Hyacinth Vaughan repeated one sentence over and over again to herself—they were always the same words—"Thank Heaven, Adrian does not know what I have done."
For, as the days passed on, she learned to care for him with a love that was wonderful in its intensity. It was not his personal beauty that impressed her. By many people Claude Lennox would have been considered the handsomer man of the two. It was the grandeur of Adrian Darcy's character, the loyalty and nobility of his most loyal soul; the beauty of his mind, the stretch and clearness of his intellect, that charmed her.
She had never met any one like him—never met so perfect a mixture of chivalry and strength. She learned to have the utmost reliance upon him. His most lightly spoken word was to her as the oath of another. She saw that every thought, every word, every action of his was so perfectly correct that his least judgment was invaluable. If he said a thing was right, the whole world could not have made her think it wrong; if he disapproved of anything, so entire was her reliance upon him, that she could not be brought to consider it right.
It seemed so strange that she should have been so ready to run away, so as to escape this Adrian Darcy; and now the brightest heaven of which she could dream was hisfriendship—for his love, after she understood him, she could hardly hope.
"How can he care for a child like me," she was accustomed to ask herself, "uninformed, inexperienced, ignorant? He is so great and so noble, how can he care for me?"
She did not know that her sweet humility, her graceful shyness, hernaïveté, her entire freedom from all taint of worldliness, was more precious to him, more charming, than all the accomplishments she could have displayed.
"How can I ever have thought that I loved Claude?" she said to herself. "How can I have been so blind? My heart never used to beat more quickly for his coming. If I had had the same liberty, the same amusements and pleasures which other girls have, I should never have cared for him. It was only because he broke the monotony of my life, and gave me something to think of."
Then in her own mind she contrasted the two men—Adrian, so calm, so dignified, so noble in thought, word, and deed, and so loyal, so upright; Claude, all impetuosity, fire, recklessness and passion—not to be trusted, not to be relied upon. There was never a greater difference of character surely than between these two men.
She learned to look with Adrian's eyes, to think with his mind; and she became a noble woman.
Life at Bergheim was very pleasant; there was no monotony, no dreariness now. Her first thought when she woke in the morning, was that she should see Adrian, hear him speak, perhaps go out with him. Quite unconsciously to herself, he became the centre of her thoughts and ideas—the soul of her soul, the life of her life. She did not know that she loved him; what she called her "love" for Claude had been something so different—all made up of gratified vanity and love of change. The beautiful affection rapidly mastering her was so great and reverent, it filled her soul with light, her heart with music, her mind with beauty. She did not know that it was love that kept her awake throughout the night thinking of him, bringing back to her mind every word he had spoken—that made her always anxious to look well.
"I always thought," she said to him one day, "that grave and thoughtful people always despised romance."
"They despise all affectation and caricature of it," he replied.
"Since I have been out in the world and have listenedto people talking, I have heard them say, 'Oh, she is romantic!' as though romance were wrong or foolish."
"There is romance and romance," he said; "romance that is noble, beautiful and exalting; and romance that is the overheated sentiment of foolish girls. What so romantic as Shakespeare? What love he paints for us—what passion, what sadness! Who more romantic than Fouque? What wild stories, what graceful, improbable legends he gives us! Yet, who sneers at Shakespeare and Fouque?"
"Then why do people apply the word 'romantic' almost as a term of reproach to others?"
"Because they misapply the word, and do not understand it. I plead guilty myself to a most passionate love of romance—that is, romance which teaches, elevates, and ennobles—the soul of poetry, the high and noble faculty that teaches one to appreciate the beautiful and true. You know, Hyacinth, there are true romance and false romance, just as there are true poetry and false poetry."
"I can understand what you call true romance, but not what you mean by false," she said.
"No; you are too much like the flower you are named after to know much of false romance," he rejoined. "Everything that lowers one's standard, that tends to lower one's thoughts, that puts mere sentiment in the place of duty, that makes wrong seem right, that leads to underhand actions, to deceit, to folly—all that is false romance. Pardon my alluding to such things. The lover who would persuade a girl to deceive her friends for his sake, who would persuade her to give him private meetings, to receive secret letters—such a lover starts from a base of the very falsest romance; yet many people think it true."
He did not notice that her beautiful face had suddenly grown pale, and that an expression of fear had crept into her blue eyes.
"You are always luring me into argument, Hyacinth," he said, with a smile.
"Because I like to hear you talk," she explained. She did not see how full of love was the look he bent on her as he plucked a spray of azalea flowers and passed it to her. Through the tears that filled her downcast eyes she saw the flower, and almost mechanically took it from his hand, not daring to look up. But in the silence of her own room she pressed the flowers passionately to her lips and rained tears upon them, as she moaned, "Oh, if he knew, what would he think of me? what would he think?"
Hyacinth Vaughan was soon to learn more of Mr. Darcy's sentiments. He was dining with them one day, when the conversation turned upon some English guests who had arrived at the hotel the evening before—Lord and Lady Wallace.
"She looks quite young," said Lady Vaughan. "She would be a nice companion for Hyacinth."
Mr. Darcy, to whom she was speaking, made no reply. Lady Vaughan noticed how grave his face had grown.
"Do you not think so, Adrian?" she asked.
"Since you wish me to speak, my answer is, no; I do not think so."
"Do you mind telling me why?" pursued Lady Vaughan "I have been so long out of the world I am ignorant of its proceedings."
"I would rather you would not ask me, Lady Vaughan," he said.
"And I would rather hear what you have to tell," she persisted, with a smiling air of command that he was too courteous not to obey.
"I do not think Lady Wallace would be a good companion for Hyacinth, because she is what people of the period call 'fast.' She created a great sensation three years ago by eloping with Lord Wallace. She was only seventeen at the time."
Lady Vaughan looked slightly disgusted; but Hyacinth, who perhaps felt in some measure that she was on her trial, said: "Perhaps she loved him."
Adrian turned to her eagerly. "That is what I was trying to explain to you the other day—false romance—how the truest, the purest, the brightest romance would have been, not eloping—which is the commonplace instinct of commonplace minds—but waiting in patience. Think of the untruths, the deceit, the false words, the underhand dealings that are necessary for an elopement!"
"But surely," said Lady Vaughan, "there are exceptions?"
"There may be. I do not know. I am only saying what I think. A girl who deceives all her friends, who leaves home in such a fashion, must be devoid of refinement and delicacy—not to mention truth and honesty."
