PAULINE AND LADY DARRELL.
Pauline communicated her resolution of going to Darrell Court to Miss Hastings, and that lady looked up in surprise almost too great for words.
"You are going to Darrell Court to-morrow!" she exclaimed. "It cannot be, Pauline; you must not travel alone. If you go, I must go with you."
But Pauline threw one arm caressingly round her friend's neck.
"Do not try to stop me," she said, pleadingly, "and let me go alone. I did a great wrong at Darrell Court, and I must return to set it right. Only alone can I do that."
"Pauline," asked Miss Hastings, gravely, "do you wish to atone for your revenge?"
"I do," she replied, simply. "You must let me go alone; and when I come back I shall have something to tell you—something that I know will please you very much."
Miss Hastings kissed the beautiful face.
"It is as I thought," she said to herself—"in her case love has worked wonders—it has redeemed her."
Lady Darrell sat alone in her dressing-room; the autumn day was drawing to a close. Greatly to her delight and surprise, Captain Langton had unexpectedly appeared that morning. He knew that in the absence of Miss Hastings he could not stop at Darrell Court; but he was paying a visit, he told Lady Darrell, to Sir Peter Glynn, and hoped to see her every day. He had declined dining at the Court, but promised to spend some part of the evening there.
Lady Darrell had ordered an early dinner, and sat in her dressing-room awaiting her maid. Of course she was going to dress for the captain—to set off her delicate beauty to the greatest advantage. A superb costume of pale pink brocade, with rich trimmings of white lace, was ready for her. A suit of pearls and opals lay in their open cases. The room presented a picturesque appearance of unbounded and splendid confusion—lace, jewelry, fans, slippers, all kinds of valuable and pretty ornaments were there; but nothing in that room was one half so fair as the beautiful woman who sat with a pleased smile upon her face.
Yet there was something like a sigh on her lips. Did he love her? Of her own feelings she had no doubt. She loved him with her whole heart—as she had never imagined herself capableof loving any one. But did he love her? There was somewhat of coldness and indifference in his manner—something she could not understand. He had greeted her carelessly—he had bidden her a careless farewell, she said to herself. Yet he must love her; for the face reflected in the mirror was a very fair one.
Then she remembered Pauline, and the old wonder came over her why Pauline had always such great, such unbounded contempt for him.
Her maid came in, and Lady Darrell put on the pink brocade with its white lace trimmings. The maid, in ecstasies, cried out that it was superb—that "my lady" had "never looked so beautiful."
Lady Darrell took up the pearl necklace and held it against the pink brocade to note the contrast. While she held it in her hands one of the servants gave a hurried rap at the door. She came to announce that Miss Darrell had arrived suddenly, and wished to see Lady Darrell at once.
"Miss Darrell! Then something must be the matter with Miss Hastings. Ask her to come to me at once."
In a few moments Pauline was standing in that brilliant room, looking pale and anxious.
"No," she said, in answer to Lady Darrell's eager question; "there is nothing the matter with Miss Hastings. I wanted to see you; I want to see you alone. Can you spare a few minutes?"
Lady Darrell dismissed her maid, and then turned to Pauline.
"What is it?" she asked. "What has brought you here so suddenly?"
Without one word, Pauline went to the door and locked it, and then she went back to Lady Darrell, who was watching her in wonder.
"I have done you a great wrong," she said, humbly, "and I have come to atone for it."
Lady Darrell drew back, trembling with strange, vague fear.
"Oh, Pauline, Pauline, what have you done?"
Pauline threw aside her traveling cloak and took off her hat; and then she came to Lady Darrell.
"Let me tell you my story, kneeling here," she said; and she knelt down before Lady Darrell, looking as she spoke straight into her face. "Let me tell you before I begin it," she added, "that I have no excuse to offer for myself—none. I can only thank Heaven that I have seen my fault before—for your sake—it is too late."
Slowly, gravely, sometimes with bitter tears and with sobs that came from the depths of her heart, Pauline told her story—how the captain had loved her, how ill he had taken her repulse, how she had discovered his vile worthlessness, but for the sake of her revenge had said nothing.
Lady Darrell listened as to her death-knell.
"Is this true, Pauline?" she cried. "You vowed vengeance against me—is this your vengeance, to try to part me from theman I love, and to take from me the only chance of happiness that my wretched life holds?"
Her fair face had grown deadly pale; all the light and the happiness had fled from it; the pearls lay unheeded, the blue eyes grew dim with tears.
