For such a welcome as this the yachting party were certainly not prepared. All looked up in amazement, with the exception of Obed. He alone was found equal to the occasion. Without stopping to consider what the cause of such a reception might be, he was simply conscious of an act of public good-will, and prepared to respond in a fitting manner. He was standing on the prow at the time, and drawing his tall form to its full height, he regarded the crowd for a moment with a benignant smile; after which he removed his hat and bowed with great empressement.

At this there arose another shout of applause from the whole crowd, which completed the amazement of the tourists. Meanwhile the yacht swung up close to the wharf, and as there was nothing else to be done they prepared to land, leaving her in charge of her crew, which consisted of several sailors from one of the American frigates. The blue shirts of these fellows formed a pleasing contrast to the red shirts and reefing jackets of the others, and the crowd on the wharf seemed to feel an indiscriminate admiration for he crew as well as for the masters. Such attentions were certainly somewhat embarrassing, and presented to these adventurous spirits a novel kind of difficulty; but whether novel or not, there was now no honorable escape from it, and they had to encounter it boldly by plunging into the midst of the crowd. So they landed—eight as singular figures as ever disturbed the repose of this peaceful town of Salerno. Obed headed the procession, dressed in a red shirt with black trowsers, and a scarf tied round his waist, while a broad-brimmed felt hat shaded his expansive forehead. His tall form, his broad shoulders, his sinewy frame, made him by far the most conspicuous member of this company, and attracted to him the chief admiration of the spectators. Low, murmured words arose as he passed amidst them, expressive of the profound impression which had been produced by the sight of his magnificent physique. After him came the others in Indian file; for the crowd was dense, and only parted sufficiently to allow of the progress of one man at a time. The Southerner came next to Obed, then the Heidelbergians, then the naval officers, while the clergyman and the Cincinnati lawyer, in their picturesque pea-jackets, brought up the rear. Even in a wide-awake American town such a company would have attracted attention; how much more so in this sleepy, secluded, quiet, Italian town! especially at such a time, when all men every where were on the look-out for great enterprises.

Obed marched on with his friends till they left the wharf and were able to walk on together more closely. The crowd followed. The Americans took the middle of the street, and walked up into the town through what seemed the principal thoroughfare. The crowd pressed after them, showing no decrease whatever in their ardent curiosity, yet without making any noisy demonstrations. They seemed like men who were possessed by some conviction as to the character of these strangers, and were in full sympathy with them, but were waiting to see what they might do. The Americans, on their side, were more and more surprised at every step, and could not imagine any cause whatever for so very singular a reception. They did not even know whether to view it as a hostile demonstration, or as a sort of triumphant reception. They could not imagine what they had done which might merit either the one or the other. All that was left for them to do, therefore, they did; and that means, they accepted the situation, and walked along intent only upon the most prosaic of purposes—the discovery of a hotel. At length, after a few minutes' walk, they found the object of their search in a large stucco edifice which bore the proud title of "Hotel de l'Univers" in French. Into this they turned, seeking refuge and refreshment. The crowd without respected their seclusion. They did not pour into the hotel and fill it to overflowing from top to bottom, but simply stood outside, in front, in a densely packed mass, from which arose constantly the deep hum of earnest, animated, and eager conversation.

On entering they were accosted by the landlord, who received them with the utmost obsequiousness, and a devotion which was absolute. He informed them that the whole hotel was at their disposal, and wished to know at what time their excellencies would be pleased to dine. Their excellencies informed him, through the medium of the Heidelbergians, that they would be pleased to dine as soon as possible; whereupon the landlord led them to a large upper room and bowed himself out.

Their room looked out upon the street. There was a balcony in front of the windows; and, as they sat there waiting, they could see the dense crowd as it stood in front of the hotel—quiet, orderly, waiting patiently; yet waiting for what? That was the problem. It was so knotty a problem that it engaged all their thoughts and discussions while they were waiting for dinner, and while they were eating their dinner. At last that solemn meal was over, and they arose refreshed; but the peaceful satisfaction that generally ensues after such an important meal was now very seriously disturbed, in their case, by the singular nature of their situation. There was the crowd outside still, though it was already dusk.

"I think," said Obed, "that I'll step out and see what is going on. I'll just look around, you know."

Saying this, Obed passed through the open window, and went out on the balcony. His appearance was the cause of an immense sensation. For a moment the crowd was hushed, and a thousand eyes were fixed in awe and admiration upon his colossal form. Then the silence was suddenly broken by loud, long, and wild acclamations, "Viva la Liberia!" "Viva la Republica!" "Viva l'Italia!" "Viva Vittore Emmanuele!" "Viva Garibaldi!"

This last word was caught up with a kind of mad enthusiasm, and passed from mouth to mouth till it drowned all other cries.

"What'n thunder's all this?" cried Obed, putting his head into the room, and looking at the Heidelbergians. "See here—come out here," he continued, "and find out what in the name of goodness it all means, for I'll be durned if I can make head or tail of it."

At this appeal the Heidelbergians stepped out, and after them came the naval officers, while the rest followed, till the whole eight stood on the balcony.

Their appearance was greeted with a thunder of applause.

Obed knew not what it all meant, nor did any of the others; but as he was the acknowledged leader he felt upon him the responsibility of his situation, and so, with this feeling animating him, he responded to the salutation of the crowd by a low bow.

It was now dusk, and the twilight of this southern climate was rapidly deepening, when suddenly the Americans were aware of a sound in the distance like the galloping of horses. The sound seemed to strike the crowd below at the same moment. Cries arose, and they fell back quickly on either side of the road, leaving a broad path in their midst. The Americans did not have a long time left to them for conjecture or for wonder. The sounds drew nearer and nearer, until at last, through the gloom, a body of dragoons were plainly seen galloping down the street. They dashed through the crowd, they reined in their horses in front of the hotel, and, a the sharp word of command from their leader, a number of them dismounted, and followed him inside, while the rest remained without.

The crowd stood breathless and mute. The Americans saw in this a very singular variation to the events of the evening, and, as they could no more account for this than for those which had preceded it, they waited to see the end.

They did not have to wait long.

A noise in the room which they had left roused them. Looking in they saw about a dozen dragoons with the captain and the landlord. The dragoons had arranged themselves in line at the word of command, and the landlord stood with a terror-stricken face beside the captain.

"Ah!" said Obed, who had looked through the window into the room, "this looks serious. There's some absurd mistake somewhere, but just now it does seem as though they want us, so I move that we go in and show ourselves."

Saying this he entered the room, followed by the others, and the eight Americans ranged themselves quietly opposite the dragoons. The sight of these red-shirted strangers produced a very peculiar effect on the soldiers, as was evident by their faces and their looks; and the captain, as he regarded the formidable proportions of Obed, seemed somewhat overawed. But he soon overcame his emotion, and, stepping forward, he exclaimed:

"Siete nostri prigionieri. Rendetevi."

"What's that he says?" asked Obed.

"He says we're his prisoners," said one of the Heidelbergians, "and calls on us to surrender."

"Tell him," said Obed, unconsciously parodying Leonidas—"Tell him to come on and take us."

The Heidelbergian translated this verbatim.

The captain looked puzzled.

"Boys," said Obed, "you may as well get your revolvers ready."

At this quiet hint every one of the Americans, including even the Boston clergyman, drew forth his revolver, holding it carelessly, yet in such a very handy fashion that the captain of the dragoons looked aghast.

"I will have no resistance," said he. "Surrender, or you will be shot down."

"Ha, ha!" said the Heidelbergian. "Do you see our revolvers? Do you think that we are the men to surrender?"

"I have fifty dragoons outside," said the officer.

"Very well, we have forty-eight shots to your fifty," said the Heidelbergian, whose Italian, on this occasion, "came out uncommonly strong," as Obed afterward said when the conversation was narrated to him.

"I am commanded to arrest you," said the officer.

"Well, go back and say that you tried, and couldn't do it," said the Heidelbergian.

"Your blood will be on your own heads."

"Pardon me; some of it will be on yours, and some of your own blood also," retorted the Heidelbergian, mildly.

"Advance!" cried the officer to his soldiers. "Arrest these men."

The soldiers looked at their captain, then at the Americans, then at their captain again, then at the Americans, and the end of it was that they did not move.

"Arrest them!" roared the officer.

The Americans stood opposite with their revolvers leveled. The soldiers stood still. They would not obey.

"My friend," said the Heidelbergian, "if your men advance, you yourself will be the first to fall, for I happen to have you covered by my pistol. I may as well tell you that it has six shots, and if the first fails, the second will not."

The officer turned pale. He ordered his men to remain, and went out. After a few moments he returned with twelve more dragoons. The Americans still stood watchful, with their revolvers ready, taking aim.

"You see," cried the officer, excitedly, "that you are overpowered. There are as many men outside. For the last time I call on you to surrender. If you do not I will give no quarter. You need not try to resist."

"What is it that he says?" asked Obed.

The Heidelbergian told him.

Obed laughed.

"Ask him why he does not come and take us," said he, grimly. "We have already given him leave to do so."

The Heidelbergian repeated these words.

The captain, in a fury, ordered his men to advance.

The Americans fully expected an attack, and stood ready to pour in a volley at the first movement on the part of the enemy. But the enemy did not move. The soldiers stood motionless. They did not seem afraid. They seemed rather as if they were animated by some totally different feeling. It had been whispered already that the Neapolitan army was unreliable. This certainly looked like it.

"Cowards!" cried the captain, who seemed to think that their inaction arose from fear. "You will suffer for this, you scoundrels! Then, if you are afraid to advance, make ready! present! fire!"

His command might as well have been addressed to the winds. The guns of the soldiers stood by their sides. Not one of them raised his piece. The captain was thunder-struck; yet his surprise was not greater than that of the Americans when this was hastily explained to them by the Heidelbergians. Evidently there was disaffection among the soldiers of his Majesty of Naples when brought into the presence of Red Shirts.

