It was a trying position, but he took refuge in a certain lofty courtesy which well became him, and which might pass very well for that warmer feeling of which he was destitute. His natural kindliness of disposition softened his manner toward Hilda, and his sense of obligation made him tenderly considerate. If Hilda could have been content with any thing except positive love, she would have found happiness in that gentle and kindly and chivalrous courtesy which she received at the hands of Lord Chetwynde. Content with this she was not. It was something different from this that she desired; yet, after all, it was an immense advance on the old state of things. It gave her the chance of making herself known to Lord Chetwynde, a chance which had been denied to her before. Conversation was no longer impossible. At Chetwynde Castle there had been nothing but the most formal remarks; now there were things which approximated almost to an interchange of confidence. By her devotion, and by her confession of her feelings, she had presented herself to him in a new light, and that memorable confession of hers could not be forgotten. It was while traveling together that the new state of things was most manifest to her. She sat next to him in the carriage; she touched him; her arm was close to his. That touch thrilled through her, even though she knew too well that he was cold and calm-and indifferent. But this was, at least, a better thing than that abhorrence and repugnance which he had formerly manifested; and the friendly smile and the genial remark which he often directed to her were received by her with joy, and treasured up in the depths of her soul as something precious.

Traveling thus together through scenes of grandeur and of beauty, seated side by side, it was impossible to avoid a closer intimacy than common. In spite of Lord Chetwynde's coolness, the very fact that he was thus thrown into constant contact with a woman who was at once beautiful and clever, and who at the same time had made an open confession of her devotion to him, was of itself sufficient to inspire something like kindliness of sentiment at least in his heart, even though that heart were the coldest and the least susceptible that ever beat. The scenes through which they passed were of themselves calculated in the highest degree to excite a communion of soul. Hilda was clever and well-read, with a deep love for the beautiful, and a familiar acquaintance with all modern literature. There was not a beautiful spot on the road which had been sung by poets or celebrated in fiction of which she was ignorant. Ferney, sacred to Voltaire; Geneva, the birth-place of Rousseau; the Jura Alps, sung by Byron; the thousand places of lesser note embalmed by French or German writers in song and story, were all greeted by her with a delight that was girlish in its enthusiastic demonstrativeness. Lord Chetwynde, himself intellectual, recognized and respected the brilliant intellect of his companion. He saw that the woman who had saved his life at the risk of her own, who had dropped down senseless at his bedside, overworn with duties self-imposed through love for him—the woman who had overwhelmed him with obligations of gratitude—could also dazzle him with her intellectual brilliancy, and surpass him in familiarity with the greatest geniuses of modern times.

Another circumstance had contributed toward the formation of a closer association between these two. Hilda had no maid with her, but was traveling unattended. On leaving Lausanne she found that Gretchen was unwilling to go to Italy, and had, therefore, parted with her with many kind words, and the bestowal of presents sufficiently valuable to make the kind-hearted German maid keep in her memory for many years to come the recollection of that gentle suffering English lady, whose devotion to her husband had been shown so signally, and almost at the cost of her own life. Hilda took no maid with her. Either she could not obtain one in so small a place as Lausanne, or else she did not choose to employ one. Whatever the cause may have been, the result was to throw her more upon the care of Lord Chetwynde, who was forced, if not from gratitude at least from common politeness, to show her many of those little attentions which are demanded by a lady from a gentleman. Traveling together as they did, those attentions were required more frequently than under ordinary circumstances; and although they seemed to Lord Chetwynde the most ordinary commonplaces, yet to Hilda every separate act of attention or of common politeness carried with it a joy which was felt through all her being. If she had reasoned about that joy, she might perhaps have seen how unfounded it was. But she did not reason about it; it was enough to her that he was by her side, and that acts like these came from him to her. In her mind all the past and all the future were forgotten, and there was nothing but an enjoyment of the present.

Their journey lay through regions which presented every thing that could charm the taste or awaken admiration. At first there was the grandeur of Alpine scenery. From this they emerged into the softer beauty of the Italian clime. It was the Simplon Road which they traversed, that gigantic monument to the genius of Napoleon, which is more enduring than even the fame of Marengo or Austerlitz; and this road, with its alternating scenes of grandeur and of beauty, of glory and of gloom, had elicited the utmost admiration from each. At length, one day, as they were descending this road on the slope nearest Italy, on leaving Domo d'Ossola, they came to a place where the boundless plains of Lombardy lay stretched before them. There the verdurous fields stretched away beneath their eyes—an expanse of living green; seeming like the abode of perpetual summer to those who looked down from the habitation of winter. Far away spread the plains to the distant horizon, where the purple Apennines arose bounding the view. Nearer was the Lago Maggiore with its wondrous islands, the Isola Hella and the Isola Madre, covered with their hanging gardens, whose green foliage rose over the dark blue waters of the lake beneath; while beyond that lake lay towns and villages and hamlets, whose far white walls gleamed brightly amidst the vivid green of the surrounding plain; and vineyards also, and groves and orchards and forests of olive and chestnut trees. It was a scene which no other on earth can surpass, if it can equal, and one which, to travelers descending the Alps, has in every age brought a resistless charm.

This was the first time that Hilda had seen this glorious land. Lord Chetwynde had visited Naples, but to him the prospect that lay beneath was as striking as though he had never seen any of the beauties of Italy. Hilda, however, felt its power most. Both gazed long and with deep admiration upon this matchless scene without uttering one word to express their emotions; viewing it in silence, as though to break that silence would break the spell which had been thrown over them by the first sight of this wondrous land. At last Hilda broke that spell. Carried away by the excitement of the moment she started to her feet, and stood erect in the carriage, and then burst forth into that noble paraphrase which Byron has made of the glorious 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 press To shed thy blood and drink the tears of thy distress."

She stood like a Sibyl, inspired by the scene before her. Pale, yet lovely, with all her intellectual beauty refined by the sorrows through which she had passed, she herself might have been taken for an image of that Italy which she thus invoked. Lord Chetwynde looked at her, and amidst his surprise at such an outburst of enthusiasm he had some such thoughts as these. But suddenly, from some unknown cause, Hilda sank back into her seat, and burst into tears. At the display of such emotion Lord Chetwynde looked on deeply disturbed. What possible connection there could be between these words and her agitation he could not see. But he was full of pity for her, and he did what was most natural. He took her hand, and spoke kind words to her, and tried to soothe her. At his touch her agitation subsided. She smiled through her tears, and looked at him with a glance that spoke unutterable things. It was the first time that Lord Chetwynde had 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 had stopped to change horses. They waited here for a time till the horses were ready, and then resumed their journey. The road went on before them for miles, winding along gently in easy curves and with a gradual descent toward those smiling vales which lay beneath them. As they drove onward each turn in the road seemed to bring some new view before them, and to disclose some fresh glimpse to their eyes of that voluptuous Italian beauty which they were now beholding, and which appeared all the lovelier from the contrast which it presented to that sublime Alpine scenery—the gloom of awful gorges, the grandeur of snow-capped heights through which they had been journeying.

Inside the carriage were Lord Chetwynde and Hilda. Outside was the driver. Hilda was just pointing out to Lord Chetwynde some peculiar tint in the purple of the distant Apennines when suddenly the carriage gave a lurch, and with a wild bound, the horses started off at full speed down the road. Something had happened. Either the harness had given way or the horses were frightened; at any rate, they were running away at a fearful pace, and the driver, erect on his seat, was striving with all his might to hold in the maddened animals. His efforts were all to no purpose. On they went, like the wind, and the carriage, tossed from side to side at their wild springs seemed sometimes to leap into the air. The road before them wound on down a spur of the mountains, with deep ravines on one side—a place full of danger for such a race as this.



It was a fearful moment. For a time Hilda said not a word; she sat motionless, like one paralyzed by terror; and then, as the carriage gave a wilder lurch than usual, she gave utterance to a loud cry of fear, 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 she had some assurance of safety. Lord Chetwynde sat erect, looking out upon the road before him, down which they were dashing, and saying not a word. Mechanically he put his arm around this panic-stricken woman, who clung to him so tightly, as though by that silent gesture he meant to show that he would protect her as far as possible. But in so perilous a race all possibility of protection was out of the question.

At last the horses, in their onward career, came to a curve in the road, where, on one side, there was a hill, and on the other a declivity. It was a sharp turn. Their impetus was too swift to be readily stayed. Dashing onward, the carriage was whirled around after them, and was thrown off the road down the declivity. For a few paces the horses dragged it onward as it Iay on its side, and then the weight of the carriage was too much for them. They stopped, then staggered, then backed, and then, with a heavy-plunge, both carriage and horses went down into the gully beneath.

