What was that?

His contempt—his hate—his abhorrence—this was the thing which now seemed so terrible to her.

For in the course of that interview a sudden change had come over all her feelings. In spite of her later judgment about him, which she had expressed to Gualtier, there had been in her mind a half contempt for the man whom she had once judged of by his picture only, and whom she recollected as the weak agent in a forced marriage. That paragraph in the Indian paper had certainly caused a great change to take place in her estimate of his character; but, in spite of this, the old contempt still remained, and she had reckoned upon finding beneath the mature man, brave though he was, and even wise though he might be, much of that boy whom she had despised. But all this passed away as a dream, out of which she had a rude awakening. She awoke suddenly to the full reality, to find him a strong, stern, proud man, to whom her own strength was as weakness. While he uttered his grand maledictions against her he seemed to her like a god. He was a mighty being, to whom she looked up from the depths of her soul, half in fear, half in adoration. In her weakness she admired his strength; and in her wily and tortuous subtlety she worshiped this straightforward and upright gentleman, who scorned craft and cunning, and who had sat in stern judgment upon her, to make known to her his will.

For some time she sat looking at him as he stood, with her whole nature shaken by these new, these unparalleled emotions, till, finally, with a start, she came to herself, and, rising slowly, she glided out of the room.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

AN EFFORT AT CONCILIATION.

Lord Chetwynde's occupations kept him for the greater part of his time in his father's library, where he busied himself in examining papers. Many of these he read and restored to their places, but some he put aside, in order to take them with him. Of the new steward he took no notice whatever. He considered the dismissal of the old one and the appointment of Gualtier one of those abominable acts which were consistent with all the other acts of that woman whom he supposed to be his wife. Besides, the papers which he sought had reference to the past, and had no connection with the affairs of the present. In the intervals of his occupation he used to go about the grounds, visiting every one of those well-known places which were associated with his childhood and boyhood. He sought out his father's grave, and stood musing there with feelings which were made up of sadness, mingled with something like reproach for the fearful mistake which his father had made in the allotment of the son's destiny. True, he had been one of the consenting parties; but when he first gave that consent he was little more than a boy, and not at all capable of comprehending the full meaning of such an engagement. His father had ever since solemnly held him to it, and had appealed to his sense of honor in order to make him faithful. But now the father was dead, the son was a mature man, tried in a thousand scenes of difficulty and danger—one who had learned to think for himself, who had gained his manhood by a life of storms, in which of late there had been crowded countless events, each of which had had their weight in the development of his character. They had left him a calm, strong, resolute man—a man of thought and of action—a graduate of the school of Indian affairs—a school which, in times that tried men's souls, never failed to supply men who were equal to every emergency.



At the very outset he had found out the condition of Mrs. Hart. The sight of his loved nurse, thus prostrated, filled him with grief. The housekeeper who now attended her knew nothing whatever of the cause of her prostration. Lord Chetwynde did not deign to ask any questions of Hilda; but in his anxiety to learn about Mrs. Hart, he sought out the doctor who had attended his father, and from him he learned that Mrs. Hart's illness had been caused by her anxiety about the Earl. The knowledge of this increased, if possible, his own care. He made the closest inquiry as to the way in which she was treated, engaged the doctor to visit her, and doubled the housekeeper's salary on condition that she would be attentive to his beloved nurse. These measures were attended with good results, for under this increased care Mrs. Hart began to show signs of improvement. Whether she would ever again be conscious was yet a question. The doctor considered her mind to be irretrievably affected.

Meanwhile, throughout all these days, Hilda's mind was engrossed with the change which had come over her—a change so startling and so unexpected that it found her totally unprepared to deal with it. They met every day at the dinner-table, and at no other times. Here Lord Chetwynde treated her with scrupulous courtesy; yet beyond the extreme limits of that courtesy she found it impossible to advance. Hilda's manner was most humble and conciliatory. She who all her life had felt defiant of others, or worse, now found herself enthralled and subdued by the spell of this man's presence. Her wiliness, her stealthiness, her constant self-control, were all lost and forgotten. She had now to struggle incessantly against that new tenderness which had sprung up unbidden within her. She caught herself looking forward wistfully every day to the time when she could meet him at the table and hear his voice, which, even in its cold, constrained tones, was enough for her happiness. It was in vain that she reproached and even cursed herself for her weakness. The weakness none the less existed; and all her life seemed now to centre around this man, who hated her. Into a position like this she had never imagined that she could possibly be brought. All her cunning and all her resources were useless here. This man seemed so completely beyond her control that any effort to win him to her seemed useless. He believed her to be his wife, he believed himself bound by honor to secure her happiness, and yet his abhorrence of her was so strong that he never made any effort to gain her for himself. Now Hilda saw with bitterness that she had gone too far, and that her plans and her plots were recoiling upon her own head. They had been too successful. The sin of Lord Chetwynde's wife had in his eyes proved unpardonable.

Hilda's whole life now became a series of alternate struggles against her own heart, and longings after another who was worse than indifferent to her. Her own miserable weakness, so unexpected, and yet so complete and hopeless, filled her at once with anger and dismay. To find all her thoughts both by day and night filled with this one image was at once mortifying and terrible. The very intensity of her feelings, which would not stop short at death itself to gain their object, now made her own sufferings all the greater. Every thing else was forgotten except this one absorbing desire; and her complicated schemes and far-reaching plans were thrust away. They had lost their interest. Henceforth all were reduced to one thought—how to gain Lord Chetwynde to herself.

As long as he staid, something like hope remained; but when he would leave, what hope could there be? Would he not leave her forever? Was not this the strongest desire of his heart? Had he not said so? Every day she watched, with a certain chilling fear at her heart, to see if there were signs of his departure. As day succeeded to day, however, and she found him still remaining, she began to hope that he might possibly have relented somewhat, and that the sentence which he had spoken to her might have become modified by time and further observation of her.

So at the dinner-table she used to sit, looking at him, when his eyes were turned away, with her earnest, devouring gaze, which, as soon as he would look at her again, was turned quickly away with the timidity of a young bashful child. Such is the tenderness of love that Hilda, who formerly shrank at nothing, now shrank away from the gaze of this man. Once, by a great effort, as he entered the dining-room she held out her hand to greet him. Lord Chetwynde, however, did not seem to see it, for he greeted her with his usual distant civility, and treated her as before. Once more she tried this, and yet once again, but with the same result; and it was then that she knew that Lord Chetwynde refused to take her hand. It was not oversight—it was a deliberate purpose. At another time it would have seemed an insult which would have filled her with rage; now it seemed a slight which filled her with grief. So humiliated had she become, and so completely subdued by this man, that even this slight was not enough, but she still planned vague ways of winning his attention to her, and of gaining from him something more than a remark about the weather or about the dishes.

At length one day she formed a resolution, which, after much hesitation, she carried out. She was determined to make one bold effort, whatever the result might be. It was at their usual place of meeting—the dinner-table.

"My lord," said she, with a tremulous voice, "I wish to have an interview with you. Can you spare me the time this evening?"

She looked at him earnestly, with mute inquiry. Lord Chetwynde regarded her in some surprise. He saw her eyes fixed upon him with a timid entreaty, while her face grew pale with suspense. Her breathing was rapid from the agitation that overcame her.

"I had some business this evening," said Lord Chetwynde, coldly, "but as you wish an interview, I am at your service."

"At what time, my lord?"

"At nine," said Lord Chetwynde.

Nine o'clock came, and Hilda was in the morning-room, which she had mentioned as the place of meeting, and Lord Chetwynde came there punctually. She was sitting near the window. Her pale face, her rich black locks arranged in voluminous masses about her head, her dark penetrating eyes, her slender and graceful figure, all conspired to make Hilda beautiful and attractive in a rare degree. Added to this there was a certain entreaty on her face as it was turned toward him, and a soft, timid lustre in her eyes which might have affected any other man. She rose as Lord Chetwynde entered, and bowed her beautiful head, while her graceful arms, and small, delicately shaped hands hung down at her side.

Lord Chetwynde bowed in silence.

"My lord," said Hilda, in a voice which was tremulous from an uncontrollable emotion, "I wished to see you here. We met here once before; you said what you wished; I made no reply; I had nothing to say; I felt your reproaches; they were in some degree just and well-merited; but I might have said something—only I was timid and nervous, and you frightened me."