The captain was so overwhelmed by this discovery that he stood like one paralyzed, not knowing what to do. This passive disobedience on the part of his men was a thing so unexpected that he was left helpless, without resources.

Meanwhile the crowd outside had been intensely excited. They had witnessed the arrival of the dragoons. They had seen them dismount and enter the hotel after the captain. They had seen the captain come down after another detachment. They had known nothing of what was going on inside, but conjectured that a desperate struggle was inevitable between the Red Shirts and the dragoons. As an unarmed crowd they could offer no active intervention, so they held their peace for a time, waiting in breathless suspense for the result. The result seemed long delayed. The troopers did not seem to gain that immediate victory over the Red Shirts which had been fearfully anticipated. Every moment seemed to postpone such a victory, and render it impossible. Every moment restored the courage of the crowd, which at first had been panic-stricken. Low murmurs passed among them, which deepened into words of remonstrance, and strengthened into cries of sympathy for the Red Shirts; until, at last, these cries arose to shouts, and the shouts arose wild and high, penetrating to that upper room where the assailants confronted their cool antagonists. The cries had an ominous sound.

"Viva la Liberia!" "Viva la Republica!" "Viva Garibaldi!" At the name Garibaldi, a wild yell of applause resounded wide and high—a long, shrill yell, and the name was taken up in a kind of mad fervor till the shout rose to a frenzy, and nothing was heard but the confused outcries of a thousand discordant voices, all uttering that one grand name, "Garibaldi!" "Garibaldi!" "Garibaldi!"

The Americans heard it. What connection there was between themselves and Garibaldi they did not then see, but they saw that somehow the people of Salerno had associated them with the hero of Italy, and were sympathizing with them. Obed Chute himself saw this, and understood this, as that cry came thundering to his ears. He turned to his friends.

"Boys," said he, "we came here for a dinner and a night's rest. We've got the dinner, but the night's rest seems to be a little remote. There's such an infernal row going on all around that, if we want to sleep this blessed night, we'll have to take to the yacht again, and turn in there, sailor fashion. So I move that we adjourn to that place, and put out to sea."

His proposal was at once accepted without hesitation.

"Very well," said Obed. "Now follow me. March!"

With his revolver in his extended hand, Obed strode toward the door, followed by the others. The dragoons drew back and allowed them to pass out without resistance. They descended the stairs into the hall. As they appeared at the doorway they were recognized by the crowd, and a wild shout of triumph arose, in which nothing was conspicuous but the name of Garibaldi. The mounted dragoons outside did not attempt to resist them. They looked away, and did not seem to see them at all. The crowd had it all their own way.

Through the crowd Obed advanced, followed by his friends, and led the way toward the yacht. The crowd followed. They cheered; they shouted; they yelled out defiance at the king; they threw aside all restraint, and sang the Italian version of the "Marseillaise." A wild enthusiasm pervaded all, as though some great victory had been won, or some signal triumph achieved. But amidst all their shouts and cries and applause and songs one word was pre-eminent, and that one word was the name of "Garibaldi!"

But the Americans made no response. They marched on quietly to their yacht, and pushed off from the wharf. A loud, long cheer followed them from the crowd, which stood there watching their departure; and, as the yacht moved away, cheer after cheer arose, which gradually died away in the distance.

They passed that night on the sea instead of at the hotel at Salerno. But they did not have much sleep. Their wonderful adventure formed the theme of discussion all night long. And at last the only conclusion which they could come to was this, that the red-shirted strangers had been mistaken for Garibaldini; that Obed Chute had been accepted as Garibaldi himself; and, finally, that the subjects of the king of Naples, and his soldiers also, were in a fearful state of disaffection.

Not long after, when Garibaldi himself passed through this very town, the result confirmed the conjectures of these Americans.



CHAPTER XLII.

ANOTHER REVELATION.

Time passed on, and Zillah once more regained something like her old spring and elasticity; yet the sadness of her situation was no way relaxed. In addition to the griefs of the past, there now arose the problem of the future. What was she to do? Was she to go on thus forever with these kind friends? or was she to leave them? The subject was a painful and a perplexing one, and always brought before her the utter loneliness of her position with the most distressing distinctness. Generally she fought against such feelings, and tried to dismiss such thoughts, but it was difficult to drive them from her mind.

At length it happened that all her funds were exhausted, and she felt the need of a fresh supply. So she conferred with Obed Chute, and told him the name of her London bankers, after which he drew out a check for her for a hundred pounds, which she signed. The draft was then forwarded.

A fortnight passed away. It was during this interval that Obed had his famous Salerno expedition, which he narrated to Zillah on his return, to her immense delight. Never in his life had Obed taken such pleasure in telling a story as on this occasion. Zillah's eager interest, her animated face, her sparkling eyes, all encouraged him to hope that there was yet some spirit left in her in spite of her sorrows; and at length, at the narration of the reception of the Neapolitan's order to surrender, Zillah burst into a fit of laughter that was childish in its abandon and heartiness.

About a week or ten days after this, Obed came home one day with a very serious face. Zillah noticed it at once, and asked him anxiously if any thing had happened.

"My poor child," said he, "I'm afraid that there is more trouble in store for you. I feared as much some time ago, but I had to wait to see if my fears were true."

Zillah regarded him fearfully, not knowing what to think of such an ominous beginning. Her heart told her that it had some reference to Hilda. Had he found out any thing about her? Was she ill? Was she dying? These were her thoughts, but she dared not put them into words.

"I've kept this matter to myself till now," continued Obed; "but I do not intend to keep it from you any longer. I've spoken to sister about it, and she thinks that you'd better know it. At any rate," he added, "it isn't as bad as some things you've borne; only it comes on top of the rest, and seems to make them worse."

Zillah said not a word, but stood awaiting in fear this new blow.

"Your draft," said Obed, "has been returned."

"My draft returned?" said Zillah, in astonishment. "What do you mean?"

"I will tell you all I know," said Obed. "There is villainy at the bottom of this, as you will see. Your draft came back about ten days ago. I said nothing to you about it, but took it upon myself to write for explanations. Last evening I received this"—and he drew a letter from his pocket. "I've meditated over it, and shown it to my sister, and we both think that there are depths to this dark plot against you which none of us as yet have even begun to fathom. I've also forwarded an account of this and a copy of this letter to the police at Marseilles, and to the police here, to assist them in their investigations. I'm afraid the police here won't do much, they're so upset by their panic about Garibaldi."

As Obed ended he handed the letter to Zillah, who opened it without a word, and read as follows:

"LONDON, September 10, 1859.

"SIR,—In answer to your favor of 7th instant, we beg leave to state that up to the 15th of June last we held stock and deposits from Miss Ella Lorton—i. e., consols, thirty thousand pounds (L30,000); also cash, twelve hundred and seventy-five pounds ten shillings (L1275 10s.). On the 15th of June last the above-mentioned Miss Ella Lorton appeared in person, and, with her own check, drew out the cash balance. On the 17th June she came in person and withdrew the stock, in consols, which she had deposited with us, amounting to thirty thousand pounds (L30,000) as aforesaid. That it was Miss Ella Lorton herself there is no doubt; for it was the same lady who deposited the funds, and who has sent checks to us from time to time. The party you speak of, who sent the check from Naples, must be an impostor, and we recommend you to hand her over to the police.

"We have the honor to be, Sir, your most obedient servants, TILTON AND BROWNE.

"OBED CHUTE, Esq."

On reading this Zillah fell back into a chair as though she had been shot, and sat looking at this fatal sheet with wild eyes and haggard face. Obed made an effort to cry for help, but it sounded like a groan. His sister came running in, and seeing Zillah's condition, she took her in her arms.

"Poor child! poor sweet child!" she cried.



"It's too much! It's too much! She will die if this goes on."

But Zillah rapidly roused herself. It was no soft mood that was over her now; it was not a broken heart that was now threatening her. This letter seemed to throw a flood of light over her dark and mysterious persecution, which in an instant put an end to all those tender longings after her loved Hilda which had consumed her. Now her eyes flashed, and the color which had left her cheeks flushed hack again, mounting high with the full sweep of her indignant passion. She started to her feet, her hands clenched, and her brows frowning darkly.

"You are right," she said to Obed, in a low, stern voice. "I am betrayed—and she—she alone has been my betrayer. She! my sister! the one who lived on my father's bounty; who was my companion in childhood; who shared my bed; who had all my love and trust—she has betrayed me! Ah, well," she added, with a long sigh; "since it is so, it is best for me to know it. Do not be grieved, dear friends. Do not look so sadly and so tenderly at me. I know your loving hearts. You, at least, do not look as though you believed me to be an impostor."

And she held out her hands to the brother and sister. Obed took that little hand which she extended, and pressed it reverently to his lips.

"Sit down, my poor child," said Miss Chute, tenderly. "You are excited. Try to be calm, if you can."

"I am calm, and I will be calm," said Zillah, faintly.

"Come," said Obed. "We will talk no more about it now. To-morrow, or next day, or next week, we will talk about it. You must rest. You must drive out, or sail out, or do something. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll order the yacht and take you to Salerno."

Zillah looked at him with a faint smile, appreciating his well-meant reference to that famous town, and Obed left her with his sister.

A week passed, and Zillah was not allowed to speak of this subject. But all the time she was oppressed by a sense of her utterly desperate situation. As long as she had believed herself rich she had not felt altogether helpless; but now!—now she found herself a pauper, alone in the wide world, a dependent on the kindness of these noble-hearted friends. What could she do? This could not go on forever. What could she do—she, a girl without resources? How could she ever support herself? What would become of her?

