me death, it will be the best thing that you can bestow. I gaveyou life. Can you not return the boon by giving me death, my lord?"

These last words Hilda wailed out in low tones of despair whichvibrated in Lord Chetwynde's breast. 

"At least, " said she, "do not be in haste about leaving me. I willsoon leave you forever. It is not much I ask. Let me only be near youfor a short time, my lord. It is a small wish. Bear with me. You willsee, before I die, that I have not altogether a 'bad mind andheart. '"

Her voice sank down into low tones of supplication; her head droopedforward; her intense feeling overcame her; tears burst from her eyesand flowed unchecked. 

"Lady Chetwynde, " said Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion, "do as youwish. You have my gratitude for your noble devotion. I owe my life toyou. If you really care about accompanying me I will not thwart yourwishes. I can say no more. And let us never again speak of the past. "

And this was all that Lord Chetwynde said. 

CHAPTER LIX. 

ON THE ROAD. 

Before Lord Chetwynde left Lausanne the doctor told him all about thepoison and the antidote. He enlarged with great enthusiasm upon LadyChetwynde's devotion and foresight; but his information caused LordChetwynde to meditate deeply upon this thing. Hilda found out thatthe doctor had said this, and gave her explanation. She said that thevalet had described the symptoms; that she had asked a London doctor, who suspected poison, and gave her an antidote. She herself, shesaid, did not know what to think of it, but had naturally suspectedthe valet. She had charged him with it on her arrival. He had lookedvery much confused, and had immediately fled from the place. Hisguilt, in her opinion, had been confirmed by his flight. To heropinion Lord Chetwynde assented, and concluded that his valet wishedto plunder him. He now recalled many suspicious circumstances abouthim, and remembered that he had taken the man without asking any oneabout him, satisfied with the letters of recommendation which he hadbrought, and which he had not taken the trouble to verify. He nowbelieved that these letters were all no better than forgeries, andthat he had well-nigh fallen a victim to one of the worst ofvillains. In his mind this revelation of the doctor only gave a newclaim upon his gratitude toward the woman who had rescued him. 

Shortly after he started for Italy. Hilda went with him. His positionwas embarrassing. Here was a woman to whom he lay under the deepestobligations, whose tender and devoted love was manifested in everyword and action, and yet he was utterly incapable of reciprocatingthat love. She was beautiful, but her beauty did not affect him; shewas, as he thought, his wife, yet he could never be a husband to her. Her piteous appeal bad moved his heart, and forced him to take herwith him, yet he was looking forward impatiently for some opportunityof leaving her. He could think of India only as the place which waslikely to give him this opportunity, and concluded that after a shortstay in Florence he would leave for the East, and resume his oldduties. Before leaving Lausanne he wrote to the authorities inEngland, and applied to be reinstated in some position in the Indianservice, which he had not yet quitted, or, if possible, to go back tohis old place. A return to India was now his only hope, and the onlyway by which he could escape from the very peculiar difficulties ofhis situation. 

It was a trying position, but he took refuge in a certain loftycourtesy which well became him, and which might pass very well forthat warmer feeling of which he was destitute. His natural kindlinessof disposition softened his manner toward Hilda, and his sense ofobligation made him tenderly considerate. If Hilda could have beencontent with any thing except positive love, she would have foundhappiness in that gentle and kindly and chivalrous courtesy which shereceived at the hands of Lord Chetwynde. Content with this she wasnot. It was something different from this that she desired; yet, after all, it was an immense advance on the old state of things. Itgave her the chance of making herself known to Lord Chetwynde, achance which had been denied to her before. Conversation was nolonger impossible. At Chetwynde Castle there had been nothing but themost formal remarks; now there were things which approximated almostto an interchange of confidence. By her devotion, and by herconfession of her feelings, she had presented herself to him in a newlight, and that memorable confession of hers could not be forgotten. It was while traveling together that the new state of things was mostmanifest to her. She sat next to him in the carriage; she touchedhim; her arm was close to his. That touch thrilled through her, eventhough she knew too well that he was cold and calm-and indifferent. But this was, at least, a better thing than that abhorrence andrepugnance which he had formerly manifested; and the friendly smileand the genial remark which he often directed to her were received byher with joy, and treasured up in the depths of her soul as somethingprecious. 

Traveling thus together through scenes of grandeur and of beauty, seated side by side, it was impossible to avoid a closer intimacythan common. In spite of Lord Chetwynde's coolness, the very factthat he was thus thrown into constant contact with a woman who was atonce beautiful and clever, and who at the same time had made an openconfession of her devotion to him, was of itself sufficient toinspire something like kindliness of sentiment at least in his heart, even though that heart were the coldest and the least susceptiblethat ever beat. The scenes through which they passed were ofthemselves calculated in the highest degree to excite a communion ofsoul. Hilda was clever and well-read, with a deep love for thebeautiful, and a familiar acquaintance with all modern literature. There was not a beautiful spot on the road which had been sung bypoets or celebrated in fiction of which she was ignorant. Ferney, sacred to Voltaire; Geneva, the birth-place of Rousseau; the JuraAlps, sung by Byron; the thousand places of lesser note embalmed byFrench or German writers in song and story, were all greeted by herwith a delight that was girlish in its enthusiasticdemonstrativeness. Lord Chetwynde, himself intellectual, recognizedand respected the brilliant intellect of his companion. He saw thatthe woman who had saved his life at the risk of her own, who haddropped down senseless at his bedside, overworn with dutiesself-imposed through love for him--the woman who had overwhelmed himwith obligations of gratitude--could also dazzle him with herintellectual brilliancy, and surpass him in familiarity with thegreatest geniuses of modern times. 

Another circumstance had contributed toward the formation of a closerassociation between these two. Hilda had no maid with her, but wastraveling unattended. On leaving Lausanne she found that Gretchen wasunwilling to go to Italy, and had, therefore, parted with her withmany kind words, and the bestowal of presents sufficiently valuableto make the kind-hearted German maid keep in her memory for manyyears to come the recollection of that gentle suffering English lady, whose devotion to her husband had been shown so signally, and almostat the cost of her own life. Hilda took no maid with her. Either shecould not obtain one in so small a place as Lausanne, or else she didnot choose to employ one. Whatever the cause may have been, theresult was to throw her more upon the care of Lord Chetwynde, who wasforced, if not from gratitude at least from common politeness, toshow her many of those little attentions which are demanded by a ladyfrom a gentleman. Traveling together as they did, those attentionswere required more frequently than under ordinary circumstances; andalthough they seemed to Lord Chetwynde the most ordinarycommonplaces, yet to Hilda every separate act of attention or ofcommon politeness carried with it a joy which was felt through allher being. If she had reasoned about that joy, she might perhaps haveseen how unfounded it was. But she did not reason about it; it wasenough to her that he was by her side, and that acts like these camefrom him to her. In her mind all the past and all the future wereforgotten, and there was nothing but an enjoyment of the present. 

Their journey lay through regions which presented every thing thatcould charm the taste or awaken admiration. At first there was thegrandeur of Alpine scenery. From this they emerged into the softerbeauty of the Italian clime. It was the Simplon Road which theytraversed, that gigantic monument to the genius of Napoleon, which ismore enduring than even the fame of Marengo or Austerlitz; and thisroad, with its alternating scenes of grandeur and of beauty, of gloryand of gloom, had elicited the utmost admiration from each. Atlength, one day, as they were descending this road on the slopenearest Italy, on leaving Domo d'Ossola, they came to a place wherethe boundless plains of Lombardy lay stretched before them. There theverdurous fields stretched away beneath their eyes--an expanse ofliving green; seeming like the abode of perpetual summer to those wholooked down from the habitation of winter. Far away spread the plainsto the distant horizon, where the purple Apennines arose bounding theview. Nearer was the Lago Maggiore with its wondrous islands, theIsola Hella and the Isola Madre, covered with their hanging gardens, whose green foliage rose over the dark blue waters of the lakebeneath; while beyond that lake lay towns and villages and hamlets, whose far white walls gleamed brightly amidst the vivid green of thesurrounding plain; and vineyards also, and groves and orchards andforests of olive and chestnut trees. It was a scene which no other onearth can surpass, if it can equal, and one which, to travelersdescending the Alps, has in every age brought a resistless charm. 

This was the first time that Hilda had seen this glorious land. LordChetwynde had visited Naples, but to him the prospect that laybeneath was as striking as though he had never seen any of thebeauties of Italy. Hilda, however, felt its power most. Both gazedlong and with deep admiration upon this matchless scene withoututtering one word to express their emotions; viewing it in silence, as though to break that silence would break the spell which had beenthrown over them by the first sight of this wondrous land. At lastHilda broke that spell. Carried away by the excitement of the momentshe started to her feet, and stood erect in the carriage, and thenburst forth into that noble paraphrase which Byron has made of theglorious sonnet of Filicaja:

 "Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow plowed by shame, And annals graven in characters of flame. O God! that thou wert in thy nakedness Less lovely, or more powerful, and couldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who pressTo shed thy blood and drink the tears of thy distress. "

She stood like a Sibyl, inspired by the scene before her. Pale, yetlovely, with all her intellectual beauty refined by the sorrowsthrough which she had passed, she herself might have been taken foran image of that Italy which she thus invoked. Lord Chetwynde lookedat her, and amidst his surprise at such an outburst of enthusiasm hehad some such thoughts as these. But suddenly, from some unknowncause, Hilda sank back into her seat, and burst into tears. At thedisplay of such emotion Lord Chetwynde looked on deeply disturbed. What possible connection there could be between these words and heragitation he could not see. But he was full of pity for her, and hedid what was most natural. He took her hand, and spoke kind words toher, and tried to soothe her. At his touch her agitation subsided. She smiled through her tears, and looked at him with a glance thatspoke unutterable things. It was the first time that Lord Chetwyndehad shown toward her any thing approaching to tenderness. 

On that same day another incident occurred. 

A few miles beyond Domo d'Ossola there was an inn where they hadstopped to change horses. They waited here for a time till the horseswere ready, and then resumed their journey. The road went on beforethem for miles, winding along gently in easy curves and with agradual descent toward those smiling vales which lay beneath them. Asthey drove onward each turn in the road seemed to bring some new viewbefore them, and to disclose some fresh glimpse to their eyes of thatvoluptuous Italian beauty which they were now beholding, and whichappeared all the lovelier from the contrast which it presented tothat sublime Alpine scenery--the gloom of awful gorges, the grandeurof snow-capped heights through which they had been journeying. 

Inside the carriage were Lord Chetwynde and Hilda. Outside was thedriver. Hilda was just pointing out to Lord Chetwynde some peculiartint in the purple of the distant Apennines when suddenly thecarriage gave a lurch, and with a wild bound, the horses started offat full speed down the road. Something had happened. Either theharness had given way or the horses were frightened; at any rate, they were running away at a fearful pace, and the driver, erect onhis seat, was striving with all his might to hold in the maddenedanimals. His efforts were all to no purpose. On they went, like thewind, and the carriage, tossed from side to side at their wildsprings seemed sometimes to leap into the air. The road before themwound on down a spur of the mountains, with deep ravines on oneside--a place full of danger for such a race as this. 

[Illustration: "He Laid Her Down Upon The Grass. "]

It was a fearful moment. For a time Hilda said not a word; she satmotionless, like one paralyzed by terror; and then, as the carriagegave a wilder lurch than usual, she gave utterance to a loud cry offear, and flung her arms around Lord Chetwynde. 

"Save me! oh, save me!" she exclaimed. 

She clung to him desperately, as though in thus clinging to him shehad some assurance of safety. Lord Chetwynde sat erect, looking outupon the road before him, down which they were dashing, and sayingnot a word. Mechanically he put his arm around this panic-strickenwoman, who clung to him so tightly, as though by that silent gesturehe meant to show that he would protect her as far as possible. But inso perilous a race all possibility of protection was out of thequestion. 

At last the horses, in their onward career, came to a curve in theroad, where, on one side, there was a hill, and on the other adeclivity. It was a sharp turn. Their impetus was too swift to bereadily stayed. Dashing onward, the carriage was whirled around afterthem, and was thrown off the road down the declivity. For a few pacesthe horses dragged it onward as it Iay on its side, and then theweight of the carriage was too much for them. They stopped, thenstaggered, then backed, and then, with a heavy-plunge, both carriageand horses went down into the gully beneath. 

It was not more than thirty feet of a descent, and the bottom was thedry bed of a mountain torrent. The horses struggled and strove tofree themselves. The driver jumped off uninjured, and sprang at themto stop them. This he succeeded in doing, at the cost of some severebruises. 

Meanwhile the occupants of the carriage had felt the fullconsciousness of the danger. As the carriage went down Hilda clungmore closely to Lord Chetwynde. He, on his part, said not a word, butbraced himself for the fall. The carriage rolled over and over in itsdescent, and at last stopped. Lord Chetwynde, with Hilda in his arms, was thrown violently down. As soon as he could he raised himself anddrew Hilda out from the wreck of the carriage. 

She was senseless. 

He laid her down upon the grass. Her eyes were closed, her hair wasall disordered, her face was as white as the face of a corpse. Astream of blood trickled down over her marble forehead from a woundin her head. It was a piteous sight. 

Lord Chetwynde took her in his arms and carried her off a littledistance, to a place where there was some water in the bed of thebrook. With this he sought to restore her to consciousness. For along time his efforts were unavailing. 

At last he called to the driver. 

"Tie up one of the horses and get on the other, " he said, "and ridefor your life to the nearest house. Bring help. The lady is stunned, and must be taken away as soon as possible. Get them to knock up alitter, and bring a couple of stout fellows back to help us carryher. Make haste--for your life. "

The driver at once comprehended the whole situation. He did as he wasbid, and in a few minutes the sound of his horse's hoofs died away inthe distance. 

Lord Chetwynde was left alone with Hilda. 

She lay in his arms, her beautiful face on his shoulder, tenderlysupported; that face white, and the lips bloodless, the eyes closed, and blood trickling from the wound on her head. It was not a sightupon which any one might look unmoved. 

And Lord Chetwynde was moved to his inmost soul by that sight. 

Who was this woman? His wife! the one who stood between him and hisdesires. 

Ah, true! But she was something more. 

And now, as he looked at her thus lying in his arms, there came tohim the thought of all that she had been to him--the thought of herundying love--her matchless devotion. That pale face, those closedeyes, those mute lips, that beautiful head, stained with oozingblood, all spoke to him with an eloquence which awakened a responsewithin him. 

Was this the end of all that love and that devotion? Was this thefulfillment of his promise to General Pomeroy? Was he doing by thiswoman as she had done by him? Had she not made more than the fullestatonement for the offenses and follies of the past? Had she notfollowed him through Europe to seek him and to snatch him from thegrasp of a villain? Had she not saved his life at the risk of herown? Had she not stood by his side till she fell lifeless at his feetin her unparalleled self-devotion?

These were the questions that came to him. 

He loved her not; but if he wished for love, could he ever find anyequal to this? That poor, frail, slender frame pleaded piteously;that white face, as it lay upturned, was itself a prayer. 

Involuntarily he stooped down, and in his deep pity he pressed hislips to that icy brow. Then once more he looked at her. Once more hetouched her, and this time his lips met hers. 

"My God!" he groaned; "what can I do? Why did I ever see--that otherone?"

An hour passed and the driver returned. Four men came with him, carrying a rude litter. On this Hilda's senseless form was placed. And thus they carried her to the nearest house, while Lord Chetwyndefollowed in silence and in deep thought. 

CHAPTER LX. 

THE CLAWS OF THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 

At length Obed prepared to leave Naples and visit other places inItaly. He intended to go to Rome and Florence, after which heexpected to go to Venice or Milan, and then across the Alps toGermany. Two vetturas held the family, and in due time they arrivedat Terracina. Here they passed the night, and early on the followingday they set out, expecting to traverse the Pontine Marshes and reachAlbano by evening. 

These famous marshes extend from Terracina to Nettuno. They are aboutforty-five miles in length and from four to twelve in breadth. Drained successively by Roman, by Goth, and by pope, theysuccessively relapsed into their natural state, until theperseverance of Pius VI. Completed the work. It is now largelycultivated, but the scenery is monotonous and the journey tedious. The few inhabitants found here get their living by hunting and byrobbery, and are distinguished by their pale and sickly appearance. At this time the disturbed state of Italy, and particularly of thepapal dominions, made traveling sometimes hazardous, and no place wasmore dangerous than this. Yet Obed gave this no thought, but startedon the journey with as much cheerfulness as though he were making arailway trip from New York to Philadelphia. 

About half-way there is a solitary inn, situated close by theroad-side, with a forlorn and desolate air about it. It is twostories high, with small windows, and the whitewashed stone wallsmade it look more like a lazaretto than any thing else. Here theystopped two hours to feed the horses and to take their déjeuner. Theplace was at this time kept by a miserable old man and his wife, onwhom the unhealthy atmosphere of the marshes seemed to have brought apremature decay. Obed could not speak Italian, so that he wasdebarred from the pleasure of talking with this man; but he exhibitedmuch sympathy toward him, and made him a present of a bundle ofcigars--an act which the old man viewed, at first, with absoluteincredulity, and at length with unutterable gratitude. 

Leaving this place they drove on for about two miles, when suddenlythe carriage in which Obed and the family were traveling fell forwardwith a crash, and the party were thrown pell-mell together. Thehorses stopped. No injury was done to any one, and Ohed got out tosee what had taken place. The front axle was broken. 

Here was a very awkward dilemma, and it was difficult to tell whatought to be done. There was the other carriage, but it was small, andcould not contain the family. The two maids, also, would have to beleft behind. Obed thought, at first, of sending on his family andwaiting; but he soon dismissed this idea. For the present, at least, he saw that they would have to drive back to the inn, and this theyfinally did. Here Obed exerted all his ingenuity and all hismechanical skill in a futile endeavor to repair the axle. But therough patch which he succeeded at last in making was so inefficientthat, on attempting to start once more, the carriage again brokedown, and they were forced to give up this hope. 

Three hours had now passed away, and it had already grown altogethertoo late to think of trying to finish the journey. Again the questionarose, what was to be done? To go back was now as much out of thequestion as to go forward. One resource only seemed left them, andthat was to stay here for the night, and send back to Terracina for anew carriage. This decision Obed finally arrived at, and hecommunicated it to his valet, and ordered him to see if they couldhave any accommodations for the night. 

The valet seemed somewhat alarmed at this proposal. 

"It's a dangerous place, " said he. "The country swarms with brigands. We had better take the ladies back. "

"Take the ladies back!" cried Obed. "How can we do that? We can't allcram into the small carriage. And, besides, as to danger--by thistime it's as dangerous on the road as it is here. "

"Oh no; travelers will be upon the road--"

"Pooh! there's no danger when one is inside of a stone house likethis. Why, man, this house is a regular fort. Besides, who is therethat would attack an inn?"

"The brigands, " said the valet. "They're all around, prowling about, and will be likely to pay a visit here. This house, at the best oftimes, does not have a good name. "

"Well, " said Obed, "let them come on. "

"You forget, Sir, " said the valet, "that you are alone. "

"Not a bit of it, " said Obed; "I'm well aware that I'm alone. "

"But you're worse than alone, " remonstrated the valet, earnestly. "You have your family. That is the thing that makes the real danger;for, if any thing happens to you, what will become of them?"

"Pooh!" said Obed; "there are plenty of 'ifs' whenever any man is onthe look-out for danger. Now, I ain't on the look-out. Why should Itrouble myself? Whenever any enemy shows himself I'll be ready. If aman is always going to imagine danger, and borrow trouble, what willbecome of him? This place seems to me the best place for the familynow--far better than the road, at any rate. I wouldn't have themdragged back to Terracina on any account. It'll be dark long beforewe get there, and traveling by night on the Pontine Marshes ain'tparticularly healthy. There's less risk for them here than any whereelse; so, young man, you'd better look up the beds, and see what theycan do for us. "

The valet made some further remonstrances; he described the ruthlesscharacter of the Italian brigands, told Obed about the dangerouscondition of the country, hinted that the old man and his wife werethemselves possibly in alliance with the brigands, and again urgedhim to change his plans. But Obed was not moved in the slightestdegree by these representations. He had considered it all, he said, and had made up his mind. As he saw it, all the risk, and all thefatigue too, which was quite as important a thing, were on the road, and whatever safety there was, whether from brigands or miasma, layin the inn. 

The valet then went to see about the accommodations for the party. They were rude, it is true, yet sufficient in such an emergency. Theold man and his wife bestirred themselves to make every thing readyfor the unexpected guests, and, with the assistance of the maids, their rooms were prepared. 

After this the valet drove back with the vetturino, promising to comeas early as possible on the following day. 

During Obed's conversation with the valet the ladies had been in thehotel, and had therefore heard nothing of what had been said. Theywere quite ignorant of the existence of any danger, and Obed thoughtit the best plan to keep them in ignorance, unless actual dangershould arise. For his own part, he had meant what he said. He wasaware that there was danger; he knew that the country was in anunsettled and lawless condition, and that roving bands of robberswere scouring the papal territories. From the very consciousness thathe had of this danger, he had decided in favor of stopping. Hebelieved the road to be more dangerous than the inn. If there was tobe any attack of brigands, he much preferred to receive it here; andhe thought this a more unlikely place for such an attack than anyother. 

The warning of the valet made a sufficiently deep impression upon himto cause him to examine very carefully the position of his rooms, andthe general appearance of the house. The house itself was as strongas a fortress, and a dozen men, well posted, could have defended itagainst a thousand. But Obed was alone, and had to consider theprospects of one man in a defense. The rooms which he occupiedfavored this. There were two. One was a large one at the end of thehouse, lighted by one small window. This his family and Zillahoccupied; somewhat crowded, it is true, yet not at all uncomfortable. A wide hearth was there, and a blazing peat fire kept down the chillof the marshy exhalations. Outside of this was a smaller room, andthis was Obed's. A fire was burning here also. A window lighted it, and a stout door opened into the hall. The bed was an old-fashionedfour-posted structure of enormous weight. 

All these things Obed took in with one rapid glance, and saw theadvantages of his position. In these rooms, with his revolver and hisammunition, he felt quite at ease. He felt somewhat grieved at thatmoment that he did not know Italian, for he wished very much to asksome questions of the old inn-keeper; but this was a misfortune whichhe had to endure. 

As long as the daylight lasted Obed wandered about outside. Thendinner came, and after that the time hung heavily on his hands. Atlast he went to his room; the family had retired some time before. There was a good supply of peat, and with this he replenished thefire. Then he drew the massive oaken bedstead in front of the door, and lounged upon it, smoking and meditating. 

The warnings of the valet had produced this effect at least uponObed, that he had concluded not to go to sleep. He determined toremain awake, and though such watchfulness might not be needed, yethe felt that for his family's sake it was wisest and best. To sit upone night, or rather to lounge on a bed smoking, was nothing, andthere was plenty of occupation for his thoughts. 

Time passed on. Midnight came, and nothing had occurred. Another hourpassed; and then another. It was two o'clock. 

About a quarter of an hour after this Obed was roused by a suddenknocking at the door of the inn. Shouts followed. He heard the oldman descend the stairs. Then the door was opened, and loud noisyfootsteps were heard entering the inn. 

At this Obed began to feel that his watchfulness was not useless. 

Some time now elapsed. Those who had come were sufficientlydisorderly. Shouts and cries and yells arose. Obed imagined that theywere refreshing themselves. He tried to guess at the possible number, and thought that there could not be more than a dozen, if so many. Yet he had acquired such a contempt for Italians, and had suchconfidence in himself, that he felt very much the same, at theprospect of an encounter with them, as a grown man might feel at anencounter with as many boys. 

During this time he made no change in his position. His revolver wasin his breast pocket, and he had cartridges enough for a long siege. He smoked still, for this habit was a deeply confirmed one with Obed;and lolling at the foot of the bed, with his head against the wall, he awaited further developments. 

At last there was a change in the noise. A silence followed; and thenhe heard footsteps moving toward the hall. He listened. The footstepsascended the stairs!

They ascended the stairs, and came nearer and nearer. There did notseem to be so many as a dozen. Perhaps some remained below. Such werehis thoughts. 

They came toward his room. 

At length he heard the knob of the door turning gently. Of course, asthe door was locked, and as the bed was in front of it, this producedno effect. On Obed the only effect was that he sat upright and drewhis revolver from his pocket, still smoking. 

Then followed some conversation outside. 

Then there came a knock. 

"Who's there?" said Obed, mildly. 

"Aperite!" was the answer, in a harsh voice. 

"What?"

"Aperite. Siamo poveri. Date vostro argento. "

"Me don't understand _I_talian, " said Obed. "Me American. SpeekyEnglish, and go to blazes!"

At this there was a pause, and then a dull deep crash, as if thewhole body outside had precipitated themselves against the door. 

Obed held his pistol quickly toward the door opposite the thinnestpanel, which had yielded slightly to that blow, and fired. 

Once!

Twice!!

Thrice!!!

Three explosions burst forth. 

And then came sharp and sudden deep groans of pain, intermingled withsavage yells of rage. There was a sound as of bodies falling, andretreating footsteps, and curses low and deep. 

Loud outcries came from the adjoining room. 

The noise had awakened the family. 

Obed stepped to the door. 

"Don't be afraid, " said he, quietly. "It's only some brigands. Butkeep cool. _I'll_ take care of you. Perhaps you'd better get up anddress, though. At any rate, keep cool. You needn't bother as long asyou've got _me_. "

CHAPTER LXI. 

AT FLORENCE. 

After her accident Hilda was carried to the nearest house, and thereshe recovered, after some time, from her swoon. She knew nothing ofwhat Lord Chetwynde had thought and done during that time when shelay in his arms, and he had bent over her so full of pity and sorrow. Some time elapsed before she saw him, for he had ridden off himselfto the nearest town to get a conveyance. When he returned it was verylate, and she had to go to bed through weakness. And thus they didnot meet until the following morning. 

When they did meet Lord Chetwynde asked kindly about her health, butevinced no stronger feeling than kindness--or pity. She was pale andsad; she was eager for some sign of tenderness, but the sign was notforthcoming. Lord Chetwynde was kind and sympathetic. He tried tocheer her; he exerted himself to please her and to soothe her, butthat was all. That self-reproach which had thrilled him as she laylifeless in his arms had passed as soon as she left those arms, and, in the presence of the one absorbing passion of his soul, Hilda wasnothing. 

When they resumed their journey it was as before. He was courteous toan extreme. He anticipated her wishes and saw after her comforts withthe greatest solicitude, but never did he evince any desire to passbeyond the limits of conventional politeness. To him she was simply alady traveling in his company, to whom he was under every obligation, as far as gratitude was concerned, or kindly and watchful attention, but toward whom no feeling of tenderness ever arose. 

He certainly neglected none of those ordinary acts of courteousattention which are common between gentlemen and ladies. At Milan hetook her around to see all the sights of that famous city. The BredaPalace, the Amphitheatre, above all, the Cathedral, were visited, andnothing was omitted which might give her pleasure. Yet all this wasdifferent from what it had been before. Since the accident Hilda hadgrown more sad, and lost her sprightliness and enthusiasm. On firstrecovering her senses she had learned about the events of thataccident, and that Lord Chetwynde had tried to bring her to lifeagain. She had hoped much from this, and had fully expected when shesaw him again to find in him something softer than before. In thisshe had been utterly disappointed. Her heart now sank within her, andscarcely any hope was left. Languid and dull, she tried no longer towin Lord Chetwynde by brilliancy of conversation, or by enthusiasticinterest in the beautiful of nature and of art. These had failedonce; why should she try them again? And since he had been unmoved bythe spectacle of her lifeless form--the narrow escape from death ofone who he well knew would die to save him--what was there left forher to do?

At length they resumed their journey, and in due time reachedFlorence. Here new changes took place. Their arrival here terminatedthat close association enforced by their journey which had been soprecious to Hilda. Here Lord Chetwynde of course drifted away, andshe could not hope to see him except at certain stated intervals. Nowmore than ever she began to lose hope. The hopes that she had onceformed seemed now to be baseless. And why, she asked herselfbitterly--why was it so impossible for him to love her? Would not anyother man have loved her under such circumstances?

At Florence Lord Chetwynde went his own way. He visited most of theplaces of interest in company with her, took her to the Duomo, theChurch of Santa Croce, the Palazzi Vecchio and Pitti, walked with herthrough the picture-galleries, and drove out with her several times. After this there was nothing more to be done, and he was left to hisown resources, and she, necessarily, to hers. She could not tellwhere he went, but merely conjectured that he was idling aboutwithout any particular purpose, in the character of a commonsight-seer. 

Hilda thus at length, left so much to herself, without the joy of hispresence to soften her, grew gradually hopeless and desperate; andthere began to rise within her bitter feelings, like those of formerdays. In the midst of these her darker nature made itself manifest, and there came the vengeful promptings of outraged love. With hervengeance meant something more than it did with common characters;and when that fit was on her there came regrets that she had everleft Chetwynde, and gloomy ideas about completing her interruptedwork after all. But these feelings were fitful, for at times hopewould return again, and tenderness take the place of vindictiveness. From hope she would again sink into despair, and sometimes meditateupon that dark resolve which she had once hinted to Gualtier at theHôtel Gibbon. 

Amidst all this her pride was roused. Why should she remain in thisposition--a hanger-on--forcing herself on an unwilling man who atbest only tolerated her? The only soft feeling for her that had everarisen in his heart was nothing more than pity. Could she hope thatever this pity would change to love, or that even the pity itselfwould last? Was he not even now longing to get rid of her, andimpatiently awaiting tidings of his Indian appointment? To go toIndia, she saw plainly, simply meant to get rid of her. This, shesaw, was his fixed determination. And for her--why should she thusremain, so deeply humiliated, when she was not wanted?

So she argued with herself, but still she staid on. For love makesthe proudest a craven, and turns the strength of the strongest intoweakness; and so, in spite of herself, she staid, because she couldnot go. 

Meanwhile the state of Lord Chetwynde's, mind was not by any meansenviable. He found himself in a position which was at once unexpectedand to him, extremely embarrassing. Every feeling of gratitude, everyprompting of common generosity, compelled him to exhibit toward Hildaa greater degree of kindness than existed in his heart. Theassociation of a long journey had necessarily thrown him upon hersociety, and there had been times when he had found her agreeable;there had also been that memorable episode when her poor, pale face, with its stain of blood over the white forehead, had drawn forth hisdeepest pity, and roused him to some approach to tenderness. But withthe occasion the feeling had passed; and the tenderness, born of sopiteous a sight, returned no more. Her own dullness afterwarddeprived him even of the chance of finding her an agreeablecompanion. He saw that she was deeply melancholy. Yet what could hedo? Even if he had wished it he could not have forced himself to lovethis woman, notwithstanding her devotion to himself. And this he didnot even wish. Not all his sense of honor, not all his emotions ofgratitude, not all his instincts of generosity, not even theremembrance of his solemn promise to General Pomeroy, could excitewithin him any desire that his heart might change from its affectionand its longing for another, to yield that love to her. 

True, once or twice his heart had smote him as he thought of hisutter coldness and want of gratitude toward this woman who had doneso much for him. This feeling was very painful on that day of theaccident. Yet it passed. He could not force himself to muse over hisown shortcomings. He could not bring himself to wish that he shouldbe one whit more grateful to her or more tender. Any thought of herbeing ever more to him than she was now seemed repugnant. Any wishfor it was out of the question. Indeed, he never thought of it asbeing within the bounds of possibility. For behind all these lateevents there lay certain things which made it impossible for him, under ordinary circumstances, ever to become fully reconciled to her. 

For, after all, in his cooler moods he now felt how she wasassociated with the bitterest memories of his life. She it was whohad been the cause, unwilling no doubt as he now thought, but stillno less the cause of the blight that had descended upon his life. Asthat life had passed he could not help cursing the day when firstGeneral Pomeroy proposed that unholy agreement. It was this that hadexiled him from his native land and would keep him an exile forever. It was this which denied to him the joys of virtuous love, when hisheart had been filled with one image--an image which now was neverabsent. Bound by the law to this woman, who was named his wife, hecould never hope in any way to gain that other one on whom all hisheart was fixed. Between him and those hopes that made life preciousshe stood and rendered those hopes impossible. 

Then, too, he could not avoid recalling his life in India, which shehad tried to make, as far as in her lay, one long misery, by thosemalevolent letters which she had never ceased to write. Above all, hecould never forget the horror of indignation which had been awakenedwithin him by that last letter, and the fierce vows which he had madeto be avenged on her. All this was yet in his memory in spite of theevents of later days. True, she had relented from her former savagespirit, and had changed from hate to love. She had traveled far tosave him from death. She had watched by him day and night till herown life well-nigh gave way. She had repented, and had marked herrepentance by a devotion which could not be surpassed. For all thishe felt grateful. His gratitude, indeed, had been so profound and sosincere that it had risen up between him and his just hate, and hadforced him to forgive her fully and freely, and to the uttermost, forall that she had done of her own accord, and also for all of whichshe had been the accidental cause. He had lost his repugnance to her. He could now talk to her, he could even take her hand, and could havetransient emotions of tenderness toward her. But what then? What wasthe value of these feelings? He had forgiven her, but he had notforgotten the past. That was impossible. The memory of that paststill remained, and its results were still before him. He felt thoseresults every hour of his life. Above all, she still stood before himas the one thing, and the only thing, which formed an obstaclebetween him and his happiness. He might pity her, he might begrateful to her; but the intense fervor of one passion, and thelonging desire to which it gave rise, made it impossible for her everto seem to him any thing else than the curse of his life. 

At Florence he was left more to himself. He was no longer forced tosit by her side. He gradually kept by himself; for, though he couldtolerate her, he could not seek her. Indeed, his own feelingsimpelled him to avoid her. The image of that one who never left hismemory had such an effect on him that he preferred solitude and hisown thoughts. In this way he could best struggle with himself andarrange his lonely and desolate future. India now appeared the onehope that was left him. There he might find distraction fromtroublesome thoughts in his old occupations, and among his oldassociates. He had bidden farewell to Chetwynde forever. He had leftthe fate of Chetwynde in the hands of his solicitors; he had signedaway all his rights; he had broken the entail; and had faced theprospect of the extinction of his ancient family. This resolution hadcost him so much that it was impossible now to go back from it. Theexhibition of Hilda's devotion never changed his resolution for aninstant. The papers still remained with his solicitors, nor did hefor one moment dream of countermanding the orders which he had oncegiven. 

