Chapter 45

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.

On the day after Gualtier's interview with Hilda, Lord Chetwynde was still in London, occupied with the business which had brought him there. It was between ten and eleven in the morning, and he was walking down Piccadilly on his way to the City, where he had an appointment with his solicitors. He was very much preoccupied, and scarcely noticed any thing around him. Walking on in this mood he felt his arm seized by some one who had come up behind him, and a voice exclaimed:

"Windham! by all that's great! How are you, old fellow?" and before he had time to recover from his surprise his hand was seized, appropriated, and nearly wrung off by Obed Chute.

To meet Obed Chute thus in London was certainly strange, yet not so very much so, after all. London is vast, multitudinous, enormous--a nation rather than a city, as De Quincey well remarks--a place where one may hide and never be discovered; yet after all there are certain streets where strangers are most frequent, and that two strangers should meet one another here in one of these few thoroughfares is more common than one would suppose. After the first surprise at such a sudden greeting Windham felt it to be a very natural thing for Obed Chute to be in London, and evinced as much pleasure at meeting him as was shown by the other.

"Have you been here ever since your return to England?" he asked.

"Oh no," said Windham, "I've only been here a short time, and I have to leave this afternoon."

"I'm sorry for that; I should like to see you--but I suppose it can't be helped; and then I must go back immediately."

"Ah! You are on your way to America, then?"

"America! Oh no. I mean--go back to Italy."

"Italy?"

"Yes; we're all there yet."

"I hope Miss Chute and your family are all well?" said Lord Chetwynde, politely.

"Never better," said Obed.

"Where are you staying now?"

"In Naples."

"It's a very pleasant place."

"Too pleasant to leave."

"By-the-way," said Lord Chetwynde, after a pause, and speaking with assumed indifference, "were you ever able to find out any thing about--Miss Lorton?"

His indifference was but poorly carried out. At the mention of that name he stammered, and then stopped short.

But Obed did not notice any peculiarity.

He answered, quickly and earnestly:

"It's that very thing, Windham, that has brought me here. I've left her in Naples."

"What?" cried Lord Chetwynde, eagerly; "she is with you yet, then?"

"Yes."

"In Naples?"

"Yes--with my family. Poor little thing! Windham, I have a story to tell about her that will make your heart bleed, if you have the heart of a man."

"My God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion; "what is it? Has any thing new happened?"

"Yes, something new--something worse than before."

"But _she_--_she_ is alive--is she not--she is well--she--"

"Thank God, yes," said Obed, not noticing the intense emotion of the other; "yes--she has suffered, poor little girl, but she is getting over it--and one day I hope she may find some kind of comfort. But at present, and for some time to come, I'm afraid that any thing like happiness or peace or comfort will be impossible for her."

"Is she very sad?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in a voice which was tremulous from suppressed agitation.

"The poor child bears up wonderfully, and struggles hard to make us think that she is cheerful; but any one who watches her can easily see that she has some deep-seated grief, which, in spite of all our care, may even yet wear away her young life. Windham, I've heard of cases of a broken heart. I think I once in my life saw a case of that kind, and I'm afraid that this case will--will come at last to be classed in that list."

Lord Chetwynde said nothing. He had nothing to say--he had nothing to do. His face in the few moments of this conversation had grown, ghastly white, his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and an expression of intense pain spread over his features. He walked along by Obed Chute's side with the uncertain step of one who walks in a dream.

Obed said nothing for some time. His own thoughts were reverting to that young girl whom he had left in Naples buried under a mountain of woe. Could he ever draw her forth from that overwhelming grief which pressed her down? They went on together through several streets without any particular intention, each one occupied with his own thoughts, until at last they found themselves at St. James's Park. Here they entered, and walked along one of the chief avenues.

"You remember, Windham," said Obed at last--"of course you have not forgotten the story which Miss Lorton told about her betrayal."

Lord Chetwynde bowed, without trusting himself to speak.

"And you remember the villain's name, too, of course."

"Yes--Gualtier," said Lord Chetwynde.