Could she go back to that home from which she had fled? Never! That thought came once, and was instantly scouted as impossible. Sooner than do that she would die of starvation. What, then, could she do? Live on as a burden to these kind friends? Alas! how could she? She thought wildly of being a governess; but what could she teach?—she, who had idled away nearly all her life. Then she thought of trying to get back her money from those who had robbed her. But how could this be done?

For, to do this, it would be necessary to obtain the help of Obed Chute; and, in that case, she would have to tell him all. And could she do this? Could she reveal to another the secret sorrow of her life? Could she tell him about their fatal marriage; about the Earl; about Guy's letter, and her flight from home? No; these things were too sacred to be divulged to any one, and the very idea of making them known was intolerable. But if she began to seek after Hilda it would be necessary to tell her true name, at least to Obed Chute, and all about her, a thing which would involve the disclosure of all her secret. It could not be done. Hilda had betrayed her, sought out her life, and robbed her—of this there no longer remained any doubt; and she was helpless; she could neither seek after her rights, nor endeavor to obtain redress for her wrongs.

At length she had a conversation with Obed Chute about her draft. She told him that when she first went to Tenby her sister had persuaded her to withdraw all her money from her former bankers and deposit it with Messrs. Tilton and Browne. Hilda herself had gone to London to have it done. She told Obed that they were living in seclusion, that Hilda had charge of the finances, and drew all the checks. Of course Messrs. Tilton and Browne had been led to believe that she was the Ella Lorton who had deposited the money. In this way it was easy for her, after getting her sister out of the way, to obtain the money herself.

After Obed Chute heard this he remained silent for a long time.

"My poor child," said he at last, in tones full of pity, "you could not imagine once what motive this Hilda could have for betraying you. Here you have motive enough. It is a very coarse one; but yet men have been betraying one another for less than this since the world began. There was once a certain Judas who carried out a plan of betrayal for a far smaller figure. But tell me. Have you never associated Gualtier and Hilda in your thoughts as partners in this devilish plot?"

"I see now that they must have been," said Zillah. "I can believe nothing else."

"You have said that Gualtier was in attendance on you for years?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever notice any thing like friendship between these two?"

"She always seemed to hold herself so far above him that I do not see how they could have had any understanding."

"Did he seem to speak to her more than to you?"

"Not at all. I never noticed it. He accompanied her to London, though, when she went about the money."

"That looks like confidence. And then she sent him to take you to Naples to put you out of the way?"

Zillah sighed.

"Tell me. Do you think she could have loved Gualtier?"

"It seems absurd. Any thing like love between those two is impossible."

"It's my full and firm conviction," said Obed Chute, after deep thought, "that this Gualtier gained your friend's affections, and he has been the prime mover in this. Both of them must be deep ones, though. Yet I calculate she is only a tool in his hands. Women will do any thing for love. She has sacrificed you to him. It isn't so bad a case as it first looked."

"Not so bad!" said Zillah, in wonder. "What is worse than to betray a friend?"

"When a woman betrays a friend for the sake of a lover she only does what women have been engaged in doing ever since the world began. This Gualtier has betrayed you both—first by winning your friend's love, and then by using her against you. And that is the smart game which he has played so well as to net the handsome figure of L30,000 sterling—one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—besides that balance of L1200 and upward—six thousand dollars more."

Such was Obed Chute's idea, and Zillah accepted it as the only true solution. Any other solution would force her to believe that Hilda had been a hypocrite all her life—that her devotion was a sham, and her love a mockery. Such a thing seemed incredible, and it seemed far more natural to her that Hilda had acted from some mad impulse of love in obedience to the strong temptation held out by a lover. Yes, she thought, she had placed herself in his power, and did whatever he told her, without thinking of the consequences. The plot, then, must be all Gualtier's. Hilda herself never, never, never could have formed such a plan against one who loved her. She could not have known what she was doing. She could not have deliberately sold her life and robbed her. So Zillah tried to think; but, amidst these thoughts, there arose the memory of that letter from Naples—that picture of the voyage, every word of which showed such devilish ingenuity, and such remorseless pertinacity in deceiving. Love may do much, and tempt to much, she thought; but, after all, could such a letter have emanated from any one whose heart was not utterly and wholly bad and corrupt? All this was terrible to Zillah.

"If I could but redress your wrongs," said Obed, one day—"if you would only give me permission, I would start to-morrow for England, and I would track this pair of villains till I compelled them to disgorge their plunder, and one of them, at least, should make acquaintance with the prison hulks or Botany Bay. But you will not let me," he added, reproachfully.

Zillah looked at him imploringly.

"I have a secret," said she, "a secret which I dare not divulge. It involves others. I have sacrificed every thing for this. I can not mention it even to you. And now all is lost, and I have nothing. There is no help for it, none." She seemed to be speaking to herself. "For then," she continued, "if they were hunted down, names would come out, and then all would be known. And rather than have all known"—her voice grew higher and sterner as she spoke, expressing a desperate resolve—"rather than have all known, I would die—yes, by a death as terrible as that which stared me in the face when I was drifting in the schooner!"

Obed Chute looked at her. Pity was on his face. He held out his hand and took hers. "It shall not be known," said he. "Keep your secret. The time will come some day when you will be righted. Trust in God, my child."

The time passed on, but Zillah was now a prey to this new trouble. How could she live? She was penniless. Could she consent to remain thus a burden on kind friends like these? These thoughts agitated her incessantly, preying upon her mind, and never leaving her by night or by day. She was helpless. How could she live? By what means could she hope to get a living? Her friends saw her melancholy, but attributed it all to the greater sorrows through which she had passed. Obed Chute thought that the best cure was perpetual distraction. So he busied himself with arranging a never-ending series of expeditions to all the charming environs of Naples. Pompeii and Herculaneum opened before them the wonders of the ancient world. Vesuvius was scaled, and its crater revealed its awful depths. Baiae, Misenum, and Puzzuoli were explored. Paestum showed them its eternal temples. They lingered on the beach at Salerno. They stood where never-ending spring abides, and never-withering flowers, in the vale of Sorrento—the fairest spot on earth; best representative of a lost Paradise. They sailed over every part of that glorious bay, where earth and air and sea all combine to bring into one spot all that this world contains of beauty and sublimity, of joyousness and loveliness, of radiance and of delight. Yet still, in spite of all this, the dull weight of melancholy could not be removed, but never ceased to weigh her down.

At length Zillah could control her feelings no longer. One day, softened by the tender sympathy and watchful anxiety of these loving friends, she yielded to the generous promptings of her heart and told them her trouble. "I am penniless," she said, as she concluded her confession. "You are too generous, and it is your very generosity that makes it bitter for me to be a mere dependent. You are so generous that I will ask you to get me something to do. I know you will. There, I have told you all, and I feel happier already."

As she ended a smile passed over the face of Obed Chute and his sister. The relief which they felt was infinite. And this was all!

"My child," said Obed Chute, tenderly, "there are twenty different things that I can say, each of which would put you perfectly at ease. I will content myself, however, with merely one or two brief remarks. In the first place allow me to state that you are not penniless. Do you think that you are going to lose all your property? No—by the Eternal! no! I, Obed Chute, do declare that I will get it back some day. So dismiss your fears, and dry your tears, as the hymn-book says. Moreover, in the second place, you speak of being a dependent and a burden. I can hardly trust myself to speak in reply to that. I will leave that to sister. For my own part, I will merely say that you are our sunshine—you make our family circle bright as gold. To lose you, my child, would be—well, I won't say what, only when you leave us you may leave an order at the nearest stone-cutter's for a tombstone for Obed Chute."

He smiled as he spoke—his great rugged features all irradiated by a glow of enthusiasm and of happiness.

"But I feel so dependent—such a burden," pleaded Zillah.

"If that is the case," said Obed Chute, "then your feelings shall be consulted. I will employ you. You shall have an honorable position. Among us the best ladies in the land become teachers. President Fillmore's daughter taught a school in New England. It is my purpose now to engage you as governess."

"As governess?"

"Yes, for my children."

"But I don't know any thing."

"I don't care—I'm going to engage you as governess all the same. Sister teaches them the rudiments. What I want you to teach them is music."

"Music? I'm such a wretched player."

"You play well enough for me—well enough to teach them; and the beauty of it is, even if you don't play well now, you soon will. Doesn't Franklin or somebody say that one learns by teaching?"

Zillah's face spoke unutterable gratitude.

"This," said Obed Chute, "is purely a business transaction. I'll only give you the usual payment—say five hundred dollars a year, and found."

"And—what?"

"Found—that is, board, you know, and clothing, of course, also. Is it a bargain?"

"Oh, my best friend! how can I thank you? What can I say?"

"Say! why, call me again your 'best friend;' that is all the thanks I want."

So the engagement was made, and Zillah became a music-teacher.



CHAPTER XLIII.

THE REPORT.

During Lord Chetwynde's absence Hilda received constant communications from Gualtier. He had not very much to tell her, though his watchfulness was incessant. He had contrived to follow Lord Chetwynde to London, under different disguises, and with infinite difficulty; and also to put up at the same house. Lord Chetwynde had not the remotest idea that he was watched, and took no pains to conceal any of his motions. Indeed, to a mind like his, the idea of keeping any thing secret, or of going out of his way to avoid notice, never suggested itself. He was perfectly open and free from disguise. He stopped at the Hastings House, an elegant and quiet hotel, avoided the clubs, and devoted himself altogether to business. At this house Gualtier stopped also, but could find out nothing about Lord Chetwynde's business. He could only learn this much, that Lord Chetwynde went every day, at eleven o'clock, to the office of his solicitors, Messrs. Pendergrast Brothers, with whom he was closeted for an hour or more. Evidently there was some very important business between them; but what that business was, or to whom it might have reference, was a perfect mystery to Gualtier. This was about the sum and substance of the information which his letters conveyed to the anxious Hilda.