"Is it possible, Pauline?" she cried again. "Have I given my love to one dishonored? I cannot believe it—I will not believe it! It is part of your vengeance against me. What have I done that you should hate me so?"
The dark eyes and the beautiful face were raised to hers.
"Dear Lady Darrell," said the girl, "I have never spoken a loving word to you before; but I tell you now that, if I could give my life to save you from this sorrow, I would do so."
"Aubrey Langton a thief!" cried Lady Darrell. "It is not true—I will swear that it is not true! I love him, and you want to take him from me. How could you dare to invent such a falsehood of him, a soldier and a gentleman? You are cruel and wicked."
Yet through all her passionate denials, through all her bitter anger, there ran a shudder of deadly fear—a doubt that chilled her with the coldness of death—a voice that would be heard, crying out that here was no wrong, no falsehood, but the bare, unvarnished truth. She cast it from her—she trampled it under foot; and the girl kneeling at her feet suffered as much as she did herself while she watched that struggle.
"You say that he would have murdered you—that he held apistol to your forehead, and made you take that oath—he, Aubrey Langton, did that?"
"He did!" said Pauline. "Would to Heaven I had told you before."
"Would to Heaven you had!" she cried. "It is too late now. I love him—I love him, and I cannot lose him. You might have saved me from this, and you would not. Oh, cruel and false!"
"Dearest Lady Darrell," said the girl, "I would wash out my fault with my heart's blood if I could. There is no humiliation that I would not undergo, no pain that I would not suffer, to save you."
"You might have saved me. I had a doubt, and I went to you, Pauline, humbly, not proudly. I prayed you to reveal the truth, and you treated me with scorn. Can it be that one woman could be so cruel to another? If you had but spoken half the truth you have now told me, I should have believed you, and have gone away; I should have crushed down the love that was rising in my heart, and in time I should have forgotten it. Now it is too late. I love him, and I cannot lose him—dear Heaven, I cannot lose him!"
She flung up her arms with a wild cry of despair. None ever suffered more than did Pauline Darrell then.
"Oh, my sin," she moaned, "my grievous sin!"
She tried to soothe the unhappy woman, but Lady Darrell turned from her with all the energy of despair.
"I cannot believe you," she cried; "it is an infamous plotto destroy my happiness and to destroy me. Hark! There is Aubrey Langton's voice; come with me and say before him what you have said to me."
FACE TO FACE.
Captain Langton looked up in surprise not altogether unfounded, the sight that met his eyes was so unusual.
Before him stood Lady Darrell, her face white as death, her lips quivering with excitement, her superb dress of pink brocade all disarranged, her golden hair falling over her beautiful shoulders—a sight not to be forgotten; she held Pauline by the hand, and in all her life Lady Darrell had never looked so agitated as now.
"Captain Langton," said Lady Darrell, "will you come here? I want you most particularly."
It was by pure chance that she opened the library door—it was the one nearest to her.
"Will you follow me?" she said.
He looked from one to the other with somewhat of confusion in his face.
"Miss Darrell!" he cried. "Why, I thought you were at Omberleigh!"
Pauline made no reply.
Lady Darrell held the library door open while they entered, and then she closed it, and turned the key.
Captain Langton looked at her in wonder.
"Elinor," he said, "what does this mean? Are you going to play a tragedy or a farce?"
"That will depend upon you," she answered; "I am glad and thankful to have brought you and Miss Darrell face to face. Now I shall know the truth."
The surprise on his face deepened into an angry scowl.
"What do you mean?" he demanded, sharply. "I do not understand."
It was a scene never to be forgotten. The library was dim with the shadows of the autumn evening, and in the gloom Lady Darrell's pale pink dress, golden hair, and white arms bare to the shoulder, seemed to attract all the light; her face was changed from its great agitation—the calm, fair beauty, the gentle, caressing manner were gone.
Near her stood Pauline, whose countenance was softened with compassion and pity unutterable, the dark eyes shining as through a mist of tears.
Before them, as a criminal before his judges, stood Aubrey Langton, with an angry scowl on his handsome face, and yet something like fear in his eyes.
"What is it?" he cried, impatiently. "I cannot understand this at all."
Lady Darrell turned her pale face to him.
"Captain Langton," she said, gravely, "Miss Darrell bringsa terrible accusation against you. She tells me that you stole the roll of notes that Sir Oswald missed, and that at the price of her life you extorted an oath from her not to betray you; is it true?"
