NEW PROJECTS.
The unexpected appearance of Mrs. Hart was in many respects, and for
many reasons, an awful shock to Hilda. It was a new danger, less
terrible than that which had arisen from the phantom which had twice
appeared, yet perhaps in reality more perilous. It filled her with
apprehensions of the worst. All that night she lay awake thinking
over it. How had Mrs. Hart come to Florence, and why, and what was
she doing here? Such were her thoughts. Was she also in connection
with Lord Chetwynde and with this Obed Chute? It seemed probable. If
so, then it seemed equally probable that there was some design on
foot against her. At first the thought of this inspired in her a
great fear, and a desire to fly from the impending danger. For a
moment she almost decided to give up her present purpose forever,
collect as much money as she could, and fly to some distant place,
where she might get rid of all her danger and forget all her
troubles. But this thought was only momentary, for higher than her
desire for comfort or peace of mind rose her thirst for vengeance. It
would not satisfy her that she alone should suffer. Lord Chetwynde
also should have his own share, and she would begin by unmasking him
and revealing his intrigue to her supposed husband.
On the following day Gualtier called, and in a few words she told him
what had taken place.
"Are you really confident that it was Mrs. Hart?" he asked, with some
anxiety.
"As confident as I am of my own existence. Indeed, no mistake was
possible."
Gualtier looked deeply troubled.
"It looks bad," said he; "but, after all, there are ways of
accounting for it. She may have heard that Lord Chetwynde intended to
go to Italy and to Florence--for it was quite possible that he
mentioned it to her at the Castle--and when she went away she may
have intended to come here in search of him. I dare say she went to
London first, and found out from his solicitors where he had gone.
There isn't the slightest probability, at any rate, that he can have
met with her. If he had met with her, you would have known it
yourself soon enough. She would have been here to see his wife, with
the same affectionate solicitude which she showed once before--which
you told me of. No. Rest assured Lord Chetwynde knows nothing of her
presence here. There are others who take up all his thoughts. It
seems probable, also, that she has just arrived, and there is no
doubt that she is on the look-out for him. At any rate, there is one
comfort. You are sure, you say, that she did not recognize you?"
"No; that was impossible; for I wore a thick veil. No one could
possibly distinguish my features.
"And she can not, of course, suspect that you are here?"
"She can not have any such suspicion, unless we have been ourselves
living in the dark all this time--unless she is really in league with
Lord Chetwynde. And who can tell? Perhaps all this time this Chute
and Mrs. Hart and Lord Chetwynde have their own designs, and are
quietly weaving a net around me from which I can not escape. Who can
tell? Ah! how easily I could escape--if it were not for one thing!"
"Oh, as to that, you may dismiss the idea," said Gualtier,
confidently; "and as for Lord Chetwynde, you may rest assured that he
does not think enough about you to take the smallest trouble one way
or another."
Hilda's eyes blazed.
"He shall have cause enough to think about me yet," she cried. "I
have made up my mind what I am to do next."
"What is that?"
"I intend to go myself to Obed Chute's villa."
"The villa! Yourself!"
"Yes."
"You!"
"I--myself. _You_ can not go."
"No. But how can you go?"
"Easily enough. I have nothing to fear."
"But this man is a perfect demon. How will you be able to encounter
him? He would treat you as brutally as a savage. I know him well. I
have reason to. You are not the one to go there."
"Oh yes, lam," said Hilda, carelessly. "You forget what a difference
there is between a visit from you and a visit from me."
"There is a difference, it is true; but I doubt whether Obed Chute is
the man to see it. At any rate, you can not think of going
without some pretext. And what one can you possibly have that will be
at all plausible?"
"Pretext! I have the best in the world. It is hardly a pretext
either. I intend to go openly, in my own proper person--as Lady
Chetwynde."
"As Lady Chetwynde!" repeated Gualtier, in amazement. "What do you
mean? Would it be too much to ask you what your plan may be, or what
it is that you may have in view?"
"It's simple enough," said Hilda. "It is this. You will understand it
readily enough, I think. You see, I have discovered by accident some
mysterious writing in cipher, which by another accident I have been
enabled to unravel. Now you understand that this writing makes very
serious charges indeed against my father, the late General Pomeroy.
He is dead; but I, as an affectionate daughter, am most anxious to
understand the meaning of this fearful accusation thus made against
the best of men. I have seen the name of this Obed Chute mentioned in
some of the papers connected with the secret writing, and have found
certain letters from him referring to the case. Having heard very
unexpectedly that he is in Florence, I intend to call on him to
implore him to explain to me all this mystery."
"That is admirable," said Gualtier.
