THE VILLA.
There were many things in Obed Chute's narration which affected Lord
Chetwynde profoundly. The story of that adventure in the Pontine
Marshses had an interest for him which was greater than any that
might be created by the magnificent prowess and indomitable pluck
that had been exhibited on that occasion by the modest narrator.
Beneath the careless and offhand recital of Obed Lord Chetwynde was
able to perceive the full extent of the danger to which he had been
exposed, and from which his own cool courage had saved him. An
ordinary man, under such circumstances, would have basely yielded;
or, if the presence of his family had inspired him with unusual
courage, the courage would have been at best a sort of frenzy, at the
impulse of which he might have devoted his own life to the love which
he had for his family, and thrown that life away without saving them.
But in Obed's quiet and unpretending narrative he recognized the
presence of a heroic soul; one which in the midst of the most
chivalrous, the most absolute, and the most devotion--in the midst of
the most utter abnegation of self--could still maintain the serenest
calm and the most complete presence of mind in the face of awful
danger. Every point in that story produced an effect on the mind of
the listener, and roused his fullest sympathy. He had before his eyes
that memorable scene: Obed watching and smoking on his bed by the
side of the door--the family sleeping peacefully in the ajoining
room--the sound of footsteps, of violent knockings, of furious
entrance, or wild and lawless mirth. He imagined the flight of the
old man and his wife, who in terror, or perhaps through cunning and
treachery, gave up their hotel and their guests to the fury of the
brigands. He brought before his mind that long time of watchful
waiting when Obed lay quietly yet vigilantly reclining on the bed,
with his pipe in his mouth and his pistol in his pocket, listening to
the sounds below, to see what they might foreshadow; whether they
told of peace or of war, whether they announced the calm of a quiet
night or the terrors of an assault made by fiends--by those Italian
brigands whose name has become a horror, whose tendererst mercies are
pitiless cruelty, and to fall into the hands of whom is the direst
fate that man or woman may know.
One thought gave a horror to this narrative. Among the women in that
room was the one who to him was infinitely dearer than any other on
earth. And this danger had threatened her--a danger too horrible to
think of--one which made his very life-blood freeze in the course of
this calm narration. This was the one thing on which his thoughts
turned most; that horrible, that appalling danger. So fearful was it
to him that he envied Obed the privilege of having saved her. He
longed to have been there in Obed's place, so as to have done this
thing for her. He himself had once saved her from death, and that
scene could never depart from his memory; but now it seemed to him at
though the fate from which he had saved her was nothing when compared
to the terror of that danger from which she had been snatched by
Obed.
Yet, during Obed's narrative, although these feelings were within his
heart, he said little or nothing. He listened with apparent calmness,
offering no remark, though at that time the thoughts of his heart
were so intense. In fact, it was through the very intensity of his
feelings that he forced himself to keep silence. For if he had spoken
he would have revealed all. If he had spoken he would have made known,
even to the most careless or the most preoccupied listener, all the
depth of that love which filled his whole being. Her very name to him
was something which he could not mention without visible emotion. And
she, in fearful peril, in terrific danger, in a situation so
horrible, could not be spoken of by one to whom she was so dear and
so precious.
And so he listened in silence, with only a casual interjection, until
Obed had finished his story. Then he made some appropriate remarks,
very coolly, complimentary to the heroism of his friend; which
remarks were at once quietly scouted by Obed as altogether
inappropriate.
"Pooh!" said he; "what was it, after all? These Italians are rubbish,
at the best. They are about equal to Mexicans. You've read about our
Mexican war, of course. To gain a victory over such rubbish is almost
a disgrace."
So Obed spoke about it, though whether he felt his exploit to be a
disgrace or not may very reasonably be doubted.
