THE CRYPTOGRAM DECIPHERED.
Hitherto, and up to that last moment just spoken of, this whole
affair had been one long puzzle to Obed, one, too, which was
exceedingly unpleasant and utterly incomprehensible. While Lord
Chetwynde had been pacing the gallery in a fever of agitation, Obed
had been a prey to thoughts less intense and less painful, no doubt,
but yet equally perplexing. He had been summing up in his mind the
general outlines of this grand mystery, and the results were
something like this:
_First_, there was the fact that these three were all old friends,
or, at least, that two of them were equally dear to Mrs. Hart.
_Secondly_, that on the appearance of Mrs. Hart each was unable to
account for the emotion of the other.
_Thirdly_, that Miss Lorton and Windham had been living under assumed
names ever since he had known them.
_Fourthly_, that Miss Lorton and Windham had hitherto been uncommonly
fond of one another's society.
_Fifthly_, that this was not surprising, since Windham had saved Miss
Lorton from a frightful death.
_Sixthly_, what? Why this, that Mrs. Hart had solemnly declared that
Windham was not Wind ham at all, but Guy Molyneux, son of the late
Earl of Chetwynde; and that Miss Lorton was not Miss Lorton, but
Zillah, daughter of Neville Pomeroy, and wife of Lord Chetwynde!
The Earl of Chetwynde! Neville Pomeroy! Did any of these, except Mrs.
Hart, know, did they have the remotest suspicion of the profound
meaning which these names had to Obed Chute? Did they know or
suspect? Know or suspect? Why, they evidently knew nothing, and
suspected nothing! Had they not been warm friends--or something more,
as Obed now began to think--for months, while neither one knew the
other as any thing else than that which was assumed?
It was a puzzle.
It was something that required an uncommon exercise of brain. Such an
exercise demanded also an uncommon stimulus to that brain; and
therefore Obed had gone up for his pipe. It was while preparing this
that the card had come.
"Lady Chetwynde!"
His first impulse was to give a long, low whistle. After this he
arose in silence and went down to the chief room. A lady was sitting
there, who rose as he entered. Obed bowed low and looked at her
earnestly as he seated himself.
"I hope, Sir," said the lady, in a clear, musical voice, "that you
will excuse the liberty which I have taken; but the object that
brings me here is one of such importance that I have been compelled
to come in person. It was only of late that I learned that you were
residing here, and as soon as I heard it I came to see you."
Obed Chute bowed again, but said not a word.
His bewilderment was yet strong, and he did not wish to commit
himself. This lady was beautiful, and graceful in her manner. She
called herself Lady Chetwynde. The name puzzled him, and, in addition
to the other puzzle that had visited him on this eventful day, was
hard to be borne. But he bore it bravely, and was silent. In his
silence he regarded his visitor with the closest scrutiny. At the
first glance he had marked her beauty. A further observation showed
that she was agitated, that she was pale, and bore marks of
suffering. She was a woman in distress. In the midst of Obed's
perplexity the discovery of this aroused his chivalrous sympathy.
This was Hilda's last venture, and she felt it to be such. She had
come out with the expectation of finding Gualtier on the road, and of
receiving some message from him. She had seen nothing of him. She had
waited about half an hour on the road, till she could wait no longer,
and then she had gone onward. She thought that Gualtier might have
failed her, but such a thing seemed so improbable that she began to
fear some disaster. Perhaps he had fallen a victim to his devotion.
The thought of this troubled her, and increased her agitation; and
now, when she found herself in the presence of Obed Chute, her
agitation was so marked as to be visible to him. Yet, as far as he
was concerned, this agitation only served to favor her cause in his
eyes.
"Mr. Chute," said Hilda, in low, steady tones, "I am Lady Chetwynde.