It was not more than thirty feet of a descent, and the bottom was the dry bed of a mountain torrent. The horses struggled and strove to free themselves. The driver jumped off uninjured, and sprang at them to stop them. This he succeeded in doing, at the cost of some severe bruises.

Meanwhile the occupants of the carriage had felt the full consciousness of the danger. As the carriage went down Hilda clung more closely to Lord Chetwynde. He, on his part, said not a word, but braced himself for the fall. The carriage rolled over and over in its descent, and at last stopped. Lord Chetwynde, with Hilda in his arms, was thrown violently down. As soon as he could he raised himself and drew Hilda out from the wreck of the carriage.

She was senseless.

He laid her down upon the grass. Her eyes were closed, her hair was all disordered, her face was as white as the face of a corpse. A stream of blood trickled down over her marble forehead from a wound in her head. It was a piteous sight.

Lord Chetwynde took her in his arms and carried her off a little distance, to a place where there was some water in the bed of the brook. With this he sought to restore her to consciousness. For a long 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 ride for 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 a litter, and bring a couple of stout fellows back to help us carry her. Make haste—for your life."

The driver at once comprehended the whole situation. He did as he was bid, and in a few minutes the sound of his horse's hoofs died away in the distance.

Lord Chetwynde was left alone with Hilda.

She lay in his arms, her beautiful face on his shoulder, tenderly supported; that face white, and the lips bloodless, the eyes closed, and blood trickling from the wound on her head. It was not a sight upon 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 his desires.

Ah, true! But she was something more.

And now, as he looked at her thus lying in his arms, there came to him the thought of all that she had been to him—the thought of her undying love—her matchless devotion. That pale face, those closed eyes, those mute lips, that beautiful head, stained with oozing blood, all spoke to him with an eloquence which awakened a response within him.

Was this the end of all that love and that devotion? Was this the fulfillment of his promise to General Pomeroy? Was he doing by this woman as she had done by him? Had she not made more than the fullest atonement for the offenses and follies of the past? Had she not followed him through Europe to seek him and to snatch him from the grasp of a villain? Had she not saved his life at the risk of her own? Had she not stood by his side till she fell lifeless at his feet in 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 any equal 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 his lips to that icy brow. Then once more he looked at her. Once more he touched her, and this time his lips met hers.

"My God!" he groaned; "what can I do? Why did I ever see—that other one?"

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 Chetwynde followed 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 in Italy. He intended to go to Rome and Florence, after which he expected to go to Venice or Milan, and then across the Alps to Germany. Two vetturas held the family, and in due time they arrived at Terracina. Here they passed the night, and early on the following day they set out, expecting to traverse the Pontine Marshes and reach Albano by evening.

These famous marshes extend from Terracina to Nettuno. They are about forty-five miles in length and from four to twelve in breadth. Drained successively by Roman, by Goth, and by pope, they successively relapsed into their natural state, until the perseverance of Pius VI. completed the work. It is now largely cultivated, but the scenery is monotonous and the journey tedious. The few inhabitants found here get their living by hunting and by robbery, and are distinguished by their pale and sickly appearance. At this time the disturbed state of Italy, and particularly of the papal dominions, made traveling sometimes hazardous, and no place was more dangerous than this. Yet Obed gave this no thought, but started on the journey with as much cheerfulness as though he were making a railway trip from New York to Philadelphia.

About half-way there is a solitary inn, situated close by the road-side, with a forlorn and desolate air about it. It is two stories high, with small windows, and the whitewashed stone walls made it look more like a lazaretto than any thing else. Here they stopped two hours to feed the horses and to take their dejeuner. The place was at this time kept by a miserable old man and his wife, on whom the unhealthy atmosphere of the marshes seemed to have brought a premature decay. Obed could not speak Italian, so that he was debarred from the pleasure of talking with this man; but he exhibited much sympathy toward him, and made him a present of a bundle of cigars—an act which the old man viewed, at first, with absolute incredulity, and at length with unutterable gratitude.

Leaving this place they drove on for about two miles, when suddenly the carriage in which Obed and the family were traveling fell forward with a crash, and the party were thrown pell-mell together. The horses stopped. No injury was done to any one, and Ohed got out to see what had taken place. The front axle was broken.

Here was a very awkward dilemma, and it was difficult to tell what ought to be done. There was the other carriage, but it was small, and could not contain the family. The two maids, also, would have to be left behind. Obed thought, at first, of sending on his family and waiting; 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 they finally did. Here Obed exerted all his ingenuity and all his mechanical skill in a futile endeavor to repair the axle. But the rough patch which he succeeded at last in making was so inefficient that, on attempting to start once more, the carriage again broke down, and they were forced to give up this hope.

Three hours had now passed away, and it had already grown altogether too late to think of trying to finish the journey. Again the question arose, what was to be done? To go back was now as much out of the question as to go forward. One resource only seemed left them, and that was to stay here for the night, and send back to Terracina for a new carriage. This decision Obed finally arrived at, and he communicated it to his valet, and ordered him to see if they could have 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 all cram into the small carriage. And, besides, as to danger—by this time 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 like this. Why, man, this house is a regular fort. Besides, who is there that 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 of times, 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 on the look-out for danger. Now, I ain't on the look-out. Why should I trouble myself? Whenever any enemy shows himself I'll be ready. If a man is always going to imagine danger, and borrow trouble, what will become of him? This place seems to me the best place for the family now—far better than the road, at any rate. I wouldn't have them dragged back to Terracina on any account. It'll be dark long before we get there, and traveling by night on the Pontine Marshes ain't particularly healthy. There's less risk for them here than any where else; so, young man, you'd better look up the beds, and see what they can do for us."

The valet made some further remonstrances; he described the ruthless character of the Italian brigands, told Obed about the dangerous condition of the country, hinted that the old man and his wife were themselves possibly in alliance with the brigands, and again urged him to change his plans. But Obed was not moved in the slightest degree 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 the fatigue too, which was quite as important a thing, were on the road, and whatever safety there was, whether from brigands or miasma, lay in 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. The old man and his wife bestirred themselves to make every thing ready for 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 come as early as possible on the following day.

During Obed's conversation with the valet the ladies had been in the hotel, and had therefore heard nothing of what had been said. They were quite ignorant of the existence of any danger, and Obed thought it the best plan to keep them in ignorance, unless actual danger should arise. For his own part, he had meant what he said. He was aware that there was danger; he knew that the country was in an unsettled and lawless condition, and that roving bands of robbers were scouring the papal territories. From the very consciousness that he had of this danger, he had decided in favor of stopping. He believed the road to be more dangerous than the inn. If there was to be any attack of brigands, he much preferred to receive it here; and he thought this a more unlikely place for such an attack than any other.

The warning of the valet made a sufficiently deep impression upon him to cause him to examine very carefully the position of his rooms, and the general appearance of the house. The house itself was as strong as a fortress, and a dozen men, well posted, could have defended it against a thousand. But Obed was alone, and had to consider the prospects of one man in a defense. The rooms which he occupied favored this. There were two. One was a large one at the end of the house, lighted by one small window. This his family and Zillah occupied; somewhat crowded, it is true, yet not at all uncomfortable. A wide hearth was there, and a blazing peat fire kept down the chill of the marshy exhalations. Outside of this was a smaller room, and this 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-fashioned four-posted structure of enormous weight.

All these things Obed took in with one rapid glance, and saw the advantages of his position. In these rooms, with his revolver and his ammunition, he felt quite at ease. He felt somewhat grieved at that moment that he did not know Italian, for he wished very much to ask some questions of the old inn-keeper; but this was a misfortune which he had to endure.

As long as the daylight lasted Obed wandered about outside. Then dinner came, and after that the time hung heavily on his hands. At last he went to his room; the family had retired some time before. There was a good supply of peat, and with this he replenished the fire. 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 upon Obed, that he had concluded not to go to sleep. He determined to remain awake, and though such watchfulness might not be needed, yet he felt that for his family's sake it was wisest and best. To sit up one night, or rather to lounge on a bed smoking, was nothing, and there was plenty of occupation for his thoughts.

Time passed on. Midnight came, and nothing had occurred. Another hour passed; and then another. It was two o'clock.

About a quarter of an hour after this Obed was roused by a sudden knocking at the door of the inn. Shouts followed. He heard the old man descend the stairs. Then the door was opened, and loud noisy footsteps 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 sufficiently disorderly. Shouts and cries and yells arose. Obed imagined that they were 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 such confidence in himself, that he felt very much the same, at the prospect of an encounter with them, as a grown man might feel at an encounter with as many boys.