Yet, in spite of Lord Chetwynde's interest in the affair of the
Pontine Marshes, there was another story of Obed's which produced a
deeper effect on his mind. This was his account of his interview with
Black Bill, to which he had been summoned in London. The story of
Black Bill which Obed gave was one which was full of awful horror. It
showed the unrelenting and pitiless cruelty of those who had made
themselves her enemies; their profound genius for plotting, and their
far-reaching cunning. He saw that these enemies must be full of
boldness and craft far beyond what is ordinarily met with. Black
Bill's account of Gualtier's behavior on the boat when the men tried
to mutiny impressed him deeply. The man that could commit such a deed
as he had done, and then turn upon a desperate crew as he did, to
baffle them, to subdue them, and to bring them into submission to his
will, seemed to him to be no common man. His flight afterward, and
the easy and yet complete way in which he had eluded all his
pursuers, confirmed this view of his genius. Obed himself, who had
labored so long, and yet so unsuccessfully, coincided in this
opinion.
The chief subject of interest in these affairs to both of these men
was Zillah; yet, though the conversation revolved around her as a
centre, no direct allusion was for some time made to her present
situation. Yet all the while Lord Chetwynde was filled with a
feverish curiosity to know where she was, whether she was still with
Obed's family, or had left them; whether she was far away from him,
or here in Florence. Such an immensity of happiness or of misery
seemed to him at that time to depend on this thing that he did not
dare to ask the question. He waited to see whether Obed himself might
not put an end to this suspense. But Obed's thoughts were all
absorbed by the knotty question which had been raised by the
appearance of Black Bill with his story. From the London police he
had received no fresh intelligence since his departure, though every
day he expected to hear something. From the Marseilles authorities he
had heard nothing since his last visit to that city, and a letter
which he had recently dispatched to the prefect at Naples had not yet
been answered. As far as his knowledge just yet was concerned, the
whole thing had gone into a more impenetrable mystery than ever, and
the principals in this case, after committing atrocious crimes, after
baffling the police of different nations, seemed to have vanished
into the profoundest obscurity. But on this occasion he reiterated
that determination which he had made before of never losing sight of
this purpose, but keeping at it, if need were, for years. He would
write to the police, he said, perpetually, and would give information
to the authorities of every country in Europe. On his return to
America he would have an extensive and comprehensive search
instituted. He would engage detectives himself in addition to any
which the police might send forth. Above all, he intended to make
free use of the newspapers. He had, he said--and in this he was a
true American--great faith in advertising. He had drawn up in his
mind already the formulas of various kinds of notices which he
intended to have inserted in the principal papers, by which he hoped
to get on the track of the criminals. Once on their track, he felt
assured of success.
The unexpected addition of Black Bill to the number of actors in this
important case was rightly considered by Obed as of great moment. He
had some idea of seeking him out on his return to London, and of
employing him in this search. Black Bill would be stimulated to such
a search by something far more powerful than any mere professional
instinct or any hope of reward. The vengeance which he cherished
would make him go on this errand with an ardor which no other could
feel. He had his own personal grievance against Gualtier. He had
shown this by his long and persistent watch, and by the malignancy of
his tone when speaking of his enemy. Besides this, he had more than
passion or malignancy to recommend him; he had that qualification for
the purpose which gave aim and certainty to all his vengeful desires.
He had shown himself to have the instinct of a bloodhound, and the
stealthy cunning of an Indian in following on the trait of his foe.
True he had been once outwitted, but that arose from the fact that he
was forced to watch, and was not ready to strike. The next time he
would be ready to deal the blow, and if he were once put on the
trail, and caught up with the fugitive, the blow would fall swiftly
and relentlessly.
Debate about such things as these took up two or three hours, during
which time Lord Chetwynde endured his suspense. At length they rose
to leave the gardens, and then, as they were walking along, he said,
in as indifferent a tone as he could assume:
"Oh--by-the-way--Miss Lorton is here with your family, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Obed; "she is with us still."
At this simple answer Lord Chetwynde's heart gave a great bound, and
then seemed to stop beating for some seconds. He said nothing.
"She is here now in Florence with us," continued Obed. "She is quite
one of the family. We all call her Ella now; she insisted on it. I
have taken a villa a few miles away. Ella prefers the country. We
often drive into the city. It's a wonder to me that we never met
before."
"Yes; it is odd."
"She came in with us this morning with a watch, which she left at
Penafrio's to be mended. It will be done this evening. She could not
wait for it, so I staid, so as to take it out to her tonight. I
strolled about the town, and finally wandered here, which I think the
prettiest place in Florence. I'd been walking through the gardens for
an hour before you saw me."