What Lord Chetwynde most desired was solitude. Florence had beenchosen by him as a resting-place where he might await letters fromEngland about his Indian appointment, and for those letters he waitedevery day. Under these circumstances he avoided all society. He hadtaken unpretending lodgings, and in the Hôtel Meubles, overlookingthe Ponta della Trinita, he was lost in the crowd of fellow-lodgers. His suite of apartments extended over the third story. Below him wasa Russian Prince and a German Grand Duke, and above and all aroundwas a crowd of travelers of all nations. He brought no letters. Hedesired no acquaintances. Florence, under the new régime, was toomuch agitated by recent changes for its noblesse to pay any attentionto a stranger, however distinguished, unless he was forced upon them;and so Lord Chetwynde had the most complete isolation. If Hilda hadever had any ideas of going with Lord Chetwynde into Florentinesociety she was soon undeceived, when, as the days passed, she foundthat Florentine society took no notice of her. Whateverdisappointment she may have felt, Lord Chetwynde only receivedgratification from this, since it spared him every annoyance, andleft him to himself, after the first week or so. 

By himself he thus occupied his time. He rode sometimes through thebeautiful country which surrounds Florence on every side. When wearyof this he used to stroll about the city, along the Lungh' Arno, orthrough the Casino, or among the churches. But his favorite place ofresort was the Boboli Gardens; for here there was sufficient life andmovement to be found among the throng of visitors; or, if he wishedseclusion, he could find solitude among the sequestered groves andromantic grottoes of this enchanting spot. 

Here one day he wandered, and found a place among the trees whichcommanded a view of one of the principal avenues of the gardens. Inthe distance there opened a vista through which was revealed the fairoutline of Florence, with its encircling hills, and its glorious Vald'Arno. There arose the stupendous outline of Il Duomo, the statelyform of the Baptistery, the graceful shaft of the Campanile, themedieval grandeur of the Palazzo Vecchio; and the severe Etruscanmassiveness of the Pitti Palace was just below. Far away the Arnowound on, through the verdurous plain, while on either side the hillsarose dotted with white villas and deep green olive groves. Is thereany view on earth which can surpass this one, where

 "Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn and wine and oil, and Plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, And buried Learning rose, redeemed, to a new morn. "

It was upon this scene that Lord Chetwynde was looking out, lost inthoughts which were sometimes taken up with the historic charms ofthis unrivaled valley, and sometimes with his own sombre future, whensuddenly his attention was arrested by a figure passing along thepathway immediately beneath him. The new-comer was a tall, broad-shouldered, square-faced man; he wore a dress-coat and a felthat; he had no gloves, but his thumbs were inserted in the arm-holesof his waistcoat; and as he sauntered along he looked around with aleisurely yet comprehensive stare. Lord Chetwynde was seated in aplace which made him unseen to any in the path, while it afforded himthe fullest opportunities of seeing others. This man, who thus walkedon, turned his full face toward him and disclosed the well-knownfeatures of Obed Chute. 

The sight of this man sent a strange thrill to the inmost heart ofLord Chetwynde. He here! In Florence! And his family, were they withhim? And she--when he saw him in London he said that she was yet withhim--was she with him now? Such were the thoughts which came to LordChetwynde at the sight of that face. The next instant he rose, hurried down to the path after Obed, who had strode onward andcatching his arm, he said:

"Mr. Chute, you here! When did you arrive?"

Obed turned with a start and saw his friend. 

"Windham again!" he exclaimed, "by all that's wonderful! But how didyou get here?"

"I? Oh, I've been here two or three weeks. But it doesn't seempossible that it should really be you, " he added, with greater warmththan was usual to him, as he wrung Obed's hand. 

"It's possible, " said Obed, with a characteristic squeeze of LordChetwynde's hand, which made it numb for half an hour afterward. "It's possible, my boy, for it's the actual fact. But still, I mustsay, you're about the last man I expected to see in these diggins. When I saw you in London you were up to your eyes in business, andwere expectin' to start straight off and make a bee-line for India. "

"Well, that is what I'm doing now; I'm on my way there. "

"On your way there? You don't say so! But you'll stay here sometime?"

"Oh yes; I've some little time to spare. The fact is I came here topass my leisure time. I'm expecting a letter every day which may sendme off. But it may not come for weeks. "

"And you're going back to India?" said Obed. 

"Yes. "

"I should think you'd rather stay home--among your friends. "

"Well--I don't know, " said Lord Chetwynde, with assumed indifference. "The fact is, life in India unfits one for life in England. We getnew tastes and acquire new habits. I never yet saw a returned Indianwho could be content. For my part, I'm too young yet to go in forbeing a returned Indian; and so after I finished my business Iapplied for a reappointment. "

"There's a good deal in what you say, " remarked Obed. "Your Britishisland is contracted. A man who has lived in a country like Indiafeels this. We Americans, accustomed as we are to the unlimitedatmosphere of a boundless continent, always feel depressed in acountry like England. There is in your country, Sir, a physical andalso a moral constraint which, to a free, republican, continentalAmerican, is suffocating. And hence my dislike to the mothercountry. "

They walked on together chatting about numerous things. Obed referredonce more to India. 

"It's queer, " said he; "your British Empire is so tremendous that itseems to cover the earth. After I left the States it seemed to methat I couldn't go any where without seeing the British flag. Therewas Australia, a continent in itself; and Hong Kong; and India, another continent; and Aden, and Malta. You have a small country too, not much larger than New York State. "

"Well, " said Lord Chetwynde, with a smile, "we once owned a greatdeal more, you know. We had colonies that were worth all the rest. Unfortunately those colonies took it into their heads to set up forthemselves, and started that independent nation of the Stars andStripes that you belong to. If it hadn't been for that abominableStamp Act, and other acts equally abominable, you and I might now beunder the same flag, belonging to an empire which might set the wholeunited world at defiance. It's a pity it was not so. The only hopenow left is that our countries may always be good friends, as theyare now, as you and I are--as we always are, whenever we meet undersuch circumstances as those which occurred when you and I becameacquainted. 'Blood is thicker than water, ' said old Tatnall, when hesent his Yankee sailors to help Admiral Hope; and the same sentimentis still in the mind of every true Englishman whenever he sees anAmerican of the right sort. "

"Them's my sentiments, " said Obed, heartily. "And although I don'tgenerally hanker after Britishers, yet I have a kind of respect forthe old country, in spite of its narrowness and contraction, and allthe more when I see that it can turn out men like you. "

After a short stroll the two seated themselves in a quiet sequesteredplace, and had a long conversation. Obed informed him of the manyevents which had occurred since their last meeting. The news aboutBlack Bill was received by Lord Chetwynde with deep surprise, and hehad a strong hope that this might lead to the capture of Gualtier. Little did he suspect the close connection which he had had with theprincipals in this crime. 

He then questioned Obed, with deep interest, about his life inNaples, about his journey to Florence, and many other things, withthe purpose of drawing him on to speak about one whom he could notname without emotion, but about whom he longed to hear. Obed saidnothing about her; but, in the course of the conversation, he toldall about that affair in the Pontine Marshes, in which he recentlyvanished from view at a very critical moment. 

Obed's account was given with his usual modesty; for this man, whowas often so grandiloquent on the subject of his country, was verymeek on the subject of himself. To give his own words would be toassign a very unimportant part to the chief actor in a veryremarkable affair, so that the facts themselves may be moreappropriately stated. These facts Lord Chetwynde gathered from Obed'snarrative in spite of his extreme modesty. 

After Obed's shot, then, there had been silence for a time, or ratherinaction among the assailants. The agitation of his family excitedhis sympathy, and once more he reassured them, telling them that theaffair was not worth thinking about, and urging them to be calm. Hiswords inspired courage among them, and they all arose and dressed. Their room was at the end of the building, as has been said. Obed'sroom adjoined it, and the only entrance into their room was throughhis. A narrow passage ran from the central hall and far as the wallof their room, and on the side of the passage was the door which ledinto Obed's. 

After putting some more peat on the fire, he called to his sister towatch at the window of her room, and then replenishing his pipe, andloading the discharged chambers of his revolver, he awaited therenewal of hostilities. The long silence that followed showed himthat his fire had been very serious, and he began to think that theywould not return. So the time passed until five o'clock came. Thewomen in the adjoining room were perfectly silent, but watchful, andapparently calm. Below there were occasional sounds of footsteps, which showed that the assailants were still in the place. Theexcitement of the occasion was rather agreeable to Obed thanotherwise. He felt that he had the advantage in every respect, andwas certain that there could not be very many assailants below. Theirlong delay in resuming the assault showed that they were cowed. 

[Illustration: "To Spring Forward With Leveled Pistol Upon HisAssailants Was The Work Of A Moment. "]

At last, however, to his intense gratification, he heard footsteps onthe stairs. He knew by the sound that there could not be more thanfour, or perhaps six. When near his door the footsteps stopped. Therewas a momentary silence, and then suddenly a tremendous blow, and apanel of the door crashed in at the stroke of an axe, the head ofwhich followed it. Quick as lightning Obed took aim. He saw how theaxe had fallen, and judged exactly the position of the man that dealtthe blow. He fired. A shriek followed. That shot had told. Wildcurses arose. There was a mad rush at the door, and again the axefell. 

Once more Obed watched the fall of the axe and fired. Again that shottold. There were groans and shrieks of rage, and deep, savage curses. 

And now at last Obed rose to the level of the occasion. He rapidlyreloaded the emptied chambers of his revolver. Stepping to the doorof the inner room he spoke some soothing words, and then hurryingback, he drew the ponderous bedstead away. Outside he heardshuffling, as of footsteps, and thought they might be dragging awaythose who had been wounded last. All this had been done in a moment. To unlock the door, to spring forward with leveled pistol upon hisassailants, was but the work of another moment. 

It was now dim morning twilight. The scene outside was plainlyrevealed. There were three men dragging away two--those two who hadbeen wounded by the last shots. On these Obed sprang. One went downbefore his shot. The others, with a cry of terror, ran down thestairs, and out of the house. Obed pursued. They ran wildly up theroad. Again Obed fired, and one wretch fell. Then he put the revolverin his pocket, and chased the other man. The distance between themlessened rapidly. At last Obed came up. He reached out his arm andcaught him by the collar. With a shriek of terror the scoundrelstopped, and fell on his knees, uttering frantic prayers for mercy, of which Obed understood not one word. He dragged him back to thehouse, found a rope in the stable, bound him securely, and put him inthe dining-room. Then he went about to seek the landlord. He couldnot be found. Both he and his wife apparently fled. But Obed foundsomething else. 

In the lower room that opened into the dining-room were three men ontwo beds, wounded, faint, and shivering with terror. These were themen that had been wounded at the first attack. In the anguish oftheir pain they made gestures of entreaty, of which Obed took nonotice. Upstairs in the hall were those two whom he had stuck withhis last shots. There were no others to be seen. 

After finishing his search, Obed went up the road, and carried backthe man whom he had shot. He then informed his family of the result. In the midst of their horror at this tragedy, and their joy atescaping from a terrible fate, they felt a certain pity for thesesufferers, wretches though they were. Obed shared this feeling. Hisanger had all departed with the end of the fight. He lifted one byone the wounded wretches, putting them on the beds in the rooms whenhe had hired. Then he and his sister dressed their wounds. Thus thenight ended, and the sun at last arose. 

About two hours after sunrise it happened that a troop of papalgendarmerie came along. Obed stopped then, and calmly handed over theprisoners to their care. They seemed bewildered, but took charge ofthem, evidently not at all comprehending of the situation. An hour orso afterward the valet arrived with a fresh carriage, and afterhearing Obed's story with wonder he was able to explain it to thesoldiers. 

Obed then set out for Rome, and, after some stay, came on toFlorence. 

Such was the substance of his story. 

CHAPTER LXII. 

THE VILLA. 

There were many things in Obed Chute's narration which affected LordChetwynde profoundly. The story of that adventure in the PontineMarshses had an interest for him which was greater than any thatmight be created by the magnificent prowess and indomitable pluckthat had been exhibited on that occasion by the modest narrator. Beneath the careless and offhand recital of Obed Lord Chetwynde wasable to perceive the full extent of the danger to which he had beenexposed, and from which his own cool courage had saved him. Anordinary man, under such circumstances, would have basely yielded;or, if the presence of his family had inspired him with unusualcourage, the courage would have been at best a sort of frenzy, at theimpulse of which he might have devoted his own life to the love whichhe had for his family, and thrown that life away without saving them. But in Obed's quiet and unpretending narrative he recognized thepresence of a heroic soul; one which in the midst of the mostchivalrous, the most absolute, and the most devotion--in the midst ofthe most utter abnegation of self--could still maintain the serenestcalm and the most complete presence of mind in the face of awfuldanger. Every point in that story produced an effect on the mind ofthe listener, and roused his fullest sympathy. He had before his eyesthat memorable scene: Obed watching and smoking on his bed by theside of the door--the family sleeping peacefully in the ajoiningroom--the sound of footsteps, of violent knockings, of furiousentrance, or wild and lawless mirth. He imagined the flight of theold man and his wife, who in terror, or perhaps through cunning andtreachery, gave up their hotel and their guests to the fury of thebrigands. He brought before his mind that long time of watchfulwaiting when Obed lay quietly yet vigilantly reclining on the bed, with his pipe in his mouth and his pistol in his pocket, listening tothe sounds below, to see what they might foreshadow; whether theytold of peace or of war, whether they announced the calm of a quietnight or the terrors of an assault made by fiends--by those Italianbrigands whose name has become a horror, whose tendererst mercies arepitiless cruelty, and to fall into the hands of whom is the direstfate that man or woman may know. 

One thought gave a horror to this narrative. Among the women in thatroom was the one who to him was infinitely dearer than any other onearth. And this danger had threatened her--a danger too horrible tothink of--one which made his very life-blood freeze in the course ofthis calm narration. This was the one thing on which his thoughtsturned most; that horrible, that appalling danger. So fearful was itto him that he envied Obed the privilege of having saved her. Helonged to have been there in Obed's place, so as to have done thisthing for her. He himself had once saved her from death, and thatscene could never depart from his memory; but now it seemed to him atthough the fate from which he had saved her was nothing when comparedto the terror of that danger from which she had been snatched byObed. 

Yet, during Obed's narrative, although these feelings were within hisheart, he said little or nothing. He listened with apparent calmness, offering no remark, though at that time the thoughts of his heartwere so intense. In fact, it was through the very intensity of hisfeelings that he forced himself to keep silence. For if he had spokenhe would have revealed all. If he had spoken he would have made known, even to the most careless or the most preoccupied listener, all thedepth of that love which filled his whole being. Her very name to himwas something which he could not mention without visible emotion. Andshe, in fearful peril, in terrific danger, in a situation sohorrible, could not be spoken of by one to whom she was so dear andso precious. 

And so he listened in silence, with only a casual interjection, untilObed had finished his story. Then he made some appropriate remarks, very coolly, complimentary to the heroism of his friend; whichremarks were at once quietly scouted by Obed as altogetherinappropriate. 

"Pooh!" said he; "what was it, after all? These Italians are rubbish, at the best. They are about equal to Mexicans. You've read about ourMexican war, of course. To gain a victory over such rubbish is almosta disgrace. "

So Obed spoke about it, though whether he felt his exploit to be adisgrace or not may very reasonably be doubted. 

Yet, in spite of Lord Chetwynde's interest in the affair of thePontine Marshes, there was another story of Obed's which produced adeeper effect on his mind. This was his account of his interview withBlack Bill, to which he had been summoned in London. The story ofBlack Bill which Obed gave was one which was full of awful horror. Itshowed the unrelenting and pitiless cruelty of those who had madethemselves her enemies; their profound genius for plotting, and theirfar-reaching cunning. He saw that these enemies must be full ofboldness and craft far beyond what is ordinarily met with. BlackBill's account of Gualtier's behavior on the boat when the men triedto mutiny impressed him deeply. The man that could commit such a deedas he had done, and then turn upon a desperate crew as he did, tobaffle them, to subdue them, and to bring them into submission to hiswill, seemed to him to be no common man. His flight afterward, andthe easy and yet complete way in which he had eluded all hispursuers, confirmed this view of his genius. Obed himself, who hadlabored so long, and yet so unsuccessfully, coincided in thisopinion. 

The chief subject of interest in these affairs to both of these menwas Zillah; yet, though the conversation revolved around her as acentre, no direct allusion was for some time made to her presentsituation. Yet all the while Lord Chetwynde was filled with afeverish curiosity to know where she was, whether she was still withObed's family, or had left them; whether she was far away from him, or here in Florence. Such an immensity of happiness or of miseryseemed to him at that time to depend on this thing that he did notdare to ask the question. He waited to see whether Obed himself mightnot put an end to this suspense. But Obed's thoughts were allabsorbed by the knotty question which had been raised by theappearance of Black Bill with his story. From the London police hehad received no fresh intelligence since his departure, though everyday he expected to hear something. From the Marseilles authorities hehad heard nothing since his last visit to that city, and a letterwhich he had recently dispatched to the prefect at Naples had not yetbeen answered. As far as his knowledge just yet was concerned, thewhole thing had gone into a more impenetrable mystery than ever, andthe principals in this case, after committing atrocious crimes, afterbaffling the police of different nations, seemed to have vanishedinto the profoundest obscurity. But on this occasion he reiteratedthat determination which he had made before of never losing sight ofthis purpose, but keeping at it, if need were, for years. He wouldwrite to the police, he said, perpetually, and would give informationto the authorities of every country in Europe. On his return toAmerica he would have an extensive and comprehensive searchinstituted. He would engage detectives himself in addition to anywhich the police might send forth. Above all, he intended to makefree use of the newspapers. He had, he said--and in this he was atrue American--great faith in advertising. He had drawn up in hismind already the formulas of various kinds of notices which heintended to have inserted in the principal papers, by which he hopedto get on the track of the criminals. Once on their track, he feltassured of success. 

The unexpected addition of Black Bill to the number of actors in thisimportant case was rightly considered by Obed as of great moment. Hehad some idea of seeking him out on his return to London, and ofemploying him in this search. Black Bill would be stimulated to sucha search by something far more powerful than any mere professionalinstinct or any hope of reward. The vengeance which he cherishedwould make him go on this errand with an ardor which no other couldfeel. He had his own personal grievance against Gualtier. He hadshown this by his long and persistent watch, and by the malignancy ofhis tone when speaking of his enemy. Besides this, he had more thanpassion or malignancy to recommend him; he had that qualification forthe purpose which gave aim and certainty to all his vengeful desires. He had shown himself to have the instinct of a bloodhound, and thestealthy cunning of an Indian in following on the trait of his foe. True he had been once outwitted, but that arose from the fact that hewas forced to watch, and was not ready to strike. The next time hewould be ready to deal the blow, and if he were once put on thetrail, and caught up with the fugitive, the blow would fall swiftlyand relentlessly. 

Debate about such things as these took up two or three hours, duringwhich time Lord Chetwynde endured his suspense. At length they roseto leave the gardens, and then, as they were walking along, he said, in as indifferent a tone as he could assume:

"Oh--by-the-way--Miss Lorton is here with your family, I suppose?"

"Yes, " said Obed; "she is with us still. "

At this simple answer Lord Chetwynde's heart gave a great bound, andthen seemed to stop beating for some seconds. He said nothing. 

"She is here now in Florence with us, " continued Obed. "She is quiteone of the family. We all call her Ella now; she insisted on it. Ihave taken a villa a few miles away. Ella prefers the country. Weoften drive into the city. It's a wonder to me that we never metbefore. "

"Yes; it is odd. "

"She came in with us this morning with a watch, which she left atPenafrio's to be mended. It will be done this evening. She could notwait for it, so I staid, so as to take it out to her tonight. Istrolled about the town, and finally wandered here, which I think theprettiest place in Florence. I'd been walking through the gardens foran hour before you saw me. "

"How has she been of late?"

"Very well indeed--better, in fact, than she has ever been since Ifirst saw her. She was not very well at Naples. The journey here didher much good, and the affair of the Pontine Marshes roused her upinstead of agitating her. She behaved like a trump--she was as coolas a clock; but it was a coolness that arose from an excitement whichwas absolutely red-hot, Sir. She seemed strung up to a pitch tennotes higher than usual, and once or twice as I caught her eyes theyseemed to me to have a deep fire in them that was stunning! I never, in all my born days, saw the equal of that little thing, " exclaimedObed, tenderly. 

"It's having an occupation, " he continued, "as I believe, that's doneher this good. She was afraid she would be a dependent, and the feararose out of a noble feeling. Now she finds her position an honorableone. It gives her a fine feeling of pride. The poor little thingseems to have been brought up to do nothing at all; but now thediscovery that she can do something actually intoxicates her. And thebeauty of it is, she does it well. Yes, Sir. My children have beenpushed along at a tre-mendous pace, and they love Ella better than meor sister ten times. But you'll see for yourself, for you've got tocome right straight out with me, my boy. You, Windham, are the onethat Ella would rather see than any other. You're the man that savedher from death, and gave her to me. "

At this Lord Chetwynde's stout heart, that had never quailed in theface of death, throbbed feverishly in his intense joy, and his wholeframe thrilled at the thought that arose in his mind. Going to herwas easy enough, through Obed's warm friendship. And he was going toher! This was the only thought of which he was conscious. 

The carriage was waiting in front of the watchmaker's shop, and thewatch was ready; so they drove out without delay. It seemed to LordChetwynde like a dream. He was lost in anticipations of the comingmeeting--that meeting which he had never dared to hope for, but whichwas now before him. 

Obed Chute, on coming to Florence, had rented a villa on the slopesof the hills overlooking Val d'Arno. It was about twelve or fifteenmiles away. The road ran through the plain, and then ascended thehills gently, in a winding direction, till it reached the place. Thevilla was surrounded by beautiful grounds, wherein trim gardens wereseen, and fair winding walks, interspersed with fountains andstatuary and pavilions. Besides these there were extensive forests ofthick-growing trees, whose dense branches, interlacing overhead, threw down heavy shadows. Through these dim woods many pathwayspenetrated, leading to sequestered nooks and romantic grottoes. Herethere wandered several little brooklets, and in the midst of theforest there was a lake, or rather a pond, from the middle of whichrose a marble Triton, which perpetually spouted forth water from hisshell. The villa itself was of generous dimensions, in that stylewhich is so familiar to us in this country, with broad piazzas andwide porticoes, and no lack of statuary. Here Obed Chute had madehimself quite at home, and confided to Lord Chetwynde the fact thathe would prefer this to his house on the Hudson River if he couldonly see the Stars and Stripes floating from the Campanile atFlorence. As this was not likely to happen, he was forced to lookupon himself as merely a pilgrim and a sojourner. 

Lord Chetwynde entered the villa. Obed remained behind for a fewmoments to give some directions to the servants. A lofty hall ranthrough the villa, with statues on each side, and a fountain at thefarthest end. On either side there were doors opening into spaciousapartments. Lord Chetwynde turned to the right, and entered amagnificent room, which extended the whole length of the house. Helooked around, and his attention was at once arrested by a figure atthe farthest end. It was a lady, whose youthful face and slenderfigure made his heart beat fast and furiously; for, though he couldnot distinguish her features, which were partly turned away, yet theshape was familiar, and was associated with the sweetest memories ofhis life. The lady was sitting in a half-reclining position on anEgyptian couch, her head was thrown back, a book hung listlessly inone hand, and she seemed lost in thought. So deep was her abstractionthat the noise of Lord Chetwynde's steps on the marble floor did notarouse her. When he saw her he paused involuntarily, and stood for afew moments in silence. 

Yes, it was _she_! One look told him this. It was the one who for solong a time had been in all his thoughts, who in his illness had beenever present to his delirious dreams. It was the one to whom hisheart had never ceased to turn since that first day when that headhad lain for a moment on his breast, and that rich, luxuriant hairhad flowed in a sea of glory over his arms, burnished by the red raysof the rising sun. He walked softly forward and drew near. Then thenoise of his footsteps roused her. She turned. 

There came over her face the sudden light of joyous and rapturouswonder. In that sudden rapture she seemed to lose breath and sense. She started forward to her feet, and the book fell from her hand. Foran instant she pressed her hand to her heart, and then, with bothhands outstretched, and with her beautiful face all aglow with joyand delight that she could not conceal, she stepped forward. Butsuddenly, as though some other thought occurred, she stopped, and acrimson glow came over her pale face. She cast down her eyes andstood waiting. 

Lord Chetwynde caught her outstretched hand, which still was timidlyheld toward him, in both of his, and said not one word. For a timeneither of them spoke, but he held her hand, and she did not withdrawit. 

"Oh!" he cried, suddenly, as though the words were torn from him, "how I have longed for this moment!"

She looked at him hastily and confusedly, and then withdrew her hand, while another flush swept over her face. 

"Mr. Windham, " she faltered, in low tones, "what an unexpectedpleasure! I--I thought you were in England. "

"And so I was, " said Lord Chetwynde, as he devoured her with theardent gaze of his eyes; "but my business was finished, and Ileft--"

"How did you find us out?" she asked, smilingly, as, once moreresuming her self-possession, she sat down again upon the Egyptiansofa and picked up her book. "Have you been in correspondence withMr. Chute?"

"No, " laughed Lord Chetwynde. "It was fate that threw him into my wayat the Boboli Gardens this morning. I have been here for--well, for asmall eternity--and was thinking of going away when he came up, andnow I am reconciled to all my past. "

A silence followed, and each seemed to take a hasty glance at theother. On Zillah's face there were the traces of sorrow; its lineshad grown finer, and its air more delicate and spiritual. LordChetwynde's face, on the other hand, showed still the marks of thatdisease which had brought him to death's door, and no longer had thatglow of manly health which had been its characteristic at Marseilles. 

[Illustration: "She Seemed Lost In Thought. "]

"You have been ill, " said Zillah, suddenly, and with some alarm inher voice. 

"Yes, " said Lord Chetwynde, sadly; "I have been as near death as itis possible for one to be and live. "

"In England?"

"No; in Switzerland. "

"Switzerland?"

"Yes. "

"I thought that perhaps some private troubles in England had causedit, " said Zillah, with tones of deep sympathy, for she recollectedhis last words to her, which expressed such fearful anticipations ofthe future. 

"No; I bore all that. It was an unexpected circumstance, " he said, ina cautious tone, "that caused my illness. But the Italian air hasbeen beneficial. But you--how have you been? I fear that you yourselfhave been ill. "

"I have had some troubles, " Zillah replied. 

Lord Chetwynde forbore to question her about those troubles. He wenton to speak about the air of Val d'Arno being the best thing in theworld for all illness, and congratulated her on having so beautiful aspot in which to live. Zillah grew enthusiastic in her praises ofFlorence and all the surrounding scenery; and as each learned howlong the other had been here they wondered why they had not met. 

"But I, " said Zillah, "have not gone often to the city since thefirst week. It is so beautiful here. "

"And I, " said Lord Chetwynde, "have ridden all about the environs, but have never been near here before. And even if I had, I shouldhave gone by it without knowing or suspecting that you were here. "

Obed Chute had much to see about, and these two remained longtogether. They talked over many things. Sometimes there were longpauses, which yet were free from embarrassment. The flush on Zillah'scheek, and the kindling light of her eye, showed a pleasure which shecould not conceal. Happiness was so strange to her that she welcomedeagerly this present hour, which was so blight to her poorsorrow-laden heart. Lord Chetwynde forgot his troubles, he banishedthe future, and, as before, he seized the present, and enjoyed it tothe full. 

Obed returned at last and joined them. The time fled by rapidly. LordChetwynde made a move to return at about eleven o'clock, but Obedwould not allow him. He made him stay that night at the villa. 

CHAPTER LXIII. 

A CHANGE. 

Although Lord Chetwynde was always out by day, yet he had alwaysreturned to his rooms at night, and therefore it was a matter ofsurprise to Hilda, on this eventful night, that twelve o'clock camewithout any signs of his return. In her wild and ungovernable passionher whole life had now grown to be one long internal struggle, inwhich it was with difficulty that she kept down the stormy feelingswithin her. This night she had grown more nervous than usual. It wasas though she had attained to the culmination of the long excitementsthrough which she had passed. His absence filled her with a thousandfears. The longing of her heart grew intolerable as the hours passedby without any signs of his return. Weary of calling to her servantto 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 offootsteps. 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 andfancies. Sometimes she thought that he had been assassinated. Atother times she fancied that Gualtier might have broken his promise, and come back from London, full of vengeance, to track the man whomhe hated. These ideas, however, at length left her, and another tookpossession of her, which was far more natural and probable, and whichfinally became a deep and immovable conviction. She thought that LordChetwynde had at last yielded to his aversion; and unwilling, frommotives of gratitude, to have any formal farewell, he had concludedto leave her abruptly. 

"Yes, " she said to herself, as this thought first came to her, "thatis it. He wearies of my perpetual presence. He does not wish tosubject himself to my mean entreaties. He has cut the connectionabruptly, and is this night on his way to Leghorn to take thesteamer. He has gone to India, and left me forever. To-morrow, nodoubt, 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 ascertain of this as though some one had actually told her of hisdeparture. Then there came over her a mighty sense of desolation. What should she do now? Life seemed in that instant to have lost allits sweetness and its meaning. Again there came to her that thoughtwhich many times during the last few weeks had occurred, and now hadgrown familiar--the awful thought of suicide. The life she lived hadalready grown almost intolerable from its unfulfilled wishes, and itslongings against hope; but now the last hope had departed, and lifeitself was nothing but a burden. Should she not lay it down?

So the night passed, and the morning came, but through all that nightsleep came not. And the dawn came, and the hours of the day passedby, but she sat motionless. The servants came, but were sent away;and this woman of feeling and of passion, who once had risen superiorto all feeling, now lay a prey to an agony of soul that threatenedreason and life itself. 

But suddenly all this was brought to an end. At about mid-day LordChetwynde returned. Hilda heard his footstep and his voice. A greatjoy darted through her, and her first impulse was to fling herselfupon him, and weep tears of happiness upon his breast. But that was athing which was denied her--a privilege which might never be hers. After the first wild impulse and the first rush of joy she restrainedherself, and, locking the door of her room, she sat listening withquick and heavy breathing. She heard him speak a few careless wordsto the servant. She heard him go to his room, where he staid forabout an hour. She watched and waited, but restrained every impulseto go out. "I have tormented him too much, " she said to herself. "Ihave forced myself upon him; I have made myself common. A greaterdelicacy and a more retiring habit will be more agreeable to him. Let me not destroy my present happiness. It is joy enough that myfears are dispersed, and that he has not yet left me. " So sherestrained herself--though that self-restraint was the mightest taskwhich she had ever undertaken--and sat passively listening, whenevery feeling prompted her to rush forth eagerly to greet him. 

He went away that day, and came back by midnight. Hilda did nottrouble him, and they met on the following morning. 

Now, at the first glance which she stole at him, she noted in him awonderful change. His face had lost its gloom; there was anexpression of peace and blissful tranquillity which she had neverobserved before, and which she had never thought possible to one whohad appeared to her as he always had. She sat wondering as theywaited for breakfast to be served--a meal which they generally tooktogether--and baffled herself in vain conjectures. A great change hadcertainly come over him. He greeted her with a bright and genialsmile. He had shaken her hand with the warm pressure of agood-hearted friend. He was sprightly even with the servants. Henoticed the exquisite beauty of the day. He had something to sayabout many little trifles. Even in his best moods, during thejourney, he had never been like this. Then he had never beenotherwise than reserved and self-contained; his face had neveraltogether lost its cloud of care. Now there was not a vestige ofcare to be seen; he was joyous; he was even hilarious; and seemed atpeace with himself and all the world. 

What had happened?

This was the question which Hilda incessantly asked herself. Itneeded 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 toeffect such a change? Could it be gratified vengeance? No; thefeeling was too light for that. Was it the news of some suddenfortune? She did not believe that if Lord Chetwynde heard that he hadinherited millions it would give such joy as this, which would makeitself manifest in all his looks and words and acts and tones. Whatwould 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 joyas that which she now read in his face. In that event she thoughtthat she could look upon her worst enemy with a smile. But in himwhat could it mean? Could it be possible that he had any one whosesmile would bring him such peace as this? Once before she suspectedthat he loved another. Could it be within the bounds of possibilitythat the one whom he loved lived in Florence?

This thought filled her with dismay. And yet, why not? Had he not setout from England for Italy? Had he not dragged himself out of hissick-room, almost before he could walk, to pursue his journey? Had henot broken off almost all intercourse with herself after the firstweek of their arrival? Had he not been occupied with some engrossingbusiness all the time since then? What business could have at once sooccupied him and so changed him, if it were not something of thiskind? There was one thing which could at once account for hiscoolness to her and his inaccessibility to her advances, for hisjourney to Florence, for his occupation all the time, and now forthis strange mood of happiness which had come so suddenly yet sogently over him. And that one thing, which alone, to her mind, couldat once account for all these things, was Love. 

The time passed, and Lord Chetwynde's new mood seemed lasting. Neverhad he been so considerate, so gentle, and so kind to Hilda. At anyother time, or under any other circumstances, this change would havestimulated her mind to the wildest hopes; but now it prompted fearswhich filled her with despair. So, as the days passed, the struggleraged within her breast. 

Meanwhile Lord Chetwynde was a constant visitor at the villa of ObedChute, and a welcome guest to all. As the days passed the constantassociation which he had with Zillah made each better known to theother than ever before. The tenderness that existed between them wasrepressed in the presence of the others; but on the frequentoccasions when they were left alone together it found expression byacts if not by words, by looks if not by acts. Lord Chetwynde couldnot forget that first look of all-absorbing and overwhelming joy withwhich Zillah had greeted him on his sudden appearance. A master, to acertain extent, over himself, he coerced himself so far as not toalarm 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 hisdevotion. As for Zillah, the change which she had felt from the dullmonotony of her past to the vivid joy of the present was so great andso powerful that its effects were too manifest to be concealed. Shecould not conceal the glow of health that sprang to her cheek, thelight that kindled in her eye, the resonant tone that was added toher voice, and the spring that came to her step. Nor could she, inher girlish innocence, conceal altogether how completely she nowrested all her hopes and all her happiness upon Lord Chetwynde; theflush of joy that arose at his arrival, the sadness that overspreadher at his departure. But Obed Chute and his sister were notobservant; and these things, which would have been so manifest toothers, were never noticed by them. It seemed to both of them asthough Zillah merely shared the pleasure which they felt in thesociety of this Windham, whom Obed loved and admired, and theythought that Zillah's feelings were merely of the same character astheir own. 

