ll she revived again. She came back to sense and to
life, but hope was dead within her; and even the sight of Lord
Chetwynde's face of agony, and his half-frantic words, could not
lessen her despair. She implored to be carried to her room, and there
she was at once taken. Lord Chetwynde's anguish was now not less than
hers. With bitter self-reproach, and in terrible bewilderment, he
wandered off into the west gallery, whither Obed Chute followed him,
but, seeing his agitation, refrained from saying any thing. Lord
Chetwynde was lost in an abyss of despair. In the midst of his agony
for Zillah's sake he tried in vain to comprehend how this Miss Lorton
could believe herself to be General Pomeroy's daughter and his own
wife, when, as he very well knew, his own wife was at her lodgings in
Florence--that wife whom he hated, but who yet had saved him from
death in Switzerland, and was now living on his smiles in Italy. How
could one like Miss Lorton make such a mistake? Or how could she
violate all delicacy by asserting such a thing? Clearly somebody was
mad. Perhaps he himself was mad. But as he felt himself to be in his
sober senses, and not dreaming, he tried to think whether madness
should be attributed to Mrs. Hart or Miss Lorton, on the one hand, or
to his wife on the other. The problem was insoluble. Madness, he
thought, must certainly be somewhere. But where? All seemed to be
concerned. Mrs. Hart had recognized Miss Lorton, and Miss Lorton had
returned that recognition. Somebody must be fearfully mistaken. What
was to be done? In the midst of this his whole being thrilled at the
recollection of those words in which Miss Lorton had claimed to be
his wife. _His wife_! And she must herself have believed this at the
time; otherwise she would have died rather than have uttered those
words. But what would his real wife say to all this? That was his
final thought.

Meanwhile Obed Chute said not a word. He saw Lord Chetwynde's
emotion, and, with his usual delicacy of feeling, did not intrude
upon him at such a time, though himself filled with undiminished
wonder. The first excitement was over, certainly, yet the wonder
remained none the less; and while Lord Chetwynde was pacing the long
gallery restlessly and wildly, Obed sat meditative, pondering upon
the possibilities of things. Yet the more he thought the less was he
able to unravel these mysteries.

At last he thought that a walk outside would be better. A quiet smoke