For her part, every thing which Gualtier mentioned about Lord Chetwynde was read by her with eager curiosity. She found herself admiring the grand calm of this man whom she loved, this splendid carelessness, this frank and open demeanor. That she herself was cunning and wily, formed no obstacle to her appreciation of frankness in others; perhaps, indeed, the absence of those qualities in herself made her admire them in others, since they were qualities which she could never hope to gain. Whatever his motive or purpose might be, he was now seeking to carry it out in the most open manner, never thinking of concealment. She was working in the dark; he was acting in the broad light of day. Her path, as she looked back upon it, wound on tortuously amidst basenesses and treacheries and crimes; his was straight and clear, like the path of the just man's—not dark, but rather a shining light, where all was open to the gaze of the world. And what communion could there be between one like him and one like her? Could any cunning on her part impose upon him? Could she ever conceal from him her wily and tortuous nature? Could he not easily discover it? Would not his clear, open, honest eyes see through and through the mask of deceit with which she concealed her true nature? There was something in his gaze which she never could face—something which had a fearful significance to her—something which told her that she was known to him, and that all her character lay open before him, with all its cunning, its craft, its baseness, and its wickedness. No arts or wiles of hers could avail to blind him to these things. This she knew and felt, but still she hoped against hope, and entertained vague expectations of some final understanding between them.

But what was the business on which he was engaged? What was it that thus led him so constantly to his solicitors? This was the problem that puzzled her. Various solutions suggested themselves. One was that he was merely anxious to see about breaking the entail so as to pay her back the money which General Pomeroy had advanced. This he had solemnly promised. Perhaps his long search through his father's papers had reference to this, and his business with his solicitors concerned this, and this only. This seemed natural. But there was also another solution to the problem. It was within the bounds of possibility that he was taking measures for a divorce. How he could obtain one she did not see, but he might be trying to do so. She knew nothing of the divorce law, but had a general idea that nothing except crime or cruelty could avail to break the bonds of marriage. That Lord Chetwynde was fixed in his resolve to break all ties between them was painfully evident to her; and whatever his immediate purpose might now be, she saw plainly that it could only have reference to this separation. It meant that, and nothing else. He abhorred her, and was determined to get rid of her at all hazards. This she plainly saw.

At length, after a few weeks' absence, Gualtier returned. Hilda, full of impatience, sent for him to the morning-room almost as soon as he had arrived, and went there to wait for his appearance. She did not have to wait long. In a few minutes Gualtier made his appearance, obsequious and deferential as usual.

"You are back alone," said she, as she greeted him.

"Yes; Lord Chetwynde is coming back tomorrow or next day, and I thought it better for me to come back first so as to see you before he came."

"Have you found out any thing more?"

"No, my lady. In my letters I explained the nature of the case. I made all the efforts I could to get at the bottom of this business, and to find out what you called the purpose of his life. But you see what insuperable obstacles were in the way. It was absolutely impossible for me to find out any thing in particular about his affairs. I could not possibly gain access to his papers. I tried to gain information from one of the clerks of Pendergrast—formed an acquaintance with him, gave him a dinner, and succeeded in getting him drunk; but even that was of no avail. The fellow was communicative enough, but the trouble was he didn't know any thing himself about this thing, and had no more knowledge of Lord Chetwynde's business or purposes than I myself had. I have done all or purposes than I myself had. I have done all that was possible for a man in my situation, and grieve deeply that I have nothing more definite to communicate."

"You have done admirably," said Hilda; "nothing more was possible. I only wished you to watch, and you have watched to good purpose. This much is evident, from your reports, that Lord Chetwynde has some all-engrossing purpose. What it is can not be known now, but must be known some day. At present I must be content with the knowledge that his purpose exists."

"I have formed some conjectures," said Gualtier.

"On what grounds? On any other than those which you have made known to me?"

"No. You know all."

"Never mind, then. I also have formed conjectures, and have a larger and broader ground on which to build them. What I want is not conjectures of any kind, but facts. If you have any more facts to communicate, I should like very much to hear them."

"Alas, my lady, I have already communicated to you all the facts that I know."

Hilda was silent for some time.

"You never spoke to Lord Chetwynde, I suppose?" said she at length.

"Oh no, my lady; I did not venture to come into communication with him at all."

"Did he ever see you?"

"He certainly cast his eyes on me, once or twice, but without any recognition in them. I really don't think that he is conscious of the existence of a person like me."

"Don't be too sure of that. Lord Chetwynde is one who can see every thing without appearing to see it. His eye can take in at one glance the minutest details. He is a man who is quite capable of making the discovery that you were the steward of Chetwynde. What measure did you take to avoid discovery?"

Gualtier smiled.

"The measures which I took were such that it would have puzzled Fouche himself to penetrate my disguise. I rode in the same compartment with him, all the way to London, dressed as an elderly widow."

"A widow?"

"Yes; with a thick black veil, and a very large umbrella. It is simply impossible that he could penetrate my disguise, for the veil was too thick to show my features."

"But the hotel?"

"At the hotel I was a Catholic priest, from Novara, on my way to America. I wore spectacles, with dark glasses. No friend could have recognized me, much less a stranger."

"But if you went with the clerks of Pendergrast, that was an odd disguise."

"Oh, when I went with them, I dropped that. I became an American naval officer, belonging to the ship Niagara, which was then in London. I wore a heavy beard and mustache, and talked through my nose. Besides, I would drink nothing but whisky and sherry cobblers. My American trip proved highly advantageous."

"And do you feel confident that he has not recognized you?"

"Confident! Recognition was utterly impossible. It would have required my nearest friend or relative to have recognized me, through such disguises. Besides, my face is one which can very easily be disguised. I have not strongly marked features. My face can easily serve for an Italian priest, or an American naval officer. I am always careful to choose only such parts as nature has adapted me for."

"And Lord Chetwynde is coming back?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"To-morrow, or next day."

"I wonder how long he will stay?"

"That is a thing which no one can find out so well as yourself."

Hilda was silent.

"My lady," said Gualtier, after a long pause.

"Well?"

"You know how ready I am to serve you."

"Yes," said Hilda, dreamily.

"If this man is in your way he can be removed, as others have been removed," said Gualtier, in a low voice. "Some of them have been removed by means of my assistance. Is this man in your way? Is he? Shall I help you? For when he goes away again I can become his valet. I can engage myself, bring good recommendations, and find employment from him, which will bring me into close contact. Then, if you find him in your way, I can remove the obstacle."

Hilda's eyes blazed with a lurid light. She looked at Gualtier like a wrathful demon. The words which she spoke came hissing out, hot and fierce:

"Curse you! You do not know what you are saying. I would rather lose a thousand such as you than lose him! I would rather die myself than have one hair of his head injured!"

Gualtier looked at her, transfixed with amazement. Then his head sank down. These words crushed him.

"Can I ever hope for forgiveness?" he faltered at last. "I misunderstood you. I am your slave. I—I only wished to serve you."

Hilda waved her hand.

"You do not understand," said she, as she rose. "Some day you will understand all."

"Then I will wait," said Gualtier, humbly. "I have waited for years. I can still wait. I only live for you. Forgive me."

Hilda looked away, and Gualtier sat, looking thoughtfully and sadly at her.

"There is one thing," said he, "which you were fortunate to think of. You guarded against a danger which I did not anticipate."

"Ah!" said Hilda, roused by the mention of danger. "What is that?"

"The discovery of so humble a person as myself. Thanks to you, my assumed name has saved me. But at the same time it led to an embarrassing position, from which I only escaped by my own wit."

"What do you allude to?" asked Hilda, with languid curiosity.

"Oh, it's the doctor. You know he has been attending Mrs. Hart. Well, some time ago, before I left for London, he met me, and talked about things in general. Whenever he meets me he likes to get up a conversation, and I generally avoid him; but this time I couldn't. After a time, with a great appearance of concern, he said:



"'I am sorry to hear, Mr. Gualtier, that you are about to be superseded.'

"'Superseded!' said I. 'What do you mean?'

"'I hear from some gossip of the servants that there is a new steward.'

'"A new steward! This is the first that I have heard of it,' said I. 'I am the only steward here.'

"'This one,' said he, 'is—a—Mr. M'Kenzie.'

"'M'Kenzie!' said I, instantaneously—

'M'Kenzie!' And I laughed. 'Why, I am Mr. M'Kenzie.'

"'You!' said he, in utter amazement. 'Isn't your name Gualtier?'

"'Oh no,' said I; 'that is a name which I adopted, when a music-teacher, for professional purposes. Foreign names are always liked better than native ones. My real name is M'Kenzie. The late Earl knew all about it, and so does Lady Chetwynde.'

"The doctor looked a little puzzled, but at last accepted my explanation and went off. Still I don't like the look of the thing."

"No," said Hilda, who had listened with no great interest, "it's not pleasant. But, after all, there was no danger even if he had thought you an impostor."

"Pardon me, my lady; but doctors are great gossips, and can send a story like this flying through the county. He may do so yet."

At another time Hilda would have taken more interest in this narration, but now she seemed so preoccupied that her usual vigilance had left her. Gualtier noticed this, but was scarcely surprised. It was only a fresh proof of her infatuation.

So after a few moments of silent thoughtfulness he left the room.



CHAPTER XLIV.

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.

On the day after Gualtier's interview with Hilda, Lord Chetwynde was still in London, occupied with the business which had brought him there. It was between ten and eleven in the morning, and he was walking down Piccadilly on his way to the City, where he had an appointment with his solicitors. He was very much preoccupied, and scarcely noticed any thing around him. Walking on in this mood he felt his arm seized by some one who had come up behind him, and a voice exclaimed:

"Windham! by all that's great! How are you, old fellow?" and before he had time to recover from his surprise his hand was seized, appropriated, and nearly wrung off by Obed Chute.

