So for three or four weeks of the beautiful summer, this little love story went on. Claude Lennox wasau faitas to all the pretty wiles and arts of love, he made a post-office of the trunk of a grand old oak-tree—a trunk that was covered with ivy; he used to place letters there every day, and Hyacinth would fetch and answer them. These letters won her more than any spoken words; they were eloquently written and full of poetry. She could read them and muse over them; their poetry remained with her.
When she was talking to him a sense of unreality used to come over her—a vague, uncertain, dreamy kind of conviction that in some way he was not true; that he was saying more than he meant, or that he had said the same things before and knew them all by heart. His letters won her. She answered them, and in those answers foundsome vent for the romance and imagination that had never had an outlet before. Claude Lennox, as he read them, wondered at her.
"The girl is a genius," he said; "if she were to take to writing, she would make the world talk of her. I have read all the poetry of the day, but I have never read anything like these lines."
Claude Lennox had been a successful man. He had not been brought up to any profession—there was no need for it; he was to inherit a large fortune from his mother, and he had already one of his own. He had lived in the very heart of society; he had been courted, admired and flattered as long as he could remember. Bright-eyed girls had smiled on him, and fair faces grown the fairer for his coming. He had had many loves, but none of them had been in earnest. He liked Hyacinth Vaughan better than any one he had ever met. If her friends had smiled upon him and everything had beencouleur de rose, he would have loved lightly, have laughed lightly, and have ridden away. But because, for the first time in his life, he was opposed and thwarted, frowned upon instead of being met with eagerness, he vowed that he would win her. No one should say Claude Lennox had loved in vain.
He was a strange mixture of vanity and generosity, of selfishness and chivalry. He loved her as much as it was in his nature to love any one. He felt for her; the descriptions she gave him of her life, its dull monotony, its dreary gloom, touched his heart. Then, too, his vanity was gratified; he knew that if he took such a peerlessly beautiful girl to London as his wife, she would be one of the most brilliant queens of society. He knew that she would create an almost unrivalled sensation. So love, vanity, generosity, selfishness, chivalry, all combined, made him resolve to win her.
He knew that if he were to go to Queen's Chase and ask permission to woo her, it would be refused him—she would be kept away from him and hurried away to Germany. That was the honest, honorable course, but he felt sure it was hopeless to pursue it. Man of the world as he was, the first idea of an elopement startled him; then he became accustomed to it, and began at last to think an elopement would be quite a romance and a sensation. So, by degrees he broke it to her. She was startled at first, and then, after a time, became accustomed to it. It would be very easy, soon over, and when they were once marriedhis mother would say nothing; if the Vaughans were wise, they too would be willing to forgive and say nothing.
He found Hyacinth so simple, so innocent and credulous, that he had no great difficulty in persuading her. If any thought of remorse came to him—that, as the stronger of the two he was betraying his trust—he quickly put the disagreeable reflection away—he intended to be very kind to her after they were married, and to make her very happy.
So he waited in some anxiety for the signal. It was not a matter of life or death with him; neither did he consider it as such; but he was very anxious, and hoped she would consent. The library window could be seen from the park; he had but to walk across it, and then he could see. Claude Lennox was almost ashamed to find how his heart beat, and how nervously his eyes sought the window.
"I did not think I could care about anything so much," he said to himself; "I begin to respect myself for being capable of such devotion."
It was early on Wednesday morning, but he had not been able to sleep. Would she go, or would she refuse? How many hours of suspense must he pass before he knew? The sun was shining gayly, the dew lay on the grass—it was useless to imagine that she would be thinking of her flowers; yet he could not leave the place—he must know.
At one moment his hopes were raised to the highest point—it was not likely that she would refuse. She would never be so foolish as to choose a life of gloom and wretchedness instead of the golden future he had offered her. Then again his heart sunk. An elopement! It was such a desperate step; she would surely hesitate before taking it. He walked to the end of the park, and then he returned. His heart beat so violently when he raised his eyes that it seemed to him as if he could hear it—a dull red flush rose to his face, his lips quivered. He had won—the white flowers were there!
There was no one to see him, but he raised his Glengarry cap from his head and waved it in the air.
"I have won," he said to himself; "now for my arrangements."
He went back to Oakton Park in a fever of anxiety; he telegraphed from Oakton Station to the kind old aunt who had never refused him a favor, asking her, for particular reasons which he would explain afterward, to meet him at Euston Square at 6a.m.on Thursday.
"There is some one coming with me whom I wish to put under your charge," he wrote; and he knew she would comply with his request.
He had resolved to be very careful—there should be no imprudence besides the elopement; his aunt should meet them at the station, Hyacinth should go home with her and remain with her until the hour fixed for the wedding.
Hyacinth had taken her life into her own hands, and the balance had fallen. She had decided to go; this gray, dull, gloomy life she could bear no longer; and the thought of a long, dull residence in a sleepy German town with a relative of Lady Vaughan's positively frightened her.
Claude had dazzled her imagination with glowing pictures of the future. She did not think much of the right or wrong of her present behavior; the romance with which she was filled enthralled her. If any one had in plain words pointed out to her that she was acting badly, dishonorably, deceitfully, she would have recoiled in dread and horror; but she did not see things in their true colors.
All that day Lady Vaughan thought her granddaughter very strange and restless. She seemed unable to attend to her work; she read as one who does not understand. If she was asked a question, her vacant face indicated absence of mind.
"Are you ill, Hyacinth?" asked Lady Vaughan at last. "You do not appear to be paying the least attention to what you are doing."
The girl's beautiful face flushed crimson.
"I do not feel quite myself," she replied.
Lady Vaughan was not well pleased with the answer. Ill-health or nervousness in young people was, as she said, quite unendurable—she had no sympathy with either. She looked very sternly at the sweet crimsoned face.
