IN PRISON.
Gualtier was driven back to the villa, quite in ignorance as to his
final destination. He was on the front seat, not bound at all, and
there was one moment when there seemed a last chance of escape. It
was at a time when Zillah had noticed Obed's wound, and began to
question him about it with eager sympathy, while Obed tried to assure
her that it was nothing. But Zillah would not be satisfied. She
insisted on binding it up. She took her handkerchief, and, though she
knew no more about such things than a child, prepared to do what she
could. Obed soon saw her ignorance, and proceeded to give her
directions. At last he took her handkerchief and tore it into several
strips, with a laughing promise to tear his up some day for her. At
this moment he was quite intent on Zillah, and she was absorbed in
her work. It seemed to Gualtier that he was forgotten. The carriage,
also, was ascending the hill. On each side were lofty trees
overshadowing it, while beyond them lay a deep forest. All this
Gualtier saw. Here was a last chance. Now or never might he escape.
He watched for an instant. Obed was showing Zillah how to make the
knot, when suddenly, with a quick leap, Gualtier sprang from the
carriage seat out into the road. He stumbled and fell forward as his
feet touched the road, but in an instant he recovered himself. The
road-side was a steep bank, which ascended before him, covered with
forests. Beyond this were the wild woods, with rocks and underbrush.
If he could but get there he might find a refuge. Thither he fled
with frantic haste. He rushed up the steep ascent, and in among the
trees. For some distance the wood was open, and the trees rose on
high at wide distances with no underbrush. Beyond that there was a
denser growth. Through this he ran, stimulated by this new chance for
life, and wishing that he had once again that revolver whose shots he
had wasted.
As he leaped from the carriage Zillah had given a loud cry, and in
another moment Obed had divined the cause and had sprung out in
pursuit. Gualtier's start did not amount to more than a dozen paces.
Obed also was armed. His chance of escape was therefore small indeed.
Small as it was, however, it was enough to stimulate him, and he
hurried onward, hearing at every pace the step of his pursuer. At
length he reached the thicker part of the wood. He turned and doubled
here like a fox. He did not know where to go, but sought to gain some
slight advantage. He thought that he might find some place where for
a few moments he might baffle his pursuer. This was the hope that now
remained. Turning and doubling, therefore, and winding, he continued
his flight; but the pursuer still maintained his pursuit, and as yet
Gualtier had gained no advantage. In fact, he had lost ground
gradually, and the underbrush had not delayed the progress of Obed.
Gualtier felt this, but still strove to attain his purpose.
At last he saw a place where there was a steep precipice, thickly
wooded up to its very margin and then descending abruptly. Toward
this he fled, thinking that some place might show itself where he
might descend, and where his pursuer might fear to follow. He bounded
along in a winding direction, trying to conceal his purpose. At
length he reached the edge of the precipice. At the point to which he
had come the descent was abrupt, but ledges jutted out from the side
of the cliff, and seemed to afford a chance for a descent to one who
was bold enough to venture. There was no time for examination or for
hesitation. Swiftly Gualtier ran on till he reached what seemed a
favorable place, and then, throwing himself over, his feet caught a
projecting ledge, and he reached down his hand to secure a grasp of a
rock, so as to let himself down further. He looked down hurriedly so
as to see the rock which he wished to grasp, when at that very
instant his arm was seized, and a low, stern voice said:
"No go! up with you, you scoundrel! and thank the Lord I don't blow
your brains out."
He was dragged up, flung on the ground, and his hands bound tightly
behind him with Obed's handkerchief. After this he was dragged back
to the carriage.
So failed his last hope.
"You couldn't have done it," said Obed. "I saw it all the time. I
could have shot you fifty times, but, as I knew I was going to catch
you, I didn't touch my pistol. I don't blame you for making the
trial. I'd have done the same. But you see now that you have got your
hands tied up by way of punishment. You can't say but that I've
treated you on the square, any how."