To meet Obed Chute thus in London was certainly strange, yet not so very much so, after all. London is vast, multitudinous, enormous—a nation rather than a city, as De Quincey well remarks—a place where one may hide and never be discovered; yet after all there are certain streets where strangers are most frequent, and that two strangers should meet one another here in one of these few thoroughfares is more common than one would suppose. After the first surprise at such a sudden greeting Windham felt it to be a very natural thing for Obed Chute to be in London, and evinced as much pleasure at meeting him as was shown by the other.

"Have you been here ever since your return to England?" he asked.

"Oh no," said Windham, "I've only been here a short time, and I have to leave this afternoon."

"I'm sorry for that; I should like to see you—but I suppose it can't be helped; and then I must go back immediately."

"Ah! You are on your way to America, then?"

"America! Oh no. I mean—go back to Italy."

"Italy?"

"Yes; we're all there yet."

"I hope Miss Chute and your family are all well?" said Lord Chetwynde, politely.

"Never better," said Obed.

"Where are you staying now?"

"In Naples."

"It's a very pleasant place."

"Too pleasant to leave."

"By-the-way," said Lord Chetwynde, after a pause, and speaking with assumed indifference, "were you ever able to find out any thing about—Miss Lorton?"

His indifference was but poorly carried out. At the mention of that name he stammered, and then stopped short.

But Obed did not notice any peculiarity.

He answered, quickly and earnestly:

"It's that very thing, Windham, that has brought me here. I've left her in Naples."

"What?" cried Lord Chetwynde, eagerly; "she is with you yet, then?"

"Yes."

"In Naples?"

"Yes—with my family. Poor little thing! Windham, I have a story to tell about her that will make your heart bleed, if you have the heart of a man."

"My God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion; "what is it? Has any thing new happened?"

"Yes, something new—something worse than before."

"But she—she is alive—is she not—she is well—she—"

"Thank God, yes," said Obed, not noticing the intense emotion of the other; "yes—she has suffered, poor little girl, but she is getting over it—and one day I hope she may find some kind of comfort. But at present, and for some time to come, I'm afraid that any thing like happiness or peace or comfort will be impossible for her."

"Is she very sad?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in a voice which was tremulous from suppressed agitation.

"The poor child bears up wonderfully, and struggles hard to make us think that she is cheerful; but any one who watches her can easily see that she has some deep-seated grief, which, in spite of all our care, may even yet wear away her young life. Windham, I've heard of cases of a broken heart. I think I once in my life saw a case of that kind, and I'm afraid that this case will—will come at last to be classed in that list."

Lord Chetwynde said nothing. He had nothing to say—he had nothing to do. His face in the few moments of this conversation had grown, ghastly white, his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and an expression of intense pain spread over his features. He walked along by Obed Chute's side with the uncertain step of one who walks in a dream.

Obed said nothing for some time. His own thoughts were reverting to that young girl whom he had left in Naples buried under a mountain of woe. Could he ever draw her forth from that overwhelming grief which pressed her down? They went on together through several streets without any particular intention, each one occupied with his own thoughts, until at last they found themselves at St. James's Park. Here they entered, and walked along one of the chief avenues.

"You remember, Windham," said Obed at last—"of course you have not forgotten the story which Miss Lorton told about her betrayal."

Lord Chetwynde bowed, without trusting himself to speak.

"And you remember the villain's name, too, of course."

"Yes—Gualtier," said Lord Chetwynde.

"I put the case in the hands of the Marseilles police, and you know that up to the time when we left nothing had been done. Nothing has been done since of any consequence. On my way here I stopped at Marseilles, and found that the police had been completely baffled, and had found no trace whatever either of Gualtier or of the maid Mathilde. When I arrived at Marseilles I found that the police there had been on the look-out for that man for seven weeks, but in spite of the most minute inquiry, and the most vigilant watchfulness, they had seen no sign of any such person. The conclusion that I have come to is that he never went to Naples—at least not after his crime. Nor, on the other hand, is it likely that he remained in France. The only thing that I can think of is that both he and the maid Mathilde went back to England."

"There is Germany," said Lord Chetwynde, who had not lost a word, "or the other states of Italy. Florence is a pleasant place to go to. Above all, there is America—the common land of refuge to all who have to fly from the Old World."

"Yes, all that is true—very true. It may be so; but I have an idea that the man may still be in England, and I have some hope of getting on his track now. But this is not the immediate purpose of my coming. That was caused by a discovery of new features in this dark case, which show a deliberate plan on the part of Gualtier and others to destroy Miss Lorton so as to get her money."

"Have you found out any thing else? Has any fresh calamity fallen upon that innocent head?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in breathless anxiety. "At any rate, it can not be so bad as what she has already suffered."

"In one sense it is not so bad, but in another sense it is worse."

"How?"

"Why, it is not so bad, for it only concerns the loss of money; but then, again, it is far worse, for"—and Obed's voice dropped low—"for it shows her that there is an accomplice of Gualtier's, who has joined with him in this crime, and been a principal in it, and this accomplice is—her sister!"

"Great God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, aghast. "Her sister?"

"Her sister," said Obed, who did not, as yet, think it necessary to tell what Zillah had revealed to him in confidence about their not being sisters.

Lord Chetwynde seemed overwhelmed.

Obed then began and detailed to him every circumstance of the affair of the draft, to all of which the other listened with rapt attention. A long discussion followed this revelation. Lord Chetwynde could not help seeing that Miss Lorton had been betrayed by her sister as well as by Gualtier, and felt painfully affected by the coldblooded cruelty with which the abstraction of the money was managed. To him this "Ella Lorton" seemed wronged as no one had ever been wronged before, and his heart burned to assist Obed Chute in his work of vengeance.

He said as much. "But I fear," he added, "that there is not much chance. At any rate, it will be a work of years; and long before then, in fact, before many weeks, I expect to be on my way back to India. As to this wretched, this guilty pair, it is my opinion that they have fled to America. Hilda Lorton can not be old in crime, and her first instinct would be to fly from England. If you ever find those wretches, it will be there."

"I dare say you are right," said Obed. "But," he added, in tones of grim determination, "if it takes years to find this out, I am ready. I am willing to spend years in the search. The police of Italy and of France are already on the track of this affair. It is my intention to direct the London police to the same game, and on my way back I'll give notice at Berlin and Vienna, so as to set the Prussian and Austrian authorities to work. If all these combined can't do any thing, then I'll begin to think that these devils are not in Europe. If they are in America, I know a dozen New York detectives that can do something in the way of finding out even more artful scoundrels than these. For my own part, if, after ten years of incessant labor, any light is thrown on this, I shall be fully rewarded. I'd spend twice the time if I had it for her, the poor little thing!"

Obed spoke like a tender, pitying father, and his tones vibrated to the heart of Lord Chetwynde.

For a time he was the subject of a mighty struggle. The deepest feelings of his nature were all concerned here. Might he not now make this the object of his life—to give up every thing, and search out these infernal criminals, and avenge that fair girl whose image had been fixed so deeply on his heart? But, then, he feared this task. Already she had chained him to Marseilles, and still he looked back with anguish upon the horror of that last parting with her. All his nature yearned and longed to feel once more the sunshine of her presence; but, on account of the very intensity of that longing, the dictates of honor and duty bade him resist the impulse. The very tenderness of his love—its all-consuming ardor—those very things which impelled him to espouse her cause and fight her battles and win her gratitude, at the very same time held him back and bade him avoid her, and tear her image from his heart. For who was he, and what was he, that he should yield to this overmastering spell which had been thrown over him by the witchery of this young girl? Had he not his wife? Was she not at Chetwynde Castle? That odious wife, forced on him in his boyhood, long since grown abhorrent, and now standing up, an impassable barrier between him and the dearest longings of his heart. So he crushed down desire; and, while assenting to Obed's plans, made no proposal to assist him in any way in their accomplishment.

At the end of about two hours Obed announced his intentions at present. He had come first and more especially to see Messrs. Tilton and Browne, with a hope that he might be able to trace the affair back far enough to reach Hilda Lorton; and secondly, to set the London police to work.

"Will you make any stay?" asked Lord Chetwynde.

"No, not more than I can help. I can find out soon whether my designs are practicable or not. If they can not be immediately followed out, I will leave it to the police, who can do far better than me, and go back to Naples. Miss Lorton is better there, and I feel like traveling about Italy till she has recovered. I see that the country is better for her than all the doctors and medicines in the world. A sail round Naples Bay may rouse her from the deepest melancholy. She has set her heart on visiting Rome and Florence. So I must go back to my little girl, you see."

"Those names," said Lord Chetwynde, calmly, and without exhibiting any signs of the emotion which the allusion to that "little girl" caused in his heart—"those names ought certainly to be traceable—'Hilda Lorton,' 'Ella Lorton.' The names are neither vulgar nor common. A properly organized effort ought to result in some discovery. 'Hilda Lorton,' 'Ella Lorton,'" he repeated, "'Hilda,' 'Ella'—not very common names—' Hilda,' 'Ella.'"

He repeated these names thus over and over, but the names gave no hint to the speaker of the dark, deep mystery which lay beneath.

As for Obed, he knew that Hilda was not Hilda Lorton, and that a search after any one by that name would be useless. Zillah had told him that she was not her sister. At length the two friends separated, Lord Chetwynde saying that he would remain in London till the following day, and call on Obed at his hotel that evening to learn the result of his labors. With this each went about his own business; but into the mind of Lord Chetwynde there came a fresh anxiety, which made him have vague desires of flying away forever—off to India, to Australia—any where from the power of his overmastering, his hopeless love. And amidst all this there came a deep longing to go to Italy—to Naples, to give up every thing—to go back with Obed Chute. It needed all the strength of his nature to resist this impulse, and even when it was overcome it was only for a time. His business that day was neglected, and he waited impatiently for the evening.