"How has she been of late?"
"Very well indeed--better, in fact, than she has ever been since I
first saw her. She was not very well at Naples. The journey here did
her much good, and the affair of the Pontine Marshes roused her up
instead of agitating her. She behaved like a trump--she was as cool
as a clock; but it was a coolness that arose from an excitement which
was absolutely red-hot, Sir. She seemed strung up to a pitch ten
notes higher than usual, and once or twice as I caught her eyes they
seemed to me to have a deep fire in them that was stunning! I never,
in all my born days, saw the equal of that little thing," exclaimed
Obed, tenderly.
"It's having an occupation," he continued, "as I believe, that's done
her this good. She was afraid she would be a dependent, and the fear
arose out of a noble feeling. Now she finds her position an honorable
one. It gives her a fine feeling of pride. The poor little thing
seems to have been brought up to do nothing at all; but now the
discovery that she can do something actually intoxicates her. And the
beauty of it is, she does it well. Yes, Sir. My children have been
pushed along at a tre-mendous pace, and they love Ella better than me
or sister ten times. But you'll see for yourself, for you've got to
come right straight out with me, my boy. You, Windham, are the one
that Ella would rather see than any other. You're the man that saved
her from death, and gave her to me."
At this Lord Chetwynde's stout heart, that had never quailed in the
face of death, throbbed feverishly in his intense joy, and his whole
frame thrilled at the thought that arose in his mind. Going to her
was easy enough, through Obed's warm friendship. And he was going to
her! This was the only thought of which he was conscious.
The carriage was waiting in front of the watchmaker's shop, and the
watch was ready; so they drove out without delay. It seemed to Lord
Chetwynde like a dream. He was lost in anticipations of the coming
meeting--that meeting which he had never dared to hope for, but which
was now before him.
Obed Chute, on coming to Florence, had rented a villa on the slopes
of the hills overlooking Val d'Arno. It was about twelve or fifteen
miles away. The road ran through the plain, and then ascended the
hills gently, in a winding direction, till it reached the place. The
villa was surrounded by beautiful grounds, wherein trim gardens were
seen, and fair winding walks, interspersed with fountains and
statuary and pavilions. Besides these there were extensive forests of
thick-growing trees, whose dense branches, interlacing overhead,
threw down heavy shadows. Through these dim woods many pathways
penetrated, leading to sequestered nooks and romantic grottoes. Here
there wandered several little brooklets, and in the midst of the
forest there was a lake, or rather a pond, from the middle of which
rose a marble Triton, which perpetually spouted forth water from his
shell. The villa itself was of generous dimensions, in that style
which is so familiar to us in this country, with broad piazzas and
wide porticoes, and no lack of statuary. Here Obed Chute had made
himself quite at home, and confided to Lord Chetwynde the fact that
he would prefer this to his house on the Hudson River if he could
only see the Stars and Stripes floating from the Campanile at
Florence. As this was not likely to happen, he was forced to look
upon himself as merely a pilgrim and a sojourner.
Lord Chetwynde entered the villa. Obed remained behind for a few
moments to give some directions to the servants. A lofty hall ran
through the villa, with statues on each side, and a fountain at the
farthest end. On either side there were doors opening into spacious
apartments. Lord Chetwynde turned to the right, and entered a
magnificent room, which extended the whole length of the house. He
looked around, and his attention was at once arrested by a figure at
the farthest end. It was a lady, whose youthful face and slender
figure made his heart beat fast and furiously; for, though he could
not distinguish her features, which were partly turned away, yet the
shape was familiar, and was associated with the sweetest memories of
his life. The lady was sitting in a half-reclining position on an
Egyptian couch, her head was thrown back, a book hung listlessly in
one hand, and she seemed lost in thought. So deep was her abstraction
that the noise of Lord Chetwynde's steps on the marble floor did not
arouse her. When he saw her he paused involuntarily, and stood for a
few moments in silence.