"I put the case in the hands of the Marseilles police, and you know that up to the time when we left nothing had been done. Nothing has been done since of any consequence. On my way here I stopped at Marseilles, and found that the police had been completely baffled, and had found no trace whatever either of Gualtier or of the maid Mathilde. When I arrived at Marseilles I found that the police there had been on the look-out for that man for seven weeks, but in spite of the most minute inquiry, and the most vigilant watchfulness, they had seen no sign of any such person. The conclusion that I have come to is that he never went to Naples--at least not after his crime. Nor, on the other hand, is it likely that he remained in France. The only thing that I can think of is that both he and the maid Mathilde went back to England."

"There is Germany," said Lord Chetwynde, who had not lost a word, "or the other states of Italy. Florence is a pleasant place to go to. Above all, there is America--the common land of refuge to all who have to fly from the Old World."

"Yes, all that is true--very true. It may be so; but I have an idea that the man may still be in England, and I have some hope of getting on his track now. But this is not the immediate purpose of my coming. That was caused by a discovery of new features in this dark case, which show a deliberate plan on the part of Gualtier and others to destroy Miss Lorton so as to get her money."

"Have you found out any thing else? Has any fresh calamity fallen upon that innocent head?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in breathless anxiety. "At any rate, it can not be so bad as what she has already suffered."

"In one sense it is not so bad, but in another sense it is worse."

"How?"

"Why, it is not so bad, for it only concerns the loss of money; but then, again, it is far worse, for"--and Obed's voice dropped low--"for it shows her that there is an accomplice of Gualtier's, who has joined with him in this crime, and been a principal in it, and this accomplice is--_her sister_!"

"Great God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, aghast. "Her sister?"

"Her sister," said Obed, who did not, as yet, think it necessary to tell what Zillah had revealed to him in confidence about their not being sisters.

Lord Chetwynde seemed overwhelmed.

Obed then began and detailed to him every circumstance of the affair of the draft, to all of which the other listened with rapt attention. A long discussion followed this revelation. Lord Chetwynde could not help seeing that Miss Lorton had been betrayed by her sister as well as by Gualtier, and felt painfully affected by the coldblooded cruelty with which the abstraction of the money was managed. To him this "Ella Lorton" seemed wronged as no one had ever been wronged before, and his heart burned to assist Obed Chute in his work of vengeance.

He said as much. "But I fear," he added, "that there is not much chance. At any rate, it will be a work of years; and long before then, in fact, before many weeks, I expect to be on my way back to India. As to this wretched, this guilty pair, it is my opinion that they have fled to America. Hilda Lorton can not be old in crime, and her first instinct would be to fly from England. If you ever find those wretches, it will be there."

"I dare say you are right," said Obed. "But," he added, in tones of grim determination, "if it takes years to find this out, I am ready. I am willing to spend years in the search. The police of Italy and of France are already on the track of this affair. It is my intention to direct the London police to the same game, and on my way back I'll give notice at Berlin and Vienna, so as to set the Prussian and Austrian authorities to work. If all these combined can't do any thing, then I'll begin to think that these devils are not in Europe. If they are in America, I know a dozen New York detectives that can do something in the way of finding out even more artful scoundrels than these. For my own part, if, after ten years of incessant labor, any light is thrown on this, I shall be fully rewarded. I'd spend twice the time if I had it for her, the poor little thing!"

Obed spoke like a tender, pitying father, and his tones vibrated to the heart of Lord Chetwynde.

For a time he was the subject of a mighty struggle. The deepest feelings of his nature were all concerned here. Might he not now make this the object of his life--to give up every thing, and search out these infernal criminals, and avenge that fair girl whose image had been fixed so deeply on his heart? But, then, he feared this task. Already she had chained him to Marseilles, and still he looked back with anguish upon the horror of that last parting with her. All his nature yearned and longed to feel once more the sunshine of her presence; but, on account of the very intensity of that longing, the dictates of honor and duty bade him resist the impulse. The very tenderness of his love--its all-consuming ardor--those very things which impelled him to espouse her cause and fight her battles and win her gratitude, at the very same time held him back and bade him avoid her, and tear her image from his heart. For who was he, and what was he, that he should yield to this overmastering spell which had been thrown over him by the witchery of this young girl? _Had he not his wife_? Was she not at Chetwynde Castle? That odious wife, forced on him in his boyhood, long since grown abhorrent, and now standing up, an impassable barrier between him and the dearest longings of his heart. So he crushed down desire; and, while assenting to Obed's plans, made no proposal to assist him in any way in their accomplishment.