Evening came at last, and Lord Chetwynde went to Obed's hotel. He found his friend there, looking somewhat dejected.

"I suppose you have accomplished nothing," he said. "I see it in your face."

"You're about right," said Obed. "I'm going back to Naples to-morrow."

"You've failed utterly, then?"

"Yes, in all that I hoped. But still I have done what I could to put things on the right track."

"What have you done?"

"Well, I went first to Tilton and Browne. One of my own London agents accompanied me there, and Introduced me. They were at once very eager to do all that they could for me. But I soon found out that nothing could be done. That girl—Windham—that girl,'' repeated Obed, with solemn emphasis, "is a little the deepest party that it's ever been my lot to come across. How any one brought up with my little girl" (this was the name that Obed loved to give to Zillah) "could develop such superhuman villainy, and such cool, calculating, far-reaching craft, is more than I can understand. She knocks me, I confess. But, then, the plan may all be the work of Gualtier."

"Why, what new thing have you found out?"

"Oh, nothing exactly new; only this, that the deposit of Miss Lorton's funds and the withdrawal, which were all done by her in Miss Lorton's name and person, were managed so cleverly that there is not the slightest ghost of a clew by which either she or the money can be traced. She drew the funds from one banker and deposited them with another. I thought I should be able to find out the banker from whom they were drawn, but it is impossible. Before I came here I had written to Tilton and Browne, and they had made inquiries from all the London bankers, but not one of them had any acquaintance whatever with that name. It must have been some provincial bank, but which one can not be known. The funds which she deposited were in Bank of England notes, and these, as well as the consols, gave no indication of their last place of deposit. It was cleverly managed, and I think the actors in this affair understand too well their business to leave a single mark on their trail. The account had only been with Tilton and Browne for a short time, and they could not give me the slightest assistance. And so I failed there completely.

"I then went to the police, and stated my case. The prefect at Marseilles had already been in communication with them about it. They had made inquiries at all the schools and seminaries, had searched the directories, and every thing else of that kind, but could find no music-teacher mentioned by the name of Gualtier. They took it for granted that the name was an assumed one. They had also investigated the name 'Lorton,' and had found one or two old county families; but these knew nothing of the young ladies in question. They promised to continue their search, and communicate to me any thing that might be discovered. There the matter rests now, and there I suppose it must rest until something is done by somebody. When I have started the Austrian and Prussian police on the same scent I will feel that nothing more can be done in Europe. I suppose it is no use to go to Spain or Russia or Turkey. By-the-way, there is Belgium. I mustn't forget that."

It was only by the strongest effort that Lord Chetwynde was able to conceal the intensity of his interest in Obed's revelations. All that day his own business had been utterly forgotten, and all his thoughts had been occupied with Zillah and her mysterious sorrows. When he left Marseilles he had sought to throw away all concern for her affairs, and devote himself to the Chetwynde business. But Obed's appearance had brought back before him in fresh strength Gualtier also was not unmindful of this. On the day of his arrival he had learned that Mrs. Hart was recovering and might soon be well. He understood perfectly all that was involved in her recovery, and the danger that might attend upon it. For Mrs. Hart would at once recognize Hilda, and ask after Zillah. There was now no chance to do any thing. Lord Chetwynde watched over her as a son might watch over a mother. These two thus stood before him as a standing menace, an ever-threatening danger in that path from which other dangers had been removed at such a hazard and at such a cost. What could he do? Nothing. It was for Hilda to act in this emergency. He himself was powerless. He feared also that Hilda herself did not realize the full extent of her danger. He saw how abstracted she had become, and how she was engrossed by this new and unlooked for feeling which had taken full possession of her heart. One thing alone was possible to him, and that was to warn Hilda. Perhaps she knew the danger, and was indifferent to it; perhaps she was not at all aware of it; in any case, a timely warning could not possibly do any harm, and might do a great deal of good. Under these circumstances he wrote a few words, which he contrived to place in her hands on the morning when Lord Chetwynde arrived. The words were these:

"Mrs. Hart is recovering, and the doctor hopes that she will soon be entirely well."

Hilda read these words gloomily, but nothing could be done except what she had already decided to do. She burned the note, and returned to her usual meditations. The arrival of Lord Chetwynde soon drove every thing else out of her mind, and she waited eagerly for the time for dinner, when she might see him, hear his voice, and feast her eyes upon his face.

On descending into the dining-room she found Lord Chetwynde already there. Without a thought of former slights, but following only the instincts of her own heart, which in its ardent passion was now filled with joy at the sight of him, she advanced toward him with extended hand. She did not say a word. She could not speak. Her emotion overpowered her. She could only extend her hand and look up into his face imploringly.

Lord Chetwynde stood before her, cold, reserved, with a lofty hauteur on his brow, and a coldness in his face which might have repelled any one less impassioned. But Hilda was desperate. She had resolved to make this last trial, and stake every thing upon this. Regardless, therefore, of the repellent expression of his face, and the coldness which was manifested in every lineament, she determined to force a greeting from him. It was with this resolve that she held out her hand and advanced toward him.

But Lord Chetwynde stood unmoved. His hands hung down. He looked at her calmly, yet coldly, without anger, yet without feeling of any kind. As she approached he bowed.

"You will not even shake hands with me?" faltered Hilda, in a stammering voice.

"Of what avail would that be?" said Lord Chetwynde. "You and I are forever separate. We must stand apart forever. Why pretend to a friendship which does not exist? I am not your friend, Lady Chetwynde."

Hilda was silent. Her hand fell by her side. She shrank back into herself. Her disappointment deepened into sadness unutterable, a sadness that was too profound for anger, a sadness beyond words. So the dinner passed on. Lord Chetwynde was calm, stern, fixed in his feelings and in his purpose. Hilda was despairing, and voiceless in that despair. For the first time she began to feel that all was lost.



CHAPTER XLVI.

THE TABLES TURNED.

Lord Chetwynde had the satisfaction of seeing that Mrs. Hart recovered steadily. Day after day she improved, and at length became conscious of surrounding objects. After having gained consciousness her recovery became more rapid, and she was at length strong enough for him to visit her. The housekeeper prepared her for the visit, so that the shock might not be too great. To her surprise she found that the idea of his presence in the same house had a better effect on her than all the medicines which she had taken, and all the care which she had received. She said not a word, but lay quiet with a smile upon her face, as one who is awaiting the arrival of some sure and certain bliss. It was this expression which was on her face when Lord Chetwynde entered. She lay back with her face turned toward the door, and with all that wistful yet happy expectancy which has been mentioned. He walked up to her, took her thin, emaciated hands in his, and kissed her pale forehead.

"My own dear old nurse," he said, "how glad I am to find you so much better!"

Tears came to Mrs. Hart's eyes. "My boy!" she cried—"my dearest boy, the sight of you gives me life!" Sobs choked her utterance. She lay there clasping his hand in both of hers, and wept.

Mrs. Hart had already learned from the housekeeper that she had been ill for many months, and her own memory, as it gradually rallied from the shock and collected its scattered energies, brought back before her the cause of her illness. Had her recovery taken place at any other time, her grief might have caused a relapse but now she learned that Lord Chetwynde was here watching over her—"her boy," "her darling," "her Guy"—and this was enough to counterbalance the grief which she might have felt. So now she lay holding his hand in hers, gazing up into his face with an expression of blissful contentment and of perfect peace; feeding all her soul in that gaze, drawing from him new strength at every glance, and murmuring words of fondest love and endearment. As he sat there the sternness of Lord Chetwynde's features relaxed, the eyes softened into love and pity, the hard lines about the month died away. He seemed to feel himself a boy again, as he once more held that hand which had guided his boyhood's years.

He staid there for hours. Mrs. Hart would not let him go, and he did not care to do violence to her affections by tearing himself away. She seemed to cling to him as though he were the only living being on whom her affections were fixed. He took to himself all the love of this poor, weak, fond creature, and felt a strange pleasure in it. She on her part seemed to acquire new strength from his presence.

"I'm afraid, my dear nurse," said he, "that I am fatiguing you. I will leave you now and come back again."

"No, no," said Mrs. Hart, earnestly; "do not leave me. You will leave me soon enough. Do not desert me now, my own boy—my sweet child—stay by me."

"But all this fatigues you."

"No, my dearest—it gives me new strength—such strength as I have not known for a long time. If you leave me I shall sink back again into weakness. Do not forsake me."

So Lord Chetwynde staid, and Mrs. Hart made him tell her all about what he had been doing during the years of his absence. Hours passed away in this conversation. And he saw, and wondered as he saw it, that Mrs. Hart grew stronger every moment. It seemed as if his presence brought to her life and joy and strength; He laughingly mentioned this.

"Yes, my dearest," said Mrs. Hart, "you are right. You bring me new life. You come to me like some strong angel, and bid me live. I dare say I have something to live for, though what it is I can not tell. Since he has gone I do not see what there is for me to do, or why it should be that I should linger on in life, unless it may be for you."

"For me—yes, my dear nurse," said Lord Chetwynde, fondly kissing her pale brow—"yes, it must be for me. Live, then, for me."

"You have others who love you and live for you," said Mrs. Hart, mournfully. "You don't need your poor old nurse now."

Lord Chetwynde shook his head.

"No others can supply your place," said he. "You will always be my own dear old nurse."

Mrs. Hart looked up with a smile of ecstasy.

"I am going away," said Lord Chetwynde, after some further conversation, "in a few days, and I do not know when I will be back, but I want you, for my sake, to try and be cheerful, so as to get well as soon as possible."

"Going away!" gasped Mrs. Hart, in strong surprise. "Where to?"

"To Italy. To Florence," said Lord Chetwynde.

"To Florence?"

"Yes."

"Why do you leave Chetwynde?"

"I have some business," said he, "of a most important kind; so important that I must leave every thing and go away."