"You are very hard," murmured Hyacinth.
"Nay," he rejoined, turning to her with infinite tenderness of manner; "there are some things in which one cannot be too hard. Anything that touches the fair and pure name of a woman should be held sacred."
"You think highly of women," she said.
"I do—so highly that I cannot bear even a cloud to shadow the fairness and brightness that belong to them. A woman's fair name is her inheritance—her dower. I could not bear, had I a sister, to hear her name lightly spoken by light lips. What the moss is to the rose, what green leaves are to the lily, spotless repute is to a woman."
As he spoke the grave words, Hyacinth looked at him. How pure, how noble the woman must be who could win his love!
"Ah me, ah me!" thought the girl, with a bitter sigh, "what would he say to me if he knew all? Who was ever so near the scandal he hated as I was? Oh, thank Heaven, that I drew back in time, and that mine was but the shadow of a sin!"
There were times when she thought, with a beating heart, of what Lady Vaughan had said to her—that it was her wish Adrian Darcy should marry her. The lot that had once seemed so hard to her was now so bright, so dazzling, that she dared not think of it—when she remembered it, her face flushed crimson.
"I am not worthy," she said over and over again to herself—"I am not worthy."
She thought of Adrian's love as she thought of the distant stars in heaven—bright, beautiful, but far away. In her sweet humility, she did not think there was anything in herself which could attract him. She little dreamed, how much he admired the loveliness of her face, the grace of her girlish figure, the purity, the innocence, the simplicity that, despite the shadow of a sin, still lingered with her.
"She is innately noble," he said one day to Lady Vaughan. "She is sure always to choose the nobler and better part; her ideas are naturally noble, pure, and correct. She is the most beautiful combination of child and woman that I have ever met. Imagination and common sense, poetry, idealisms and reason, all seem to meet in her."
Years ago, Adrian Darcy had heard something of Lady Vaughan's half-expressed wish that he should marry hergranddaughter. He laughed at it at the time; but he remembered it with a sense of acute pleasure. His had been a busy life; he had studied hard—had carried off some of the brightest honors of his college—and, after leaving Oxford, had devoted himself to literary pursuits. He had written books which had caused him to be pronounced one of the most learned scholars in England. He cared little for the frivolities of fashion—they had not interested him in the least—yet his name was a tower of strength in the great world.
Between Adrian Darcy and the ancient Barony of Chandon there was but the present Lord Chandon, an old infirm man, and his son, a sickly boy. People all agreed that sooner or later Adrian must succeed to the estate; great, therefore, was the welcome he received in Vanity Fair. Mothers presented their fairest daughters to him; fair-faced girls smiled their sweetest smiles when he was present; but all was in vain—the world and the worldly did not please Adrian Darcy. He cared more for his books than woman's looks; he had never felt the least inclination to fall in love until he met Hyacinth Vaughan.
It was not her beauty that charmed him, although he admitted that it was greater than he had ever seen. It was her youth, her simplicity, her freedom from all affectation, the entire absence of all worldliness, the charm of her fresh, sweet romance, that delighted him. She said what she thought, and she expressed her thoughts in such beautiful, eloquent words that he delighted to listen to them. He was quite unused to such frank, sweet, candid simplicity—it had all the charms of novelty for him. He had owned to himself, at last, that he loved her—that life without her would be a dreary blank.
"If I had never met her," he said to himself, "I should never have loved anyone. In all the wide world she is the only one for me." He wondered whether he could speak to her yet of his love. "She is like some shy, bright bird," he said to himself, "and I am afraid of startling her. She is so simple, so child-like, in spite of her romance and poetry, that I am half afraid."
His manner to her was so chivalrous that it was like the wooing of some gracious king. She contrasted him over and over again with Claude—Claude, who had respected her girlish ignorance and inexperience so little. So the sunny days glided by in a dream of delight. Adrian spent all his time with them; and one day Lady Vaughan askedhim what he thought of his chance of succeeding to the Barony of Chandon.
"I think," he replied slowly, "that sooner or later it must be mine."
"Do you care much for it?" she asked. "Old people are always inquisitive, Adrian—you must forgive me."
"I care for it in one sense," he replied; "but I cannot say honestly that title or rank give me any great pleasure. I would rather be Adrian Darcy, than Baron Chandon of Chandon. But, Lady Vaughan, I will tell you something that I long for, that I covet and desire."
"What is it?" she asked, looking at the handsome face, flushed, eager, and excited.
"It is the love of Hyacinth Vaughan," he answered. "I love her—I have never seen anyone so simple, so frank, sospirituelle. I love her as I never thought to love any woman. If I do not marry her, I will never marry anyone. I have your permission, I know; but she is so shy, so coy, I am afraid to speak to her. Do you think I have any chance, Lady Vaughan?"
She raised her fair old face to his.
"I do," she replied. "Thanks to our care, the girl's heart is like the white leaf of a lily. No shadow has ever rested on her. She has not been flirted with and talked about. I tell you honestly, Adrian, that the lilies in the garden are not more pure, more fair, or fresh than she."
"I know it," he agreed; "and, heaven helping me, I will so guard and shield her that no shadow shall ever fall over her."
"She has never had a lover," continued Lady Vaughan. "Her life has been a most secluded one."
"Then I shall try to win her," he said; and when he had gone away Lady Vaughan acknowledged to herself that the very desire of her heart was near being gratified.
It may be that Hyacinth Vaughan read Adrian Darcy's determination in his face, for she grew so coy and frightened that had he not been brave he would have despaired. If by accident she raised her eyes and met his glance her face burned and her heart beat; when he spoke to her it was with difficulty she answered him. She had once innocentlyand eagerly sought his society—she had loved to listen to him while he was talking to Lady Vaughan—she had enjoyed being with him as the flowers enjoy the sunlight. But something was awake in her heart and soul which had been sleeping until now. When she saw Adrian, her first impulse was to turn aside and fly, no matter whither, because of the sweet pain his presence caused her. He met her one morning in the broad corridor of the hotel; she looked fresh and bright, fair and sweet as the morning itself. Her face flushed at his coming, she stopped half undecided whether to go on or turn and fly.
"Hyacinth," he said, holding out his hand in greeting, "it seems an age since I have had any conversation with you. Where do you hide yourself? What are you always doing?"