Gualtier said nothing, but was taken back and put in the carriage
once more. Zillah saw that his hands were tied, and felt more secure
as to the result of this second capture.
The carriage now soon reached the villa. Here Obed handed out Zillah,
and gave orders to the servants to make ready the brougham. He
informed Zillah that he himself intended to take Gualtier to the city
and hand him over to the authorities; and that she might make her
mind easy as to his capture this time, for he would not allow even an
attempt at an escape again.
During these preparations Obed stood waiting near the carriage, while
Gualtier sat there with his hands bound. Gladly would he have availed
himself of any other chance, however desperate, but there was none.
His hands were bound, his enemy was watchful and armed. Under such
circumstances there remained no hope. His last attempt had been made
boldly and vigorously, but it had failed. So he gave himself up to
despair.
The brougham was soon ready. Obed put Gualtier inside and got in
himself after him. Then they drove away. Lord Chetwynde was expected
that afternoon, and he might meet him on the road. He had made up his
mind, however, not to recognize him, but to let him learn the great
event from Zillah herself. After giving information to his sister as
to the time at which he expected to be back he drove off; and soon
the brougham with its occupants was moving swiftly onward out of the
villa park, down the descending road, and on toward Florence.
Obed rode inside along with Gualtier all the way. During that drive
his mind found full occupation for itself. The discovery and the
capture of this man made a startling revelation of several most
important yet utterly incomprehensible facts.
First, he recognized in his prisoner the man who had once visited him
in New York for the purpose of gaining information about Lady
Chetwynde. That information he had refused to give for certain
reasons of his own, and had very unceremoniously dismissed the man
that had sought it.
Secondly, this was the same man who in disguise had penetrated into
his villa with all the air and manner of a spy, and who, by thus
following him, showed that he must have been on his track for a long
time.
Thirdly, this very man had turned out to be the long-sought Gualtier
--the one who had betrayed Miss Lorton to a death from which she had
only been saved by a mere accident. This was the man who had won the
affections of Miss Lorton's friend, Hilda, who had induced her to
share his villainy and his crime; the man who had for so long a time
baffled the utmost efforts of the chief European police, yet who had
at last been captured by himself.
Now about this man there were circumstances which to Obed were
utterly incomprehensible.
It was conceivable that the man who had sought him in New York should
track him to Florence. He might have an interest in this affair of
Lady Chetwynde deep enough to inspire so pertinacious a search, so
that the difficulty did not consist in this. The true difficulty lay
in the fact that this man who had come to him first as the inquirer
after Lady Chetwynde should now turn out to be the betrayer of Miss
Lorton. And this made his present purpose the more unintelligible.
What was it that had brought him across Obed's path? Was he still
seeking after information about Lady Chetwynde? or, rather, was he
seeking to renew his former attempt against Miss Lorton? To this
latter supposition Obed felt himself drawn. It seemed to him most
probable that Gualtier had somehow found out about the rescue of
Zillah, and was now tracking her with the intention of consummating
his work. This only could account for his twofold disguise, and his
persistence in coming toward the villa after the punishment and the
warning which he had once received. To think that he should run such
a risk in order to prosecute his inquiry after Lady Chetwynde was
absurd; but to suppose that he did it from certain designs on Miss
Lorton seemed the most natural thing in the world for a villain in
his position.
But behind all this there was something more; and this became to Obed
the most difficult problem. It was easy to conjecture the present
motive of this Gualtier--the motive which had drawn him out to the
villa, to track them, to spy them, and to hover about the place; but
there was another thing to which it was not so easy to give an
answer. It was the startling fact of the identity between the man who
had once come to him in order to investigate about Lady Chetwynde and
the one who had betrayed Miss Lorton. How did it happen that the same
man should have taken part in each? What should have led him to
America for the purpose of questioning him about that long-forgotten
tragedy, and afterward have made him the assassin which he was? It
seemed as though this Gualtier was associated with the two chief
tragedies of Obed's life, for this of Miss Lorton was certainly not
inferior in its effect upon his feelings to that old one of Lady
Chetwynde. Yet how was it that he had become thus associated with two
such events as these? By what strange fatality had he and Obed thus
found a common ground of interest in one another--a ground where the
one was the assailant and betrayer, the other the savior and
defender?
