But, even so, there was another mystery, so strange, so dark, so inexplicable, that the others seemed as nothing. For he had discovered in her the one whom Lord Chetwynde was seeking with such zeal, and such passion, and such unfailing constancy. How was it that Lord Chetwynde had found her, and where had he found her? and if he had found her, how had he known her? Was he not living with Hilda on terms at least of respect, and acting toward her as though he believed her to be his wife? What could be the cause that had brought him into connection with Obed Chute? Obed Chute had been the confidant of Lady Chetwynde, and knew the story of her shame. How was it that the son of such a mother could associate so habitually with the man who so well knew the history of that mother? If he were not acquainted with his mother's history himself, how could he have found out Obed Chute for his friend? and if he were acquainted with it, how could he have tolerated him as such? From either point of view the question was unanswerable, and the problem insoluble. Yet the fact remained that Lord Chetwynde was in the habit of making constant visits to the house of the man, the very man, to whom the history of Lord Chetwynde's mother was known as a story of shame, and who himself had been the chief agent in helping her, as it appeared, from the ruin to which she had flung herself.
Then, again, there arose the question as to what might be the position of Zillah. How did she happen to be living with Obed Chute? In what way was she living? How did it happen that Lord Chetwynde was carrying on a series of clandestine visits to a woman who was his own wife? Hilda's story of that passionate interview in the kiosk at the Villa Rinalci was now intelligible in one sense. It was no phantom that had terrified her, but the actual form of the living Zillah herself. Yet, making allowance for this, it became more unintelligible than ever. For what could have been the meaning of that scene? If Zillah were alive and his wife, why should Lord Chetwynde arrange so elaborately this interview in the kiosk? why should he be at once so passionate and so despairing? why should he vow his vows of eternal love, and at the same time bid her an eternal farewell? What was the meaning of his information about that "other I whom he hated worse than death," which Hilda had felt like a stroke of death? And why should Lord Chetwynde remain with his false wife, whom he hated, while his true wife, whom he loved, was so near? Why, in the name of Heaven, should he treat the one with even civility, and only visit the other by means of clandestine meetings and stolen interviews? Could such questions be answered at all? Were they not all mad together, or were he and Hilda madder than these? What could be the solution of these insoluble problems?
Such were the questions which filled Gualtier's mind as he drove along--questions which bewildered his brain, and to which he could not find an answer. At one time he tried to think that all these--Zillah. Lord Chetwynde, and Obed Chute--were in alliance; that they understood one another perfectly, and Hilda also; and that they were weaving together some deep plot which was to be her ruin. But this also seemed absurd. For, if they understood her, and knew who she was, why should they take any trouble to weave plots for her? That trouble they could spare themselves, and could arrest her at once whenever they chose. Why did Lord Chetwynde spare her if he knew all? Was it out of gratitude because she had saved him from death? Impossible; for he habitually neglected her now, and gave up all his thoughts and his time to Zillah. Was it possible that Zillah could have been saved, found out her husband, and was now inciting him to this strange course from some desire to get fresh proof against Hilda? No; that was impossible, for she must already have found out proof enough. The withdrawal of her money would of itself be enough to show Hilda's complicity; but her assumption of the rôle of Lady Chetwynde was too audacious for a true wife to bear unmoved or unconvinced.
But these things were inexplicable. He could not find even a plausible solution for such difficult problems. His excited brain reeled beneath the weight of puzzles so intricate and so complicated. He was compelled to dismiss them all from his thoughts. But though he dismissed such thoughts as these, there were others which gave occupation to his whole mind, and these at last excited his chief interest. First among these was the thought of Hilda. That very afternoon she might be coming out to carry out her plan of visiting Obed Chute, and confounding Lord Chetwynde. She would go out knowing nothing of that one whom she had doomed to death, but who was now there to confront her. She would go out, and for what? What? Could it be aught else than ruin, utter and absolute?
This was his last dark terror--all fear for himself had passed away. He feared for her, and for her alone. His love for her, and his devotion to her, which had been so often and so conspicuously tested, which had sent him on such tedious and such perilous enterprises, now, when all was over with himself, and not a ray of hope remained, made him rise above self and selfish considerations, and regard her prospects and her safety alone. The thought of her going out to the villa in utter ignorance of this new and terrific truth was intolerable. Yet what could he do? Nothing; and the fact of his own utter helplessness was maddening at such a time as this. He watched through the window, scanning all the passers-by with feverish anxiety, which was so manifest that at length Obed noticed it, and, supposing that he was meditating some new plan of escape nearer the city, sternly reprimanded him, and drew the blinds so that nothing could be seen. And thus, with close-drawn blinds and in silence, they drove toward the city; so that if Hilda had gone along the road, Gualtier could not have seen her.