Then he paused and looked at her—admiration, passion, and tenderness unspeakable in his eyes. She little knew how fair a picture she presented in her youthful loveliness and timidity—how graceful and pure she was in her girlish embarrassment.
"Have you not one word of greeting, Hyacinth? It is the morning of a fresh day. I have not seen you since the noon of yesterday. Speak to me—after your own old bright way. Why, Hyacinth, what has changed you? We used to laugh all the sunny summer day through, and now you give me only a smile. What has changed you?"
She never remembered what answer she made him, nor how she escaped. She remembered nothing until she found herself in her own room, her heart beating, her face dyed with burning blushes, and her whole soul awake and alarmed.
"What has changed me?" she asked. "What has come over me? I know—I know. I love him!"
She fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands—she wept passionately.
"I love him," she said—"oh, Heaven, make me worthy to love him!"
She knelt in a kind of waking trance, a wordless ecstasy. She loved him; her heart was awake, her soul slept no more. That was why she dreaded yet longed to meet him—why his presence gave her pain that was sweeter than all joy.
This paradise she had gained was what, in her blindness and folly she had flown from; and she knew now, as she knelt there, that, had all the treasures of earth been offeredto her, had its fairest gifts been laid at her feet, she would have selected this from them.
At last the great joy, the great mystery, the crowning pleasure of woman's life, was hers. She called to mind all that the poets had written of love. Was it true? Ah, no! It fell a thousand fathoms short. Such happiness, such joy as made music in her heart could not be told in words, and her face burned again as she remembered the feeble sentiment that she had dignified by the name of love. Now that she understood herself, she knew that it was impossible she could ever have loved Claude Lennox; he had not enough grandeur or nobility of character to attract her.
When she went down to thesalon, Sir Arthur and Adrian were there alone; she fled like a startled fawn. He was to dine with them that day, and she spent more time than usual over her toilet. How could she make herself fair enough in the eyes of the man who was her king? Very fair did she look, for among her treasures she found an old-fashioned brocade, rich, heavy, and beautiful, and it was trimmed with rich point lace. The ground was white, with small rosebuds embroidered on it. The fair, rounded arms and white neck shone out even fairer than the white dress; a few pearls that Lady Vaughan had given her shone like dew-drops in the fair hair. She looked both long and anxiously in the mirror, so anxious was she to look well in his eyes.
"Miss Vaughan grows quite difficult to please," said Pincott to her mistress, later on; and Lady Vaughan smiled.
"There may be reasons," she returned; "we have all been young once—we must not quite forget what youth is like. Ah—there is the dinner-bell."
But, as far as the mere material dinner was concerned, Adrian did not show to great advantage; it was impossible to eat while that lovely vision in white brocade sat opposite to him.
"She flies from me—she avoids me," he thought; "but she shall listen. I have tamed the white doves—I have made the wildest, brightest song-birds love me and eat from my hands. She shall love me, too."
He could not succeed in inducing her to look at him; when he spoke she answered, but the sweet eyes were always downcast.
"Never mind. She shall look at me yet," he thought.
After dinner he asked her to sing. She saw with alarm that if she did so she would be alone with him—for the piano was at the extreme end of the room. So she excused herself, and he understood perfectly the reason why.
"Will you play at chess?" he asked.
Not for the wealth of India could she have managed it.
"I shall win you," his eyes seemed to say. "You may try to escape. Flutter your bright wings, my pretty bird; it is all in vain."
Then he asked her if she would go into the grounds. She murmured some few words of apology that he could hardly hear. A sudden great love and sweetest pity for her youth and her timidity came over him. "I will be patient," he said to himself; "the shy bird shall not be startled. In time she will learn not to be so coy and timid."
So he turned away and asked Sir Arthur if he should read the leading article from theTimesto him, and Sir Arthur gratefully accepted the offer. Lady Vaughan, with serenely composed face, went to sleep. Hyacinth stole gently to the window; she wanted no books, no music; a fairyland was unfolded before her, and she had not half explored it. She only wanted to be quite alone, to think over and over again how wonderful it was that she loved Adrian Darcy.
"Come out," the dewy, sleepy flowers seemed to say. "Come out," sung the birds. "Come out," whispered the wind, bending the tall magnolia trees and spreading abroad sweet perfume. She looked round the room; Lady Vaughan was fast asleep, Sir Arthur listening intently, and Adrian reading to him. "No one will miss me," she thought.
She took up a thin shawl that was lying near, opened the long window very gently, and stepped out. But she was mistaken: some one did miss her, and that some one was Adrian. No gesture, no movement of hers ever escaped him. She was gone out into the sweet, dewy, fragrant gloaming, and he longed to follow her.
He read on patiently until—oh, pleasant sight!—he saw Sir Arthur's eyes begin to close. He had purposely chosen the dryest articles, and had read slowly until the kind god Morpheus came to his aid, and Sir Arthur slept. Then Adrian rose and followed Hyacinth. The band was playing at the further end of the gardens, and Mozart's sweet music came floating through the trees.
It was such a dim pleasant light under the vines, and the music of the dripping water was so sweet. His instinct had not deceived him: something white was gleaming by the rock. He walked with quiet steps. She was sitting watching the falling waters, looking so fair and lovely in that dim green light. He could contain himself no longer; he sprung forward and caught her in his arms.
"I have found you at last, Hyacinth," he said—"I have found you at last."
Hyacinth Vaughan turned round in startled fear and wonder, and then she saw her lover's face, and knew by her womanly instinct what was coming. She made no effort to escape; she had been like a frightened, half-scared bird, but now a great calm came over her, a solemn and beautiful gladness.
"Hyacinth, forgive me," he said—"I have been looking for you so long. Oh, my darling, if ever the time should come that I should look for you and not find you, what should I do?"
In this, one of the happiest moments of his life, there came to him a presentiment of evil—one of those sharp, sudden, subtle instincts for which he could never account—a sense of darkness, as though the time were coming when he should look for that dear face and not find it, listen for the beloved voice and not hear it—when he should call in vain for his love and no response meet his ears. All this passed through his mind in the few moments that he held her in his arms and looked in her pure, faultless face.
"Have I startled you?" he asked, seeing how strangely pale and calm it had grown. "Why have you been so cruel to me, Hyacinth? Did you not know that I have been seeking for you all day, longing for five minutes with you? For, Hyacinth, I want to ask you something. Now you are trembling—see how unsteady these sweet hands are. I do not want to frighten you, darling; sit down here and let us talk quietly."
