GLIMPSES OF THE TRUTH.
Meanwhile, during Obed's absence, Zillah remained in the Strada
Nuova. The windows looked out upon the street and upon the bay,
commanding a view of the most glorious scenery on earth, and also of
the most exciting street spectacles which any city can offer. Full of
impatience though she was, she could not remain unaffected by that
first glimpse of Naples, which she then obtained from those windows
by which she was sitting. For what city is like Naples? Beauty, life,
laughter, gayety, all have their home here. The air itself is
intoxication. The giddy crowds that whirl along in every direction
seem to belong to a different and a more joyous race than sorrowing
humanity. For ages Naples has been "the captivating," and still she
possesses the same charm, and she will possess it for ages yet to
come.
The scene upon which Zillah gazed was one which might have brought
distraction and alleviation to cares and griefs even heavier than
hers. Never had she seen such a sight as this which she now beheld.
There before her spread away the deep blue waters of Naples Bay,
dotted by the snow-white sails of countless vessels, from the small
fishing-boat up to the giant ship of war. On that sparkling bosom of
the deep was represented almost every thing that floats, from the
light, swift, and curiously rigged lateen sloop, to the modern
mail-packet. Turning from the sea the eye might rest upon the
surrounding shores, and find there material of even deeper interest.
On the right, close by, was the projecting castle, and sweeping
beyond this the long curving beach, above which, far away, rose the
green trees of the gardens of the Villa Reale. Farther away rose the
hills on whose slope stands what is claimed to be the grave of
Virgil, whose picturesque monument, whether it be really his or not,
suggests his well-known epitaph:
"I sing flocks, tillage, heroes. Mantua gave
Me life; Brundusium death; Naples a grave."
Through those hills runs the Titanic grotto of Posilippo, which leads
to that historic land beyond--the land of the Cumaeans and Oscans;
or, still more, the land of the luxurious Romans of the empire; where
Sylla lived, and Cicero loved to retire; which Julius loved, and
Horace, and every Roman of taste or refinement. There spread away the
lake Lucrine, bordered by the Elysian Fields; there was the long
grotto through which Aeneas passed; where once the Cumaean Sibyl
dwelt and delivered her oracles. There was Misenum, where once the
Roman navy rode at anchor; Baiae, where once all Roman luxury loved
to pass the summer season; Puteoli, where St. Paul landed when on his
way to Caesar's throne. There were the waters in which Nero thought
to drown Agrippina, and over which another Roman emperor built that
colossal bridge which set at defiance the prohibition of nature.
There was the rock of Ischia, terminating the line of coast; and out
at sea, immediately in front, the isle of Capri, forever associated
with the memory of Tiberius, with his deep wiles, his treachery, and
his remorseless cruelty. There, too, on the left and nearest Capri,
were the shores of Sorrento, that earthly paradise whose trees are
always green, whose fruits always ripe; there the cave of Polyphemus
penetrates the lofty mountains, and brings back that song of Homer by
which it is immortalized. Coming nearer, the eye rested on the
winding shores of Castellamare, on vineyards and meadows and
orchards, which fill all this glorious land. Nearer yet the scene was
dominated by the stupendous form of Vesuvius, at once the glory and
the terror of all this scene, from whose summit there never ceases to
come that thin line of smoke, the symbol of possible ruin to all who
dwell within sight of it. Round it lie the buried cities, whose
charred remains have been exhumed to tell what may yet be the fate of
those other younger cities which have arisen on their ashes.
While the scene beyond was so enthralling, there was one nearer by
which was no less so. This was the street itself, with that wild,
never-ending rush of riotous, volatile, multitudinous life, which can
be equaled by no other city. There the crowd swept along on
horseback, on wheels, on foot; gentlemen riding for pleasure, or
dragoons on duty; parties driving into the country; tourists on their
way to the environs; market farmers with their rude carts;
wine-sellers; fig-dealers; peddlers of oranges, of dates, of
anisette, of water; of macaroni. Through the throng innumerable
calashes dashed to and fro, crowded down, in true Neapolitan fashion,
with inconceivable numbers; for in Naples the calash is not full
unless a score or so are in some way clinging to it--above, below,
before, behind. There, too, most marked of all, were the lazaroni,
whose very existence in Naples is a sign of the ease with which life
is sustained in so fair a spot, who are born no one knows where, who
live no one knows how, but who secure as much of the joy of life as
any other human beings; the strange result of that endless
combination of races which have come together in Naples--the Greek,
the Italian, the Norman, the Saracen, and Heaven only knows what
else.