"You do not have enough to do, Hyacinth," she said gravely; "I must find more employment for you. Miss Pinnock called the other day about the clothing club; you had better write and offer your services."
"As though life was not dreary enough," thought the girl, "without having to sew endless seams by the hour!"
Then, with a sudden thrill of joy, she remembered that her freedom was coming. After this one day there would be no more gloom, no more tedious hours, no more wearisome lectures, no more dull monotony; after this one day all was to be sunshine, beauty, and warmth. How the day passed she never knew—it was like a long dream to her.Yet something like fear took possession of her when Lady Vaughan said:
"It is growing late, Hyacinth; it is past nine."
She went up to her and kissed the stern old face.
"Good-night," she said simply with her lips, and in her heart she added "good-by."
She kissed Sir Arthur, who had never been quite so harsh with her and as she closed the drawing-room door, she said to herself,
"So I leave my old life behind."
A beautiful night—not clear with the light of the moon, but solemn and still under the pale, pure stars; there was a fitful breeze that murmured among the trees, rippling the green leaves and stirring the sleeping flowers. The lilies gleamed like pale spectres, the roses were wet with dew; the deer lay under the trees in the park; there was hardly a sound to break the holy calm.
Queen's Chase lay in dark shadow under the starlight, the windows and doors all fastened except one, the inmates all sleeping save one. The great clock in the turret struck ten. Had any been watching, they would have seen a faint light in the room where Hyacinth Vaughan slept; it glimmered there only for a minute or two, and then disappeared. Soon afterward there appeared at the library window a pale, sweet, frightened face; the window slowly opened and a tall, slender figure, closely wrapped in a dark gray cloak, issued forth from the safe shelter of home, under the solemn stars, to take the false step that was to darken her life for so many years.
She stole along in the darkness and silence, between the trees, till Claude came to her; and her heart gave a great bound at his approach, while a crimson flush rose to her face.
"My darling," he said, clasping her hand in his, "how am I to thank you?"
Then she began to realize in some faint degree what she had done. She looked up at Claude's handsome, careless face, and began to understand that she had given up all the world for him—all the world.
"You are frightened, Hyacinth," he said, "but there is no need. Your hand trembles, and your face is so pale that I notice it even by starlight."
"I am frightened," she confessed. "I have never been out at night before. Oh, Claude, do you think I have done right?"
He spoke cheerily: "That you have, my darling. Such gloomy cages were never made for bright birds like you; let me see you smile before you go one step further."
It was almost midnight when they reached Oakton station; the few lamps glimmered fitfully and there was no one about but the sleepy porters.
"Keep your veil well drawn over your face, Hyacinth," he whispered; "I will get the tickets. Sit down here and no one need see you."
She obeyed him, trembling in every limb. She sat down on the little wooden bench, her veil closely drawn over her face; her cloak wrapped round her; and then, after what seemed to be but a moment of time, yet was in reality over ten minutes, the train ran steaming into the station. One or two passengers alighted. Claude took her hand and placed her in a first-class carriage—no one had either seen or noticed her—he sprang in after her, the door was shut, the whistle sounded, and the train was off.
"It is done!" she gasped, her face growing deadly white, and the color fading even from her lips. She laid her head back on the cushion. "It is done!" she repeated, faintly.
"And you will see, my darling, that all is for the best."
He would not allow her time to think or to grow dull. He talked to her till the color returned to her face and the brightness to her eyes. They looked together from the carriage windows, watching the shining stars and the darkened earth, wondering at the beautiful, holy silence of night, until the faint gray dawn broke in the skies. Then a mishap occurred.
The train had proceeded on its way safely enough until a station called Leybridge had been reached. There the passengers for London leave it, and await the arrival of the mail train. Hyacinth and Claude left the carriage; the train they had travelled by went on.
"We have not long to wait for the mail train," said Claude, "and then, thank goodness, there will be no more changing until we reach London."
The faint gray dawn of the morning was just breakinginto rose and gold. Hyacinth looked pale and cold; the excitement, the fatigue, and the night travelling were rapidly becoming too much for her.
They walked up and down the platform for a few minutes. A quarter of an hour passed—half an hour—and then Claude, still true to his determination that Hyacinth should not be seen, bade her to sit down again while he went to inquire at the office the cause of delay. There were several other passengers, for Leybridge Junction was no inconsiderable one.
Suddenly there seemed to arise a scene of confusion in the station. The station master came out with a disturbed face; the porters were no longer sleepy, but anxious. Then the rumor, whispered first with bated breath, grew—"An accident to the mail train below Lewes. Thirty passengers seriously injured and half as many killed. Traffic on the line impossible."
Claude heard the sad news with a sorrowful heart. He did not wish Hyacinth to know it—it would seem like an omen of misfortune to her. "When will the next train start for London?" he asked one of the porters.
"There is none between now and seven o'clock," the man replied.
"Was there ever anything so unfortunate?" muttered Claude to himself.
Leybridge was only twenty miles from Oakton.
"I should not like any one to see me about the station," he thought; "and Hyacinth is sure to be known here. How unfortunate that we should be detained so near home!" He went out to her: "You must not lose patience, Hyacinth," he said; "the mail train is delayed, and we have to wait here until seven."
She looked up at him, alarmed and perplexed. "Seven," she repeated—"and now it is only three. What shall we do, Claude?"
"If you are willing, we will go for a walk through the fields. I fancy we shall be recognized if we stop here."
"I am sure we shall—I have often been to Leybridge with Lady Vaughan."
They went out of the station and down the quiet street; they saw an opening that led to the fields.
"You will like the fields better than anywhere else," said Claude, and she assented.
They crossed a stile that led into the fertile clover meadows. It seemed as though the beauty and fragranceof the summer morning broke into full glow to welcome them; the rosy clouds parted, and the sun shone in the full lustre of its golden light; the trees, the hedges, the clover, were all impearled with dew—the drops lay thick, shining and bright, on the grass; there was a faint twitter of birds, as though they were just awakening; the trees seemed to stir with new life and vigor.
