AT FLORENCE.
After her accident Hilda was carried to the nearest house, and there
she recovered, after some time, from her swoon. She knew nothing of
what Lord Chetwynde had thought and done during that time when she
lay in his arms, and he had bent over her so full of pity and sorrow.
Some time elapsed before she saw him, for he had ridden off himself
to the nearest town to get a conveyance. When he returned it was very
late, and she had to go to bed through weakness. And thus they did
not meet until the following morning.
When they did meet Lord Chetwynde asked kindly about her health, but
evinced no stronger feeling than kindness--or pity. She was pale and
sad; she was eager for some sign of tenderness, but the sign was not
forthcoming. Lord Chetwynde was kind and sympathetic. He tried to
cheer her; he exerted himself to please her and to soothe her, but
that was all. That self-reproach which had thrilled him as she lay
lifeless in his arms had passed as soon as she left those arms, and,
in the presence of the one absorbing passion of his soul, Hilda was
nothing.
When they resumed their journey it was as before. He was courteous to
an extreme. He anticipated her wishes and saw after her comforts with
the greatest solicitude, but never did he evince any desire to pass
beyond the limits of conventional politeness. To him she was simply a
lady traveling in his company, to whom he was under every obligation,
as far as gratitude was concerned, or kindly and watchful attention,
but toward whom no feeling of tenderness ever arose.
He certainly neglected none of those ordinary acts of courteous
attention which are common between gentlemen and ladies. At Milan he
took her around to see all the sights of that famous city. The Breda
Palace, the Amphitheatre, above all, the Cathedral, were visited, and
nothing was omitted which might give her pleasure. Yet all this was
different from what it had been before. Since the accident Hilda had
grown more sad, and lost her sprightliness and enthusiasm. On first
recovering her senses she had learned about the events of that
accident, and that Lord Chetwynde had tried to bring her to life
again. She had hoped much from this, and had fully expected when she
saw him again to find in him something softer than before. In this
she had been utterly disappointed. Her heart now sank within her, and
scarcely any hope was left. Languid and dull, she tried no longer to
win Lord Chetwynde by brilliancy of conversation, or by enthusiastic
interest in the beautiful of nature and of art. These had failed
once; why should she try them again? And since he had been unmoved by
the spectacle of her lifeless form--the narrow escape from death of
one who he well knew would die to save him--what was there left for
her to do?
At length they resumed their journey, and in due time reached
Florence. Here new changes took place. Their arrival here terminated
that close association enforced by their journey which had been so
precious to Hilda. Here Lord Chetwynde of course drifted away, and
she could not hope to see him except at certain stated intervals. Now
more than ever she began to lose hope. The hopes that she had once
formed seemed now to be baseless. And why, she asked herself
bitterly--why was it so impossible for him to love her? Would not any
other man have loved her under such circumstances?
At Florence Lord Chetwynde went his own way. He visited most of the
places of interest in company with her, took her to the Duomo, the
Church of Santa Croce, the Palazzi Vecchio and Pitti, walked with her
through the picture-galleries, and drove out with her several times.
After this there was nothing more to be done, and he was left to his
own resources, and she, necessarily, to hers. She could not tell
where he went, but merely conjectured that he was idling about
without any particular purpose, in the character of a common
sight-seer.
Hilda thus at length, left so much to herself, without the joy of his
presence to soften her, grew gradually hopeless and desperate; and
there began to rise within her bitter feelings, like those of former
days. In the midst of these her darker nature made itself manifest,
and there came the vengeful promptings of outraged love. With her
vengeance meant something more than it did with common characters;
and when that fit was on her there came regrets that she had ever
left Chetwynde, and gloomy ideas about completing her interrupted
work after all. But these feelings were fitful, for at times hope
would return again, and tenderness take the place of vindictiveness.
From hope she would again sink into despair, and sometimes meditate
upon that dark resolve which she had once hinted to Gualtier at the
Hôtel Gibbon.
Amidst all this her pride was roused. Why should she remain in this
position--a hanger-on--forcing herself on an unwilling man who at
best only tolerated her? The only soft feeling for her that had ever
arisen in his heart was nothing more than pity. Could she hope that
ever this pity would change to love, or that even the pity itself
would last? Was he not even now longing to get rid of her, and
impatiently awaiting tidings of his Indian appointment? To go to
India, she saw plainly, simply meant to get rid of her. This, she
saw, was his fixed determination. And for her--why should she thus
remain, so deeply humiliated, when she was not wanted?