Here Hilda paused, and drew a long breath. Her emotion nearly choked her, but the sound of her own voice sustained her, and, making an effort, she went on:

"I have nothing to say in defense of my conduct. It has made you hate me. Your hate is too evident. My thoughtless spite has turned back upon myself. I would willingly humiliate myself now if I thought that it would affect you or conciliate you. I would acknowledge any folly of mine if I thought that you could be brought to look upon me with leniency. What I did was the act of a thoughtless girl, angry at finding herself chained up for life, spiteful she knew not why. I had only seen you for a moment, and did not know you. I was mad. I was guilty; but still it is a thing that may be considered as not altogether unnatural under the circumstances. And, after all, it was not sincere—it was pique, it was thoughtlessness—it was not that deep-seated malice which you have laid to my charge. Can you not think of this? Can you not imagine what may have been the feelings of a wild, spoiled, untutored girl, one who was little better than a child, one who found herself shackled she knew not how, and who chafed at all restraint? Can you not understand, or at least imagine, such a case as this, and believe that the one who once sinned has now repented, and asks with tears for your forgiveness?"

Tears? Yes, tears were in the eyes of this singular girl, this girl whose nature was so made up of strength and weakness. Her eyes were suffused with tears as she looked at Lord Chetwynde, and finally, as she ceased, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud.

Now, nothing in nature so moves a man as a woman's tears. If the woman be beautiful, and if she loves the man to whom she speaks, they are irresistible. And here the woman was beautiful, and her love for the man whom she was addressing was evident in her face and in the tones of her voice. Yet Lord Chetwynde sat unmoved. Nothing in his face or in his eyes gave indications of any response on his part. Nothing whatever showed that any thing like soft pity or tender consideration had modified the severity of his purpose or the sternness of his fixed resolve. Yet Lord Chetwynde by nature was not hard-hearted, and Hilda well knew this. In the years which she had spent at the Castle she had heard from every quarter—from the Earl, from Mrs. Hart, and from the servants—tales without number about his generosity, his self-denial, his kindliness, and tender consideration for I the feelings of others. Besides this, he had received from his father along with that chivalrous nature the lofty sentiments of a knight-errant, and in his boyish days had always been ready to espouse the cause of any one in distress with the warmest enthusiasm. In Hilda's present attitude, in her appearance, in her words, and above all in her tears, there was every thing that would move such a nature to its inmost depths. Had he ever seen any one at once so beautiful and so despairing; and one, too, whose whole despair arose from her feelings for him? Even his recollections of former disdain might lose their bitterness in the presence of such utter humiliation, such total self-immolation as this. His nature could not have changed, for the Indian paper alluded to his "genial" character, and his "heroic qualities." He must be still the same. What, then, could there be which would be powerful enough to harden his feelings and steel his heart against such a woeful and piteous sight as that which was now exhibited to him? All these things Hilda thought as she made her appeal, and broke down so completely at its close; these things, too, she thought as the tears streamed from her eyes, and as her frame was shaken by emotion.

Lord Chetwynde sat looking at her in silence for a long time. No trace whatever of commiseration appeared upon his face; but he continued as stern, as cold, and as unmoved, as in that first interview when he had told her how he hated her. Bitter indeed must that hate have been which should so crush out all those natural impulses of generosity which belonged to him; bitter must the hate have been; and bitter too must have been the whole of his past experience in connection with this woman, which could end in such pitiless relentlessness.

At length he answered her. His tone was calm, cool, and impassive, like his face; showing not a trace of any change from that tone in which he always addressed her; and making known to her, as she sat with her face buried in her hands, that whatever hopes she had indulged in during his silence, those hopes were altogether vain.

"Lady Chetwynde," he began, "all that you have just said I have thought over long ago, from beginning to end. It has all been in my mind for years. In India there were always hours when the day's duties were over, and the mind would turn to its own private and secret thoughts. From the very first, you, Lady Chetwynde, were naturally the subject of those thoughts to a great degree. That marriage scene was too memorable to be soon forgotten, and the revelation of your character, which I then had, was the first thing which showed me the full weight of the obligation which I had so thoughtlessly accepted. Most bitterly I lamented, on my voyage out, that I had not contrived some plan to evade so hasty a fulfillment of my boyish promise, and that I had not satisfied the General in some way which would not have involved such a scene. But I could not recall the past, and I felt bound by my father's engagement. As to yourself, I assure you that in spite of your malice and your insults I felt most considerately toward you. I pitied you for being, like myself, the unwilling victim of a father's promise and of a sick man's whim, and learned to make allowance for every word and action of yours at that time. Not one of those words or actions had the smallest effect in imbittering my mind toward you. Not one of those words which you have just uttered has suggested an idea which I have not long ago considered, and pondered over in secret, in silence, and in sorrow. I made a large allowance also for that hate which you must have felt toward one who came to you as I did, in so odious a character, to violate, as I did, the sanctities of death by the mockery of a hideous marriage. All this—all this has been in my mind, and nothing that you can say is able in any way to bring any new idea to me. There are other things far deeper and far more lasting than this, which can not be answered, or excused, or explained away—the long persistent expressions of unchanging hate."

Lord Chetwynde was silent. Hilda had heard all this without moving or raising her head. Every word was ruin to her hopes. But she still hoped against hope, and now, since she had an opportunity to speak, she still tried to move this obdurate heart.

"Hate!" she exclaimed, catching at his last word—"hate! what is that? the fitful, spitefull feeling arising out of the recollection of one miserable scene—or perhaps out of the madness of anger at a forced marriage. What is it? One kind word can dispel it."

As she said this she did not look up. Her face was buried in her hands. Her tone was half despairing, half imploring, and broken by emotion.

"True," said Lord Chetwynde. "All that I have thought of, and I used to console myself with that. I used to say to myself, 'When we meet again it will be different. When she knows me she can not hate me.'"

"You were right," faltered Hilda, with a sob which was almost a groan. "And what then? Say—was it a wonder that I should have felt hate? Was there ever any one so tried as I was? My father was my only friend. He was father and mother and all the world to me. He was brought home one day suddenly, injured by a frightful accident, and dying. At that unparalleled moment I was ordered to prepare for marriage. Half crazed with anxiety and sorrow, and anticipating the very worst—at such a time death itself would have been preferable to that ceremony. But all my feelings were outraged, and I was dragged down to that horrible scene. Can you not see what effect the recollection of this might afterward have? Can you not once again make allowances, and think those thoughts which you used to think? Can you not still see that you were right in supposing that when we might meet all would be different, and that she who might once have known you could not hate you?"

"No," said Lord Chetwynde, coldly and severely.

Hilda raised her head, and looked at him with mute inquiry.

"I will explain," said Lord Chetwynde. "I have already said all that I ought to say; but you force me to say more, though I am unwilling. Your letters, Lady Chetwynde, were the things which quelled and finally killed all kindly feelings."

"Letters!" burst in Hilda, with eager vehemence. "They were the letters of a hot-tempered girl, blinded by pique and self-conceit, and carelessly indulging in a foolish spite which in her heart she did not seriously feel."

"Pardon me," said Lord Chetwynde, with cold politeness, "I think you are forgetting the circumstances under which they were written—for this must be considered as well as the nature of the compositions themselves. They were the letters of one whom my father loved, and of whom he always spoke in the tenderest language, but who yet was so faithless to him that she never ceased to taunt me with what she called our baseness. She never spared the old man who loved her. For months and for years these letters came. It was something more than pique, something more than self-conceit or spite, which lay at the bottom of such long-continued insults. The worst feature about them was their cold-blooded cruelty. Nothing in my circumstances or condition could prevent this—not even that long agony before Delhi"—added Lord Chetwynde, in tones filled with a deeper indignation—"when I, lost behind the smoke and cloud and darkness of the great struggle, was unable to write for a long time; and, finally, was able to give my account of the assault and the triumph. Not even that could change the course of the insults which were so freely heaped upon me. And yet it would have been easy to avoid all this. Why write at all? There was no heavy necessity laid upon you. That was the question which I used to put to myself. But you persisted in writing, and in sending to me over the seas, with diabolical pertinacity, those hideous letters in which every word was a stab."

While Lord Chetwynde had been speaking Hilda sat looking at him, and meeting his stern glance with a look which would have softened any one less bitter. Paler and paler grew her face, and her hands clutched one another in tremulous agitation, which showed her strong emotion.

"Oh, my lord!" she cried, as he ceased, "can you not have mercy? Think of that black cloud that came down over my young life, filling it with gloom and horror. I confess that you and your father appeared the chief agents; but I learned to love him, and then all my bitterness turned on you—you, who seemed to be so prosperous, so brave, and so honored. It was you who seemed to have blighted my life, and so I was animated by a desire to make you feel something of what I had felt. My disposition is fiery and impetuous; my father's training made it worse. I did not know you; I only felt spite against you, and thus I wrote those fatal letters. I thought that you could have prevented that marriage if you had wished, and therefore could never feel any thing but animosity. But now the sorrows through which I have passed have changed me, and you yourself have made me see how mad was my action. But oh, my lord, believe me, it was not deliberate, it was hasty passion! and now I would be willing to wipe out every word in those hateful letters with my heart's blood!"

