OBED'S NEW ADVENTURE.
After leaving Gualtier in custody Obed Chnte drove away from the
police station with an expression of tranquil satisfaction on his
fine face; such an expression as might befit one who is conscious of
having done his duty to the uttermost. He drove down the Lungh' Arno,
and through the Piazza, and past the Duomo. There was no further need
to keep the blinds closed, and as he drove on he looked out upon the
inhabitants of Florence with a grand benignity of expression to which
no language can do justice. Many things conspired to fill his breast
with the serenest satisfaction and self-complacency. First, he had
saved himself from being humbugged. Secondly, he had been the victor
in two very respectable trials of muscle, in which he, by the sheer
power of muscle, had triumphed, and in the first of which his triumph
had been gained over a man armed with a revolver, and using that
revolver, while he very generously scorned to use his own. Thirdly,
this man was the very one whom he had sought for months, and who had
eluded entirely the police of Italy, France, and England. Obed also
had been merciful and magnanimous in his hour of triumph. He had been
too great-hearted to avail himself of any undue advantage in the
strife, or to do one single act of unnecessary cruelty when that
strife was over, and the victory was won. He had not bound his victim
till the new flight of that victim had compelled him; nor had he
spoken even one harsh word to him. He had captured him fairly and
bravely too, and in the most quiet and unostentatious manner had
handed him over to the police of the country.
Of course there were some things which might have been more agreeable
under the circumstances. The mystery which surrounded this man was
not pleasant. It was not pleasant, after having captured him, to find
himself still baffled in his endeavors to understand him or his
motive; to find that this man had forced him to interweave the case
of Lady Chetwynde with that of Zillah, when to his mind those two
cases were as far asunder as the poles. Yet, after all, the
perplexity which arose from this could not interfere with the
enjoyment of his triumph. Baffled he might be, but still there was no
reason why he should not enjoy the calm pleasure which arises from
the consciousness of having well and fully performed a virtuous
action, and of having done one's duty both to one's neighbor and
one's self.
So Obed, as he drove about before going home, enjoyed the full
consciousness of his own merit. He felt at peace with himself, with
the world at large, and, for that matter, even with Gualtier. So long
as Gualtier had baffled him and eluded his most ardent search, he had
experienced the bitterest and the most vindictive feelings toward the
villain who had perpetrated such foul crimes, and persisted in
evading all pursuit. But now that this mysterious villain had been
captured, and by himself, he felt that bitterness and vindictiveness
no longer. He was satisfied that the law would administer to him the
full punishment which was due to his crimes, and as far as he was
concerned personally he had no feeling against him. He was simply
desirous of justice.
Seated thus in his brougham he drove past Giotto's Campanile, and
past those immortal gates of bronze which Ghiberti made for the
Baptistery, and which Michael Angelo declared to be worthy of being
the gates of Paradise. It was just at this last place, as the
brougham was moving leisurely on, that his attention was arrested by
a figure which was seated on the stone steps immediately outside of
one of those gates. It was a woman, elderly, decrepit, and apparently
poor. She was dressed in deep mourning. She was very pale, her hair
was as white as snow, and her eyes looked forth with an eager,
watchful, wistful expression--an expression of patient yet curious
vigilance, like that of one who is waiting for some friend, or some
enemy, who delays to appear. It was a memorable face--memorable, too,
from its sadness, and from the eager yet almost hopeless scrutiny
which it turned toward every one that passed. This was the figure
that attracted Obed. He gave it one look, and that one look was
enough for him.
The moment that he saw this woman an exclamation burst from him--an
exclamation which was so loud that the woman heard him. She started
and looked up. At that moment the brougham stopped, and Obed, tearing
open the door, sprang out and hurried up the steps of the Baptistery,
where the woman was sitting. She had seen him. A flush passed over
her pale, ghastly face; a wild light came to her eyes. Tremblingly
and with deep excitement she rose to her feet, steadying herself by
grasping the bronze gateway, and looked at him with an earnest,
wondering gaze.
Obed Chute came toward her quickly, yet with a certain reverential
wonder in his face. The triumph and the self-complacency had all died
out, and there was left nothing but a mournful surprise, with which
there was also mingled a deep and inexpressible pity and sympathy.