They sat down, and for a few moments a deep silence fell over them, broken only by the ripple of the water and the sound of distant music.
"Hyacinth," said Adrian, gently, "I little thought, when I came here four short weeks since, thinking of nothing but reading three chapters of Goethe before breakfast, that I should find my fate—the fairest and sweetest fate that ever man found. I believe that I loved you then—at that first moment—as dearly as I love you now. You seemed to creep into my heart and nestle there. Until I die there will be no room in my heart for any other."
She sat very still, listening to his passionate words, letting her hands lie within his. It seemed to her like a king coming to take possession of his own.
"I can offer you," he said, "the deepest, best, and purest, love. It has not been frittered away on half a dozen worthless objects. You are my only love. I shall know no other. Hyacinth, will you be my wife?"
It had fallen at last, this gleam of sunlight that had dazzled her so long by its brightness; it had fallen at her feet, and it blinded her.
"Will you be my wife, Hyacinth? Do not say 'Yes' unless you love me; nor because it is any one's wish; nor because Lady Vaughan may have said, 'It would be a suitable arrangement.' But say it if you love me—if you are happy with me."
He remembered in after-years how what she said puzzled him. She clasped her little white hands; she bent her head in sweetest humility.
"I am not worthy," she whispered.
He laughed aloud in the joy of his heart. "Not worthy? I know best about that, Hyacinth. I know that from the whole world I choose you for my wife, my queen, my love, because you are the fairest, the truest, the purest woman in it. I know that, if a king were kneeling here in my place, your love would crown him. It is I who am not worthy, sweet. What man is worthy of love so pure as yours? Tell me, Hyacinth, will you be my wife?"
The grave pallor left her face; a thousand little gleams and lights seemed to play over it.
"My wife—to love me, to help me while we both live."
"I—I cannot think that you love me," she said, gently. "You are so gifted, so noble, so clever—so brave and so strong."
"And what are you?" he asked, laughingly.
"I am nothing—nothing, that is, compared to you."
"A very sweet and fair nothing. Now that you have flattered me, listen while I tell you what you are. To begin,you are, without exception, the loveliest girl that ever smiled in the sunshine. You have a royal dowry of purity, truth, innocence and simplicity, than which no queen ever had greater. All the grace and music of the world, to my mind, are concentrated in you. I can say no more, sweet. I find that words do not express my meaning. All the unworthiness is on my side—not on yours."
"But," she remonstrated, "some day you will be a very rich, great man, will you not?"
"I am what the world calls rich, now," he replied, gravely. "And—yes, you are right, Hyacinth—it is most probable that I may be Baron Chandon of Chandon some day. But what has that to do with it, sweet?"
"You should have a wife who knows more than I do—some one who understands the great world."
"Heaven forbid!" he said, earnestly. "I would not marry a worldly woman, Cynthy, if she brought me Golconda for a fortune. There is no one else who could make such a fair and gentle Lady Chandon as you."
"I am afraid that you will be disappointed in me afterward," she remarked, falteringly.
"I am very willing to run the risk, my darling. Now you have been quite cruel enough, Cynthy. We will even go so far as to suppose you have faults; I know that, being human, you cannot be without them. But that does not make me love you less. Now, tell me, will you be my wife?"
She looked up at him with sweet, shy grace. "I am afraid you think too highly of me," she opposed, apologetically; "in many things I am but a child."
"Child, woman, fairy, spirit—no matter what you are—just as you are, I love you, and I would not have you changed; nothing can improve you, because, in my eyes, you are perfect. Will you be my wife, Hyacinth?"
"Yes," she replied; "and I pray that I may be worthy of my lot."
He bent down and kissed the fair flushed face, the sweet quivering lips, the white drooping eyelids.
"You are my own now," he said—"my very own. Nothing but death shall part us."
So they sat in silence more eloquent than words; the faint sound of the music came over the trees, the wind stirred the vine leaves—there never came such another hour in life for them. In the first rapture of her great happiness Hyacinth did not remember Claude, or perhapsshe would have told her lover about him, but she did not even remember him. Over the smiling heaven of her content no cloud, however light, sailed—she remembered nothing in that hour but her love and her happiness.
Then he began to talk to her of the life that lay before them.
"We must live so that others may be the better for our living, Cynthy. Should it happen that you become Lady Chandon, we will have a vast responsibility on our hands."
She looked pleased and happy.
"We will build schools," she said, "almshouses for the poor people; we will make every one glad and happy, Adrian."
"That will be a task beyond us, I fear," he rejoined, with a smile, "but we will do our best."
"I must try to learn every thing needful for so exalted a position," she observed, with a great sigh of content.
"You must be very quick about it, darling," he said. "I am going to presume upon your kindness. It is not enough to know that I have won you, but I want to know when you will be mine."
She made no reply, and he went on.
"I do not see why we need wait—do you, Cynthy?"
"I do not see why we need hurry," she replied.
"I can give you a reason for that—I want you; my life will be one long sigh until I can say in very truth that you are my wife. Will you let me tell Lady Vaughan this evening, that I have been successful?"
She clung to him, her hand clasping his arm. "Not to-night," she said, softly. "Adrian, let me have this one night to myself to think it all over."
"It shall be just as you like, my darling; I will tell her to-morrow. Now, Cynthy, this is the 19th of July—why should we not be married in two months from to-day?" Ah, why not? She said nothing. The wind, that whispered so many secrets to the trees, did not tell them that.
When Hyacinth woke next morning, it was with difficulty that she disentangled dreams and truth; then the whole of her untold joys rushed over her, and she knew it was no fancy—no dream. She went down to breakfastlooking, if possible, more beautiful than she had ever looked; the love-light on her face made it radiant; her eyes were bright as stars. Lady Vaughan gazed at her, as she had often done before, in sheer wonder. During breakfast she heard Sir Arthur complaining of his papers.
"I am told they will not come until night," he said. "I really do not see how I am to get through the day without my papers."
"What is the cause of the delay?" asked Lady Vaughan.
"Some accident to the mail train. The company ought to be more careful."
"Adrian will perhaps be able to do something to amuse you," said Lady Vaughan.
"Adrian has gone out," returned Sir Arthur, in an injured tone of voice. "Some friends of his came to the hotel late last night, and he has gone out with them; he will not return till evening."