Such scenes as these, such crowds, such life, such universal
movement, for a long time attracted Zillah's attention; and she
watched them with childish eagerness. At last, however, the novelty
was over, and she began to wonder why Obed Chute had not returned.
Looking at her watch, she found, to her amazement, that two hours had
passed since his departure. He had left at ten; it was then mid-day.
What was keeping him? She had expected him back before half an hour,
but he had not yet returned. She had thought that it needed but a
journey to the Hotel de l'Europe to find Hilda, and bring her here.
Anxiety now began to arise in her mind, and the scenes outside lost
all charm for her. Her impatience increased till it became
intolerable. Miss Chute saw her agitation, and made some attempt to
soothe her, but in vain. In fact, by one o'clock, Zillah had given
herself up to all sorts of fears. Sometimes she thought that Hilda
had grown tired of waiting, and had gone back to England, and was now
searching through France and Italy for her; again she thought that
perhaps she had experienced a relapse and had died here in Naples,
far away from all friends, while she herself was loitering in
Marseilles; at another time her fears took a more awful turn--her
thoughts turned on Gualtier--and she imagined that he had, perhaps,
come on to Naples to deal to Hilda that fate which he had tried to
deal to her. These thoughts were all maddening, and filled her with
uncontrollable agitation. She felt sure at last that some dread thing
had happened, which Obed Chute had discovered, and which he feared to
reveal to her. Therefore he kept away; and on no other grounds could
she account for his long-continued absence.
Two o'clock passed--and three, and four, and five. The suspense was
fearful to Zillah, so fearful, indeed, that at last she felt that it
would be a relief to hear any news--even the worst.
At length her suspense was ended. About half past five Obed returned.
Anxiety was on his face, and he looked at Zillah with an expression
of the deepest pity and commiseration. She on her part advanced to
meet him with white lips and trembling frame, and laid on his hand
her own, which was like ice.
"You have not found her?" she faltered, in a scarce audible voice.
Obed shook his head.
"She is dead, then!" cried Zillah; "she is dead! She died here--among
strangers--in Naples, and I--I delayed in Marseilles!"
A deep groan burst from her, and all the anguish of self-reproach and
keen remorse swept over her soul.
Obed Chute looked at her earnestly and mournfully.
"My child," said he, taking her little hand tenderly in both of
his--"my poor child--you need not be afraid that your sister is dead.
She is alive--as much as you are."
"Alive!" cried Zillah, rousing herself from her despair. "Alive! God
be thanked! Have you found out that? But where is she?"
"Whether God is to be thanked or not I do not know," said Obed; "but
it's my solemn belief that she is as much alive as she ever was."
"But where is she?" cried Zillah, eagerly. "Have you found out that?"
"It would take a man with a head as long as a horse to tell that,"
said Obed, sententiously.
"What do you mean? Have you not found out that? How do you know that
she is alive? You only hope so--as I do. You do not know so. Oh, do
not, do not keep me in suspense."
"I mean," said Obed, slowly and solemnly, "that this sister of yours
has never been in Naples; that there is no such steamer in existence
as that which she mentions in her letter which you showed me; that
there is no such ship, and no such captain, and no such captain's
wife, as those which she writes about; that no such person was ever
picked up adrift in that way, and brought here, except your own poor
innocent, trustful, loving self--you, my poor dear child, who have
been betrayed by miserable assassins. And by the Eternal!" cried
Obed, with a deeper solemnity in his voice, raising up at the same
time his colossal arm and his clenched fist to heaven--"by the
Eternal! I swear I'll trace all this out yet, and pay it out in full
to these infernal devils!"
"Oh, my God!" cried Zillah. "What do you mean? Do you mean that Hilda
has not been here at all?"