She looked at him bravely, fearlessly.
"It is a lie!" he said.
Lady Darrell continued:
"Here, in this room, where we are standing now, she tells me that the scene took place, and that, finding she had discovered you in the very act of theft, you held a loaded pistol to her head until she took the oath you dictated. Is it true or false?"
"It is a lie!" he repeated; but his lips were growing white, and great drops stood upon his brow.
"She tells me," resumed Lady Darrell, "that you loved her, and that you care only for Darrell Court, not for me. Is it true?"
"It is all false," he said, hoarsely—"false from beginning to end! She hates you, she hates me, and this foul slander has only been invented to part us!"
Lady Darrell looked from one to the other.
"Now Heaven help me!" she cried. "Which am I to believe?"
Grave and composed, with a certain majesty of truth that could never be mistaken, Pauline raised her right hand.
"Lady Darrell," she said, "I swear to you, in the presence of Heaven, that I have spoken nothing but the truth."
"And I swear it is false!" cried Aubrey Langton.
But appearances were against him; Lady Darrell saw that he trembled, that his lips worked almost convulsively, and that great drops stood upon his brow.
Pauline looked at him; those dark eyes that had in them no shadow save of infinite pity and sorrow seemed to penetrate his soul, and he shrank from the glance.
"Elinor," he cried, "you believe me, surely? Miss Darrell has always hated you, and this is her revenge."
"Lady Darrell," said the girl, "I am ashamed of my hatred and ashamed of my desire for vengeance. There is no humiliation to which I would not submit to atone for my faults, but every word I have said to you is true."
Once more with troubled eyes Lady Darrell looked from one to the other; once more she murmured:
"Heaven help me! Which am I to believe?"
Then Captain Langton, with a light laugh, said:
"Is the farce ended, Lady Darrell? You see it is no tragedy after all."
Pauline turned to him, and in the light of that noble face his own grew mean and weak.
"Captain Langton," she said, "I appeal to whatever there is of good and just in you. Own to the truth. You need not be afraid of it—Lady Darrell will not injure you. She will think better of you if you confess than if you deny. Tell her that you were led into error, and trust to her kindness for pardon."
"She speaks well," observed Lady Darrell, slowly. "If you are guilty, it is better to tell me so."
He laughed again, but the laugh was not pleasant to hear. Pauline continued:
"Let the evil rest where it is, Captain Langton; do not make it any greater. In your heart you know that you have no love for this lady—it is her fortune that attracts you. If you marry her, it will only be to make her unhappy for life. Admit your fault and leave her in peace."
"You are a remarkably free-spoken young lady, Miss Darrell—you have quite an oratorical flow of words. It is fortunate that Lady Darrell knows you, or she might be tempted to believe you. Elinor, I rest my claim on this—since you have known Miss Darrell, have you ever received one act of kindness from her, one kind word even?"
Lady Darrell was obliged to answer:
"No."
"Then I leave it," he said, "to your sense of justice which of us you are to believe now—her who, to anger you, swears to my guilt, or me, who swears to my innocence? Elinor, my love, you cannot doubt me."
Pauline saw her eyes soften with unutterable tenderness—he saw a faint flush rise on the fair face. Almost involuntarily Lady Darrell drew near to him.
"I cannot bear to doubt you, Aubrey," she said. "Oh, speak the truth to me, for my love's sake!"
"I do speak the truth. Come with me; leave Miss Darrellfor a while. Walk with me across the lawn, and I will tell you what respect for Miss Darrell prevents my saying here."
Lady Darrell turned to Pauline.
"I must hear what he has to say—it is only just."
"I will wait for you," she replied.
The captain was always attentive; he went out into the hall and returned with a shawl that he found there.
"You cannot go out with those beautiful arms uncovered, Elinor," he said, gently.
He placed the shawl around her, trying to hide the coward, trembling fear.
"As though I did not love you," he said, reproachfully. "Show me another woman only half so fair."
Pauline made one more effort.
"Lady Darrell," she cried, with outstretched hands, "you will not decide hastily—you will take time to judge?"
But as they passed out together, something in the delicate face told her that her love for Aubrey Langton was the strongest element in her nature.
"Lady Darrell," she cried again, "do not listen to him! I swear I have told you the truth—Heaven will judge between him and me if I have not!"
"You must have studied tragedy at the Porte St. Martin," said Aubrey Langton, with a forced laugh; "Lady Darrell knows which to believe."