During this time he made no change in his position. His revolver was in 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 then he heard footsteps moving toward the hall. He listened. The footsteps ascended the stairs!

They ascended the stairs, and came nearer and nearer. There did not seem to be so many as a dozen. Perhaps some remained below. Such were his thoughts.

They came toward his room.

At length he heard the knob of the door turning gently. Of course, as the door was locked, and as the bed was in front of it, this produced no effect. On Obed the only effect was that he sat upright and drew his 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 Italian," said Obed. "Me American. Speeky English, and go to blazes!"

At this there was a pause, and then a dull deep crash, as if the whole body outside had precipitated themselves against the door.

Obed held his pistol quickly toward the door opposite the thinnest panel, 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 with savage yells of rage. There was a sound as of bodies falling, and retreating 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. But keep cool. I'll take care of you. Perhaps you'd better get up and dress, though. At any rate, keep cool. You needn't bother as long as you've got me."



CHAPTER LXI.

AT FLORENCE.

After her accident Hilda was carried to the nearest house, and there she recovered, after some time, from her swoon. She knew nothing of what Lord Chetwynde had thought and done during that time when she lay 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 himself to the nearest town to get a conveyance. When he returned it was very late, and she had to go to bed through weakness. And thus they did not meet until the following morning.

When they did meet Lord Chetwynde asked kindly about her health, but evinced no stronger feeling than kindness—or pity. She was pale and sad; she was eager for some sign of tenderness, but the sign was not forthcoming. Lord Chetwynde was kind and sympathetic. He tried to cheer her; he exerted himself to please her and to soothe her, but that was all. That self-reproach which had thrilled him as she lay lifeless 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 was nothing.

When they resumed their journey it was as before. He was courteous to an extreme. He anticipated her wishes and saw after her comforts with the greatest solicitude, but never did he evince any desire to pass beyond the limits of conventional politeness. To him she was simply a lady 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 courteous attention which are common between gentlemen and ladies. At Milan he took her around to see all the sights of that famous city. The Breda Palace, the Amphitheatre, above all, the Cathedral, were visited, and nothing was omitted which might give her pleasure. Yet all this was different from what it had been before. Since the accident Hilda had grown more sad, and lost her sprightliness and enthusiasm. On first recovering her senses she had learned about the events of that accident, and that Lord Chetwynde had tried to bring her to life again. She had hoped much from this, and had fully expected when she saw him again to find in him something softer than before. In this she had been utterly disappointed. Her heart now sank within her, and scarcely any hope was left. Languid and dull, she tried no longer to win Lord Chetwynde by brilliancy of conversation, or by enthusiastic interest in the beautiful of nature and of art. These had failed once; why should she try them again? And since he had been unmoved by the spectacle of her lifeless form—the narrow escape from death of one who he well knew would die to save him—what was there left for her to do?

At length they resumed their journey, and in due time reached Florence. Here new changes took place. Their arrival here terminated that close association enforced by their journey which had been so precious to Hilda. Here Lord Chetwynde of course drifted away, and she could not hope to see him except at certain stated intervals. Now more than ever she began to lose hope. The hopes that she had once formed seemed now to be baseless. And why, she asked herself bitterly—why was it so impossible for him to love her? Would not any other man have loved her under such circumstances?

At Florence Lord Chetwynde went his own way. He visited most of the places of interest in company with her, took her to the Duomo, the Church of Santa Croce, the Palazzi Vecchio and Pitti, walked with her through the picture-galleries, and drove out with her several times. After this there was nothing more to be done, and he was left to his own resources, and she, necessarily, to hers. She could not tell where he went, but merely conjectured that he was idling about without any particular purpose, in the character of a common sight-seer.

Hilda thus at length, left so much to herself, without the joy of his presence to soften her, grew gradually hopeless and desperate; and there began to rise within her bitter feelings, like those of former days. In the midst of these her darker nature made itself manifest, and there came the vengeful promptings of outraged love. With her vengeance meant something more than it did with common characters; and when that fit was on her there came regrets that she had ever left Chetwynde, and gloomy ideas about completing her interrupted work after all. But these feelings were fitful, for at times hope would return again, and tenderness take the place of vindictiveness. From hope she would again sink into despair, and sometimes meditate upon that dark resolve which she had once hinted to Gualtier at the Hotel Gibbon.

Amidst all this her pride was roused. Why should she remain in this position—a hanger-on—forcing herself on an unwilling man who at best only tolerated her? The only soft feeling for her that had ever arisen in his heart was nothing more than pity. Could she hope that ever this pity would change to love, or that even the pity itself would last? Was he not even now longing to get rid of her, and impatiently awaiting tidings of his Indian appointment? To go to India, she saw plainly, simply meant to get rid of her. This, she saw, was his fixed determination. And for her—why should she thus remain, so deeply humiliated, when she was not wanted?

So she argued with herself, but still she staid on. For love makes the proudest a craven, and turns the strength of the strongest into weakness; and so, in spite of herself, she staid, because she could not go.

Meanwhile the state of Lord Chetwynde's, mind was not by any means enviable. He found himself in a position which was at once unexpected and to him, extremely embarrassing. Every feeling of gratitude, every prompting of common generosity, compelled him to exhibit toward Hilda a greater degree of kindness than existed in his heart. The association of a long journey had necessarily thrown him upon her society, 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 his deepest pity, and roused him to some approach to tenderness. But with the occasion the feeling had passed; and the tenderness, born of so piteous a sight, returned no more. Her own dullness afterward deprived him even of the chance of finding her an agreeable companion. He saw that she was deeply melancholy. Yet what could he do? Even if he had wished it he could not have forced himself to love this woman, notwithstanding her devotion to himself. And this he did not even wish. Not all his sense of honor, not all his emotions of gratitude, not all his instincts of generosity, not even the remembrance of his solemn promise to General Pomeroy, could excite within him any desire that his heart might change from its affection and its longing for another, to yield that love to her.

True, once or twice his heart had smote him as he thought of his utter coldness and want of gratitude toward this woman who had done so much for him. This feeling was very painful on that day of the accident. Yet it passed. He could not force himself to muse over his own shortcomings. He could not bring himself to wish that he should be one whit more grateful to her or more tender. Any thought of her being ever more to him than she was now seemed repugnant. Any wish for it was out of the question. Indeed, he never thought of it as being within the bounds of possibility. For behind all these late events 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 was associated with the bitterest memories of his life. She it was who had been the cause, unwilling no doubt as he now thought, but still no less the cause of the blight that had descended upon his life. As that life had passed he could not help cursing the day when first General Pomeroy proposed that unholy agreement. It was this that had exiled 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 his heart had been filled with one image—an image which now was never absent. Bound by the law to this woman, who was named his wife, he could never hope in any way to gain that other one on whom all his heart was fixed. Between him and those hopes that made life precious she stood and rendered those hopes impossible.

Then, too, he could not avoid recalling his life in India, which she had tried to make, as far as in her lay, one long misery, by those malevolent letters which she had never ceased to write. Above all, he could never forget the horror of indignation which had been awakened within him by that last letter, and the fierce vows which he had made to be avenged on her. All this was yet in his memory in spite of the events of later days. True, she had relented from her former savage spirit, and had changed from hate to love. She had traveled far to save him from death. She had watched by him day and night till her own life well-nigh gave way. She had repented, and had marked her repentance by a devotion which could not be surpassed. For all this he felt grateful. His gratitude, indeed, had been so profound and so sincere that it had risen up between him and his just hate, and had forced him to forgive her fully and freely, and to the uttermost, for all that she had done of her own accord, and also for all of which she 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 have transient emotions of tenderness toward her. But what then? What was the value of these feelings? He had forgiven her, but he had not forgotten the past. That was impossible. The memory of that past still remained, and its results were still before him. He felt those results every hour of his life. Above all, she still stood before him as the one thing, and the only thing, which formed an obstacle between him and his happiness. He might pity her, he might be grateful to her; but the intense fervor of one passion, and the longing desire to which it gave rise, made it impossible for her ever to 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 to sit by her side. He gradually kept by himself; for, though he could tolerate her, he could not seek her. Indeed, his own feelings impelled him to avoid her. The image of that one who never left his memory had such an effect on him that he preferred solitude and his own thoughts. In this way he could best struggle with himself and arrange his lonely and desolate future. India now appeared the one hope that was left him. There he might find distraction from troublesome thoughts in his old occupations, and among his old associates. He had bidden farewell to Chetwynde forever. He had left the fate of Chetwynde in the hands of his solicitors; he had signed away all his rights; he had broken the entail; and had faced the prospect of the extinction of his ancient family. This resolution had cost him so much that it was impossible now to go back from it. The exhibition of Hilda's devotion never changed his resolution for an instant. The papers still remained with his solicitors, nor did he for one moment dream of countermanding the orders which he had once given.