"Is this the morning?" said Hyacinth, looking round. "Why, Claude, it is a thousand times more beautiful than the fulness of day!"
Hyacinth and Claude stood together leaning against the stile. Something in the calm beauty of the summer morning awoke the brightest and purest emotions in him; something in the early song of the birds and in the shining dewdrops made Hyacinth think more seriously than she had yet done.
"I wonder," she said, turning suddenly to her lover, "if we shall ever look back to this hour and repent what we have done?"
"I do not think so. It will rather afford subject for pleasant reflection."
"Claude," she cried suddenly, "what is that lying over there by the hedge? It—it looks so strange."
He glanced carelessly in the direction indicated. "I can see nothing," he replied. "My eyes are not so bright as yours."
"Look again, Claude. It is something living, moving—something human I am sure! What can it be?"
He did look again, shading his eyes from the sun. "There is something," he said slowly, "but I cannot tell what it is."
"Let us see, Claude; it may be some one ill. Who could it be in the fields at this time of the morning?"
"I would rather you did not go," said Claude; "you do not know who it may be. Let me go alone."
But she would not agree to it; and as they stood there, they heard a faint moan.
"Claude," cried the girl, in deep distress, "some one is ill or hurt; let us go and render assistance."
He saw that she was bent upon it and held out hishand to help her over the stile. Then when they were in the meadow, and under the hedge, screened from sight by rich, trailing woodbines, they saw the figure of a woman.
"It is a woman, Claude!" cried Hyacinth; and then a faint moan fell on their ears.
Hastening to the spot, she pushed aside the trailing eglantines. There lay a girl, apparently not much older than herself, fair of face, with a profusion of beautiful fair hair lying tangled on the ground. Hyacinth bent over her.
"Are you ill?" she asked. But no answer came from the white lips. "Claude," cried Hyacinth, "she is dying! Make haste; get some help for her!"
"Let us see what is the matter first," he said.
The sound of voices roused the prostrate girl. She sat up, looking wildly around her, and flinging her hair from her face; then she turned to the young girl, who was looking at her with such gentle, wistful compassion.
"Are you ill?" repeated Hyacinth. "Can we do any thing to help you?"
The girl seemed to gather herself together with a convulsive shudder, as though mortal cold had seized her.
"No, I thank you," she said. "I am not ill. I am only dying by inches—dying of misery and bad treatment."
It was such a weary young face that was raised to them. It looked so ghastly, so wretched, in the morning sunlight, that Hyacinth and Claude were both inexpressibly touched. Though she was poorly clad, and her thin, shabby clothes were wet with dew, and stained by the damp grass, still there was something about the girl that spoke of gentle culture.
Claude bent down, looking kindly on the dreary young face.
"There is a remedy for every evil and every wrong," he said; "perhaps we could find one for you."
"There is no remedy and no help for me," she replied; "my troubles will end only when I die."
"Have you been sleeping under this hedge all night?" asked Hyacinth.
"Yes. I have no home, no money, no food. Something seemed to draw me here. I had a notion that I should die here."
Hyacinth's face grew pale; there was something unutterably sad in the contrast between the bright morning and the crouching figure underneath the hedge.
"Are you married?" asked Claude, after a short pause.
"Yes, worse luck for me!" she replied, raising her eyes, with their expression of guilt and misery, to his, "I am married."
"Is your husband ill, or away from you? or what is wrong?" he pursued.
"It is only the same tale thousands have to tell," she replied. "My husband is not ill; he simply drinks all day and all night—drinks every shilling he earns—and when he has drunk himself mad he beats me."
"What a fate!" said Claude. "But there is a remedy—the law interferes to protect wives from such brutality."
"The law cannot do much; it cannot change a man's heart or his nature; it can only imprison him. And then, when he comes out, he is worse than before. Wise women leave the law alone."
"Why not go away from him and leave him?"
"Ah, why not? Only that I have chosen my lot and must abide by it. Though he beats me and ill-treats me, I love him. I could not leave him."
"It was an unfortunate marriage for you, I should suppose," said Hyacinth soothingly. The careworn sufferer looked with her dull, wistful eyes into the girl's beautiful face.
"I was a pretty girl years ago," she said, "fresh, and bright, and pleasing. I lived alone with my mother, and this man who is now my husband came to our town to work. He was tall, handsome, and strong—he pleased my eyes; he was a good mechanic, and made plenty of money—but he drank even then. When he came and asked me to be his wife, my mother said I had better dig my grave with my own hands, and jump into it alive, than marry a man who drank."
She caught her breath with a deep sob.
"I pleased myself," she continued, with a deep sigh; "I had my own way. My mother was not willing for me to marry him, so I ran away with him."
Hyacinth Vaughan's face grew paler.
"You did what?" she asked gently.
"I ran away with him," repeated the woman; "and, if I could speak now with a voice that all the world could hear, I would advise all girls to take warning by me, and rather break their hearts at home than run away from it."
Paler and paler grew the beautiful young face; and then Hyacinth suddenly noticed that one of the woman'shands lay almost useless on the grass. She raised it gently and saw that it was terribly wounded and bruised. Her heart ached at the sight.
"Does it pain you much?" she inquired.
The woman laughed—a laugh more terrible by far than any words could have been.
"I am used to pain," she said. "I put that hand on my husband's shoulder last night to beg him to stay at home and not to drink any more. He took a thick-knotted stick and beat it; and yet, poor hand, it was not harming him." Hyacinth shuddered. The woman went on, "We had a terrible quarrel last night. He vowed that he would come back in the morning and murder me."
"Then why not go away? Why not seek a safe refuge?"
She laughed again—the terrible, dreary laugh. "He would find me; he will kill me some day. I know it; but I do not care. I should not have run away from him."
"Why not go home again?" asked Hyacinth.