Such thoughts as these perplexed Obed, and he could not find an
answer to them. An answer might certainly have been given by the man
himself at his side, but Obed did not deign to question him; for,
somehow, he felt that at the bottom of all this lay that strange
secret which Miss Lorton had so studiously preserved. Part of it she
had revealed, but only part, and that, too, in such general outlines
that any discovery of the rest was impossible. Had Obed questioned
Gualtier he might have discovered the truth; that is, if Gualtier
would have answered his questions, which, of course, he would not
have done. But Obed did not even try him. He asked nothing and said
nothing during all that long drive. He saw that there was a secret,
and he thought that if Miss Lorton chose to keep it he would not seek
to find it out. He would rather leave it to her to reveal; and if she
did not choose to reveal it, then he would not care to know it. She
was the only one who could explain this away, and he thought that it
would be, in some sort, an act of disloyalty to make any
investigations on his own account with reference to her private
affairs. Perhaps in this he might have been wrong; perhaps he might
have strained too much his scruples, and yielded to a sense of honor
which was too high wrought; yet, at the same time, such was his
feeling, and he could not help it; and, after all, it was a noble
feeling, which took its rise out of one of the purest and most
chivalrous feelings of the heart.
While Obed was thus silent, thoughtful, and preoccupied, Gualtier was
equally so, and at the same time there was a deep anxiety in his
heart, to which the other was a stranger. To him, at that moment,
situated as he was--a prisoner, under such circumstances, and in
company with his watchful, grim, and relentless captor--there were
many thoughts, all of which were bitter enough, and full of the
darkest forebodings for the future. He, too, had made discoveries on
that eventful day far darker, far more fearful, far more weighty, and
far more terrible than any which Obed could have made--discoveries
which filled him with horror and alarm for himself, and for another
who was dearer than himself. The first of these was the great, the
inexplicable fact that Zillah was really and truly alive. This at
once accounted for the phantom which had appeared and stricken terror
to him and to Hilda. Alive, but how? Had he not himself made
assurance doubly sure? had he not with his own hands scuttled that
schooner in which she was? had he not found her asleep in her cabin
as he prepared to leave? had he not felt the water close up to the
deck before he left the sinking yacht? had he not been in that boat
on the dark midnight sea for a long time before the mutinous crew
would consent to row away, so near to the vessel that any noise would
have necessarily come to his ears? He had. How, then, was this? That
yacht _must_ have gone down, and she _must_ have gone down with
it--drowned in her cabin, suffocated there by the waters, without
power to make one cry. So it must have been; but still here she was,
alive, strong, vengeful. It could not be a case of resemblance; for
this woman had penetrated his disguise, had recognized him, and at
the recognition had started to her feet with wild exclamations,
hounding on her companion to pursuit.
But in addition to this there was something still more strange.
However she may have escaped--as she must have done--by what
wonderful concurrence of circumstances had she met with Obed Chute,
and entered into this close friendship with him? That man was
familiar with a dark past, to which she was related in some strange
way. How was it, then, that of all men in the world, this one had
become her friend and protector?