"Is your wife going with you?"

"No—she will remain here," said Lord Chetwynde, dryly.

Mrs. Hart could not help noticing the very peculiar tone in which he spoke of his wife.

"She will be lonely without you," said she.

"Well—business must be attended to, and this is of vital importance," was Lord Chetwynde's answer.

Mrs. Hart was silent for a long time.

"Do you expect ever to come back?" she asked at last.

"I hope so."

"But you do not know so?"

"I should be sorry to give up Chetwynde forever," said he.

"Is there any danger of that?"

"Yes. I am thinking of it. The affairs of the estate are of such a nature that I may be compelled to sacrifice even Chetwynde. You know that for three generations this prospect has been before us."

"But I thought that danger was averted by your marriage?" said Mrs. Hart, in a low voice.

"It was averted for my father's lifetime, but now it remains for me to do justice to those who were wronged by that arrangement; and justice shall be done, even if Chetwynde has to be sacrificed."

"I understand," said Mrs. Hart, in a quiet, thoughtful tone—"and you are going to Florence?"

"Yes, in a few days. But you will be left in the care of those who love you."

"Lady Chetwynde used to love me," said Mrs. Hart; "and I loved her."

"I am glad to know that—more so than I can say."

"She was always tender and loving and true. Your father loved her like a daughter."

"So I have understood."

"You speak coldly."

"Do I? I was not aware of it. No doubt her care will be as much at your service as ever, and when I come back again I shall find you in a green old age—won't I? Say I shall, my dear old nurse."

Tears stood in Mrs. Hart's eyes. She gazed wistfully at him, but said nothing.

A few more interviews took place between these two, and in a short time Lord Chetwynde bade her an affectionate farewell, and left the place once more.

On the morning after his departure Hilda was in the morning-room waiting for Gualtier, whom she had summoned. Although she knew that Lord Chetwynde was going away, yet his departure seemed sudden, and took her by surprise. He went away without any notice, just as he had done before, but somehow she had expected some formal announcement of his intention, and, because he had gone away without a word, she began to feel aggrieved and injured. Out of this there grew before her the memory of all Lord Chetwynde's coolness toward her, of the slights and insults to which he had subjected her, of the abhorrence which he had manifested toward her. She felt that she was despised. It was as though she had been foully wronged. To all these this last act was added. He had gone away without a word or a sign—where, she knew not—why, she could not tell. It was his abhorrence for her that had driven him away—this was evident.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." And this woman, who found herself doubly and trebly scorned, lashed herself into a fury of indignation. In this new-found fury she found the first relief which she had known from the torments of unrequited passion, from the longing and the craving and the yearning of her hot and fervid nature. Into this new fit of indignation she flung herself with complete abandonment. Since he scorned her, he should suffer—this was her feeling. Since he refused her love, he should feel her vengeance. He should know that she might be hated, but she was not one who could be despised. For every slight which he had heaped upon her he should pay with his heart's blood. Under the pangs of this new disappointment she writhed and groaned in her anguish, and all the tumults of feeling which she had endured ever since she saw him now seemed to congregate and gather themselves up into one outburst of furious and implacable vengefulness. Her heart beat hot and fast in her fierce excitement. Her face was pale, but the hectic flush on either cheek told of the fires within; and the nervous agitation of her manner, her clenched hands, and heaving breast, showed that the last remnant of self-control was forgotten and swept away in this furious rush of passion. It was in such a mood as this that Gualtier found her as he entered the morning-room to which she had summoned him.

Hilda at first did not seem to see him, or at any rate did not notice him. She was sitting as before in a deep arm-chair, in the depths of which her slender figure seemed lost. Her hands were clutched together. Her face was turned toward that portrait over the fire-place, which represented Lord Chetwynde in his early youth. Upon that face, usually so like a mask, so impassive, and so unapt to express the feelings that existed within, there was now visibly expressed an array of contending emotions. She had thrown away or lost her self-restraint; those feelings raged and expressed themselves uncontrolled, and Gualtier for the first time saw her off her guard. He entered with his usual stealthy tread, and watched her for some time as she sat looking at the picture. He read in her face the emotions which were expressed there. He saw disappointment, rage, fury, love, vengeance, pride, and desire all contending together. He learned for the first time that this woman whom he had believed to be cold as an icicle was as hot-hearted as a volcano; that she was fervid, impulsive, vehement, passionate, intense in love and in hate. As he learned this he felt his soul sink within him as he thought that it was not reserved for him, but for another, to call forth all the fiery vehemence of that stormy nature.

She saw him at last, as with a passionate gesture she tore her eyes away from the portrait, which seemed to fascinate her. The sight of Gualtier at once restored her outward calm. She was herself once more. She waved her hand loftily to a seat, and the very fact that she had made this exhibition of feeling before him seemed to harden that proud manner which she usually displayed toward him.

"I have sent for you," said she, in calm, measured tones, "for an important purpose. You remember the last journey on which I sent you?"

"Yes, my lady."

"You did that well. I have another one on which I wish you to go. It refers to the same person."

"Lord Chetwynde?"

Hilda bowed.

"I am ready," said Gualtier.

"He left this morning, and I don't know where he has gone, but I wish you to go after him."

"I know where he intended to go."

"How? Where?"

"Some of the servants overheard him speaking to Mrs. Hart about going to Italy."

"Italy!"

"Yes. I can come up with him somewhere, if you wish it, and get on his track. But what is it that you wish me to do?"

"In the first place, to follow him up."

"How—at a distance—or near him? That is to say, shall I travel in disguise, or shall I get employ near his person? I can be a valet, or a courier, or any thing else."

"Any thing. This must be left to you. I care not for details. The grand result is what I look to."

"And what is the grand result?"

"Something which you yourself once proposed," said Hilda, in low, stern tones, and with deep meaning.

Gualtier's face flushed. He understood her.

"I know," said he. "He is an obstacle, and you wish this obstacle removed."

"Yes."

"You understand me exactly, my lady, do you?" asked Gualtier, earnestly. "You wish it removed—just as other obstacles have been removed. You wish never to see him again. You wish to be your own mistress henceforth—and always."

"You have stated exactly what I mean," said Hilda, in icy tones.

Gualtier was silent for some time.

"Lady Chetwynde," said he at length, in a tone which was strikingly different from that with which for years he had addressed her—"Lady Chetwynde, I wish you to observe that this task upon which you now send me is far different from any of the former ones which I have undertaken at your bidding. I have always set out without a word—like one of those Haschishim of whom you have read, when he received the mandate of the Sheik of the mountains. But the nature of this errand is such that I may never see you again. The task is a perilous one. The man against whom I am sent is a man of singular acuteness, profound judgment, dauntless courage, and remorseless in his vengeance. His acuteness may possibly enable him to see through me, and frustrate my plan before it is fairly begun. What then? For me, at least, there will be nothing but destruction. It is, therefore, as if I now were standing face to face with death, and so I crave the liberty of saying something to you this time, and not departing in silence."

Gualtier spoke with earnestness, with dignity, yet with perfect respect. There was that in his tone and manner which gave indications of a far higher nature than any for which Hilda had ever yet given him credit. His words struck her strangely. They were not insubordinate, for he announced his intention to obey her; they were not disrespectful, for his manner was full of his old reverence; but they seemed like an assertion of something like manhood, and like a blow against that undisputed ascendency which she had so long maintained over him. In spite of her preoccupation, and her tempestuous passion, she was forced to listen, and she listened with a vague surprise, looking at him with a cold stare.

"You seem to me," said she, "to speak as though you were unwilling to go—or afraid."

"Pardon me, Lady Chetwynde," said Gualtier, "you can not think that. I have said that I would go, but that, as I may never see you again, I wish to say something. I wish, in fact, now, after all these years, to have a final understanding with you."

"Well?" said Hilda.

"I need not remind you of the past," said Gualtier, "or of my blind obedience to all your mandates. Two events at least stand out conspicuously. I have assisted you to the best of my power. Why I did so must be evident to you. You know very well that it was no sordid motive on my part, no hate toward others, no desire for vengeance, but something far different—something which has animated me for years, so that it was enough that you gave a command for me to obey. For years I have been thus at your call like a slave, and now, after all these years—now, that I depart on my last and most perilous mission, and am speaking to you words which may possibly be the last that you will ever hear from me—I wish to implore you, to beseech you, to promise me that reward which you must know I have always looked forward to, and which can be the only possible recompense to one like me for services like mine."

He stopped and looked imploringly at her.

"And what is that?" asked Hilda, mechanically, as though she did not fully understand him.

"Yourself," said Gualtier, in a low, earnest voice, with all his soul in the glance which he threw upon her.

The moment that he said the word Hilda started back with a gesture of impatience and contempt, and regarded him with an expression of anger and indignation, and with a frown so black that it seemed as if she would have blasted him with her look had she been able. Gualtier, however, did not shrink from her fierce glance. His eyes were no longer lowered before hers. He regarded her fixedly, calmly, yet respectfully, with his head erect, and no trace of his old unreasoning submission in his face and manner. Surprised as Hilda had evidently been at his words, she seemed no less surprised at his changed demeanor. It was the first time in her life that she had seen in him any revelation of manhood; and that view opened up to her very unpleasant possibilities.

"This is not a time," she said at length, in a sharp voice, "for such nonsense as this."

"I beg your pardon, Lady Chetwynde," said Gualtier, firmly, "I think that this and no other is the time. Whether it be 'nonsense' or not need not be debated. It is any thing but nonsense to me. All my past life seems to sweep up to this moment, and now is the crisis of my fate. All my future depends upon it, whether for weal or woe. Lady Chetwynde, do not call it nonsense—do not underrate its importance. Do not, I implore you, underrate me. Thus far you have tacitly assumed that I am a feeble and almost imbecile character. It is true that my abject devotion to you has forced me to give a blind obedience to all your wishes. But mark this well, Lady Chetwynde, such obedience itself involved some of the highest qualities of manhood. Something like courage and fortitude and daring was necessary to carry out those plans of yours which I so willingly undertook. I do not wish to speak of myself, however. I only wish to show you that I am in earnest, and that though you may treat this occasion with levity, I can not. All my life, Lady Chetwynde, hangs on your answer to my question."