Hilda's voice was low but impassioned, with a certain burning fervor of entreaty; her words had become words almost of prayer, so deep was her humiliation. Her face was turned toward him with an imploring expression, and her eyes were fixed on his in what seemed an agony of suspense. But not even that white face, with its ashen lips and its anguish, nor those eyes with their overflowing tears, nor that voice with its touching pathos of woe, availed in any way to call up any response of pity and sympathy in the breast of Lord Chetwynde.

"You use strong language, Lady Chetwynde," said he, in his usual tone. "You forget that it is you yourself who have transformed all my former kindliness, in spite of myself, into bitterness and gall. You forget, above all, that last letter of yours. You seem to show an emotion which I once would have taken as real. Pardon me if I now say that I consider it nothing more than consummate acting. You speak of consideration. You hint at mercy. Listen, Lady Chetwynde"—and here Lord Chetwynde raised his right hand with solemn emphasis. "You turned away from the death-bed of my father, the man who loved you like a daughter, to write to me that hideous letter which you wrote—that letter, every word of which is still in my memory, and rises up between us to sunder us for evermore. You went beyond yourself. To have spared the living was not needed; but it was the misfortune of your nature that you could not spare the dead. While he was, perhaps, yet lying cold in death near you, you had the heart to write to me bitter sneers against him. Even without that you had done enough to turn me from you always. But when I read that, I then knew most thoroughly that the one who was capable, under such circumstances, of writing thus could only have a mind and heart irretrievably bad—bad and corrupt and base. Never, never, never, while I live, can I forget the utter horror with which that letter filled me!"

"Oh, my God!" said Hilda, with a groan.

Lord Chetwynde sat stern and silent.

"You are inflexible in your cruelty," said Hilda at length, as she made one last and almost hopeless effort. "I have done. But will you not ask me something? Have you nothing to ask about your father? He loved me as a daughter. I was the one who nursed him in his last illness, and heard his last words. His dying eyes were fixed on me!"

As Hilda said this a sharp shudder passed through her.

"No," said Lord Chetwynde, "I have nothing to ask—nothing from you! Your last letter has quelled all desire. I would rather remain in ignorance, and know nothing of the last words of him whom I so loved than ask of you."

"He called me his daughter. He loved me," said Hilda, in a broken voice.

"And yet you were capable of turning away from his death-bed and writing that letter to his son. You did it coolly and remorselessly."

"It was the anguish of bereavement and despair."

"No; it was the malignancy of the Evil One. Nothing else could have prompted those hideous sneers. In real sorrow sneering is the last thing that one thinks of. But enough. I do not wish to speak in this way to a lady. Yet to you I can speak in no other way. I will therefore retire."

And, with a bow, Lord Chetwynde withdrew.

Hilda looked after him, as he left, with staring eyes, and with a face as pallid as that of a corpse. She rose to her feet. Her hands were clenched tight.

"He loves another," she groaned; "otherwise he never, never, never could have been so pitiless!"



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

SETTING THE DOG ON THE LION'S TRACK.

After this failure in the effort to come to an understanding with Lord Chetwynde, Hilda sank into despondency. She scarcely knew what there was to be done when such an appeal as this had failed. She had humbled herself in the dust before him—she had manifested unmistakably her love, yet he had disregarded all. After this what remained? It was difficult to say. Yet, for herself, she still looked forward to the daily meeting with him: glad of this, since fate would give her nothing better. The change which had come over her was not one which could be noticed by the servants, so that there was no chance of her secret being discovered by them; but there was another at Chetwynde Castle who very quickly discovered all, one who was led to this perhaps by the sympathy of his own feelings. There was that secret within his own heart which made him watchful and attentive and observant. No change in her face and manner, however slight, could fail to be noticed by this man, who treasured up every varying expression of hers within his heart. And this change which had come over her was one which affected him by much more than the mere variation of features. It entered into his daily life and disarranged all his plans.

Before the arrival of Lord Chetwynde, Gual tier, in his capacity of steward, had been accustomed to have frequent interviews with Hilda. Now they were all over. Since that arrival he had not spoken to her once, nor had he once got so much as a glance of her eye. At first he accounted for it from very natural causes. He attributed it to the anxiety which she felt at the presence of Lord Chetwynde, and at the desperate part which she had to play. For some time this seemed sufficient to account for every thing. But afterward he learned enough to make him think it possible that there were other causes. He heard the gossip of the servants' hall, and from that he learned that it was the common opinion of the servants that Lady Chetwynde was very fond of Lord Chetwynde, but that the latter was very distant and reserved in his manner toward her. This started him on a new track for conjecture, and he soon learned and saw enough to get some general idea of the truth. Yet, after all, it was not the actual truth which he conjectured. His conclusion was that Hilda was playing a deep game in order to win Lord Chetwynde's affection to herself. The possibility of her actually loving him did not then suggest itself. He looked upon it as one of those profound pieces of policy for which he was always on the look-out from her. The discovery of this disturbed him. The arrival of Lord Chetwynde had troubled him; but this new plan of Hilda's troubled him still more, and all the more because he was now shut out from her confidence.

"The little thing is up to a new game; and she'll beat," he said to himself; "she'll beat, for she always beats. She's got a long head, and I can only guess what it is that she is up to. She'll never tell me." And he thought, with some pensiveness, upon the sadness of that one fact, that she would never tell him. Meanwhile he contented himself with watching until something more definite could be known.

Lord Chetwynde had much to occupy him in his father's papers. He spent the greater part of his time in the library, and though weeks passed he did not seem to be near the end of them. At other times he rode about the grounds or sauntered through the groves. The seclusion in which the Castle had always been kept was not disturbed. The county families were too remote for ordinary calling, or else they did not know of his arrival. Certain it is that no one entered these solitary precincts except the doctor. The state of things here was puzzling to him. He saw Lord Chetwynde whenever he came, but he never saw Lady Chetwynde. On his asking anxiously about her he was told that she was well. It was surprising to him that she never showed herself, but he attributed it to her grief for the dead. He did not know what had become of Miss Krieff, whose zeal in the sick-room had won his admiration. Lord Chetwynde was too haughty for him to question, and the servants were all new faces. It was therefore with much pleasure that he one day saw Gualtier. Him he accosted, shaking hands with him earnestly, and with a familiarity which he had never cared to bestow in former days. But curiosity was stronger than his sense of personal dignity. Gualtier allowed himself to be questioned, and gave the doctor that information which he judged best for the benefit of the world without. Lady Chetwynde, he told him, was still mourning over the loss of her best friend, and even the return of her husband had not been sufficient to fill the vacant place. Miss Krieff, he said, had gone to join her friends in North Britain, and he, Gualtier, had been appointed steward in place of the former one, who had gone away to London. This information was received by the doctor with great satisfaction, since it set his mind at rest completely about certain things which had puzzled him.

That evening one of the servants informed Gualtier that Lady Chetwynde wished to see him in the library. His pale face flushed up, and his eyes lightened as he walked there. She was alone. He bowed reverentially, yet not before he had cast toward her a look full of unutterable devotion. She was paler than before. There was sadness on her face. She had thrown herself carelessly in an arm-chair, and her hands were nervously clutching one another. Never before had he seen any thing approaching to emotion in this singular being. Her present agitation surprised him, for he had not suspected the possibility of any thing like this.

She returned his greeting with a slight bow, and then fell for a time into a fit of abstraction, during which she did not take any further notice of him. Gualtier was more impressed by this than by any other thing. Always before she had been self-possessed, with all her faculties alive and in full activity. Now she seemed so dull and so changed that he did not know what to think. He began to fear the approach of some calamity by which all his plans would be ruined.

"Mr. M'Kenzie," said Hilda, rousing herself at length, and speaking in a harsh, constrained voice, which yet was low and not audible except to one who was near her, "have you seen Lord Chetwynde since his arrival?"

"No, my lady," said Gualtier, respectfully, yet wondering at the abruptness with which she introduced the subject. For it had always hitherto been her fashion to lead the conversation on by gradual approaches toward the particular thing about which she might wish to make inquiries.

"I thought," she continued, in the same tone, "that he might have called you up to gain information about the condition of the estate."

"No, my lady, he has never shown any such desire. In fact, he does not seem to be conscious that there is such a person as myself in existence."

"Since he came," said Hilda, dreamily, "he has been altogether absorbed in the investigation of papers relating to his father's business affairs; and as he has not been here for many years, during which great changes must have taken place in the condition of things, I did not know but that he might have sought to gain information from you."