Neither Lord Chetwynde nor Zillah cared to disclose the true state ofthe case. Lord Chetwynde wished to see her every day, but did notwish them to know that he came every day. That might seem strange tothem. In point of fact, they would have thought nothing of it, butwould have welcomed him as warmly as ever; but Lord Chetwynde couldnot feel sure of this. And if he visited her every day, he did notwish to let the world know it. How it happened can not be told; bywhat mysterious process it occurred can scarcely be related; such aprocess is too indefinable for description; but certain it is that amysterious understanding sprang up between him and Zillah, so that onevery alternate day when he rode toward the villa he would leave hishorse at a house about a quarter of a mile away, and walk to thenearest part of the park, where there was a small gate among thetrees. Here he usually entered, and soon reached a small kiosk nearthat pond among the woods which has already been spoken of. Thehousehold was so small and so quiet, and the woods were sounfrequented and so shadowy, that there was scarcely any possibilityof interruption. Even if they had been discovered there by Obedhimself, Lord Chetwynde's presence of mind could have readilyfurnished a satisfactory story to account for it. He had alreadyarranged that in his mind. He would have "happened to meet" Zillah onthe road near the gate, and come in here with her. By this it will beseen, on the strength of this mysterious understanding, that Zillahwas not averse to this clandestine meeting. In fact, she always wasthere. Many times they met there in the weeks which Lord Chetwyndepassed in Florence, and never once did she fail to be there first toawait him. 

Perhaps it was because each had a secret belief that this was alltemporary--a happiness, a bliss, in fact, in this part of theirmortal lives, but a bliss too great to last. Perhaps it was this thatgave Zillah the courage and spirit to be at the trysting-place toreceive this man who adored her, and never to fail to be therefirst--to think that not to be there first would be almost a sin--andso to receive his deep and fervent expressions of gratitude for herkindness, which were reiterated at every meeting. At any rate, Zillahwas always there on the days when Lord Chetwynde wished her to bethere; and on the occasions when he visited the villa she was notthere, but was seated in the drawing-room to receive him. Obed Chutethought that Lord Chetwynde came three times a week. Zillah knew thathe came seven times a week. 

For some time this state of things had continued. Windham was thechosen friend of Obed, and the favored guest at Obed's villa. Zillahknew that this could not last, and used to try to check herhappiness, and reason it down. But as the hour of the trystapproached all attempts of this kind were forgotten, and she wasthere watching and waiting. 

To her, one day thus waiting, Lord Chetwynde came with a sad smile onhis face, and something in his eyes which threw a chill over Zillah'sheart. They talked a little while, but Lord Chetwynde was melancholyand preoccupied. 

"You do not look well to-day, " said Zillah, wonderingly, and in toneswhich 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 hasthrown the deepest gloom over me. Shall I tell you? Will yousympathize with my gloom? I will tell you. I have this day received aletter giving me my appointment to a post in India, far which I havebeen waiting for a long time. "

"India!"

Zillah gasped this out with white lips, while her face assumed theashen hue of despair. 

"India!" she repeated, as her great eyes were fixed in agony uponhim; and then she stopped, pressing her hand to her heart. 

The anguish of that look was so intense that Lord Chetwynde wasshaken to the soul. He caught her hand in his, scarce knowing what hedid. 

"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 isnot immediate; I can yet wait a few weeks; and you will still comehere, will you not--to see me?"

Zillah caught her hand away, and her eyes fell. Tears dropped frombeneath 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 fireseemed now to bum into his soul, and her lips moved:

"Never!"

That was the only word that she said. 

CHAPTER LXIV. 

THE MASQUERADE. 

Obed Chute came home one day full of news, and particularly dilatedupon the grandeur of a masquerade ball which was to take place at theVilla Rinalci. He wished to go, and to take Zillah. The idea filledall his mind, and his excitement was speedily communicated to Zillah, and to Lord Chetwynde, who happened to be there at the time. Obed hadlearned that it was to be conducted with the highest degree ofmagnificence. He had talked about it with some Americans with whom hehad met in the cafe, and, as he had never seen one, he was eager togo. Lord Chetwynde expressed the same desire, and Zillah at onceshowed a girlish enthusiasm that was most gratifying to Obed. It wassoon decided that they all should go. A long conversation followedabout the dresses, and each one selected what commended itself as themost agreeable or becoming. Obed intended to dress as a Westerntrapper, Zillah as an Athenian maid of the classic days, while LordChetwynde decided upon the costume of the Cavaliers. A merry eveningwas spent in settling upon these details, for the costume of each onewas subjected to the criticism of the others, and much laughter aroseover the various suggestions that were made from time to time aboutthe best costume. 

For some days Lord Chetwynde busied himself about his costume. He hadto have it made especially for the occasion, and tailors had to beseen, and measurements had to be taken. Of course this did notinterfere in the smallest degree with his constant attendance uponZillah, for every day he was punctual at the trysting-place or in thevilla. 

Meanwhile Hilda's intolerable anxiety had taken another and a verynatural turn. She began to feel intensely curious about the object ofLord Chetwynde's daily occupations. Having once come to theconclusion that there was a woman in the case, every hour onlystrengthened this conviction, until at length it was as firmly fixedin her mind as the belief in her own existence. The pangs of jealousywhich she suffered from this cause were as extreme as those which shehad suffered before from fear, or anxiety, or suspense, both whenhurrying on to save Lord Chetwynde, and when watching at his bedside. In her wild, ungovernable passion and her uncontrollable love shefelt the same vehement jealousy which a betrothed mistress mightfeel, and the same unreasoning indignation which a true and lawfulwife might have when suspecting a husband's perfidy. Such feelingsfilled her with an insatiable desire to learn what might be hissecret, and to find out at all costs who this one might be of whoseexistence she now felt confident. Behind this desire there lay animplacable resolve to take vengeance in some way upon her, and thediscovery of her in Hilda's mind was only synonymous with the deadlyvengeance which she would wreak upon this destroyer of her peace. 

It was difficult, however, to accomplish such a desire. Little ornothing could be found out from the servants, nor was there any onewhom she could employ to observe her "husband's" actions. Now shebegan to feel the need of that deep devotion and matchless fidelitywhich she had once received from Gualtier. But he was far away. Couldshe not send for him? She thought of this often, but still delayed todo so. She felt sure that the moment she gave the command he wouldleave every thing and come to do her bidding. But she hesitated. Evenin her unscrupulous mind there was a perception of the fitness ofthings, and she was slow to call to her assistance the aid of the manwho so deeply loved her, when her purpose was to remove or to punishher rival in the affections of another man, or rather an obstacle inthe way of securing his affections. Deprived thus of all aid, it wasdifficult for her to find out arty thing. 

At length Lord Chetwynde became interested in the affair of themasquerade. The state of mind into which he had fallen ever since thediscovery of Zillah had deprived him of that constant reticence whichused to be his characteristic. He was now pleasant and genial andtalkative. This change had inspired alarm in Hilda rather than joy, and she had considered this the chief reason for believing that lovewas the animating motive with him now. After the masquerade had beenmentioned he himself spoke about it. In the fullness of his joy itslipped from him incidentally in the course of conversation, andHilda, after wondering why he should mention such a thing, began towonder what interest the thing might have to him. No doubt he wasgoing. Of that she felt assured. If so, the mysterious being to whomshe believed he was devoted would necessarily be there too. Shebelieved that the expectation of being there with her had sointoxicated him that this masquerade was the chief thing in histhoughts, and therefore he had made mention of it. So she watched tofind out the meaning of this. 

One day a parcel came for Lord Chetwynde. The servants were out ofsight, and she opened it. It was a suit of clothes in the Cavalierfashion, with every accessory necessary to make up the costume. Themeaning of this was at once evident to her. He was going to thismasquerade as a Cavalier. What then? This discovery at once madeplain before her all that she might do. Under these circumstances itwould be possible for her to follow and to track him. Perhaps her owngood fortune and cleverness might enable her to discover the one towhom he was devoted. But a complete disguise was necessary forherself. She was not long in choosing such a disguise. She decidedupon the costume of the _Compagnia della Misericordia_--one which waseminently Florentine, and, at the same time, better adapted forpurposes of concealment than any other could possibly be. It consistsof a black robe with a girdle, and a hood thrown over the head insuch a way as to show only the eyes. It would be as suitable adisguise for a woman as for a man, and would give no possible chanceof recognition. At the same time, belonging as it did to that famousFlorentine society, it would be recognized by all, and while insuringa complete disguise, would excite no comment. 

Lord Chetwynde left early on the morning of the fęte, taking hiscostume with him, showing Hilda that he was evidently going incompany with others. It was with great impatience that she waited theprogress of the hours; and when, at length, the time came, and shewas deposited at the gate of the Villa Rinalci, her agitation wasexcessive. Entering here, she found the grounds illuminated. 

They were extensive, and filled with groves and spacious avenues anddashing fountains and beautiful sculptures. Already a large crowd hadassembled, and Hilda walked among them, watching on every side forthe man whom she sought. In so large a place as this, where thegrounds were so extensive, it was difficult indeed to find anyparticular person, and two hours passed away in a vain search. Butshe was patient and determined, and there was but one idea in hermind. The music and the gayety of the assembled throng did not forone moment divert her, though this was the first scene of the kindthat she had ever beheld, and its novelty might well have attractedher attention. The lights which flashed out so brightly through thegloom of night--the noisy crowds which thronged every where--thefoaming spray that danced upward from the fountains, gleaming in thelight of the lamps--the thousand scenes of mirth and revelry thatarose on every side--all these had no attraction for this woman, whohad come here for one purpose only, and who carried this purpose deepin her heart. The company wore every imaginable attire. Most of themwere in masks, but some of them had none; while Hilda, in hermournful robe, that spoke to all of death and funereal rites, wasalone in the singularity of her costume. 

She wandered throughout all the grounds, and through the villaitself, in search of one thing, but that one thing she could notfind. At length her weary feet refused to support her any longer inwhat seemed a hopeless search, and she sat down near one of thefountains in the central avenue, and gave herself up to despondentthoughts. 

About half an hour passed, when suddenly two figures approached thatriveted her attention. They were a man and a woman. Her heart beatfast. There was no mistake about the man. His dress was the dresswhich she herself had seen and examined. He wore a domino, butbeneath it could be seen his whiskers, cut after the English fashion, and long and pendent. But Hilda knew that face so familiarly thatthere was no doubt in her mind, although she only saw the lowerportion. And a woman was with him, resting on his arm. They passed byher in silence. Hilda waited till they had gone by, and then aroseand followed stealthily. Now had come the time for discovery, perhapsfor vengeance. In her wild impulse she had brought a dagger with her, which she had secreted in her breast. As she followed her hand playedmechanically with the hilt of this dagger. It was on this that shehad instinctively placed her ultimate resolve. They walked onswiftly, but neither of them turned to see whether they were followedor not. The idea of such a thing never seemed to have entered intothe mind of either of them. After a time they left the avenue, andturned into a side-path; and, following its course, they went onwardto the more remote parts of the grounds. Here there were but fewpeople, and these grew fewer as they went on. At length they came tothe end of this path, and turned to the right. Hilda hurried onwardstealthily, and, turning, saw an arbor embowered among the trees. Near by was a light, which hung from the branch of a tree on oneside. She heard low voices, and knew that they had gone into thearbor. 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 betweenthemselves and this listener. The rays of the lantern shone in, sothat Hilda could see, as they sat between her and the light, theoutlines of their forms. But that light was obstructed by the leavesthat clung to the arbor, and in the shadow their features wereinvisible. Two dark figures were before her, and that was all. 

"We can stay here alone for some time, " said Lord Chetwynde, after along silence. He spoke in a whisper, which, however, was perfectlyaudible to Hilda. 

"Yes, " said the other, speaking in the same whisper. "He is amusinghimself in the Grand Avenue. "

"And we have an hour, at least, to ourselves. We are to meet him atthe Grand Fountain; He will wait for us. "

There was another silence. 

Hilda heard this with strange feelings. Who was this _he_ of whomthey spoke? Was he the husband of this woman? Of course. There was noother explanation. They could not be so cautious and so regardfulabout any other. Nor, indeed, deed, did the thought of any other comeinto her mind in that hour of excitement. She thought that she couldunderstand it all. Could she but find out this woman's name, then itwould be possible to take vengeance in a better and less dangerousway than by using the dagger. She could find out this injuredhusband, and use him as an instrument for vengeance. And, as thisthought 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 kioskat 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 Ithink of the future, I feel as though I should go mad. The future! MyGod! Let me banish it from my thoughts. Help me to forget it. Youalone can!"

And even in that whisper, which reached Hilda's ears, there was animpassioned 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 meto 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 atMarseilles I thought that I had lost you forever!"

The lady said nothing. 

But Hilda had already learned this much--first, that both wereEnglish. The lady, even in her whisper, showed this. Again, shelearned that they had met before, and had enjoyed one another'ssociety in this way. Where? At Marseilles. Her vivid imagination atonce brought before her a way in which this might have been done. Shewas traveling with her husband, and Lord Chetwynde had met her. Probably they had sailed in the same steamer. Possibly they had comeall the way from India together. This now became her conviction. 

"Have you forgotten Marseilles?" continued Lord Chetwynde. "Do youremember 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 toIndia. "

He stopped. 

The lady's head sank forward. Hilda could see this through theshadows of the foliage. 

"It can not last much longer, " said Lord Chetwynde, in a loudervoice, and a groan escaped him as he spoke. "I must leave you; I mustleave you forever!"

He paused, and folding his arms, leaned back, while Hilda saw thathis frame was shaken with extraordinary excitement. At length heleaned forward again. He caught her hand and held it. The lady satmotionless, nor did she attempt to withdraw her hand. They sat inperfect silence for a long time, but the deep breathing of each, which seemed like long-drawn sighs, was audible to Hilda, as shelistened there; and it told how strong was the emotion within them. But the one who listened was the prey of an emotion as mighty astheirs. 

Neither of these three was conscious of time. Wrapped up in their ownfeelings, they were overwhelmed by a tide of passion that made themoblivious of all things else. There were the lovers, and there wasthe vigilant watcher; but which of these three was a prey to thestrongest emotion it would be difficult to tell. On the one side wasthe mighty power of love; on the other the dread force of hate. Tenderness dwelt here; vengeance waited there. Close together werethese three, but while Hilda heard even the very breathing of thelovers, they were unconscious of her presence, and heard not thebeating of that baleful heart, which now, filled with quenchlesshate, 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 wordshad spoken it. 

"Oh, my friend!" suddenly exclaimed Lord Chetwynde, in a voice whichwas low and deep and full of passion--a voice which was his own, andno longer a whisper--"Oh, my friend! my beloved! forgive my words;forgive my wildness, my passion; forgive my love. It is agony to mewhen I know that I must lose you. Soon we must part; I must go, mybeloved! 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 livewithout you?"

These words poured forth from him in passionate impetuosity--burningwords they were, and the lady whose hand he clasped seemed to quiverand tremble in sympathy with their meaning. He clung to her hand. Every moment deprived him more and more of that self-restraint andthat profound consideration for her which he had so long maintained. Never before had he so forgotten himself as to speak words likethese. But now separation was near, and she was alone with him, andthe hour and the opportunity were his. 

"I can not give you up. My life without you is intolerable, " hegroaned. "God knows how I have struggled against this. You know howfaithfully I have kept a guard over my words and acts. But now mylonging 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 todo 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 intodesolation and despair. Come with me. We will fly to India. We willbe happy there through life. We will forget all the miseries that wehave known in the great joy that we will have in one another'spresence. Say that you will. See! I give up every thing; I throw allconsiderations to the winds. I trample even on _honor_ and _duty_ foryour sake. Come with me!"

He paused, breathless from the terrible emotion that had nowoverpowered 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. Donot; do not!"

"Tempt you? No, no!" cried Lord Chetwynde, feverishly. "Do not sayso. I ask you only to save me from despair. "

He rose to his feet as he said this, and stood by her, still holdingthat hand which he would not relinquish. And the one who watched themin her agony saw an anguish as intense as hers in that quiveringframe which half shrank away from Lord Chetwynde, and half advancedtoward him; in those hands, one of which was held in his, while theother was clasped to her heart; and in Lord Chetwynde himself, who, though he stood there before her, yet stood trembling from head tofoot in the frightful agitation of the hour. All this Hilda saw, andas she saw it she learned this--that all the hopes which she had everformed of winning this man to herself were futile and baseless andimpossible. In that moment they faded away; and what was left? What?Vengeance!

Suddenly Lord Chetwynde roused himself from the struggle that ragedwithin him. It was as though he had resolved to put an end to allthese conflicts with himself. He dragged Zillah toward him. Wildlyand madly he seized her. He flung his arms about her, and pressed herto 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--youwill not--you dare not refuse me!"

Zillah at first was overwhelmed by this sudden outburst. But soon, bya mighty effort, she seemed to gain control over herself. She toreherself away, and staggered back a few paces. 

"Spare me!" she gasped. "Have pity! have mercy! If you love me, Iimplore you by your love to be merciful! I am so weak. As you hopefor heaven, spare me!"

She was trembling violently, and her words were scarcely coherent. Atthe deep and piteous entreaty of her voice Lord Chetwynde's heartwas touched. With a violent effort he seemed to regain hisself-control. A moment before he had been possessed of a wild, ungovernable passion, which swept all things away. But now this wassucceeded by a calm, and he stood for a time silent. 

"You will forgive me, " he said at last, sadly. "You are more noblethan I am. You do right to refuse me. My request seems to you likemadness. 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 winyou, for there is a gulf between us. You may have suspected--I ammarried already! Between us there stands one who keeps us foreverasunder; _and--that--one--I--hate--worse--than--death_!"

He spoke these last words slowly, and with a savage emphasis, intowhich all the intensity of his love had sent an indescribablebitterness. 

And there was one who heard those words, in whose ears they rang likea death-knell; one crouched behind among the shrubbery, whose handsclung to the lattice of the arbor; who, though secure in herconcealment, could scarcely hide the anguish which raged within her. At these words the anguish burst forth. A groan escaped her, and allher senses seemed to fail in that moment of agony. 

Zillah gave a cry. 

"What was that? Did you hear it?" she exclaimed, catching LordChetwynde's arm. 

Lord Chetwynde had heard it also. "It's nothing, " said he, afterlistening 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 scarcelybreathe. "

"Take off your mask, " said Lord Chetwynde; and with trembling handshe assisted her to remove it. His tone and manner reassured her. Shebegan to think that the sound was nothing after all. Lord Chetwyndehimself thought but little of it. His own excitement had been sointense that every thing else was disregarded. He saw that she wasalarmed, but attributed this to the excitement which she hadundergone. He now did his best to soothe her, and in his newfoundcalm he threw away that impetuosity which had so overpowered her. Atlast she regained something like her former self-possession. 

"We must go back, " said he at length. "Wait here a few moments, and Iwill 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 hearda noise directly behind her. She started. In her agitated state shewas a prey to any feeling, and a terror crept over her. She hastenedout with the intention of following Lord Chetwynde. 

The figure, crouching low behind the arbor, had seen Lord Chetwynde'sdeparture. Now her time had come--the time for vengeance! His bitterwords had destroyed all hope, and all of that patient cunning whichshe might otherwise have observed. Blind with rage and passion, therewas only one thought in her mind, and that was instant and immediatevengeance. She caught her dagger in her hand, and strode out upon hervictim. 

The light which hung from the branch of the tree shone upon thearbor. The back-ground was gloomy in the dense shadow, while theintervening space was illumined. Hilda took a few quick paces, clutching her dagger, and in a moment she reached the place. But inthat instant she beheld a sight which sent through her a pang ofsudden horror--so sharp, so intense, and accompanied by so dread afear, that she seemed to turn to stone as she gazed. 

It was a slender figure, clothed in white, with a white mantlegathered close about the throat, and flowing down. The face waswhite, and in this dim light, defined against the dark back-ground oftrees, it seemed like the face of the dead. The eyes--large, lustrous, burning--were fixed on her, and seemed filled withconsuming fire as they fastened themselves on her. The dark hair hungdown in vast voluminous folds, and by its contrast added to themarble whiteness of that face. And that face! It was a face which wasnever absent from her thoughts, a face which haunted her dreams--theface of her victim--the face of Zillah!

[Illustration: "She Beheld A Sight Which Sent Through Her A Pang OfHorror. "]

Hilda had only one thought, and that was this, that the sea had givenup its dead, and that her victim had come to confront her now; in thehour of vengeance to stand between her and another victim. It was butfor an instant that she stood, yet in that instant a thousandthoughts swept through her mind. But for an instant; and then, with aloud, piercing shriek, she leaped back, and with a thrill of mortalterror plunged into the thick wood and fled afar--fled with thefeeling 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, andheld her pressed convulsively to his heart, looking with unutterablelonging upon her pale face, and pressing his burning lips to her coldbrow. There was a great terror in his heart, for he could not thinkwhat it might be that had happened, and he feared that some suddenalarm had done this. Bitterly he reproached himself for so agitatingher. 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 extentthe cause, by the agitation which he had excited within her. Allthese thoughts and fears were in his mind as he held her upraised inhis arms, and looked wildly around for some means of restoring her. Afountain was playing not far away, under the trees, and the babble ofrunning water came to his ears amidst the deep stillness. There hecarried his precious burden, and dashed water in her face, and chafedher hands, and murmured all the time a thousand words of love andtenderness. To him, in his intense anxiety, the moments seemed hours, and the passage of every moment threw him into despair. But at lastshe revived, and finally opened her eyes to see the face of LordChetwynde 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 doesI shall die!"

"Leave you!" said Lord Chetwynde; and then he said nothing more, butpressed her hand in silence. 

After a few moments she arose, and leaning heavily on his arm shewalked with him up the path toward the fountain. On the way, withmany starts and shudders of sudden fear, she told him what hadhappened. 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 ablack 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, wildyell, which pierced to her heart. She fell senseless. Never whilelife lasts, she said, would she be able to forget that abhorrent cry. 

Lord Chetwynde listened eagerly. "That dress, " he said, "is thecostume of a Florentine society that devotes itself to the burial ofthe 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 beenaccidental. Some masker has watched us, and has tried to frightenyou. That is all. If I thought that we could have any enemy, I wouldsay that it was his work. But that is impossible. We are unknownhere. At any rate, you must not think that there has been any thingsupernatural about it. It seems to me, " he concluded, "that we havebeen mistaken for some others. "

This way of accounting for it served to quiet Zillah's fears, and bythe time that they reached the fountain she was more calm. Obed Chutewas waiting there, and as she pleaded fatigue, he at once had thecarriage ordered. 

CHAPTER LXV. 

HILDA'S DECISION. 

Hilda fled, and continued long in that frantic flight through thethick woods. As the branches of the underbrush crackled behind her, it seemed to her that it was the noise of pursuit, and the horror ofthat unexpected vision was before her, for to face it again seemed toher worse than death. She was strong of soul naturally; her nerveswere not such as give way beneath the pressure of imagination; shewas not a woman who was in any degree liable to the ordinaryweaknesses of a woman's nature; but the last few months had openednew feelings within her, and under the assault of those fierce, resistless feelings the strength of her nature had given way. Evenhad she possessed all her old strength, the sight of thisunparalleled apparition might have overwhelmed her, but as it was, itseemed to make her insane. Already shaken to her inmost soul by longsuffering and wild alternations of feeling, she had that nightattained the depths of despair in those words which she hadoverheard. Immediately upon that there came the direful phantom, which she felt that she could not look upon and live. That faceseemed to burn itself into her mind. It was before her as she fled, and a great horror thrilled through her, driving her onward blindlyand wildly, until at last nature itself gave way, and she fellshrieking with terror. 

Then sense left her. 

How long she lay she knew not. There was no one near to bring backthe lost sense. She awaked shuddering. She had never fainted thusbefore, and it seemed to her now as though she had died and risenagain to the sadness of life. Around her were the solemn foresttrees. The wind sighed through their branches. The sun was almost atthe meridian. It was not midnight when she fainted. It was mid-dayalmost when she recovered. There was a sore pain at her heart; allher limbs seemed full of bruises; but she dragged herself to a littleopening in the trees where the rays of the sun came down, and therethe sun's rays warmed her once more into life. There, as she sat, sherecalled the events of the night. The horror had passed, and she nolonger had that awful sense of a pursuing phantom; but there remainedthe belief, fixed within her soul, that she had seen the form of thedead. She was not superstitious, but in this instance the sight, andthe effects of that sight, had been so tremendous that she could notreason them away. 

She tried to dismiss these thoughts. What was she to do? She knewnot. And now as she thought there came back to her the remembrance ofLord Chetwynde's words, and the utterance of his hate. Thisrecollection rose up above the remembrance of her terrors, and gaveher something else for thought. What should she do? Should she giveup her purpose and return to England? This seemed to her intolerable. Chetwynde Castle had no attractions; and even if she were now assuredbeyond all doubt that she should be for all the rest of her life theacknowledged mistress of Chetwynde--even if the coronet were fixed onher brow beyond the chance of removal--even if the court and thearistocracy of England were eager to receive her into theirmidst--yet even then she found in these things nothing which couldalleviate her grief, and nothing which could afford any attraction. Her life was now penetrated with one idea, and that idea was all setupon Lord Chetwynde. If he was lost to her, then there was only oneof two alternatives--death to herself, or vengeance. Could she die?Not yet. From that she turned, not in fear, but rather from a feelingthat something yet remained to be done. And now, out of all herthoughts and feelings, the idea of vengeance rose up fiercely andirresistibly. It returned with something of that vehemence which hadmarked its presence on the previous night, when she rushed forth tosatisfy it, but was so fearfully arrested. But how could she now act?She felt as though the effort after vengeance would draw her oncemore 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 anyway, even if it required the sacrifice of his own life. To him shecould now turn. He could now do what she could not. If she had himonce more to act as her right hand, she might use him as a means forobservation and for vengeance. She felt now most keenly her ownweakness, and longed with a weary sense of desolation for some onewho might assist her, and do this work which lay before her. 

At last she rose to go. The warmth of the sun had restored somethingof her strength. The new resolutions which she had formed had givenenergy to her soul. She wandered about through the wood, and atlength reached a stonewall. It looked like the boundary of the villa. She followed this for some distance, expecting to reach the gate, andat 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 thepublic road on the other side, with Florence in the distance. She sawpretty nearly where she was, and knew that this was the nearest pointto her lodgings. To go back to the chief entrance would require along detour. It would also excite surprise. One in her peculiarcostume, on going out of the grounds, might be questioned; shethought it better to avoid this. She looked up and down the road, andseeing no one coming, she stepped to the top of the wall and letherself down on the opposite side. In a few moments she was on theroad, on her way back to Florence. Reaching the city, she at oncewent to the hotel, and arrived at her rooms without observation. 

That same day she sent off an urgent letter to Gualtier, asking himto come to Florence at once. 

After this excitement she kept her bed for a few days. Lord Chetwyndeheard that she was ill without expressing any emotion. When at lengthhe saw her he spoke in his usual courteous manner, and expressed hispleasure at seeing her again. But these empty words, which used toexcite 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. Shehad called to her side the minister of her vengeance. Lord Chetwyndesaw her pale face and downcast eyes, but did not trouble himself tosearch into the cause of this new change in her. She seemed to begrowing indifferent to him, he thought; but the change concerned himlittle. There was another in his heart, and all his thoughts werecentered on that other. 

After the masquerade Lord Chetwynde had hurried out to the villa, onthe following day, to make inquiries about her health. He foundZillah still much shaken, and exhibiting sufficient weakness toexcite his anxiety. Which of the many causes that she had foragitation and trouble might now be disturbing her he could not tell, but he sought to alleviate her troubles as much as possible. Hisdeparture for India had to be postponed, for how could he leave herin such a state? Indeed, as long as Obed Chute remained in Florencehe did not see how he could leave for India at all. 

CHAPTER LXVI. 

FAITHFUL STILL. 

When Hilda sent off her note to Gualtier she felt certain that hewould come to her aid. All that had passed between them had notshaken the confidence which she felt in his willingness to assist herin a thing like this. She understood his feelings so perfectly thatshe saw in this purpose which she offered him something which wouldbe more agreeable to him than any other, and all that he had everexpressed to her of his feelings strengthened this view. Even hisattempts to gain the mastery over her, his coercion by which heforced from her that memorable promise, his rage and his menaces atLausanne, were so many proofs of his love for her and his malignanthate to Lord Chetwynde. The love which she had once despised whileshe made use of it she now called to her aid, so as to make use of itagain, not thinking of what the reward would be which he would claim, not caring what his hope might be, indifferent to whatever the futuremight now reveal, and intent only upon securing in the best andquickest way the accomplishment of her own vengeful desires. 

This confidence which she felt in Gualtier was not unfounded, nor washer hope disappointed. In about a week after she had sent her lettershe received an answer. It was dated Florence. It showed that he hadarrived in the city, and informed her that he would call upon her assoon as he could do so with safety. There was no signature, but hishandwriting was well known to her, and told her who the writer was. 

About an hour after her receipt of the letter Gualtier himself wasstanding in her presence. He had not changed in appearance since shelast saw him, but had the same aspect. Like all pale and cadaverousmen, or men of consumptive look, there could be scarcely any changein him which would be for the worse. In Hilda, however, there was avery marked change, which was at once manifest to the searching gazeof 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 hadastonished him by her arrival at Lausanne. Her face was notemaciated, nor were her eyes set in dark cavernous hollows as then, nor was there on her brow the stamp of mortal weakness. What Gualtiersaw in her now had reference to other things. He had seen in hernervousness and agitation before, but now he marked in her a loss ofall her old self-control, a certain feverish impatience, a wild andunreasoning eagerness--all of which seemed to rise out ofrecklessness and desperation. Her gestures were vehement, her wordscareless and impassioned in tone. It was in all this that he markedthe greatness of the change in her. The feverish warmth with whichshe greeted him was of itself totally different from her old manner, and from its being so different it seemed to him unnatural. On thewhole, this change struck him painfully, and she seemed to him ratherlike one in a kind of delirium than one in her sober senses. 

"When I last bade you good-by, " said she, alluding in this verydelicate way to their parting at the hotel in Lausanne, "you assuredme that I would one day want your services. You were right. I wasmad. I have overcome my madness. I do want you, my friend--more thanever in my life before. You are the only one who can assist me inthis emergency. You gave me six months, you remember, but they arenot 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 whichGualtier felt in his inmost soul, and which made his whole beingthrill. Yet that clasp of his hand and that gaze and those words didnot inspire him with any pleasant hope. They hardly seemed like theacts or words of Hilda, they were all so unlike herself. Fardifferent from this was the Hilda whom he had known and loved solong. That one was ever present in his mind, and had been foryears--her image was never absent. Through the years he had feastedhis soul in meditations upon her grand calm, her sublime self-poise, her statuesque beauty, her superiority to all human weakness, whetherof love or of remorse. Even in those collisions into which she hadcome with him she had risen in his estimation. At Chetwynde she hadshown some weakness, but in her attitude to him he had discovered andhad adored her demoniac beauty. At Lausanne she had been evengrander, for then she had defied his worst menaces, and driven himutterly discomfited from her presence. Such was the Hilda of histhoughts. He found her now changed from this, her lofty calmtransformed to feverish impatience, her domineering manner changed toone of obsequiousness and flattery. The qualities which had onceexcited his admiration appeared now to have given way to othersaltogether commonplace. He had parted with her thinking of her as apowerful demon, he came back to her finding her a weak woman. 

But nothing in his manner showed his thoughts. Beneath all these layhis love, and the old devotion manifested itself in his reply. 

"You know that always and under all circumstances, my lady, you cancommand my services. Only one exceptional case has ever arisen, andthat you yourself can understand and excuse. "

Hilda sat down, motioning him also to a seat, and for a momentremained 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, ishe?"

"No. "

"I knew that very well, and waited for his departure before venturinghere. I know very well that if he were to catch even the faintestglimpse of me he would recognize me, and it would be somewhatdifficult for me to escape. But to-day I happened to see him go outof the Porta Livorna, and I know he is far off by this time. So, yousee, 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 benecessary, 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 Ithink I ought to tell you a very remarkable incident which happenedin London not long ago--and one, too, which came very near bringingmy career, and yours also, my lady, to a very sudden and a veryunpleasant 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 inLondon, and if I had not been unusually cautious I would have falleninto 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 beenaffected. 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 toyou as of your own existence, and to know that there could be nopossibility of my revealing any thing about you; no, " he added, ashis clenched fist fell upon the table, and his face flushed up deeplyat his rising feeling--"no, not even if it were still the fashion toemploy torture; not even the rack could extort from me one syllablethat could implicate you. After all that I have said, I swear that byall that is most holy!"

He did not look at Hilda as he said this, but his eyes were cast onthe floor, and he seemed rather like a man who was uttering aresolution to himself than like one who was making a statement toanother. But Hilda showed no emotion that corresponded with his. Anydanger to Gualtier, even though she herself were implicated, had noterrors for her, and could not make her heart throb faster by onesingle pulsation. She had other things on her mind, which to her faroutweighed 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 thetorture of her thoughts. In the secret of her heart she more thanonce wished and longed for some appalling calamity--something whichmight have power to engage all her thoughts and all her mind. Theanguish of her heart, arising out of her love for Lord Chetwynde, hadgrown 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 Gualtierabout the nature of the danger which he had escaped, wishing to knowwhat it might be, yet indifferent to it except so far as it mightprove to be a distraction to her cares. 

When Gualtier last vanished from the scene he had sent the boy to hislodging-house, with the agreement that he should meet him at eighto'clock. The boy's visit and its results have already been narrated. 