I am the daughter of General Pomeroy, once Captain Pomeroy, whom you
knew. He died a few years ago, and on his death-bed arranged a
marriage between me and the only son of the Earl of Chetwynde. It was
a sudden marriage. He insisted on it. He was dying, and his wishes
could not be denied. I yielded, and was married. My husband left me
immediately after the marriage ceremony, and went to India, where he
remained for years. He only returned a short time ago. My father,
General Pomeroy, died, and the Earl of Chetwynde took me to live with
him. I lived with him for years. I was a daughter to him, and he
loved me as one. He died in my arms. I was alone in the world till
his son, the young Earl, came home. Pardon me for mentioning these
family details, but they are necessary in order to explain my
position and to prepare the way for those things which I have to
say."
Hilda paused for a while. Obed said nothing, but listened with an
unchanged face.
"Not long after my father's death," said Hilda, "I went to pay a
visit to my old home, Pomeroy Court. I happened to look into my
father's desk one day, and there I found some papers. One of them was
a writing in cipher, and the rest consisted of letters written by one
who signed himself _Obed Chute_, and who wrote from New York. All
related to the wife of the Earl."
Hilda stopped again, and waited to see the effect of this. But Obed
said nothing, nor could she see in his face any indication of any
emotion whatever.
"That writing in cipher," she continued, "disturbed me. The letters
were of such a character that they filled me with uneasiness, and I
thought that the writing in cipher would explain all. I therefore
tried to decipher it. I obtained books on the subject, and studied up
the way by which such things may be unraveled. I applied myself to
this task for months, and at last succeeded in my object. I never
felt certain, however, that I had deciphered it rightly, nor do I yet
feel certain; but what I did find out had a remarkable connection
with the letters which accompanied it, and increased the alarm which
I felt. Then I tried to find out about you, but could not. You alone,
I thought, could explain this mystery. It was a thing which filled me
with horror. I can not tell you how awful were the fears that arose,
and how intolerable were the suspicions. But I could never get any
explanation. Now these things have never ceased to trouble me, and
they always will until they are explained.
"Yesterday I happened to hear your name mentioned. It startled me. I
made inquiries, and found that a person who bore that name which was
so familiar to me, and about which I had made such inquiries--Obed
Chute--was living here. I at once resolved to come out and see you in
person, so as to ask you what it all means, and put an end, in some
way or other, to my suspense."
This recital produced a strong effect on Obed, yet no expression of
his face told whether that effect was favorable or unfavorable.
Earnestly Hilda watched his face as she spoke, so as to read if
possible her fate, yet she found it impossible. His face remained
stolid and impassive, though she saw this much, that he was listening
to her with the deepest attention. What was most perplexing was the
fact that Obed did not say one single word.
In fact, in this position, he did not know what to say. So he did the
very best thing that he could, and said nothing. But the mystery that
had begun that day with the advent of Mrs. Hart was certainly
deepening. It was already unfathomable when Mrs. Hart had said that
Zillah was Lady Chetwynde, and that Windham was Lord Chetwynde. Here,
however, came one who made it still more hopelessly and inextricably
entangled by calmly announcing herself as Lady Chetwynde; and not
only so, but adding to it an account of her life. Which was the true
one? Mrs. Hart could not lie. She did not seem to be insane. About
Zillah there had certainly been a mystery, but she could not deceive.
He began to have vague ideas that Lord Chetwynde's morals had become
affected by his Indian life, and that he had a great number of wives;
but then he remembered that this woman claimed to be General
Pomeroy's daughter, which Mrs. Hart had also said of Zillah. So the
problem was as dark as ever. He began to see that he was incapable of
dealing with this subject, and that Mrs. Hart alone could explain.
Hilda, after some delay, went on:
"I have mentioned my attempt to discover the cipher writing," said
she. "My deciphering was such that it seemed to involve my father in
a very heavy charge. It made me think that he had been guilty of some
awful crime."
"Your father, General Pomeroy?" Obed Chute uttered this suddenly, and
with deep surprise.
Hilda started, and then said, very placidly, "Yes."
"And you thought that he might be guilty of 'awful crimes?'"