What Lord Chetwynde most desired was solitude. Florence had been chosen by him as a resting-place where he might await letters from England about his Indian appointment, and for those letters he waited every day. Under these circumstances he avoided all society. He had taken unpretending lodgings, and in the Hotel Meubles, overlooking the Ponta della Trinita, he was lost in the crowd of fellow-lodgers. His suite of apartments extended over the third story. Below him was a Russian Prince and a German Grand Duke, and above and all around was a crowd of travelers of all nations. He brought no letters. He desired no acquaintances. Florence, under the new regime, was too much agitated by recent changes for its noblesse to pay any attention to a stranger, however distinguished, unless he was forced upon them; and so Lord Chetwynde had the most complete isolation. If Hilda had ever had any ideas of going with Lord Chetwynde into Florentine society she was soon undeceived, when, as the days passed, she found that Florentine society took no notice of her. Whatever disappointment she may have felt, Lord Chetwynde only received gratification from this, since it spared him every annoyance, and left him to himself, after the first week or so.

By himself he thus occupied his time. He rode sometimes through the beautiful country which surrounds Florence on every side. When weary of this he used to stroll about the city, along the Lungh' Arno, or through the Casino, or among the churches. But his favorite place of resort was the Boboli Gardens; for here there was sufficient life and movement to be found among the throng of visitors; or, if he wished seclusion, he could find solitude among the sequestered groves and romantic grottoes of this enchanting spot.

Here one day he wandered, and found a place among the trees which commanded a view of one of the principal avenues of the gardens. In the distance there opened a vista through which was revealed the fair outline of Florence, with its encircling hills, and its glorious Val d'Arno. There arose the stupendous outline of Il Duomo, the stately form of the Baptistery, the graceful shaft of the Campanile, the medieval grandeur of the Palazzo Vecchio; and the severe Etruscan massiveness of the Pitti Palace was just below. Far away the Arno wound on, through the verdurous plain, while on either side the hills arose dotted with white villas and deep green olive groves. Is there any 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 in thoughts which were sometimes taken up with the historic charms of this unrivaled valley, and sometimes with his own sombre future, when suddenly his attention was arrested by a figure passing along the pathway immediately beneath him. The new-comer was a tall, broad-shouldered, square-faced man; he wore a dress-coat and a felt hat; he had no gloves, but his thumbs were inserted in the arm-holes of his waistcoat; and as he sauntered along he looked around with a leisurely yet comprehensive stare. Lord Chetwynde was seated in a place which made him unseen to any in the path, while it afforded him the fullest opportunities of seeing others. This man, who thus walked on, turned his full face toward him and disclosed the well-known features of Obed Chute.

The sight of this man sent a strange thrill to the inmost heart of Lord Chetwynde. He here! In Florence! And his family, were they with him? And she—when he saw him in London he said that she was yet with him—was she with him now? Such were the thoughts which came to Lord Chetwynde at the sight of that face. The next instant he rose, hurried down to the path after Obed, who had strode onward and catching 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 did you get here?"

"I? Oh, I've been here two or three weeks. But it doesn't seem possible that it should really be you," he added, with greater warmth than was usual to him, as he wrung Obed's hand.

"It's possible," said Obed, with a characteristic squeeze of Lord Chetwynde'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 must say, 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, and were 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 some time?"

"Oh yes; I've some little time to spare. The fact is I came here to pass my leisure time. I'm expecting a letter every day which may send me 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 get new tastes and acquire new habits. I never yet saw a returned Indian who could be content. For my part, I'm too young yet to go in for being a returned Indian; and so after I finished my business I applied for a reappointment."

"There's a good deal in what you say," remarked Obed. "Your British island is contracted. A man who has lived in a country like India feels this. We Americans, accustomed as we are to the unlimited atmosphere of a boundless continent, always feel depressed in a country like England. There is in your country, Sir, a physical and also a moral constraint which, to a free, republican, continental American, is suffocating. And hence my dislike to the mother country."

They walked on together chatting about numerous things. Obed referred once more to India.

"It's queer," said he; "your British Empire is so tremendous that it seems to cover the earth. After I left the States it seemed to me that I couldn't go any where without seeing the British flag. There was 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 great deal more, you know. We had colonies that were worth all the rest. Unfortunately those colonies took it into their heads to set up for themselves, and started that independent nation of the Stars and Stripes that you belong to. If it hadn't been for that abominable Stamp Act, and other acts equally abominable, you and I might now be under the same flag, belonging to an empire which might set the whole united world at defiance. It's a pity it was not so. The only hope now left is that our countries may always be good friends, as they are now, as you and I are—as we always are, whenever we meet under such circumstances as those which occurred when you and I became acquainted. 'Blood is thicker than water,' said old Tatnall, when he sent his Yankee sailors to help Admiral Hope; and the same sentiment is still in the mind of every true Englishman whenever he sees an American of the right sort."

"Them's my sentiments," said Obed, heartily. "And although I don't generally hanker after Britishers, yet I have a kind of respect for the old country, in spite of its narrowness and contraction, and all the more when I see that it can turn out men like you."

After a short stroll the two seated themselves in a quiet sequestered place, and had a long conversation. Obed informed him of the many events which had occurred since their last meeting. The news about Black Bill was received by Lord Chetwynde with deep surprise, and he had a strong hope that this might lead to the capture of Gualtier. Little did he suspect the close connection which he had had with the principals in this crime.

He then questioned Obed, with deep interest, about his life in Naples, about his journey to Florence, and many other things, with the purpose of drawing him on to speak about one whom he could not name without emotion, but about whom he longed to hear. Obed said nothing about her; but, in the course of the conversation, he told all about that affair in the Pontine Marshes, in which he recently vanished from view at a very critical moment.

Obed's account was given with his usual modesty; for this man, who was often so grandiloquent on the subject of his country, was very meek on the subject of himself. To give his own words would be to assign a very unimportant part to the chief actor in a very remarkable affair, so that the facts themselves may be more appropriately stated. These facts Lord Chetwynde gathered from Obed's narrative in spite of his extreme modesty.

After Obed's shot, then, there had been silence for a time, or rather inaction among the assailants. The agitation of his family excited his sympathy, and once more he reassured them, telling them that the affair was not worth thinking about, and urging them to be calm. His words inspired courage among them, and they all arose and dressed. Their room was at the end of the building, as has been said. Obed's room adjoined it, and the only entrance into their room was through his. A narrow passage ran from the central hall and far as the wall of their room, and on the side of the passage was the door which led into Obed's.

After putting some more peat on the fire, he called to his sister to watch at the window of her room, and then replenishing his pipe, and loading the discharged chambers of his revolver, he awaited the renewal of hostilities. The long silence that followed showed him that his fire had been very serious, and he began to think that they would not return. So the time passed until five o'clock came. The women in the adjoining room were perfectly silent, but watchful, and apparently calm. Below there were occasional sounds of footsteps, which showed that the assailants were still in the place. The excitement of the occasion was rather agreeable to Obed than otherwise. He felt that he had the advantage in every respect, and was certain that there could not be very many assailants below. Their long delay in resuming the assault showed that they were cowed.



At last, however, to his intense gratification, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He knew by the sound that there could not be more than four, or perhaps six. When near his door the footsteps stopped. There was a momentary silence, and then suddenly a tremendous blow, and a panel of the door crashed in at the stroke of an axe, the head of which followed it. Quick as lightning Obed took aim. He saw how the axe had fallen, and judged exactly the position of the man that dealt the blow. He fired. A shriek followed. That shot had told. Wild curses arose. There was a mad rush at the door, and again the axe fell.

Once more Obed watched the fall of the axe and fired. Again that shot told. There were groans and shrieks of rage, and deep, savage curses.

And now at last Obed rose to the level of the occasion. He rapidly reloaded the emptied chambers of his revolver. Stepping to the door of the inner room he spoke some soothing words, and then hurrying back, he drew the ponderous bedstead away. Outside he heard shuffling, as of footsteps, and thought they might be dragging away those who had been wounded last. All this had been done in a moment. To unlock the door, to spring forward with leveled pistol upon his assailants, was but the work of another moment.