As for Gualtier, he was profoundly conscious all the while of thepossibility that a trap might be laid for him, and that, if this werethe case, the advent of his messenger would be seized upon by thosewho might be in pursuit of him, so as to get on his track. The verycautiousness which had caused him to seek out so carefully a propermessenger, and instruct him in the part which he was to play, kepthim on the anxious look-out for the progress of events. From the timethat the boy left he stationed himself at the window of his room, which commanded a view of the main entrance, and watched with theclosest scrutiny every one who came into the hotel. After a time hethought that the supposed pursuers might come in by some otherentrance. With this fear he retreated into his bedroom, which alsolooked out in front, and locked the door. He found another door herewhich led into an adjoining room, which was occupied. The key of thedoor between the bedroom and the sitting-room fitted this otherdoor, 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. Buthe still thought it most likely that any pursuers would come in bythe main door of the hotel, relying upon his information to the boythat he was to be absent. So with this view he stationed himself atthe bedroom window, as he had at first stationed himself at thesitting-room window, and watched the main entrance. It was a taskwhich needed the utmost vigilance. A great crowd was thronging thereand sweeping by; and among the multitudes that filled the sidewalk itwas impossible to distinguish any particular forms or faces exceptamong those who passed up the steps into the hotel. Any one who hadless at stake would have wearied of such a task, self-imposed as itwas; but Gualtier had too much at stake to allow of weariness, andtherefore he kept all his senses wide awake, looking with his eyes atthe main entrance, and with his ears listening to the footsteps thatcame 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 thatface and that figure in spite of the changed dress. It was BlackBill. 

A second look to confirm that first impression was enough. Likelightning there came to his mind the thought that Black Bill had beenwatching for him ever since with inexhaustible patience, hadencountered the boy, perhaps with the co-operation of the landlord, and had now come to arrest him. One moment sufficed to bring to hismind the thought, and the fear which was born of the thought. Withoutwaiting to take another glance, or to see who else might be in thecab, he hastily unlocked the doors of the bedroom, glided into thehall, passed down a back stairway, and left the hotel by a sideentrance far removed from the front-door. Then darting swiftlyforward he mingled with the crowd in the Strand, and was soon lost tothe pursuit of any followers. 

Such was Gualtier's story. To all this strange account Hilda listenedattentively. 

"It seems, " said she at length, "as though Black Bill has been morepersevering than we supposed. "

"Far more so than I supposed, " said Gualtier. "I thought that hewould have given up his watch long ago; or that, whether he wished ornot, he had been forced to do so from want of resources. But, afterall, he certainly has managed to hold on in some way. I suppose hehas secured the co-operation of the landlord, and has got up somebusiness at no great distance from the place, so that on theappearance 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 withhim. "

"Don't you think it likely that Black Bill may have had somecommunication 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 thepolice, and the very information which he would give against me wouldbe equally against himself. Such information would first of all leadto his own arrest. He would know that, and would keep clear of themaltogether. Besides, he is an old offender, and beyond a doubt verywell known to them. His past career has, no doubt, been marked bythem; and this information which he would give would be to themmerely a confession of fresh crime. Finding themselves unable tocatch me, they would satisfy themselves by detaining him. Oh no;Black Bill is altogether too cunning to have any thing to do with thepolice. "

"All that you have been saying, " remarked Hilda, "is very well in itsway, but unfortunately it is based on the supposition that Black Billwould tell the truth to the police. But, on the contrary, it ishighly probable that he would do nothing of the kind. He hasingenuity enough, no doubt, to make up a story to suit his particularcase, and to give it such a coloring as to keep himself free fromevery charge. "

"I don't see how he could do that very well. After all, what would bethe essence of his story? Simply this: that a crime had beencommitted, and that he, with some others, had participated in it. Theother offenders would be out of reach. What then? What? Why, BlackBill, from the fact of his own acknowledgment, would be taken incharge. "

"I don't see that. As I see it, there are various ways by which a manwith any cunning could throw all the guilt on another. He might denythat he knew any one was on board, but only suspected it. He mightswear that he and the rest were forced into the boat by you, he andthey being unarmed, and you well armed. There are other suppositionsalso by which he would be able to present himself in the light of aninnocent seaman, who, forced to witness the commission of a crime, had lost no time to communicate to the authorities the knowledge ofthat crime. "

"There is something in what you say. But in that case it would havebeen 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 towork the thing up himself; for in that case, if he succeeded, theprize 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 toBristol; after that to Chetwynde. I staid at Chetwynde till I gotyour note. "

"Did you not see any thing in any of the papers which might lead tothe suspicion that you were sought after, or that any thing was beingdone?"

"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 impossiblefor the police to work so comprehensively or so efficiently as theydo 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 Londonpolice, and they have communicated to the authorities in France. Ofcourse it all depends on him. The others can have done nothing. Healone is the man from whom any danger could possibly arise. Hissteady perseverance has a dangerous look, and it is difficult to tellwhat may come of it yet. "

After some further conversation Hilda proceeded to give Gualtier ageneral idea of the circumstances which had taken place since theyparted at Lausanne. Her account was brief and meagre, since she didnot wish to say more than was absolutely necessary. From what shesaid Gualtier gathered this, however--that Lord Chetwynde hadcontinued to be indifferent to Hilda, and he conjectured that hisindifference had grown into something like hostility. He learned, moreover, most plainly that Hilda suspected him of an intrigue withanother woman, of whom she was bitterly jealous, and it was on thisrival whom she hated that she desired that vengeance for which shehad summoned him. This much he heard with nothing but gratification, since he looked upon her jealousy as the beginning of hate; and thevengeance which she once more desired could hardly be thwarted asecond time. 

When she came to describe the affair of the masquerade, however, hertone changed, and she became much more explicit. She went into allthe details of that adventure with the utmost minuteness, describingall the particulars of every scene, the dresses which were worn bothby Lord Chetwynde and herself, and the general appearance of thegrounds. On these she lingered long, describing little incidents inher search, as though unwilling to come to the denouement. When shereached this point of her story she became deeply agitated, and asshe described the memorable events of that meeting with the fearfulfigure of the dead the horror that filled her soul was manifest inher looks and in her words, and communicated itself to Gualtier sostrongly 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 atvengeance being foiled in so terrible a manner? What would you thinkif yours were to be baffled in the same way? What would you say, whatwould you do, if there should come to you this awful phantom? Oh, myGod!" she cried, with a groan of horror, "shall I ever forget theagony of that moment when that shape stood before me, and all lifeseemed 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 someimpatience. 

"I am thinking that this event may be accounted for on naturalgrounds, " said he. 

"No, " said Hilda, warmly; "nothing in nature can account for it. Whenthe dead come back to life, reason falters. "

She shuddered as she spoke. 

"Yes, my lady, " said Gualtier, "but the dead do _not_ come back tolife. You have seen an apparition, I doubt not; but that is a verydifferent thing from the actual manifestation of the dead. What yousaw was but the emanation of your own brain. It was your own fancieswhich thus became visible, and the image which became apparent toyour eye was precisely the same as those which come in delirium. Aglass of brandy or so may serve to bring up before the eyes athousand abhorrent spectres. You have been ill, you have beenexcited, you have been taking drugs; add to this that on thatoccasion you were in a state of almost frenzy, and you can at onceaccount for the whole thing on the grounds of a stimulatedimagination and weak or diseased optic nerves. I can bring forwardfrom various treatises on the optic nerves hundreds of cases assingular as yours, and apparently as unaccountable. Indeed, if I findthat this matter continues to affect you so deeply, " he continued, with a faint smile, "my first duty will be to read up exclusively onthe subject, and have a number of books sent here to you, so as tolet you see and judge for yourself. "

CHAPTER LXVII. 

A SHOCK. 

Gualtier made still further explanations on this point, and mentionedseveral special cases of apparitions and phantom illusions of whichhe had read. He showed how in the lives of many great men such thingshad taken place. The case of Brutus was one, that of Constantineanother. Mohammed, he maintained, saw real apparitions of this sort, and was thus prepared, as he thought, for the prophetic office. Theanchorites and saints of the Middle Ages had the same experience. Jeanne d'Arc was a most conspicuous instance. Above all these stoodforth two men of a later day, the representatives of two oppositeprinciples, of two systems which were in eternal antagonism, yetthese two were alike in their intense natures, their vividimaginations, and the force of their phantom illusions. Luther threwhis ink-bottle at the head of the devil, and Loyola had many amidnight struggle with the same grim personage. 

To all this Hilda listened attentively, understanding fully histheory, and fully appreciating the examples which he cited in orderto illustrate that theory, whether the examples were those well-knownones which belong to general history, or special instances which hadcome under his own personal observation. Yet all his arguments andexamples failed to have any effect upon her whatever. After all thereremained fixed in her mind, and immovable, the idea that she had seenthe dead, and in very deed; and that Zillah herself had risen upbefore her eyes to confound her at the moment of the execution of hervengeance. Such a conviction was too strong to be removed by anyarguments or illustrations. That conviction, moreover, had beendeepened and intensified by the horror which had followed when shehad fled in mad fear, feeling herself pursued by that abhorrentshape, till she had fallen senseless. Nothing of this could be arguedaway. Nor did she choose to argue about it. While she listenedcarefully and attentively to Gualtier's words, she scarcely attemptedany rejoinder, but contented herself with a quiet reiteration of herformer belief. 

So this was dismissed. One thing remained, however, and that was theconclusion that Lord Chetwynde was carrying on a desperate intriguewith some English married lady, though whether the husband of thislady was himself English or Italian could not be told. It was evidentthat Lord Chetwynde's case was not that of the conventional cicisbeo. There was too much desperation in his love. This explained the coursewhich would be easiest to them. To track Lord Chetwynde, and find outwho this woman was, should be the first thing. On learning this hewas to leave the rest to Hilda. Hilda's work of vengeance would beginwith a revelation of the whole case to the supposed husband, andafter this they could be guided by circumstances. 

With such an understanding as this Gualtier withdrew to begin hiswork at once. Lord Chetwynde's visits to the villa continued asbefore, and under the same highly romantic circumstances. Going toIndia seemed removed from his thoughts further and further every day. He did not feel capable of rousing himself to such an effort. As longas he had the presence and the society of "Miss Lorton, " so long hewould stay, and as there was no immediate prospect of Obed Chute'sleaving Florence, he had dismissed all ideas of any very immediatedeparture on his part. As for Zillah she soon recovered her healthand spirits, and ceased to think about the fearful figure in thesummer-house of the fęte champętre. Lord Chetwynde also resumed thatstrong control over himself which he had formerly maintained, andguarded very carefully against any new outbreak like that of theVilla Rinalci. Yet though he could control his acts, he could notcontrol his looks; and there were times in these sweet, stoleninterviews of theirs when his eyes would rest on her with anexpression which told more plainly than words the story of hisall-absorbing love and tenderness. 

But while Lord Chetwynde was thus continuing his secret visits, therewas one on his track whom he little suspected. Looking upon his latevalet as a vulgar villain, whom his own carelessness had allowed toget into his employ, he had let him go, and had never made any effortto follow him or punish him. As for Hilda, if he ever gave her athought, it was one of vexation at finding her so fond of him thatshe would still stay with him rather than leave. "Why can't she goquietly back to Chetwynde?" he thought; and then his more generousnature interposed to quell the thought. He could not forget herdevotion in saving his life; though there were times when he feltthat the prolongation of that life was not a thing to be thankfulfor. 

As for the family, every thing went on pleasantly and smoothly. Obedwas always delighted to see Windham, and would have felt disappointedif he had missed coming every alternate day. Miss Chute shared herbrother's appreciation of the visitor. Zillah herself showed no signswhich they were able to perceive of the depth of her feelings. Filled, as she was, with one strong passion, it did not interferewith the performance of her duties; nor, if it had done so, would herfriends 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. Itwas far more perilous than any which he had yet undertaken. Once herelied upon Lord Chetwynde's ignorance of his face, or hiscontemptuous indifference to his existence. On the strength of thishe had been able to come to him undiscovered and to obtainemployment. But now all was changed. Lord Chetwynde was keen andobservant. When he had once chosen to take notice of a face he wouldnot readily forget it; and to venture into his presence now would beto insure discovery. To guard against that was his first aim, and sohe determined to adopt some sort of a disguise. Even with a disguisehe saw that it would be perilous to let Lord Chetwynde see him. Hildahad told him enough to make known to him that his late master wasfully conscious now of the cause of his disease, and suspected hisvalet only, so that the watch of the pursuer must now be maintainedwithout his ever exposing himself to the view of this man. 

After a long and careful deliberation he chose for a disguise thecostume of a Tuscan peasant. Although he had once told Hilda that henever adopted any disguises but such as were suited to his character, yet on this occasion his judgment was certainly at fault, since sucha disguise was not the one most appropriate to a man of hisappearance and nature. His figure had none of the litheness and graceof movement which is so common among that class, and his sallow skinhad nothing in common with the rich olive complexion of the Tuscanface. But it is just possible that Gualtier may have had some littlepersonal vanity which blinded him to his shortcomings in thisrespect. The pallor of his face was, however, to some extentcorrected by a red kerchief which he bound around his head, and theeffect of this was increased by a dark wig and mustache. Trusting tothis disguise, he prepared for his undertaking. 

[Illustration: "He Followed Watchfully And Stealthily. "]

The next day after his interview with Hilda he obtained a horse, andwaited at a spot near Lord Chetwynde's lodgings, wearing a voluminouscloak, one corner of which was flung over his left shoulder in theItalian fashion. A horse was brought up to the door of the hotel;Lord Chetwynde came out, mounted him, and rode off. Gualtier followedat 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 intothe gateway of a villa and disappear. He did not care about followingany further, and was very well satisfied with having found out thismuch so easily. 

Leaving his horse in a safe place, Gualtier then posted himselfamidst a clump of trees, and kept up his watch for hours. He had towait almost until midnight; then, at last, his patience was rewarded. It was about half past eleven when he saw Lord Chetwynde come out andpass 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 theroad, and had sufficient acquaintance with Italian to inquire fromthe people about the villa where Lord Chetwynde had gone. He learnedthat it belonged to a rich Milor Inglese, whose name no one knew, butwho was quite popular with the neighboring peasantry. They spoke ofladies in the villa; one old one, and another who was young and verybeautiful. There were also children. All this was very gratifying toGualtier, who, in his own mind, at once settled the relationship ofall these. The old woman was the mother, he thought, or perhaps thesister of the Milor Inglese; the young lady was his wife, and theyhad children. He learned that the Milor Inglese was over fifty yearsold, and the children were ten and twelve; a circumstance whichseemed to show that the younger lady must at least be thirty. Hewould have liked to ask more, but was afraid to be too inquisitive, for fear of exciting suspicion. On the whole, he was very wellsatisfied with the information which he had gained; yet there stillremained far more to be done, and there was the necessity ofcontinued watching in person. To this necessity he devoted himselfwith untiring and zealous patience. 

For several days longer he watched thus, and learned that onalternate days Lord Chetwynde was accustomed to ride in at the chiefgate, while on the other days he would leave his horse behind andwalk in at a little private gate at the nearer end of the park, andsome considerable distance from the main entrance. This at onceexcited his strongest suspicions, and his imagination suggested manydifferent motives for so very clandestine yet so very methodical asystem of visiting. Of course he thought that it had reference to alady, and to nothing else. Then the question arose once more--what todo. It was difficult to tell; but at length his decision was made. Hesaw that the only way to get at the bottom of this mystery would beto enter the grounds and follow Lord Chetwynde. Such an enterprisewas manifestly full of danger, but there was positively no help forit. He could not think of going back to Hilda until he had gainedsome definite and important information; and; all that he had thusfar discovered, though very useful as far as it went, was stillnothing more than preliminary. The mystery had not yet been solved. He had only arrived at the beginning of it. The thought of thisnecessity, which was laid upon him, determined him to make the boldresolution of running all risks, and of tracking Lord Chetwyndethrough the smaller gate. 

So on one of those days when he supposed that Lord Chetwynde would becoming there he entered the little gate and concealed himself in thewoods, in a place from which he could see any one who might enterwhile he himself would be free from observation. 

He was right in his conjectures. In about half an hour the man whomhe was expecting came along, and entering the gate, passed closebeside him. Gualtier waited for a time, so as to put a respectfuldistance between himself and the other. Then he followed watchfullyand stealthily, keeping always at the same distance behind. For ahundred yards or so the path wound on so that it was quite easy tofollow without being perceived. The path was broad, smooth, well-kept, with dark trees overhanging, and thus shrouding it ingloom. At last Lord Chetwynde suddenly turned to the left into anarrow, rough pathway that scarce deserved the name, for it waslittle better than a track. Gualtier followed. This path wound somuch, and put so many intervening obstacles between him and theother, that he was forced to hurry up so as to keep nearer. In doingso he stepped suddenly on a twig which lay across the track. It brokewith a loud snap. At that moment Lord Chetwynde was but a few yardsaway. He turned, and just as Gualtier had poised himself so as todart back, he caught the eyes of his enemy fixed upon him. There wasno time to wait. The danger of discovery was too great. In an instanthe plunged into the thick, dense underbrush, and ran for a longdistance in a winding direction. At first he heard Lord Chetwynde'svoice shouting to him to stop, then steps ceased, and Gualtier, discovering this, stopped to rest. The fact of the case was, thatLord Chetwynde's engagement was of too great importance to allow himto be diverted from it--to run the risk of being late at the trystfor the sake of any vagabond who might be strolling about. He hadmade but a short chase, and then turned back for a better purpose. 

Gualtier, while he rested, soon discovered that he had not theremotest idea of his position. He was in the middle of a denseforest. The underbrush was thick. He could see nothing which mightgive him any clew to his whereabouts. After again assuring himselfthat all was quiet, he began to move, trying to do so in as straighta line as possible, and thinking that he must certainly come outsomewhere. 

He was quite right; for after about half an hour's rough anddifficult 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 todecide; but at length he turned to the right, and walked onward. Along this he went for nearly a mile. It then grew wider, and finallybecame a broad way with thick, well-cut hedges on either side. Itseemed to him that he was approaching the central part of theseextensive grounds, and perhaps the house itself. This belief wasconfirmed soon by the appearance of a number of statues and vaseswhich ornamented the pathway. The fear of approaching the house andof being seen made him hesitate for some time; yet his curiosity wasstrong, and his eagerness to investigate irrepressible. He felt thatthis opportunity was too good a one to lose, and so he walked onrapidly yet watchfully. At length the path made a sudden sweep, andhe saw a sight before him which arrested his steps. He saw a broadavenue, into which his path led not many paces before him. And at nogreat distance off, toward the right, appeared the top of the villaemerging from among trees. Yet these things did not attract hisattention, which centered itself wholly on a man whom he saw in theavenue. 

This man was tall, broad-shouldered, with rugged features and wide, square brow. He wore a dress-coat and a broad-brimmed hat of Tuscanstraw. In an instant, and with a surprise that was only equaled byhis fear, Gualtier recognized the form and features of Obed Chute, which had, in one interview in New York, been very vividly impressedon his memory. Almost at the same time Obed happened to see him, sothat retreat was impossible. He looked at him carelessly and thenturned away; but a sudden thought seemed to strike him; he turnedonce more, regarded the intruder intently, and then walked straightup to him. 

CHAPTER LXVIII. 

THE VISION OF THE DEAD. 

Gualtier stood rooted to the spot, astounded at such a discovery. Hisfirst impulse was flight. But that was impossible. The hedgeway oneither side was high and thick, preventing any escape. The flightwould have to be made along the open path, and in a chase he did notfeel confident that he could escape. Besides, he felt more likerelying on his own resources. He had a hope that his disguise mightconceal him. Other thoughts also passed through his mind at thatmoment. 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? Thatseemed the most natural thing to believe. 

But he had no time for thought, for even while these were passingthrough his mind Obed was advancing toward him, until finally hestood before him, confronting him with a dark frown. There wassomething in his face which showed Gualtier that he was recognized. 

"You!" cried Obed; "you! I thought so, and it is so, by the Lord! Inever forget a face. You scoundrel! what do you want? What are youdoing here? What are you following me for? Are you on that businessagain? Didn't I give you warning in New York?"

There was something so menacing in his look, and in his wrathfulfrown, that Gualtier started back a pace, and put his hand to hisbreast-pocket to seize his revolver. 

"No you don't!" exclaimed Obed, and quick as lightning he seizedGualtier'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 itover me, you scoundrel! Here--off with all that trash. "

And knocking off Gualtier's hat, as he held his hand in a grasp fromwhich the unhappy prisoner could not release himself, he tore off hiswig and his mustache. 

Gualtier was not exactly a coward, for he had done things whichrequired great boldness and presence of mind, and Obed himself hadsaid this much in his criticisms upon Black Bill's story; but at thepresent moment there was something in the tremendous figure of Obed, and also in the fear which he had that all was discovered, which madehim cower into nothingness before his antagonist. Yet he said not aword. 

"And now, " said Obed, grimly, "perhaps you'll have the kindness toinform me what you are doing here--you, of all men in theworld--dodging about in disguise, and tracking my footsteps. What thedevil do you mean by sneaking after me again? You saw me once, andthat ought to have been enough. What do you want? Is it somethingmore about General Pomeroy? And what do you mean by trying to draw apistol 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 contrivedto get out of the difficulty by his cunning and presence of mind. Butthis was by no means an ordinary case. This giant who thus seemed tocome down upon him us suddenly as though he had dropped from theskies, and who thundered forth these fierce, imperative questions inhis ear, did not allow him much space in which to collect histhoughts, or time to put them into execution. There began to comeover him a terror of this man, whom he fancied to be intimatelyacquainted with his whole career. "Thus conscience does make cowardsof us all, " and Gualtier, who was generally not a coward, felt verymuch like one on this occasion. Morally, as well as physically, hefelt himself crushed by his opponent. It was, therefore, with utterhelplessness, and the loss of all his usual strength of mind andself-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. Spiesgenerally do. "

"I came to see you. "

"To see _me_, hey? Then why didn't you come like a man? What's themeaning of this disguise?"

"Because you refused information once, and I thought that if I camein another character, with a different story, I might have a betterchance. "

"Pooh! don't I see that you're lying? Why didn't you come up throughthe avenue like a man, instead of sneaking along the paths? Answer methat. "

"I wasn't sneaking. I was merely taking a little stroll in yourbeautiful grounds. "

"Wasn't sneaking?" repeated Obed; "then I'd like very much to knowwhat sneaking is, for my own private information. If any man everlooked like a sneak, you did when I first caught your eye. "

"I wasn't sneaking, " reiterated Gualtier; "I was simply strollingabout. I found a gate at the lower end of the park, and walked upquietly. 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 Ineither looked scared nor felt scared. I dare say I may have putmyself 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 theshock. "

"Fell back a step!" sneered Obed; "you looked around to see if youhad any ghost of a chance to run for it, and saw you had none. That'sabout 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 toask you a question?"

"What's that?--you found _me_? Why, you villain! I found _you_. Youare a cool case, too. Answer _you_ a question? Not a bit of it. ButI'll tell you what I will do. I intend to teach you a lesson that youwon't forget. "

"Beware, " said Gualtier, understanding the other's threat--"bewarehow you offer violence to me. "

"Oh, don't trouble yourself at all. I intend to beware. My first ideawas 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. Sooff with you!"

At this Obed released his grasp, and keeping Gualtier before him heforced him along the avenue toward the gate. 

"You needn't look round, " said Obed, grimly, as he noticed a furtiveglance 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 betterthan you, being an American born. You needn't try to walk fastereither, " he continued, "for you can't escape. I can run faster thanyou, my legs being longer. You don't know the grounds, either, halfso well as I do, although I dare say you've been sneaking about hereever since I came. Bat let me tell you this, my friend, for yourinformation. You can't come it over me, nohow; for I'm a freeAmerican, and I always carry a revolver. Take warning by that onefact, and bear this in mind too--that if I ever see your villainousface about here again, or if I find you prowling about after me anywhere, I swear I'll blow your bloody brains out as sure as my name'sObed 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. Theporter opened it for them, and Gualtier made a wild bound forward. But he was not quick enough; for Obed, true to his promise, wasintent on giving him that last kick of which he had spoken. He sawGualtier's start, and he himself sprang after him with fearful force. Coming up to him, he administered to him one single blow with hisfoot, so tremendous that it was like the stroke of a catapult, andsent the unhappy wretch headlong to the ground. 

After doing this Obed calmly went back, and thought for some time onthis singular adventure. He had his own ideas as to the pertinacityof this man, and attributed it to some desire on his part toinvestigate the old affair of the Chetwynde elopement. What hisparticular personal interest might be he could not tell, nor did hecare much. In fact, at this time the question of his visitor'smotives hardly occupied his mind at all, so greatly were his thoughtsoccupied with pleasurable reminiscences of his own parting salute. 

As for Gualtier, it was different; and if his thoughts were also onthat parting salute, it was for some time. The blow had been aterrible one; and as he staggered to his feet he found that he couldnot walk without difficulty. He dragged himself along, overcome bypain and bitter mortification, cursing at every step Obed Chute andall belonging to him, and thus slowly and sullenly went down theroad. But the blow of the catapult had been too severe to admit of aneasy recovery. Every step was misery and pain; and so, in spite ofhimself, he was forced to stop. But he dared not rest in any placealong the road-side; for the terror of Obed Chute was still strongupon him, and he did not know but that this monster might still takeit into his head to pursue him, so as to exact a larger vengeance. Sohe clambered up a bank on the roadside, where some trees were, andamong these he lay down, concealing himself from view. 

Pain and terror and dark apprehensions of further danger affected hisbrain. Concealed among these trees, he lay motionless, hardly daringto breathe, and scarcely able to move. Amidst his pain there stillcame to him a vague wonder at the presence of Obed Chute here in suchclose friendship with Lord Chetwynde. How had such a friendshiparisen? How was it possible that these two had ever becomeacquainted? Lord Chetwynde, who had passed his later life in India, could scarcely ever have heard of this man; and even if he had heardof this man, his connection with the Chetwynde family had been ofsuch a nature that an intimate friendship like this was the lastthing which might be expected. Such a friendship, unaccountable as itmight be, between these two, certainly existed, for he had seensufficient proofs of it; yet what Lord Chetwynde's aims were hecould not tell. It seemed as though, by some singular freak offortune, he had fallen in love with Obed Chute's wife, and was havingclandestine meetings with her somewhere. If so, Obed Chute was thevery man to whom Hilda might reveal her knowledge, with the assurancethat the most ample vengeance would be exacted by him on thedestroyer of his peace and the violator of his friendship. 

Amidst his pain, and in spite of it, these thoughts came, and othersalso. He could not help wondering whether in this close associationof these two they had not some one common purpose. Was it possiblethat they could know any thing about Hilda? This was his firstthought; and nothing could show more plainly the unselfish nature ofthe love of this base man than that at a time like this he shouldthink of her rather than himself. Yet so it was. His thought was, Dothey suspect _her_? Has Lord Chetwynde some dark design against her, and are they working in unison? As far as he could see there was nopossibility of any such design. Hilda's account of Lord Chetwynde'sbehavior toward her showed him simply a kind of tolerance of her, asthough he deemed her a necessary evil, but none of that aversionwhich he would have shown had he felt the faintest suspicion of thetruth. That truth would have been too terrific to have been bornethus 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 healways showed--which, cold though it might be in her eyes, was stillnone the less the courtesy which a gentleman shows to a lady who ishis equal. But had he suspected the truth she would have been acriminal of the basest kind, and courtesy from him to her would havebeen impossible. He saw plainly, therefore, that the truth withregard to Hilda could not be in any way even suspected, and that thusfar she was safe. Another thing showed that there could be noconnection between these two arising out of their family affairs. Certainly Lord Chetwynde, with his family pride, was not the man whocould ally himself to one who was familiar with the family shame;and, moreover, Hilda had assured him, from her own knowledge, thatLord Chetwynde had never learned any thing of that shame. He hadnever known it at home, he could not have found it out very easily inIndia, and in whatever way he had become acquainted with thisAmerican, it was scarcely probable that he could have found it outfrom him. Obed Chute was evidently his friend; but for that veryreason, and from the very nature of the case, he could not possiblybe known to Lord Chetwynde as the sole living contemporary witness ofhis mother's dishonor. Obed Chute himself was certainly the last manin the world, as Gualtier thought, who would have been capable ofvolunteering such information as that. These conclusions to which hecame were natural, and were based on self-evident truths. Yet stillthe question remained: How was it that these two men, who more thanall others were connected with those affairs which most deeplyaffected himself and Hilda, and from whom he had the chief if not theonly reason to fear danger, could now be joined in such intimatefriendship? And this was a question which was unanswerable. 

As Hilda's position seemed safe, he thought of his own, and wonderedwhether there could be danger to himself from this. Singularlyenough, on that eventful day he had been seen by both Lord Chetwyndeand Obed Chute. Lord Chetwynde, he believed, could not haverecognized him, or he would not have given up the pursuit so readily. Obed Chute had not only recognized him, but also captured him, andnot only captured him, but very severely punished him; yet the veryfact that Obed Chute had suffered him to go showed how complete hisignorance must be of the true state of the case. If he had but knowneven a portion of the truth he would never have allowed him to go; ifhe and Lord Chetwynde were really allied in an enterprise such as heat first feared when he discovered that alliance, then he himselfwould have been detained. True, Obed Chute knew no more of him thanthis, that he had once made inquiries about the Chetwynde familyaffairs; yet, in case of any serious alliance on their part, this ofitself would have been sufficient cause for his detention. Yet ObedChute had sent him off. What did that show? This, above all, that hecould not have any great purpose in connection with his friend. 

Amidst all these thoughts his sufferings were extreme. He lay therefearful of pursuit, yet unable to move, distracted by pain both ofbody and mind. Time passed on, but his fears continued unabated. Hewas excited and nervous. The pain had brought on a deep physicalprostration, which deprived him of his usual self-possession. Everymoment he expected to see a gigantic figure in a dress-coat and abroad-brimmed hat of Tuscan straw, with stern, relentless face andgleaming eyes, striding along the road toward him, to seize him in aresistless grasp, and send him to some awful fate; or, if not that, at any rate to administer to him some tremendous blow, like thatcatapultian kick, which would hurl him in an instant into oblivion. 

The time passed by. He lay there in pain and in fear. Excitement andsuffering had disordered his brain. The constant apprehension ofdanger made him watchful, and his distempered imagination made himfancy that every sound was the footstep of his enemy. Watchfulagainst this, he held his pistol in his nerveless grasp, feelingconscious at the same time how ineffectively he would use it if theneed for its use should arise. The road before him wound round thehill up which he had clambered in such a way that but a small part ofit was visible from where he sat. Behind him rose the wall of thepark, and all around the trees grew thickly and sheltered him. 

Suddenly, as he looked there with ceaseless vigilance, he becameaware 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 thatface there were gathered great masses of dark hair. To his disorderedsenses it seemed at that moment as if this figure glided along theground. 

Filled with a kind of horror, he raised himself up, one hand stillgrasping the pistol, while the other clutched a tree in front of himwith a convulsive grasp, his eyes fixed on this figure. Something inits outline served to create all this new fear that had arisen, andfascinated his gaze. To his excited sensibility, now rendered morbidby the terrors of the last few hours, this figure, with its whiterobes, seemed like something supernatural sent across his path. Itwas dim twilight, and the object was a little indistinct; yet hecould see it sufficiently well. There was that about it which sent anawful suspicion over him. All that Hilda had told him recurred to hismind. 

And now, just as the figure was passing, and while his eyes wereriveted on it, the face slowly and solemnly turned toward him. 

At the sight of the face which was thus presented there passedthrough him a sudden pang of unendurable anguish--a spasm of terrorso intolerable that it might make one die on the spot. For a momentonly he saw that face. The next moment it had turned away. The figurepassed on. Yet in that moment he had seen the face fully andperfectly. He had recognized it! He knew it as the face of one whonow lay far down beneath the depths of the sea--of one whom he hadbetrayed--whom he had done to death! This was the face which now, inall the pallor of the grave, was turned toward him, and seemed tochange him to stone as he gazed. 

The figure passed on--the figure of Zillah--to thisconscience-stricken wretch a phantom of the dead; and he, overwhelmedby this new horror, sank back into insensibility. 

CHAPTER LXIX. 

THE VISION OF THE LOST. 

It was twilight when Gualtier sank back senseless. When he at lastcame to himself it was night. The moon was shining brightly, and thewind was sighing through the pines solemnly and sadly. It was sometime before he could recall his scattered senses so as to understandwhere he was. At last he remembered, and the gloom around him gaveadditional force to the thrill of superstitious horror which wasexcited by that remembrance. He roused himself with a wild effort, and hunted in the grass for his pistol, which now was his onlyreliance. Finding this, he hurried down toward the road. Every limbnow ached, and his brain still felt the stupefying effects of hislate swoon. It was only with extreme difficulty that he could draghimself along; yet such was the horror on his mind that he despisedthe pain, and hurried down the road rapidly, seeking only to escapeas soon as possible out from among the shadows of these dark andterrible woods, and into the open plain. His hasty, hurried stepswere attended with the severest pain, yet he sped onward, and, atlast, after what seemed to him an interminable time, he emerged outof the shadows of the forest into the broad, bright moonlight of themeadows which skirt the Arno. Hurrying along for a few hundred yards, he sank down at last by the roadside, completely exhausted. In aboutan hour he resumed his journey, and then sank exhausted once more, after traversing a few miles. It was sunrise before he readied theinn 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 whenhe knew that Lord Chetwynde was out, he called on Hilda. 

He had not been there or seen her since that visit which he had paidon his first arrival at Florence from England. He had firmly resolvednot to see her until he had done something of some consequence, andby this resolution he intended that he should go to her as thetriumphant discoverer of the mystery which she sought to unravel. Something had, indeed, been done, but the dark mystery lay stillunrevealed; and what he had discovered was certainly important, yetnot of such a kind as could excite any thing like a feeling oftriumph. He went to her now because he could not help it, and went inbitterness and humiliation. That he should go at all under suchcircumstances only showed how complete and utter had been hisdiscomfiture. But yet, in spite of this, there had been no cowardiceof which he could accuse himself, and he had shrunk from no danger. He had dared Lord Chetwynde almost face to face. Flying from him, hehad encountered one whom he might never have anticipated meeting. Last of all, he had been overpowered by the phantom of the dead. Allthese were sufficient causes for an interview with Hilda, if it wereonly for the sake of letting her know the fearful obstacles that wereaccumulating before her, the alliance of her worst enemies, and thereappearance of the spectre. 

As Hilda entered the room and looked at him, she was startled at thechange in him. The hue of his face had changed from its ordinarysallow complexion to a kind of grizzly pallor. His hands shook withnervous tremulousness, his brow was contracted through pain, his eyeshad a wistful eagerness, and he seemed twenty years older. 

"You do not look like a bearer of good news, " said she, after shakinghands 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 thatthe mystery is deeper than ever. "

"You seem to me to be very quickly discouraged, " said Hilda, in adisappointed tone. 