"I feared so."
"Had you lived any time with your father?"
"All my life."
Obed Chute said nothing more though Hilda seemed to expect it; so,
finding him silent, she went on without regarding him; though, if she
had known this man, she would have seen that by those words she at
once lost all that sympathy and consideration which thus far he had
felt for her.
"On deciphering that paper of which I have spoken I found that it
charged my father, General Pomeroy, with several crimes, all equally
abhorrent. I will show you the paper itself, and my interpretation of
it line by line, so that you may see for yourself the agony that such
a discovery would naturally produce in the mind of a daughter. I will
also show you those letters which you yourself wrote to my father
many years ago."
Saying this, Hilda produced some papers, which she laid on the table
before Obed Chute.
The first was the writing in cipher.
The second was her own interpretation, such as she had already shown
to Gualtier and to Zillah.
The third was the same thing, written out line by line for the sake
of legibility, as follows:
_Oh may God have mercy on my wretched soul Amen
O Pomeroy forged a hundred thousand dollars
O N Pomeroy eloped with poor Lady Chetwynde
She acted out of a mad impulse in flying
She listened to me and ran off with me
She was piqued at her husband's act
Fell in with Lady Mary Chetwynd
Expelled the army for gaming
N Pomeroy of Pomeroy Berks
O I am a miserable villain_
Along with these she put down a paper which contained her key for
deciphering this.
Finally she laid down those letters written by Obed Chute, which have
already been given. All these Obed Chute examined carefully. The
cipher writing he looked at, compared it with the key, and then with
the interpretation written by Hilda. As she looked anxiously at his
face it struck her that when he took up that cipher writing it seemed
as though he was familiar with it. For such a thing she was not
unprepared. Obed Chute's connection with this business was mysterious
to her, but it had been of such a nature that he might be able to
read this paper, and know the fullness of its meaning. After reading
those letters which had been written by himself--among which,
however, that latest letter which Hilda had shown Zillah was not to
be seen--he took up that second paper in which she had carefully
written out in capitals the meaning of each line, such as has already
been given, where the line is extended by characters which are not
interpreted. Over this he looked long and carefully, frequently
comparing it with the first paper, which contained only the cipher
itself.
At length he laid down the papers and looked Hilda full in the face.
"Did it ever strike you," he asked, "that your translation was
slightly rambling, and a little incoherent?"
"I have hoped that it was," said Hilda, pathetically.
"You may be assured of it," said Obed. "Read it for yourself, and
think for a moment whether any human being would think of writing
such stuff as that." And he motioned contemptuously to the paper
where her interpretation was written out. "There's no meaning in it
except this, which I have now noticed for the first time--that the
miserable scoundrel who wrote this has done it so as to throw
suspicion upon the man whom he was bound to love with all his
contemptible heart, if he had one, which he hadn't. I see now. The
infernal sneak!"
And Obed, glaring at the paper, actually ground his teeth in rage. At
length he looked up, and calmly said:
"Madam, it happens that in this interpretation of yours you are
totally and utterly astray. In your deep love for your father"--and
here Hilda imagined a sneer--"you will be rejoiced to learn this.
This cipher is an old-acquaintance. I unraveled it all many years
ago--almost before you were born, certainly before you ever thought
of ciphers. I have all the papers by me. You couldn't have come to a
better person than me--in fact, I'm the only person, I suppose, that
you could come to. I will therefore explain the whole matter, so that
for the rest of your life your affectionate and guileless nature may
no longer be disturbed by those lamentable suspicions which you have
cultivated about the noblest gentleman and most stainless soldier
that ever breathed."
With these words he left the room, and shortly returned with some
papers. These he spread before Hilda. One was the cipher itself--a
fac-simile of her own. The next was a mass of letters, written out in
capitals on a square block. Every cipher was written out here in its
Roman equivalent.
As he spread this out Obed showed her the true character of it.