"Ah, no—there is no returning—no undoing—no going back."
Hyacinth raised the poor bruised hand.
"I am afraid it is broken," she said gently. "Let me bind it for you."
She took out her handkerchief; it was a gossamer trifle—fine cambric and lace—quite useless for the purpose required. She turned to Claude and asked for his. The request was a small one, but the whole afterpart of her life was affected by it. She did not notice that Claude's handkerchief was marked with his name in full—"Claude Lennox." She bound carefully the wounded hand.
"Now," she said, "be advised by us; go away—don't let your husband find you."
"Go to London," cried Claude eagerly; "there is always work to be done and money to be earned there. See—I will give you my address. You can write to me; and I will ask my aunt or my mother to give you employment."
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote on it; "Claude Lennox, 200 Belgrave Square, London."
He looked very handsome, very generous and noble, as he gave the folded note to the woman, with two sovereigns inside it.
"Remember," he said, "that I promise my mother will find you some work if you will apply to us."
She thanked him, but no ray of hope came to her poorface. She did not seem to think it strange that they were there—that it was unusual at that early hour to see such as they were out in the fields.
"Heaven bless you!" she said gratefully. "A dying woman's blessing will not hurt you."
"You will not die," said Claude cheerily; "you will be all right in time. Do you belong to this part?"
"No," she replied; "we are quite strangers here. I do not even know the name of the place. We were going to walk to Liverpool; my husband thought he should get better wages there."
"Take my advice," said Claude earnestly—"leave him; let him go his own road. Travel to London, and get a decent living for yourself there."
"I will think of it," she said wearily; and then a vague unconsciousness began to steal over her face.
"You are tired," said Hyacinth gently; "lie down and sleep again. Good-by." The birds were singing gayly when they turned to leave her.
"Stay," said Claude; "what is your name?"
"Anna Barratt," she replied; and only Heaven knows whether those were the last words she spoke.
The woman laid her weary head down again as one who would fain rest, and they walked away from her.
"We have done a good deed," said Claude thoughtfully; "saved that poor woman from being murdered, perhaps. I hope she will do what I advised—start for London. If my mother should take a fancy to her, she could easily put her in the way of getting her living."
To his surprise, Hyacinth suddenly took her hand from his, and broke out into a wild fit of weeping.
"My darling, what is it? Cynthy, what is the matter?"
She sat down upon a large moss-covered stone and wept as though her heart would break. The sight of those raining tears, the sound of those deep-drawn sobs and passionate cries filled him with grief and dismay. He knelt down by the girl's side, and tried to draw her hands from her face.
"Cynthy, you make me so wretched! Tell me what is wrong—I cannot bear to see you so."
Then the violence of her weeping abated. She looked at him. "Claude," she said, "I am so sorry I left home—it is all so wicked and so wrong. I must go back again."
He started from her. "Do you mean that you are sorry you have come with me, Hyacinth?"
"Yes, very sorry," she sobbed. "I must go back. I did not think of consequences. I can see them so plainly now. It is wicked to run away from home. That poor woman did it, and see what has come to her. Claude, I believe that Providence has placed that woman across my path, and that the words she has spoken are a warning message."
"That is all nonsense, Cynthy; there can be no comparison between the two cases. I am not a ruffian like that woman's husband."
"No you are not; but the step was wicked, Claude. I understand all now. Be kind to me, and let me go back home."
"Of course," said Claude sullenly, "I cannot run away with you against your will. If you insist upon it, I will do as you ask; but it is making a terrible simpleton of me."
"You will forgive me," she returned. "You will say afterward that I acted rightly. I shall be miserable, Claude—I shall never be happy again—if I do not return home."
"If you persist in this, we shall be parted forever," he said angrily.
"It will be best," she replied. "Do not be angry with me, Claude. I do not think—I—I love you enough to marry you and live with you always. I have blinded myself with romance and nonsense. I do not love you—not even so much as that poor woman loves her husband. Oh, Claude, let me return home."
She looked up at him, her face wet with tears, and an agony of entreaty in her eyes.
"You might have found this out before, Hyacinth. You have done me a great wrong—you have trifled with me. If you had said before that you did not love me, I should never have proposed this scheme."
"I did not know," she said, humbly. "I am very sorry if I have wronged you. I did not mean to pain you. It is just as though I had woke up suddenly from an ugly dream. Oh, for my dear mother's sake, take me home!"
He looked down at her, for some few minutes in silence,vanity and generosity doing hard battle together. The sight of her beautiful, tearful face touched, yet angered him, he did not like to see it clouded by sorrow; yet he could not bear to think that he must lose its loveliness, and never call it his own.
"Do you not love me, Hyacinth?" he asked sadly.
"Oh, no—not as I should love you, to be your wife. I thought I did not, but you said I did. I am quite sure of it, Claude; ever since we started I have been thinking so."
"Well, I must bear my disappointment like a man, I suppose," he said; "and since you wish to go back, I suppose you must. But remember all that you are going back to, Cynthy."
"It is better to break one's heart at home than to run away from it," she rejoined.
"I see," he said quietly; "that woman has frightened you. I thought you brave—you are a coward. I thought you capable of great sacrifice for my sake—you are not so. You shall go home in safety and security, Miss Vaughan."
"Heaven bless you, Claude!" she cried. "You are very good to me."
"I do not like it, mind," he said. "I think it is the shabbiest trick that was ever played on any man. Still, your wishes shall be obeyed." Without another word, they went back to the station.
"I will inquire at what time the train leaves here for Oakton," he said. "Stay outside, Hyacinth—it will not do for you to be seen now."
She was very fortunate. A train went back to Oakton at six o'clock—a quick train too—so that she would be there in little more than half an hour.
"Then," she said breathlessly, "I can walk quickly back again. I can get into the grounds—perhaps into the house—unnoticed. I pray Heaven that I may do so! If I may but once get safely freed from this danger, never will I run into any more. How much would I not give to be once more safe at home!"