"That which I have found out and seen, " said Gualtier, solemnly, "issomething which might discourage the most persevering, and appall theboldest. My lady, " he added, mournfully, "there is a power at workwhich stands between you and the accomplishment of your purpose, anddashes us back when that purpose seems nearest to its attainment. "

"I do not understand you, " said Hilda, slowly, while a darkforeboding arose in her mind, and a fearful suspicion of Gualtier'smeaning. "Tell me what you mean, and what you have been doing since Isaw you last. You certainly must have had a very unusual experience. "

It was with an evident effort that Gualtier was able to speak. Hiswords came painfully and slowly, and in this way he told his story. 

He began by narrating the steps which he had taken to secure himselffrom discovery by the use of a disguise, and his first tracking ofLord Chetwynde to the gates of the villa. He described the situationto her very clearly, and told her all that he had learned from thepeasants. He then told her how, by long watching, he had discoveredLord Chetwynde's periodical visits, alternately made at the great andthe small gate, and had resolved to find out the reason of such verysingular journeys. 

To all this Hilda listened with breathless interest and intenseemotion, which increased, if possible, up to that time when he wasnoticed and pursued by Lord Chetwynde. Then followed the story of hisjourney through the woods and the paths till he found himself face toface with Obed Chute. 

At the mention of this name she interrupted him with an exclamationof wonder and despair, followed by many questions. She herself feltall that perplexity at this discovery of his friendship with LordChetwynde which Gualtier had felt, and all the thoughts which thenhad occurred to him now came to her, to be poured forth ininnumerable questions. Such questions he was, of course, unable toanswer. The appearance of this man upon the scene was a circumstancewhich excited in Hilda's mind vague apprehensions of some unknowndanger; yet his connection with Lord Chetwynde was so inexplicablethat it was impossible to know what to think or to fear. 

The discussion of this new turn in the progress of things took upsome time. Exciting as this intelligence had been to Hilda, theconclusion of Gualtier's narrative was far more so. This was theclimax, and Gualtier, who had been weak and languid in speaking aboutthe other things, here rose into unusual excitement, enlarging uponevery particular in that occurrence, and introducing all thosedetails which his own vivid imagination had in that moment of halfdelirium thrown around the figure which he had seen. 

"_It_ floated before me, " said he, with a shudder; "its robes werewhite, and hung down as though still dripping with the water of thesea. It moved noiselessly until it came opposite to me, and thenturned its full face toward me. The eyes were bright and luminous, and seemed to burn into my soul. They are before me yet. Never shallI forget the horror of that moment. When the figure passed on I felldown senseless. "

"In the name of God!" burst forth Hilda, whose eyes dilated with theterror of that tale, while she trembled from head to foot in fearfulsympathy, "is this true? Can it be? Did you, too, see _her_?"

"Herself, and no other!" answered Gualtier, in a scarce audiblevoice. 

"Once before, " said Hilda, "that apparition came. It was to me. Youknow what the effect was. I told you. You were then very cool andphilosophical. Yon found it very easy to account for it on scientificprinciples. You spoke of excitement, imagination, and diseased opticnerves. Now, in your own case, have you been able to account for thisin the same way?"

"I have not, " said Gualtier. "Such arguments to me now seem to benothing but words--empty words, satisfactory enough, no doubt, tothose who have never had this revelation of another world, but idleand meaningless to those who have seen what I have seen. Why, do Inot know that she is beneath the Mediterranean, and yet did I not seeher myself? You were right, though I did not understand yourfeelings, when you found all my theories vain. Now, since I have hadyour 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 beforeus, " she continued, solemnly, "to thwart our plans and our purposes. The dead wife of Lord Chetwynde comes back from beneath the sea toprevent our undertakings, and to protect him from us. "

Gualtier said nothing. In his own soul he felt the deep truth of thisremark. Both sat now for some time in silence and in solemnmeditation, 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 tocomplete that business. It was nearly done. The worst was over. Youshould 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 theopportunity. As for me, you know that I could not become his valetagain. The chance was once all my own, but you destroyed it. I darenot venture before him again. It would be ruin to both of us. Hewould 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 canhave access to his presence, tell me, and I will gladly risk my lifeto please you. "

But Hilda knew of none, and had nothing to say. 

"You, and you alone, have the power now, " said Gualtier; "this workmust be done by you alone. "

"Yes, " said Hilda, after a pause. "It is true, I have the power--Ihave the power, " she repeated, in a tone of gloomy resolve, "and thepower 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 beacted upon at any moment. "

"Would you dare to do it?"

"Dare to do it!" repeated Hilda. "Do you ask that question of meafter what I told you at Lausanne? Did I not tell you there that whatI dared to administer to another, I dared also to administer tomyself? You surely must remember how weak all those menaces of yoursproved 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 becauseto me all life, and all the honors and pleasures of life, had grownto be nothing without that one aim after which I was seeking. Do younot understand yet?"

"My God!" was Gualtier's reply, "how you love that man!" These wordsburst forth involuntarily, as he looked at her in the anguish of hisdespair. 

Hilda's eyes fastened themselves on his, and looked at him out of thedepths of a despair which was deeper than his own--a despair whichhad 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 youmean. It can not be worse than this life of mine. "

"But you do not understand what it means, " said Gualtier. "I am notspeaking of the mere act itself, but of its consequences. Picture toyourself Lord Chetwynde exulting over this, and seeing that hatedobstacle removed which kept him from his perfect happiness. You die, and you leave him to pursue uninterrupted the joy that he has withhis paramour. Can you face such a thought as that? Would not thiswoman rejoice at hearing of such a thing? Do you wish to add to theirhappiness? Are you so sublimely self-sacrificing that you will die tomake 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 whomshe guards against, or her guardian. Obed Chute is no doubt theman--either her father or guardian, and Lord Chetwynde has to guardagainst suspicion. But what then? If you die, can he not find someother, and solace himself in her smiles, and in the wealth that willnow be all his own?"

These words stung Hilda to the quick, and she sat silent andthoughtful. To die so as to get rid of trouble was one thing, but adeath which should have such consequences as these was a verydifferent thing. Singularly enough, she had never thought of thisbefore. And now, when the thought came, it was intolerable. Itproduced within her a new revolution of feeling, and turned herthoughts 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 manythings to be considered, and these required time. 

"But you will not desert me, " said she, suddenly; for she fanciedfrom Gualtier's manner that he had given up all further idea ofhelping her. 

His face flushed. 

"Is it possible that you can still find any way to employ me? This ismore than I hoped for. I feared that your indignation at my failurewould cause you to dismiss me as useless. If you can find any thingfor me to do, I can assure you that the only happiness that I canhave will be in doing that thing. "

[Illustration: "The Dead And The Lost All Come To Me. "]

"Your failure, " said Hilda, "was not your fault. You have done well, and suffered much. I am not ungrateful. You will be rewarded yet. Ishall yet have something for you to do. I will send for you when thetime comes. "

She rose as she said this, and held out her hand to Gualtier. He tookit respectfully, and with an earnest look at her, full of gratitudeand devotion, he withdrew. 

Hilda sat for a long time involved in deep thought. What should beher next plan of action? Many different things suggested themselves, but all seemed equally impracticable, or at least objectionable. Norwas she as yet prepared to begin with her own hands, and by herself, that part which Gualtier had suggested. Not yet were her nervessteady enough. But the hint which Gualtier had thrown out about theprobable results of her own death upon Lord Chetwynde did more toreconcile her to life than any thing that could have happened shortof actually gaining him for herself. 

Wearied at last of fruitless plans and resultless thoughts, she wentout for a walk. She dressed herself in black, and wore a heavy blackcrape veil which entirely concealed the features. She knew no one inFlorence from whom she needed to disguise herself, but her nature wasof itself secretive, and even in a thing like this she choseconcealment rather than openness. Besides, she had some vague hopesthat she might encounter Lord Chetwynde somewhere, perhaps with thiswoman, and could watch him while unobserved herself. 

She walked as far as the church of Santa Croce. She walked up thesteps with a vague idea of going in. As she walked up there came awoman down the steps dressed in as deep mourning as Hilda herself. She was old, she was slender, her veil was thrown back, and the whiteface was plainly visible to Hilda as she passed. Hilda stood rootedto the spot, though the other woman did not notice her emotion, norcould 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 withclasped 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--inthe same town with Lord Chetwynde? Am I ruined yet or not? I'm afraidI have not much time left me to run my course. "

In deep despondency she retraced her steps, and went back to herroom. 

CHAPTER LXX. 

NEW PROJECTS. 

The unexpected appearance of Mrs. Hart was in many respects, and formany reasons, an awful shock to Hilda. It was a new danger, lessterrible than that which had arisen from the phantom which had twiceappeared, yet perhaps in reality more perilous. It filled her withapprehensions of the worst. All that night she lay awake thinkingover it. How had Mrs. Hart come to Florence, and why, and what wasshe doing here? Such were her thoughts. Was she also in connectionwith Lord Chetwynde and with this Obed Chute? It seemed probable. Ifso, then it seemed equally probable that there was some design onfoot against her. At first the thought of this inspired in her agreat fear, and a desire to fly from the impending danger. For amoment 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 hertroubles. But this thought was only momentary, for higher than herdesire for comfort or peace of mind rose her thirst for vengeance. Itwould not satisfy her that she alone should suffer. Lord Chetwyndealso should have his own share, and she would begin by unmasking himand revealing his intrigue to her supposed husband. 

On the following day Gualtier called, and in a few words she told himwhat had taken place. 

"Are you really confident that it was Mrs. Hart?" he asked, with someanxiety. 

"As confident as I am of my own existence. Indeed, no mistake waspossible. "

Gualtier looked deeply troubled. 

"It looks bad, " said he; "but, after all, there are ways ofaccounting for it. She may have heard that Lord Chetwynde intended togo to Italy and to Florence--for it was quite possible that hementioned it to her at the Castle--and when she went away she mayhave intended to come here in search of him. I dare say she went toLondon first, and found out from his solicitors where he had gone. There isn't the slightest probability, at any rate, that he can havemet with her. If he had met with her, you would have known ityourself soon enough. She would have been here to see his wife, withthe same affectionate solicitude which she showed once before--whichyou told me of. No. Rest assured Lord Chetwynde knows nothing of herpresence here. There are others who take up all his thoughts. Itseems probable, also, that she has just arrived, and there is nodoubt that she is on the look-out for him. At any rate, there is onecomfort. You are sure, you say, that she did not recognize you?"

"No; that was impossible; for I wore a thick veil. No one couldpossibly 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 ourselvesliving in the dark all this time--unless she is really in league withLord Chetwynde. And who can tell? Perhaps all this time this Chuteand Mrs. Hart and Lord Chetwynde have their own designs, and arequietly weaving a net around me from which I can not escape. Who cantell? 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 hedoes not think enough about you to take the smallest trouble one wayor another. "

Hilda's eyes blazed. 

"He shall have cause enough to think about me yet, " she cried. "Ihave 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 encounterhim? He would treat you as brutally as a savage. I know him well. Ihave reason to. You are not the one to go there. "

"Oh yes, lam, " said Hilda, carelessly. "You forget what a differencethere is between a visit from you and a visit from me. "

"There is a difference, it is true; but I doubt whether Obed Chute isthe man to see it. At any rate, you can not think of goingwithout some pretext. And what one can you possibly have that will beat all plausible?"

"Pretext! I have the best in the world. It is hardly a pretexteither. I intend to go openly, in my own proper person--as LadyChetwynde. "

"As Lady Chetwynde!" repeated Gualtier, in amazement. "What do youmean? Would it be too much to ask you what your plan may be, or whatit is that you may have in view?"

"It's simple enough, " said Hilda. "It is this. You will understand itreadily enough, I think. You see, I have discovered by accident somemysterious writing in cipher, which by another accident I have beenenabled to unravel. Now you understand that this writing makes veryserious charges indeed against my father, the late General Pomeroy. He is dead; but I, as an affectionate daughter, am most anxious tounderstand the meaning of this fearful accusation thus made againstthe best of men. I have seen the name of this Obed Chute mentioned insome of the papers connected with the secret writing, and have foundcertain letters from him referring to the case. Having heard veryunexpectedly that he is in Florence, I intend to call on him toimplore 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 haveto rely upon circumstances. Whatever those circumstances may be, Ishall, at least, be confronted with Lord Chetwynde, and find out whothis woman is. I hope to win the friendship and the confidence ofthese people. They will pity me, sympathize with me, and invite methere. If Lord Chetwynde is such a friend, they can hardly overlookhis wife. The woman, whoever she may be, even if she hates me, as shemust, will yet see that it is her best policy to be at least civil tome. 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--youmust succeed, where I have failed so miserably. "

"No, " said Hilda, "you have not failed. Had it not been for you Icould never have had this chance. It is by your discovery of ObedChute that you have made my present course possible. You havesuffered for my cause, but your sufferings will make that cause atlast 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, " saidHilda. "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 nearthe 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 wishyou to see who goes and comes. Go out there to-day, and watch. Youneed not go within a mile of the villa itself; that will be enough. You will then know when Lord Chetwynde comes. You can watch frombehind 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 timethat phantom. "

"I will go out to-morrow, or on the following day. I want you to beon the watch, and see who may go to the villa, so that when I comeyou may let me know. I do not want to call unless I positively knowthat Lord Chetwynde will be there, and the family also. They maypossibly go out for a drive, or something may happen, and this iswhat I want you to be on the look-out for. If Lord Chetwynde isthere, and that woman, there will probably be a scene, " continuedHilda, gloomily; "but it will be a scene in which, from the verynature of the case, I ought to be triumphant. I've been suffering toomuch of late. It is now about time for a change, and it seems to methat it is now my turn to have good fortune. Indeed, I can notconceive how there can be any failure. The only possible awkwardnesswould 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 foundLord 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_, " saidGualtier. 

"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 thereason, however, they are now of priceless value. For they enable menow to go as the daughter of one who has been charged in these paperswith the commission of the most atrocious crimes. This must all beexplained to me, and by this Obed Chute, who is the only livingperson who can do it. "

"I am glad that what I have done will be useful to you, " saidGualtier. "You may trust to me now to do all that man can do. I willgo and watch and wait till you come. "

Hilda thereupon expressed the deepest gratitude to him, and she didthis in language far more earnest than any which she had ever beforeused to him. It may have been the consciousness that this would bethe last service which he was to perform for her; it may have been anintentional recognition of his past acts of love and devotion; it mayhave been a tardy act of recognition of all his fidelity andconstancy; 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 yethope 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 soaddressed her. Not even in the hour of his triumph and coercion hadhe ventured upon this. But now her kindness had emboldened him. Hetook 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 solemncadence came to her voice--"then you will be the one who willremember, and _I_ shall be the one _to be remembered_. Farewell, myfriend!"

She held out her hand. 

Once more Gualtier pressed it to his lips. 

Then he took his departure. 

CHAPTER LXXI. 

A RACE FOR LIFE. 

On leaving Hilda Gualtier went out to the villa. Before his departurehe furnished himself with a new disguise, different from his formerone, and one, too, which he thought would be better adapted to hispurposes of concealment. A gray wig, a slouched hat, and the dress ofa peasant, served to give him the appearance of an aged countryman, while a staff which he held in his hand, and a stoop in hisshoulders, heightened the disguise. He got a lift on a wine-cart forsome miles, and at length reached a place not far away from thevilla. 

The villa itself, as it rose up from among surrounding trees, on aspur of the Apennines, was in sight. On either side of the valleyrose the mountains. The Arno, as it wound along, approached the placeon this side of the valley, and the mountains were not more than halfa mile distant, though on the other the plain was several miles inwidth. The place which Gualtier had chosen seemed to him to be quitenear enough to the villa for observation, and far enough distant forsafety. The thought of a possible encounter with Obed Chute was everpresent in his mind, and this time he determined to guard against allsurprise, and, if an encounter should be inevitable, to use hisrevolver before his enemy could prevent him. His pride and hismanhood both urged him to gain some satisfaction for that shame onboth which he had experienced. 

After watching one afternoon he obtained lodging at a humblefarm-house, and when the next morning came he rose refreshed bysleep, and encouraged by the result of his meditations. He began tobe hopeful about final success. The scheme which Hilda had formedseemed to be one which could not fail by any possibility. WhateverHilda's own purposes might be, to him they meant one thing plainly, and that was a complete and irreparable breach between herself andLord Chetwynde. To him this was the first desire of his heart, sincethat removed the one great obstacle that lay between him and her. Ifhe could only see her love for Lord Chetwynde transformed tovengeance, and find them changed from their present attitude offriendship to one of open and implacable enmity, then his own hopesand prospects would be secured, as he thought. Already he saw thebeginning of this. In Hilda's manner, in her tone, in her looks, hemarked the fierce anger and vengeful feeling which had now takenpossession of her. He had witnessed also a greater consideration forhimself, arising this time not out of coercion, but from free-will. All this was in his favor. Whether she could ever fully succeed inher thirst for vengeance did not much matter. Indeed, it was betterfor him that the desire should not be carried out, but that sheshould remain unsatisfied, for then Lord Chetwynde would only becomeall the more hateful to her every day, and that hate would serve togive to him fresh opportunities of binding her to himself. 

All these thoughts encouraged him. A hope began to rise within hisheart brighter than any which he had ever dared to entertain before. He found himself now so completely identified with Hilda's dearestplans and purposes, and so much deeper an understanding between them, that it was impossible for him to refrain from encouraging his hopesto the utmost. 

Now, as he sat there watching, his fears of danger grew weaker, andhe felt emboldened to venture nearer, so as to fulfill to the utmostthe wishes of Hilda. Her image drove out from his thoughts thefrowning face of Obed Chute, and the white form of that phantom whoseaspect had once crushed him into lifelessness. He thought that it wasbut a feeble devotion to wait in ambush at such a distance, when, byventuring nearer, he might learn much more. Hours passed, and therewas 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 beresisted. He determined to venture nearer--how near he did not know;at any rate, he could safely venture much nearer than this. Had henot his disguise, and was he not armed? And when he met Hilda wouldit not be shame to him if he could only tell her that he had staid sofar away, and had feared to venture nearer?

He started off. His bowed form, white face, peasant garb, and thestaff which supported his unsteady steps, he thought would be surelyan impenetrable disguise. True, once before the keen glance of ObedChute had penetrated his disguise, but then the circumstances underwhich they met were suspicious. Now, even if he should chance to meethim, he could not be suspected. Who would suspect an aged peasanttoiling along the public highway?

He gained fresh courage at every step. As he drew nearer and stillnearer to the villa he began to think of venturing into the groundsonce more. He thought that if he did so he could be more guarded, andsteal along through the trees, beside the paths, and not on them. Thethought became a stronger temptation to him every moment, and atlength, as he advanced nearer, he had almost decided to venture intothat little gate, which was now full in view. He sat down by theroad-side and looked at it. At length he rose and walked on, havingmade up his mind to pass through, at any rate, and be guided bycircumstances. It would be something to his credit, he thought, if hecould only tell Hilda that he had been in those grounds again. 

But as he advanced he heard the sound of approaching wheels. Somecarriage was coming rapidly down the road toward him, and he pausedfor a moment, as the idea struck him that possibly the tremendousObed Chute might be in it. He walked on very slowly, looking keenlyahead. 

Soon the carriage came into view from behind a bend in the road. Athrill passed through Gualtier in spite of himself. He grasped hisstaff in his right hand, and plunging his left into hisbreast-pocket, he grasped his pistol. Nearer and nearer the carriagecame, and he could easily recognize the square face, broad shoulders, and stalwart frame of Obed Chute. With him there was a lady, whoseface he could not as yet recognize. And now there arose within him anintense desire to see the face of this lady. She was beyond a doubtthe very one of whom Lord Chetwynde was so eager and so constant inhis pursuit. Could he but see her face once it would be a great gain, for he could recognize her elsewhere, and thus do something ofimportance in assisting Hilda. With this determination in his mind hewent on, and bowing down his head like a decrepit old man, he hobbledalong, leaning on his staff, but at the same time keeping his eyesupturned and fixed on the lady. 

The carriage came nearer and nearer. A strange feeling came overGualtier--something like an anguish of fear and of wonder. At lastthe 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 insomething like pity. That face! Was this another vision?

Great God!

[Illustration: "'Stop!' She Cried, Tearing With One Hand At TheReins. "]

A groan burst from him as this face thus revealed itself. What wasthis? What did it mean? Was this, too, a phantom? Was it a deceit andmockery of his senses? Was it an eidolon from the realms of death, orcould it be an actual material object--a living being? Here was onewhom he _knew_ to be dead. How came she here? Or by what marvel couldany 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 thathorror and in that surprise. Spell-bound he stood, while his face wasupturned and his eyes were fixed on the lady. 

And thus, as he stood rooted to the spot, motionless and staring, thecarriage 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 thelady. At first she had a vague idea that it was a beggar, but oncoming closer she recognized all. As the carriage dashed by shesprang suddenly to her feet with a piercing scream. She snatched thereins convulsively and tore at them in a sort of frenzy. 

"It is _he_! It is _he_! Stop!" she cried, tearing with one hand atthe reins and with the other gesticulating vehemently in someuncontrollable passion. "It is he--it is Gualtier! Stop! Quick! Seizehim, or it will be too late!"

That scream and those words roused Obed. He, too, had noticed thefigure by the roadside, but he had only thrown a careless glance. Thewords of Zillah, however, thrilled through him. He pulled in thehorses 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, myassassin! He is disguised! I know him! It is Gualtier! He is trackingme now! Stop him! Seize him! Don't let him escape! Make haste!"

These words burst from her like a torrent, and these, with her wildgesticulations, showed the intensity of her excitement. In an instantObed had divined the whole meaning of this. A man in disguise hadalready penetrated even into his grounds. This he thought was thesame man, in another disguise, still haunting the place and prowlingabout with his sinister motive. By Zillah's words he saw that she hadrecognized this man Zillah's words he saw that she had recognizedthis man as that very Gualtier after whom he had been searching solong, and whose name had been so constantly in his mind. And now, inthe same instant, he saw that the man who had once sought him inAmerica, and who had recently ventured into his park, was the veryone who had betrayed Miss Lorton--the man on whose track he had beensetting the police of England, France, and Italy. 

It was but for an instant that this thought filled his mind. Inanother instant Obed had flung down the reins and sprung into theroad. 

Meanwhile Gualtier had stood motionless, horror-stricken, andparalyzed. But the scream of Zillah and her frantic words had shownhim 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 thuscome to life he could not know, nor was there time to conjecture. Fornow another danger was impending, and, in the person of Obed Chute, was rushing down swiftly upon him. At the sight of this new peril hehesitated not a moment, but snatched his pistol, took aim, and firedshot after shot. But in his haste and agitation a correct aim wasimpossible. He fired wildly. Four bullets, one after the other, whistled through the air past Obed's head, yet he still came on. Thevision of that awful face rushing down upon him thus through thesmoke-clouds, with vengeance gleaming from the eyes, and the resolutemouth close shut in implacable sternness, was sufficient to showGualtier that his career was nearly run. He had a sudden feeling thatall was lost. With a wild leap he bounded over the ditch by theroadside, and tore over the fields with the frantic speed of oneflying from death. 

But the avenger was at his heels. 

To fly from vengeance and from death is a thing that brings a strongmotive to exertion, but there are other things sometimes which maygive an equal impulse. Gualtier was lithe, sinewy, and agile, nimbleof foot too, and inspired by the consciousness of danger; but the manwho pursued him was one whose mighty thews and sinews had been formedunder the shadows of the Alleghanies, and trained by years of earlyexperience to every exercise of strength. This man also was inspiredby a feeling which could contribute a motive for exertion as powerfulas the fear which filled the heart of Gualtier, and his own pride, his honor, and his affection for Zillah, all urged him on. Hefollowed fast, and followed faster. Gualtier had a long start, butObed steadily gained, until at last the fugitive could hear thefootsteps of his pursuer. 

Between the skirts of the hills and the Arno there was a plain abouttwo miles in width. On the other side of the river the fields spreadaway again for a wider extent, interspersed with groves andvineyards. The Arno was full, and flowing rapidly. Here, then, seemedto be to the fugitive the last chance for escape--here, in thatswift-flowing river. Gualtier could swim admirably. Toward this riverhe turned his flying steps, thinking that his pursuer might not beable to follow, and hoping for safety here. Yet all the time heexpected to hear a pistol-shot, for Obed had already told him, inthat memorable meeting in the park, that he earned a revolver. Thathe did not use it now seemed to Gualtier to show plainly that he musthave left it behind. As for Obed, he neither fired a pistol-shot northreatened to fire one. He did not even draw his revolver from hispocket. He simply ran as fast as he could after the fugitive. 

That fugitive, in order to gain the river, was compelled to runobliquely, 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 someadditional paces. But to Gualtier that river-bank was now the placeof 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 twoshots, which might yet avail him at the last moment. Onward, then, hebounded with frantic exertions while these thoughts sped through hismind. But, mingled with these, there came strange floating thoughtsof that figure in the carriage--that one who had met with a wondrousresurrection from the death to which he had sent her, and who was nowlooking on at his flight, and the pursuit of her avenger. All thesevarious thoughts swept confusedly through his brain in the madness ofthat hour; for thus it is that often, when death seems to impend, themind becomes endowed with colossal powers, and all the events of astormy and agitated life can be crowded into one moment. Now, asGualtier fled, and as he contrived his plan of escape by the river, there were in his mind, parallel with these thoughts, others of equalpower--thoughts of that fair young girl whom he had cast adrift in asinking ship on the wide midnight sea. Saved she had been, beyond adoubt, for there she was, with her eyes fixed on him in his agony. Avenged she would be also, unless he could escape that terriblepursuer who now every moment came faster and faster behind. 

Avenged? No, not yet. Still there was a chance. The river flowed nearwith its full stream. The opposite shores seemed to invite him; thetrees and groves and vineyards there seemed to beckon him onward. Atlast his feet were on the bank. One plunge, he thought, arid he wouldbe safe. But for one instant he delayed that plunge. There were otherdesires in his heart than that of safety--there was the desire forvengeance. Still there was a chance left. His pistol was in hishand--it yet held two shots. In these he might find both safety andvengeance. 

Suddenly he turned as he reached the bank, and instantaneously hedischarged the last shots of the pistol at his pursuer. Then heplunged headlong into the river. 

Another pursuer, even if he had not fallen, might have faltered atall these pistol-shots. Not so Obed. To him the revolver was afamiliar thing--a toy, in fact, the sport of all his life. Oftenbefore had pistol-shots whistled about his head, and undercircumstances far more dangerous than this. Obed's life had been avaried one, and he could tell many strange tales of adventures in thewestern parts of America--that country where civilized man hasencountered, and can still encounter, those tribes which are his mostformidable foes. If at that moment Obed could have bared his mightybody to plunge into the Arno, he could have exhibited a vast numberof old scars from wounds which had been received in Kansas, inCalifornia, and in Mexico. But Obed had not time to bare his mightybody. As those last pistol-shots flashed before him he had not timeeven to wink his eyes, but rushing on with unabated vigor, he reachedthe river's bank, and in a moment had plunged in after Gualtier. 

The fugitive heard that plunge. He heard behind him the quick strokesof 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 chancehad failed utterly. This man who had insulted him, bullied him, andoverpowered him--this man who had been impervious to his shots on theroad and on the river-bank--this man who had gained on him steadilyin that desperate race for life which he had run--this demon of a manwas now gaining on him in the water also! If his pursuer had stood onthe bank and had shot him, he might have received the wound and sankto death without a murmur. But to be followed so, to be caught, to bedragged back--this was the terror and the shame. This stimulated himto fiercer exertions. Despair itself gave a kind of madness to hisefforts. But terror and shame and despair itself could not snatch himfrom the grasp of his remorseless pursuer. Nearer and nearer thatpursuer came; more and more desperate grew Gualtier's efforts. Invain. As he struck out with almost superhuman exertions he suddenlyfelt his foot grasped by a resistless hand. All was over. Thatdespair which a moment before had intensified his efforts now relaxedhis strength. He felt himself dragged back to the shore from which hehad been flying. He was lost! He struggled no longer to escape, butonly to keep his head above water, from an instinct ofself-preservation. And in that anguish of fear and despair that nowsettled upon his soul he had a vague terror that on the moment oflanding he would be annihilated. 

But, instead of that, he felt himself raised to his feet, and thestrong grasp relaxed its hold. He looked up at his captor, and sawhim standing before him regarding him with a grim smile. "So you'rethe Gualtier, are you, " said Obed, "of whose exploits I have heard somuch? You're rather a small parcel, I should say, but you've donecon-siderable mischief, somehow. "

Gualtier did not know what to make of this, but thought it only alittle preliminary play, after which he would be flung headlong intothe river by some catapultian kick. 

"See here, " said Obed; "a fellow that pretends to carry a revolverought to be ashamed of himself for firing such shots as you did. Youinfernal fool, you! you've gone and lost six of the best chances anyman 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 nationaland original weapon--the everlasting revolver. Don't you feel like afool? You know you do!"

At this extraordinary address Gualtier was, if possible, still morebewildered. 

"You deserved to be caught, " continued Obed, "for you temptedProvidence. Providence gave you the most glorious chance I ever sawin all my born days. After using up your chance with the revolver youhad this here boundless plain to run upon. Why, I've dodged a hundredIndians 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 Ididn't happen to feel inclined to use my revolver. It didn't seemfair. " And saying this, Obed tenderly drew out his revolver from hisbreast-pocket, and exhibited it in a loving way to the astoundedGualtier. "I saw, " he continued, "that it would be a mostunscientific waste of lead. The very first shot you fired showed thatyou were utterly unacquainted with our American invention, and thenext was as bad. Why, out of the whole six only one hit me. Seehere. "

And Obed held up his left hand. The last joint of the middle fingerhad 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 hadbeen in your place, I'd have got off. With such a start I'd engage toescape from a dozen men. I'd drop six with the pistol, and dodge theother six. See here. Do you see that bit of woods?" And takingGualtier's arm, he pointed to a clump of trees that rose like anisland 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 madestraight for that in a bee-line; then dodged behind it. Perhaps I'dhave followed; but then you could have crossed to the other side, gotout of sight, and while I was looking for you, off you'd get to theriver. If I'd have gone on the opposite side you could have cut offamong the mountains. A man, " concluded Obed, in a tone of intensesolemnity--"a man that could throw away such a chance as that hastempted Providence, and don't deserve anything. Young man, you're agone sucker!"

Gualtier heard all this, and understood this eccentric but grimaddress. He felt that it was all over with him. He had one desperatethought of snatching at the revolver, which Obed still held in hishand with apparent carelessness; but he saw that such an attemptwould be madness. The very instant that he had looked Obed hadnoticed it, and understood it. 

He gave a low laugh. 

"You'd better not, " said he, and then motioned him toward thecarriage. Gualtier walked on in silence. Obed did not deign to touchhis 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 toprevent such an attempt. 

"You've showed considerable sense in walking quietly along, " saidObed, as they came near to the carriage. "If you'd tried to run itwould have been worse for you. You'd have lost a limb, _sure_. "

Then Obed stopped, and forced him to look at the ground which theyhad gone over, and showed what excellent chances he had thrown away. 

On reaching the carriage Zillah was calmer, though still greatlyexcited. She said nothing to Gualtier, nor did the latter venture tolook at her. In the flight his wig and hat had fallen off, so thatnow 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. 

CHAPTER LXXII. 

IN PRISON. 

Gualtier was driven back to the villa, quite in ignorance as to hisfinal destination. He was on the front seat, not bound at all, andthere was one moment when there seemed a last chance of escape. Itwas at a time when Zillah had noticed Obed's wound, and began toquestion him about it with eager sympathy, while Obed tried to assureher that it was nothing. But Zillah would not be satisfied. Sheinsisted on binding it up. She took her handkerchief, and, though sheknew no more about such things than a child, prepared to do what shecould. Obed soon saw her ignorance, and proceeded to give herdirections. At last he took her handkerchief and tore it into severalstrips, with a laughing promise to tear his up some day for her. Atthis moment he was quite intent on Zillah, and she was absorbed inher work. It seemed to Gualtier that he was forgotten. The carriage, also, was ascending the hill. On each side were lofty treesovershadowing it, while beyond them lay a deep forest. All thisGualtier saw. Here was a last chance. Now or never might he escape. He watched for an instant. Obed was showing Zillah how to make theknot, when suddenly, with a quick leap, Gualtier sprang from thecarriage seat out into the road. He stumbled and fell forward as hisfeet touched the road, but in an instant he recovered himself. Theroad-side was a steep bank, which ascended before him, covered withforests. Beyond this were the wild woods, with rocks and underbrush. If he could but get there he might find a refuge. Thither he fledwith frantic haste. He rushed up the steep ascent, and in among thetrees. For some distance the wood was open, and the trees rose onhigh at wide distances with no underbrush. Beyond that there was adenser growth. Through this he ran, stimulated by this new chance forlife, and wishing that he had once again that revolver whose shots hehad wasted. 

As he leaped from the carriage Zillah had given a loud cry, and inanother moment Obed had divined the cause and had sprung out inpursuit. 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 hehurried onward, hearing at every pace the step of his pursuer. Atlength he reached the thicker part of the wood. He turned and doubledhere like a fox. He did not know where to go, but sought to gain someslight advantage. He thought that he might find some place where fora few moments he might baffle his pursuer. This was the hope that nowremained. Turning and doubling, therefore, and winding, he continuedhis flight; but the pursuer still maintained his pursuit, and as yetGualtier had gained no advantage. In fact, he had lost groundgradually, 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, thicklywooded up to its very margin and then descending abruptly. Towardthis he fled, thinking that some place might show itself where hemight descend, and where his pursuer might fear to follow. He boundedalong in a winding direction, trying to conceal his purpose. Atlength he reached the edge of the precipice. At the point to which hehad come the descent was abrupt, but ledges jutted out from the sideof the cliff, and seemed to afford a chance for a descent to one whowas bold enough to venture. There was no time for examination or forhesitation. Swiftly Gualtier ran on till he reached what seemed afavorable place, and then, throwing himself over, his feet caught aprojecting ledge, and he reached down his hand to secure a grasp of arock, so as to let himself down further. He looked down hurriedly soas to see the rock which he wished to grasp, when at that veryinstant his arm was seized, and a low, stern voice said:

"No go! up with you, you scoundrel! and thank the Lord I don't blowyour brains out. "

He was dragged up, flung on the ground, and his hands bound tightlybehind him with Obed's handkerchief. After this he was dragged backto the carriage. 

So failed his last hope. 