"Who told you so?" asked Lady Vaughan.
"He wrote this note," said Sir Arthur, "and sent it to me the first thing this morning." Then Hyacinth smiled to herself, for she knew the note was written for her.
"We must get through the day as well as we can," said Lady Vaughan.
Greatly to Sir Arthur's surprise, Hyacinth volunteered to spend the morning with him.
"I can amuse you," she said—"not perhaps as well as Mr. Darcy, but I will do my best. We will go out into the grounds if you like; the band is going to play a selection from 'Il Flauto Magico.'"
And Sir Arthur consented, inwardly wondering how sweet, gentle, and compliant his granddaughter was.
Just before dinner a messenger came to thesalonto say that Mr. Darcy had returned, and, with Lady Vaughan's permission would spend the evening with them.
"He will tell Lady Vaughan this evening," thought Hyacinth; "and then every one will know."
She dressed herself with unusual care; it would be the first time of seeing him since she had promised to be his wife. Amongst her treasures was a dress of white lace, simple and elegant, somewhat elaborately trimmed with green leaves. Pincott came again, by Lady Vaughan's wish, to superintend the young lady's toilet. She looked curiously at the white lace dress.
"Begging your pardon, Miss Vaughan," she said, "but I never saw a young lady so changed. I used to feelquite grieved when you were so careless about your dress."
"I will try not to grieve you again," said the young girl, laughingly.
"You must not wear either jewels or ribbons with this dress," observed Pincott. "There must be nothing but a simple cluster of green leaves."
"It shall be just as you like," observed Miss Vaughan.
But the maid's taste was correct—nothing more simply elegant or effective could have been devised than the dress of white lace and the cluster of green leaves on the fair hair. Hyacinth hardly remembered how the time passed until he came. She heard his footsteps—heard his voice; and her heart beat, her face flushed, her whole soul seemed to go out to meet him.
"Hyacinth," he cried, clasping her hand, "this day seemed to me as long as a century."
Lady Vaughan was sitting alone in her favorite arm-chair near the open window. Adrian went up to her, leading Hyacinth by the hand.
"Dearest Lady Vaughan," he said, "can you guess what I have to tell you?"
The fair old face beamed with smiles.
"Is it what I have expected, Adrian?" she asked. "Does my little Hyacinth love you?"
The girl hid her blushing face; then she sunk slowly on her knees, and the kind old hands were raised to bless her. They trembled on her bowed head; Hyacinth seized them and covered them with passionate kisses and tears. She had thought them stern hands once, and had felt disposed to fly from their guidance; but now, as she kissed them, she blessed and thanked them that their guidance had brought her to this happy haven of rest.
"Heaven bless you, my child!" said the feeble voice. The lady bowed her stately head and fair old face over the young girl.
"If you have ever thought me stern, Hyacinth," she said—"if you have ever fancied the rules I laid down for you hard—remember it was all for your own good. The world is full of snares—some of them cruel ones—for the unwary. I saw that you were full of romance and poetry; and I—I did my best, my dear. If you have thought me hard, you must forgive me now—it was all for your own good. I know the value of a pure mind, an innocent heart, and a spotless name; and that is the dowry you bring yourhusband. No queen ever had one more regal. The Vaughans are a proud old race. There has never been even the faintest slur or shadow resting on any one who bore the name; and the highest praise that I can give you is that you are worthy to bear it."
Adrian did not know why the fair young head was bent in such lowly humility, why such passionate sobs rose to the girl's lips as he raised her and held her for a moment in his arms.
"Go to your room, Hyacinth, and remove all traces of tears," said Lady Vaughan. "We must be glad, not sorry, this evening—it is your betrothal night. And see, here are the papers, Sir Arthur; now you will be quite happy, and forgive that unfortunate mail train."
Hyacinth was not long absent. She bathed her face in some cool, fragrant water, smiling to herself the while at finding that Lady Vaughan could be sentimental, thankful that the needful little scene was over, and wondering shyly what this new and bewildering life would be like, with Adrian by her side as her acknowledged lover. So happy she was—ah, so happy! There was not one drawback—not one cloud. She rearranged the pretty lace dress and the green leaves, and then tripped down-stairs, as fair a vision of youth, beauty, and happiness as ever gladdened the daylight. Just as she reached thesalondoor she dropped her handkerchief, and stooping to pick it up, she heard Lady Vaughan say,
"Do not tell Hyacinth—it will shock her so."
"She must hear of it," Sir Arthur returned; "better tell her yourself, my dear."
Wondering what they could be discussing she opened the door and saw a rather unusualtableau. Lady Vaughan was still in her comfortable arm-chair; she held a newspaper in her hands, and Sir Arthur and Adrian Darcy were bending over her, evidently deeply interested. Hyacinth's entrance seemed to put an end to their discussion. Adrian went up to her. Sir Arthur took the paper from his lady's hand and began to read it for himself.
"You will not refuse to sing for me to-night, Cynthy?"said Adrian. "It is, you know, as Lady Vaughan says, our betrothal night. Will you give me that pleasure?"
Still wondering at what she had heard, Hyacinth complied with his request. She played well, and she had a magnificent, well-trained voice. She sung now some simple ballad, telling of love that was never to die, of faith that was never to change, of happiness that was to last forever and ever; and as she sung the divine light of love played on her face and deep warm gratitude rose in her heart. He thanked her—he kissed the white hands that had touched the keys so deftly; and, then she heard Sir Arthur say again:
"He cannot be guilty; it is utterly impossible. I cannot say I liked the young fellow; he seemed to me one of the careless, reckless kind. But rely upon it he is too much of a gentleman to be capable of such a brutal, barbarous deed."
"If he is innocent," observed Lady Vaughan, "he will be released. In our days justice is too sure and too careful to destroy an innocent man."
"Colonel Lennox will never get over it. Such a blow will kill a proud man like him."
"I pity his mother most," said Lady Vaughan.
Every word of this conversation had been heard by Hyacinth and Adrian. She was looking over some music, and he stood by her. A strange, vague, numb sensation was gradually creeping over her. She raised her eyes to her lover's face, and they asked, as plainly as eyes could speak:
"What are they discussing?"
"A strange, sad story," he spoke in answer to the look, for she had uttered no word. Lady Vaughan heard him.
"You will be grieved, Hyacinth," she said; "but that you will be sure to hear of it sooner or later, I would not tell you one word. Do you remember young Claude Lennox, who was visiting his uncle? He came over to the Chase several times."