"No, my lady," said Gualtier once more, still preserving that unfaltering respect with which he always addressed her, and wondering whither these inquiries might be tending, or what they might mean. That she should ask him any thing about Lord Chetwynde filled him with a vague alarm, and seemed to show that the state of things was unsatisfactory, if not critical. He was longing to ask about that first meeting of hers with Lord Chetwynde, and also about the position which they at present occupied toward one another—a position most perplexing to him, and utterly inexplicable. Yet on such subjects as these he did not dare to speak. He could only hope that she herself would speak of them to him, and that she had chosen this occasion to make a fresh confidence to him.

After his last answer Hilda did not say any thing for some time. Her nervousness seemed to increase. Her hands still clutched one another; and her bosom heaved and fell in quick, rapid breathings which showed the agitation that existed within her.

"Lord Chetwynde," said Hilda at last, rousing herself with a visible effort, and looking round with something of her old stealthy watchfulness—"Lord Chetwynde is a man who keeps his own counsel, and does not choose to give even so much as a hint about the nature of his occupations. He has now some purpose on his mind which he does not choose to confide to me, and I do not know how it is possible for me to find it out. Yet it is a thing which must be of importance, for he is not a man who would stay here so long and labor so hard on a mere trifle. His ostensible occupation is the business of the estate, and certain plans arising in connection with this; but beneath this ostensible occupation there is some purpose which it is impossible for me to fathom. Yet I must find it out, whatever it is, and I have invited you here to see if I could not get your assistance. You once went to work keenly and indefatigably to investigate something for me; and here is an occasion on which, if you feel inclined, you can again exercise your talents. It may result in something of the greatest importance."

Hilda had spoken in low tones, and as she concluded she looked at Gualtier with a penetrating glance. Such a request showed him that he was once more indispensable. His heart beat fast, and his face lighted up with joy.

"My lady," said he, in a low, earnest voice, "it surely can not be necessary for me to tell you that I am always ready to do your bidding, whatever it may be. There is no necessity to remind me of the past. When shall I begin this? At once? Have you formed any plan of action which you would like me to follow?"

"Only in a general way," said Hilda. "It is not at Chetwynde that I want you to work, but elsewhere. You can do nothing here. I myself have already done all that you could possibly do, and more too, in the way of investigation in this house. But in spite of all my efforts I have found nothing, and so I see plainly that the search must be carried on in another place."

"And where may that be?" asked Gualtier.

"He has some purpose in his mind," Hilda went on to say—"some one engrossing object, I know not what, which is far more important than any thing relating to business, and which is his one great aim in life at present. This is what I wish to find out. It may threaten danger, and if so I wish to guard against it."

"Is there any danger?" asked Gualtier, cautiously.

"Not as yet—that is, so far as I can see."

"Does he suspect any thing?" said Gualtier, in a whisper.

"Nothing."

"You seem agitated."

"Never mind what I seem," said Hilda, coldly; "my health is not good. As to Lord Chetwynde, he is going away in a short time, and the place to which he goes will afford the best opportunity for finding out what his purpose is. I wish to know if it is possible for you in any way to follow him so as to watch him. You did something once before that was not more difficult."

Gualtier smiled.

"I think I can promise, my lady," said he, "that I will do all that you desire. I only wish that it was something more difficult, so that I could do the more for you."

"You may get your wish," said Hilda, gloomily, and in a tone that penetrated to the inmost soul of Gualtier. "You may get your wish, and that, too, before long. But at present I only wish you to do this. It is a simple task of watchfulness and patient observation."

"I will do it as no man ever did it before," said Gualtier. "You shall know the events of every hour of his life till he comes back again."

"That will do, then. Be ready to leave whenever he does. Choose your own way of observing him, either openly or secretly; you yourself know best."

Hilda spoke very wearily, and rose to withdraw. As she passed, Gualtier stood looking at her with an imploring face. She carelessly held out her hand. He snatched it in both of his and pressed it to his lips.

"My God!" he cried, "it's like ice! What is the matter?"

Hilda did not seem to hear him, but walked slowly out of the room.

About a week after this Lord Chetwynde took his departure.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

OBED STANDS AT BAY.

On leaving Marseilles all Zillah's troubles seemed to return to her once more. The presence of Windham had dispelled them for a time; now that he was present no longer there was nothing to save her from sorrow. She had certainly enough to weigh down any one, and among all her sorrows her latest grief stood pre-eminent. The death of the Earl, the cruel discovery of those papers in her father's drawer by which there seemed to be a stain on her father's memory, the intolerable insult which she had endured in that letter from Guy to his father, the desperate resolution to fly, the anguish which she had endured on Hilda's account, and, finally, the agony of that lone voyage in the drifting schooner—all these now came back to her with fresher violence, recurring again with overpowering force from the fact that they had been kept off so long. Yet there was not one memory among all these which so subdued her as the memory of the parting scene with Windham. This was the great sorrow of her life. Would she ever meet him again? Perhaps not. Or why should she? Of what avail would it be?

Passing over the seas she gave herself up to her recollections, and to the mournful thoughts that crowded in upon her. Among other things, she could not help thinking and wondering about Windham's despair. What was the reason that he had always kept such a close watch over himself? What was the reason why he never ventured to utter in words that which had so often been expressed in his eloquent face? Above all, what was the cause of that despairing cry which had escaped him when they exchanged their last farewell? It was the recognition on his part of some insuperable obstacle that lay between them. That was certain. Yet what could the obstacle be? Clearly, it could not have been the knowledge of her own position. It was perfectly evident that Windham knew nothing whatever about her, and could have not even the faintest idea of the truth. It must therefore be, as she saw it, that this obstacle could only be one which was in connection with himself. And what could that be? Was he a priest under vows of celibacy? She smiled at the preposterous idea. Was he engaged to be married in England, and was he now on the way to his bride? Could this be it? and was his anguish the result of the conflict between love and honor in his breast? This may have been the case. Finally, was he married already? She could not tell. She rather fancied that it was an engagement, not a marriage; and it was in this that she thought she could find the meaning of his passionate and despairing words.

Passing over those waters where once she had known what it was to be betrayed, and had tasted of the bitterness of death, she did not find that they had power to renew the despair which they once had caused. Behind the black memory of that hour of anguish rose up another memory which engrossed all her thoughts. If she had tears, it was for this. It was Windham, whose image filled all her soul, and whose last words echoed through her heart. For as she gazed on these waters it was not of the drifting schooner that she thought, not of the hours of intense watchfulness, not of the hope deferred that gradually turned into despair; it was rather of the man who, as she had often heard since, was the one who first recognized her, and came to her in her senselessness, and bore her in his arms back to life. Had he done well in rescuing her? Had he not saved her for a greater sorrow? Whether he had or not mattered not. He had saved her, and her life was his. That strange rescue constituted a bond between them which could not be dissolved. Their lives might run henceforth in lines which should never meet, but still they belonged henceforth to one another, though they might never possess one another. Out from among these waters there came also sweeter memories—the memories of voyages over calm seas, under the shadow of the hoary Alps, where they passed away those golden hours, knowing that the end must come, yet resolved to enjoy to the full the rapture of the present. These were the thoughts that sustained her. No grief could rob her of these; but in cherishing them her soul found peace.

Those into whose society she had been thrown respected her grief and Her reticence. For the first day she had shut herself up in her room; but the confinement became intolerable, and she was forced to go out on deck. She somewhat dreaded lest Obed Chute, out of the very kindness of his heart, would come and try to entertain her. She did not feel in the mood for talking. Any attempt at entertaining her she felt would be unendurable. But she did not know the perfect refinement of sentiment that dwelt beneath the rough exterior of Obed. He seemed at once to divine her state of mind. With the utmost delicacy he found a place for her to sit, but said little or nothing to her, and for all the remainder of the voyage treated her with a silent deference of attention which was most grateful. She knew that he was not neglectful. She saw a hundred times a day that Obed's mind was filled with anxiety about her, and that to minister to her comfort was his one idea. But it was not in words that this was expressed. It was in helping her up and down from the cabin to the deck, in fetching wraps, in speaking a cheerful word from time to time, and, above all, in keeping his family away from her, that he showed his watchful attention. Thus the time passed, and Zillah was left to brood over her griefs, and to conjecture hopelessly and at random about the future. What would that future bring forth? Would the presence of Hilda console her in any way? She did not see how it could. After the first joy of meeting, she felt that she would relapse into her usual sadness. Time only could relieve her, and her only hope was patience.

