THE VISION OF THE DEAD.
Gualtier stood rooted to the spot, astounded at such a discovery. His
first impulse was flight. But that was impossible. The hedgeway on
either side was high and thick, preventing any escape. The flight
would have to be made along the open path, and in a chase he did not
feel confident that he could escape. Besides, he felt more like
relying on his own resources. He had a hope that his disguise might
conceal him. Other thoughts also passed through his mind at that
moment. How did this Obed Chute come here? Was he the Milor Inglese?
How did he come into connection with Lord Chetwynde, of all others?
Were they working together on some dark plot against Hilda? That
seemed the most natural thing to believe.
But he had no time for thought, for even while these were passing
through his mind Obed was advancing toward him, until finally he
stood before him, confronting him with a dark frown. There was
something in his face which showed Gualtier that he was recognized.
"You!" cried Obed; "you! I thought so, and it is so, by the Lord! I
never forget a face. You scoundrel! what do you want? What are you
doing here? What are you following me for? Are you on that business
again? Didn't I give you warning in New York?"
There was something so menacing in his look, and in his wrathful
frown, that Gualtier started back a pace, and put his hand to his
breast-pocket to seize his revolver.
"No you don't!" exclaimed Obed, and quick as lightning he seized
Gualtier's hand, while he held his clenched fist in his face.
"I'm up to all those tricks," he continued, "and you can't come it
over me, you scoundrel! Here--off with all that trash."
And knocking off Gualtier's hat, as he held his hand in a grasp from
which the unhappy prisoner could not release himself, he tore off his
wig and his mustache.
Gualtier was not exactly a coward, for he had done things which
required great boldness and presence of mind, and Obed himself had
said this much in his criticisms upon Black Bill's story; but at the
present moment there was something in the tremendous figure of Obed,
and also in the fear which he had that all was discovered, which made
him cower into nothingness before his antagonist. Yet he said not a
word.
"And now," said Obed, grimly, "perhaps you'll have the kindness to
inform me what you are doing here--you, of all men in the
world--dodging about in disguise, and tracking my footsteps. What the
devil do you mean by sneaking after me again? You saw me once, and
that ought to have been enough. What do you want? Is it something
more about General Pomeroy? And what do you mean by trying to draw a
pistol on me on my own premises? Tell me the truth, you mean,
sallow-faced rascal, or I'll shake the bones out of your body!"
In an ordinary case of sudden seizure Gualtier might have contrived
to get out of the difficulty by his cunning and presence of mind. But
this was by no means an ordinary case. This giant who thus seemed to
come down upon him us suddenly as though he had dropped from the
skies, and who thundered forth these fierce, imperative questions in
his ear, did not allow him much space in which to collect his
thoughts, or time to put them into execution. There began to come
over him a terror of this man, whom he fancied to be intimately
acquainted with his whole career. "Thus conscience does make cowards
of us all," and Gualtier, who was generally not a coward, felt very
much like one on this occasion. Morally, as well as physically, he
felt himself crushed by his opponent. It was, therefore, with utter
helplessness, and the loss of all his usual strength of mind and
self-control, that he stammered forth his answer:
"I--I came here--to--to get some information."
"You came to get information, did you? Of course you did. Spies
generally do."
"I came to see you."
"To see _me_, hey? Then why didn't you come like a man? What's the
meaning of this disguise?"
"Because you refused information once, and I thought that if I came
in another character, with a different story, I might have a better
chance."
"Pooh! don't I see that you're lying? Why didn't you come up through
the avenue like a man, instead of sneaking along the paths? Answer me
that."
"I wasn't sneaking. I was merely taking a little stroll in your
beautiful grounds."
"Wasn't sneaking?" repeated Obed; "then I'd like very much to know
what sneaking is, for my own private information. If any man ever
looked like a sneak, you did when I first caught your eye."
"I wasn't sneaking," reiterated Gualtier; "I was simply strolling
about. I found a gate at the lower end of the park, and walked up
quietly. I was anxious to see you."
"Anxious to see me?" said Obed, with a peculiar intonation.
"Yes."
"Why, then, did you look scared out of your life when you did see me?
Answer me that."
"My answer is," said Gualtier, with an effort at calmness, "that I
neither looked scared nor felt scared. I dare say I may have put
myself on my guard, when you rushed at me."
"I didn't rush at you."
"It seemed to me so, and I fell back a step, and prepared for the
shock."
"Fell back a step!" sneered Obed; "you looked around to see if you
had any ghost of a chance to run for it, and saw you had none. That's
about it."
"You are very much mistaken," said Gualtier.
"Young man," replied Obed, severely, "I'm never mistaken. So dry up."
"Well, since I've found you," said Gualtier, "will you allow me to
ask you a question?"
"What's that?--you found _me_? Why, you villain! I found _you_. You
are a cool case, too. Answer _you_ a question? Not a bit of it. But
I'll tell you what I will do. I intend to teach you a lesson that you
won't forget."
