"Good-night, Hyacinth," Lady Vaughan said, when, half an hour afterward, the girl went to her with a white face and cold rigid lips; "good-night. I hope to see you something like yourself to-morrow—you do not seem well."
And for the last time, Hyacinth Vaughan kissed the fair, stately old face. "To-morrow—ah, where would she be to-morrow?"
"You have been very kind to me," she murmured, "and I am not ungrateful."
Afterward Lady Vaughan understood why the girl lingered near her, why she kissed the withered, wrinkled hands with such passionate tenderness, why her lips opened as if she would fain speak, and then closed mutely. She thought of Hyacinth's strange manner for several minutes after the young girl had quitted the room.
"That terrible news shocked her. She is very sensitive and very tender-hearted—the Vaughans are all the same. I am heartily glad she is to marry Adrian: he is gentle enough to understand and firm enough to manage her. I shall have no more anxiety about the child."
Hyacinth had looked her last on them, and had spoken to them for the last time. She stood in her room now waiting until there should be a chance of leaving the hotelunnoticed, then it suddenly struck her how great would be the consternation on the morrow, when she was missed. What would Adrian do or say—he who loved her so dearly? She went to her little desk and wrote a note to him. She addressed it and left it on the toilet table of her room.
Then she went quietly down-stairs. No one was about. She opened the great hall-door and went out. Some few people still lingered in the grounds; she was not noticed. She walked down the long carriage-drive, and then stood in the street of the little town, alone. She found her way to the station. A great, despairing cry was rising from her heart to her lips, but she stifled it, a faint strange sensation, as though life were leaving her, came over her. She nerved herself.
"I must live until he is free," she said with stern determination—"then death will be welcome!"
They were no idle words that she spoke; all that life held brightest, dearest, and best, was past for her. Her only hope was that she might reach Loadstone in time to save Claude. She knew how soon she would be missed, and how easily she might be tracked. Suppose that they sent or went to her room and found it empty, and then made inquiries and learned that she had taken a ticket for Ostend? They could not overtake the train, but they could telegraph to Ostend and stop her. In that case she would be too late to save Claude. The station was full of people. She saw a lad among them—he seemed to be about fifteen—and she went up to him.
"Are you going to Ostend?" she asked.
He doffed his hat and bowed.
"I am going by this train," he replied. "Can I be of any service to theFraulein?"
"I am always nervous in a crowd," she said—"will you buy my ticket?"
He took the money. He could not see her face, for it was veiled, but he could distinguish its white, rigid mystery, and, full of wonder, he complied with her request. In a short time he returned with the ticket.
"Can I do anything else for you,Fraulein?" he asked.
"No," she replied, thanking him; and all the way to Ostend, the lad mused over the half-hidden beauty of that face, and the dreary tones of the sad young voice.
"There is some mystery," he said; and afterward, when he had read the papers, he knew what the mystery was.
She was safely seated in the furthest corner of a second-classcarriage at last, her heart beating so that each throb seemed to send a thrill of fiery pain through her. Would she be in time? The train was an express, and was considered an unusually fast one, but it seemed slow to her—so slow. Her heart beat fast and her pulse throbbed quickly. Her face burned as with a flaming fire.
"What shall I do," she thought, with a terrified face, "if I fall ill, and cannot save him? Suppose—my brain is on fire now—suppose it becomes worse, and when the train stops I have no sense left to speak? They will try him—they will sentence him to death before I arrive. He will perhaps be dead when I am able to speak. What shall I do?" And the dread so overpowered her that she cried aloud in her anguish.
"Are you ill?" asked a fellow-traveller, kindly.
"No, I was dreaming," she replied, hurriedly.
She pressed her hand on her hot brow—she tried to still the quick nervous beating of her heart; but all was in vain. The night was hot; the atmosphere seemed overcharged with electricity; there was not a breath of air stirring; the noisy clang of the wheels seemed to pierce her brain; a sound as of rushing torrents filled her ears. She tried to calm herself—to steady those quivering nerves—to remember what she would have to say in a short time, when she would be standing before a tribunal of justice to save Claude's life. She tried and failed in the effort; she broke down and laughed a strange, unnatural laugh. The noise of the train drowned it, the monotonous clangor of the wheels dulled all other sounds. The next minute the overstrained nerves—the over-taxed brain—had given away, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The train drew near to Ostend, and those who loved her had not discovered Hyacinth's flight. Lady Vaughan wondered she did not come down as usual to breakfast. Pincott went to see if she was up. She tapped at the door; there was no answer, and the maid went to tell her lady. "I am almost glad," said Lady Vaughan; "she looked very ill last night. She is sleeping; do not awaken her, Pincott."