At last they landed at Naples. Obed took the party to a handsome house on the Strada Nuova, where he had lodged when he was in Naples before, and where he obtained a suite of apartments in front, which commanded a magnificent view of the bay, with all its unrivaled scenery, together with the tumultuous life of the street below. Here he left them, and departed himself almost immediately to begin his search after Hilda. Her letter mentioned that she was stopping at the "Hotel de l'Europe," in the Strada Toledo; and to this place he first directed his way.

On arriving here he found a waiter who could speak English, which was a fortunate thing, in his opinion, as he could not speak a word of any other language. He at once asked if a lady by the name of Miss Lorton was stopping here.

The waiter looked at him with a peculiar glance, and surveyed him From head to foot. There was something in the expression of his face which appeared very singular to Obed—a mixture of eager curiosity and surprise, which to him, to say the least, seemed uncalled for under the circumstances. He felt indignant at such treatment from a waiter.

"If you will be kind enough to stare less and answer my question," said he, "I will feel obliged; but perhaps you don't understand English."

"I beg pardon," said the other, in very good English; "but what was the name of the lady?"

"Miss Lorton," said Obed.

The waiter looked at him again with the same peculiar glance, and then replied:

"I don't know, but I will ask. Wait here a moment."

Saying this, he departed, and Obed saw him speaking to some half a dozen persons in the hall very earnestly and hurriedly; then he went off, and in about five minutes returned in company with the master of the hotel.

"Were you asking after a lady?" said he, in very fair English, and bowing courteously to Obed.

"I was," said Obed, who noticed at the same time that this man was regarding him with the same expression of eager and scrutinizing curiosity which he had seen on the face of the other.

"And what was the name?"

"Miss Lorton."

"Miss Lorton?" repeated the other; "yes, she is here. Will you be kind enough to follow me to the parlor until I see whether she is at home or not, and make her acquainted with your arrival?"

At this information, which was communicated with extreme politeness, Obed felt such immense relief that he forgot altogether about the very peculiar manner in which he had been scrutinized. A great weight seemed suddenly to have been lifted off his soul. For the first time in many weeks he began to breathe freely. He thought of the joy which he would bring to that poor young girl who had been thrown so strangely under his protection, and who was so sad. For a moment he hesitated whether to wait any longer or not. His first impulse was to hurry away and bring her here; but then in a moment he thought it would be far better to wait, and to take back Miss Lorton with him in triumph to her sister.

The others watched his momentary hesitation with some apparent anxiety; but at length it was dispelled by Obed's reply:

"Thank you. I think I had better wait and see her. I hope I won't be detained long."

"Oh no. She is doubtless in her room. You will only have to wait a few minutes."

Saying this, they led the way to a pleasant apartment looking out on the Strada Toledo, and here Obed took a seat, and lost himself in speculations as to the appearance of the elder Miss Lorton. In about five minutes the door was opened, and the master of the hotel made his appearance again.

"I find," said he, politely, "that Miss Lorton is not in. She went out only a few minutes before you came. She left word with her maid, however, that she was going to a shop up the Strada Toledo to buy some jewelry. I am going to send a messenger to hasten her return. Shall I send your name by him?"

"Well," said Obed, "I don't know as it's necessary. Better wait till I see her myself."

The landlord said nothing, but looked at him with strange earnestness.

"By-the-way," said Obed, "how is she?"

"She?"

"Yes; Miss Lorton."

"Oh," said the landlord, "very well."

"She recovered from her illness then?"

"Oh yes."

"Is she in good spirits?"

"Good spirits?"

"Yes; is she happy?"

"Oh yes."

"I am glad to hear it. I was afraid she might be melancholy."

"Oh no," said the landlord, with some appearance of confusion; "oh no. She's very well. Oh yes."

His singular behavior again struck Obed rather oddly, and he stared at him for a moment. But he at last thought that the landlord might not know much about the health or the happiness of his guest, and was answering from general impressions.

"I will hasten then, Sir," said the landlord, advancing to the door, "to send the messenger; and if you will be kind enough to wait, she will be here soon."

He bowed, and going out, he shut the door behind him. Obed, who had watched his embarrassment, thought that he heard the key turn. The thing seemed very odd, and he stepped up to the door to try it. It was locked!

"Well, I'll be darned!" cried Obed, standing before the door and regarding it with astonishment. "I've seen some curious foreign fashions, but this here Italian fashion of locking a man in is a little the curiousest. And what in thunder is the meaning of it?"

He looked at the door with a frown, while there was that on his face which showed that he might be deliberating whether to kick through the panels or not. But his momentary indignation soon subsided, and, with a short laugh, he turned away and strolled up to the window with an indifferent expression. There he drew up an arm-chair, and seating himself in this, he looked out into the street. For some time his attention and his thoughts were all engaged by the busy scene; but at length he came to himself, and began to think that it was about time for the return of Miss Lorton. He paced up and down the room impatiently, till growing tired of this rather monotonous employment, he sought the window again. Half an hour had now passed, and Obed's patience was fast failing. Still he waited on, and another half hour passed. Then he deliberated whether it would not be better to go back to his rooms, and bring the younger Miss Lorton here to see her sister. But this thought he soon dismissed. Having waited so long for the sake of carrying out his first plan, it seemed weak to give it up on account of a little impatience. He determined, however, to question the landlord again; so he pulled at the bell.

No answer came.

He pulled again and again for some minutes.

Still there was no answer.

He now began to feel indignant, and determined to resort to extreme measures. So going to the door, he rapped upon it with his stick several times, each time waiting for an answer. But no answer came. Then he beat incessantly against the door, keeping up a long, rolling, rattling volley of knocks without stopping, and making noise enough to rouse the whole house, even if every body in the house should happen to be in the deepest of slumbers. Yet even now for some time there was no response; and Obed at length was beginning to think of his first purpose, and preparing to kick through the panels, when his attention was aroused by the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. They came nearer and nearer as he stood waiting, and at length stopped in front of the door. His only thought was that this was the lady whom he sought so he stepped back, and hastily composed his face to a pleasant smile of welcome. With this pleasant smile he awaited the opening of the door.

But as the door opened his eyes were greeted by a sight very different from what he anticipated. No graceful lady-like form was there—no elder and maturer likeness of that Miss Lorton whose face was now so familiar to him, and so dear—but a dozen or so gens d'armes, headed by the landlord. The latter entered the room, while the others stood outside in the hall.

"Well," said Obed, angrily. "What is the meaning of this parade? Where is Miss Lorton?"

"These gentlemen," said the landlord, with much politeness, "will convey you to the residence of that charming lady."

"It seems to me," said Obed, sternly, "that you have been humbugging me. Give me a civil answer, or I swear I'll wring your neck. Is Miss Lorton here or not?"

The landlord stepped back hastily a pace or two, and made a motion to the gens d'armes. A half dozen of these filed into the room, and arranged themselves by the windows. The rest remained in the hall.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Obed. "Are you crazy?"

"The meaning is this," said the other, sharply and fiercely. "I am not the landlord of the Hotel de l'Europe, but sub-agent of the Neapolitan police. And I arrest you in the name of the king."

"Arrest me!" cried Obed. "What the deuce do you mean?"

"It means, Monsieur, that you are trapped at last. I have watched for you for seven weeks, and have got you now. You need not try to resist. That is impossible."

Obed looked round in amazement. What was the meaning of it all? There were the gens d'armes—six in the hall, and six in the room. All were armed. All looked prepared to fall on him at the slightest signal.

"Are you a born fool?" he cried at last, turning to the "agent." "Do you know what you are doing? I am an American, a native of the great republic, a free man, and a gentleman. What do you mean by this insult, and these beggarly policemen?"



"I mean this," said the other, "that you are my prisoner."

"I am, am I?" said Obed, with a grim smile.

"A prisoner! My friend, that is a difficult thing to come to pass without my consent."

And saying this, he quietly drew a revolver from his breast pocket.

"Now," said he, "my good friend, look here. I have this little instrument, and I'm a dead shot. I don't intend to be humbugged. If any one of you dare to make a movement I'll put a bullet through you. And you, you scoundrel, stand where you are, or you'll get the first bullet. You've got hold of the wrong man this time, but I'm going to get satisfaction for this out of your infernal beggarly government. As to you, answer my questions. First, who the deuce do you take me to be? You've made some infernal mistake or other."

The agent cowered beneath the stern eye of Obed. He felt himself covered by his pistol, and did not dare to move. The gens d'armes looked disturbed, but made no effort to interfere. They felt that they had to do with a desperate man, and waited for orders.

"Don't you hear my question?" thundered Obed. "What the deuce is the meaning of this, and who the deuce do you take me for? Don't move," he cried, seeing a faint movement of the agent's hand; "or I'll blow your brains out; I will, by the Eternal!"