At the end of about two hours Obed announced his intentions at present. He had come first and more especially to see Messrs. Tilton and Browne, with a hope that he might be able to trace the affair back far enough to reach Hilda Lorton; and secondly, to set the London police to work.

"Will you make any stay?" asked Lord Chetwynde.

"No, not more than I can help. I can find out soon whether my designs are practicable or not. If they can not be immediately followed out, I will leave it to the police, who can do far better than me, and go back to Naples. Miss Lorton is better there, and I feel like traveling about Italy till she has recovered. I see that the country is better for her than all the doctors and medicines in the world. A sail round Naples Bay may rouse her from the deepest melancholy. She has set her heart on visiting Rome and Florence. So I must go back to my little girl, you see."

"Those names," said Lord Chetwynde, calmly, and without exhibiting any signs of the emotion which the allusion to that "little girl" caused in his heart--"those names ought certainly to be traceable--'Hilda Lorton,' 'Ella Lorton.' The names are neither vulgar nor common. A properly organized effort ought to result in some discovery. 'Hilda Lorton,' 'Ella Lorton,'" he repeated, "'Hilda,' 'Ella'--not very common names--' Hilda,' 'Ella.'"

He repeated these names thus over and over, but the names gave no hint to the speaker of the dark, deep mystery which lay beneath.

As for Obed, he knew that Hilda was not _Hilda Lorton_, and that a search after any one by that name would be useless. Zillah had told him that she was not her sister. At length the two friends separated, Lord Chetwynde saying that he would remain in London till the following day, and call on Obed at his hotel that evening to learn the result of his labors. With this each went about his own business; but into the mind of Lord Chetwynde there came a fresh anxiety, which made him have vague desires of flying away forever--off to India, to Australia--any where from the power of his overmastering, his hopeless love. And amidst all this there came a deep longing to go to Italy--to Naples, to give up every thing--to go back with Obed Chute. It needed all the strength of his nature to resist this impulse, and even when it was overcome it was only for a time. His business that day was neglected, and he waited impatiently for the evening.

Evening came at last, and Lord Chetwynde went to Obed's hotel. He found his friend there, looking somewhat dejected.

"I suppose you have accomplished nothing," he said. "I see it in your face."

"You're about right," said Obed. "I'm going back to Naples to-morrow."

"You've failed utterly, then?"

"Yes, in all that I hoped. But still I have done what I could to put things on the right track."

"What have you done?"

"Well, I went first to Tilton and Browne. One of my own London agents accompanied me there, and Introduced me. They were at once very eager to do all that they could for me. But I soon found out that nothing could be done. That girl--Windham--that girl,'' repeated Obed, with solemn emphasis, "is a little the deepest party that it's ever been my lot to come across. How any one brought up with my little girl" (this was the name that Obed loved to give to Zillah) "could develop such superhuman villainy, and such cool, calculating, far-reaching craft, is more than I can understand. She knocks me, I confess. But, then, the plan may all be the work of Gualtier."

"Why, what new thing have you found out?"

"Oh, nothing exactly new; only this, that the deposit of Miss Lorton's funds and the withdrawal, which were all done by her in Miss Lorton's name and person, were managed so cleverly that there is not the slightest ghost of a clew by which either she or the money can be traced. She drew the funds from one banker and deposited them with another. I thought I should be able to find out the banker from whom they were drawn, but it is impossible. Before I came here I had written to Tilton and Browne, and they had made inquiries from all the London bankers, but not one of them had any acquaintance whatever with that name. It must have been some provincial bank, but which one can not be known. The funds which she deposited were in Bank of England notes, and these, as well as the consols, gave no indication of their last place of deposit. It was cleverly managed, and I think the actors in this affair understand too well their business to leave a single mark on their trail. The account had only been with Tilton and Browne for a short time, and they could not give me the slightest assistance. And so I failed there completely.