At the same time Obed, in thus shutting out Gualtier from all sight of the outside world, shut out himself also. And though Lord Chetwynde may have passed on his way to the villa, yet he could not have been seen by the occupants of the brougham, nor could he have seen them.
At last they reached Florence, and Obed drove up to the prefecture of the police. There he made his statement, and Gualtier was handed over to the authorities, and put in prison on a charge of attempted murder committed in Italian waters.
Gualtier was put into a small chamber, with whitewashed walls, narrow iron-grated window, and solid oaken doors, in which there was a small round opening. There was an iron bed here and a chair. Gualtier flung himself upon the bed, and buried his head in his hands. He felt as if he had reached the verge of despair; yet,-even at that moment, it was not of himself that he thought. Far above his distress and his despair arose the power of his love, and thus turned his thoughts toward Hilda. Was she on her way out? Was she going to ruin? Or was she still at her hotel? She had not said for certain that she was going to the villa on that day; she said that she was going on that day or the next. Perhaps she had postponed it, and reserved her visit for the next. It seemed probable. If it were indeed so, then there was yet time to make an effort to save her. How could he make such an effort? How could he gain communication with her?
He rose from his bed, and watched through the opening of his door. There was a guard outside, who paced backward and forward solemnly. Gualtier's knowledge of human nature, and of Italian human nature in particular, suggested to him a way by which he might send a message. After some delay he signaled to the guard, who, after looking around cautiously, came up to his door.
"I want to send a message," said Gualtier, in the best Italian that he could muster. "It is very important. It is to a friend. I will pay well."
The guard looked interested.
"Where is your friend?" he asked.
"In the city. Can I have the message sent? I will pay two hundred piastres if I get an answer."
The guard hesitated.
"Wait," said he, after a few moments' thought; "I will see."
He went away, and was gone for about twenty minutes. When he returned he exchanged a glance of profound intelligence with Gualtier, and said:
"I think it can be done, signore."
At this Gaultier went back, and, tearing a leaf out of his pocket-book, penciled the following words:
"A miracle has happened. _She has come to life again_. It was no phantom, but _herself_ that appeared to you and me. I am in prison. Do not go out to the villa. Fly and save yourself."
Folding this up, he took it to the guard.
"If you bring back an answer to this," said he, "you shall have two hundred piastres. If you don't find the person, you shall have fifty."
Gualtier then told him the name and address of Hilda, and wrote it out for his information, charging him that it must be delivered to herself, and no other. The guard said that he could not go himself, but would send his younger brother. This satisfied Gualtier, and the guard again departed.
After some time he returned, and paced up and down as before. An hour passed. Gualtier became impatient. Then two hours elapsed.
He then beckoned to the guard.
"He is gone a long time," said he.
"Perhaps he is waiting," said the guard; "if it is possible he will deliver the message."
Gualtier waited.
Three hours passed.
The guard at last came back to his door. He handed back to Gualtier the letter which he had written.
"The lady," said he, "was not at home. She had gone away. My brother waited all this time, but she did not return. Shall he go back and wait?"
"No," said Gualtier.
He gave a hundred piastres to the guard. He took his note, and tore it up. All hope faded away within him, and despair, black and dark, settled down upon his soul.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
OBED'S NEW ADVENTURE.
After leaving Gualtier in custody Obed Chnte drove away from the police station with an expression of tranquil satisfaction on his fine face; such an expression as might befit one who is conscious of having done his duty to the uttermost. He drove down the Lungh' Arno, and through the Piazza, and past the Duomo. There was no further need to keep the blinds closed, and as he drove on he looked out upon the inhabitants of Florence with a grand benignity of expression to which no language can do justice. Many things conspired to fill his breast with the serenest satisfaction and self-complacency. First, he had saved himself from being humbugged. Secondly, he had been the victor in two very respectable trials of muscle, in which he, by the sheer power of muscle, had triumphed, and in the first of which his triumph had been gained over a man armed with a revolver, and using that revolver, while he very generously scorned to use his own. Thirdly, this man was the very one whom he had sought for months, and who had eluded entirely the police of Italy, France, and England. Obed also had been merciful and magnanimous in his hour of triumph. He had been too great-hearted to avail himself of any undue advantage in the strife, or to do one single act of unnecessary cruelty when that strife was over, and the victory was won. He had not bound his victim till the new flight of that victim had compelled him; nor had he spoken even one harsh word to him. He had captured him fairly and bravely too, and in the most quiet and unostentatious manner had handed him over to the police of the country.