It was now dim morning twilight. The scene outside was plainly revealed. There were three men dragging away two—those two who had been wounded by the last shots. On these Obed sprang. One went down before his shot. The others, with a cry of terror, ran down the stairs, and out of the house. Obed pursued. They ran wildly up the road. Again Obed fired, and one wretch fell. Then he put the revolver in his pocket, and chased the other man. The distance between them lessened rapidly. At last Obed came up. He reached out his arm and caught him by the collar. With a shriek of terror the scoundrel stopped, and fell on his knees, uttering frantic prayers for mercy, of which Obed understood not one word. He dragged him back to the house, found a rope in the stable, bound him securely, and put him in the dining-room. Then he went about to seek the landlord. He could not be found. Both he and his wife apparently fled. But Obed found something else.

In the lower room that opened into the dining-room were three men on two beds, wounded, faint, and shivering with terror. These were the men that had been wounded at the first attack. In the anguish of their pain they made gestures of entreaty, of which Obed took no notice. Upstairs in the hall were those two whom he had stuck with his last shots. There were no others to be seen.

After finishing his search, Obed went up the road, and carried back the 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 at escaping from a terrible fate, they felt a certain pity for these sufferers, wretches though they were. Obed shared this feeling. His anger had all departed with the end of the fight. He lifted one by one the wounded wretches, putting them on the beds in the rooms when he had hired. Then he and his sister dressed their wounds. Thus the night ended, and the sun at last arose.

About two hours after sunrise it happened that a troop of papal gendarmerie came along. Obed stopped then, and calmly handed over the prisoners to their care. They seemed bewildered, but took charge of them, evidently not at all comprehending of the situation. An hour or so afterward the valet arrived with a fresh carriage, and after hearing Obed's story with wonder he was able to explain it to the soldiers.

Obed then set out for Rome, and, after some stay, came on to Florence.

Such was the substance of his story.



CHAPTER LXII.

THE VILLA.

There were many things in Obed Chute's narration which affected Lord Chetwynde profoundly. The story of that adventure in the Pontine Marshses had an interest for him which was greater than any that might be created by the magnificent prowess and indomitable pluck that had been exhibited on that occasion by the modest narrator. Beneath the careless and offhand recital of Obed Lord Chetwynde was able to perceive the full extent of the danger to which he had been exposed, and from which his own cool courage had saved him. An ordinary man, under such circumstances, would have basely yielded; or, if the presence of his family had inspired him with unusual courage, the courage would have been at best a sort of frenzy, at the impulse of which he might have devoted his own life to the love which he had for his family, and thrown that life away without saving them. But in Obed's quiet and unpretending narrative he recognized the presence of a heroic soul; one which in the midst of the most chivalrous, the most absolute, and the most devotion—in the midst of the most utter abnegation of self—could still maintain the serenest calm and the most complete presence of mind in the face of awful danger. Every point in that story produced an effect on the mind of the listener, and roused his fullest sympathy. He had before his eyes that memorable scene: Obed watching and smoking on his bed by the side of the door—the family sleeping peacefully in the ajoining room—the sound of footsteps, of violent knockings, of furious entrance, or wild and lawless mirth. He imagined the flight of the old man and his wife, who in terror, or perhaps through cunning and treachery, gave up their hotel and their guests to the fury of the brigands. He brought before his mind that long time of watchful waiting when Obed lay quietly yet vigilantly reclining on the bed, with his pipe in his mouth and his pistol in his pocket, listening to the sounds below, to see what they might foreshadow; whether they told of peace or of war, whether they announced the calm of a quiet night or the terrors of an assault made by fiends—by those Italian brigands whose name has become a horror, whose tendererst mercies are pitiless cruelty, and to fall into the hands of whom is the direst fate that man or woman may know.

One thought gave a horror to this narrative. Among the women in that room was the one who to him was infinitely dearer than any other on earth. And this danger had threatened her—a danger too horrible to think of—one which made his very life-blood freeze in the course of this calm narration. This was the one thing on which his thoughts turned most; that horrible, that appalling danger. So fearful was it to him that he envied Obed the privilege of having saved her. He longed to have been there in Obed's place, so as to have done this thing for her. He himself had once saved her from death, and that scene could never depart from his memory; but now it seemed to him at though the fate from which he had saved her was nothing when compared to the terror of that danger from which she had been snatched by Obed.

Yet, during Obed's narrative, although these feelings were within his heart, he said little or nothing. He listened with apparent calmness, offering no remark, though at that time the thoughts of his heart were so intense. In fact, it was through the very intensity of his feelings that he forced himself to keep silence. For if he had spoken he would have revealed all. If he had spoken he would have made known, even to the most careless or the most preoccupied listener, all the depth of that love which filled his whole being. Her very name to him was something which he could not mention without visible emotion. And she, in fearful peril, in terrific danger, in a situation so horrible, could not be spoken of by one to whom she was so dear and so precious.

And so he listened in silence, with only a casual interjection, until Obed had finished his story. Then he made some appropriate remarks, very coolly, complimentary to the heroism of his friend; which remarks were at once quietly scouted by Obed as altogether inappropriate.

"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 our Mexican war, of course. To gain a victory over such rubbish is almost a disgrace."

So Obed spoke about it, though whether he felt his exploit to be a disgrace or not may very reasonably be doubted.

Yet, in spite of Lord Chetwynde's interest in the affair of the Pontine Marshes, there was another story of Obed's which produced a deeper effect on his mind. This was his account of his interview with Black Bill, to which he had been summoned in London. The story of Black Bill which Obed gave was one which was full of awful horror. It showed the unrelenting and pitiless cruelty of those who had made themselves her enemies; their profound genius for plotting, and their far-reaching cunning. He saw that these enemies must be full of boldness and craft far beyond what is ordinarily met with. Black Bill's account of Gualtier's behavior on the boat when the men tried to mutiny impressed him deeply. The man that could commit such a deed as he had done, and then turn upon a desperate crew as he did, to baffle them, to subdue them, and to bring them into submission to his will, seemed to him to be no common man. His flight afterward, and the easy and yet complete way in which he had eluded all his pursuers, confirmed this view of his genius. Obed himself, who had labored so long, and yet so unsuccessfully, coincided in this opinion.

The chief subject of interest in these affairs to both of these men was Zillah; yet, though the conversation revolved around her as a centre, no direct allusion was for some time made to her present situation. Yet all the while Lord Chetwynde was filled with a feverish curiosity to know where she was, whether she was still with Obed's family, or had left them; whether she was far away from him, or here in Florence. Such an immensity of happiness or of misery seemed to him at that time to depend on this thing that he did not dare to ask the question. He waited to see whether Obed himself might not put an end to this suspense. But Obed's thoughts were all absorbed by the knotty question which had been raised by the appearance of Black Bill with his story. From the London police he had received no fresh intelligence since his departure, though every day he expected to hear something. From the Marseilles authorities he had heard nothing since his last visit to that city, and a letter which he had recently dispatched to the prefect at Naples had not yet been answered. As far as his knowledge just yet was concerned, the whole thing had gone into a more impenetrable mystery than ever, and the principals in this case, after committing atrocious crimes, after baffling the police of different nations, seemed to have vanished into the profoundest obscurity. But on this occasion he reiterated that determination which he had made before of never losing sight of this purpose, but keeping at it, if need were, for years. He would write to the police, he said, perpetually, and would give information to the authorities of every country in Europe. On his return to America he would have an extensive and comprehensive search instituted. He would engage detectives himself in addition to any which the police might send forth. Above all, he intended to make free use of the newspapers. He had, he said—and in this he was a true American—great faith in advertising. He had drawn up in his mind already the formulas of various kinds of notices which he intended to have inserted in the principal papers, by which he hoped to get on the track of the criminals. Once on their track, he felt assured of success.

The unexpected addition of Black Bill to the number of actors in this important case was rightly considered by Obed as of great moment. He had some idea of seeking him out on his return to London, and of employing him in this search. Black Bill would be stimulated to such a search by something far more powerful than any mere professional instinct or any hope of reward. The vengeance which he cherished would make him go on this errand with an ardor which no other could feel. He had his own personal grievance against Gualtier. He had shown this by his long and persistent watch, and by the malignancy of his tone when speaking of his enemy. Besides this, he had more than passion or malignancy to recommend him; he had that qualification for the purpose which gave aim and certainty to all his vengeful desires. He had shown himself to have the instinct of a bloodhound, and the stealthy 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 he was forced to watch, and was not ready to strike. The next time he would be ready to deal the blow, and if he were once put on the trail, and caught up with the fugitive, the blow would fall swiftly and relentlessly.