"You have mistaken it," he said. "In the cipher there is a double
alphabet. The upper half is written in the first, the lower half in
the second. The second alphabet has most of the letters of the first;
those of most frequent occurrence are changed, and instead of
astronomical signs, punctuation marks are used. You have succeeded, I
see, in finding the key to the upper part, but you do not seem to
have thought that the lower part required a separate examination. You
seem to suppose that all this mass of letters is unmeaning, and was
inserted by way of recreation to the mind that was wearied with
writing the first, or perhaps to mislead. Now if you had read it all
you would have seen the entire truth. The man that wrote this was a
villain: he has written it so that the upper part throws suspicion
upon his benefactor. Whether he did this by accident or on purpose
the Lord only knows. But, to my personal knowledge, he was about the
meanest, smallest, sneakin'est rascal that it was ever my luck to
light on. And yet he knew what honor was, and duty, for he had
associated all his life with the noblest gentleman that ever lived.
But I will say no more about it. See! Here is the full translation of
the whole thing."
And he laid down before Hilda another paper, which was written out in
the usual manner.
"If you look at the first paper," said Obed, pointing to the one
which gave the translation of each letter, above described, "you will
see that the first part rends like your translation, while the lower
part has no meaning. This arose from the peculiar nature of the man
who wrote it. He couldn't do any thing straight. When he made a
confession he wrote it in cipher. When he wrote in cipher he wrote it
so as to puzzle and mislead any one who might try to find it out. He
couldn't write even a cipher straight, but began in the middle and
wound all his letters about it. Do you see that letter 'M' in the
eleventh line, the twelfth one from the right side, with a cross by
the side of it? That is the first letter. You must read from that,
but toward the left, for seventeen letters, and then follow on the
line immediately above it. The writing then runs on, and winds about
this central line till this rectangular block of letters is formed.
You supposed that it read on like ordinary writing. You see what you
have found out is only those lines that happened to be the top ones,
reading in the usual way from left to right. Now take this first
paper. Begin at that cross, read from right to left for seventeen
letters, and what do you find?"
[Illustration.]
Hilda did so, and slowly spelled out this:
"MY NAME IS NOT KRIEFF."
A shock of astonishment passed through her.
"Krieff?" she repeated--"Krieff?"
"Yes, Krieff," said Obed; "that was his last alias."
"Alias? Krieff?" faltered Hilda.
"Yes. He had one or two others, but this was his last."
"His? Whose? Who is it, then, that wrote this?"
"Read on. But it is not worth while to bother with this block of
letters. See; I have this paper where it is all written out. Read
this;" and he handed the other paper to Hilda. She took it
mechanically, and read as follows:
"My name is not Krieff. I am a miserable villain, but I was once
named Pemberton Pomeroy, of Pomeroy, Berks. I fell into vice early in
life, and was expelled the army for gaming. I changed my name then to
Redfield Lyttoun. I fell in with Lady Mary Chetwynde. She was
thoughtless, and liked my attentions. I knew she was piqued at her
husband's act in leaving his party and losing his prospects. Out of
spite she listened to me and ran off with me. Neville followed us and
rescued her from me before it was too late. She acted out of a mad
impulse in flying, and repented bitterly. My brother saved her. Let
all know that I, Pemberton Pomeroy, eloped with poor Lady Chetwynde,
and that she was saved by Neville Pomeroy. Let the world know, too,
that I, Pemberton Pomeroy, forged a hundred thousand dollars, and my
brother paid it, and saved me. I write this in cipher, and am a
villain and a coward too.
"Oh, may God have mercy on my wretched soul! Amen."
On reading this Hilda then compared it with the other paper. She saw
at once that the lines which she had translated were only fragmentary
portions that happened to read from left to right. Doubt was
impossible, and this which Obed Chute gave her was the truth. She
laid the paper down, and looked thoughtfully away. There were several
things here which disturbed her, but above all there was the name
mentioned at the outset. For she saw that the man who had written
this had once gone by the name of Krieff.