Of course there were some things which might have been more agreeable under the circumstances. The mystery which surrounded this man was not pleasant. It was not pleasant, after having captured him, to find himself still baffled in his endeavors to understand him or his motive; to find that this man had forced him to interweave the case of Lady Chetwynde with that of Zillah, when to his mind those two cases were as far asunder as the poles. Yet, after all, the perplexity which arose from this could not interfere with the enjoyment of his triumph. Baffled he might be, but still there was no reason why he should not enjoy the calm pleasure which arises from the consciousness of having well and fully performed a virtuous action, and of having done one's duty both to one's neighbor and one's self.
So Obed, as he drove about before going home, enjoyed the full consciousness of his own merit. He felt at peace with himself, with the world at large, and, for that matter, even with Gualtier. So long as Gualtier had baffled him and eluded his most ardent search, he had experienced the bitterest and the most vindictive feelings toward the villain who had perpetrated such foul crimes, and persisted in evading all pursuit. But now that this mysterious villain had been captured, and by himself, he felt that bitterness and vindictiveness no longer. He was satisfied that the law would administer to him the full punishment which was due to his crimes, and as far as he was concerned personally he had no feeling against him. He was simply desirous of justice.
Seated thus in his brougham he drove past Giotto's Campanile, and past those immortal gates of bronze which Ghiberti made for the Baptistery, and which Michael Angelo declared to be worthy of being the gates of Paradise. It was just at this last place, as the brougham was moving leisurely on, that his attention was arrested by a figure which was seated on the stone steps immediately outside of one of those gates. It was a woman, elderly, decrepit, and apparently poor. She was dressed in deep mourning. She was very pale, her hair was as white as snow, and her eyes looked forth with an eager, watchful, wistful expression--an expression of patient yet curious vigilance, like that of one who is waiting for some friend, or some enemy, who delays to appear. It was a memorable face--memorable, too, from its sadness, and from the eager yet almost hopeless scrutiny which it turned toward every one that passed. This was the figure that attracted Obed. He gave it one look, and that one look was enough for him.
The moment that he saw this woman an exclamation burst from him--an exclamation which was so loud that the woman heard him. She started and looked up. At that moment the brougham stopped, and Obed, tearing open the door, sprang out and hurried up the steps of the Baptistery, where the woman was sitting. She had seen him. A flush passed over her pale, ghastly face; a wild light came to her eyes. Tremblingly and with deep excitement she rose to her feet, steadying herself by grasping the bronze gateway, and looked at him with an earnest, wondering gaze.
Obed Chute came toward her quickly, yet with a certain reverential wonder in his face. The triumph and the self-complacency had all died out, and there was left nothing but a mournful surprise, with which there was also mingled a deep and inexpressible pity and sympathy.
He came nearer and nearer; still with all this on his face, while she stood awaiting him and watching him, clinging all the while to the bronze gates of Ghiberti.
"Is this possible?" said Obed, as he came near her and regarded her earnestly. "Is it possible?" he repeated, in a low, soft voice, with a deep solemnity in the tones that was far different from his usual manner. "Is this indeed _you_--and here too?"
He held out both his hands. His face softened; the hard lines seemed to fade away into a certain unspeakable tenderness, and in his eyes there was a look of infinite pity and compassion.
"Yes, it is I," said the woman, in a voice which sounded like a moan. "I am still alive--still living on--while so many who are better are dead and are at rest."
She placed one hand in his, while with the other she still clung to the gateway. The hand which she gave was shriveled and emaciated and cold also to Obed as he felt it while holding it in both of his.
"Years have passed," said he at length, after a long and solemn silence, during which each regarded the other most earnestly--"years have passed," he repeated--"years--since you left--since I saw you last. Are you living here?" he continued, after some hesitation. "I suppose you are with one of the religious houses?"
The woman shook her head wearily. "No," said she; "I am by myself. I am alone in the world. I am now simply 'Mrs. Hart.' I have come here on important business. It is more than important; it is a matter of life and death."
"Mrs. Hart! Is that the name that you have?" asked Obed.