"Beware," said Gualtier, understanding the other's threat--"beware
how you offer violence to me."
"Oh, don't trouble yourself at all. I intend to beware. My first idea
was to kick you all the way out; but you're such a poor, pale,
pitiful concern that I'll be satisfied with only one parting kick. So
off with you!"
At this Obed released his grasp, and keeping Gualtier before him he
forced him along the avenue toward the gate.
"You needn't look round," said Obed, grimly, as he noticed a furtive
glance of Gualtier's. "And you needn't try to get at your revolver.
'Tain't any manner of use, for I've got one, and can use it better
than you, being an American born. You needn't try to walk faster
either," he continued, "for you can't escape. I can run faster than
you, my legs being longer. You don't know the grounds, either, half
so well as I do, although I dare say you've been sneaking about here
ever since I came. Bat let me tell you this, my friend, for your
information. You can't come it over me, nohow; for I'm a free
American, and I always carry a revolver. Take warning by that one
fact, and bear this in mind too--that if I ever see your villainous
face about here again, or if I find you prowling about after me any
where, I swear I'll blow your bloody brains out as sure as my name's
Obed Chute. I'll do it. I will, by the Eternal!"
With such cheerful remarks as these Obed entertained his companion,
or prisoner, whichever he was, until they reached the gate. The
porter opened it for them, and Gualtier made a wild bound forward.
But he was not quick enough; for Obed, true to his promise, was
intent on giving him that last kick of which he had spoken. He saw
Gualtier's start, and he himself sprang after him with fearful force.
Coming up to him, he administered to him one single blow with his
foot, so tremendous that it was like the stroke of a catapult, and
sent the unhappy wretch headlong to the ground.
After doing this Obed calmly went back, and thought for some time on
this singular adventure. He had his own ideas as to the pertinacity
of this man, and attributed it to some desire on his part to
investigate the old affair of the Chetwynde elopement. What his
particular personal interest might be he could not tell, nor did he
care much. In fact, at this time the question of his visitor's
motives hardly occupied his mind at all, so greatly were his thoughts
occupied with pleasurable reminiscences of his own parting salute.
As for Gualtier, it was different; and if his thoughts were also on
that parting salute, it was for some time. The blow had been a
terrible one; and as he staggered to his feet he found that he could
not walk without difficulty. He dragged himself along, overcome by
pain and bitter mortification, cursing at every step Obed Chute and
all belonging to him, and thus slowly and sullenly went down the
road. But the blow of the catapult had been too severe to admit of an
easy recovery. Every step was misery and pain; and so, in spite of
himself, he was forced to stop. But he dared not rest in any place
along the road-side; for the terror of Obed Chute was still strong
upon him, and he did not know but that this monster might still take
it into his head to pursue him, so as to exact a larger vengeance. So
he clambered up a bank on the roadside, where some trees were, and
among these he lay down, concealing himself from view.
Pain and terror and dark apprehensions of further danger affected his
brain. Concealed among these trees, he lay motionless, hardly daring
to breathe, and scarcely able to move. Amidst his pain there still
came to him a vague wonder at the presence of Obed Chute here in such
close friendship with Lord Chetwynde. How had such a friendship
arisen? How was it possible that these two had ever become
acquainted? Lord Chetwynde, who had passed his later life in India,
could scarcely ever have heard of this man; and even if he had heard
of this man, his connection with the Chetwynde family had been of
such a nature that an intimate friendship like this was the last
thing which might be expected. Such a friendship, unaccountable as it
might be, between these two, certainly existed, for he had seen
sufficient proofs of it; yet what Lord Chetwynde's aims were he
could not tell. It seemed as though, by some singular freak of
fortune, he had fallen in love with Obed Chute's wife, and was having
clandestine meetings with her somewhere. If so, Obed Chute was the
very man to whom Hilda might reveal her knowledge, with the assurance
that the most ample vengeance would be exacted by him on the
destroyer of his peace and the violator of his friendship.
Amidst his pain, and in spite of it, these thoughts came, and others
also. He could not help wondering whether in this close association
of these two they had not some one common purpose. Was it possible
that they could know any thing about Hilda? This was his first
thought; and nothing could show more plainly the unselfish nature of
the love of this base man than that at a time like this he should
think of her rather than himself. Yet so it was. His thought was, Do
they suspect _her_? Has Lord Chetwynde some dark design against her,
and are they working in unison? As far as he could see there was no
possibility of any such design. Hilda's account of Lord Chetwynde's
behavior toward her showed him simply a kind of tolerance of her, as
though he deemed her a necessary evil, but none of that aversion
which he would have shown had he felt the faintest suspicion of the
truth. That truth would have been too terrific to have been borne
thus by any one. No. He must believe that Hilda was really his wife,
or he could not be able to treat her with that courtesy which he
always showed--which, cold though it might be in her eyes, was still
none the less the courtesy which a gentleman shows to a lady who is
his equal. But had he suspected the truth she would have been a
criminal of the basest kind, and courtesy from him to her would have
been impossible. He saw plainly, therefore, that the truth with
regard to Hilda could not be in any way even suspected, and that thus
far she was safe. Another thing showed that there could be no
connection between these two arising out of their family affairs.