So she argued with herself, but still she staid on. For love makes
the proudest a craven, and turns the strength of the strongest into
weakness; and so, in spite of herself, she staid, because she could
not go.
Meanwhile the state of Lord Chetwynde's, mind was not by any means
enviable. He found himself in a position which was at once unexpected
and to him, extremely embarrassing. Every feeling of gratitude, every
prompting of common generosity, compelled him to exhibit toward Hilda
a greater degree of kindness than existed in his heart. The
association of a long journey had necessarily thrown him upon her
society, and there had been times when he had found her agreeable;
there had also been that memorable episode when her poor, pale face,
with its stain of blood over the white forehead, had drawn forth his
deepest pity, and roused him to some approach to tenderness. But with
the occasion the feeling had passed; and the tenderness, born of so
piteous a sight, returned no more. Her own dullness afterward
deprived him even of the chance of finding her an agreeable
companion. He saw that she was deeply melancholy. Yet what could he
do? Even if he had wished it he could not have forced himself to love
this woman, notwithstanding her devotion to himself. And this he did
not even wish. Not all his sense of honor, not all his emotions of
gratitude, not all his instincts of generosity, not even the
remembrance of his solemn promise to General Pomeroy, could excite
within him any desire that his heart might change from its affection
and its longing for another, to yield that love to her.
True, once or twice his heart had smote him as he thought of his
utter coldness and want of gratitude toward this woman who had done
so much for him. This feeling was very painful on that day of the
accident. Yet it passed. He could not force himself to muse over his
own shortcomings. He could not bring himself to wish that he should
be one whit more grateful to her or more tender. Any thought of her
being ever more to him than she was now seemed repugnant. Any wish
for it was out of the question. Indeed, he never thought of it as
being within the bounds of possibility. For behind all these late
events there lay certain things which made it impossible for him,
under ordinary circumstances, ever to become fully reconciled to her.
For, after all, in his cooler moods he now felt how she was
associated with the bitterest memories of his life. She it was who
had been the cause, unwilling no doubt as he now thought, but still
no less the cause of the blight that had descended upon his life. As
that life had passed he could not help cursing the day when first
General Pomeroy proposed that unholy agreement. It was this that had
exiled him from his native land and would keep him an exile forever.
It was this which denied to him the joys of virtuous love, when his
heart had been filled with one image--an image which now was never
absent. Bound by the law to this woman, who was named his wife, he
could never hope in any way to gain that other one on whom all his
heart was fixed. Between him and those hopes that made life precious
she stood and rendered those hopes impossible.
Then, too, he could not avoid recalling his life in India, which she
had tried to make, as far as in her lay, one long misery, by those
malevolent letters which she had never ceased to write. Above all, he
could never forget the horror of indignation which had been awakened
within him by that last letter, and the fierce vows which he had made
to be avenged on her. All this was yet in his memory in spite of the
events of later days. True, she had relented from her former savage
spirit, and had changed from hate to love. She had traveled far to
save him from death. She had watched by him day and night till her
own life well-nigh gave way. She had repented, and had marked her
repentance by a devotion which could not be surpassed. For all this
he felt grateful. His gratitude, indeed, had been so profound and so
sincere that it had risen up between him and his just hate, and had
forced him to forgive her fully and freely, and to the uttermost, for
all that she had done of her own accord, and also for all of which
she had been the accidental cause. He had lost his repugnance to her.
He could now talk to her, he could even take her hand, and could have
transient emotions of tenderness toward her. But what then? What was
the value of these feelings? He had forgiven her, but he had not
forgotten the past. That was impossible. The memory of that past
still remained, and its results were still before him. He felt those
results every hour of his life. Above all, she still stood before him
as the one thing, and the only thing, which formed an obstacle
between him and his happiness. He might pity her, he might be
grateful to her; but the intense fervor of one passion, and the
longing desire to which it gave rise, made it impossible for her ever
to seem to him any thing else than the curse of his life.