"That is my name," said Mrs. Hart, wearily. "It has been my name for many years, and has done me good service."
Obed said nothing, but regarded her for a long time in silence, wondering all the while at the mysterious fate of this unhappy woman.
At last he spoke.
"Have you been here long?" he asked. "I have been here for some weeks, but I have never seen you."
"Nor have I seen you," said Mrs. Hart. "I have been here long, but I have seen no one whom I know. I am alone."
"And are you able to go alone about this business of which you speak--this business 'of life and death?' Have you any help? Is it a thing which you could commit to the police?"
"No," said Mrs. Hart. "I came here in search of--of a friend; but I have not been able to find him."
"Are you alone, then?" asked Obed, in profound sympathy, while his face and his voice still showed the deep feeling of his heart. "Have you no one at all to help you? Is this a thing which you must do by yourself? Could not another other assist you? Would it be possible for you to let me help you in this? I can do much if you will allow me--if you will again put confidence in an old friend."
Is This Indeed You--And Here Too?
[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 to me. I see in your face and I hear in your voice that you still can feel for me. God bless you! my noble, my only friend! Yes, you can help me. There is no secret of mine which I need hide from you. I will tell you all--when I get stronger--and you shall help me. But I am very weak now," she said, wearily.
Obed looked away, and for a time said not one word. But that strong frame, which not long before had dared the shots of a desperate enemy, now trembled violently at the tears of an old woman. With a powerful effort he gulped down his emotion.
"Where are you living?" he asked, in a voice which had changed to one of strange sweetness and tenderness. "You are weak. Will you let me drive you now to your home?"
For a few moments Mrs. Hart looked at him piteously, and made no reply.
"I think it will be better for you to go home in my carriage," said Obed, gently urging her.
She still looked at him with the same piteousness.
"In what part of the city do you live?" said Obed, as he took her hand and drew it inside his arm. "Come, let me lead you to the carriage."
Mrs. Hart held back for a moment, and again looked at him.
"_I have no home_," she said, in a voice which had died away to a whisper.
At once the truth flashed upon Obed's mind.
"I have no home," continued Mrs. Hart. "I was turned out yesterday. Last night I slept in the Boboli Gardens. For two days I have had nothing to eat."
Obed Chute staggered back as though he hail received a violent blow. "O God!" he groaned, "has it come to this?"
He said not another word, but gently led Mrs. Hart to the brougham. He drove to a cafe first, and persuaded her to take some nourishment. Then he took her once more into the carriage, and they drove slowly out of the city.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
BEWILDERMENT.
Scarcely any thing was said on the drive out from Florence to the villa. Tears fell frequently from the eyes of the poor wanderer as she sat wrapped in deep thought. Obed sat in silence, looking out of the window upon vacancy, seeing nothing; or, rather, seeing still that face with its wan lips and ghastly outline, which had told so thrilling a story of homelessness and starvation. His thoughts were going back through the years--the long-vanished years. And as he thought there came over his rugged face an infinite pity and tenderness; from his eyes there beamed sadness and compassion unutterable. He kept silence thus, all that drive, because he could not trust himself to speak.
It was only when they reached the gateway of the villa that he opened his lips. Then, as they drove through, he turned toward her, and putting his hand on her arm, he said:
"Here is your home now--while you live."
"Oh, my friend!" murmured Mrs. Hart; and she could say no more.
On reaching the door Obed assisted Mrs. Hart out of the brougham, and they entered the hall. There were sounds of voices in the drawing-room, and on crossing the threshold of the villa a gentleman's voice arose in a cheerful and sprightly tone:
"Checkmated again! Really, Miss Lorton, after this you'll have to give me the odds of a pawn; you've beaten me seven games out of our last ten."
"I don't believe it was fair," said a lady's voice. "I firmly believe, and I've said it all along, that you let me beat you. Why, you taught me chess yourself, and how is it possible that I could catch up to my master in so short a time?"
"I don't pretend to account for it, Miss Lorton," said the gentleman's voice. "There, before you, is something better than theory. It is an indisputable fact. There is my king, with your queen immediately in front of him, and your rook in the distance guarding that strong-minded lady. And where is my queen? Why, gadding about with knights and bishops, when she ought to have been standing by the side of her unfortunate husband."
As these words came to her ears Mrs. Hart stood still, and one hand grasped Obed Chute's arm convulsively, while the other was pressed to her brow.