"I think it my duty," said Obed Chute, "to give you a full
explanation, since you have asked it. The parties concerned are now
all dead, and you claim to be the daughter of one of them. There is
therefore no reason why I should not tell you all that I know. I have
made up my mind to do so, and I will.
"Neville Pomeroy, then, was an English gentleman. I have seen much of
Britishers, and have generally found that in a time of trial the
English gentleman comes out uncommonly strong. I got acquainted with
him in an odd kind of way. He was a young fellow, and had come out to
America to hunt buffaloes. I happened to be on the Plains at the same
time. I was out for a small excursion, for the office at New York was
not the kind of place where a fellow of my size could be content all
the time. We heard a great row--guns firing, Indians yelling, and
conjectured that the savages were attacking some party or other. We
dashed on for a mile or two, and came to a hollow. About fifty
rascally Sioux were there. They had surrounded two or three whites,
and captured them, and were preparing to strip each for the purpose
of indulging in a little amusement they have--that is, building a
fire on one's breast. They didn't do it that time, at any rate; and
the fight that followed when we came up was the prettiest, without
exception, that I ever saw. We drove them off, at any rate; and as we
had revolvers, and they had only common rifles, we had it all our own
way. Thirty of those Sioux devils were left behind, dead and wounded,
and the rest vamosed.
"This was my first introduction to Neville Pomeroy. I cut his bonds
first, and then introduced myself. He had no clothes on, but was as
courteous as though he was dressed in the latest Fifth Avenue
fashion. We soon understood one another. I found him as plucky as the
devil, and as tough and true as steel. He seemed to like me, and we
kept together on the prairies for three months--fighting, hunting,
starving, stuffing, and enjoying life generally. He came with me to
New York, and stopped with me. I was a broker and banker. Don't look
like one, I know; but I was, and am. The American broker is a
different animal from the broker of Europe. So is the American
banker, one of whom you see before you.
"I won't say any thing more about our personal affairs. We became
sworn friends. He went back home, and I took to the desk. Somehow we
kept writing to one another. He heard of great investments in
America, and got me to buy stock for him. He was rich, and soon had I
a large amount of money in my hands. I got the best investments for
him there were, and was glad to do any thing for a man like that.
"I'll now go on straight and tell you all that you care to hear. Some
of this--in fact, most of it--I did not find out till long afterward.
"Neville Pomeroy then had a younger brother, named Pemberton Pomeroy.
He was an officer in the Guards. He was very dissipated, and soon got
head over heels in debt. Neville had done all that he could for his
brother, and had paid off his debts three times, each time saving him
from ruin. But it was no use. There was the very devil himself in
Pemberton. He was by nature one of the meanest rascals that was ever
created, though the fellow was not bad-looking. He got deeper and
deeper into the mire, and at last got into a scrape so bad, so dirty,
that he had to quit the Guards. It was a gambling affair of so
infamous a character that it was impossible for his brother to save
him. So he quit the Guards, and went into worse courses than ever.
Neville tried still to save him; he wanted to get him an office, but
Pemberton refused. Meanwhile, out of a sense of decency, he had
changed his name to that of Redfield Lyttoun, and under this name he
became pretty well known to a new circle of friends. Under this name
he made the acquaintance of the wife of the Earl of Chetwynde. It
seems that the Earl was wrapped up in politics, and had offended her
by giving up a great office which he held rather than act
dishonorably. She was angry, and grew desperate. Redfield Lyttoun
turned up, and amused her. She compromised herself very seriously by
allowing such marked attentions from him, and people began to talk
about them. The Earl knew nothing at all about this, as he was busy
all the day. There was a sort of quarrel between them, and all her
doings were quite unknown. But Neville heard of it, and made a final
attempt to save his brother. I think this time he was actuated rather
by regard for the Earl, who was his most intimate friend, than by any
hope of saving this wretched fool of a brother of his. At any rate,
he warned him, and threatened to tell the Earl himself of all that
was going on. Pemberton took alarm, and pretended that he would do as
Neville said. He promised to give up Lady Chetwynde. But his
brother's advice had only made him savage, and he determined to carry
out this game to the end. He was desperate, reckless, and utterly
unprincipled. Lady Chetwynde was silly and thoughtless. She liked the
scoundrel, too, I suppose. At any rate, he induced her to run away
with him. For the sake of getting funds to live on he forged some
drafts. He found out that Neville had money in my hands, and drew for
this. I suspected nothing, and the drafts were paid. He got the money
in time to run off with his victim. Silly and foolish as Lady
Chetwynde was, the moment that she had taken the inevitable step she
repented. She thought that it would be impossible to retrace it, and
gave herself up to despair. They fled to America under assumed names.