"You couldn't have done it, " said Obed. "I saw it all the time. Icould have shot you fifty times, but, as I knew I was going to catchyou, I didn't touch my pistol. I don't blame you for making thetrial. I'd have done the same. But you see now that you have got yourhands tied up by way of punishment. You can't say but that I'vetreated you on the square, any how. "

Gualtier said nothing, but was taken back and put in the carriageonce more. Zillah saw that his hands were tied, and felt more secureas 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. Heinformed Zillah that he himself intended to take Gualtier to the cityand hand him over to the authorities; and that she might make hermind easy as to his capture this time, for he would not allow even anattempt at an escape again. 

During these preparations Obed stood waiting near the carriage, whileGualtier sat there with his hands bound. Gladly would he have availedhimself of any other chance, however desperate, but there was none. His hands were bound, his enemy was watchful and armed. Under suchcircumstances there remained no hope. His last attempt had been madeboldly and vigorously, but it had failed. So he gave himself up todespair. 

The brougham was soon ready. Obed put Gualtier inside and got inhimself after him. Then they drove away. Lord Chetwynde was expectedthat afternoon, and he might meet him on the road. He had made up hismind, however, not to recognize him, but to let him learn the greatevent from Zillah herself. After giving information to his sister asto the time at which he expected to be back he drove off; and soonthe brougham with its occupants was moving swiftly onward out of thevilla park, down the descending road, and on toward Florence. 

Obed rode inside along with Gualtier all the way. During that drivehis mind found full occupation for itself. The discovery and thecapture of this man made a startling revelation of several mostimportant yet utterly incomprehensible facts. 

First, he recognized in his prisoner the man who had once visited himin New York for the purpose of gaining information about LadyChetwynde. That information he had refused to give for certainreasons of his own, and had very unceremoniously dismissed the manthat had sought it. 

Secondly, this was the same man who in disguise had penetrated intohis villa with all the air and manner of a spy, and who, by thusfollowing him, showed that he must have been on his track for a longtime. 

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 hadonly been saved by a mere accident. This was the man who had won theaffections of Miss Lorton's friend, Hilda, who had induced her toshare his villainy and his crime; the man who had for so long a timebaffled the utmost efforts of the chief European police, yet who hadat last been captured by himself. 

Now about this man there were circumstances which to Obed wereutterly incomprehensible. 

It was conceivable that the man who had sought him in New York shouldtrack him to Florence. He might have an interest in this affair ofLady Chetwynde deep enough to inspire so pertinacious a search, sothat the difficulty did not consist in this. The true difficulty layin the fact that this man who had come to him first as the inquirerafter Lady Chetwynde should now turn out to be the betrayer of MissLorton. And this made his present purpose the more unintelligible. What was it that had brought him across Obed's path? Was he stillseeking after information about Lady Chetwynde? or, rather, was heseeking to renew his former attempt against Miss Lorton? To thislatter supposition Obed felt himself drawn. It seemed to him mostprobable that Gualtier had somehow found out about the rescue ofZillah, and was now tracking her with the intention of consummatinghis work. This only could account for his twofold disguise, and hispersistence in coming toward the villa after the punishment and thewarning which he had once received. To think that he should run sucha risk in order to prosecute his inquiry after Lady Chetwynde wasabsurd; but to suppose that he did it from certain designs on MissLorton seemed the most natural thing in the world for a villain inhis position. 

But behind all this there was something more; and this became to Obedthe most difficult problem. It was easy to conjecture the presentmotive of this Gualtier--the motive which had drawn him out to thevilla, to track them, to spy them, and to hover about the place; butthere was another thing to which it was not so easy to give ananswer. It was the startling fact of the identity between the man whohad once come to him in order to investigate about Lady Chetwynde andthe one who had betrayed Miss Lorton. How did it happen that the sameman should have taken part in each? What should have led him toAmerica for the purpose of questioning him about that long-forgottentragedy, and afterward have made him the assassin which he was? Itseemed as though this Gualtier was associated with the two chieftragedies of Obed's life, for this of Miss Lorton was certainly notinferior in its effect upon his feelings to that old one of LadyChetwynde. Yet how was it that he had become thus associated with twosuch events as these? By what strange fatality had he and Obed thusfound a common ground of interest in one another--a ground where theone was the assailant and betrayer, the other the savior anddefender?

Such thoughts as these perplexed Obed, and he could not find ananswer to them. An answer might certainly have been given by the manhimself at his side, but Obed did not deign to question him; for, somehow, he felt that at the bottom of all this lay that strangesecret which Miss Lorton had so studiously preserved. Part of it shehad revealed, but only part, and that, too, in such general outlinesthat any discovery of the rest was impossible. Had Obed questionedGualtier he might have discovered the truth; that is, if Gualtierwould have answered his questions, which, of course, he would nothave done. But Obed did not even try him. He asked nothing and saidnothing 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 seekto find it out. He would rather leave it to her to reveal; and if shedid not choose to reveal it, then he would not care to know it. Shewas the only one who could explain this away, and he thought that itwould be, in some sort, an act of disloyalty to make anyinvestigations on his own account with reference to her privateaffairs. Perhaps in this he might have been wrong; perhaps he mighthave strained too much his scruples, and yielded to a sense of honorwhich was too high wrought; yet, at the same time, such was hisfeeling, and he could not help it; and, after all, it was a noblefeeling, which took its rise out of one of the purest and mostchivalrous feelings of the heart. 

While Obed was thus silent, thoughtful, and preoccupied, Gualtier wasequally so, and at the same time there was a deep anxiety in hisheart, to which the other was a stranger. To him, at that moment, situated as he was--a prisoner, under such circumstances, and incompany with his watchful, grim, and relentless captor--there weremany thoughts, all of which were bitter enough, and full of thedarkest forebodings for the future. He, too, had made discoveries onthat eventful day far darker, far more fearful, far more weighty, andfar more terrible than any which Obed could have made--discoverieswhich filled him with horror and alarm for himself, and for anotherwho was dearer than himself. The first of these was the great, theinexplicable fact that Zillah was really and truly alive. This atonce accounted for the phantom which had appeared and stricken terrorto him and to Hilda. Alive, but how? Had he not himself madeassurance doubly sure? had he not with his own hands scuttled thatschooner in which she was? had he not found her asleep in her cabinas he prepared to leave? had he not felt the water close up to thedeck before he left the sinking yacht? had he not been in that boaton the dark midnight sea for a long time before the mutinous crewwould consent to row away, so near to the vessel that any noise wouldhave necessarily come to his ears? He had. How, then, was this? Thatyacht _must_ have gone down, and she _must_ have gone down withit--drowned in her cabin, suffocated there by the waters, withoutpower 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; forthis woman had penetrated his disguise, had recognized him, and atthe 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 whatwonderful concurrence of circumstances had she met with Obed Chute, and entered into this close friendship with him? That man wasfamiliar with a dark past, to which she was related in some strangeway. How was it, then, that of all men in the world, this one hadbecome her friend and protector?

But, even so, there was another mystery, so strange, so dark, soinexplicable, that the others seemed as nothing. For he haddiscovered in her the one whom Lord Chetwynde was seeking with suchzeal, and such passion, and such unfailing constancy. How was it thatLord Chetwynde had found her, and where had he found her? and if hehad found her, how had he known her? Was he not living with Hilda onterms at least of respect, and acting toward her as though hebelieved her to be his wife? What could be the cause that had broughthim into connection with Obed Chute? Obed Chute had been theconfidant of Lady Chetwynde, and knew the story of her shame. How wasit that the son of such a mother could associate so habitually withthe man who so well knew the history of that mother? If he were notacquainted with his mother's history himself, how could he have foundout Obed Chute for his friend? and if he were acquainted with it, howcould he have tolerated him as such? From either point of view thequestion was unanswerable, and the problem insoluble. Yet the factremained that Lord Chetwynde was in the habit of making constantvisits to the house of the man, the very man, to whom the history ofLord Chetwynde's mother was known as a story of shame, and whohimself had been the chief agent in helping her, as it appeared, fromthe ruin to which she had flung herself. 

Then, again, there arose the question as to what might be theposition 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 wascarrying on a series of clandestine visits to a woman who was his ownwife? Hilda's story of that passionate interview in the kiosk at theVilla Rinalci was now intelligible in one sense. It was no phantomthat had terrified her, but the actual form of the living Zillahherself. Yet, making allowance for this, it became moreunintelligible than ever. For what could have been the meaning ofthat scene? If Zillah were alive and his wife, why should LordChetwynde arrange so elaborately this interview in the kiosk? whyshould he be at once so passionate and so despairing? why should hevow his vows of eternal love, and at the same time bid her an eternalfarewell? What was the meaning of his information about that "other Iwhom he hated worse than death, " which Hilda had felt like a strokeof 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 stoleninterviews? Could such questions be answered at all? Were they notall mad together, or were he and Hilda madder than these? What couldbe the solution of these insoluble problems?

Such were the questions which filled Gualtier's mind as he drovealong--questions which bewildered his brain, and to which he couldnot find an answer. At one time he tried to think that allthese--Zillah. Lord Chetwynde, and Obed Chute--were in alliance; thatthey understood one another perfectly, and Hilda also; and that theywere weaving together some deep plot which was to be her ruin. Butthis also seemed absurd. For, if they understood her, and knew whoshe was, why should they take any trouble to weave plots for her?That trouble they could spare themselves, and could arrest her atonce whenever they chose. Why did Lord Chetwynde spare her if he knewall? Was it out of gratitude because she had saved him from death?Impossible; for he habitually neglected her now, and gave up all histhoughts and his time to Zillah. Was it possible that Zillah couldhave been saved, found out her husband, and was now inciting him tothis strange course from some desire to get fresh proof againstHilda? No; that was impossible, for she must already have found outproof enough. The withdrawal of her money would of itself be enoughto show Hilda's complicity; but her assumption of the rôle of LadyChetwynde was too audacious for a true wife to bear unmoved orunconvinced. 

But these things were inexplicable. He could not find even aplausible solution for such difficult problems. His excited brainreeled beneath the weight of puzzles so intricate and so complicated. He was compelled to dismiss them all from his thoughts. But though hedismissed such thoughts as these, there were others which gaveoccupation to his whole mind, and these at last excited his chiefinterest. First among these was the thought of Hilda. That veryafternoon she might be coming out to carry out her plan of visitingObed Chute, and confounding Lord Chetwynde. She would go out knowingnothing of that one whom she had doomed to death, but who was nowthere to confront her. She would go out, and for what? What? Could itbe 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 hisdevotion 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 herprospects and her safety alone. The thought of her going out to thevilla in utter ignorance of this new and terrific truth wasintolerable. Yet what could he do? Nothing; and the fact of his ownutter helplessness was maddening at such a time as this. He watchedthrough the window, scanning all the passers-by with feverishanxiety, which was so manifest that at length Obed noticed it, and, supposing that he was meditating some new plan of escape nearer thecity, sternly reprimanded him, and drew the blinds so that nothingcould be seen. And thus, with close-drawn blinds and in silence, theydrove 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 sightof the outside world, shut out himself also. And though LordChetwynde may have passed on his way to the villa, yet he could nothave been seen by the occupants of the brougham, nor could he haveseen them. 

At last they reached Florence, and Obed drove up to the prefecture ofthe police. There he made his statement, and Gualtier was handed overto the authorities, and put in prison on a charge of attempted murdercommitted in Italian waters. 

Gualtier was put into a small chamber, with whitewashed walls, narrowiron-grated window, and solid oaken doors, in which there was a smallround opening. There was an iron bed here and a chair. Gualtier flunghimself upon the bed, and buried his head in his hands. He felt as ifhe had reached the verge of despair; yet, -even at that moment, it wasnot of himself that he thought. Far above his distress and hisdespair arose the power of his love, and thus turned his thoughtstoward Hilda. Was she on her way out? Was she going to ruin? Or wasshe still at her hotel? She had not said for certain that she wasgoing to the villa on that day; she said that she was going on thatday or the next. Perhaps she had postponed it, and reserved her visitfor the next. It seemed probable. If it were indeed so, then therewas yet time to make an effort to save her. How could he make such aneffort? 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 inparticular, suggested to him a way by which he might send a message. After some delay he signaled to the guard, who, after looking aroundcautiously, came up to his door. 

"I want to send a message, " said Gualtier, in the best Italian thathe could muster. "It is very important. It is to a friend. I will paywell. "

The guard looked interested. 

"Where is your friend?" he asked. 

"In the city. Can I have the message sent? I will pay two hundredpiastres 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 returnedhe exchanged a glance of profound intelligence with Gualtier, andsaid:

"I think it can be done, signore. "

At this Gaultier went back, and, tearing a leaf out of hispocket-book, penciled the following words:

"A miracle has happened. _She has come to life again_. It was nophantom, 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 twohundred piastres. If you don't find the person, you shall havefifty. "

Gualtier then told him the name and address of Hilda, and wrote itout for his information, charging him that it must be delivered toherself, and no other. The guard said that he could not go himself, but would send his younger brother. This satisfied Gualtier, and theguard again departed. 

After some time he returned, and paced up and down as before. An hourpassed. 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 willdeliver the message. "

Gualtier waited. 

Three hours passed. 

The guard at last came back to his door. He handed back to Gualtierthe letter which he had written. 

"The lady, " said he, "was not at home. She had gone away. My brotherwaited all this time, but she did not return. Shall he go back andwait?"

"No, " said Gualtier. 

He gave a hundred piastres to the guard. He took his note, and toreit up. All hope faded away within him, and despair, black and dark, settled down upon his soul. 

CHAPTER LXXIII. 

OBED'S NEW ADVENTURE. 

After leaving Gualtier in custody Obed Chnte drove away from thepolice station with an expression of tranquil satisfaction on hisfine face; such an expression as might befit one who is conscious ofhaving done his duty to the uttermost. He drove down the Lungh' Arno, and through the Piazza, and past the Duomo. There was no further needto keep the blinds closed, and as he drove on he looked out upon theinhabitants of Florence with a grand benignity of expression to whichno language can do justice. Many things conspired to fill his breastwith the serenest satisfaction and self-complacency. First, he hadsaved himself from being humbugged. Secondly, he had been the victorin two very respectable trials of muscle, in which he, by the sheerpower of muscle, had triumphed, and in the first of which his triumphhad been gained over a man armed with a revolver, and using thatrevolver, while he very generously scorned to use his own. Thirdly, this man was the very one whom he had sought for months, and who hadeluded entirely the police of Italy, France, and England. Obed alsohad been merciful and magnanimous in his hour of triumph. He had beentoo great-hearted to avail himself of any undue advantage in thestrife, or to do one single act of unnecessary cruelty when thatstrife was over, and the victory was won. He had not bound his victimtill the new flight of that victim had compelled him; nor had hespoken even one harsh word to him. He had captured him fairly andbravely too, and in the most quiet and unostentatious manner hadhanded him over to the police of the country. 

Of course there were some things which might have been more agreeableunder the circumstances. The mystery which surrounded this man wasnot pleasant. It was not pleasant, after having captured him, to findhimself still baffled in his endeavors to understand him or hismotive; to find that this man had forced him to interweave the caseof Lady Chetwynde with that of Zillah, when to his mind those twocases were as far asunder as the poles. Yet, after all, theperplexity which arose from this could not interfere with theenjoyment of his triumph. Baffled he might be, but still there was noreason why he should not enjoy the calm pleasure which arises fromthe consciousness of having well and fully performed a virtuousaction, and of having done one's duty both to one's neighbor andone's self. 

So Obed, as he drove about before going home, enjoyed the fullconsciousness of his own merit. He felt at peace with himself, withthe world at large, and, for that matter, even with Gualtier. So longas Gualtier had baffled him and eluded his most ardent search, he hadexperienced the bitterest and the most vindictive feelings toward thevillain who had perpetrated such foul crimes, and persisted inevading all pursuit. But now that this mysterious villain had beencaptured, and by himself, he felt that bitterness and vindictivenessno longer. He was satisfied that the law would administer to him thefull punishment which was due to his crimes, and as far as he wasconcerned personally he had no feeling against him. He was simplydesirous of justice. 

Seated thus in his brougham he drove past Giotto's Campanile, andpast those immortal gates of bronze which Ghiberti made for theBaptistery, and which Michael Angelo declared to be worthy of beingthe gates of Paradise. It was just at this last place, as thebrougham was moving leisurely on, that his attention was arrested bya figure which was seated on the stone steps immediately outside ofone of those gates. It was a woman, elderly, decrepit, and apparentlypoor. She was dressed in deep mourning. She was very pale, her hairwas as white as snow, and her eyes looked forth with an eager, watchful, wistful expression--an expression of patient yet curiousvigilance, like that of one who is waiting for some friend, or someenemy, who delays to appear. It was a memorable face--memorable, too, from its sadness, and from the eager yet almost hopeless scrutinywhich it turned toward every one that passed. This was the figurethat attracted Obed. He gave it one look, and that one look wasenough for him. 

The moment that he saw this woman an exclamation burst from him--anexclamation which was so loud that the woman heard him. She startedand looked up. At that moment the brougham stopped, and Obed, tearingopen the door, sprang out and hurried up the steps of the Baptistery, where the woman was sitting. She had seen him. A flush passed overher pale, ghastly face; a wild light came to her eyes. Tremblinglyand with deep excitement she rose to her feet, steadying herself bygrasping the bronze gateway, and looked at him with an earnest, wondering gaze. 

Obed Chute came toward her quickly, yet with a certain reverentialwonder in his face. The triumph and the self-complacency had all diedout, and there was left nothing but a mournful surprise, with whichthere was also mingled a deep and inexpressible pity and sympathy. 

He came nearer and nearer; still with all this on his face, while shestood awaiting him and watching him, clinging all the while to thebronze gates of Ghiberti. 

"Is this possible?" said Obed, as he came near her and regarded herearnestly. "Is it possible?" he repeated, in a low, soft voice, witha deep solemnity in the tones that was far different from his usualmanner. "Is this indeed _you_--and here too?"

He held out both his hands. His face softened; the hard lines seemedto fade away into a certain unspeakable tenderness, and in his eyesthere 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 aredead and are at rest. "

She placed one hand in his, while with the other she still clung tothe gateway. The hand which she gave was shriveled and emaciated andcold 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 solemnsilence, during which each regarded the other most earnestly--"yearshave passed, " he repeated--"years--since you left--since I saw youlast. Are you living here?" he continued, after some hesitation. "Isuppose you are with one of the religious houses?"

The woman shook her head wearily. "No, " said she; "I am by myself. Iam alone in the world. I am now simply 'Mrs. Hart. ' I have come hereon important business. It is more than important; it is a matter oflife 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 formany 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 someweeks, but I have never seen you. "

"Nor have I seen you, " said Mrs. Hart. "I have been here long, but Ihave seen no one whom I know. I am alone. "

"And are you able to go alone about this business of which youspeak--this business 'of life and death?' Have you any help? Is it athing which you could commit to the police?"

"No, " said Mrs. Hart. "I came here in search of--of a friend; but Ihave not been able to find him. "

"Are you alone, then?" asked Obed, in profound sympathy, while hisface and his voice still showed the deep feeling of his heart. "Haveyou no one at all to help you? Is this a thing which you must do byyourself? Could not another other assist you? Would it be possiblefor you to let me help you in this? I can do much if you will allowme--if you will again put confidence in an old friend. "

[Illustration: "IS THIS INDEED YOU--AND HERE TOO?"]

Mrs. Hart looked at him earnestly, and tears started to her eyes. 

"Oh, my friend, " she murmured, "I believe that God has sent you tome. I see in your face and I hear in your voice that you still canfeel for me. God bless you! my noble, my only friend! Yes, you canhelp me. There is no secret of mine which I need hide from you. Iwill tell you all--when I get stronger--and you shall help me. But Iam very weak now, " she said, wearily. 

Obed looked away, and for a time said not one word. But that strongframe, which not long before had dared the shots of a desperateenemy, now trembled violently at the tears of an old woman. With apowerful effort he gulped down his emotion. 

"Where are you living?" he asked, in a voice which had changed to oneof strange sweetness and tenderness. "You are weak. Will you let medrive you now to your home?"

For a few moments Mrs. Hart looked at him piteously, and made noreply. 

"I think it will be better for you to go home in my carriage, " saidObed, 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 herhand and drew it inside his arm. "Come, let me lead you to thecarriage. "

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 awhisper. 

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 hadnothing 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 slowlyout of the city. 

CHAPTER LXXIV. 

BEWILDERMENT. 

Scarcely any thing was said on the drive out from Florence to thevilla. Tears fell frequently from the eyes of the poor wanderer asshe sat wrapped in deep thought. Obed sat in silence, looking out ofthe window upon vacancy, seeing nothing; or, rather, seeing stillthat face with its wan lips and ghastly outline, which had told sothrilling a story of homelessness and starvation. His thoughts weregoing back through the years--the long-vanished years. And as hethought there came over his rugged face an infinite pity andtenderness; from his eyes there beamed sadness and compassionunutterable. He kept silence thus, all that drive, because he couldnot trust himself to speak. 

It was only when they reached the gateway of the villa that he openedhis lips. Then, as they drove through, he turned toward her, andputting 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, andthey entered the hall. There were sounds of voices in thedrawing-room, and on crossing the threshold of the villa agentleman's voice arose in a cheerful and sprightly tone:

"Checkmated again! Really, Miss Lorton, after this you'll have togive me the odds of a pawn; you've beaten me seven games out of ourlast ten. "

"I don't believe it was fair, " said a lady's voice. "I firmlybelieve, 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 couldcatch up to my master in so short a time?"

"I don't pretend to account for it, Miss Lorton, " said thegentleman's voice. "There, before you, is something better thantheory. It is an indisputable fact. There is my king, with your queenimmediately in front of him, and your rook in the distance guardingthat strong-minded lady. And where is my queen? Why, gadding aboutwith knights and bishops, when she ought to have been standing by theside of her unfortunate husband. "

As these words came to her ears Mrs. Hart stood still, and one handgrasped Obed Chute's arm convulsively, while the other was pressed toher brow. 

"What is this? Who are _these_? Are _they_ here?" she asked, in athrilling voice. "Am I dreaming? Is this some mockery, or are theyboth here? Is it some surprise? Tell me, my friend. Did you arrangeall this?"

She looked at Obed in a bewildered manner. He thought that her mindwas wandering. 

"Come, " said he, kindly, "you must go to your room now and rest, andthen--"

But here a loud remark from the gentleman, followed by a merry answerfrom the lady, interrupted Obed, and Mrs. Hart prevented him fromfinishing 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 assuredthat the poor creature's brain was turned, followed her hurriedly. 

Mrs. Hart burst into the room, with a white face and eager, inquiringeyes. Roused by the noise of footsteps, Lord Chetwynde and Zillahturned. To the amazement of both they saw Mrs. Hart. 

Had the form of General Pomeroy, or of Earl Chetwynde, appeared atthat instant before them, they could not have been more confounded. Lord Chetwynde, however, was cool and calm. There was nothing in hissecret which was very important, and there was therefore no fear of adiscovery to disturb the unfeigned joy that mingled with his wonderat this sudden appearance of his old nurse, blended also with deepand sharp grief at the weary, wan, and wretched face that he sawbefore him. As to his assumed name and the revelation of his trueone, that did not trouble him at all, for he could give hisexplanation very readily. But with Zillah it was different. Rightlyor wrongly, she considered her secret a thing which should be guardedlike her heart's blood; and now she saw suddenly before her thecertainty of a full and grand disclosure--a disclosure, too, notmerely in the presence of Obed Chute, but of Windham also. Yet eventhis fear, terrible as it would have been at other times, wassuccessfully mastered, and her generous and loving nature turned awayfrom selfish fears, with longing and joy and pity, to this dear oldfriend; 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 LordChetwynde hurry forward. She saw Mrs. Hart's eyes fixed on him in akind of ecstasy. She saw her totter forward, with all her faceoverspread with a joy that is but seldom known---known only in raremoments, when some lost one, loved and lost--some one more preciousthan life itself--is suddenly found. She saw Lord Chetwynde hurryforward. She saw Mrs. Hart run toward him, and with a low moan, alonging, yearning cry, fling herself upon his breast and clasp him inher arms. 

She heard her words--words wonderful, thrilling, and beyond allunderstanding:

"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 oftears, and only Lord Chetwynde's strong arms prevented her fromfalling. 

He upheld her. He kissed her. He murmured words of affection, deepand tender and true. With gentle urgency lie drew her to a sofa, madeher sit down by his side, and placed her head against his breast, andtook her emaciated hands in his. He seemed to have forgotten thepresence of others in that sudden, that overwhelming feeling ofcompassion for his aged, his heart-broken nurse. He was unconsciouseven of Zillah. In that moment his whole soul and his whole heartwere turned to this wan face that leaned against his breast. 

He said very little. How could he say much? A few attempts atsoothing her--a few loving words--these were all. And these wereenough; for better than these was the love that was expressed in hisstrong embrace--the love that sustained her now, and changed despairinto rapture. 

"My dearest, " he said--"dearest old nurse--nurse! mamma! Don't grievenow. Come, look up, and let me see your sweet old face. "

His voice was broken with emotion. How he loved that one whom hecalled his "dear old nurse!"

"Look up, old woman. Look up. Let me see your face. You don't knowhow dear it is to me. "

And Mrs. Hart raised her face, and in her face he read a loveinfinite, 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 himto her weary heart as though she feared that something might take himaway. 

"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 mysick-bed to seek you. I came here, and have watched and watched for along 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 hisface, she lay upon his breast. 

Meanwhile Obed Chute had stood thunderstruck. To account for thisamazing scene was so utterly impossible that he did not even attemptit. That was beyond the reach of human capacity. But he noted allthat holy tenderness, and that unfathomable love which beamed fromthat wan, worn face, and he felt that this was not a scene for othereyes. He went softly over to Zillah, who had stood motionlesshitherto, and taking her hand he led her solemnly out of the room. 

They went into another apartment, and sat there in silence. Zillahwas so filled with amazement that it overwhelmed her. 

She had seen Mrs. Hart's joy. She had heard her give to Windham thename of "Guy. " She had heard him call her those tender, well-knownnames--the fond names with which the letters of Guy Molyneux usedalways 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 oncesuggested themselves as that question arose. All the past came backbefore her, with the scenes and the words of that past. Sheremembered now Windham's saying that he was married, and that hehated his wife worse than death. What did this mean? Did this notcoincide with what she knew of Guy Molyneux? And what was to be theend of all this? Her brain reeled at the thoughts that came to her asshe asked herself this question. 

For this Windham was _hers_. Windham, with his devotion, his fervidpassion, his burning words, his despairing love, his incessantself-watchfulness and strong self-control. Windham, who had snatchedher from a dreadful death, and given glory and bliss to that heavenin life which she had known in Marseilles and in Florence; Windham, who had found in her society his highest happiness, and had spoken toher words of frenzied adoration; Windham, who had been the partner ofso many stolen interviews; Windham, who once had flung aside even hishonor and duty in his mad love, and urged her to fly with him toIndia! And could this man be Guy Molyneux? There were amazingcoincidences which she could now recall. He had come home in mourningfrom India. He had told her of those very scenes in India of whichshe had read in Guy's letters. He had said that he was bound to afate which he abhorred, and she recalled what had been her ownconjectures as to what that fate might be. 

At such thoughts as these she was filled with a mixture of deep joyand deadly fear. What might the end be? what could the end be?--thiswas the question now. Windham loved; Guy hated. Could these two menbe indeed one? If they were, then how could this love and hate bereconciled? Would Windham cease to love, or Guy give up his hate? Toher, also, there was still terror in the thought of Guy; and forWindham to be resolved into that man, from whom she had fled, seemedto her as though he were about to become her enemy. Yet this did notseem possible. Such confidence had she in Windham's love that thethought of his losing it, or changing, appeared the wildestimprobability. No; that, at least, could not be. Still he was herown. Not yet could she blend his image with that of Guy. In herbewilderment 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, andkeeping a silence that was hard to maintain. At length he couldrestrain his feelings no longer. 

"Can you tell, " he asked at length--"can you imagine, MissLorton--have you the remotest idea of what in thunder is the meaningof all this?"

"I don't know, " said Zillah; "I don't understand; I can't evenimagine. "

"And I'm--well, " interposed Obed, with a blank look of despair, "theEnglish language does not afford a word, not one single word, thatcan express the idea; so I will resort to the American, and merelyremark 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 afternoonI found her in Florence. I brought her out here. She told me that shehad come here in search of a friend; but, by the living thunder, thevery last person that I should have guessed at as that friend wouldhave been Windham. And yet he was the man--the identical individual. But did you ever see such joy, " he continued, after a pause, "asthere was in her face at her first sight of him? Well, when I met hershe was in as deep a despair. She was crouching on the steps of theBaptistery, looking with eager eyes--hungry eyes--to find some one. And all this time it was Windham. She came here to find him, and himonly. She has been here for weeks, perhaps for months, wanderingabout, 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 noteaten any thing. When I happened, by the merest accident, to findher, do you know what she was doing? She was dying of starvation, butstill she was looking for Windham! And I solemnly believe that if Ihad not found her she would be there at this moment. Yes, she wouldbe sitting there in misery, in want, and in starvation, still lookingafter Windham. And if she had died there, on that spot, I feelconvinced that the last movement of her lips would have been a murmurof his name, and the last look of her dying eyes would have been forWindham. I saw all this in every look of hers, and in every word ofhers that she has thus far uttered to me about her fearfulexperiences. I saw this; and now I beg leave to ask, in the quietestway 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 emotionwhich he felt, and the sorrow and sympathy that filled his soul. Ashe spoke of Mrs. Hart's miseries his voice trembled. Never in hislife had he met with sorrow like her sorrow. It was not this lastscene in her life which gave him this feeling, but it was hisknowledge of that awful past in which she had lived, and sinned, andsuffered--that past whose sufferings were perpetuated still, whoselurid shadows were now projected into these later days of her life. All this he felt, and he showed it, and he sought earnestly to solvethe problem which these things held out to his mind; but he could notfind a solution, nor could Zillah give one. For her part, it was withunfeigned horror that she listened to Obed's recital of Mrs. Hart'ssufferings and despair; yet as she listened there came to her mindthe 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 Guyaccount for this? Or was there some deeper cause? Had she come tosave him from something? Yet from what? From danger? Yet from whatdanger?

And thus to each of these alike there came the same problem, yet toeach there came no hope of solution. 

CHAPTER LXXV. 

DESPAIR. 

The time seemed long indeed to Obed and to Zillah, as they sat therein silence, wondering, bewildered, yet utterly unable to fathom thedeep mystery that lay before them. Half an hour elapsed; and at lastsome one crossed the hall and came to the door. It was LordChetwynde. He looked troubled and excited. 

"Miss Lorton, " said he, "she wants _you_. I don't understand what shesays. 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 asif she did not see it. Filled with vague fears and apprehensions, shewalked into the room where Mrs. Hart was, and Lord Chetwynde and ObedChute came after her. 

Mrs. Hart was lying upon the sofa. As Zillah entered she fixed hereyes upon her. 

"I have been too selfish, " said she. "In my joy at finding my boy sounexpectedly and so wonderfully, I have not been able to speak oneword to my sweet girl. Oh, Zillah, my child, you, I know, willforgive me. But are you not amazed to see me? Yet I am still moreamazed to see you. How did you come here? How is it that I find youhere--along with my noble friend--in his house? I am all overcomewith wonder. I can not understand this. I do not know what to say, orwhere to begin to ask the questions that I wish to ask. Mr. Chuteseems a kind of Providence, " she added, with peculiar emphasis inthe faint tones of her weak voice--"a kind of Providence, who comesto people in their last extremities, and saves them from despair! Mr. Chute, " she continued, "is my savior!" She paused for a time, andlooked at Obed with a certain deep meaning in her eyes. Then sheturned to Zillah again. "My child, " she said, "dear, sweet Zillah!you will have to tell me all about this. Why was it that you fledaway from Chetwynde? And oh! how could you have the heart to give meup 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 andover again the white lips of the woman who had once been dear to herin Chetwynde Castle. 

"I do not understand it, " said Mrs. Hart, feebly, and with anexpression 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 whomI love. Here is my boy, my darling, whom I came to seek! Here is mysweet Zillah, who brightened my mournful life at Chetwynde Castlewith her love and tenderness. And here I see my best friend, who cameto save me from death and despair, and brought me here to life andjoy 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 youunderstand? Say, whose plan is it? Is it your plan? Who has broughtus all together?"

"It is God, " said Zillah, solemnly. "I do not understand how you camehere. Let us thank God that you have found your friends. "

She spoke at random; she knew not what to say. In her own darkperplexity she was unable to say any thing else; and when she sawthat Mrs. Hart was equally perplexed, and turned to her forinformation, she could only find an answer in those words which wereprompted by her heart. So she spoke, and she could say no more. 

Nor could the others. All were silent. That white face lookedwistfully from one to the other, with eager eyes, as though seekingfrom each some explanation; but none could give her that which shesought. In the faces that surrounded her she saw nothing else but awonder which was fully equal to her own. 

Obed Chute had now a fresh cause for bewilderment. For here wasZillah claimed fondly as a dear and loved friend by Mrs. Hart. Whowas she? Was her mysterious story bound up in any way with thetragical life of the other who thus claimed her? He had beensufficiently astonished at the meeting between the woman whom he hadrescued and his friend Windham; but now he saw his protégé, MissLorton, recognized by her as her dearest friend, and called by themost loving names--with an affection, too, which was fully returnedby the one whom she thus addressed. What to think or to say he knewnot. Of all the mysteries of which he had ever heard none equaledthis, and it seemed to become more complicated every instant. He wasat once perplexed by this insoluble problem, and vexed because it wasinsoluble. To his calm and straightforward mind nothing was soaggravating as a puzzle which could not be explained. He abhorred allmysteries. Yet here he found one full before him which baffled hisutmost powers of comprehension--one, too, in which he himself wasintermixed, and in which he saw Mrs. Hart and Windham and Miss Lortonall equally involved, and what was worse, equally in the dark. 