Debate about such things as these took up two or three hours, during which time Lord Chetwynde endured his suspense. At length they rose to 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, and then seemed to stop beating for some seconds. He said nothing.

"She is here now in Florence with us," continued Obed. "She is quite one of the family. We all call her Ella now; she insisted on it. I have taken a villa a few miles away. Ella prefers the country. We often drive into the city. It's a wonder to me that we never met before."

"Yes; it is odd."

"She came in with us this morning with a watch, which she left at Penafrio's to be mended. It will be done this evening. She could not wait for it, so I staid, so as to take it out to her tonight. I strolled about the town, and finally wandered here, which I think the prettiest place in Florence. I'd been walking through the gardens for an hour before you saw me."

"How has she been of late?"

"Very well indeed—better, in fact, than she has ever been since I first saw her. She was not very well at Naples. The journey here did her much good, and the affair of the Pontine Marshes roused her up instead of agitating her. She behaved like a trump—she was as cool as a clock; but it was a coolness that arose from an excitement which was absolutely red-hot, Sir. She seemed strung up to a pitch ten notes higher than usual, and once or twice as I caught her eyes they seemed 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," exclaimed Obed, tenderly.

"It's having an occupation," he continued, "as I believe, that's done her this good. She was afraid she would be a dependent, and the fear arose out of a noble feeling. Now she finds her position an honorable one. It gives her a fine feeling of pride. The poor little thing seems to have been brought up to do nothing at all; but now the discovery that she can do something actually intoxicates her. And the beauty of it is, she does it well. Yes, Sir. My children have been pushed along at a tre-mendous pace, and they love Ella better than me or sister ten times. But you'll see for yourself, for you've got to come right straight out with me, my boy. You, Windham, are the one that Ella would rather see than any other. You're the man that saved her from death, and gave her to me."

At this Lord Chetwynde's stout heart, that had never quailed in the face of death, throbbed feverishly in his intense joy, and his whole frame thrilled at the thought that arose in his mind. Going to her was easy enough, through Obed's warm friendship. And he was going to her! This was the only thought of which he was conscious.

The carriage was waiting in front of the watchmaker's shop, and the watch was ready; so they drove out without delay. It seemed to Lord Chetwynde like a dream. He was lost in anticipations of the coming meeting—that meeting which he had never dared to hope for, but which was now before him.

Obed Chute, on coming to Florence, had rented a villa on the slopes of the hills overlooking Val d'Arno. It was about twelve or fifteen miles away. The road ran through the plain, and then ascended the hills gently, in a winding direction, till it reached the place. The villa was surrounded by beautiful grounds, wherein trim gardens were seen, and fair winding walks, interspersed with fountains and statuary and pavilions. Besides these there were extensive forests of thick-growing trees, whose dense branches, interlacing overhead, threw down heavy shadows. Through these dim woods many pathways penetrated, leading to sequestered nooks and romantic grottoes. Here there wandered several little brooklets, and in the midst of the forest there was a lake, or rather a pond, from the middle of which rose a marble Triton, which perpetually spouted forth water from his shell. The villa itself was of generous dimensions, in that style which is so familiar to us in this country, with broad piazzas and wide porticoes, and no lack of statuary. Here Obed Chute had made himself quite at home, and confided to Lord Chetwynde the fact that he would prefer this to his house on the Hudson River if he could only see the Stars and Stripes floating from the Campanile at Florence. As this was not likely to happen, he was forced to look upon himself as merely a pilgrim and a sojourner.

Lord Chetwynde entered the villa. Obed remained behind for a few moments to give some directions to the servants. A lofty hall ran through the villa, with statues on each side, and a fountain at the farthest end. On either side there were doors opening into spacious apartments. Lord Chetwynde turned to the right, and entered a magnificent room, which extended the whole length of the house. He looked around, and his attention was at once arrested by a figure at the farthest end. It was a lady, whose youthful face and slender figure made his heart beat fast and furiously; for, though he could not distinguish her features, which were partly turned away, yet the shape was familiar, and was associated with the sweetest memories of his life. The lady was sitting in a half-reclining position on an Egyptian couch, her head was thrown back, a book hung listlessly in one hand, and she seemed lost in thought. So deep was her abstraction that the noise of Lord Chetwynde's steps on the marble floor did not arouse her. When he saw her he paused involuntarily, and stood for a few moments in silence.

Yes, it was she! One look told him this. It was the one who for so long a time had been in all his thoughts, who in his illness had been ever present to his delirious dreams. It was the one to whom his heart had never ceased to turn since that first day when that head had lain for a moment on his breast, and that rich, luxuriant hair had flowed in a sea of glory over his arms, burnished by the red rays of the rising sun. He walked softly forward and drew near. Then the noise of his footsteps roused her. She turned.

There came over her face the sudden light of joyous and rapturous wonder. In that sudden rapture she seemed to lose breath and sense. She started forward to her feet, and the book fell from her hand. For an instant she pressed her hand to her heart, and then, with both hands outstretched, and with her beautiful face all aglow with joy and delight that she could not conceal, she stepped forward. But suddenly, as though some other thought occurred, she stopped, and a crimson glow came over her pale face. She cast down her eyes and stood waiting.

Lord Chetwynde caught her outstretched hand, which still was timidly held toward him, in both of his, and said not one word. For a time neither of them spoke, but he held her hand, and she did not withdraw it.

"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 unexpected pleasure! I—I thought you were in England."

"And so I was," said Lord Chetwynde, as he devoured her with the ardent gaze of his eyes; "but my business was finished, and I left—"

"How did you find us out?" she asked, smilingly, as, once more resuming her self-possession, she sat down again upon the Egyptian sofa and picked up her book. "Have you been in correspondence with Mr. Chute?"

"No," laughed Lord Chetwynde. "It was fate that threw him into my way at the Boboli Gardens this morning. I have been here for—well, for a small eternity—and was thinking of going away when he came up, and now I am reconciled to all my past."

A silence followed, and each seemed to take a hasty glance at the other. On Zillah's face there were the traces of sorrow; its lines had grown finer, and its air more delicate and spiritual. Lord Chetwynde's face, on the other hand, showed still the marks of that disease which had brought him to death's door, and no longer had that glow of manly health which had been its characteristic at Marseilles.



"You have been ill," said Zillah, suddenly, and with some alarm in her voice.

"Yes," said Lord Chetwynde, sadly; "I have been as near death as it is possible for one to be and live."

"In England?"

"No; in Switzerland."

"Switzerland?"

"Yes."

"I thought that perhaps some private troubles in England had caused it," said Zillah, with tones of deep sympathy, for she recollected his last words to her, which expressed such fearful anticipations of the future.

"No; I bore all that. It was an unexpected circumstance," he said, in a cautious tone, "that caused my illness. But the Italian air has been beneficial. But you—how have you been? I fear that you yourself have been ill."

"I have had some troubles," Zillah replied.

Lord Chetwynde forbore to question her about those troubles. He went on to speak about the air of Val d'Arno being the best thing in the world for all illness, and congratulated her on having so beautiful a spot in which to live. Zillah grew enthusiastic in her praises of Florence and all the surrounding scenery; and as each learned how long the other had been here they wondered why they had not met.

"But I," said Zillah, "have not gone often to the city since the first 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 should have gone by it without knowing or suspecting that you were here."

Obed Chute had much to see about, and these two remained long together. They talked over many things. Sometimes there were long pauses, which yet were free from embarrassment. The flush on Zillah's cheek, and the kindling light of her eye, showed a pleasure which she could not conceal. Happiness was so strange to her that she welcomed eagerly this present hour, which was so blight to her poor sorrow-laden heart. Lord Chetwynde forgot his troubles, he banished the future, and, as before, he seized the present, and enjoyed it to the full.

Obed returned at last and joined them. The time fled by rapidly. Lord Chetwynde made a move to return at about eleven o'clock, but Obed would 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 always returned to his rooms at night, and therefore it was a matter of surprise to Hilda, on this eventful night, that twelve o'clock came without any signs of his return. In her wild and ungovernable passion her whole life had now grown to be one long internal struggle, in which it was with difficulty that she kept down the stormy feelings within her. This night she had grown more nervous than usual. It was as though she had attained to the culmination of the long excitements through which she had passed. His absence filled her with a thousand fears. The longing of her heart grew intolerable as the hours passed by without any signs of his return. Weary of calling to her servant to ask if he had come back, she at last dismissed the servant to bed, and sat herself at the door of her room, listening for the sound of footsteps. In that watchful attitude she sat, dumb and motionless; but the hours passed by her as she sat there, and still he came not.