"Beware," faltered the agent; "I belong to the police. I am doing my duty."

"Pooh! What is your beggarly police to me, or your beggarly king either, and all his court? There are a couple of Yankee frigates out there that could bring down the whole concern in a half hour's bombardment. You've made a mistake, you poor, pitiful concern; but I'm in search of information, and I'm bound to get it. Answer me now without any more humbugging. What's the meaning of this?"

"I was ordered to watch for any one who might come here and ask for 'Miss Lorton,'" said the agent, who spoke like a criminal to a judge. "I have watched here for seven weeks. You came to-day, and you are under arrest."

"Ah?" said Obed, as a light began to flash upon him. "Who ordered you to watch?"

"The prefect."

"Do you know any thing about the person whom you were to arrest?"

"No."

"Don't you know his crime?"

"No. It had something to do with the French police."

"Do you know his name?"

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"Gualtier," said the agent.

"And you think I am Gualtier?"

"Yes."

"And so there is no such person as Miss Lorton here?"

"No."

"Hasn't she been here at all?"

"No; no such person has ever been here."

"That'll do," said Obed, gravely, and with some sadness in his face. As he spoke, he put back his revolver into his pocket. "My good friend," said he, "you've made a mistake, and put me to some annoyance, but you've only done your duty. I forgive you. I am not this man Gualtier whom you are after, but I am the man that is after him. Perhaps it would have been better for me to have gone straight to the police when I first came, but I thought I'd find her here. However, I can go there now. I have a message and a letter of introduction to the prefect of police here from the prefect at Marseilles, which I am anxious now to deliver as soon as possible. So, my young friend, I'll go with you after all, and you needn't be in the least afraid of me."

The agent still looked dubious; but Obed, who was in a hurry now, and had got over his indignation, took from his pocket-book some official documents bearing the marks of the French prefecture, and addressed to that of Naples. This satisfied the agent, and, with many apologies, he walked off with Obed down to the door, and there entering a cab, they drove to the prefecture.



CHAPTER XL.

GLIMPSES OF THE TRUTH.

Meanwhile, during Obed's absence, Zillah remained in the Strada Nuova. The windows looked out upon the street and upon the bay, commanding a view of the most glorious scenery on earth, and also of the most exciting street spectacles which any city can offer. Full of impatience though she was, she could not remain unaffected by that first glimpse of Naples, which she then obtained from those windows by which she was sitting. For what city is like Naples? Beauty, life, laughter, gayety, all have their home here. The air itself is intoxication. The giddy crowds that whirl along in every direction seem to belong to a different and a more joyous race than sorrowing humanity. For ages Naples has been "the captivating," and still she possesses the same charm, and she will possess it for ages yet to come.

The scene upon which Zillah gazed was one which might have brought distraction and alleviation to cares and griefs even heavier than hers. Never had she seen such a sight as this which she now beheld. There before her spread away the deep blue waters of Naples Bay, dotted by the snow-white sails of countless vessels, from the small fishing-boat up to the giant ship of war. On that sparkling bosom of the deep was represented almost every thing that floats, from the light, swift, and curiously rigged lateen sloop, to the modern mail-packet. Turning from the sea the eye might rest upon the surrounding shores, and find there material of even deeper interest. On the right, close by, was the projecting castle, and sweeping beyond this the long curving beach, above which, far away, rose the green trees of the gardens of the Villa Reale. Farther away rose the hills on whose slope stands what is claimed to be the grave of Virgil, whose picturesque monument, whether it be really his or not, suggests his well-known epitaph:

"I sing flocks, tillage, heroes. Mantua gave Me life; Brundusium death; Naples a grave."

Through those hills runs the Titanic grotto of Posilippo, which leads to that historic land beyond—the land of the Cumaeans and Oscans; or, still more, the land of the luxurious Romans of the empire; where Sylla lived, and Cicero loved to retire; which Julius loved, and Horace, and every Roman of taste or refinement. There spread away the lake Lucrine, bordered by the Elysian Fields; there was the long grotto through which Aeneas passed; where once the Cumaean Sibyl dwelt and delivered her oracles. There was Misenum, where once the Roman navy rode at anchor; Baiae, where once all Roman luxury loved to pass the summer season; Puteoli, where St. Paul landed when on his way to Caesar's throne. There were the waters in which Nero thought to drown Agrippina, and over which another Roman emperor built that colossal bridge which set at defiance the prohibition of nature. There was the rock of Ischia, terminating the line of coast; and out at sea, immediately in front, the isle of Capri, forever associated with the memory of Tiberius, with his deep wiles, his treachery, and his remorseless cruelty. There, too, on the left and nearest Capri, were the shores of Sorrento, that earthly paradise whose trees are always green, whose fruits always ripe; there the cave of Polyphemus penetrates the lofty mountains, and brings back that song of Homer by which it is immortalized. Coming nearer, the eye rested on the winding shores of Castellamare, on vineyards and meadows and orchards, which fill all this glorious land. Nearer yet the scene was dominated by the stupendous form of Vesuvius, at once the glory and the terror of all this scene, from whose summit there never ceases to come that thin line of smoke, the symbol of possible ruin to all who dwell within sight of it. Round it lie the buried cities, whose charred remains have been exhumed to tell what may yet be the fate of those other younger cities which have arisen on their ashes.

While the scene beyond was so enthralling, there was one nearer by which was no less so. This was the street itself, with that wild, never-ending rush of riotous, volatile, multitudinous life, which can be equaled by no other city. There the crowd swept along on horseback, on wheels, on foot; gentlemen riding for pleasure, or dragoons on duty; parties driving into the country; tourists on their way to the environs; market farmers with their rude carts; wine-sellers; fig-dealers; peddlers of oranges, of dates, of anisette, of water; of macaroni. Through the throng innumerable calashes dashed to and fro, crowded down, in true Neapolitan fashion, with inconceivable numbers; for in Naples the calash is not full unless a score or so are in some way clinging to it—above, below, before, behind. There, too, most marked of all, were the lazaroni, whose very existence in Naples is a sign of the ease with which life is sustained in so fair a spot, who are born no one knows where, who live no one knows how, but who secure as much of the joy of life as any other human beings; the strange result of that endless combination of races which have come together in Naples—the Greek, the Italian, the Norman, the Saracen, and Heaven only knows what else.

Such scenes as these, such crowds, such life, such universal movement, for a long time attracted Zillah's attention; and she watched them with childish eagerness. At last, however, the novelty was over, and she began to wonder why Obed Chute had not returned. Looking at her watch, she found, to her amazement, that two hours had passed since his departure. He had left at ten; it was then mid-day. What was keeping him? She had expected him back before half an hour, but he had not yet returned. She had thought that it needed but a journey to the Hotel de l'Europe to find Hilda, and bring her here. Anxiety now began to arise in her mind, and the scenes outside lost all charm for her. Her impatience increased till it became intolerable. Miss Chute saw her agitation, and made some attempt to soothe her, but in vain. In fact, by one o'clock, Zillah had given herself up to all sorts of fears. Sometimes she thought that Hilda had grown tired of waiting, and had gone back to England, and was now searching through France and Italy for her; again she thought that perhaps she had experienced a relapse and had died here in Naples, far away from all friends, while she herself was loitering in Marseilles; at another time her fears took a more awful turn—her thoughts turned on Gualtier—and she imagined that he had, perhaps, come on to Naples to deal to Hilda that fate which he had tried to deal to her. These thoughts were all maddening, and filled her with uncontrollable agitation. She felt sure at last that some dread thing had happened, which Obed Chute had discovered, and which he feared to reveal to her. Therefore he kept away; and on no other grounds could she account for his long-continued absence.

Two o'clock passed—and three, and four, and five. The suspense was fearful to Zillah, so fearful, indeed, that at last she felt that it would be a relief to hear any news—even the worst.

At length her suspense was ended. About half past five Obed returned. Anxiety was on his face, and he looked at Zillah with an expression of the deepest pity and commiseration. She on her part advanced to meet him with white lips and trembling frame, and laid on his hand her own, which was like ice.

"You have not found her?" she faltered, in a scarce audible voice.

Obed shook his head.

"She is dead, then!" cried Zillah; "she is dead! She died here—among strangers—in Naples, and I—I delayed in Marseilles!"

A deep groan burst from her, and all the anguish of self-reproach and keen remorse swept over her soul.

Obed Chute looked at her earnestly and mournfully.

"My child," said he, taking her little hand tenderly in both of his—"my poor child—you need not be afraid that your sister is dead. She is alive—as much as you are."

"Alive!" cried Zillah, rousing herself from her despair. "Alive! God be thanked! Have you found out that? But where is she?"