"No such person has ever been in Naples."
"Why, was she not picked up adrift? and where could they have taken
her?"
"She never was picked up. Rely upon that. No such ship as the one she
mentions has ever been here."
"Then she has written down 'Naples' in mistake," cried Zillah, while
a shudder passed through her at Obed's frightful insinuation.
"No," said Obed. "She wrote it down deliberately, and wrote it
several times. Her repetition of that name, her description of the
charms of Naples, show that she did this intentionally. Besides, your
envelope has the Naples postage stamps and the Naples post-marks. It
was mailed here, whether it was written here or not. It was sent from
here to fetch you to this place, on this journey, which resulted as
you remember."
"Oh, my God!" cried Zillah, as the full horror of Obed's meaning
began to dawn upon her. "What do you mean? What do you mean? Do you
wish to drive me to utter despair? Tell me where you have been and
what you have done. Oh, my God! Is any new grief coming?"
"My child, the Lord on high knows," said Obed Chute, with solemn
emphasis, "that I would cut off my right hand with my own
bowie-knife, rather than bring back to you the news I do. But what
can be done? It is best for you to know the whole truth, bitter as it
is."
"Go on," said Zillah, with an effort to be calm.
"Come," said Obed, and he led her to a seat. "Calm yourself, and
prepare for the worst. For at the outset, and by way of preparation
and warning, I will say that yours is a little the darkest case that
I ever got acquainted with. The worst of it is that there is ever so
much behind it all which I don't know any thing about."
Zillah leaned her head upon her hand and looked at him with awful
forebodings.
"When I left you," said Obed Chute, "I went at once to the Hotel de
l'Europe, expecting to find her there, or at least to hear of her. I
will not relate the particulars of my inquiry there. I will only say
that no such person as Miss Lorton had been there. I found, however,
that the police had been watching there for seven weeks for Gualtier.
I went with them to the Prefecture of Police. I gave my letter of
introduction from the prefect of Marseilles, and was treated with the
utmost attention. The prefect himself informed me that they had been
searching into the whole case for weeks. They had examined all the
vessels that had arrived, and had inspected all their logs. They had
searched through foreign papers. They had visited every house in the
city to which a stranger might go. The prefect showed me his
voluminous reports, and went with me to the Harbor Bureau to show me
the names of ships which arrived here and were owned here. Never
could there be a more searching investigation than this had been.
What was the result?
"Listen," said Obed, with impressive emphasis, yet compassionately,
as Zillah hung upon his words. "I will tell you all in brief. First,
no such person as Miss Lorton ever came to the Hotel de l'Europe.
Secondly, no such person ever came to Naples at all. Thirdly, no ship
arrived here at the date mentioned by your sister. Fourthly, no ship
of that name ever came here at all. Fifthly, no ship arrived here at
any time this year that had picked up any one at sea. The whole thing
is untrue. It is a base fiction made up for some purpose."
"A fiction!" cried Zillah. "Never--never--she could not so deceive
me."
"Can the writing be forged?"
"I don't see how it can," said Zillah, piteously. "I know her writing
so well," and she drew the letter from her pocket. "See--it is a very
peculiar hand--and then, how could any one speak as she does about
those things of hers which she wished me to bring? No--it can not be
a forgery."
"It is not," said Obed Chute. "It is worse."
"Worse?"
"Yes, worse. If it had been a forgery she would not have been
implicated in this. But now she does stand implicated in this
horrible betrayal of you."
"Heavens! how terrible! It must be impossible. Oh, Sir! we have lived
together and loved one another from childhood. She knows all my
heart, as I know hers. How can it be? Perhaps in her confusion she
has imagined herself in Naples."
"No," said Obed, sternly. "I have told you about the post-marks."
"Oh, Sir! perhaps her mind was wandering after the suffering of that
sea voyage."
"But she never had any voyage," said Obed Chute, grimly. "This letter
was written by her somewhere with the intention of making you believe
that she was in Naples. It was mailed here. If she had landed in
Palermo or any other place you would have had some sign of it. But
see--there is not a sign. Nothing but 'Naples' is here, inside and
out--nothing but 'Naples;' and she never came to Naples! She wrote
this to bring you here."