She watched them walk across the lawn, Captain Langton pleading earnestly, Lady Darrell's face softening as she listened.
"I am too late!" cried the girl, in an agony of self-reproach. "All my humiliation is in vain; she will believe him and not me. I cannot save her now, but one word spoken in time might have done so."
Oh, the bitterness of the self-reproach that tortured her—the anguish of knowing that she could have prevented Lady Darrell's wrecking her whole life, yet had not done so! It was no wonder that she buried her face in her hands, weeping and praying as she had never wept and prayed in her life before.
"Elinor, look at me," said Captain Langton; "do I look like a thief and a would-be murderer?"
Out of Pauline's presence the handsome face had regained its usual careless, debonair expression.
She raised her eyes, and he saw in them the lingering doubt, the lingering fear.
"If all the world had turned against me," he said, "and had refused to believe in me, you, Elinor, my promised wife, ought to have had more faith."
She made no reply. There had been something in the energy of Pauline's manner that carried conviction with it; and the weak heart, the weak nature that had always relied upon others, could form no decision unaided.
"For argument sake, let us reverse the case. Say that some disappointed lover of yours came to tell to me that you had been discovered stealing; should I not have laughed? Why, Elinor, you must be blind not to see the truth; a child mightdiscern it. The fact is that long ago I was foolish enough to believe myself in love with Miss Darrell; and she—well, honestly speaking, she is jealous. A gentleman does not like to refer to such things, but that is the simple truth. She is jealous, and would part us if she could; but she shall not. My beautiful Elinor is all my own, and no half-crazed, jealous girl shall come between us."
"Is it so, Aubrey?" asked Lady Darrell.
"My dearest Elinor, that is the whole secret of Miss Darrell's strange conduct to me. She is jealous—and you know, I should imagine, what jealous women are like."
She tried to believe him, but, when she recalled the noble face, with its pure light of truth and pity, she doubted again. But Captain Langton pleaded, prayed, invented such ridiculous stories of Pauline, made such fervent protestations of love, lavished such tender words upon her, that the weak heart turned to him again, and again its doubtings were cast aside.
"How we shall laugh over this in the happy after years!" he said. "It is really like a drama. Oh, Elinor, I am so thankful that I was here to save you! And now, my darling, you are trembling with cold. My fair, golden-haired Elinor, what must you think of that cruel girl? How could she do it? No; I will not go in again to-night—I should not be able to keep my temper. Your grand tragedy heroine will be gone to-morrow."
They stood together under the shadow of the balcony, and he drew her nearer to him.
"Elinor," he said, "I shall never rest again until you are mywife. This plot has failed; Miss Darrell will plot again to part us. I cannot wait until the spring—you must be my wife before then. To-morrow morning I shall ride over to talk to you about it."
She clasped her arms round his neck, and raised her sweet face to his.
"Aubrey," she said, wistfully, "you are not deceiving me?"
"No, my darling, I am not."
He bent down and kissed her lips. She looked at him again, pleadingly, wistfully.
"Heaven will judge between us, Aubrey," she said, solemnly. "I have a sure conviction that I shall know the truth."
"I hope Heaven will assist you," he returned, lightly; "I am quite sure the decision will be in my favor."
And those words, so wickedly, so blasphemously false, were the last he ever spoke to her.
DYING IN SIN.
Captain Langton left Lady Darrell at the door of the porch, and went round to the stables. He was a man as utterly devoid of principle as any man could well be, yet the untruths he had told, the false testimony he had given, the false oaths he had taken, had shaken his nerves.
"I should not care to go through such a scene as that again," he said—"to stand before two women as before my judges."
He found his hands unsteady and his limbs trembling; the horse he had to ride was a spirited one. The captain half staggered as he placed his hand on the saddle.
"I am not very well," he said to one of the grooms; "go to the house and tell Frampton, the butler, to bring some brandy here."
In a few minutes the butler appeared with a tray, on which stood bottle and glass.
"This is some very old brandy, sir," he said, "and very strong."
But Captain Langton did not appear to heed him; he pouredout half a tumblerful and drank it, while the butler looked on in amazement.
"It is very strong, sir," he repeated.
"I know what I am doing," returned the captain, with an oath.
He was dizzy with fear and with his after-success; he shuddered again as he mounted his horse, and the memory of Pauline's face and Pauline's words came over him. Then he galloped off, and Frampton, turning to the groom, with a scared face, said:
"If he gets home safely after taking so much of that brandy, and with that horse, I will never venture to say what I think again."