Through those hours her mind was filled with a thousand fears and fancies. Sometimes she thought that he had been assassinated. At other times she fancied that Gualtier might have broken his promise, and come back from London, full of vengeance, to track the man whom he hated. These ideas, however, at length left her, and another took possession of her, which was far more natural and probable, and which finally became a deep and immovable conviction. She thought that Lord Chetwynde had at last yielded to his aversion; and unwilling, from motives of gratitude, to have any formal farewell, he had concluded to leave her abruptly.

"Yes," she said to herself, as this thought first came to her, "that is it. He wearies of my perpetual presence. He does not wish to subject himself to my mean entreaties. He has cut the connection abruptly, and is this night on his way to Leghorn to take the steamer. He has gone to India, and left me forever. To-morrow, no doubt, I shall get a letter acquainting me with the irrevocable step, and bidding me an eternal farewell."

The more she thought of this the more intense her conviction became, until at last, from the force of her own fancies, she became as certain of this as though some one had actually told her of his departure. Then there came over her a mighty sense of desolation. What should she do now? Life seemed in that instant to have lost all its sweetness and its meaning. Again there came to her that thought which many times during the last few weeks had occurred, and now had grown familiar—the awful thought of suicide. The life she lived had already grown almost intolerable from its unfulfilled wishes, and its longings against hope; but now the last hope had departed, and life itself was nothing but a burden. Should she not lay it down?

So the night passed, and the morning came, but through all that night sleep came not. And the dawn came, and the hours of the day passed by, but she sat motionless. The servants came, but were sent away; and this woman of feeling and of passion, who once had risen superior to all feeling, now lay a prey to an agony of soul that threatened reason and life itself.

But suddenly all this was brought to an end. At about mid-day Lord Chetwynde returned. Hilda heard his footstep and his voice. A great joy darted through her, and her first impulse was to fling herself upon him, and weep tears of happiness upon his breast. But that was a thing which was denied her—a privilege which might never be hers. After the first wild impulse and the first rush of joy she restrained herself, and, locking the door of her room, she sat listening with quick and heavy breathing. She heard him speak a few careless words to the servant. She heard him go to his room, where he staid for about an hour. She watched and waited, but restrained every impulse to go out. "I have tormented him too much," she said to herself. "I have forced myself upon him; I have made myself common. A greater delicacy and a more retiring habit will be more agreeable to him. Let me not destroy my present happiness. It is joy enough that my fears are dispersed, and that he has not yet left me." So she restrained herself—though that self-restraint was the mightest task which she had ever undertaken—and sat passively listening, when every feeling prompted her to rush forth eagerly to greet him.

He went away that day, and came back by midnight. Hilda did not trouble him, and they met on the following morning.

Now, at the first glance which she stole at him, she noted in him a wonderful change. His face had lost its gloom; there was an expression of peace and blissful tranquillity which she had never observed before, and which she had never thought possible to one who had appeared to her as he always had. She sat wondering as they waited for breakfast to be served—a meal which they generally took together—and baffled herself in vain conjectures. A great change had certainly come over him. He greeted her with a bright and genial smile. He had shaken her hand with the warm pressure of a good-hearted friend. He was sprightly even with the servants. He noticed the exquisite beauty of the day. He had something to say about many little trifles. Even in his best moods, during the journey, he had never been like this. Then he had never been otherwise than reserved and self-contained; his face had never altogether lost its cloud of care. Now there was not a vestige of care to be seen; he was joyous; he was even hilarious; and seemed at peace with himself and all the world.

What had happened?

This was the question which Hilda incessantly asked herself. It needed something unusual to change so completely this strong nature, and transform the sadness which had filled it into peace and joy. What had happened? What thing, of what kind, would be necessary to effect such a change? Could it be gratified vengeance? No; the feeling was too light for that. Was it the news of some sudden fortune? She did not believe that if Lord Chetwynde heard that he had inherited millions it would give such joy as this, which would make itself manifest in all his looks and words and acts and tones. What would be needed to produce such a change in herself? Would vengeance, or riches, or honor be sufficient? No. One thing alone could do this. Were she, by any possibility, ever to gain Lord Chetwynde to herself, then she felt that she would know the same sweet peace and calm joy as that which she now read in his face. In that event she thought that she could look upon her worst enemy with a smile. But in him what could it mean? Could it be possible that he had any one whose smile would bring him such peace as this? Once before she suspected that he loved another. Could it be within the bounds of possibility that the one whom he loved lived in Florence?

This thought filled her with dismay. And yet, why not? Had he not set out from England for Italy? Had he not dragged himself out of his sick-room, almost before he could walk, to pursue his journey? Had he not broken off almost all intercourse with herself after the first week of their arrival? Had he not been occupied with some engrossing business all the time since then? What business could have at once so occupied him and so changed him, if it were not something of this kind? There was one thing which could at once account for his coolness to her and his inaccessibility to her advances, for his journey to Florence, for his occupation all the time, and now for this strange mood of happiness which had come so suddenly yet so gently over him. And that one thing, which alone, to her mind, could at once account for all these things, was Love.

The time passed, and Lord Chetwynde's new mood seemed lasting. Never had he been so considerate, so gentle, and so kind to Hilda. At any other time, or under any other circumstances, this change would have stimulated her mind to the wildest hopes; but now it prompted fears which filled her with despair. So, as the days passed, the struggle raged within her breast.

Meanwhile Lord Chetwynde was a constant visitor at the villa of Obed Chute, and a welcome guest to all. As the days passed the constant association which he had with Zillah made each better known to the other than ever before. The tenderness that existed between them was repressed in the presence of the others; but on the frequent occasions when they were left alone together it found expression by acts if not by words, by looks if not by acts. Lord Chetwynde could not forget that first look of all-absorbing and overwhelming joy with which Zillah had greeted him on his sudden appearance. A master, to a certain extent, over himself, he coerced himself so far as not to alarm Zillah by any tender words or by any acts which told too much; yet in his face and in his eyes she could read, if she chose, all his devotion. As for Zillah, the change which she had felt from the dull monotony of her past to the vivid joy of the present was so great and so powerful that its effects were too manifest to be concealed. She could not conceal the glow of health that sprang to her cheek, the light that kindled in her eye, the resonant tone that was added to her voice, and the spring that came to her step. Nor could she, in her girlish innocence, conceal altogether how completely she now rested all her hopes and all her happiness upon Lord Chetwynde; the flush of joy that arose at his arrival, the sadness that overspread her at his departure. But Obed Chute and his sister were not observant; and these things, which would have been so manifest to others, were never noticed by them. It seemed to both of them as though Zillah merely shared the pleasure which they felt in the society of this Windham, whom Obed loved and admired, and they thought that Zillah's feelings were merely of the same character as their own.

Neither Lord Chetwynde nor Zillah cared to disclose the true state of the case. Lord Chetwynde wished to see her every day, but did not wish them to know that he came every day. That might seem strange to them. In point of fact, they would have thought nothing of it, but would have welcomed him as warmly as ever; but Lord Chetwynde could not feel sure of this. And if he visited her every day, he did not wish to let the world know it. How it happened can not be told; by what mysterious process it occurred can scarcely be related; such a process is too indefinable for description; but certain it is that a mysterious understanding sprang up between him and Zillah, so that on every alternate day when he rode toward the villa he would leave his horse at a house about a quarter of a mile away, and walk to the nearest part of the park, where there was a small gate among the trees. Here he usually entered, and soon reached a small kiosk near that pond among the woods which has already been spoken of. The household was so small and so quiet, and the woods were so unfrequented and so shadowy, that there was scarcely any possibility of interruption. Even if they had been discovered there by Obed himself, Lord Chetwynde's presence of mind could have readily furnished a satisfactory story to account for it. He had already arranged that in his mind. He would have "happened to meet" Zillah on the road near the gate, and come in here with her. By this it will be seen, on the strength of this mysterious understanding, that Zillah was not averse to this clandestine meeting. In fact, she always was there. Many times they met there in the weeks which Lord Chetwynde passed in Florence, and never once did she fail to be there first to await him.