But, even so, there was another mystery, so strange, so dark, so
inexplicable, that the others seemed as nothing. For he had
discovered in her the one whom Lord Chetwynde was seeking with such
zeal, and such passion, and such unfailing constancy. How was it that
Lord Chetwynde had found her, and where had he found her? and if he
had found her, how had he known her? Was he not living with Hilda on
terms at least of respect, and acting toward her as though he
believed her to be his wife? What could be the cause that had brought
him into connection with Obed Chute? Obed Chute had been the
confidant of Lady Chetwynde, and knew the story of her shame. How was
it that the son of such a mother could associate so habitually with
the man who so well knew the history of that mother? If he were not
acquainted with his mother's history himself, how could he have found
out Obed Chute for his friend? and if he were acquainted with it, how
could he have tolerated him as such? From either point of view the
question was unanswerable, and the problem insoluble. Yet the fact
remained that Lord Chetwynde was in the habit of making constant
visits to the house of the man, the very man, to whom the history of
Lord Chetwynde's mother was known as a story of shame, and who
himself had been the chief agent in helping her, as it appeared, from
the ruin to which she had flung herself.
Then, again, there arose the question as to what might be the
position of Zillah. How did she happen to be living with Obed Chute?
In what way was she living? How did it happen that Lord Chetwynde was
carrying on a series of clandestine visits to a woman who was his own
wife? Hilda's story of that passionate interview in the kiosk at the
Villa Rinalci was now intelligible in one sense. It was no phantom
that had terrified her, but the actual form of the living Zillah
herself. Yet, making allowance for this, it became more
unintelligible than ever. For what could have been the meaning of
that scene? If Zillah were alive and his wife, why should Lord
Chetwynde arrange so elaborately this interview in the kiosk? why
should he be at once so passionate and so despairing? why should he
vow his vows of eternal love, and at the same time bid her an eternal
farewell? What was the meaning of his information about that "other I
whom he hated worse than death," which Hilda had felt like a stroke
of death? And why should Lord Chetwynde remain with his false wife,
whom he hated, while his true wife, whom he loved, was so near? Why,
in the name of Heaven, should he treat the one with even civility,
and only visit the other by means of clandestine meetings and stolen
interviews? Could such questions be answered at all? Were they not
all mad together, or were he and Hilda madder than these? What could
be the solution of these insoluble problems?
Such were the questions which filled Gualtier's mind as he drove
along--questions which bewildered his brain, and to which he could
not find an answer. At one time he tried to think that all
these--Zillah. Lord Chetwynde, and Obed Chute--were in alliance; that
they understood one another perfectly, and Hilda also; and that they
were weaving together some deep plot which was to be her ruin. But
this also seemed absurd. For, if they understood her, and knew who
she was, why should they take any trouble to weave plots for her?
That trouble they could spare themselves, and could arrest her at
once whenever they chose. Why did Lord Chetwynde spare her if he knew
all? Was it out of gratitude because she had saved him from death?
Impossible; for he habitually neglected her now, and gave up all his
thoughts and his time to Zillah. Was it possible that Zillah could
have been saved, found out her husband, and was now inciting him to
this strange course from some desire to get fresh proof against
Hilda? No; that was impossible, for she must already have found out
proof enough. The withdrawal of her money would of itself be enough
to show Hilda's complicity; but her assumption of the rôle of Lady
Chetwynde was too audacious for a true wife to bear unmoved or
unconvinced.
But these things were inexplicable. He could not find even a
plausible solution for such difficult problems. His excited brain
reeled beneath the weight of puzzles so intricate and so complicated.
He was compelled to dismiss them all from his thoughts. But though he
dismissed such thoughts as these, there were others which gave
occupation to his whole mind, and these at last excited his chief
interest. First among these was the thought of Hilda. That very
afternoon she might be coming out to carry out her plan of visiting
Obed Chute, and confounding Lord Chetwynde. She would go out knowing
nothing of that one whom she had doomed to death, but who was now
there to confront her. She would go out, and for what? What? Could it
be aught else than ruin, utter and absolute?
This was his last dark terror--all fear for himself had passed away.