Lady Darrell returned to the library, where she had left Pauline. They looked at each other in silence, and then Lady Darrell said:
"I—I believe in him, Pauline; he cannot be what you say."
Miss Darrell rose and went up to her; she placed her in a chair, and knelt at her feet.
"You do not believe what I have told you?" she questioned, gently.
"I cannot; my love and my faith are all his."
"I have done my best," said Pauline, sorrowfully, "and I can do no more. While I live I shall never forgive myself that I did not speak sooner, Lady Darrell. Elinor, I shall kneel here until you promise to forgive me."
Then Lady Darrell looked at the beautiful face, with its expression of humility.
"Pauline," she said, suddenly, "I hardly recognize you. What has come to you? What has changed you?"
Her face crimson with hot blushes, Pauline answered her.
"It is to me," she said, "as though a vail had fallen from before my eyes. I can see my sin in all its enormity. I can see to what my silence has led, and, though you may not believe me, I shall never rest until you say that you have forgiven me."
Lady Darrell was not a woman given to strong emotion of any kind; the deepest passion of her life was her love for Aubrey Langton; but even she could give some faint guess as to what it had cost the proud, willful Pauline to undergo this humiliation.
"I do forgive you," she said. "No matter how deeply you have disliked me, or in what way you have plotted against me, I cannot refuse you. I forgive you, Pauline."
Miss Darrell held up her face.
"Will you kiss me?" she asked. "I have never made that request in all my life before, but I make it now."
Lady Darrell bent down and kissed her, while the gloom of the evening fell round them and deepened into night.
"If I only knew what to believe!" Lady Darrell remarked. "First my heart turns to him, Pauline, and then it turns to you. Yet both cannot be right—one must be most wicked and most false. You have truth in your face—he had truth on hislips when he was talking to me. Oh, if I knew—if I only knew!"
And when she had repeated this many times, Pauline said to her:
"Leave it to Heaven; he has agreed that Heaven shall judge between us, and it will. Whoever has told the lie shall perish in it."
So some hours passed, and the change that had come over Lady Darrell was almost pitiful to see. Her fair face was all drawn and haggard, the brightness had all left it. It was as though years of most bitter sorrow had passed over her. They had spoken to her of taking some refreshment, but she had sent it away. She could do nothing but pace up and down with wearied step, moaning that she only wanted to know which was right, which to believe, while Pauline sat by her in unwearied patience. Suddenly Lady Darrell turned to her.
"What is the matter with me?" she asked. "I cannot understand myself; the air seems full of whispers and portents—it is as though I were here awaiting some great event. What am I waiting for?"
They were terrible words, for the answer to them was a great commotion in the hall—the sound of hurried footsteps—of many voices. Lady Darrell stood still in dismay.
"What is it?" she cried. "Oh, Pauline, I am full of fear—I am sorely full of fear!"
It was Frampton who opened the door suddenly, and stood before them with a white, scared face.
"Oh, my lady—my lady!" he gasped.
"Tell her quickly," cried Pauline; "do you not see that suspense is dangerous?"
"One of the Court servants," said the butler, at once, in response, "returning from Audleigh Royal, has found the body of Captain Langton lying in the high-road, where his horse had thrown him, dragged him, and left him—dead!"
"Heaven be merciful to him!" cried Pauline Darrell. "He has died in his sin."
But Lady Darrell spoke no words. Perhaps she thought to herself that Heaven had indeed judged between them. She said nothing—she trembled—a gasping cry came from her, and she fell face forward on the floor.
They raised her and carried her up stairs. Pauline never left her; through the long night-watches and the long days she kept her place by her side, while life and death fought fiercely for her. She would awake from her stupor at times, only to ask about Aubrey—if it could be true that he was dead—and then seemed thankful that she could understand no more.
They did not think at first that she could recover. Afterward Doctor Helmstone told her that she owed her life to Pauline Darrell's unchanging love and care.
THE WORK OF ATONEMENT.
The little town of Audleigh Royal had never been so excited. It was such a terrible accident. Captain Langton, the guest of Sir Peter Glynn, so soon to be master of Darrell Court—a man so handsome, so accomplished, and so universal a favorite—to be killed in the gloom of an autumn night, on the high-road! Society was grieved and shocked.
"That beautiful young lady at the Hall, who loved him so dearly, was," people whispered to each other, "at death's door—so deep was her grief."