Perhaps it was because each had a secret belief that this was all temporary—a happiness, a bliss, in fact, in this part of their mortal lives, but a bliss too great to last. Perhaps it was this that gave Zillah the courage and spirit to be at the trysting-place to receive this man who adored her, and never to fail to be there first—to think that not to be there first would be almost a sin—and so to receive his deep and fervent expressions of gratitude for her kindness, which were reiterated at every meeting. At any rate, Zillah was always there on the days when Lord Chetwynde wished her to be there; and on the occasions when he visited the villa she was not there, but was seated in the drawing-room to receive him. Obed Chute thought that Lord Chetwynde came three times a week. Zillah knew that he came seven times a week.

For some time this state of things had continued. Windham was the chosen friend of Obed, and the favored guest at Obed's villa. Zillah knew that this could not last, and used to try to check her happiness, and reason it down. But as the hour of the tryst approached all attempts of this kind were forgotten, and she was there watching and waiting.

To her, one day thus waiting, Lord Chetwynde came with a sad smile on his face, and something in his eyes which threw a chill over Zillah's heart. They talked a little while, but Lord Chetwynde was melancholy and preoccupied.

"You do not look well to-day," said Zillah, wonderingly, and in tones which were full of sympathy. "I hope nothing has happened?"

Lord Chetwynde looked earnestly at her and sighed heavily.

"Miss Lorton," said he, sadly, "something has happened which has thrown the deepest gloom over me. Shall I tell you? Will you sympathize with my gloom? I will tell you. I have this day received a letter giving me my appointment to a post in India, far which I have been waiting for a long time."

"India!"

Zillah gasped this out with white lips, while her face assumed the ashen hue of despair.

"India!" she repeated, as her great eyes were fixed in agony upon him; and then she stopped, pressing her hand to her heart.

The anguish of that look was so intense that Lord Chetwynde was shaken to the soul. He caught her hand in his, scarce knowing what he did.

"Oh, Miss Lorton," he cried, "do not look so at me. I am in despair; I am heart-broken; I dare not look at the future; but the future is not immediate; I can yet wait a few weeks; and you will still come here, will you not—to see me?"

Zillah caught her hand away, and her eyes fell. Tears dropped from beneath her heavy lashes. But she said not a word.

"At any rate, tell me this," cried Lord Chetwynde, "when I am gone, Miss Lorton, you will not forget me? Tell me this."

Zillah looked at him with her large, spiritual eyes, whose fire seemed now to bum into his soul, and her lips moved:

"Never!"

That was the only word that she said.



CHAPTER LXIV.

THE MASQUERADE.

Obed Chute came home one day full of news, and particularly dilated upon the grandeur of a masquerade ball which was to take place at the Villa Rinalci. He wished to go, and to take Zillah. The idea filled all his mind, and his excitement was speedily communicated to Zillah, and to Lord Chetwynde, who happened to be there at the time. Obed had learned that it was to be conducted with the highest degree of magnificence. He had talked about it with some Americans with whom he had met in the cafe, and, as he had never seen one, he was eager to go. Lord Chetwynde expressed the same desire, and Zillah at once showed a girlish enthusiasm that was most gratifying to Obed. It was soon decided that they all should go. A long conversation followed about the dresses, and each one selected what commended itself as the most agreeable or becoming. Obed intended to dress as a Western trapper, Zillah as an Athenian maid of the classic days, while Lord Chetwynde decided upon the costume of the Cavaliers. A merry evening was spent in settling upon these details, for the costume of each one was subjected to the criticism of the others, and much laughter arose over the various suggestions that were made from time to time about the best costume.

For some days Lord Chetwynde busied himself about his costume. He had to have it made especially for the occasion, and tailors had to be seen, and measurements had to be taken. Of course this did not interfere in the smallest degree with his constant attendance upon Zillah, for every day he was punctual at the trysting-place or in the villa.

Meanwhile Hilda's intolerable anxiety had taken another and a very natural turn. She began to feel intensely curious about the object of Lord Chetwynde's daily occupations. Having once come to the conclusion that there was a woman in the case, every hour only strengthened this conviction, until at length it was as firmly fixed in her mind as the belief in her own existence. The pangs of jealousy which she suffered from this cause were as extreme as those which she had suffered before from fear, or anxiety, or suspense, both when hurrying on to save Lord Chetwynde, and when watching at his bedside. In her wild, ungovernable passion and her uncontrollable love she felt the same vehement jealousy which a betrothed mistress might feel, and the same unreasoning indignation which a true and lawful wife might have when suspecting a husband's perfidy. Such feelings filled her with an insatiable desire to learn what might be his secret, and to find out at all costs who this one might be of whose existence she now felt confident. Behind this desire there lay an implacable resolve to take vengeance in some way upon her, and the discovery of her in Hilda's mind was only synonymous with the deadly vengeance which she would wreak upon this destroyer of her peace.

It was difficult, however, to accomplish such a desire. Little or nothing could be found out from the servants, nor was there any one whom she could employ to observe her "husband's" actions. Now she began to feel the need of that deep devotion and matchless fidelity which she had once received from Gualtier. But he was far away. Could she not send for him? She thought of this often, but still delayed to do so. She felt sure that the moment she gave the command he would leave every thing and come to do her bidding. But she hesitated. Even in her unscrupulous mind there was a perception of the fitness of things, and she was slow to call to her assistance the aid of the man who so deeply loved her, when her purpose was to remove or to punish her rival in the affections of another man, or rather an obstacle in the way of securing his affections. Deprived thus of all aid, it was difficult for her to find out arty thing.

At length Lord Chetwynde became interested in the affair of the masquerade. The state of mind into which he had fallen ever since the discovery of Zillah had deprived him of that constant reticence which used to be his characteristic. He was now pleasant and genial and talkative. This change had inspired alarm in Hilda rather than joy, and she had considered this the chief reason for believing that love was the animating motive with him now. After the masquerade had been mentioned he himself spoke about it. In the fullness of his joy it slipped from him incidentally in the course of conversation, and Hilda, after wondering why he should mention such a thing, began to wonder what interest the thing might have to him. No doubt he was going. Of that she felt assured. If so, the mysterious being to whom she believed he was devoted would necessarily be there too. She believed that the expectation of being there with her had so intoxicated him that this masquerade was the chief thing in his thoughts, and therefore he had made mention of it. So she watched to find out the meaning of this.

One day a parcel came for Lord Chetwynde. The servants were out of sight, and she opened it. It was a suit of clothes in the Cavalier fashion, with every accessory necessary to make up the costume. The meaning of this was at once evident to her. He was going to this masquerade as a Cavalier. What then? This discovery at once made plain before her all that she might do. Under these circumstances it would be possible for her to follow and to track him. Perhaps her own good fortune and cleverness might enable her to discover the one to whom he was devoted. But a complete disguise was necessary for herself. She was not long in choosing such a disguise. She decided upon the costume of the Compagnia della Misericordia—one which was eminently Florentine, and, at the same time, better adapted for purposes of concealment than any other could possibly be. It consists of a black robe with a girdle, and a hood thrown over the head in such a way as to show only the eyes. It would be as suitable a disguise for a woman as for a man, and would give no possible chance of recognition. At the same time, belonging as it did to that famous Florentine society, it would be recognized by all, and while insuring a complete disguise, would excite no comment.

Lord Chetwynde left early on the morning of the fete, taking his costume with him, showing Hilda that he was evidently going in company with others. It was with great impatience that she waited the progress of the hours; and when, at length, the time came, and she was deposited at the gate of the Villa Rinalci, her agitation was excessive. Entering here, she found the grounds illuminated.

They were extensive, and filled with groves and spacious avenues and dashing fountains and beautiful sculptures. Already a large crowd had assembled, and Hilda walked among them, watching on every side for the man whom she sought. In so large a place as this, where the grounds were so extensive, it was difficult indeed to find any particular person, and two hours passed away in a vain search. But she was patient and determined, and there was but one idea in her mind. The music and the gayety of the assembled throng did not for one moment divert her, though this was the first scene of the kind that she had ever beheld, and its novelty might well have attracted her attention. The lights which flashed out so brightly through the gloom of night—the noisy crowds which thronged every where—the foaming spray that danced upward from the fountains, gleaming in the light of the lamps—the thousand scenes of mirth and revelry that arose on every side—all these had no attraction for this woman, who had come here for one purpose only, and who carried this purpose deep in her heart. The company wore every imaginable attire. Most of them were in masks, but some of them had none; while Hilda, in her mournful robe, that spoke to all of death and funereal rites, was alone in the singularity of her costume.

She wandered throughout all the grounds, and through the villa itself, in search of one thing, but that one thing she could not find. At length her weary feet refused to support her any longer in what seemed a hopeless search, and she sat down near one of the fountains in the central avenue, and gave herself up to despondent thoughts.