"Whether God is to be thanked or not I do not know," said Obed; "but it's my solemn belief that she is as much alive as she ever was."

"But where is she?" cried Zillah, eagerly. "Have you found out that?"

"It would take a man with a head as long as a horse to tell that," said Obed, sententiously.

"What do you mean? Have you not found out that? How do you know that she is alive? You only hope so—as I do. You do not know so. Oh, do not, do not keep me in suspense."

"I mean," said Obed, slowly and solemnly, "that this sister of yours has never been in Naples; that there is no such steamer in existence as that which she mentions in her letter which you showed me; that there is no such ship, and no such captain, and no such captain's wife, as those which she writes about; that no such person was ever picked up adrift in that way, and brought here, except your own poor innocent, trustful, loving self—you, my poor dear child, who have been betrayed by miserable assassins. And by the Eternal!" cried Obed, with a deeper solemnity in his voice, raising up at the same time his colossal arm and his clenched fist to heaven—"by the Eternal! I swear I'll trace all this out yet, and pay it out in full to these infernal devils!"

"Oh, my God!" cried Zillah. "What do you mean? Do you mean that Hilda has not been here at all?"

"No such person has ever been in Naples."

"Why, was she not picked up adrift? and where could they have taken her?"

"She never was picked up. Rely upon that. No such ship as the one she mentions has ever been here."

"Then she has written down 'Naples' in mistake," cried Zillah, while a shudder passed through her at Obed's frightful insinuation.

"No," said Obed. "She wrote it down deliberately, and wrote it several times. Her repetition of that name, her description of the charms of Naples, show that she did this intentionally. Besides, your envelope has the Naples postage stamps and the Naples post-marks. It was mailed here, whether it was written here or not. It was sent from here to fetch you to this place, on this journey, which resulted as you remember."

"Oh, my God!" cried Zillah, as the full horror of Obed's meaning began to dawn upon her. "What do you mean? What do you mean? Do you wish to drive me to utter despair? Tell me where you have been and what you have done. Oh, my God! Is any new grief coming?"

"My child, the Lord on high knows," said Obed Chute, with solemn emphasis, "that I would cut off my right hand with my own bowie-knife, rather than bring back to you the news I do. But what can be done? It is best for you to know the whole truth, bitter as it is."

"Go on," said Zillah, with an effort to be calm.

"Come," said Obed, and he led her to a seat. "Calm yourself, and prepare for the worst. For at the outset, and by way of preparation and warning, I will say that yours is a little the darkest case that I ever got acquainted with. The worst of it is that there is ever so much behind it all which I don't know any thing about."

Zillah leaned her head upon her hand and looked at him with awful forebodings.

"When I left you," said Obed Chute, "I went at once to the Hotel de l'Europe, expecting to find her there, or at least to hear of her. I will not relate the particulars of my inquiry there. I will only say that no such person as Miss Lorton had been there. I found, however, that the police had been watching there for seven weeks for Gualtier. I went with them to the Prefecture of Police. I gave my letter of introduction from the prefect of Marseilles, and was treated with the utmost attention. The prefect himself informed me that they had been searching into the whole case for weeks. They had examined all the vessels that had arrived, and had inspected all their logs. They had searched through foreign papers. They had visited every house in the city to which a stranger might go. The prefect showed me his voluminous reports, and went with me to the Harbor Bureau to show me the names of ships which arrived here and were owned here. Never could there be a more searching investigation than this had been. What was the result?

"Listen," said Obed, with impressive emphasis, yet compassionately, as Zillah hung upon his words. "I will tell you all in brief. First, no such person as Miss Lorton ever came to the Hotel de l'Europe. Secondly, no such person ever came to Naples at all. Thirdly, no ship arrived here at the date mentioned by your sister. Fourthly, no ship of that name ever came here at all. Fifthly, no ship arrived here at any time this year that had picked up any one at sea. The whole thing is untrue. It is a base fiction made up for some purpose."

"A fiction!" cried Zillah. "Never—never—she could not so deceive me."

"Can the writing be forged?"

"I don't see how it can," said Zillah, piteously. "I know her writing so well," and she drew the letter from her pocket. "See—it is a very peculiar hand—and then, how could any one speak as she does about those things of hers which she wished me to bring? No—it can not be a forgery."

"It is not," said Obed Chute. "It is worse."

"Worse?"

"Yes, worse. If it had been a forgery she would not have been implicated in this. But now she does stand implicated in this horrible betrayal of you."

"Heavens! how terrible! It must be impossible. Oh, Sir! we have lived together and loved one another from childhood. She knows all my heart, as I know hers. How can it be? Perhaps in her confusion she has imagined herself in Naples."

"No," said Obed, sternly. "I have told you about the post-marks."

"Oh, Sir! perhaps her mind was wandering after the suffering of that sea voyage."

"But she never had any voyage," said Obed Chute, grimly. "This letter was written by her somewhere with the intention of making you believe that she was in Naples. It was mailed here. If she had landed in Palermo or any other place you would have had some sign of it. But see—there is not a sign. Nothing but 'Naples' is here, inside and out—nothing but 'Naples;' and she never came to Naples! She wrote this to bring you here."

"Oh, my God! how severely you judge her! You will drive me mad by insinuating such frightful suspicions. How is it possible that one whom I know so well and love so dearly could be such a demon as this? It can not be."

"Listen, my child," said Obed Chute, tenderly. "Strengthen yourself. You have had much to bear in your young life, but this is easier to bear than that was which you must have suffered that morning when you first woke and found the water in your cabin. Tell me—in that hour when you rushed up on deck and saw that you were betrayed—in that hour—did no thought come to your mind that there was some other than Gualtier who brought this upon you?"

Zillah looked at him with a frightened face, and said not a word.

"Better to face the worst. Let the truth be known, and face it, whatever it is. Look, now. She wrote this letter which brought you here—this letter—every word of which is a lie; she it was who sent Gualtier to you to bring you here; she it was who recommended to you that miscreant who betrayed you, on whose tracks the police of France and Italy are already set. How do you suppose she will appear in the eyes of the French police? Guilty, or not guilty?"

Zillah muttered some inarticulate words, and then suddenly gasped out, "But the hat and the basket found by the fishermen?"

"Decoys—common tricks," said Obed Chute, scornfully. "Clumsy enough, but in this case successful."

Zillah groaned, and buried her face in her hands.

A long silence followed.

"My poor child," said Obed Chute at last, "I have been all the day making inquiries every where, and have already engaged the police to search out this mystery. There is one thing yet, however, which I wish to know, and you only can tell it. I am sorry to have to talk in this way, and give you any new troubles, but it is for your sake only, and for your sake there is nothing which I would not do. Will you answer me one question?"

Zillah looked up. Her face had now grown calm. The agitation had passed. The first shock was over, but this calm which followed was the calm of fixed grief—a grief too deep for tears.

"My question is this, and it is a very important one: Do you know, or can you conceive of any motive which could have actuated this person to plot against you in this way?"

"I do not."

"Think."

Zillah thought earnestly. She recalled the past, in which Hilda had always been so devoted; she thought of the dying Earl by whose bedside she had stood so faithfully; she thought of her deep sympathy with her when the writings were found in her father's desk; she thought of that deeper sympathy which she had manifested when Guy's letter was opened; she thought of her noble devotion in giving up all for her and following her into seclusion; she thought of their happy life in that quiet little sea-side cottage. As all these memories rose before her the idea of Hilda being a traitor seemed more impossible than ever. But she no longer uttered any indignant remonstrance.

"I am bewildered," she said. "I can think of nothing but love and fidelity in connection with her. All our lives she has lived with me and loved me. I can not think of any imaginable motive. I can imagine that she, like myself, is the victim of some one else, but not that she can do any thing else than love me."

"Yet she wrote that letter which is the cause of all your grief. Tell me," said he, after a pause, "has she money of her own?"

"Yes—enough for her support."

"Is she your sister?"

Zillah seemed startled.

"I do not wish to intrude into your confidence—I only ask this to gain some light while I am groping in the dark."

"She is not. She is no relation. But she has lived with me all my life, and is the same as a sister."

"Does she treat you as her equal?"

"Yes," said Zillah, with some hesitation, "that is—of late."

"But you have been her superior until of late?"

"Yes."

"Would you have any objection to tell her name?"

"Yes," said Zillah; "I can not tell it. I will tell this much: Lorton is an assumed name. It belongs neither to her nor to me. My name is not Lorton."

"I knew that," said Obed Chute. "I hope you will forgive me. It was not curiosity. I wished to investigate this to the bottom; but I am satisfied—I respect your secret. Will you forgive me for the pain I have caused you?"