Claude looked as he felt—exceedingly angry. "I will accompany you," he said, "as far as the Oakton station, and then I must walk back to the park. I can only hope that I have not been missed. I will take care that no woman ever makes such a simpleton of me again."
He went to the booking-office and obtained two tickets. When the train was ready for starting, and not before, hewent to summon Hyacinth, and by a little dexterous management, she got into a carriage unseen.
They did not exchange words on that return journey; he was too angry—too indignant; she was praying that she might reach home safely—that she might not be too heavily punished for her sin.
At last the train reached Oakton. There were few people at the station. She gave up the ticket to the official, who little guessed who she was.
"Thank Heaven," she said, with quivering lips. The next minute she was on the road that led to the woods. Claude followed her.
"We will say good-by here, Claude," she said, holding out her hand to him.
"And you were to have been my wife before noon!" he cried. "How cold, how heartless women are!"
"You should not have persuaded me," she said, with gentle dignity. "You blinded me by talking of the romance. I forgot to think of the right and wrong. But I will not reproach you. Good-by."
He held her hand one minute; all the love he had felt for her seemed to rise and overwhelm him—his face grew white with the pain of parting from her.
"You know that this good-by is forever," he said sadly; "you know that we who were to have been all in all to each other, who were to have been married by noon, will now in all probability never meet again."
"Better that than an elopement," she returned "Good-by, Claude."
He bent down and kissed her white brow; and then, without another word, she broke from him, and hastened away, while he, strong man as he was, lay sobbing on the grass.
Fortune favored her. No one saw her hurrying back through the woods and the pleasure-grounds. She waited until the back gates were all unfastened, and the maid whose office it was to feed the bantams Lady Vaughan was so proud of, came out. She spoke to her, and the maid thought Miss Vaughan had come, as she had often done before, to watch the feeding of the poultry. She wondered a little that the young lady was dressed in a gray travelling cloak, and wore a thick veil.
"Just for all the world," said the maid to herself, "as though she were going on a long journey." She was struck, too, by the sound of Miss Vaughan's voice; it wasso weak, so exhausted; it had none of its usual clear, musical tones.
"Mary," said Hyacinth, at last, "do you think you could get me a cup of tea from the kitchen? Breakfast will not be ready for some time yet."
The good-natured maid hastened down into the kitchen, and soon returned with a cup of hot, strong tea. Hyacinth drank it eagerly; her lips were parched and dry. The tea revived her wonderfully. Suddenly Mary exclaimed,
"Oh, Miss Vaughan where have you been? Your cloak is covered with dust."
"Hush, Mary," she said, with a forced smile. "Do not tell tales of me." And then she hastened into the house. She met no one; her little room was just as she had left it. No one had entered, nothing was disturbed. She locked the door and fell on her knees. Rarely has maiden prayed as Hyacinth Vaughan prayed then. How she thanked Providence—how her heart, full of gratitude, was raised to Heaven! How she promised that for all the remainder of her life she would be resigned and submissive.
How safe and secure was this haven of home after all! She shuddered as she thought of that dreadful night passed in the confusion of railway travelling; of the woman whose pitiful story still rang in her ears.
"Thank Heaven, I have escaped!" she cried. "With all my heart I offer thanks!"
Then she changed her dress and did her best to remove all traces of fatigue, and when the breakfast bell rang she went down-stairs with a prayer on her lips—she was so thankful, so grateful, for her escape. Claude Lennox did not fare so well; he had been missed and the colonel was very angry about it.
"You have been dining with the officers again, I suppose," he said, "and have spent the night over cards and wine. It is bad, sir—bad. I do not like it. It is well Mrs. Lennox does not know it."
He made no excuses; he said nothing to defend himself; all the servants in the house knew there was a dispute between the colonel, their master, and Mr. Lennox.
"If my conduct does not please you, uncle," said the young man, "I can go, you know."
This threat somewhat mollified the colonel, who had no great wish to quarrel with his handsome young nephew.
"I have no wish to be harsh," he said, "but a whole night at cards is too much."
"I am sorry I have not pleased you," rejoined Claude. "I shall go back to London on Saturday; my engagements will not permit me to remain here after then."
He was angry and annoyed; he had been baffled, irritated, placed in a false and most absurd position; he did not care to remain at Oakton. He could not endure to look at Hyacinth Vaughan's face again. But he did not know what terrible events were to happen before Saturday. The future, with its horrible shame and disgrace, was hidden from him.
"What has come over the child?" thought Lady Vaughan to herself. "She is so submissive, so quiet, so obedient, I hardly know her."
For, though Lady Vaughan exercised Hyacinth's patience very severely the whole of that day, in the packing up, no murmur escaped her lips; she was very quiet and subdued, and made no complaint even when she heard that they were to travel in a close carriage; no impetuous bursts of song came from her lips—no half-murmured reply to Lady Vaughan's homilies. That lady thought, with great complacency, how very efficacious her few words must have been.
"It is the prospect of being married, I suppose, that has made her so good," she said to herself.
She little knew that the girl's heart was weighed down with gratitude to Heaven for an escape that she deemed almost miraculous. She little thought how suddenly the quiet old home had become a sure refuge and harbor to her—and how, for the first time in her life, Hyacinth clung to it with love and fondness.
She was busy at work all day, for they were to start early on the next morning. She executed all Lady Vaughan's commissions—she did all her errands—she helped in every possible way, thinking all the time how fortunate she was—that the past two months were like a horrible dream from which she had only just awoke. How could she have been so blinded, so foolish, so mad? Ah, thank heaven, she had awoke in time!