"I remember him," she replied, vaguely conscious of her own words—for a terrible dread was over her. She could have cried aloud in her anguish, "What is it—oh, what is it?"
"Appearances are against him, certainly," continued Lady Vaughan, in her calm tone—oh, would she never finish?—"but I cannot think him guilty."
"Guilty of what?" asked Hyacinth; and the sound of her own voice frightened her as it left her rigid lips.
"Guilty of murder, my dear. It is a strange case. It appears that the very day after we left the Chase, a dreadful murder was discovered at Leybridge—a woman was found cruelly murdered under a hedge in one of the fields near the station. In the poor woman's clinched hand was a handkerchief, with the name 'Claude Lennox' upon it. On searching further the police found his address, 'Claude Lennox, 200 Belgrave Square,' written in pencil on a small folded piece of paper. The woman's name is supposed to be Anna Barratt. Circumstantial evidence is very strong against Claude. One of the porters at Leybridge Station swears that he saw him walk with a woman in the direction of the fields; a laboring man swears that he saw him returning alone to Oakton Park in the early dawn of the morning; and the colonel's servants say he was absent from Oakton the whole night."
"Still, that may only be circumstantial evidence," said Sir Arthur, "though it is strongly against him. Why should he kill a woman who was quite a stranger to him, as he solemnly swears she was?"
"Who, then, was with him at the station? You see, three people swear to have noticed him leave Leybridge Station with a woman whom none of them recognized."
They might perhaps have continued the discussion, but a slight sound disturbed them, and, looking round, they saw that Hyacinth had fallen to the floor. She had risen from her seat with a ghastly face and burning eyes; her white lips had opened to say, "It is not Claude who killed her, but her husband." She tried to utter the words, but her voice was mute, and then with outstretched arms she fell face foremost to the ground in a dead swoon. Adrian ran to her; he raised her—he looked in wondering alarm at the colorless face with its impress of dread and fear.
"It has frightened her almost to death," he said. "Did she know this Claude Lennox, Lady Vaughan?"
"Yes, very slightly; we met him once or twice at Oakton Park, and he called at the Chase. But I did not like him. I kept Hyacinth carefully out of his way."
"What can we do for her?" he asked, in a trembling voice.
"Nothing," said Lady Vaughan. "Do not call the servants; they make such a fuss about anything of this kind. Let the fresh air blow over her."
They raised her up and laid her upon the couch. Sir Arthur threw open the doors into the conservatory, andopened the windows in that room also, to admit currents of fresh air. Lady Vaughan withdrew with noiseless step to another room for a glass of cool water. Adrian bent over the wholly unconscious form of his darling, his face almost as white as her own in his anxiety. Suddenly he remembered that he had acquired a slight knowledge of surgery in his University life, and drawing a lancet from his pocket, he made a slight incision in the beautiful snowy arm that lay so limp and lifeless upon his hand.
One or two drops of blood from the cut stained his fingers. Passionately he kissed the wound that he had made in his love, but though a slight moan escaped her lips, Hyacinth did not yet move nor awaken from her swoon. The old people returned, and Lady Vaughan moistened the pallid brow and colorless lips. Again that moan came, the girl moved, and presently the white lips parted with a sigh, and the eyes opened with a look of terror in them which Adrian never forgot.
"I am so frightened!" she said.
"My darling!" cried Adrian, "I am sorry you heard anything about it. Why need you be frightened?"
"I am shocked," she said, and the ghastly fear deepened in her eyes.
"Of course you are—one so young, so fair, so gentle. The very word 'murder' is enough to terrify you."
Then she lay perfectly still—holding her lover's hand in hers, looking at him with such wordless sorrow, such unutterable woe in her face. Lady Vaughan brought her a glass of wine; she drank it, hardly knowing what she did, and then the elder lady, bending over her, kissed her face.
"You must not be so sensitive, my dear," she said. "How will you get through life if you feel for everybody's trouble in this fashion? Of course we are all deeply grieved for the young man, but he is nothing to us."
Her words fell on dulled ears and an unconscious brain; the girl, still holding her lover's hand, turned her face to the wall. She had not been able to collect her thoughts—they were in a state of chaos. Of all that crowded upon her, that seemed to burn into her brain, that crushed and crowded like living figures around her, one stood out clear, distinct, and terrible—Claude was innocent, and no one in the world knew it but herself. Look where she would, these words seemed to be before her, in great red letters—"No one but myself!" She turned her white face suddenly to Adrian Darcy:
"If they find him guilty," she asked, "what will they do to him?"
"If he is guilty, he will pay for the crime with his life. But now, Cynthy, you must not think so intently of this. Try to forget it for a little time."
Forget it! Ah, if he knew? When should she forget again?
"He is innocent, and no one in the world knows it but myself, and no one else can prove it."
Over and over again she said the words; it seemed to her they had bewitched her. As soon as she had finished them, she began the terrible phrase over again. Then the darkness seemed to fall over her. When she raised her eyes again, Adrian was reading to her. She tried hard to grasp the sense of what he was saying. She tried to understand the words, but they were like a dull distant sound—not one was plain or distinct to her.
"I must be going mad," she thought, starting up in wild affright; and then Adrian's arms were encircling her. He could feel the terrible beating of her heart; he could see the awful fear in her face.
"My dearest Hyacinth," he said gently, "you must not give way to this nervous fear—you will do yourself harm."
He laid the fair young head on his breast; he soothed and caressed her as he would have soothed a frightened child; and then Lady Vaughan insisted that she was tired and must go to rest. They did not notice that as she left the room she took with her the paper Sir Arthur had been reading.
Alone at last; and the ghastly fear, the terrible dread, overwhelmed Hyacinth. The paper dropped from her hands, and she fell, with a low, shuddering cry, on her knees. The news was too cruel, too dreadful, too horrible. She moaned rather than cried—"Oh, merciful Heaven, let me die! let me die!"
The fear that was upon her was far more trying than any physical anguish. Who could have recognized her crouching there with fever in her brain, with anguish in her heart, as the beautiful brilliant girl who quitted that same room a few hours since, radiant with love and hope?