But if Obed's bewilderment was great, what can be said of that whichfilled the mind of Lord Chetwynde? He saw his old nurse, whomhe so deeply and even so passionately loved, turning away fromhimself to clasp in her arms, and to greet with the fondestaffection, that beautiful girl who was dearer to him than any thingelse in life. Mrs. Hart knew Miss Lorton! Above all, he was struck bythe name which she gave her. She called her "Zillah!" More than this, she mentioned Chetwynde! She reproached this girl for running awayfrom Chetwynde Castle! And to all this Miss Lorton said nothing, butaccepted these fond reproaches in such a way that she made it seem asthough she herself must once in very deed have lived in ChetwyndeCastle, and fled from it. Mrs. Hart called her "Zillah!" To whom didthat strange name belong? To one, and to one alone. That one was thedaughter of General Pomeroy, whom he had married, and who was now hiswife. That one he hated with a hate which no feeling of duty and nobond of gratitude could either lessen or overcome. Was he notmarried? Had he not seen that wife of his a thousand times? Had henot associated with her at Chetwynde Castle, at Lausanne, on theroad, and in Florence? What madness, what mockery was this? It wouldseem as though Mrs. Hart had mistaken Miss Lorton for that detestedwife who stood between him and his love. But how could such a mistakebe made? True, the complexion of each was dark, and the hair of eachwas black, and the forms and figures were not unlike; but thefeatures were widely different; the large, soft, loving eyes of MissLorton were not like those gleaming, fiery orbs that he had seen inthe woman whom he thought his wife; and the expression of the face ineach was as unlike as possible. Could Mrs. Hart be in a delirium? Shemust be mad! But then the worst of it was, that if she were mad MissLorton must be mad also. 

"Where am I?" said Mrs. Hart, rousing herself, and breaking in uponLord Chetwynde's thoughts. "It seems to me that I have suddenlyescaped from a hell, where I have been living, and have come intoheaven. Where am I? How is it that I find myself among those whom Ihold 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 myknowledge and belief, though at the present moment I feel inclined todoubt 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 Iam really your boy--your Guy--though hang me if I understand allthis!"

"Zillah, my sweet child, give me your hand too. You have becomereconciled to him, then. I see how it is. Ah! how dear you are to oneanother! My God! what blessedness is this! And yet I thought that youhad fled from him, and left him forever. But he found you. You arereunited once more. "

She placed Zillah's hand in Lord Chetwynde's, and Lord Chetwynde heldit closely, firmly, in a passionate grasp, not knowing what all thismeant, yet in his vehement love willing to take blindly all thatmight be given to him, even though it came to him through thedelirium of his old nurse. He held it tightly, though Zillah in akind of terror tried to withdraw it. He held it, for something toldhim 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 privilegeto attend the theatre in my youthful days, and I've often seen whatthey call _situations_; but of all the onparalleled situations thatwere ever put upon the boards, from '76 down to '59, I'll be hangedif this isn't the greatest, the grandest, and the most bewildering. I'm floored. I give up. Henceforth Obed Chute exists no longer. He isdead. Hic jacet. In memoriam. E pluribus unum. You may be Mr. Windham, and you, my child, may be Miss Lorton, or you may not. Youmay 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 tounderstand this. Don't try to explain it, I beg. If you do I shall gomad. The only thing I do understand just now is this, that our friendMrs. Hart is very weak, and needs rest, and rest she shallaccordingly have. Come, " he continued, turning to her; "you will havetime to-morrow to see them again. Take a little rest now. You havecalled me your friend several times to-day. I claim a friend'sprivilege. You must lie down by yourself, if it's only for half anhour. Don't refuse me. I'd do as much for you. "

Obed's manner showed that same tender compassion which he had alreadyevinced. Mrs. Hart complied with his request. She rose and took hisarm. 

"Tell me one thing plainly, " said Obed, as Mrs. Hart stood up. "Whoare these? Is not this Mr. Windham, and is not this Miss Lorton? Ifnot, who are they? That's fair, I think. I don't want to be in thedark 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 dearestchildren--my friends--the ones dear to my heart. Oh, my friend, _you_will understand me. This is Lord Chetwynde, _son of the Earl ofChetwynde_, and this girl is Zillah, daughter of NevillePomeroy--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 thetruth. It is so. "

Obed said not another word, but led her out of the room, with hisstrong brain in a state of bewilderment greater than ever, andsurpassing any thing that he had known before. 

Lord Chetwynde was left alone with Zillah, holding her hand, to whichhe still clung--though Zillah in her deep embarrassment tried towithdraw it--and looking at her with eagerness yet perplexity. 

"Great Heaven!" he cried. "Do you understand this? Oh, my love! myown! 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 wanderingmind. But oh! my dearest, something must be true; at least you knewher 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! mydarling! _You_ can never deceive me, " he cried, in piercing tones. "Tell me, and tell me truly, what were you doing in ChetwyndeCastle?"

"Living there, " said Zillah. "I lived there for years, till the Earldied, 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 inthe intensity of their gaze. A thousand bewildering questions were inhis mind. What! Was not his wife even now in Florence? Was he notfamiliar with her face? What did this mean? What utter mockery wasthis! Yet every word of Zillah's went to corroborate the words ofMrs. 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 whomhe was married. His old hate and abhorrence are returning. He isafraid to make himself sure of it. He loves Miss Lorton, but hatesthe daughter of General Pomeroy. When he finds out who I am he willloathe _me_. " Then while Lord Chetwynde stood silent in astonishmentand bewilderment, not understanding how it was possible for thesethings to be, the thought flashed upon her mind about that lastletter. He had loved another. Inez Cameron was his true love. Sheherself was nothing. Bitterly came this remembrance to her mind. Shesaw herself now cast out from his heart, and the love that hadawakened would die out forever. And in that moment, as these thoughtsrushed through her mind, as she recalled the words of that lastletter, the scorn and insults that were heaped upon herself, and, above all, the fervent love that was expressed for another--as shebrought these things back which had once been so bitter, one byone--hope departed, and despair settled over her heart. 

But Lord Chetwynde clung to her hand. The thoughts of his heart werewidely different from those of hers, and her despair was exceeded byhis own. Who she was and what she was he could not understand; butthe thought that he had a wife, and that his wife was GeneralPomeroy's daughter, was immovable in his mind. 

"My darling!" he cried, in imploring tones, in which there was at thesame time a world of love and tenderness; "my own darling! You knowwell that for you I would give up all my life and all my hope, andevery thing that I have. For you, oh! my sweet love, I have trampledupon honor and duty, and have turned my back upon the holy memoriesof 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, andby all your hopes of heaven, I implore you to answer me truly thisone 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 hisvoice an anguish of entreaty, as though his very life hung upon heranswer. It thrilled to the inmost soul of Zillah, who herself waswrought up to an excitement which was equal to his, if not superior. 

"Mrs. Hart has made no mistake, " replied Zillah, in low, solemntones; "she has spoken the truth. As you have asked, so must Ianswer. In the name of God, then, I tell you. Lord Chetwynde, that Iam 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 facein which there was nothing else than horror. 

What was then in his mind Zillah could not possibly know. Shetherefore interpreted that look of his from her own knowledge andsuspicions only. She read in it only his own unconquerable hate, hisinvincible aversion to her, which now, at the mention of her truename, had revived in all its original force, and destroyed utterlythe love which he had professed. All was lost! lost! lost! lost! anddoubly lost! Better far never to have seen him than, having seen himand known him and loved him, to lose him thus. Such were herthoughts. Already her emotion had been overwhelming; this was thelast, and it was too much. With a low moan of entreaty and of despairshe 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 armswildly, and sank down senseless at his feet. 

CHAPTER LXXVI. 

HILDA'S LAST VENTURE. 

When Obed Chute came back he found Lord Chetwynde holding Zillah inhis arms, pressing her to his heart, and looking wildly around with aface 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 withrestoratives till she revived again. She came back to sense and tolife, but hope was dead within her; and even the sight of LordChetwynde's face of agony, and his half-frantic words, could notlessen her despair. She implored to be carried to her room, and thereshe was at once taken. Lord Chetwynde's anguish was now not less thanhers. With bitter self-reproach, and in terrible bewilderment, hewandered off into the west gallery, whither Obed Chute followed him, but, seeing his agitation, refrained from saying any thing. LordChetwynde was lost in an abyss of despair. In the midst of his agonyfor Zillah's sake he tried in vain to comprehend how this Miss Lortoncould believe herself to be General Pomeroy's daughter and his ownwife, when, as he very well knew, his own wife was at her lodgings inFlorence--that wife whom he hated, but who yet had saved him fromdeath in Switzerland, and was now living on his smiles in Italy. Howcould one like Miss Lorton make such a mistake? Or how could sheviolate all delicacy by asserting such a thing? Clearly somebody wasmad. Perhaps he himself was mad. But as he felt himself to be in hissober senses, and not dreaming, he tried to think whether madnessshould be attributed to Mrs. Hart or Miss Lorton, on the one hand, orto his wife on the other. The problem was insoluble. Madness, hethought, must certainly be somewhere. But where? All seemed to beconcerned. Mrs. Hart had recognized Miss Lorton, and Miss Lorton hadreturned that recognition. Somebody must be fearfully mistaken. Whatwas to be done? In the midst of this his whole being thrilled at therecollection of those words in which Miss Lorton had claimed to behis wife. _His wife_! And she must herself have believed this at thetime; otherwise she would have died rather than have uttered thosewords. But what would his real wife say to all this? That was hisfinal thought. 

Meanwhile Obed Chute said not a word. He saw Lord Chetwynde'semotion, and, with his usual delicacy of feeling, did not intrudeupon him at such a time, though himself filled with undiminishedwonder. The first excitement was over, certainly, yet the wonderremained none the less; and while Lord Chetwynde was pacing the longgallery restlessly and wildly, Obed sat meditative, pondering uponthe possibilities of things. Yet the more he thought the less was heable to unravel these mysteries. 

At last he thought that a walk outside would be better. A quiet smokewould assist meditation. His brain could always work more promptlywhen a pipe was in his mouth. He therefore went off to prepare thisinvaluable companion for the walk which he designed, and was evenfilling 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 onvery particular business. Saying this, the servant handed him hercard. Obed looked at it, and read the following name:

"_Lady Chetwynde_. "

CHAPTER LXXVII. 

THE CRYPTOGRAM DECIPHERED. 

Hitherto, and up to that last moment just spoken of, this wholeaffair had been one long puzzle to Obed, one, too, which wasexceedingly unpleasant and utterly incomprehensible. While LordChetwynde had been pacing the gallery in a fever of agitation, Obedhad been a prey to thoughts less intense and less painful, no doubt, but yet equally perplexing. He had been summing up in his mind thegeneral outlines of this grand mystery, and the results weresomething like this:

_First_, there was the fact that these three were all old friends, or, at least, that two of them were equally dear to Mrs. Hart. 

_Secondly_, that on the appearance of Mrs. Hart each was unable toaccount for the emotion of the other. 

_Thirdly_, that Miss Lorton and Windham had been living under assumednames ever since he had known them. 

_Fourthly_, that Miss Lorton and Windham had hitherto been uncommonlyfond of one another's society. 

_Fifthly_, that this was not surprising, since Windham had saved MissLorton from a frightful death. 

_Sixthly_, what? Why this, that Mrs. Hart had solemnly declared thatWindham was not Wind ham at all, but Guy Molyneux, son of the lateEarl of Chetwynde; and that Miss Lorton was not Miss Lorton, butZillah, daughter of Neville Pomeroy, and wife of Lord Chetwynde!

The Earl of Chetwynde! Neville Pomeroy! Did any of these, except Mrs. Hart, know, did they have the remotest suspicion of the profoundmeaning which these names had to Obed Chute? Did they know orsuspect? Know or suspect? Why, they evidently knew nothing, andsuspected nothing! Had they not been warm friends--or something more, as Obed now began to think--for months, while neither one knew theother as any thing else than that which was assumed?

It was a puzzle. 

It was something that required an uncommon exercise of brain. Such anexercise demanded also an uncommon stimulus to that brain; andtherefore Obed had gone up for his pipe. It was while preparing thisthat the card had come. 

"Lady Chetwynde!"

His first impulse was to give a long, low whistle. After this hearose in silence and went down to the chief room. A lady was sittingthere, who rose as he entered. Obed bowed low and looked at herearnestly as he seated himself. 

"I hope, Sir, " said the lady, in a clear, musical voice, "that youwill excuse the liberty which I have taken; but the object thatbrings me here is one of such importance that I have been compelledto come in person. It was only of late that I learned that you wereresiding here, and as soon as I heard it I came to see you. "

Obed Chute bowed again, but said not a word. 

His bewilderment was yet strong, and he did not wish to commithimself. This lady was beautiful, and graceful in her manner. Shecalled herself Lady Chetwynde. The name puzzled him, and, in additionto the other puzzle that had visited him on this eventful day, washard to be borne. But he bore it bravely, and was silent. In hissilence he regarded his visitor with the closest scrutiny. At thefirst glance he had marked her beauty. A further observation showedthat she was agitated, that she was pale, and bore marks ofsuffering. She was a woman in distress. In the midst of Obed'sperplexity the discovery of this aroused his chivalrous sympathy. 

This was Hilda's last venture, and she felt it to be such. She hadcome out with the expectation of finding Gualtier on the road, and ofreceiving some message from him. She had seen nothing of him. She hadwaited about half an hour on the road, till she could wait no longer, and then she had gone onward. She thought that Gualtier might havefailed her, but such a thing seemed so improbable that she began tofear some disaster. Perhaps he had fallen a victim to his devotion. The thought of this troubled her, and increased her agitation; andnow, when she found herself in the presence of Obed Chute, heragitation was so marked as to be visible to him. Yet, as far as hewas concerned, this agitation only served to favor her cause in hiseyes. 

"Mr. Chute, " said Hilda, in low, steady tones, "I am Lady Chetwynde. I am the daughter of General Pomeroy, once Captain Pomeroy, whom youknew. He died a few years ago, and on his death-bed arranged amarriage between me and the only son of the Earl of Chetwynde. It wasa sudden marriage. He insisted on it. He was dying, and his wishescould not be denied. I yielded, and was married. My husband left meimmediately after the marriage ceremony, and went to India, where heremained for years. He only returned a short time ago. My father, General Pomeroy, died, and the Earl of Chetwynde took me to live withhim. I lived with him for years. I was a daughter to him, and heloved me as one. He died in my arms. I was alone in the world tillhis son, the young Earl, came home. Pardon me for mentioning thesefamily details, but they are necessary in order to explain myposition and to prepare the way for those things which I have tosay. "

Hilda paused for a while. Obed said nothing, but listened with anunchanged face. 

"Not long after my father's death, " said Hilda, "I went to pay avisit to my old home, Pomeroy Court. I happened to look into myfather's desk one day, and there I found some papers. One of them wasa writing in cipher, and the rest consisted of letters written by onewho signed himself _Obed Chute_, and who wrote from New York. Allrelated to the wife of the Earl. "

Hilda stopped again, and waited to see the effect of this. But Obedsaid nothing, nor could she see in his face any indication of anyemotion whatever. 

"That writing in cipher, " she continued, "disturbed me. The letterswere of such a character that they filled me with uneasiness, and Ithought that the writing in cipher would explain all. I thereforetried to decipher it. I obtained books on the subject, and studied upthe way by which such things may be unraveled. I applied myself tothis task for months, and at last succeeded in my object. I neverfelt certain, however, that I had deciphered it rightly, nor do I yetfeel certain; but what I did find out had a remarkable connectionwith the letters which accompanied it, and increased the alarm whichI felt. Then I tried to find out about you, but could not. You alone, I thought, could explain this mystery. It was a thing which filled mewith horror. I can not tell you how awful were the fears that arose, and how intolerable were the suspicions. But I could never get anyexplanation. Now these things have never ceased to trouble me, andthey always will until they are explained. 

"Yesterday I happened to hear your name mentioned. It startled me. Imade inquiries, and found that a person who bore that name which wasso familiar to me, and about which I had made such inquiries--ObedChute--was living here. I at once resolved to come out and see you inperson, so as to ask you what it all means, and put an end, in someway or other, to my suspense. "

This recital produced a strong effect on Obed, yet no expression ofhis face told whether that effect was favorable or unfavorable. Earnestly Hilda watched his face as she spoke, so as to read ifpossible her fate, yet she found it impossible. His face remainedstolid and impassive, though she saw this much, that he was listeningto her with the deepest attention. What was most perplexing was thefact that Obed did not say one single word. 

In fact, in this position, he did not know what to say. So he did thevery best thing that he could, and said nothing. But the mystery thathad begun that day with the advent of Mrs. Hart was certainlydeepening. It was already unfathomable when Mrs. Hart had said thatZillah was Lady Chetwynde, and that Windham was Lord Chetwynde. Here, however, came one who made it still more hopelessly and inextricablyentangled by calmly announcing herself as Lady Chetwynde; and notonly so, but adding to it an account of her life. Which was the trueone? Mrs. Hart could not lie. She did not seem to be insane. AboutZillah there had certainly been a mystery, but she could not deceive. He began to have vague ideas that Lord Chetwynde's morals had becomeaffected by his Indian life, and that he had a great number of wives;but then he remembered that this woman claimed to be GeneralPomeroy's daughter, which Mrs. Hart had also said of Zillah. So theproblem was as dark as ever. He began to see that he was incapable ofdealing with this subject, and that Mrs. Hart alone could explain. 

Hilda, after some delay, went on:

"I have mentioned my attempt to discover the cipher writing, " saidshe. "My deciphering was such that it seemed to involve my father ina very heavy charge. It made me think that he had been guilty of someawful crime. "

"Your father, General Pomeroy?" Obed Chute uttered this suddenly, andwith deep surprise. 

Hilda started, and then said, very placidly, "Yes. "

"And you thought that he might be guilty of 'awful crimes?'"

"I feared so. "

"Had you lived any time with your father?"

"All my life. "

Obed Chute said nothing more though Hilda seemed to expect it; so, finding him silent, she went on without regarding him; though, if shehad known this man, she would have seen that by those words she atonce lost all that sympathy and consideration which thus far he hadfelt for her. 

"On deciphering that paper of which I have spoken I found that itcharged my father, General Pomeroy, with several crimes, all equallyabhorrent. I will show you the paper itself, and my interpretation ofit line by line, so that you may see for yourself the agony that sucha discovery would naturally produce in the mind of a daughter. I willalso show you those letters which you yourself wrote to my fathermany years ago. "

Saying this, Hilda produced some papers, which she laid on the tablebefore Obed Chute. 

The first was the writing in cipher. 

The second was her own interpretation, such as she had already shownto Gualtier and to Zillah. 

The third was the same thing, written out line by line for the sakeof legibility, as follows:

_Oh may God have mercy on my wretched soul AmenO Pomeroy forged a hundred thousand dollarsO N Pomeroy eloped with poor Lady ChetwyndeShe acted out of a mad impulse in flyingShe listened to me and ran off with meShe was piqued at her husband's actFell in with Lady Mary ChetwyndExpelled the army for gamingN Pomeroy of Pomeroy BerksO I am a miserable villain_

Along with these she put down a paper which contained her key fordeciphering this. 

Finally she laid down those letters written by Obed Chute, which havealready been given. All these Obed Chute examined carefully. Thecipher writing he looked at, compared it with the key, and then withthe interpretation written by Hilda. As she looked anxiously at hisface it struck her that when he took up that cipher writing it seemedas though he was familiar with it. For such a thing she was notunprepared. Obed Chute's connection with this business was mysteriousto her, but it had been of such a nature that he might be able toread this paper, and know the fullness of its meaning. After readingthose letters which had been written by himself--among which, however, that latest letter which Hilda had shown Zillah was not tobe seen--he took up that second paper in which she had carefullywritten out in capitals the meaning of each line, such as has alreadybeen given, where the line is extended by characters which are notinterpreted. Over this he looked long and carefully, frequentlycomparing it with the first paper, which contained only the cipheritself. 

At length he laid down the papers and looked Hilda full in the face. 

"Did it ever strike you, " he asked, "that your translation wasslightly rambling, and a little incoherent?"

"I have hoped that it was, " said Hilda, pathetically. 

"You may be assured of it, " said Obed. "Read it for yourself, andthink for a moment whether any human being would think of writingsuch stuff as that. " And he motioned contemptuously to the paperwhere her interpretation was written out. "There's no meaning in itexcept this, which I have now noticed for the first time--that themiserable scoundrel who wrote this has done it so as to throwsuspicion upon the man whom he was bound to love with all hiscontemptible heart, if he had one, which he hadn't. I see now. Theinfernal sneak!"

And Obed, glaring at the paper, actually ground his teeth in rage. Atlength he looked up, and calmly said:

"Madam, it happens that in this interpretation of yours you aretotally and utterly astray. In your deep love for your father"--andhere Hilda imagined a sneer--"you will be rejoiced to learn this. This cipher is an old-acquaintance. I unraveled it all many yearsago--almost before you were born, certainly before you ever thoughtof ciphers. I have all the papers by me. You couldn't have come to abetter person than me--in fact, I'm the only person, I suppose, thatyou could come to. I will therefore explain the whole matter, so thatfor the rest of your life your affectionate and guileless nature mayno longer be disturbed by those lamentable suspicions which you havecultivated about the noblest gentleman and most stainless soldierthat ever breathed. "

With these words he left the room, and shortly returned with somepapers. These he spread before Hilda. One was the cipher itself--afac-simile of her own. The next was a mass of letters, written out incapitals on a square block. Every cipher was written out here in itsRoman equivalent. 

As he spread this out Obed showed her the true character of it. 

"You have mistaken it, " he said. "In the cipher there is a doublealphabet. The upper half is written in the first, the lower half inthe second. The second alphabet has most of the letters of the first;those of most frequent occurrence are changed, and instead ofastronomical signs, punctuation marks are used. You have succeeded, Isee, in finding the key to the upper part, but you do not seem tohave thought that the lower part required a separate examination. Youseem to suppose that all this mass of letters is unmeaning, and wasinserted by way of recreation to the mind that was wearied withwriting the first, or perhaps to mislead. Now if you had read it allyou would have seen the entire truth. The man that wrote this was avillain: he has written it so that the upper part throws suspicionupon his benefactor. Whether he did this by accident or on purposethe Lord only knows. But, to my personal knowledge, he was about themeanest, smallest, sneakin'est rascal that it was ever my luck tolight on. And yet he knew what honor was, and duty, for he hadassociated all his life with the noblest gentleman that ever lived. But I will say no more about it. See! Here is the full translation ofthe whole thing. "

And he laid down before Hilda another paper, which was written out inthe usual manner. 

"If you look at the first paper, " said Obed, pointing to the onewhich gave the translation of each letter, above described, "you willsee that the first part rends like your translation, while the lowerpart has no meaning. This arose from the peculiar nature of the manwho wrote it. He couldn't do any thing straight. When he made aconfession he wrote it in cipher. When he wrote in cipher he wrote itso as to puzzle and mislead any one who might try to find it out. Hecouldn't write even a cipher straight, but began in the middle andwound all his letters about it. Do you see that letter 'M' in theeleventh line, the twelfth one from the right side, with a cross bythe side of it? That is the first letter. You must read from that, but toward the left, for seventeen letters, and then follow on theline immediately above it. The writing then runs on, and winds aboutthis central line till this rectangular block of letters is formed. You supposed that it read on like ordinary writing. You see what youhave found out is only those lines that happened to be the top ones, reading in the usual way from left to right. Now take this firstpaper. Begin at that cross, read from right to left for seventeenletters, and what do you find?"

[Illustration. ]

Hilda did so, and slowly spelled out this:

"MY NAME IS NOT KRIEFF. "

A shock of astonishment passed through her. 

"Krieff?" she repeated--"Krieff?"

"Yes, Krieff, " said Obed; "that was his last alias. "

"Alias? Krieff?" faltered Hilda. 

"Yes. He had one or two others, but this was his last. "

"His? Whose? Who is it, then, that wrote this?"

"Read on. But it is not worth while to bother with this block ofletters. See; I have this paper where it is all written out. Readthis;" and he handed the other paper to Hilda. She took itmechanically, and read as follows:

"My name is not Krieff. I am a miserable villain, but I was oncenamed Pemberton Pomeroy, of Pomeroy, Berks. I fell into vice early inlife, and was expelled the army for gaming. I changed my name then toRedfield Lyttoun. I fell in with Lady Mary Chetwynde. She wasthoughtless, and liked my attentions. I knew she was piqued at herhusband's act in leaving his party and losing his prospects. Out ofspite she listened to me and ran off with me. Neville followed us andrescued her from me before it was too late. She acted out of a madimpulse in flying, and repented bitterly. My brother saved her. Letall know that I, Pemberton Pomeroy, eloped with poor Lady Chetwynde, and that she was saved by Neville Pomeroy. Let the world know, too, that I, Pemberton Pomeroy, forged a hundred thousand dollars, and mybrother paid it, and saved me. I write this in cipher, and am avillain and a coward too. 

"Oh, may God have mercy on my wretched soul! Amen. "

On reading this Hilda then compared it with the other paper. She sawat once that the lines which she had translated were only fragmentaryportions that happened to read from left to right. Doubt wasimpossible, and this which Obed Chute gave her was the truth. Shelaid the paper down, and looked thoughtfully away. There were severalthings here which disturbed her, but above all there was the namementioned at the outset. For she saw that the man who had writtenthis had once gone by the name of Krieff. 

"I think it my duty, " said Obed Chute, "to give you a fullexplanation, since you have asked it. The parties concerned are nowall dead, and you claim to be the daughter of one of them. There istherefore no reason why I should not tell you all that I know. I havemade up my mind to do so, and I will. 

"Neville Pomeroy, then, was an English gentleman. I have seen much ofBritishers, and have generally found that in a time of trial theEnglish gentleman comes out uncommonly strong. I got acquainted withhim in an odd kind of way. He was a young fellow, and had come out toAmerica to hunt buffaloes. I happened to be on the Plains at the sametime. I was out for a small excursion, for the office at New York wasnot the kind of place where a fellow of my size could be content allthe time. We heard a great row--uns firing, Indians yelling, andconjectured that the savages were attacking some party or other. Wedashed on for a mile or two, and came to a hollow. About fiftyrascally Sioux were there. They had surrounded two or three whites, and captured them, and were preparing to strip each for the purposeof indulging in a little amusement they have--that is, building afire on one's breast. They didn't do it that time, at any rate; andthe fight that followed when we came up was the prettiest, withoutexception, that I ever saw. We drove them off, at any rate; and as wehad revolvers, and they had only common rifles, we had it all our ownway. Thirty of those Sioux devils were left behind, dead and wounded, and the rest vamosed. 

"This was my first introduction to Neville Pomeroy. I cut his bondsfirst, and then introduced myself. He had no clothes on, but was ascourteous as though he was dressed in the latest Fifth Avenuefashion. We soon understood one another. I found him as plucky as thedevil, and as tough and true as steel. He seemed to like me, and wekept together on the prairies for three months--fighting, hunting, starving, stuffing, and enjoying life generally. He came with me toNew York, and stopped with me. I was a broker and banker. Don't looklike one, I know; but I was, and am. The American broker is adifferent animal from the broker of Europe. So is the Americanbanker, one of whom you see before you. 

"I won't say any thing more about our personal affairs. We becamesworn friends. He went back home, and I took to the desk. Somehow wekept writing to one another. He heard of great investments inAmerica, and got me to buy stock for him. He was rich, and soon had Ia large amount of money in my hands. I got the best investments forhim there were, and was glad to do any thing for a man like that. 

"I'll now go on straight and tell you all that you care to hear. Someof this--in fact, most of it--I did not find out till long afterward. 

"Neville Pomeroy then had a younger brother, named Pemberton Pomeroy. He was an officer in the Guards. He was very dissipated, and soon gothead over heels in debt. Neville had done all that he could for hisbrother, and had paid off his debts three times, each time saving himfrom ruin. But it was no use. There was the very devil himself inPemberton. He was by nature one of the meanest rascals that was evercreated, though the fellow was not bad-looking. He got deeper anddeeper into the mire, and at last got into a scrape so bad, so dirty, that he had to quit the Guards. It was a gambling affair of soinfamous a character that it was impossible for his brother to savehim. So he quit the Guards, and went into worse courses than ever. Neville tried still to save him; he wanted to get him an office, butPemberton refused. Meanwhile, out of a sense of decency, he hadchanged his name to that of Redfield Lyttoun, and under this name hebecame pretty well known to a new circle of friends. Under this namehe made the acquaintance of the wife of the Earl of Chetwynde. Itseems that the Earl was wrapped up in politics, and had offended herby giving up a great office which he held rather than actdishonorably. She was angry, and grew desperate. Redfield Lyttounturned up, and amused her. She compromised herself very seriously byallowing such marked attentions from him, and people began to talkabout them. The Earl knew nothing at all about this, as he was busyall the day. There was a sort of quarrel between them, and all herdoings were quite unknown. But Neville heard of it, and made a finalattempt to save his brother. I think this time he was actuated ratherby regard for the Earl, who was his most intimate friend, than by anyhope of saving this wretched fool of a brother of his. At any rate, he warned him, and threatened to tell the Earl himself of all thatwas going on. Pemberton took alarm, and pretended that he would do asNeville said. He promised to give up Lady Chetwynde. But hisbrother's advice had only made him savage, and he determined to carryout this game to the end. He was desperate, reckless, and utterlyunprincipled. Lady Chetwynde was silly and thoughtless. She liked thescoundrel, too, I suppose. At any rate, he induced her to run awaywith him. For the sake of getting funds to live on he forged somedrafts. He found out that Neville had money in my hands, and drew forthis. I suspected nothing, and the drafts were paid. He got the moneyin time to run off with his victim. Silly and foolish as LadyChetwynde was, the moment that she had taken the inevitable step sherepented. She thought that it would be impossible to retrace it, andgave herself up to despair. They fled to America under assumed names. 

"Their flight was immediately known to Neville. He lost not a moment, but hurried out to America; and as the ship in which he sailed wasfaster than the other, he reached New York first. He came at once tome. Then he learned, for the first time, of the forgery. About onehundred thousand dollars had been drawn and paid. We took counseltogether, and watched for the arrival of the steamer. Immediately onits being reported in the bay we boarded her, and Pemberton Pomeroywas arrested. He was taken to prison, and Neville induced LadyChetwynde to come with us. I offered my house. The privacy was a mostimportant thing. She had been freed from Pemberton's clutches, andNeville showed her that it was possible for her to escape yet fromcomplete infamy. The suddenness of this termination to their planstartled her and horrified her. Remorse came, and then despair. Allthis preyed upon her mind, and with it all there came a great longingfor her son, whom she had left behind. The end of it all was that shefell under an attack of brain-fever, and lingered for many months avictim to it. She finally recovered, and went into a convent. Afterstaying there some time she suddenly left. That is the meaning ofthose letters which you found. Of course I kept Neville Pomeroyacquainted with these circumstances on his return. 

"Meanwhile Pemberton Pomeroy had lain under arrest. Neville went tosee him, and took advantage of his misery to exact from him a solemnpromise never to search after Lady Chetwynde again, or interfere withher in any way. Soon after that Pemberton Pomeroy was freed, forNeville declined to appear against him, and the case dropped. Nevillethen went back to England. 

"Pemberton Pomeroy remained. There was no more hope for him inEngland. The money which he had gained by his forgery lie, of course, had to refund; but his brother generously gave him a few thousands tobegin life on. Pemberton then disappeared for a year or two. At theend of that time he came back. He had gone to England, and thenreturned to America, where he had lived out West. All his money wasgone. He had fallen into low courses. He had taken a wife from thedregs of the foreign population, and, as though he had some spark ofshame left, he had changed his name to Krieff. He had spent his lastcent, and came to me for help. I helped him, and put him in the wayof getting a living. 

"But he had lived a wild life, and was completely used up. When hecame to me he was pretty well gone in consumption. I saw he couldn'tlast long. I went to see him a good many times. He used to professthe deepest repentance. He told me once that he was writing aconfession of his crimes, which he was going to send to his brother. The miserable creature had scarcely any spirit or courage left, andgenerally when I visited him he used to begin crying. I put up withhim as well as I could, though. One day when I was with him he handedme a paper, with considerable fuss, and said I was not to open ittill after his death. Not long afterward he died. I opened the paper, and found that it contained only this cipher, together with a solemnrequest that it should be forwarded to his brother. I wrote toNeville Pomeroy, telling him of his brother's death, and he at oncecame out to New York. He had him decently buried, and I gave him thepapers. I had taken a copy myself, and had found a man who helped meto decipher it. There was nothing in it. The poor fool had wanted tomake a confession some way, but was too mean to do it like a man, andso he made up this stuff, which was of no use to any one, and couldonly be deciphered by extraordinary skill. But the fellow is dead, and now you know all the business. "

Obed Chute ended, and bent down his head in thought. Hilda hadlistened with the deepest attention, and at the conclusion of thisaccount she, too, fell into deep thought. There were many things init which impressed her, and some which startled her with a peculiarshock. 

But the one idea in her mind was different from anything in thisnarrative, and had no connection with the mystery of the secretcipher, which had baffled her so long. It was not for this, not insearch of this interpretation, that she had come. She had listened toit rather wearily, as though all that Obed could tell was a matter ofindifference, whichever way it tended. To find that herinterpretation was false had excited no very deep emotion. Once thesearch into this had been the chief purpose of her life; but all theresults that could be accomplished by that search had long since beengained. The cipher writing was a dead thing, belonging to the deadpast. She had only used it as a plausible excuse to gain admittanceto the villa for a higher purpose. 

The time had now come for the revelation of that purpose. 

"Sir, " said she, in a low voice, looking earnestly at Obed Chute, "Ifeel very grateful to you for your great kindness in favoring me withthis explanation. It has been hard for me to have this interpretationof mine in any way affect my father's memory. I never could bringmyself to believe it, knowing him as I knew him. But, at the sametime, the very idea that there was such a charge in writing disturbedme. Your explanation, Sir, has made all clear, and has set my mind atrest in that particular. 

"And now, Sir, will you excuse me if I mention one more thing which Iwould like to ask of you. It concerns me, you will see even moreclosely than this writing could have concerned me. It touches me in amore tender place. It is very strange, and, indeed, quiteinexplicable, why you, Sir, a stranger, should be interwoven withthese things which are so sacred to me; but so it is. "

Obed was affected by the solemnity of her tone, and by a certainpathos in her last words, and by something in her manner which showeda deeper feeling by far than she had evinced before. 

What Hilda now proceeded to say she had long thought over, andprepared with great deliberation. No doubt the woman whom LordChetwynde loved lived here. Most probably she was Obed Chute's youngwife, possibly his daughter; but in any case it would be to him aterrible disclosure, if she, Lord Chetwynde's wife, came and solemnlyinformed him of the intrigue that was going on. She had made up hermind, then, to disclose this, at all hazards, trusting tocircumstances for full and complete satisfaction. 