She was not afraid of discovery, though she knew perfectlywell that, if ever Lady Vaughan should know what she had done, she would never speak to her again—she would not allow her to remain at Queen's Chase. But there was no fear of her ever learning what she had done; thanks to Claude's care, no one had recognized her—her secret was quite safe. But the consciousness that she had such a secret, humiliated her as nothing else could have done. Her grandmother might well wonder what brought that expression of grateful contentment to her beautiful face.
Then Lady Vaughan bade her go to rest early, for she must be up by sunrise. She went, tears of gratitude filling her eyes. She was at home, and so safe!
She thought very kindly of Claude. She was sorry for his discomfiture, and for the pain he suffered; but a sudden sense of womanly dignity had come over her.
"He should not have persuaded me," she said to herself over and over again. "He knows the world better than I do; he is older than I am. He should have been the one to teach me, and not to lead me astray."
Still she felt kindly toward him, and she knew that, as time went on, and the gloom of her home enclosed her again, she should miss him. She was too grateful for her escape, however, too remorseful for what she had done, to feel any great grief at losing him now.
On the Thursday morning, when great events of which she knew nothing were passing around her, Hyacinth rose early, and the bustle of preparation began. They did not go to Oakton station. Sir Arthur had his own particular way of doing every thing, and he chose to post to London. He did not quite approve of railway travelling—it was levelling—all classes were mixed up too much for his taste. So they drove in the grand old family carriage to London, whence they travelled instate to Dover, thence to Bergheim.
As far as it was possible to make travelling dull, this journey was rendered dull. Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan seemed to have only one dread, and that was of seeing and being seen. The blinds of the carriage windows were all drawn. "They had not come abroad for scenery, but for change of air," her ladyship observed several times each day. When it was necessary to stay at a hotel, they had a separate suite of rooms. There was notable d'hote, no mixing with other travellers; they were completely exclusive.
As they drew near Bergheim, Hyacinth's beautiful facegrew calm and serene. She even wondered what he would be like, this Adrian Darcy. He was a scholar and a gentleman—but what else? Would he despise her as a child, or admire her as a woman? Would he fall in love with her, or would he remain profoundly indifferent to her charms? She was startled from her reverie by Lady Vaughan's voice.
"We will drive straight to the hotel," she said; "Mr. Darcy has taken rooms for us there."
"Shall we see him to-night?" asked Sir Arthur.
"No, I should imagine not. Adrian is always considerate. He will know we are tired, and consequently not in the best of moods for visitors," she replied. "He will be with us to-morrow morning."
And, strange to say, Hyacinth Vaughan, who had once put from her even the thought of Adrian Darcy, felt some slight disappointment that she was not to see him until the morrow.
"This is something like life," thought Hyacinth Vaughan, as the summer sun came streaming into her room.
It was yet early in the morning, but there was a sound of music from the gardens. She drew aside the blinds, and saw a lake in all its beauty, the most cheerful, the brightest scene upon which she had ever gazed.
The Hotel du Roi is by far the most aristocratic resort in Bergheim. "Kings, queens, and emperors" have lodged there; some of the leading men and the fairest women in Europe have at times made their home there. The hotel has a certain aristocratic character of its own. Second-rate people never go there; its magnificence is of too quiet and dignified a kind. The gorgeous suites of rooms are always inhabited by some of the leading Continental families. Bergheim itself is a sleepy little town. The lake is very beautiful; tall mountains slope down to the edge; the water is deep, clear, and calm; green trees fringe the banks; water-lilies sleep on its tranquil breast. The Lake of Bergheim has figured in poetry, in song, and in pictures.
Hyacinth gazed at it with keen delight. Suddenly it struck her that the house was not Lady Vaughan's, consequentlynot under her ladyship's control, and that she could go out into those fairylike looking grounds if she wished.
She took her hat and a black lace shawl and went down-stairs. She was soon reassured. She was doing nothing unusual. One or two ladies were already in the gardens, and in one of the broad open paths she saw an English nursemaid with some little children around her. Hyacinth walked on with a light, joyous heart. She never remembered to have seen the world so fair; she had never seen sunshine so bright, or flowers so fair; nor had she ever heard such musical songs from the birds.
Over the girl's whole soul, as she stood, there came a rapturous sense of security and gratitude. She was safe; the folly, amounting almost to sin, of her girlhood, was already fading into the obscurity of a dark, a miserable dream. She was safe under heaven's blessed sunlight, life growing fairer and more beautiful every hour. She was grateful for her escape.
Then it struck her that she heard the sound of falling water, and she went down a long, vine-covered path—surely the loveliest picture in the world. The vines had been trained so as to form a perfect arch; the grapes hung in rich, ripe bunches; flowers grew underfoot; and at the end of the grove was a high white rock from which water fell with a rippling, rushing, musical sound, into a small clear pool. Hyacinth looked at the scene in wonder. She had never seen anything so pretty in her life. She went up to the water; it was cool, so clear, so fresh and sparkling. She threw off her hat and plunged her hands into it. She laughed aloud as the water ran foaming over them. She little dreamed what a lovely picture she herself made standing under the shade of the vines, her fair, brilliant face almost dazzling in the dim light, her fair hair shining like gold. The morning breeze had brought the most dainty and exquisite bloom to her face, her eyes were as bright as stars, her lips like newly-blown roses, and, as she stood with the foam rushing over her little white hands, the world might have searched in vain for one more lovely.
Then she thought how refreshing a draught of that sparkling water would be. She gathered a large vine-leaf and filled it. She had just raised it to her lips when a rich, deep, musical voice said:
"Do not drink that water; it is not considered good."
The vine-leaf fell from her hands, her face flushed crimson. She had thought that she was quite alone. She looked around, but could see no one.
"I beg pardon if I have alarmed you," said the same voice, "but the water of the fall is not considered good; it is supposed to come from the lake."
Then she looked in the direction whence the voice proceeded—a gentleman was reclining on a rock by the waterfall. He had been reading, for an open book lay by his side; but Hyacinth strongly suspected, from the quiet smile on his lips and in his luminous eyes, that he had been watching her.