"Oh, my God! how severely you judge her! You will drive me mad by
insinuating such frightful suspicions. How is it possible that one
whom I know so well and love so dearly could be such a demon as this?
It can not be."
"Listen, my child," said Obed Chute, tenderly. "Strengthen yourself.
You have had much to bear in your young life, but this is easier to
bear than that was which you must have suffered that morning when you
first woke and found the water in your cabin. Tell me--in that hour
when you rushed up on deck and saw that you were betrayed--in that
hour--did no thought come to your mind that there was some other than
Gualtier who brought this upon you?"
Zillah looked at him with a frightened face, and said not a word.
"Better to face the worst. Let the truth be known, and face it,
whatever it is. Look, now. She wrote this letter which brought you
here--this letter--every word of which is a lie; she it was who sent
Gualtier to you to bring you here; she it was who recommended to you
that miscreant who betrayed you, on whose tracks the police of France
and Italy are already set. How do you suppose she will appear in the
eyes of the French police? Guilty, or not guilty?"
Zillah muttered some inarticulate words, and then suddenly gasped
out, "But the hat and the basket found by the fishermen?"
"Decoys--common tricks," said Obed Chute, scornfully. "Clumsy enough,
but in this case successful."
Zillah groaned, and buried her face in her hands.
A long silence followed.
"My poor child," said Obed Chute at last, "I have been all the day
making inquiries every where, and have already engaged the police to
search out this mystery. There is one thing yet, however, which I
wish to know, and you only can tell it. I am sorry to have to talk in
this way, and give you any new troubles, but it is for your sake
only, and for your sake there is nothing which I would not do. Will
you answer me one question?"
Zillah looked up. Her face had now grown calm. The agitation had
passed. The first shock was over, but this calm which followed was
the calm of fixed grief--a grief too deep for tears.
"My question is this, and it is a very important one: Do you know, or
can you conceive of any motive which could have actuated this person
to plot against you in this way?"
"I do not."
"Think."
Zillah thought earnestly. She recalled the past, in which Hilda had
always been so devoted; she thought of the dying Earl by whose
bedside she had stood so faithfully; she thought of her deep sympathy
with her when the writings were found in her father's desk; she
thought of that deeper sympathy which she had manifested when Guy's
letter was opened; she thought of her noble devotion in giving up all
for her and following her into seclusion; she thought of their happy
life in that quiet little sea-side cottage. As all these memories
rose before her the idea of Hilda being a traitor seemed more
impossible than ever. But she no longer uttered any indignant
remonstrance.
"I am bewildered," she said. "I can think of nothing but love and
fidelity in connection with her. All our lives she has lived with me
and loved me. I can not think of any imaginable motive. I can imagine
that she, like myself, is the victim of some one else, but not that
she can do any thing else than love me."
"Yet she wrote that letter which is the cause of all your grief. Tell
me," said he, after a pause, "has she money of her own?"
"Yes--enough for her support."
"Is she your sister?"
Zillah seemed startled.
"I do not wish to intrude into your confidence--I only ask this to
gain some light while I am groping in the dark."
"She is not. She is no relation. But she has lived with me all my
life, and is the same as a sister."
"Does she treat you as her equal?"
"Yes," said Zillah, with some hesitation, "that is--of late."
"But you have been her superior until of late?"
"Yes."
"Would you have any objection to tell her name?"
"Yes," said Zillah; "I can not tell it. I will tell this much: Lorton
is an assumed name. It belongs neither to her nor to me. My name is
not Lorton."
"I knew that," said Obed Chute. "I hope you will forgive me. It was
not curiosity. I wished to investigate this to the bottom; but I am
satisfied--I respect your secret. Will you forgive me for the pain I
have caused you?"
Zillah placed her cold hand in his, and said:
"My friend, do not speak so. It hurts me to have you ask my
forgiveness."
Obed Chute's face beamed with pleasure.
"My poor child," he said, "you must go and rest yourself. Go and
sleep; perhaps you will be better for it."
And Zillah dragged herself out of the room.