"Of course it is," said Hilda; "nothing, indeed, could be better.
This will give me admission to the villa. Once in there, I shall have
to rely upon circumstances. Whatever those circumstances may be, I
shall, at least, be confronted with Lord Chetwynde, and find out who
this woman is. I hope to win the friendship and the confidence of
these people. They will pity me, sympathize with me, and invite me
there. If Lord Chetwynde is such a friend, they can hardly overlook
his wife. The woman, whoever she may be, even if she hates me, as she
must, will yet see that it is her best policy to be at least civil to
me. And that will open a way to final and complete vengeance."
To this plan Gualtier listened in unfeigned admiration.
"You have solved the mystery!" said he, excitedly. "You will--you
must succeed, where I have failed so miserably."
"No," said Hilda, "you have not failed. Had it not been for you I
could never have had this chance. It is by your discovery of Obed
Chute that you have made my present course possible. You have
suffered for my cause, but your sufferings will make that cause at
last triumphant."
"For such a result as that I would suffer ten thousand times more,"
said Gualtier, in impassioned tones.
"You will not be exposed to any further sufferings, my friend," said
Hilda. "I only want your assistance now."
"It is yours already. Whatever you ask I am ready to do."
"What I ask is not much," said Hilda. "I merely want you to be near
the spot, so as to be in readiness to assist me."
"On the spot! Do you mean at the villa?"
"No, not at the villa, but near it, somewhere along the road. I wish
you to see who goes and comes. Go out there to-day, and watch. You
need not go within a mile of the villa itself; that will be enough.
You will then know when Lord Chetwynde comes. You can watch from
behind some hedge, I suppose. Can you do that?"
"That?--that is but a slight thing. Most willingly will I do this,
and far more, no matter what, even if I have to face a second time
that phantom."
"I will go out to-morrow, or on the following day. I want you to be
on the watch, and see who may go to the villa, so that when I come
you may let me know. I do not want to call unless I positively know
that Lord Chetwynde will be there, and the family also. They may
possibly go out for a drive, or something may happen, and this is
what I want you to be on the look-out for. If Lord Chetwynde is
there, and that woman, there will probably be a scene," continued
Hilda, gloomily; "but it will be a scene in which, from the very
nature of the case, I ought to be triumphant. I've been suffering too
much of late. It is now about time for a change, and it seems to me
that it is now my turn to have good fortune. Indeed, I can not
conceive how there can be any failure. The only possible awkwardness
would be the presence of Mrs. Hart. If she should be there,
then--why, then, I'm afraid all would be over. That is a risk,
however, and I must run it."
"That need not be regarded," said Gualtier. "If Mrs. Hart had found
Lord Chetwynde, you would have known it before this."
"That is my chief reliance."
"Have you those papers?"
"Papers?"
"Yes; the cipher and the letters."
"Oh yes. Did I not say that I had them all?"
"No. I thought that you had given them all to--to _her_," said
Gualtier.
"So I did; but I got them back, and have kept them, I don't know why.
I suppose it was from an instinct of forecast. Whatever was the
reason, however, they are now of priceless value. For they enable me
now to go as the daughter of one who has been charged in these papers
with the commission of the most atrocious crimes. This must all be
explained to me, and by this Obed Chute, who is the only living
person who can do it."
"I am glad that what I have done will be useful to you," said
Gualtier. "You may trust to me now to do all that man can do. I will
go and watch and wait till you come."
Hilda thereupon expressed the deepest gratitude to him, and she did
this in language far more earnest than any which she had ever before
used to him. It may have been the consciousness that this would be
the last service which he was to perform for her; it may have been an
intentional recognition of his past acts of love and devotion; it may
have been a tardy act of recognition of all his fidelity and
constancy; but, whatever it was, her words sank deep into his soul.
"Those words," said he, "are a reward for all the past. May I not yet
hope for a future reward?"
"You may, my friend. Did I not give you my promise?"
"_Hilda_!"
This word burst from him. It was the first time that he had so
addressed her. Not even in the hour of his triumph and coercion had
he ventured upon this. But now her kindness had emboldened him. He
took her hand, and pressed it to his lips.
"I have a presentiment of evil," said he. "We may never meet again.
But you will not forget me?"
Hilda gave a long sigh.
"If we meet again," said she, "we shall see enough of one another.
If not"--and she paused for a moment--"if not, then"--and a solemn
cadence came to her voice--"then you will be the one who will
remember, and _I_ shall be the one _to be remembered_. Farewell, my
friend!"
She held out her hand.
Once more Gualtier pressed it to his lips.
Then he took his departure.