"Their flight was immediately known to Neville. He lost not a moment,
but hurried out to America; and as the ship in which he sailed was
faster than the other, he reached New York first. He came at once to
me. Then he learned, for the first time, of the forgery. About one
hundred thousand dollars had been drawn and paid. We took counsel
together, and watched for the arrival of the steamer. Immediately on
its being reported in the bay we boarded her, and Pemberton Pomeroy
was arrested. He was taken to prison, and Neville induced Lady
Chetwynde to come with us. I offered my house. The privacy was a most
important thing. She had been freed from Pemberton's clutches, and
Neville showed her that it was possible for her to escape yet from
complete infamy. The suddenness of this termination to their plan
startled her and horrified her. Remorse came, and then despair. All
this preyed upon her mind, and with it all there came a great longing
for her son, whom she had left behind. The end of it all was that she
fell under an attack of brain-fever, and lingered for many months a
victim to it. She finally recovered, and went into a convent. After
staying there some time she suddenly left. That is the meaning of
those letters which you found. Of course I kept Neville Pomeroy
acquainted with these circumstances on his return.
"Meanwhile Pemberton Pomeroy had lain under arrest. Neville went to
see him, and took advantage of his misery to exact from him a solemn
promise never to search after Lady Chetwynde again, or interfere with
her in any way. Soon after that Pemberton Pomeroy was freed, for
Neville declined to appear against him, and the case dropped. Neville
then went back to England.
"Pemberton Pomeroy remained. There was no more hope for him in
England. The money which he had gained by his forgery lie, of course,
had to refund; but his brother generously gave him a few thousands to
begin life on. Pemberton then disappeared for a year or two. At the
end of that time he came back. He had gone to England, and then
returned to America, where he had lived out West. All his money was
gone. He had fallen into low courses. He had taken a wife from the
dregs of the foreign population, and, as though he had some spark of
shame left, he had changed his name to Krieff. He had spent his last
cent, and came to me for help. I helped him, and put him in the way
of getting a living.
"But he had lived a wild life, and was completely used up. When he
came to me he was pretty well gone in consumption. I saw he couldn't
last long. I went to see him a good many times. He used to profess
the deepest repentance. He told me once that he was writing a
confession of his crimes, which he was going to send to his brother.
The miserable creature had scarcely any spirit or courage left, and
generally when I visited him he used to begin crying. I put up with
him as well as I could, though. One day when I was with him he handed
me a paper, with considerable fuss, and said I was not to open it
till after his death. Not long afterward he died. I opened the paper,
and found that it contained only this cipher, together with a solemn
request that it should be forwarded to his brother. I wrote to
Neville Pomeroy, telling him of his brother's death, and he at once
came out to New York. He had him decently buried, and I gave him the
papers. I had taken a copy myself, and had found a man who helped me
to decipher it. There was nothing in it. The poor fool had wanted to
make a confession some way, but was too mean to do it like a man, and
so he made up this stuff, which was of no use to any one, and could
only be deciphered by extraordinary skill. But the fellow is dead,
and now you know all the business."
Obed Chute ended, and bent down his head in thought. Hilda had
listened with the deepest attention, and at the conclusion of this
account she, too, fell into deep thought. There were many things in
it which impressed her, and some which startled her with a peculiar
shock.