At Florence he was left more to himself. He was no longer forced to
sit by her side. He gradually kept by himself; for, though he could
tolerate her, he could not seek her. Indeed, his own feelings
impelled him to avoid her. The image of that one who never left his
memory had such an effect on him that he preferred solitude and his
own thoughts. In this way he could best struggle with himself and
arrange his lonely and desolate future. India now appeared the one
hope that was left him. There he might find distraction from
troublesome thoughts in his old occupations, and among his old
associates. He had bidden farewell to Chetwynde forever. He had left
the fate of Chetwynde in the hands of his solicitors; he had signed
away all his rights; he had broken the entail; and had faced the
prospect of the extinction of his ancient family. This resolution had
cost him so much that it was impossible now to go back from it. The
exhibition of Hilda's devotion never changed his resolution for an
instant. The papers still remained with his solicitors, nor did he
for one moment dream of countermanding the orders which he had once
given.
What Lord Chetwynde most desired was solitude. Florence had been
chosen by him as a resting-place where he might await letters from
England about his Indian appointment, and for those letters he waited
every day. Under these circumstances he avoided all society. He had
taken unpretending lodgings, and in the Hôtel Meubles, overlooking
the Ponta della Trinita, he was lost in the crowd of fellow-lodgers.
His suite of apartments extended over the third story. Below him was
a Russian Prince and a German Grand Duke, and above and all around
was a crowd of travelers of all nations. He brought no letters. He
desired no acquaintances. Florence, under the new régime, was too
much agitated by recent changes for its noblesse to pay any attention
to a stranger, however distinguished, unless he was forced upon them;
and so Lord Chetwynde had the most complete isolation. If Hilda had
ever had any ideas of going with Lord Chetwynde into Florentine
society she was soon undeceived, when, as the days passed, she found
that Florentine society took no notice of her. Whatever
disappointment she may have felt, Lord Chetwynde only received
gratification from this, since it spared him every annoyance, and
left him to himself, after the first week or so.
By himself he thus occupied his time. He rode sometimes through the
beautiful country which surrounds Florence on every side. When weary
of this he used to stroll about the city, along the Lungh' Arno, or
through the Casino, or among the churches. But his favorite place of
resort was the Boboli Gardens; for here there was sufficient life and
movement to be found among the throng of visitors; or, if he wished
seclusion, he could find solitude among the sequestered groves and
romantic grottoes of this enchanting spot.
Here one day he wandered, and found a place among the trees which
commanded a view of one of the principal avenues of the gardens. In
the distance there opened a vista through which was revealed the fair
outline of Florence, with its encircling hills, and its glorious Val
d'Arno. There arose the stupendous outline of Il Duomo, the stately
form of the Baptistery, the graceful shaft of the Campanile, the
medieval grandeur of the Palazzo Vecchio; and the severe Etruscan
massiveness of the Pitti Palace was just below. Far away the Arno
wound on, through the verdurous plain, while on either side the hills
arose dotted with white villas and deep green olive groves. Is there
any view on earth which can surpass this one, where
"Arno wins us to the fair white walls,
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps
A softer feeling for her fairy halls.
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps
Her corn and wine and oil, and Plenty leaps
To laughing life, with her redundant horn.
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born,
And buried Learning rose, redeemed, to a new morn."
It was upon this scene that Lord Chetwynde was looking out, lost in
thoughts which were sometimes taken up with the historic charms of
this unrivaled valley, and sometimes with his own sombre future, when
suddenly his attention was arrested by a figure passing along the
pathway immediately beneath him. The new-comer was a tall,
broad-shouldered, square-faced man; he wore a dress-coat and a felt
hat; he had no gloves, but his thumbs were inserted in the arm-holes
of his waistcoat; and as he sauntered along he looked around with a
leisurely yet comprehensive stare. Lord Chetwynde was seated in a
place which made him unseen to any in the path, while it afforded him
the fullest opportunities of seeing others. This man, who thus walked
on, turned his full face toward him and disclosed the well-known
features of Obed Chute.
The sight of this man sent a strange thrill to the inmost heart of
Lord Chetwynde. He here! In Florence! And his family, were they with
him? And she--when he saw him in London he said that she was yet with
him--was she with him now? Such were the thoughts which came to Lord
Chetwynde at the sight of that face. The next instant he rose,
hurried down to the path after Obed, who had strode onward and
catching his arm, he said:
"Mr. Chute, you here! When did you arrive?"