An inquest was held at the "Darrell Arms;" and all the revelations ever made as to the cause of Captain Langton's death were made then. The butler and the groom at Darrell Court swore to having felt some little alarm at seeing the deceased drink more than half a tumblerful of brandy. The butler's prophecy that he would never reach home in safety was repeated. One of the men said that the captain looked pale and scared, as though he had seen a ghost; another told how madly he had galloped away; so that no other conclusion could be come tobut this—that he had ridden recklessly, lost all control over the horse, and had been thrown. There was proof that the animal had dragged him along the road for some little distance; and it was supposed the fatal wound had been inflicted when his head was dashed against the mile-stone close to which he had been found.
It was very shocking, very terrible. Society was distressed. The body lay at the "Darrell Arms" until all arrangements had been made for the funeral. Such a funeral had never been seen in Audleigh Royal. Rich and poor, every one attended.
Captain Langton was buried in the pretty little cemetery at Audleigh; and people, as they stood round the grave, whispered to each other that, although the horse that killed him had cost over a hundred pounds, Sir Peter Glynn had ordered it to be shot.
Then, when the autumn had faded into winter, the accident was forgotten. Something else happened which drove it from people's minds, and the tragedy of Audleigh Royal became a thing of the past.
Pauline did not return to Omberleigh. Miss Hastings was dreadfully shocked when she received a letter telling her of Captain Langton's death and of Lady Darrell's serious illness. No persuasions could induce her to remain longer away. She returned that same day to the Court, and insisted upon taking her share in the nursing of Lady Darrell.
Lady Hampton looked upon the captain's accident as the direct interposition of Providence. Of course such a death wasvery shocking, very terrible; but certainly it had never been a match she approved; and, after all, say what one would, everything had happened for the best.
Lady Hampton went over to Darrell Court, and assisted in attending to the invalid; but her thoughts ran more on Lord Aynsley, and the chances of his renewing his offer, than on anything else. Elinor would soon recover, there was no fear; the shock to her nerves had been great, but people never died of nervousness; and, when she did get well, Lady Hampton intended to propose a season in London.
But Lady Darrell did not get well as soon as Lady Hampton had anticipated. Indeed, more than one clever doctor, on leaving her presence, shook his head gravely, and said it was doubtful whether Lady Darrell would ever recover at all; the shock to her nerves had been terrible.
But there was something to be said also of a blighted life and a broken heart.
Autumn had drifted into winter; and one morning Lady Darrell, who had been sleeping more soundly than usual, suddenly turned to Pauline, who seldom left her.
"Pauline," she whispered, "you have not told any one, have you?"
"Told what?" she inquired.
"About poor Aubrey's faults. I know now that he was guilty. Strange, solemn thoughts, strange revelations, come to us, are made to us in sickness, when we lie, where I have been lying, in the valley of the shadow of death. I know that hewas guilty, and that he died in his sin. I know it now, Pauline."
Miss Darrell bent over her and kissed the white brow.
"Listen to me, dear," continued the weak voice. "Let this secret die with us—let there be a bond between us never to reveal it. You will never tell any one about it, will you, Pauline?"
"No," she replied, "never. I should never have told you but that I hoped to save you from a dreadful fate—and it would have been a dreadful fate for you to have married him; he would have broken your heart."
"It is broken now," she said, gently. "Yet it comforts me to know that no reproach will be heaped on Aubrey's memory."
"You will get better," observed Pauline, hopefully, "and then there will be happier days in store for you."
"There will be no happy days for me," returned Lady Darrell, sorrowfully. "You see, Pauline, I loved him very dearly—more dearly than I knew. I had never loved any one very much until I saw him. I could more easily have checked a raging fire than have restrained my love after I had once given it. My life had in some way passed into his, and now I do not care to live."
"But you have so much to live for," said Pauline.
"Not now. I do not care for aught about me. I have tried to remember Darrell Court and all my wealth and grandeur, but they give me no pleasure—the shadow of death lies over all."
And it was all in vain that Pauline tried to rouse her; Lady Darrell, after her unhappy love, never cared to be roused again. Lady Hampton would not think seriously of her illness—it would pass away in time, she said; but Miss Hastings shook her head gravely, and feared the worst.
The time came when Pauline told some part of her story to the governess. She did not mention Aubrey's crime—that secret she kept until death—but she gave a sketch of what had passed between her and Lady Darrell.
"Did I do right?" she asked, with that sweet humility which had vanquished all pride in her.
