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 was 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.