He feared for her, and for her alone. His love for her, and his
devotion to her, which had been so often and so conspicuously tested,
which had sent him on such tedious and such perilous enterprises,
now, when all was over with himself, and not a ray of hope remained,
made him rise above self and selfish considerations, and regard her
prospects and her safety alone. The thought of her going out to the
villa in utter ignorance of this new and terrific truth was
intolerable. Yet what could he do? Nothing; and the fact of his own
utter helplessness was maddening at such a time as this. He watched
through the window, scanning all the passers-by with feverish
anxiety, which was so manifest that at length Obed noticed it, and,
supposing that he was meditating some new plan of escape nearer the
city, sternly reprimanded him, and drew the blinds so that nothing
could be seen. And thus, with close-drawn blinds and in silence, they
drove toward the city; so that if Hilda had gone along the road,
Gualtier could not have seen her.
At the same time Obed, in thus shutting out Gualtier from all sight
of the outside world, shut out himself also. And though Lord
Chetwynde may have passed on his way to the villa, yet he could not
have been seen by the occupants of the brougham, nor could he have
seen them.
At last they reached Florence, and Obed drove up to the prefecture of
the police. There he made his statement, and Gualtier was handed over
to the authorities, and put in prison on a charge of attempted murder
committed in Italian waters.
Gualtier was put into a small chamber, with whitewashed walls, narrow
iron-grated window, and solid oaken doors, in which there was a small
round opening. There was an iron bed here and a chair. Gualtier flung
himself upon the bed, and buried his head in his hands. He felt as if
he had reached the verge of despair; yet,-even at that moment, it was
not of himself that he thought. Far above his distress and his
despair arose the power of his love, and thus turned his thoughts
toward Hilda. Was she on her way out? Was she going to ruin? Or was
she still at her hotel? She had not said for certain that she was
going to the villa on that day; she said that she was going on that
day or the next. Perhaps she had postponed it, and reserved her visit
for the next. It seemed probable. If it were indeed so, then there
was yet time to make an effort to save her. How could he make such an
effort? How could he gain communication with her?
He rose from his bed, and watched through the opening of his door.
There was a guard outside, who paced backward and forward solemnly.
Gualtier's knowledge of human nature, and of Italian human nature in
particular, suggested to him a way by which he might send a message.
After some delay he signaled to the guard, who, after looking around
cautiously, came up to his door.
"I want to send a message," said Gualtier, in the best Italian that
he could muster. "It is very important. It is to a friend. I will pay
well."
The guard looked interested.
"Where is your friend?" he asked.
"In the city. Can I have the message sent? I will pay two hundred
piastres if I get an answer."
The guard hesitated.
"Wait," said he, after a few moments' thought; "I will see."
He went away, and was gone for about twenty minutes. When he returned
he exchanged a glance of profound intelligence with Gualtier, and
said:
"I think it can be done, signore."
At this Gaultier went back, and, tearing a leaf out of his
pocket-book, penciled the following words:
"A miracle has happened. _She has come to life again_. It was no
phantom, but _herself_ that appeared to you and me. I am in prison.
Do not go out to the villa. Fly and save yourself."
Folding this up, he took it to the guard.
"If you bring back an answer to this," said he, "you shall have two
hundred piastres. If you don't find the person, you shall have
fifty."
Gualtier then told him the name and address of Hilda, and wrote it
out for his information, charging him that it must be delivered to
herself, and no other. The guard said that he could not go himself,
but would send his younger brother. This satisfied Gualtier, and the
guard again departed.
After some time he returned, and paced up and down as before. An hour
passed. Gualtier became impatient. Then two hours elapsed.
He then beckoned to the guard.
"He is gone a long time," said he.
"Perhaps he is waiting," said the guard; "if it is possible he will
deliver the message."
Gualtier waited.
Three hours passed.
The guard at last came back to his door. He handed back to Gualtier
the letter which he had written.
"The lady," said he, "was not at home. She had gone away. My brother
waited all this time, but she did not return. Shall he go back and
wait?"
"No," said Gualtier.
He gave a hundred piastres to the guard. He took his note, and tore
it up. All hope faded away within him, and despair, black and dark,
settled down upon his soul.