"You acted worthily," replied Miss Hastings, while she marveled at the transformation which love had wrought in that once proud, willful girl.
Time passed on, and by the wish of Miss Hastings a celebrated physician was sent for from London, for Lady Darrell grew no better. His opinion sounded somewhat like a death-warrant.
"She may recover sufficiently to quit her room and to linger on in life—how long is uncertain; but the shock to her nerves she will never fully recover from—while she lives she will be a victim to nervousness. But I do not think she will live long. Let her have as much cheerful society as possible, without fatigue; nothing more can be done for her."
And with that they were obliged to be content. Lady Hampton would not admit that the London physician was correct.
"Nerves are all nonsense," she said, brusquely. "Howmany nervous shocks have I been through, with husband dead and children dead? Elinor's only danger is her mother's complaint. She died of consumption quite young."
It was found, however, despite Lady Hampton's disbelief, that the London physician had spoken truthfully. Lady Darrell rose from her sick bed, but she was but the shadow of herself, and a victim to a terrible nervous disorder.
Miss Hastings watched over her with great anxiety, but Pauline was like a second self to the unhappy lady. They were speaking of her one day, and Miss Hastings said:
"An illness like Lady Darrell's is so uncertain, Pauline; you must not occupy yourself with her so entirely, or you will lose your own health."
But Pauline looked up with a smile—perhaps the gravest, the sweetest and most tender her face had ever worn.
"I shall never leave her," she returned.
"Never leave her?" questioned Miss Hastings.
"No. I shall stay with her to comfort her while life lasts, and that will be my atonement."
LOVE AND SORROW.
The beautiful golden summer came round, and Darrell Court looked picturesque and lovely with its richness of foliage and flush of flowers. The great magnolia trees were all in bloom—the air was full of their delicate, subtle perfume; the chestnuts were in bloom, the limes all in blossom. Sweet summer had scattered her treasures with no niggard hand; and Lady Darrell had lived to see the earth rejoice once more.
Under the limes, where the shadows of the graceful, tremulous, scented leaves fell on the grass—the limes that were never still, but always responding to some half-hidden whisper of the wind—stood Pauline Darrell and her lover, Sir Vane St. Lawrence. They had met but once since their hurried parting at Omberleigh. Vane had been to Darrell Court—for their engagement was no secret now. They wrote to each other constantly.
On this fair June day Sir Vane had come to the Court with news that stirred the depths of the girl's heart as a fierce wind stirs the ripples on a lake.
As the sunlight fell through the green leaves and rested on her, the change in her was wonderful to see. The beautiful, noble face had lost all its pride, all its defiance; the play of the lips was tremulous, sensitive, and gentle; the light in the dark eyes was of love and kindness. Time had added to her loveliness; the grand, statuesque figure had developed more perfectly; the graceful attitudes, the unconscious harmony, the indefinable grace and fascination were more apparent than ever. But she no longer carried her grand beauty as a protest, but made it rather the crown of a pure and perfect womanhood.
Something dimmed the brightness of her face, for Sir Vane had come to her with strange news and a strange prayer. His arm was clasped round her as they walked under the shadow of the limes where lovers' footsteps had so often strayed.
"Yes, Pauline, it has come so unexpectedly at last," spoke Sir Vane. "Ever since Graveton has been in office, my dear mother has been unwearied in asking for an appointment for me. You know the story of our impoverished fortunes, and how anxious my dear mother is to retrieve them."
Her hand seemed to tighten its clasp on his, as she answered:
"Yes, I know."
"Now an opportunity has come. Graveton, in answer to my mother's continued requests, has found for me a most lucrative office; but, alas, my love, it is in India, and I must shortly set out."
"In India!" repeated Pauline; "and you must set out shortly, Vane? How soon?"
"In a fortnight from now," he answered. "It is an office that requires filling up at once, Pauline. I have come to ask if you will accompany me? Will you pardon the short notice, and let me take my wife with me to that far-off land? Do not let me go alone into exile—come with me, darling."
The color and light died out of her beautiful face, her lips quivered, and her eyes grew dim as with unshed tears.
"I cannot," she replied; and there was a silence between them that seemed full of pain.
"You cannot, Pauline!" he cried, and the sadness and disappointment in his voice made her lips quiver again. "Surely you will not allow any feminine nonsense about dress and preparations, any scruple about the shortness of time, to come between us? My mother bade me say that if you will consent she will busy herself night and day to help us to prepare. She bade me add her prayer to mine. Oh, Pauline, why do you say you cannot accompany me?"