Certainly Lord Chetwynde, with his family pride, was not the man who
could ally himself to one who was familiar with the family shame;
and, moreover, Hilda had assured him, from her own knowledge, that
Lord Chetwynde had never learned any thing of that shame. He had
never known it at home, he could not have found it out very easily in
India, and in whatever way he had become acquainted with this
American, it was scarcely probable that he could have found it out
from him. Obed Chute was evidently his friend; but for that very
reason, and from the very nature of the case, he could not possibly
be known to Lord Chetwynde as the sole living contemporary witness of
his mother's dishonor. Obed Chute himself was certainly the last man
in the world, as Gualtier thought, who would have been capable of
volunteering such information as that. These conclusions to which he
came were natural, and were based on self-evident truths. Yet still
the question remained: How was it that these two men, who more than
all others were connected with those affairs which most deeply
affected himself and Hilda, and from whom he had the chief if not the
only reason to fear danger, could now be joined in such intimate
friendship? And this was a question which was unanswerable.
As Hilda's position seemed safe, he thought of his own, and wondered
whether there could be danger to himself from this. Singularly
enough, on that eventful day he had been seen by both Lord Chetwynde
and Obed Chute. Lord Chetwynde, he believed, could not have
recognized him, or he would not have given up the pursuit so readily.
Obed Chute had not only recognized him, but also captured him, and
not only captured him, but very severely punished him; yet the very
fact that Obed Chute had suffered him to go showed how complete his
ignorance must be of the true state of the case. If he had but known
even a portion of the truth he would never have allowed him to go; if
he and Lord Chetwynde were really allied in an enterprise such as he
at first feared when he discovered that alliance, then he himself
would have been detained. True, Obed Chute knew no more of him than
this, that he had once made inquiries about the Chetwynde family
affairs; yet, in case of any serious alliance on their part, this of
itself would have been sufficient cause for his detention. Yet Obed
Chute had sent him off. What did that show? This, above all, that he
could not have any great purpose in connection with his friend.
Amidst all these thoughts his sufferings were extreme. He lay there
fearful of pursuit, yet unable to move, distracted by pain both of
body and mind. Time passed on, but his fears continued unabated. He
was excited and nervous. The pain had brought on a deep physical
prostration, which deprived him of his usual self-possession. Every
moment he expected to see a gigantic figure in a dress-coat and a
broad-brimmed hat of Tuscan straw, with stern, relentless face and
gleaming eyes, striding along the road toward him, to seize him in a
resistless grasp, and send him to some awful fate; or, if not that,
at any rate to administer to him some tremendous blow, like that
catapultian kick, which would hurl him in an instant into oblivion.
The time passed by. He lay there in pain and in fear. Excitement and
suffering had disordered his brain. The constant apprehension of
danger made him watchful, and his distempered imagination made him
fancy that every sound was the footstep of his enemy. Watchful
against this, he held his pistol in his nerveless grasp, feeling
conscious at the same time how ineffectively he would use it if the
need for its use should arise. The road before him wound round the
hill up which he had clambered in such a way that but a small part of
it was visible from where he sat. Behind him rose the wall of the
park, and all around the trees grew thickly and sheltered him.
Suddenly, as he looked there with ceaseless vigilance, he became
aware of a figure that was moving up the road. It was a woman's form.
The figure was dressed in white, the face was white, and round that
face there were gathered great masses of dark hair. To his disordered
senses it seemed at that moment as if this figure glided along the
ground.
Filled with a kind of horror, he raised himself up, one hand still
grasping the pistol, while the other clutched a tree in front of him
with a convulsive grasp, his eyes fixed on this figure. Something in
its outline served to create all this new fear that had arisen, and
fascinated his gaze. To his excited sensibility, now rendered morbid
by the terrors of the last few hours, this figure, with its white
robes, seemed like something supernatural sent across his path. It
was dim twilight, and the object was a little indistinct; yet he
could see it sufficiently well. There was that about it which sent an
awful suspicion over him. All that Hilda had told him recurred to his
mind.
And now, just as the figure was passing, and while his eyes were
riveted on it, the face slowly and solemnly turned toward him.
At the sight of the face which was thus presented there passed
through him a sudden pang of unendurable anguish--a spasm of terror
so intolerable that it might make one die on the spot. For a moment
only he saw that face. The next moment it had turned away. The figure
passed on. Yet in that moment he had seen the face fully and
perfectly. He had recognized it! He knew it as the face of one who
now lay far down beneath the depths of the sea--of one whom he had
betrayed--whom he had done to death! This was the face which now, in
all the pallor of the grave, was turned toward him, and seemed to
change him to stone as he gazed.
The figure passed on--the figure of Zillah--to this
conscience-stricken wretch a phantom of the dead; and he, overwhelmed
by this new horror, sank back into insensibility.