"I am afraid I startled you," he continued; "but the water is not so clear as it looks."
"Thank you," she returned, gently.
He took up his book again, and she turned to leave the grove. But in those few moments, the world had all changed for her. She walked out of the vine grove, and sat down by the edge of the lake, trying to live every second of those few minutes over again.
What was that face like? Dark, beautiful, noble—the face of a king, with royal brows, and firm, grave, yet sweet lips—a face that in her girlish dreams she would have given to the heroes she loved—to King Arthur—to the Chevalier Bayard—to Richard the Lion Heart—the face of a man born to command, born to rule.
She had looked at it for perhaps only two minutes, but she could have sketched it accurately from memory. The dark hair was thrown back in masses—not in effeminate curls, but in the same waving lines that may be seen on the heads of famous Grecian statues; the forehead was white, broad, well-developed, rounded at the temples, full of ideality, of genius, of poetry, of thought; the brows were dark and straight as those of a Greek god; the eyes luminous and bright—she could not tell what they were like—they had dazzled her. The dark mustache did not hide a beautiful mouth that had nothing effeminate in it.
It was a face that filled her mind with thoughts of beauty. She mused over it. There was nobility, power, genius, loyalty, truth, in every feature. The voice had filled her ears with music.
"I wish," she thought, "he had given me some other command; I should like to obey him; I would do anything he told me; he has the face and the voice of a king. I have read of god-like men; now I have seen one. Shall Iever see him again? I can imagine that face flashing with indignation, eloquent with pleading, royal in command, softened in tenderness, eloquent in speech."
Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a bell. "That must be for breakfast," she thought, and she hurried back to the house. She did not see the stranger follow her, with a smile still on his face.
Lady Vaughan was unusually gracious.
"You have been out in the gardens, my dear," she said to the young girl, who evidently expected a reproof. "That is right. You are looking very well this morning."
She spoke coldly; but in her heart she marvelled at the girl's wonderful beauty. She had seen nothing so fair, so dainty, so brilliant as the bloom that overspread her lovely face. "I have had a note from Mr. Darcy," continued her ladyship, "and he will be with us before noon."
During breakfast Lady Vaughan was more gracious than ever Hyacinth remembered to have seen her. When it was over, she said to the girl:
"I should like you to look your best, Cynthy, when Mr. Darcy comes. Make a fresh toilet, and then amuse yourself as you like until I send for you."
Over the glowing dream of the morning the name of Adrian Darcy seemed to fall like the breath of a cold east wind over flowers. She had for the time almost forgotten him, and at the sound of his name a whole host of disagreeable memories arose.
"Never mind," she said to herself; "they cannot force me to marry him against my will. I can tell him I do not like him." She went away, with smiles on her lips and music in her heart, to change her dress, as Lady Vaughan had desired. A surprise awaited her in her room; Pincott, Lady Vaughan's maid, was standing before a large trunk.
"These are dresses, Miss Vaughan," she said, "that my lady has ordered from Paris for you. She did not tell you, because she wished to keep it as a surprise for you."
The girl's face flushed crimson.
"For me!" she cried. "How kind of her! Oh, Pincott, how beautiful they are!"
The maid unfolded the glistening treasures of silk, lace, and velvet, displaying them to Hyacinth's enraptured eyes.
"My lady ordered me to attend to your toilet, this morning, Miss Vaughan," continued Pincott, who knew perfectly well why her mistress desired the young girl to lookher best. "I have brought these blush roses; no ornaments look so well as natural flowers."
From the collection of dresses one of embroidered Indian muslin was selected. It was daintily trimmed with pale pink ribbon and white lace, and was exquisitely made. The girlish graceful figure, with its beautiful curves and symmetrical lines, was shown to perfection; the sleeves fell back, showing a fair, rounded arm. Pincott had great natural taste; she dressed the fair hair after some simple girlish fashion, and fastened a blush rose in it; she fastened another in the high bodice of the white dress.
"You look lovely, Miss Vaughan," she said; and Hyacinth, looking at her fair flower-like face, blushed for her own great beauty.
Then Pincott left her, and the way in which she amused herself was by sitting at the open window, dreaming of the face she had seen at the waterfall. She was roused by the maid's return. "Lady Vaughan will be glad to see you in her room, Miss Vaughan. Mr. Darcy is there."
Again the name fell like cold water over her, chilling her bright dreams, her growing content and happiness: and again she consoled herself by remembering that no one could force her to marry Mr. Darcy against her will. She heard the sound of voices as she drew near the room; she opened the door and entered, her beautiful face calm and serene, looking as fair a picture of youth and loveliness as ever greeted human eyes. "Hyacinth," said Lady Vaughan, "come here my dear. I want to introduce you to Mr. Darcy."
She went up to her. A tall figure stood near Lady Vaughan's chair. Lady Vaughan took her hand.
"This is my granddaughter. Hyacinth—Mr. Darcy."
Hyacinth raised her eyes. Was she blinded by a great golden sunbeam? Was she dreaming? Was she haunted or bewitched? Adrian Darcy, whom she had dreaded to see, whose name even she had detested, was the same gentleman that she had seen by the waterfall.
When she remembered all she had been thinking and dreaming, it was no wonder that the beautiful face grew crimson as a damask rose, and that the bright eyes fell until he could see nothing of them. She was spell-bound—this unknown hero of whom she had dreamed the whole summer morning was Adrian Darcy! He held out his hand to her.
"We are old friends," he said frankly. "I saw thisyoung lady about to drink some clear, cold, sparkling poison this morning, and I interfered to prevent her doing so."
Then he was obliged to explain to Lady Vaughan who smiled most graciously; but Hyacinth said never a word. She could not realize the truth, yet she sat like one blinded by a great flood of sunlight. If she had known how this sweet shy confusion became her—how beautiful it was—how Adrian Darcy admired it! Nothing could have charmed him half so much.