Gualtier's manner was most vehement, and indicative of the strongest emotion, but the tones of his voice were low and only audible to Hilda. Low as the voice was, however, it still none the less exhibited the intensity of the passion that was in his soul.

Hilda, on the contrary, evinced a stronger rage at every word which he uttered. The baleful light of her dark eyes grew more fiery in its concentrated anger and scorn.

"It seems to me," said she, in her most contemptuous tone, "that you engage to do my will only on certain conditions; and that you are taking advantage of my necessities in order to drive a bargain."

"You are right, Lady Chetwynde," said Gualtier, calmly. "I am trying to drive a bargain; but remember it is not for money—it is for yourself."

"And I," said Hilda, with unchanged scorn, "will never submit to such coercion. When you dare to dictate to me, you mistake my character utterly. What I have to give I will give freely. My gifts shall never be extorted from me, even though my life should depend upon my compliance or refusal. The tone which you have chosen to adopt toward me is scarcely one that will make me swerve from my purpose, or alter any decision which I may have made. You have deceived yourself. You seem to suppose that you are indispensable to me, and that this is the time when you can force upon me any conditions you choose. As far as that is concerned, let me tell you plainly that you may do what you choose, and either go on this errand or stay. In any case, by no possibility, will I make any promise whatever."

This Hilda said quickly, and in her usual scorn. She thought that such indifference might bring Gualtier to terms, and make him decide to obey her without extorting this promise. For a moment she thought that she had succeeded. At her words a change came over Gualtier's face. He looked humbled and sad. As she ceased, he turned his eyes imploringly to her, and said:

"Lady Chetwynde, do not say that. I entreat you to give me this promise."

"I will not!" said Hilda, sharply.

"Once more I entreat you," said Gualtier, more earnestly.

"Once more I refuse," said Hilda. "Go and do this thing first, and then come and ask me."

"Will you then promise me?"

"I will tell you nothing now."

"Lady Chetwynde, for the last time I implore you to give me some ground for hope at least. Tell me—if this thing be accomplished, will you give me what I want?"

"I will make no engagement whatever," said Hilda, coldly.

Gualtier at this seemed to raise himself at once above his dejection, his humility, and his prayerful attitude, to a new and stronger assertion of himself.

"Very well," said he, gravely and sternly. "Now listen to me, Lady Chetwynde. I will no longer entreat—I insist that you give me this promise."

"Insist!"

Nothing can describe the scorn and contempt of Hilda's tone as she uttered this word.

"I repeat it," said Gualtier, calmly, and with deeper emphasis. "I insist that you give me your promise."

"My friend," said Hilda, contemptuously, "you do not seem to understand our positions. This seems to me like impertinence, and, unless you make an apology, I shall be under the very unpleasant necessity of obtaining a new steward."

As Hilda said this she turned paler than ever with suppressed rage.

Gualtier smiled scornfully.

"It seems to me," said he, "that you are the one who does not, or will not, understand our respective positions. You will not dismiss me from the stewardship, Lady Chetwynde, for you will be too sensible for that. You will retain me in that dignified office, for you know that I am indispensable to you, though you seemed to deny it a moment since. You have not forgotten the relations which we bear to one another. There are certain memories which rise between us two which will never escape the recollection of either of us till the latest moment of our lives; some of these are associated with the General, some with the Earl, and some—with Zillah!"

He stopped, as though the mention of that last name had overpowered him. As for Hilda, the pallor of her face grew deeper, and she trembled with mingled agitation and rage.

"Go!" said she. "Go! and let me never see your face again!"

"No," said Gualtier, "I will not go till I choose. As to seeing my face again, the wish is easier said than gained. No, Lady Chetwynde. You are in my power! You know it. I tell it to you here, and nothing can save you from me if I turn against you. You have never understood me, for you have never taken the trouble to do so. You have shown but little mercy toward me. When I have come home from serving you—you know how—hungering and thirsting for some slight act of appreciation, some token of thankfulness, you have always repelled me, and denied what I dared not request. Had you but given me the kind attention which a master gives to a dog, I would have followed you like a dog to the world's end, and died for you—like a dog, too," he added, in an under-tone. "But you have used me as a stepping-stone; thinking that, like such, I could be spurned aside when you were done with me. You have not thought that I am not a stone or a block, but a man, with a man's heart within me. And it is now as a man that I speak to you, because you force me to it. I tell you this, that you are in my power, and you must be mine!"

"Are you a madman?" cried Hilda, overwhelmed with amazement at this outburst. "Have you lost your senses? Fool! If you mean what you say, I defy you! Go, and use your power! I in the power of such as you?—Never!"

Her brows contracted as she spoke, and from beneath her black eyes seemed to shoot baleful fires of hate and rage unutterable. The full intensity of her nature was aroused, and the expression of her face was terrible in its fury and malignancy. But Gualtier did not recoil. On the contrary, he feasted his eyes on her, and a smile came to his features.

"You are beautiful!" said he. "You have a demon beauty that is overpowering. Oh, beautiful fiend! You can not resist. You must be mine—and you shall! I never saw you so lovely. I love you best in your fits of rage."

"Fool!" cried Hilda. "This is enough. You are mad, or else drunk; in either case you shall not stay another day in Chetwynde Castle. Go! or I will order the servants to put you out."

"There will be no occasion for that," said Gualtier, coolly. "I am going to leave you this very night to join Lord Chetwynde."

"It is too late now; your valuable services are no longer needed," said Hilda, with a sneer. "You may spare yourself the trouble of such a journey. Let me know what is due you, and I will pay it."

"You will pay me only one thing, and that is yourself," said Gualtier. "If you do not choose to pay that price you must take the consequences. I am going to join Lord Chetwynde, whether you wish me to or not. But, remember this!"—and Gualtier's voice grew menacing in its intonations—"remember this; it depends upon you in what capacity I am to join him. You are the one who must say whether I shall go to him as his enemy or his friend. If I go as his enemy, you know what will happen; if I go as his friend, it is you who must fall. Now, Lady Chetwynde, do you understand me?"

As Gualtier said this there was a deep meaning in his words which Hilda could not fail to understand, and there was at the same time such firmness and solemn decision that she felt that he would certainly do as he said. She saw at once the peril that lay before her. An alternative was offered: the one was, to come to terms with him; the other, to accept utter and hopeless ruin. That ruin, too, which he menaced was no common one. It was one which placed her under the grasp of the law, and from which no foreign land could shelter her. All her prospects, her plans, her hopes, were in that instant dashed away from before her; and she realized now, to the fullest extent, the frightful truth that she was indeed completely in the power of this man. The discovery of this acted on her like a shock, which sobered her and drove away her passion.

She said nothing in reply, but sat down in silence, and remained a long time without speaking. Gualtier, on his part, saw the effect of his last words, but he made no effort to interrupt her thoughts. He could not yet tell what she in her desperation might decide; he could only wait for her answer. He stood waiting patiently.

At last Hilda spoke:

"You've told me bitter truths—but they are truths. Unfortunately, I am in your power. If you choose to coerce me I must yield, for I am not yet ready to accept ruin."

"You promise then?"

"Since I must—I do."

"Thank you," said Gualtier; "and now you will not see me again till all is over either with him or with me."

He bowed respectfully and departed. After he had left, Hilda sat looking at the door with a face of rage and malignant fury. At length, starting to her feet, she hurried up to her room.



CHAPTER XLVII.

HILDA SEES A GULF BENEATH HER FEET.

The astonishing change in Gualtier was an overwhelming shock to Hilda. She had committed the fatal mistake of underrating him, and of putting herself completely in his power. She had counted on his being always humble and docile, always subservient and blindly obedient. She had put from her all thoughts of a possible day of reckoning. She had fostered his devotion to her so as to be used for her own ends, and now found that she had raised up a power which might sweep her away. In the first assertion of that power she had been vanquished, and compelled to make a promise which she had at first refused with the haughtiest contempt. She could only take refuge in vague plans of evading her promise, and in punishing Gualtier for what seemed to her his unparalleled audacity.

Yet, after all, bitter as the humiliation had been, it did not lessen her fervid passion for Lord Chetwynde, and the hate and the vengeance that had arisen when that passion had been condemned. After the first shock of the affair with Gualtier had passed, her madness and fury against him passed also, and her wild spirit was once again filled with the all-engrossing thought of Lord Chetwynde. Gualtier had gone off, as he said, and she was to see him no more for some time—perhaps never. He had his own plans and purposes, of the details of which Hilda knew nothing, but could only conjecture. She felt that failure on his part was not probable, and gradually, so confident was she that he would succeed, Lord Chetwynde began to seem to her not merely a doomed man, but a man who had already undergone his doom. And now another change came over her—that change which Death can make in the heart of the most implacable of men when his enemy has left life forever. From the pangs of wounded love she had sought refuge in vengeance—but the prospect of a gratified vengeance was but a poor compensation for the loss of the hope of a requited love. The tenderness of love still remained, and it struggled with the ferocity of vengeance. That love pleaded powerfully for Lord Chetwynde's life. Hope came also, to lend its assistance to the arguments of love. Would it not be better to wait—even for years—and then perhaps the fierceness of Lord Chetwynde's repugnance might be allayed? Why destroy him, and her hope, and her love, forever, and so hastily? After such thoughts as these, however, the remembrance of Lord Chetwynde's contempt was sure to return and intensify her vengeance.