He came nearer and nearer; still with all this on his face, while she
stood awaiting him and watching him, clinging all the while to the
bronze gates of Ghiberti.
"Is this possible?" said Obed, as he came near her and regarded her
earnestly. "Is it possible?" he repeated, in a low, soft voice, with
a deep solemnity in the tones that was far different from his usual
manner. "Is this indeed _you_--and here too?"
He held out both his hands. His face softened; the hard lines seemed
to fade away into a certain unspeakable tenderness, and in his eyes
there was a look of infinite pity and compassion.
"Yes, it is I," said the woman, in a voice which sounded like a moan.
"I am still alive--still living on--while so many who are better are
dead and are at rest."
She placed one hand in his, while with the other she still clung to
the gateway. The hand which she gave was shriveled and emaciated and
cold also to Obed as he felt it while holding it in both of his.
"Years have passed," said he at length, after a long and solemn
silence, during which each regarded the other most earnestly--"years
have passed," he repeated--"years--since you left--since I saw you
last. Are you living here?" he continued, after some hesitation. "I
suppose you are with one of the religious houses?"
The woman shook her head wearily. "No," said she; "I am by myself. I
am alone in the world. I am now simply 'Mrs. Hart.' I have come here
on important business. It is more than important; it is a matter of
life and death."
"Mrs. Hart! Is that the name that you have?" asked Obed.
"That is my name," said Mrs. Hart, wearily. "It has been my name for
many years, and has done me good service."
Obed said nothing, but regarded her for a long time in silence,
wondering all the while at the mysterious fate of this unhappy woman.
At last he spoke.
"Have you been here long?" he asked. "I have been here for some
weeks, but I have never seen you."
"Nor have I seen you," said Mrs. Hart. "I have been here long, but I
have seen no one whom I know. I am alone."
"And are you able to go alone about this business of which you
speak--this business 'of life and death?' Have you any help? Is it a
thing which you could commit to the police?"
"No," said Mrs. Hart. "I came here in search of--of a friend; but I
have not been able to find him."
"Are you alone, then?" asked Obed, in profound sympathy, while his
face and his voice still showed the deep feeling of his heart. "Have
you no one at all to help you? Is this a thing which you must do by
yourself? Could not another other assist you? Would it be possible
for you to let me help you in this? I can do much if you will allow
me--if you will again put confidence in an old friend."
[Illustration: "IS THIS INDEED YOU--AND HERE TOO?"]
Mrs. Hart looked at him earnestly, and tears started to her eyes.
"Oh, my friend," she murmured, "I believe that God has sent you to
me. I see in your face and I hear in your voice that you still can
feel for me. God bless you! my noble, my only friend! Yes, you can
help me. There is no secret of mine which I need hide from you. I
will tell you all--when I get stronger--and you shall help me. But I
am very weak now," she said, wearily.
Obed looked away, and for a time said not one word. But that strong
frame, which not long before had dared the shots of a desperate
enemy, now trembled violently at the tears of an old woman. With a
powerful effort he gulped down his emotion.
"Where are you living?" he asked, in a voice which had changed to one
of strange sweetness and tenderness. "You are weak. Will you let me
drive you now to your home?"
For a few moments Mrs. Hart looked at him piteously, and made no
reply.
"I think it will be better for you to go home in my carriage," said
Obed, gently urging her.
She still looked at him with the same piteousness.
"In what part of the city do you live?" said Obed, as he took her
hand and drew it inside his arm. "Come, let me lead you to the
carriage."
Mrs. Hart held back for a moment, and again looked at him.
"_I have no home_," she said, in a voice which had died away to a
whisper.
At once the truth flashed upon Obed's mind.
"I have no home," continued Mrs. Hart. "I was turned out yesterday.
Last night I slept in the Boboli Gardens. For two days I have had
nothing to eat."
Obed Chute staggered back as though he hail received a violent blow.
"O God!" he groaned, "has it come to this?"
He said not another word, but gently led Mrs. Hart to the brougham.
He drove to a cafe first, and persuaded her to take some nourishment.
Then he took her once more into the carriage, and they drove slowly
out of the city.