Obed turned with a start and saw his friend.
"Windham again!" he exclaimed, "by all that's wonderful! But how did
you get here?"
"I? Oh, I've been here two or three weeks. But it doesn't seem
possible that it should really be you," he added, with greater warmth
than was usual to him, as he wrung Obed's hand.
"It's possible," said Obed, with a characteristic squeeze of Lord
Chetwynde's hand, which made it numb for half an hour afterward.
"It's possible, my boy, for it's the actual fact. But still, I must
say, you're about the last man I expected to see in these diggins.
When I saw you in London you were up to your eyes in business, and
were expectin' to start straight off and make a bee-line for India."
"Well, that is what I'm doing now; I'm on my way there."
"On your way there? You don't say so! But you'll stay here some
time?"
"Oh yes; I've some little time to spare. The fact is I came here to
pass my leisure time. I'm expecting a letter every day which may send
me off. But it may not come for weeks."
"And you're going back to India?" said Obed.
"Yes."
"I should think you'd rather stay home--among your friends."
"Well--I don't know," said Lord Chetwynde, with assumed indifference.
"The fact is, life in India unfits one for life in England. We get
new tastes and acquire new habits. I never yet saw a returned Indian
who could be content. For my part, I'm too young yet to go in for
being a returned Indian; and so after I finished my business I
applied for a reappointment."
"There's a good deal in what you say," remarked Obed. "Your British
island is contracted. A man who has lived in a country like India
feels this. We Americans, accustomed as we are to the unlimited
atmosphere of a boundless continent, always feel depressed in a
country like England. There is in your country, Sir, a physical and
also a moral constraint which, to a free, republican, continental
American, is suffocating. And hence my dislike to the mother
country."
They walked on together chatting about numerous things. Obed referred
once more to India.
"It's queer," said he; "your British Empire is so tremendous that it
seems to cover the earth. After I left the States it seemed to me
that I couldn't go any where without seeing the British flag. There
was Australia, a continent in itself; and Hong Kong; and India,
another continent; and Aden, and Malta. You have a small country too,
not much larger than New York State."
"Well," said Lord Chetwynde, with a smile, "we once owned a great
deal more, you know. We had colonies that were worth all the rest.
Unfortunately those colonies took it into their heads to set up for
themselves, and started that independent nation of the Stars and
Stripes that you belong to. If it hadn't been for that abominable
Stamp Act, and other acts equally abominable, you and I might now be
under the same flag, belonging to an empire which might set the whole
united world at defiance. It's a pity it was not so. The only hope
now left is that our countries may always be good friends, as they
are now, as you and I are--as we always are, whenever we meet under
such circumstances as those which occurred when you and I became
acquainted. 'Blood is thicker than water,' said old Tatnall, when he
sent his Yankee sailors to help Admiral Hope; and the same sentiment
is still in the mind of every true Englishman whenever he sees an
American of the right sort."
"Them's my sentiments," said Obed, heartily. "And although I don't
generally hanker after Britishers, yet I have a kind of respect for
the old country, in spite of its narrowness and contraction, and all
the more when I see that it can turn out men like you."
After a short stroll the two seated themselves in a quiet sequestered
place, and had a long conversation. Obed informed him of the many
events which had occurred since their last meeting. The news about
Black Bill was received by Lord Chetwynde with deep surprise, and he
had a strong hope that this might lead to the capture of Gualtier.
Little did he suspect the close connection which he had had with the
principals in this crime.
He then questioned Obed, with deep interest, about his life in
Naples, about his journey to Florence, and many other things, with
the purpose of drawing him on to speak about one whom he could not
name without emotion, but about whom he longed to hear. Obed said
nothing about her; but, in the course of the conversation, he told
all about that affair in the Pontine Marshes, in which he recently
vanished from view at a very critical moment.
Obed's account was given with his usual modesty; for this man, who
was often so grandiloquent on the subject of his country, was very
meek on the subject of himself. To give his own words would be to
assign a very unimportant part to the chief actor in a very
remarkable affair, so that the facts themselves may be more
appropriately stated. These facts Lord Chetwynde gathered from Obed's
narrative in spite of his extreme modesty.