"I then went to the police, and stated my case. The prefect at Marseilles had already been in communication with them about it. They had made inquiries at all the schools and seminaries, had searched the directories, and every thing else of that kind, but could find no music-teacher mentioned by the name of Gualtier. They took it for granted that the name was an assumed one. They had also investigated the name 'Lorton,' and had found one or two old county families; but these knew nothing of the young ladies in question. They promised to continue their search, and communicate to me any thing that might be discovered. There the matter rests now, and there I suppose it must rest until something is done by somebody. When I have started the Austrian and Prussian police on the same scent I will feel that nothing more can be done in Europe. I suppose it is no use to go to Spain or Russia or Turkey. By-the-way, there is Belgium. I mustn't forget that."

It was only by the strongest effort that Lord Chetwynde was able to conceal the intensity of his interest in Obed's revelations. All that day his own business had been utterly forgotten, and all his thoughts had been occupied with Zillah and her mysterious sorrows. When he left Marseilles he had sought to throw away all concern for her affairs, and devote himself to the Chetwynde business. But Obed's appearance had brought back before him in fresh strength Gualtier also was not unmindful of this. On the day of his arrival he had learned that Mrs. Hart was recovering and might soon be well. He understood perfectly all that was involved in her recovery, and the danger that might attend upon it. For Mrs. Hart would at once recognize Hilda, and ask after Zillah. There was now no chance to do any thing. Lord Chetwynde watched over her as a son might watch over a mother. These two thus stood before him as a standing menace, an ever-threatening danger in that path from which other dangers had been removed at such a hazard and at such a cost. What could he do? Nothing. It was for Hilda to act in this emergency. He himself was powerless. He feared also that Hilda herself did not realize the full extent of her danger. He saw how abstracted she had become, and how she was engrossed by this new and unlooked for feeling which had taken full possession of her heart. One thing alone was possible to him, and that was to warn Hilda. Perhaps she knew the danger, and was indifferent to it; perhaps she was not at all aware of it; in any case, a timely warning could not possibly do any harm, and might do a great deal of good. Under these circumstances he wrote a few words, which he contrived to place in her hands on the morning when Lord Chetwynde arrived. The words were these:

"_Mrs. Hart was recovering, and the doctor hopes that she will soon be entirely well_."

Hilda read these words gloomily, but nothing could be done except what she had already decided to do. She burned the note, and returned to her usual meditations. The arrival of Lord Chetwynde soon drove every thing else out of her mind, and she waited eagerly for the time for dinner, when she might see him, hear his voice, and feast her eyes upon his face.

On descending into the dining-room she found Lord Chetwynde already there. Without a thought of former slights, but following only the instincts of her own heart, which in its ardent passion was now filled with joy at the sight of him, she advanced toward him with extended hand. She did not say a word. She could not speak. Her emotion overpowered her. She could only extend her hand and look up into his face imploringly.

Lord Chetwynde stood before her, cold, reserved, with a lofty hauteur on his brow, and a coldness in his face which might have repelled any one less impassioned. But Hilda was desperate. She had resolved to make this last trial, and stake every thing upon this. Regardless, therefore, of the repellent expression of his face, and the coldness which was manifested in every lineament, she determined to force a greeting from him. It was with this resolve that she held out her hand and advanced toward him.

But Lord Chetwynde stood unmoved. His hands hung down. He looked at her calmly, yet coldly, without anger, yet without feeling of any kind. As she approached he bowed.

"You will not even shake hands with me?" faltered Hilda, in a stammering voice.

"Of what avail would that be?" said Lord Chetwynde. "You and I are forever separate. We must stand apart forever. Why pretend to a friendship which does not exist? I am not your friend, Lady Chetwynde."

Hilda was silent. Her hand fell by her side. She shrank back into herself. Her disappointment deepened into sadness unutterable, a sadness that was too profound for anger, a sadness beyond words. So the dinner passed on. Lord Chetwynde was calm, stern, fixed in his feelings and in his purpose. Hilda was despairing, and voiceless in that despair. For the first time she began to feel that all was lost.