But the one idea in her mind was different from anything in this
narrative, and had no connection with the mystery of the secret
cipher, which had baffled her so long. It was not for this, not in
search of this interpretation, that she had come. She had listened to
it rather wearily, as though all that Obed could tell was a matter of
indifference, whichever way it tended. To find that her
interpretation was false had excited no very deep emotion. Once the
search into this had been the chief purpose of her life; but all the
results that could be accomplished by that search had long since been
gained. The cipher writing was a dead thing, belonging to the dead
past. She had only used it as a plausible excuse to gain admittance
to the villa for a higher purpose.
The time had now come for the revelation of that purpose.
"Sir," said she, in a low voice, looking earnestly at Obed Chute, "I
feel very grateful to you for your great kindness in favoring me with
this explanation. It has been hard for me to have this interpretation
of mine in any way affect my father's memory. I never could bring
myself to believe it, knowing him as I knew him. But, at the same
time, the very idea that there was such a charge in writing disturbed
me. Your explanation, Sir, has made all clear, and has set my mind at
rest in that particular.
"And now, Sir, will you excuse me if I mention one more thing which I
would like to ask of you. It concerns me, you will see even more
closely than this writing could have concerned me. It touches me in a
more tender place. It is very strange, and, indeed, quite
inexplicable, why you, Sir, a stranger, should be interwoven with
these things which are so sacred to me; but so it is."
Obed was affected by the solemnity of her tone, and by a certain
pathos in her last words, and by something in her manner which showed
a deeper feeling by far than she had evinced before.
What Hilda now proceeded to say she had long thought over, and
prepared with great deliberation. No doubt the woman whom Lord
Chetwynde loved lived here. Most probably she was Obed Chute's young
wife, possibly his daughter; but in any case it would be to him a
terrible disclosure, if she, Lord Chetwynde's wife, came and solemnly
informed him of the intrigue that was going on. She had made up her
mind, then, to disclose this, at all hazards, trusting to
circumstances for full and complete satisfaction.
[Illustration: "'Yes,' He Cried, 'I'll Have This Cleared Up Now, Once
And Forever.'"]
"Sir," she continued, in a voice which expressed still deeper
emotion, "what I have to say is something which it pains me to say,
yet it must be said. I am Lady Chetwynde, and traveled here with Lord
Chetwynde, who is the only acquaintance I have in Florence. I hurried
from England to his sick-bed, in Switzerland, and saved his life.
Then I came here with him.
"Of late I have been suspicious of him. Some things occurred which
led me to suppose that he was paying attentions to a lady here. My
jealousy was aroused. I learned, I need not say how, that he was a
constant visitor here. I followed him to a masquerade to which he
refused to take me. I saw him with this lady, whose face I could not
see. They left you. They walked to an arbor. I listened--for, Sir,
what wife would not listen?--and I heard him make a frantic
declaration of love, and urge her to fly with him. Had I not
interrupted them at that moment they might have fled. Oh, Sir, think
of my lonely condition--think what it costs my pride to speak thus to
a stranger. Tell me, what is this? Is it possible, or do I dream?
Tell me, do you know that my husband loves this woman?"
The emotion with which Hilda spoke grew stronger. She rose to her
feet, and took a step nearer to Obed. She stood there with clasped
hands, her beautiful face turned toward him with deep entreaty.
Obed looked at her in a fresh bewilderment. He was silent for a long
time. At last he started to his feet.
"Well, marm," said he, as he clenched his fist, "I don't understand.
I can't explain. Every thing is a muddle. All I can say is
this--there's either treachery or insanity somewhere, and may I be
cut up into sausages and chawed up by Comanches if I'll stand this
any longer. Yes," he cried, "by the Lord! I'll have this cleared up
now, once and forever. I will, by the Eternal!"
He brought his huge fist down with a crash on the table, and left the
room.
Hilda sat waiting.