[Illustration: "'Yes, ' He Cried, 'I'll Have This Cleared Up Now, OnceAnd Forever. '"]

"Sir, " she continued, in a voice which expressed still deeperemotion, "what I have to say is something which it pains me to say, yet it must be said. I am Lady Chetwynde, and traveled here with LordChetwynde, who is the only acquaintance I have in Florence. I hurriedfrom England to his sick-bed, in Switzerland, and saved his life. Then I came here with him. 

"Of late I have been suspicious of him. Some things occurred whichled me to suppose that he was paying attentions to a lady here. Myjealousy was aroused. I learned, I need not say how, that he was aconstant visitor here. I followed him to a masquerade to which herefused to take me. I saw him with this lady, whose face I could notsee. They left you. They walked to an arbor. I listened--for, Sir, what wife would not listen?--and I heard him make a franticdeclaration of love, and urge her to fly with him. Had I notinterrupted them at that moment they might have fled. Oh, Sir, thinkof my lonely condition--think what it costs my pride to speak thus toa stranger. Tell me, what is this? Is it possible, or do I dream?Tell me, do you know that my husband loves this woman?"

The emotion with which Hilda spoke grew stronger. She rose to herfeet, and took a step nearer to Obed. She stood there with claspedhands, her beautiful face turned toward him with deep entreaty. 

Obed looked at her in a fresh bewilderment. He was silent for a longtime. At last he started to his feet. 

"Well, marm, " said he, as he clenched his fist, "I don't understand. I can't explain. Every thing is a muddle. All I can say isthis--there's either treachery or insanity somewhere, and may I becut up into sausages and chawed up by Comanches if I'll stand thisany longer. Yes, " he cried, "by the Lord! I'll have this cleared upnow, once and forever. I will, by the Eternal!"

He brought his huge fist down with a crash on the table, and left theroom. 

Hilda sat waiting. 

CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

"THE WIFE OF LORD CHETWYNDE. "

Hilda sat waiting. 

Obed had gone in search of those who could face this woman and answerher story. He went first to send word to Zillah, summoning her down. Zillah had been feebly reclining on her couch, distracted by thoughtsat once perplexing and agonizing, filled with despair at the darkcalamity which had suddenly descended, with a black future arisingbefore her, when she and "Windham" were to be sundered forever. Hehated her. That was her chief thought; and Windham's love had gonedown in an instant before Guy's deadly abhorrence. A lighter distressmight have been borne by the assistance of pride; but this was tooovermastering, and pride stood powerless in the presence of abreaking heart. In such a mood as this was she when the message wasbrought to her which Obed had sent. 

The wife of Lord Chetwynde was down stairs, and wished to see her!

_The wife of Lord Chetwynde!_

Those words stung her like serpents' fangs; a tumult of fierce rageand jealousy at once arose within her; and at this new emotion hersorrow left her, and the weakness arising from her crushed love. Witha start she rose to her feet, and hastily prepared to descend. 

After summoning Zillah, Obed went in search of Lord Chetwynde. Sometime elapsed before he could find him. He had been wandering aboutthe grounds in a state bordering on distraction. 

Meanwhile Hilda sat waiting. 

Alone in the great room, where now the shadows were gathering, shewas left to her own dark reflections. The sufferings through whichshe had passed had weakened her, and the last scene with Obed had notbeen adapted to reassure her or console her. The state of suspense inwhich she now was did not give her any fresh strength. Her nervoussystem was disorganized, and her present position stimulated hermorbid fancy, turning it toward dark and sombre forebodings. And nowin this solitude and gloom which was about her, and in the deepsuspense in which she was waiting, there came to her mind athought--a thought which made her flesh creep, and her blood runchill, while a strange, grisly horror descended awfully upon her. Shecould not help remembering how it had been before. Twice she had madean effort to anticipate fate and grasp at vengeance--once by herselfalone, and once in the person of Gualtier. Each attempt had beenbaffled. It had been frustrated in the same way precisely. To each ofthem there had come that fearful phantom figure, rising before themawfully, menacingly, with an aspect of terrible import. Well sheremembered that shape as it had risen before her at the pavilion--ashape with white face, and white clothing, and burning eyes--thatfigure which seemed to emerge from the depths of the sea, with thedrip of the water in her dark, dank hair, and in her white, clingingdraperies. It was no fiction of the imagination, for Gualtier hadseen the same. It was no fiction, for she recalled her horror, andthe flight through the forest, while the shape pursued till it struckher down into senselessness. 

A shudder passed through her once more at the recollection of thesethings. And there arose a question of awful import. Would it comeagain? Now was the third attempt--the fateful third! Would she againbe baffled, and by _that_? She feared no human foe; but this horrorwas something which she could never again encounter and live. Andthere came the terror over her that she might once again see this. 

She was alone amidst her terrors. It was growing late. In the greatroom the dimness was deepening, and the furniture looked ghostly atthe farther end of the apartment. It was not long since Obed hadgone, but the time seemed to her interminable. It seemed to her asthough she were all alone in the great house. She struggled with herfancies, and sat looking at the door fixedly, and with a certainawful expectation in her eyes. 

Then, as she looked, a thrill flashed through all her being. Forthere, slowly and noiselessly, a figure entered--a figure which sheknew too well. Robed in white it was; the face was pale and white asthe dress; the hair was thick and ebon black, and hung down loosely;the dress clung closely. Was it the drip of the sea-wave--was it thewet clothing that thus clung to the figure which had once more comefrom the dark ocean depths to avenge her own cause? There, in verydeed, stood the shape of horror--

 "her garments Clinging like cerements, While the wave constantly Dripped from her clothing. "

It was _she_. It was the one who had been sent down to death beneaththe waters, but who now returned for the last time, no longer to warnor to baffle, but to change from victim to avenger!

The anguish of that moment was greater fur than all the agonies whichHilda had ever known. Her heart stopped beating; all life seemed toebb away from the terror of that presence. Wildly there arose athought of flight; but she was spellbound, her limbs were paralyzed, and the dark, luminous eyes of the horror enchained her own gaze. Suddenly she made a convulsive effort, mechanically, and sprung toher feet, her hands clutching one another in a kind of spasm, and herbrain reeling beneath such thoughts as make men mad. In that deepagony a groan burst from her, but she spoke not a word as she stoodthere rooted to the spot. 

As for Zillah herself, she, on entering, had seen Hilda, hadrecognized her, and was stricken dumb with amazement. That amazementmade her stop and regard her, with wild, staring eyes, in uttersilence. There had been only one thought in her mind, and that was tosee who it could possibly be that dared to come here with thepretense of being "Lord Chetwynde's wife. " In her eagerness she hadcome down in a rather negligé costume, and entering the room shefound herself thus face to face with Hilda. At that sight a thousandthoughts flashed at once into her mind. In a moment she had divinedthe whole extent of Hilda's perfidy. Now she could understand fullythe reason why Hilda had betrayed her; why she had formed socarefully contrived and so elaborate a plot, which had been carriedout so patiently and so remorselessly. That sight of Hilda showedher, too, what must have been the height and the depth and the fullextent of the plot against her young, undefended life--its cruelty, and the baseness of its motive. It was to take her place that Hildahad betrayed her. Out of such a motive had arisen such foulingratitude and such deadly crime. Yet in her generous heart, whileher mind understood this much, and her judgment condemned this viletraitor, the old habit of tenderness awakened at the sight of thefamiliar face, once so dear. Dearly had she loved her, fondly had shetrusted her; both love and faith had been outraged, and the friendhad doomed to death the unsuspecting friend; yet now even this lastwrong could not destroy the old love, and her thoughts were less ofvengeance than of sad reproach. Involuntarily a cry escaped her. 

"Oh, Hilda! Hilda!" she exclaimed, in a voice of anguish, "how couldyou betray your Zillah!"

To Hilda's excited and almost maddened fancy these words seemed likereproaches flung out by the dead--the preliminaries to that awfuldoom which the dead was about to pronounce or to inflict. Shetrembled in dread anticipation, and in a hoarse, unnatural voice, andin scarce audible words, gasped out, "What do you want?"

For a few moments Zillah said not a word, though those few momentsseemed like hours to Hilda. Then, with a sudden impulse, she advancedtoward her. Her impulse was one of pity and kindliness. She could nothelp seeing the anguish of Hilda. For a moment she forgot all butthis, and a vague desire to assure her of forgiveness arose withinher. But that movement of hers was terrible to Hilda. It was theadvance of the wrathful avenger of blood, the irresistible punisherof wrong; the advent of a frightful thing, whose presence was horror, whose approach was death. With a wild shriek of mortal fear she flungup her arms, as if to shut out that awful sight, or to avert thatterrible fate, and then, as though the last vestige of strength hadleft her utterly, she staggered back, and sank down, shuddering andgasping for breath, into her chair, and sat there with her eyes fixedon Zillah, and expressing an intensity of fear and apprehension whichcould not be mistaken. Zillah saw it. She stopped in wonder, and thuswondering, she stood regarding her in silence. 

But at this moment footsteps were heard, and Obed Chute entered, followed by Lord Chetwynde. 

Obed had but one thought in his mind, and that was to unravel thismystery as soon as possible; for the presence of such an inexplicablemystery as this made him feel uncomfortable and humiliated. Untilthis was explained in some way he knew that he would be able to findrest neither by night nor by day. He was, therefore, resolved topress things forward, in hopes of getting some clew at least to thelabyrinth in which his mind was wandering. He therefore took LordChetwynde by the arm and drew him up toward Hilda, so that he stoodbetween her and Zillah. 

"Now, " he said, abruptly, turning to Hilda, "I have brought the manyou wish to see. Here he is before you, face to face. Look at him andanswer me. Is this man your husband?"

These words stung Zillah to the soul. In an instant all pity and alltenderness toward Hilda vanished utterly. All her baseness arosebefore her, unredeemed by any further thought of former love or ofher present misery. She sprang forward, her eyes flashing, her handsclenched, her whole frame trembling, and all her soul on fire, as itkindled with the fury of her passionate indignation. 

"_Her_ husband!" she exclaimed, with infinite passion and unutterablecontempt--"_her_ husband! Say, Mr. Chute, do you know who it is thatyou see before you? I will tell you. Behold, Sir, the woman whobetrayed me; the false friend who sought my life, and, in return forthe love and confidence of years, tried to cast me, her friend, todeath. This, Sir, is the woman whom you have been so long seeking, herself--the paramour of that wretch, Gualtier--my betrayer and myassassin--_Hilda Krieff_. "

These words were flung forth like lava-fire, scorching and blightingin their hot and intense hate. Her whole face and manner and tone hadchanged. From that gentle girl who, as Miss Lorton, had been neverelse than sweet and soft and tender and mournful, she was nowtransformed to a wrathful and pitiless avenger, a baleful fury, beautiful, yet terrific; one inspired by love stronger than death, and jealousy as cruel as the grave; one who was now pitiless andremorseless; one whose soul was animated by the one feeling only ofinstant and implacable vengeance. The fierceness of that inexorablewrath glowed in her burning eyes, and in the rigid outstretched armwith which she pointed toward Hilda. In this moment of her fervidpassion her Indian nature was all revealed in its hot, tempestuous, unreasoning fury; and the Zillah of this scene was that same Zillahwho, years before, had turned away from the bedside of her dyingfather to utter those maledictions, those taunts, and those bitterinsults, which Lord Chetwynde so well remembered. 

Yet to Hilda at that instant these words, with all their fury andinexorable hate, came like balm and sweetness--like the gentleutterances of peace and calm. They roused her up at last from thatgreat and unendurable horror into which she had fallen; they broughtback her vanished strength; they restored her to herself. For theyshowed her this one thing plainly, and this above all things, that itwas not the dead who stood thus before her, but the living! Had herformer suspense been delayed a few moments more she would have diedin her agony; but now the horror had vanished; the one before herbore no longer the terrors of the unseen, but became an ordinaryliving being. It was Zillah herself, not in death as an apparition, but in life as a woman. She cared nothing for the hate and thevengeance, nothing for the insult and the scorn. She cared nothingfor the mystery that enshrouded Zillah, nor was it of any consequenceto her then how she had been saved. Enough was it that Zillah wasreally alive. At this she revived. Her weakness left her. She drew along breath, and all the vigor of her strong soul returned. 

But on the others the effect of Zillah's words was overwhelming. ObedChute started back in amazement at this revelation, and lookedwonderingly upon this woman, who had but lately been winning hissympathy as an injured wife; and he marveled greatly how thisdelicate, this beautiful and high-bred lady, could, by anypossibility, be identified with that atrocious monster whose imagehad always existed in his mind as the natural form of Zillah'straitorous friend. 

On Lord Chetwynde the effect of all this, though equally great, wasdifferent. One look at Hilda in her first consternation and horror, and another at Zillah in her burning passion, had been enough. AsZillah finished, he caught her outstretched hand as it was pointingtoward Hilda, and there rushed through all his being a rapture beyondwords, as a dim perception of the truth came to his mind. 

"Oh, my darling!" he cried, "say it again. Can this be possible? Is_she_, then, an impostor? Have I, indeed, been blinded and deceivedall this time by her?"

Zillah tore her hand away from his grasp. In that moment of furythere came to her a thousand jealous fears to distract her. Thethought that he had been so far deceived as to actually believe thiswoman his wife was intolerable. There was a wrathful cloud upon herbrow as she turned her eyes to look at him, and in those eyes therewas a glance, hard, stern, and cold, such as might befit an outragedand injured wife. But as she thus turned to look at him the glancethat met hers was one before which her fury subsided. It was a glanceupon which she could not look and cherish hate, or even coldness; forshe saw in his face a wild rapture, and in his eyes a gleam ofexultant joy, while the flushed cheeks and the ecstatic smile showedhow deeply and how truly he loved her. On that face there was nocloud of shame, no trace of embarrassment, no sign of anyconsciousness of acts that might awaken her displeasure. There wasnothing there but that old tenderness which she had once or twiceseen on the face of Windham--a tenderness which was all for her. Andshe knew by that sign that Guy was Windham; and being Windham, he washers, and hers alone. At this all her hardness, and all her anger, and all the fury of her passion were dispelled as quickly as they hadarisen, and a great calm, full and deep, came over all her being. Heloved her! That was enough. The fears which had tormented her sinceMrs. Hart's revelation, the fury which had arisen but a few momentsago at the dark promptings of jealousy, were now all dispelled, andshe saw in Lord Chetwynde her own Windham. 

Quickly and swiftly had these thoughts and feelings come and gone;but in that moment, when Zillah's attention was diverted to LordChetwynde, Hilda gained more of her self-command. All was lost; butstill, even in her despair, she found a fresh strength. Here all wereher enemies; she was in their power and at their mercy; her very lifewas now at their disposal; they could wreak on her, if they chose, afull and ample vengeance; yet the thought of all this onlystrengthened her the more, for that which deepened her despair onlyintensified her hate. And so it was that at this last moment, whenall was lost, with her enemies thus before her, the occasion onlyserved to stimulate her. Her strength had returned; she summoned upall her energies, and stood grandly at bay. She rose to her feet andconfronted them all--defiant, haughty, and vindictive--and broughtagainst them all the unconquerable pride of her strong and stubbornnature. 

"Tell me again, " said Obed Chute, "what name was it that you gavethis woman?"

"I am Zillah, daughter of General Pomeroy, and this woman is HildaKrieff, " was the reply. 

"Hilda--Hilda--Hilda Krieff! Hilda Krieff!" said Obed Chute. "My goodLord!"

But Hilda did not notice this, nor any thing else. 

"Well, " she said, in a cold and bitter tone, "it seems that I've lostthe game. Amen. Perhaps it's just as well. And so you're alive, afterall, are you, Zillah, and not in the sea? Gual tier, then, deceivedme. That also is, after all, just as well. "

"Wretched woman, " said Lord Chetwynde, solemnly, "Gualtier did notdeceive you. He did his work. It was I who saved her from death. Inany case, you have the stain of murder on your soul. "

"Perhaps I have, my lord, " said Hilda, coolly, "and other stainsalso, all of which make it highly inappropriate for me to be yourwife. You will, however, have no objection to my congratulating youon the charming being you have gained, and to whom you have addressedsuch very passionate vows. "

"This woman, " said Lord Chetwynde, "hardly deserves to be treatedwith ordinary civility. At any rate, she is not fit for _you_, " headded, in a low voice, to Zillah; "and you are too agitated forfurther excitement. Shall I lead you away?"

"Not yet, " said Zillah, "till I have asked one question. HildaKrieff, " she continued, "answer me one thing, and answer me truly. What was it that made you seek my death? Will you answer?"

"With pleasure, " said Hilda, mockingly. "Because I hated you. "

"Hated me!"

"Yes, hated you always, intensely, bitterly, passionately. "

"And why? What had I ever done?"

"Nothing. The reason of my hate was in other things. I will tell you. Because I was your father's daughter, and you supplanted me. "

"You! Impossible!"

"I will tell you. In my childhood he was fond of me. I was taken toIndia at an early age. After you were born he forgot all about me. Once I was playing, and he talked to me with his old affection. I hada locket around my neck with this name on it--'_Hilda Pomeroy_. ' Hehappened to look at it, and read the name. 'Ah, ' said he, 'that is abetter name than Hilda Krieff. My child, I wish you could wear thatname. ' I wanted him to tell me what he meant, but he wouldn't. Atanother time he spoke of you as being my 'little sister. ' Hefrequently called me daughter. At last I found some old papers of mymother's, when I saw that her name was Hilda Pomeroy, and then Iunderstood it all. She was his first wife, though I believe now thatthey were not married. He, of course, deceived her, and though shethought she was his wife, yet her child could not take his name. Iasked him this, but he refused to explain, and warned me never tomention the subject. This only showed me still more plainly themiserable truth. 

"Years passed. I found myself driven out from my father's affections. You were the world to him. I, his eldest daughter, was nothing. Youwere his heiress. Good God! woman, do you think I could help hatingone who calmly appropriated every thing that ought to be mine?"

"Now you know about as much as you need know. I began years ago toplan against you, and kept it up with never-failing patience. It wasthe only pleasure I had in life. I won't go into particulars. I'llonly say that nearly all your troubles came through my management. From time to time hereafter you will gradually remember variousthings, and think with tender regret upon your loving Hilda. 

"At last things were all ripe, and I slipped away. I got you out ofthe way also, and I frankly avow that I never expected to have thepleasure of seeing you again. I also hoped that Lord Chetwynde wouldnot come back from India. But he came, and there is where I brokedown. That is all I have to say. "

Hilda stopped, and looked defiantly at them. 

"Young woman, " said Obed Chute, in calm, measured tones, "you arevery aggravating. It is well that you have generous people to dealwith. I don't know but that I ought to take you now and hand you overto the police, to be lodged in the same cell with your friendGualtier; but--"

"Gualtier!" groaned Hilda. "What?"

"Yes, Gualtier. I caught him yesterday, and handed him over to thepolice. "

Hilda looked around wildly, and with a deeper despair in her heart. 

"You, " continued Obed, "are much worse than he. In this business hewas only your tool. But you're a woman, and are, therefore, sacred. You are safe. It would be better, however, and much more becoming inyou, to refrain from that aggravating way of speaking which you havejust used. But there is one question which I wish to ask, and thenour interview will terminate:

"You say you believe yourself to be the elder daughter of GeneralPomeroy?"

"Yes. "

"Do you know your mother's maiden name?"

"Yes. Hilda Krieff. "

"Did she ever tell you about her marriage?"

"I was too young when she died. "

"Did you ever see any record of her marriage?"

"No. "

"You know nothing definite about it, then?"

"No. "

"Well, then, allow me to inform you that you are as much astray hereas you were in that other thing. This Hilda Krieff was the wife ofPemberton Pomeroy--married after his elopement business. He took hername. You were their daughter. I saw you once or twice when visitinghim. You were then a baby. Neville Pomeroy took charge of your motherand you after your father's death. These are the facts of the case. "

"What is all this?" cried Zillah, eagerly, as she heard these names. "Do _you_ know about papa?"

"This lady came here with some questions about a cipher writing whichshe had misunderstood, and I explained it all. She thought theGeneral was guilty, but I explained that he was the best fellow thatever lived. It's too long to tell now. I'll explain it all to youto-morrow. "

"Oh, thank God!" murmured Zillah. 

"What! _you_ couldn't have believed it?" cried Obed Chute. 

"Never! never!" said Zillah; "though _she_ tried hard to make me. "

Hilda had no more to say. The news about Gualtier, and the truth asto her parentage, were fresh shocks, and already her strength beganto give way. Her spirit could not long be kept up to that height ofaudacity to which she had raised it. Beneath all was the blackness ofher despair, in which was not one ray of hope. 

She rose in silence. Obed accompanied her to her carriage, which wasyet waiting there. Soon the wheels rattled over the gravel, and Hildadrove toward Florence. 

Obed walked out and sauntered through the grounds. There was atwinkle in his eye. He walked on and on, till he reached a place inthe depths of the woods far away from the villa. 

Then he gave utterance to his feelings. 

How?

Did he clench his fists, curse Heaven, weep, and rave?

Not he; not Obed. 

He burst forth into peals of stentorian laughter. 

"Oh, dear!" he screamed. "Oh, creation! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh, Lord! making love on the sly! getting spooney! taking romantic walks!reading poetry! and all to his own wife! Oh, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha!And he stole off with her at the masquerade, and made a 'passionatedeclaration'--to his--good thunder!--_his wife_! _his own wife_! Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! I'll never get over this!"

He certainly did not get over it for at least two hours. 

He had at last fully comprehended the whole thing. Now the true stateof mind between the quondam Windham and Miss Lorton became evident. Now he began to suspect how desperately they had been in love. Athousand little incidents occurred to his memory, and each onebrought on a fresh explosion. Even his own proposal to Zillah wasremembered. He wondered whether Windham had proposed also, and beenrejected. This only was needed to his mind to complete the joke. 

For two hours the servants at the villa heard singular noises in thewoods, and passers-by heard with awe the same mysterious sounds. Itwas Obed enjoying the "joke. " It was not until quite late that he hadfully exhausted it. 

CHAPTER LXXIX. 

MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING. 

Meanwhile Lord Chetwynde and Zillah were left together. A few hoursbefore they had been sitting in this same room, alone, when Mrs. Hartentered. Since then what wonders had taken place! What an overturn tolife! What an opening into unlooked-for happiness! For a few momentsthey stood looking at one another, not yet able to realize the fullweight of the happiness that had come so suddenly. And as theylooked, each could read in the face of the other all the soul ofeach, which was made manifest, and the full, unrestrained expressionof the longing which each had felt. 

Lord Chetwynde folded her in his arms. 

"What is all this?" he said, in a low voice. "What can it mean? I cannot yet believe it; can you? What, my darling, are we not to have ourstolen interviews any more? Have we no longer our great secret tokeep? Are you really mine? I don't understand, but I'm content tohold you in my arms. Oh, my wife!"

Zillah murmured some inaudible protest, but her own bewilderment hadnot yet passed away. In that moment the first thought was that herown Windham was at last all her own in very truth. 

"And are you sure, " she said at last, "that you have got over yourabhorrence of me?"

Lord Chetwynde did not understand this question, but considering it ajoke, he responded in the customary manner. 

"But what possible means could have induced you to leave ChetwyndeCastle at all?" he asked; for, as he had not yet heard her story, hewas all in the dark. 

"Because you wrote that hideous, that horrible letter, " said Zillah;and as the memory of that letter came to her she made an effort todraw away from his embrace. But the effort was fruitless. 

"Hideous letter! What letter?"

"The last one. "

"My darling, I don't know what you mean. "

"Don't you remember how you reviled me?"

"I didn't; I don't understand. "

"You called me a Hindu, and an imp. "

"Good Heavens! what do you mean?"

"But you do not hate me now, do you? Tell me, and tell me truly, areyou sure that your abhorrence has all passed away?"

"Abhorrence!"

"Ah! you need not fear to confess it now. You did abhor me, youknow. "

"On my honor, I do not know what you are talking about, my owndarling. I never wrote about you except with respect; and that, too, in spite of those awful, cutting, sneering letters which you wrotefor years, and that last one, written after my father's death. "

"Heavens! what do you mean?" cried Zillah, aghast. "I sent letters toyou regularly, but I never wrote any thing but affectionate words. "

"Affectionate words! I never received a letter that was not a sneeror an insult. I came home under an assumed name, thinking that Iwould visit Chetwynde unknown, to see what sort of a person this waswho had treated me so. I changed my intention, however, and wentthere in my own name. I found that woman there--an impostor. How wasI to know that? But I hated her from the outset. "

"Ah, " said Zillah, "you were then full of memories of Inez Cameron. "

This thought had suddenly stung her, and, forgetting the Windham ofMarseilles, she flung it out. 

"Of what? Inez? What is that?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in a puzzle. 

"Inez Cameron. "

"Inez Cameron! Who is Inez Cameron?"

"Inez Cameron, " said Zillah, wondering--"that fair companion of somany evenings, about whom you wrote in such impassionedlanguage--whose image you said was ever in your heart. "

"In the name of Heaven, " cried Lord Chetwynde, "what is it that youmean? Who is she?"

"Captain Cameron's sister, " said Zillah. 

"Captain Cameron's sister?"

"Yes. "

"Captain Cameron has no sister. I never saw any one named InezCameron. I never mentioned such a name in any letter, and I never hadany image in my heart except yours, my darling. "

"Why, what does it all mean?"

"It means this, " said Lord Chetwynde, "that we have for years beenthe victims of some dark plot, whose depths we have not yet evenimagined, and whose subtle workings we have not yet begun to trace. Here we are, my darling, asking questions of one another whosemeaning we can not imagine, and making charges which neither of usunderstand. You speak of some letter which I wrote containingstatements that I never thought of. You mention some Inez Cameron, alady whom I never heard of before. You say also that you never wrotethose letters which imbittered my life so much. "

"Never, never. I never wrote any thing but kindness. "

"Then who wrote them?"

"Oh!" cried Zillah, suddenly, as a light burst on her; "I see it all!But is it possible? Yes, that must be it. And if you did not writethat last letter, then _she_ wrote it. "

"_She_! Who?"

"Hilda. "

Hereupon ensued a long explanation, the end of which was that eachbegan to understand better the state of the case. And Lord Chetwyndeexulted at finding that all the baseness which he had imaginedagainst his wife was the work of another; and Zillah felt ecstasy inthe thought that Lord Chetwynde had never loathed her, and had nevercarried in his despairing heart the image of that dreaded and hatedphantom, Inez Cameron. 

"The fact is, I couldn't have written that letter for another reason, little girl. I always made allowances even for those letters whichyou did not write, and until that last one came I always laid greatstress on my father's love for you, and hoped some day to gain yourlove. "

"And that you would have done in the ordinary way if we had met inChetwynde Castle. "

"Would I, indeed?"

"Yes, " sighed Zillah; "for I think I learned to love you from yourletters to your father. "

"Oh no! no, no, " laughed Lord Chetwynde; "for did you not at oncefall in love with that Windham?"

So the time passed. But amidst these murmurs of affection, and theseexplanations of vanished mysteries, Lord Chetwynde caught himselflooking to the past few months at Florence. 

"Oh, those interviews!" he murmured, "those sweet, stoleninterviews!"

"Why, Sir, " said Zillah, "you speak as though you feel sorry for allthis!"

"No, my darling. My fond recollection of these can not interfere withmy joy at the present; for the great meaning of this present is thatwhile we live we shall never part again. "

***

Lord Chetwynde did not go back to Florence that night. There were athousand things to talk over. On the following day Obed explained allabout the cipher, and told many stories about his early associationwith Neville Pomeroy. These things took up all the next day. LordChetwynde was in no hurry now. His Indian appointment was quietlygiven up. He had no immediate desire to go to his lodgings, and Obedinsisted that Lord and Lady Chetwynde should be his guests duringtheir stay in Florence. 

To this, Lord and Lady Chetwynde agreed, and enforced a promise fromObed Chute that he would be their guest in Chetwynde Castle. 

Sometimes their thoughts turned on Hilda. They had no desire topursue her. To Zillah she was an old friend; and her treason was nota thing which could be punished in a court of justice. To LordChetwynde she was, after all, the woman who had saved his life withwhat still seemed to him like matchless devotion. He knew well, whatZillah never knew, how passionately Hilda loved him. To Obed Chute, finally, she was a _woman_, and now undeniably a woman in distress. That was enough. "Let the poor thing go; I half wish that I couldsave her from going to the devil. " Such were his sentiments. 

On the second day Lord Chetwynde drove in to his rooms. He returnedlooking very pale and grave. Zillah, who had gone out smilingly togreet him, wondered at this. 

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

Zillah looked at him with fearful inquiry. 

"She has gone--she is dead!"

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

"Yes, and by her own hand. "

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

He knew that she had committed suicide, but he did not know, nor didany living being, the anguish that must have filled the wretched oneas she nerved her heart for the act. All this he could conjecturefrom her letter, which told him how often she had meditated this. Atlast it had come. Leaving the villa in her despair, she had gone toher lodgings, passed the night in writing this manuscript, and thenflung her guilty soul into the presence of her Maker. 

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

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

A mighty revulsion of feeling took place from the depths of despairto the heights of happiness. Her purpose was realized. There wasnothing more to live for. 

But now, since that purpose was gained, the false strength which hadsustained her so long gave way utterly. Her weary frame was at lastextended upon a bed from which she would no longer be compelled torise for the watch and the march and the vigil. Her labor was over. Now came the reaction. Rapidly she yielded. It seemed as though joyhad killed her. Not so. A great purpose had given her a fictitiousstrength; and now, when the purpose was accomplished, the strengthdeparted, and a weakness set in commensurate with the strength--theweakness of approaching dissolution. 

She herself knew that all was over. She would not have it otherwise. She was glad that it was so. It was with her now a time to chant a_nunc dimittis_--welcome death! Life had nothing more to offer. 

Once again Zillah stood at her bedside, constant and loved andloving. But there was one whose presence inspired a deeper joy, forwhom her dying eyes watched--dying eyes wistful in their watch forhim. How she had watched during the past months! How those eyes hadstrained themselves through the throngs of passers-by at Florence, while, day by day, the light of hope grew dimmer! Now they waited forhis coming, and his approach never failed to bring to them thekindling light of perfect joy. 

Lord Chetwynde himself was true to that fond affection which he hadalways expressed for her and shown. He showed himself eager to giveup all pleasures and all recreations for the sake of being by herbedside. 

[Illustration: "My Boy, Have You Ever Heard About Your Mother?"]

On this Obed Chute used to look with eyes that sometimes glistenedwith manly tears. 

Days passed on, and Mrs. Hart grew weaker. It was possible to countthe hours that remained for mortal life. A strange desolation arosein Lord Chetwynde's heart as the prospect of her end lowered beforehim. 

One day Mrs. Hart was alone with him. Obed Chute had called awayZillah for some purpose or other. Before doing so he had whisperedsomething to the dying woman. As they left she held out her hand toLord Chetwynde. 

"Come here and sit nearer, " she wailed forth--"nearer; take my hand, and listen. "

Lord Chetwynde did so. He sat in a chair by the bedside, and held herhand. Mrs. Hart lay for a moment looking at him with an earnest andinexplicable gaze. 

"Oh!" she moaned, "my boy--my little Guy! can you bear what I amgoing to say? Bear it! Be merciful! I am dying now. I must tell itbefore I go. You will be merciful, will you not, my boy?"

"Do not talk so, " faltered Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion. 

"Oh, my boy!" said Mrs. Hart, "do you know--have you ever heard anything about--your--your mother?"

"My mother?"

"Yes. "

"No; nothing except that she died when I was an infant. "

"Oh, my boy! she did not die, though death would have been ablessing. "

A thrill passed through Lord Chetwynde. 

"Nurse! nurse!" he cried--"my dear old nurse, what is it that youmean? My mother? She did not die? Is she alive? In the name of God, tell me all!"

"My boy!" said Mrs. Hart, grasping the hand that held hersconvulsively--"my boy! can you bear it?"

"Where is my mother?" asked Lord Chetwynde. 

Mrs. Hart struggled up. For a moment she leaned on her elbow. In hereyes there gleamed the light of undying love--love deep, yearning, unfathomable--love stronger than life. It was but a faint whisperthat escaped her wan, white lips, but that whisper pierced to thesoul of the listener, and rang through all his being with echoes thatfloated down through the years. 

And that whisper uttered these words:

"_Oh, my son_! _I--I--am your mother_!"

A low moan burst from Lord Chetwynde. He caught her dying form in hisarms, and a thousand words of love burst from him, as though by thatembrace and by those words of love he would drag her back from herimmortality. And then, at last, in that embrace and in the hearing ofthose words of love, there were some few moments of happiness for onewho had sinned and suffered so much; and as she lay back her face wasoverspread with an expression of unutterable peace. 

When Zillah returned she saw Lord Chetwynde bowed down, with his armsclasping the form of Mrs. Hart. The smile was still on her face, butit was only the form of that one who had suffered and loved so muchwhich now lay there; for she herself had departed from earth forever, and found a place "where the weary are at rest. "

***

Long afterward Zillah learned more about the past history of thatwoman whom she had known and loved as Mrs. Hart. It was Obed Chutewho told her this, on one of his frequent visits to Chetwynde Castle. He himself had heard it from the former Lady Chetwynde, at the timewhen she was in New York, and before she joined the Sisters ofCharity. 

Neville Pomeroy had known her well as a boy, and they had carried onan unmeaning flirtation, which might have developed into somethingmore serious had it not been prevented by her mother, who was on thelook-out for something higher. Lord Chetwynde met her ambitiousviews, and though he was poor, yet his title and brilliant prospectsdazzled the ambitious mother. The daughter married him without lovinghim, in the expectation of a lofty position. When this was lost byLord Chetwynde's resignation of his position she could not forgivehim. She indulged in folly which ended in sin, until she was weak andwicked enough to desert the man whom she had sworn to love. When itwas too late she had repented. Neville Pomeroy and Obed Chute hadsaved her from ruin. The remainder of her life was evident. She hadleft the Sisters of Charity, from some yearning after her child, andhad succeeded in gaining employment in Chetwynde Castle. Such changeshad been wrought in her by her sufferings that the Earl neverrecognized her; and so she had lived, solacing herself with herchild. 

The knowledge of her history, which was afterward communicated to herson, did not interfere with his filial affection. Her remains now liein the vaults of Chetwynde Castle beside those of the Earl. 

THE END.