The first shock had passed for her, and she raised her noble face to his.
"From no nonsense, Vane," she said. "You should know me better, dear, than that. Nothing can part us but one thing. Were it not for that, I would go with you to the very end of the world—I would work for you and with you."
"But what is it, Pauline?" he asked. "What is it, my darling?"
She clung to him more closely still.
"I cannot leave her, Vane—I cannot leave Lady Darrell. She is dying slowly—hour by hour, day by day—and I cannot leave her."
"But, my darling Pauline, there are others beside you to attend to the lady—Lady Hampton and Miss Hastings. Why should you give up your life thus?"
"Why?" she repeated. "You know why, Vane. It is the only atonement I can offer her. Heaven knows how gladly, how happily, I would this moment place my hand in yours and accompany you; my heart longs to do so. You are all I have in the world, and how I love you you know, Vane. But it seems to me that I owe Lady Darrell this reparation, and at the price of my whole life's happiness I must make it."
He drew her nearer to him, and kissed the trembling lips.
"She has suffered so much, Vane, through me—all through me. If I had but foregone my cruel vengeance, and when she came to me with doubt in her heart if I had but spoken one word, the chances are that by this time she would have been Lady Aynsley, and I should have been free to accompany you, my beloved; but I must suffer for my sin. I ought to suffer, and I ought to atone to her."
"Your life, my darling," he said, "your beautiful bright life, your love, your happiness, will all be sacrificed."
"They must be. You see, Vane, she clings to me in her sorrow. His name—Aubrey Langton's name—never passes her lips to any one else but me. She talks of him the night andthe day through—it is the only comfort she has; and then she likes me to be with her, to talk to her, and soothe her, and she tires so soon of any one else. I cannot leave her, Vane—it would shorten her life, I am sure."
He made no answer. She looked up at him with tearful eyes.
"Speak to me, Vane. It is hard, I know—but tell me that I am right."
"You are cruelly right," he replied. "Oh, my darling, it is very hard! Yet you make her a noble atonement for the wrong you have done—a noble reparation. My darling, is this how your vow of vengeance has ended—in the greatest sacrifice a woman could make."
"Your love has saved me," she said, gently—"has shown me what is right and what is wrong—has cleared the mist from my eyes. But for that—oh, Vane, I hate to think what I should have been!"
"I wish it were possible to give up the appointment," he remarked, musingly.
"I would not have you do it, Vane. Think of Lady St. Lawrence—how she has worked for it. Remember, it is your only chance of ever being what she wishes to see you. You must not give it up."
"But how can I leave you, Pauline?"
"If you remain in England, it will make but little difference," she said. "I can never leave Lady Darrell while she lives."
"But, Pauline, it may be four, five, or six years before I return, and all that time I shall never see you."
She wrung her hands, but no murmur passed her lips, save that it was her fault—all her fault—the price of her sin.
"Vane," she said, "you must not tell Lady Darrell what you came to ask me. She must know that you are here only to say good-by. I would rather keep her in ignorance; she will be the happier for not knowing."
Was ever anything seen like that love and that sorrow—the love of two noble souls, two noble hearts, and the sorrow that parting more bitter than death brought upon them? Even Miss Hastings did not know until long after Sir Vane was gone of the sacrifice Pauline had made in the brave endeavor to atone for her sin.
She never forgot the agony of that parting—how Sir Vane stood before them, pale, worn, and sad, impressing one thing on them all—care for his darling. Even to Lady Darrell, the frail, delicate invalid, whose feeble stock of strength seemed to be derived from Pauline, he gave many charges.
"It will be so long before I see her again," he said; "but you will keep her safely for me."
"I almost wonder," said Lady Darrell, "why you do not ask Pauline to accompany you, Sir Vane. For my own sake, I am most selfishly glad that you have not done so—I should soon die without her."
They looked at each other, the two who were giving up so much for her, but spoke no word.
Sir Vane was obliged to return to London that same day. He spoke of seeing Pauline again, but she objected—it would only be a renewal of most bitter and hopeless sorrow. So they bade each other farewell under the lime trees. The bitter yet sweet memory of it lasted them for life.
Miss Hastings understood somewhat of the pain it would cause, but with her gentle consideration, she thought it best to leave Pauline for a time. Hours afterward she went in search of her, and found her under the limes, weeping and moaning for the atonement she had made for her sin.