Yes, it was _she_! One look told him this. It was the one who for so
long a time had been in all his thoughts, who in his illness had been
ever present to his delirious dreams. It was the one to whom his
heart had never ceased to turn since that first day when that head
had lain for a moment on his breast, and that rich, luxuriant hair
had flowed in a sea of glory over his arms, burnished by the red rays
of the rising sun. He walked softly forward and drew near. Then the
noise of his footsteps roused her. She turned.
There came over her face the sudden light of joyous and rapturous
wonder. In that sudden rapture she seemed to lose breath and sense.
She started forward to her feet, and the book fell from her hand. For
an instant she pressed her hand to her heart, and then, with both
hands outstretched, and with her beautiful face all aglow with joy
and delight that she could not conceal, she stepped forward. But
suddenly, as though some other thought occurred, she stopped, and a
crimson glow came over her pale face. She cast down her eyes and
stood waiting.
Lord Chetwynde caught her outstretched hand, which still was timidly
held toward him, in both of his, and said not one word. For a time
neither of them spoke, but he held her hand, and she did not withdraw
it.
"Oh!" he cried, suddenly, as though the words were torn from him,
"how I have longed for this moment!"
She looked at him hastily and confusedly, and then withdrew her hand,
while another flush swept over her face.
"Mr. Windham," she faltered, in low tones, "what an unexpected
pleasure! I--I thought you were in England."
"And so I was," said Lord Chetwynde, as he devoured her with the
ardent gaze of his eyes; "but my business was finished, and I
left--"
"How did you find us out?" she asked, smilingly, as, once more
resuming her self-possession, she sat down again upon the Egyptian
sofa and picked up her book. "Have you been in correspondence with
Mr. Chute?"
"No," laughed Lord Chetwynde. "It was fate that threw him into my way
at the Boboli Gardens this morning. I have been here for--well, for a
small eternity--and was thinking of going away when he came up, and
now I am reconciled to all my past."
A silence followed, and each seemed to take a hasty glance at the
other. On Zillah's face there were the traces of sorrow; its lines
had grown finer, and its air more delicate and spiritual. Lord
Chetwynde's face, on the other hand, showed still the marks of that
disease which had brought him to death's door, and no longer had that
glow of manly health which had been its characteristic at Marseilles.
[Illustration: "She Seemed Lost In Thought."]
"You have been ill," said Zillah, suddenly, and with some alarm in
her voice.
"Yes," said Lord Chetwynde, sadly; "I have been as near death as it
is possible for one to be and live."
"In England?"
"No; in Switzerland."
"Switzerland?"
"Yes."
"I thought that perhaps some private troubles in England had caused
it," said Zillah, with tones of deep sympathy, for she recollected
his last words to her, which expressed such fearful anticipations of
the future.
"No; I bore all that. It was an unexpected circumstance," he said, in
a cautious tone, "that caused my illness. But the Italian air has
been beneficial. But you--how have you been? I fear that you yourself
have been ill."
"I have had some troubles," Zillah replied.
Lord Chetwynde forbore to question her about those troubles. He went
on to speak about the air of Val d'Arno being the best thing in the
world for all illness, and congratulated her on having so beautiful a
spot in which to live. Zillah grew enthusiastic in her praises of
Florence and all the surrounding scenery; and as each learned how
long the other had been here they wondered why they had not met.
"But I," said Zillah, "have not gone often to the city since the
first week. It is so beautiful here."
"And I," said Lord Chetwynde, "have ridden all about the environs,
but have never been near here before. And even if I had, I should
have gone by it without knowing or suspecting that you were here."
Obed Chute had much to see about, and these two remained long
together. They talked over many things. Sometimes there were long
pauses, which yet were free from embarrassment. The flush on Zillah's
cheek, and the kindling light of her eye, showed a pleasure which she
could not conceal. Happiness was so strange to her that she welcomed
eagerly this present hour, which was so blight to her poor
sorrow-laden heart. Lord Chetwynde forgot his troubles, he banished
the future, and, as before, he seized the present, and enjoyed it to
the full.
Obed returned at last and joined them. The time fled by rapidly. Lord
Chetwynde made a move to return at about eleven o'clock, but Obed
would not allow him. He made him stay that night at the villa.