Then she took up the paper, and with wild, distended eyes read this paragraph:
"Shocking Murder at Leybridge.—The whole of this district has been thrown into the greatest consternation by the discovery of a terrible murder that has been committed in the pleasant meadows near the railway station. On Thursday morning as John Dean, a laborer, was going to his work, his attention was attracted by something lying under the hedge in the field known as Lime Meadow. He found, on inspection, that it was the body of a woman who had been most cruelly murdered. He hastened to the police station and gave information to Inspector Henderson. The inspector went at once to the spot with two of his men. The woman had been dead, it was supposed, over two hours; there were signs of a violent struggle; and she had evidently tried hard to defend herself. At first no clew could be discovered as to her identity or that of her murderer; but it was seen that she held a handkerchief tightly clinched in her hands. With some difficulty it was taken away, and the name 'Claude Lennox' was found upon it. Further search brought to light a folded paper, on which the address of Mr. Lennox was written in full. The woman's clothes were marked, 'Anna Barratt.' She was quite a stranger to the neighborhood, and no one remembers to have seen her before. The police immediately began to make inquiries, the result of which was the apprehension of Claude Lennox on the charge of wilful murder. He has been brought before the magistrates at Ashton, and the evidence given is very strong against him. Mr. Lennox is the nephew of Colonel Lennox, of Ashton Park; and it appears that, much to the colonel's anger and annoyance, the young gentleman was absent all Wednesday night. A porter at Leybridge Station swears to having seen Mr. Lennox in company with some woman—whose features he did not see—quite early on Thursday morning. He noticed him particularly, because Mr. Lennox seemed anxious that his companion should escape all observation. He saw them walking toward the meadow, but not having seen the woman's face, could not identify her. Thomas Hannan, a signalman, also swore to the same facts. Robert Cliffe, a day-laborer, deposed that, as he was going to work early on Thursday morning, he saw the accused walking alone and hurriedly toward the park. He thought the gentlemanlooked agitated. The prisoner admitted at once that the handkerchief and folded paper containing the address were his, but refused to explain how they came into the possession of the deceased. He swore that he was not guilty of the murder, and that the woman was a stranger to him. When asked to state where he had been during the night, he declined. When asked to prove analibi—if he could bring any witnesses to prove where he had been—he replied abruptly that it was impossible—he could not do it. The magistrates have committed him for trial at the Loadstone assizes, and unless he can give some satisfactory information as to where he passed the night of Wednesday, the weight of circumstantial evidence will tell strongly against him. The refusal of Mr. Lennox to make any exculpatory statement has created a great sensation in the neighborhood. The assizes commences on the twenty-third of July."
The paper fell from Hyacinth's trembling hands, and a terrible moan came from her lips. Clear as the daylight the incidents of that morning rose before her in their full horror.
Whatever happened, cost what it would, she must go—she must clear Claude. No one in the wide world knew that he was innocent, no one could clear him but herself. Dear Heaven, how plainly the whole scene rose before her! The dewy meadows lying so still and calm in the half light—the woman's pale face and bruised hand! How well she remembered wrapping Claude's handkerchief round it. How kind and compassionate Claude had been to her!
"He will kill me some day," the woman had said, speaking of her husband—Hyacinth could hear the voice even now. That was nearly a month ago, and kind, generous, reckless Claude had been lying in prison ever since, on a charge of wilful murder. He would not incriminate her; he might have rebutted the whole charge by telling the story of that night and calling her as a witness, but he would not do so. She had not thought there was such generosity, such chivalry in him. It was a noble thing of him to refuse to speak, but he must not lose his life for her.
The more she weighed the evidence, the more startled she was to find how strongly circumstances were against Claude. She must clear him. If he would not speak, she must.
What would it cost her? Ah, Heaven, more than her life—her love! If she went into court to tell the truth, she could never hope to see Adrian again. He who had valued purity, delicacy, refinement and truth so highly—what would he say when he found that she had not only carried on a clandestine correspondence, deceived those with whom she lived, and stolen out to meet her lover, but had eloped with him—had left home, and travelled as far as Leybridge with him, and walked through the fields with him, and then, repenting, had gone back? What would he say when he knew all? She remembered how sternly he had spoken of Lady Wallace—what would he say of her? She was more unfortunate, more disgraced. Her name henceforward would be associated with a murder case. She, a Vaughan, one of the race, as Lady Vaughan had told her that morning, that had never experienced the shadow of disgrace or shame—she who had been, as they believed, so carefully kept from the world, so shielded from all its snares—she to bow those gray heads with sorrow, and slay her love with unmerited shame?
She was as one fastened to a stake; turn which way she would, her torture increased. Could she take advantage of Claude's honorable silence and saving herself, like a coward, let him die? Ah, no, she could not. "Loyal, even unto death," was the motto of her race; she could not do that. If she did—though her secret would be safe, her miserable weakness never be known—she would hate herself, loathe her life, so shamefully laden with secrecy and sin.
The temptation to take advantage of Claude's chivalrous silence lasted only a few moments. She would not have purchased life and love at such a price. She must save him.
What would it cost her? Her love—ah, yes, her love! She would never see Adrian again; he would never speak to one so disgraced. For she did not hide from herself the extent of that disgrace; she who had been reared as a lily in the seclusion of home would become, for a few days at least, the subject of scandal; the name of Hyacinth Vaughan would be lightly spoken by light lips; men would sneer at her, women turn away when her name was mentioned.
"Oh, how bitterly I am punished!" she cried. "What have I done that I must suffer so?"
She knew she must go into court when Claude was tried, and tell her shameful story before the hard-headed men of the world. She knew that her name and what she had to tell would be commented upon by every newspaper in England. After that, there could be no returning home, no love, no marriage, no safe rest in a haven of peace. It would be all at an end. She might lie down and die afterward; the world would all be closed to her.
Only a few hours ago she had lain on that little white bed scarcely able to bear the weight of her own happiness. How long was it since Adrian had asked her to be his wife? The misery, the pain, the anguish of a hundred years seemed to have passed over her head since then.
"Oh, if I had but refused to go when Claude asked me!" she cried in a voice of anguish. "If I had only been true to what I knew was right! I am bitterly punished."
Not more bitterly than he was. The thought seemed to strike her suddenly. He had been in prison for over three weeks; he had been charged with the most terrible crime—he whose only fault was that of loving her too well. She must save him.