After Obed's shot, then, there had been silence for a time, or rather
inaction among the assailants. The agitation of his family excited
his sympathy, and once more he reassured them, telling them that the
affair was not worth thinking about, and urging them to be calm. His
words inspired courage among them, and they all arose and dressed.
Their room was at the end of the building, as has been said. Obed's
room adjoined it, and the only entrance into their room was through
his. A narrow passage ran from the central hall and far as the wall
of their room, and on the side of the passage was the door which led
into Obed's.
After putting some more peat on the fire, he called to his sister to
watch at the window of her room, and then replenishing his pipe, and
loading the discharged chambers of his revolver, he awaited the
renewal of hostilities. The long silence that followed showed him
that his fire had been very serious, and he began to think that they
would not return. So the time passed until five o'clock came. The
women in the adjoining room were perfectly silent, but watchful, and
apparently calm. Below there were occasional sounds of footsteps,
which showed that the assailants were still in the place. The
excitement of the occasion was rather agreeable to Obed than
otherwise. He felt that he had the advantage in every respect, and
was certain that there could not be very many assailants below. Their
long delay in resuming the assault showed that they were cowed.
[Illustration: "To Spring Forward With Leveled Pistol Upon His
Assailants Was The Work Of A Moment."]
At last, however, to his intense gratification, he heard footsteps on
the stairs. He knew by the sound that there could not be more than
four, or perhaps six. When near his door the footsteps stopped. There
was a momentary silence, and then suddenly a tremendous blow, and a
panel of the door crashed in at the stroke of an axe, the head of
which followed it. Quick as lightning Obed took aim. He saw how the
axe had fallen, and judged exactly the position of the man that dealt
the blow. He fired. A shriek followed. That shot had told. Wild
curses arose. There was a mad rush at the door, and again the axe
fell.
Once more Obed watched the fall of the axe and fired. Again that shot
told. There were groans and shrieks of rage, and deep, savage curses.
And now at last Obed rose to the level of the occasion. He rapidly
reloaded the emptied chambers of his revolver. Stepping to the door
of the inner room he spoke some soothing words, and then hurrying
back, he drew the ponderous bedstead away. Outside he heard
shuffling, as of footsteps, and thought they might be dragging away
those who had been wounded last. All this had been done in a moment.
To unlock the door, to spring forward with leveled pistol upon his
assailants, was but the work of another moment.
It was now dim morning twilight. The scene outside was plainly
revealed. There were three men dragging away two--those two who had
been wounded by the last shots. On these Obed sprang. One went down
before his shot. The others, with a cry of terror, ran down the
stairs, and out of the house. Obed pursued. They ran wildly up the
road. Again Obed fired, and one wretch fell. Then he put the revolver
in his pocket, and chased the other man. The distance between them
lessened rapidly. At last Obed came up. He reached out his arm and
caught him by the collar. With a shriek of terror the scoundrel
stopped, and fell on his knees, uttering frantic prayers for mercy,
of which Obed understood not one word. He dragged him back to the
house, found a rope in the stable, bound him securely, and put him in
the dining-room. Then he went about to seek the landlord. He could
not be found. Both he and his wife apparently fled. But Obed found
something else.
In the lower room that opened into the dining-room were three men on
two beds, wounded, faint, and shivering with terror. These were the
men that had been wounded at the first attack. In the anguish of
their pain they made gestures of entreaty, of which Obed took no
notice. Upstairs in the hall were those two whom he had stuck with
his last shots. There were no others to be seen.
After finishing his search, Obed went up the road, and carried back
the man whom he had shot. He then informed his family of the result.
In the midst of their horror at this tragedy, and their joy at
escaping from a terrible fate, they felt a certain pity for these
sufferers, wretches though they were. Obed shared this feeling. His
anger had all departed with the end of the fight. He lifted one by
one the wounded wretches, putting them on the beds in the rooms when
he had hired. Then he and his sister dressed their wounds. Thus the
night ended, and the sun at last arose.
About two hours after sunrise it happened that a troop of papal
gendarmerie came along. Obed stopped then, and calmly handed over the
prisoners to their care. They seemed bewildered, but took charge of
them, evidently not at all comprehending of the situation. An hour or
so afterward the valet arrived with a fresh carriage, and after
hearing Obed's story with wonder he was able to explain it to the
soldiers.
Obed then set out for Rome, and, after some stay, came on to
Florence.
Such was the substance of his story.