"What is this? Who are _these_? Are _they_ here?" she asked, in a thrilling voice. "Am I dreaming? Is this some mockery, or are they both here? Is it some surprise? Tell me, my friend. Did you arrange all this?"
She looked at Obed in a bewildered manner. He thought that her mind was wandering.
"Come," said he, kindly, "you must go to your room now and rest, and then--"
But here a loud remark from the gentleman, followed by a merry answer from the lady, interrupted Obed, and Mrs. Hart prevented him from finishing his sentence; for suddenly she started away from him, and, without a word, hurried into the room from which the voices came. Obed stood for a moment quite confounded, and then, feeling assured that the poor creature's brain was turned, followed her hurriedly.
Mrs. Hart burst into the room, with a white face and eager, inquiring eyes. Roused by the noise of footsteps, Lord Chetwynde and Zillah turned. To the amazement of both they saw Mrs. Hart.
Had the form of General Pomeroy, or of Earl Chetwynde, appeared at that instant before them, they could not have been more confounded. Lord Chetwynde, however, was cool and calm. There was nothing in his secret which was very important, and there was therefore no fear of a discovery to disturb the unfeigned joy that mingled with his wonder at this sudden appearance of his old nurse, blended also with deep and sharp grief at the weary, wan, and wretched face that he saw before him. As to his assumed name and the revelation of his true one, that did not trouble him at all, for he could give his explanation very readily. But with Zillah it was different. Rightly or wrongly, she considered her secret a thing which should be guarded like her heart's blood; and now she saw suddenly before her the certainty of a full and grand disclosure--a disclosure, too, not merely in the presence of Obed Chute, but of Windham also. Yet even this fear, terrible as it would have been at other times, was successfully mastered, and her generous and loving nature turned away from selfish fears, with longing and joy and pity, to this dear old friend; and these feelings, mingling together at that sudden sight, drove away all others.
But now to these succeeded a new surprise, which was overwhelming. For just as she started, in obedience to her impulse, she saw Lord Chetwynde hurry forward. She saw Mrs. Hart's eyes fixed on him in a kind of ecstasy. She saw her totter forward, with all her face overspread with a joy that is but seldom known---known only in rare moments, when some lost one, loved and lost--some one more precious than life itself--is suddenly found. She saw Lord Chetwynde hurry forward. She saw Mrs. Hart run toward him, and with a low moan, a longing, yearning cry, fling herself upon his breast and clasp him in her arms.
She heard her words--words wonderful, thrilling, and beyond all understanding:
"Oh, my boy! Oh, my own! Oh, Guy! Oh, my little boy! Oh, my darling! My God! I thank Thee for this joy!"
Uttering such broken ejaculations Mrs. Hart burst into a passion of tears, and only Lord Chetwynde's strong arms prevented her from falling.
He upheld her. He kissed her. He murmured words of affection, deep and tender and true. With gentle urgency lie drew her to a sofa, made her sit down by his side, and placed her head against his breast, and took her emaciated hands in his. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of others in that sudden, that overwhelming feeling of compassion for his aged, his heart-broken nurse. He was unconscious even of Zillah. In that moment his whole soul and his whole heart were turned to this wan face that leaned against his breast.
He said very little. How could he say much? A few attempts at soothing her--a few loving words--these were all. And these were enough; for better than these was the love that was expressed in his strong embrace--the love that sustained her now, and changed despair into rapture.
"My dearest," he said--"dearest old nurse--nurse! mamma! Don't grieve now. Come, look up, and let me see your sweet old face."
His voice was broken with emotion. How he loved that one whom he called his "dear old nurse!"
"Look up, old woman. Look up. Let me see your face. You don't know how dear it is to me."
And Mrs. Hart raised her face, and in her face he read a love infinite, all-consuming, imperishable--a love which now, however, satiated and intoxicated itself in the look that she gave.
She said nothing more, but, clinging to him, she seemed to hold him to her weary heart as though she feared that something might take him away.
"Forgive me, my own; do not be angry, my dearest," she murmured, "with your poor old nurse. I left home long, long ago. I rose from my sick-bed to seek you. I came here, and have watched and watched for a long time. Oh, how long! But you never came."
"You! watching for me! here in Florence!" exclaimed Lord Chetwynde, in wonder. "My poor old dear! why?"
"I will tell you again--not now--I am too weak. Hold my hands fast, my own. Let me see your dear face--oh, how dear!"
And with her hands in his, and her eyes feeding her soul upon his face, she lay upon his breast.