Zillah placed her cold hand in his, and said:

"My friend, do not speak so. It hurts me to have you ask my forgiveness."

Obed Chute's face beamed with pleasure.

"My poor child," he said, "you must go and rest yourself. Go and sleep; perhaps you will be better for it."

And Zillah dragged herself out of the room.



CHAPTER XLI.

OBED ON THE RAMPAGE.

A long illness was the immediate result of so much excitement, suffering, and grief. Gradually, however, Zillah struggled through it; and at last, under the genial sky of Southern Italy, she began to regain her usual health. The kindness of her friends was unfaltering and incessant. Through this she was saved, and it was Obed's sister who brought her back from the clutches of fever and the jaws of death. She had as tender a heart as her brother, and had come to love as a sister or a daughter this poor, friendless, childlike girl, who had been thrown upon their hands in so extraordinary a manner. Brought up in that puritanical school which is perpetually on the look-out for "special providences," she regarded Zillah's arrival among them as the most marked special providence which she had ever known, and never ceased to affirm that something wonderful was destined to come of all this. Around this faithful, noble-hearted, puritanical dame, Zillah's affections twined themselves with something like filial tenderness, and she learned in the course of her illness to love that simple, straightforward, but high-souled woman, whose love she had already won. Hitherto she had associated the practice of chivalrous principles and the grand code of honor exclusively with lofty gentlemen like the Earl and her father, or with titled dames; now, however, she learned that here, in Obed Chute, there was as fine an instinct of honor, as delicate a sentiment of loyalty to friendship, as refined a spirit of knight-errantry, as strong a zeal to succor the weak and to become the champion of the oppressed, and as profound a loathing for all that is base and mean, as in either of those grand old gentlemen by whom her character had been moulded. Had Obed Chute been born an English lord his manners might have had a finer polish, but no training known among the sons of men could have given him a truer appreciation of all that is noble and honorable and chivalrous. This man, whose life had been passed in what Zillah considered as "vulgar trade," seemed to her to have a nature as pure and as elevated as that of the Chevalier Bayard, that hero sans peur et sans reproche.

Obed, as has already been seen, had a weakness for Neapolitan life, and felt in his inmost soul that strange fascination which this city possesses. He had traversed every nook and corner of Naples, and had visited, with a strange mixture of enthusiasm and practical observation, all its environs. In the course of his wanderings he had fallen in with a party of his countrymen, all of whom were kindred spirits, and who hailed his advent among them with universal appreciation. Without in any way neglecting Zillah, he joined himself to these new friends, and accompanied them in many an excursion into the country about Naples—to Capua, to Cumae, to Paestum, and to many other places. To some of these places it was dangerous to go in these unsettled times; but this party laughed at dangers. They had acquired a good-natured contempt for Italians and Italian courage; and as each man, in spite of the Neapolitan laws, carried his revolver, they were accustomed to venture any where with the most careless ease, and the most profound indifference to any possible danger. In fact, any approach to danger they would have hailed with joy, and to their adventurous temper the appearance of a gang of bandits would have been the greatest blessing which this land could afford.

The whole country was in a most disturbed condition. The Lombard war had diffused a deep excitement among all classes. Every day new rumors arose, and throughout the Neapolitan dominions the population were filled with strange vague desires. The government itself was demoralized—one day exerting its utmost power in the most repressive measures, and on the next recalling its own acts, and retreating in fear from the position which it had taken up. The troops were as agitated as the people. It was felt that in case of an attempt at revolution they could not be relied upon. In the midst of all other fears one was predominant, and was all comprised in one magic word—the name of that one man who alone, in our age, has shown himself able to draw nations after him, and by the spell of his presence to paralyze the efforts of kings. That one word was "Garibaldi."

What he was, or what he was to do, were things which were but little known to these ignorant Neapolitans. They simply accepted the name as the symbol of some great change by which all were to be benefited. He was, in their thoughts, half hero, half Messiah, before whom all opposing armies should melt away, and by whom all wrongs should be redressed. Through the heart of this agitated mass there penetrated the innumerable ramifications of secret societies, whose agents guided, directed, and intensified the prevalent excitement. These were the men who originated those daily rumors which threw both government and people into a fever of agitation; who taught new hopes and new desires to the most degraded population of Christendom, and inspired even the lazaroni with wild ideas of human rights—of liberty, fraternity, and equality. These agents had a far-reaching purpose, and to accomplish this they worked steadily, in all parts and among all classes, until at last the whole state was ripe for some vast revolution. Such was the condition of the people among whom Obed and his friends pursued their pleasures.

The party with which Obed had connected himself was a varied one. There were two officers from those "Yankee frigates" which he had hurled in the teeth of the police agent at the Hotel de l'Europe; two young fellows fresh from Harvard, and on their way to Heidelberg, who had come direct from New York to Naples, and were in no hurry to leave; a Southerner, fresh from a South Carolina plantation, making his first tour in Europe; a Cincinnati lawyer; and a Boston clergyman traveling for his health, to recruit which he had been sent away by his loving congregation. With all these Obed at once fraternized, and soon became the acknowledged leader, though, as he could not speak Italian, he was compelled to delegate all quarrels with the natives to the two Heidelbergians, who had studied Italian on their way out, and had aired it very extensively since their arrival.

Having exhausted the land excursions, the party obtained a yacht, in which they intended to make the circuit of the bay. On their first voyage they went around its whole extent, and then, rounding the island of Capri, they sailed along the coast to the southeast without any very definite purpose.

The party presented a singular appearance. All were dressed in the most careless manner, consulting convenience without any regard to fashion. The Heidelbergians had ade their appearance in red flannel shirts and broad-brimmed felt hats, which excited such admiration that the others at once determined to equal them. Obed, the officers, and the South Carolinian went off, and soon returned with red flannel shirts and wide-awake hats of their own, for which they soon exchanged their more correct costume. The lawyer and the clergyman compromised the matter by donning reefing jackets; and thus the whole party finally set out, and in this attire they made their cruise, with many loud laughs at the strange transformation which a change of dress had made in each other's appearance.

In this way they made the circuit of the bay, and proceeded along the coast until they came opposite to Salerno. It was already four o'clock, and as they could not get back to Naples that day they decided to land at this historic town, with the hope that they might be rewarded by some adventure. The yacht, therefore, was headed toward the town, and flew rapidly over the waves to her destination.

On rounding a headland which lay between them and the town their progress was slow. As they moved toward the harbor they sat lazily watching the white houses as they stretched along the winding beach, and the Boston clergyman, who seemed to be well up in his medieval history, gave them an account of the former glories of this place, when its university was the chief medical school of Europe, and Arabian and Jewish professors taught to Christian students the mysteries of science. With their attention thus divided between the learned dissertation of the clergyman and the charms of the town, they approached their destination.

It was not until they had come quite near that they noticed an unusual crowd along the shore. When they did notice it they at first supposed that it might be one of those innumerable saints' days which are so common in Italy. Now, as they drew nearer, they noticed that the attention of the crowd was turned to themselves. This excited their wonder at first, but after a time they thought that in so dull a place as Salerno the arrival of a yacht was sufficient to excite curiosity, and with this idea many jokes were bandied about. At length they approached the principal wharf of the place, and directed the yacht toward it. As they did so they noticed a universal movement on the part of the crowd, who made a rush toward the wharf, and in a short time filled it completely. Not even the most extravagant ideas of Italian laziness and curiosity could account for this intense interest in the movements of an ordinary yacht; and so our Americans soon found themselves lost in an abyss of wonder.

Why should they be so stared at? Why should the whole population of Salerno thus turn out, and make a wild rush to the wharf at which they were to land? It was strange; it was inexplicable; it was also embarrassing. Not even the strongest curiosity could account for such excitement as this.

"What 'n thunder does it all mean?" said Obed, after a long silence.

"There's something up," said the Cincinnati lawyer, sententiously.

"Perhaps it is a repetition of the landing at Naples on a grander scale," said the clergyman. "I remember when I landed there at least fifty lazaroni followed me to carry my carpet-bag."

"Fifty?" cried one of the Heidelbergians. "Why, there are five hundred after us!"

"But these are not lazaroni," said Obed. "Look at that crowd! Did you ever see a more respectable one?"

In truth, the crowd was in the highest degree respectable. There were some workmen, and some lazaroni. But the greater number consisted of well-dressed people, among whom were intermingled priests and soldiers, and even women. All these, whatever their rank, bore in their faces an expression of the intensest curiosity and interest. The expression was unmistakable, and as the yacht came nearer, those on board were able to see that they were the objects of no common attention. If they had doubted this, this doubt was soon dispelled; for as the yacht grazed the wharf a movement took place among the crowd, and a confused cry of applause arose.