"How beautiful she is!" he thought. "She is like a rosebud shrouded in green leaves."
Hyacinth was almost in despair.
"How stupid he will think me!" she reflected. "But I cannot help it—I cannot speak."
When she had collected her senses sufficiently to listen, Adrian was saying—
"Yes; we have very good music here, indeed. I think the hotel gardens on a bright summer day the most charming place I know. The fountains are very beautiful; and the band is one of the best I have heard. Lady Vaughan, I hear the music beginning now; will you allow me to escort you? There are very comfortable seats in the gardens!"
He saw the sudden, startled flush of joy in the young face. Hyacinth raised her head and looked eagerly at her grandmamma; but Lady Vaughan excused herself.
"The journey has been delightful," she said, "but fatiguing. To-morrow I will go out, but not to-day. Hyacinth will go, though, Adrian, if you will be so kind as to give the child the pleasure."
The "child" rose, her cheeks aflame, her heart beating as it had never beat before. To go out into those sunlit gardens and to listen to music with him—well, she had not even guessed before what a beautiful, happy world it was. She put on the prettiest of her hats—one with a white plume—and a lace mantilla, and then stood, half smiling, but wholly happy, waiting for him. He came up to her smiling.
"Hyacinth," he said, "we are—to use an old-fashioned term—of the same kin; so I am not going to call you Miss Vaughan. And I want you not to look so shy, but to feel quite at home with me."
At home with him, this hero, this king amongst men, whose presence filled her whole soul with light! It could never be.
"I had no idea," he continued, "that I had such a fair young kinswoman. Lady Vaughan had always written as though you were a child."
Her heart sank. Was this how he thought of her—was this what made him so kind and gracious to her?
"I am not a child," she said, with some little attempt at dignity, "I am more than eighteen."
"Quite a philosophic age," was the smiling reply. "Now, Hyacinth, tell me, what do you like to look at best—flowers, trees, or water?"
"I like all three," she said truthfully.
"Do you? Then I will find you a seat where you can see all. Here is one not too near the music."
He had found a quaint, pretty garden seat, under the shade of a tall spreading tree. In front of them were beds of lilies and roses, and the blue waters of the lake. The band began to play the sad, passionate music of Verdi's "Miserere;" and to Hyacinth Vaughan it seemed as though the earth had changed into heaven.
"Do you like music?" he said watching the changes on the beautiful young face.
"Yes," she replied, "but I have heard so little."
"You have had a very quiet life at Queen's Chase, I should imagine," he said.
"Yes, as quiet as life could well be."
"You should not regret it. I am quite of the oldrégime. I think young girls should be so reared."
"For what reason?" she asked.
"For a hundred reasons. If there is one character I detest more than another, it is that of a worldly woman. Delicacy, purity, refinement, are all so essential—and no girl can possess them brought up under the glare and glitter of the world. You have been singularly fortunate in living at Queen's Chase."
"Thank Heaven," she thought to herself, "that he does not know the shameful escape I tried to make—that he does not know how I loathed and hated the place."
"But," she said aloud, "it is not pleasant to be always dull."
"Dull! No. Youth is the very time for enjoyment; every thing rejoices in youth. You, for instance, have been happy with your books and flowers at Queen's Chase: the world now is all new to you. You are not what fashionable jargon calls 'used up.' You have not been playing at being a woman while you were yet a child; yourheart has not been hardened by flirtations; your soul has not been soiled by contact with worldlings; you are fresh, and pure, and beautiful as the flowers themselves. If you had been living all these years in the hot-bed of society, this would not have been the case. There is nothing so detestable, so unnatural, as a worldly young girl."
He liked her as she was! For the first time in her life Hyacinth blessed Lady Vaughan and Queen's Chase.
"I do not want to tire you with argument," he continued, "but tell me Hyacinth, what becomes of a flower, the growth of which has been forced?"
"It soon dies," she replied.
"Yes; and girls brought up in the artificial atmosphere of modern society, and its worship of Mammon, its false estimates, its love of sensation and excitement, soon die to all that is fairest and best in life. You," he continued, "enjoy—see, your face tells tales, Hyacinth—you enjoy the sunshine, the flowers, the music, the lake."
"Yes, indeed I do," she confessed.
"If you had danced and flirted through one or two London seasons, you would not enjoy nature as you do; it would pall upon you—you would be apt to look at it through an eye-glass, and criticise the color of the water and the tints of the flowers—you would detect motes in the sunbeam and false notes in music."
She laughed. "I should not be so keen a critic, Mr. Darcy."
"One who can criticise is not always one who enjoys most," he said. "I like to see people honestly enjoying themselves, and leaving criticism alone."
The gardens were not crowded; there were seldom visitors enough at the hotel to form a crowd; but Hyacinth was struck by the pleasant, high-bred faces and elegant dresses.
"Do you see that lady there in the gray dress," said Mr. Darcy—"the one with two children by her side?" Hyacinth looked in the direction indicated.
"That is the Princess Von Arten, the daughter of a queen. How simple and unassuming she is! She is staying here with her children. The gentleman now saluting her is the eminent Weilmath."
Her face lighted up.
"I am glad to have seen him," she said; "I have read of him so often. Do you admire him?"
"I admire bravery," he replied, "but not unscrupulousdaring. Do you see that lady sitting under the ilex tree?"
"The one with the sad, thoughtful face?" asked Hyacinth.
"Yes. Twelve months ago she was the leading star of the most brilliant court in Europe; now she has no home that she can call her own."
Hyacinth turned her face to his.
"Mr. Darcy," she said, "is the world then so full of reverses? I thought that, when one was happy and prosperous, sorrow and trouble did not approach. What is stable if money, and friendship, and happiness fail?"
"Just one thing," he replied, with the beautiful luminous smile she had never seen on any other face—"Heaven!"