Then with a sudden thrill of fear she remembered how near the assizes were—they were to be held on the twenty-third and this was the twentieth. She would have only just time to reach Loadstone. She must say good-by to those who loved her, and had watched over her; she must leave all her love, her hope, her happiness behind, and go forth to save him who was willing to give even his life to save her. She must go. She must find out how she could reach England. The great brooding anguish of despair seemed to have fallen over her; her heart ached until it could ache no more; she wept until she seemed to have no more tears; she appeared to grow insensible to the pain that was wearing her young life away.
"I must go to-morrow night," she said to herself. "I shall see Adrian just once again, and then I must bid him farewell forever. Oh, my love, my love!"
She flung herself upon the floor, and wept until the morning dawned and the summer sun peeped into the room.
She was roused from her heavy trance of exhaustion and grief by a knock at her door. It was one of the housemaids bearing in her hand a bouquet of beautiful flowers—"From Mr. Darcy." The girl looked in wonder at her young lady's pale face and heavy eyes.
"You do not seem well this morning, miss," she said.
"I have not slept," returned Hyacinth.
But the few words put her on her guard. She bathed her face, rearranged her hair, and changed her dress, though the weight of misery lay like a weight of lead upon her. Then Lady Vaughan, thinking that she was tired from the emotion and shock of the previous evening, sent word that Miss Vaughan had better remain in her own room for a few hours. The hapless girl was thankful for the respite.
She looked so terribly ill, so ghastly pale, that, when Pincott brought her breakfast, she started in alarm.
"There is nothing the matter," said Hyacinth, "but that I did not sleep well." Pincott went away only half satisfied.
Hyacinth managed to obtain a railway guide. A train would leave Bergheim at ten that night, and reach Ostend on the following morning before the boat started. She would have time to secure a passage and cross. She could take the mail train for Dover, and reach Loadstone so as to be in time for the trial.
At ten that night she must go. She had run away from home once before. Then she had been blinded, tempted and persuaded—then she had believed herself going straight into the fairyland of love and happiness; but now it was all changed. She was running away once more; but this time she was leaving all the hope, all the happiness of her life behind her.
It was well for her that the dull stupor of exhaustion fell over her, or the pain she was suffering must have killed her. She did not know how the time passed. It was like one long, cruel dream of anguish, until the summons came for luncheon. Then she went down stairs. Adrian was not there—that was some consolation. She looked quickly around the room.
"How could I look on his face and live, knowing that I shall see it no more?" she said to herself.
It was like a horrible travesty—the movements of the servants, the changing of the dishes, Lady Vaughan's anxiety about the cold chicken, Sir Arthur's complaint about the wine, while her heart was breaking, and Claude lay in the prison from which she must free him.
Lady Vaughan was very kind to her. She expressed great concern at seeing her look so ill—tried to induce her to eat some grapes—told her that Adrian was coming to dinner, and would bring some friends with him; then said a few words about Claude, pitied his mother, yet blamed her for not bringing him up better, and the ordeal was over.
Hyacinth went away from the dining-room with a faint, low moan.
"How shall I bear it?" she said—"how shall I live through it?"
It was two o'clock then. How were the long hours to be passed? How was she to bear the torture of her own thoughts? Whither could she go for refuge? Suddenly it occurred to her that she had no money. How was she to travel in England without some?
She did not give herself time for thought; if she had, her courage would have failed her. She went to Sir Arthur's room and tapped at the door. The tremulous, feeble voice bade her enter. Sir Arthur was writing some letters. She went up to him.
"Grandpa," she said, "I have no money—and I want some. Will you give me a little, please?"
He looked at her in surprise—she had never made such a request to him before.
"Money, child," he repeated—"of course you shall have some. You want to buy some trinkets—something for Adrian. What shall I give you—ten—twenty pounds?"
"Twenty, if you please."
He drew a small cash-box near to him, and counted twenty bright sovereigns into her hand.
"Five more, for luck!" he said with a smile. "Always come to me when you want money, Hyacinth."
She kissed him—he was so kind, and she had to leave him so soon.
"Good girl," he said. "You will be very happy, Hyacinth. Adrian Darcy is the noblest man in the wide world."
She turned aside with a groan. Alas! Adrian Darcy was to be nothing to her—in this terrible future that was coming he would have no place. Then she went to her own room, and sat there mute and still. Pincott came to dress her, and the girl went through her toilet mechanically. She never remembered what dress she wore. The maid asked something about it, and Hyacinth looked up with a vague, dreamy expression.
"It does not matter—anything will do," she said, almost wondering that people could think of such trifles when life and death were in the balance.
"There has been a lover's quarrel," thought Pincott, "and my young lady does not care how she looks."
When the bell rang Hyacinth went down. How she suffered when she looked in her lover's face and listened to his voice, knowing it was for the last time! She did not even hear the name of his friends, when they were introduced to her. She sat wondering whether any one living had ever gone through such torture before—wondering why it did not kill her; and then it seemed to her but two or three minutes before dinner was over. Mr. and Mrs. Vernon—two of the visitors—suggested that they should go out into the grounds; and Adrian, delighted at the chance of atête-à-têtewith Hyacinth, gladly consented. In after years she liked to recall this last interview.
"Let us walk to the waterfall," said Adrian. "I shall have a photograph taken of it, Cynthy, because it reminds me so much of you."
She said to herself he would not when he knew all—that he would hate it, and would not think of the place. They sat down in the old favorite resort. Suddenly she turned to him, and clasped his hand with one of hers.
"Adrian," she asked, "do you love me very much?"
The face bent over her afforded answer sufficient.
"Love you?" he replied. "I do not think, Hyacinth, that I could love you more; to me it does not seem possible."
"If you were to lose me, then, it would be a great sorrow?"
"Lose you!" he cried. "Why, Cynthy, I would rather ten thousand times over lose my own life."
She liked to remember afterward how he drew her head upon his breast—how he caressed her and murmured sweet words of tenderness to her—how he told her of his love in such ardent words that the fervor of them lastedwith her until she died. It was for the last time. A great solemn calm of despair fell over her. To-morrow she would be far away; his arm would never enfold her, his eyes never linger on her, his lips never touch her more. It was for the last time, and she loved him better than her life; but for her sin and folly, she would now have been the happiest girl in the wide world.
"My darling," he murmured, "as though weak words could tell how dear you are to me."
He kissed her trembling lips and then she broke from him with a great cry. She could bear no more. She fled through the pine grove, crying to herself with bitter tears: "If I could but die! Oh, Heaven, be merciful to me, and let me die!"