But when noon came, and Hyacinth had not rung, Pincott went to her room again. She opened the door this time and walked in. The room was empty, the bed had not been slept in, and there was no trace of Miss Vaughan. The woman turned quite white and sunk, half-fainting, on achair. She was frightened. Presently, recovering herself a little, she looked round. "How foolish I am!" she thought. "Miss Vaughan must have gone down unknown to me and her room has been arranged." Still she trembled with a strange presentiment of dread. Suddenly her eyes fell upon the note addressed to Mr. Darcy—it was sealed. "There can be no harm in my giving him this," she said.
She went down-stairs and made inquiries about Miss Vaughan. No one had seen her—she could hear nothing of her. Then Pincott went to her lady. It so happened that Mr. Darcy was chatting with her.
"What do you say?" interrupted Lady Vaughan, sharply. "You cannot find Miss Vaughan? Pray use your common sense, Pincott; do not say such absurd things."
But Adrian had caught sight of the note in the maid's hand. "What is this?" he asked.
"I found it in Miss Vaughan's room, sir," said Pincott; "it is addressed to you."
He took it from her and opened it. As he read a deadly pallor came over his face.
"Great Heaven!" he cried. "What can this mean?"
Lady Vaughan asked what had happened. He passed the note to her and she read:
"I have looked at you and have spoken to you for the last time, Adrian. I am going away and I shall never see any of you again. You will try to comfort Lady Vaughan. Pray Heaven my sin and my disgrace may not kill her.
"You will find out from the newspapers what I have gone to do; and oh, my lost dear love, when you read this, be merciful to me! I was so young, and I longed so for some of the brightness of life. I never loved him; and, as you will see, I repented—ah, me, so sorely!—before half the journey was accomplished. I have never loved any one but you—and that I have lost you is more bitter than death.
"Many people have died from less suffering than that which I am undergoing now. Oh, Adrian, I do not think I deserved this terrible punishment! I did not mean to do anything wrong. I do not ask you to forgive me! I know you never can. You will fling off all thought of me as of one unworthy. I told you I was unworthy, but I—oh, Adrian—I shall love you till I die! All my thoughtswill be of you; and I pray to Heaven that I may die when I have achieved what I am going to do. Living, you must loathe me; dead, you will pity me.
"Adrian, I have written your name here. I have wept hot, bitter tears over it; I have kissed it; and now I must part from you, my heart's own love! Farewell for ever and ever!
"Hyacinth."
"What does it all mean?" he cried, great drops of anguish gathering on his brow. "Where is the child? What has she done?"
"I do not know," said Lady Vaughan—"I cannot understand it, Adrian. She has done nothing. What can she have done? All her life has been passed with me."
"I shall see in the newspapers what she has done, she says. What can she mean?"
A sudden light seemed to break in upon him: he turned to Lady Vaughan. "Rely upon it," he said, "it is some fancy of hers about that murder. I shall not lose a moment. I shall go in search of her."
The court at Loadstone was crowded to excess. Since the town was built there had never been so great a sensation. The terrible murder at Oakton had been a subject of discussion over all England. The colonel was one of the most prominent men in the county; he had always been very proud and very exclusive, and the county had grown proud of the old aristocrat. It was a terrible blow to him when his nephew was charged with wilful murder.
All theéliteof the county had crowded to the trial. Loadstone had never been so full; the hotels could not hold half the number who flocked to hear Claude Lennox tried. There were no more lodgings to be had for love or money. It was not only the county people who testified their interest. Claude Lennox was well-known, and had been courted, popular, and eagerlyfêtedin London drawing-rooms. Many of his old friends, members of his club came to see him tried.
It was an unusual case because of the rank, wealth, and position of the accused—Claude Lennox, the idol of Londoncoteries, the Adonis of the clubs, the heir of grand, exclusive Colonel Lennox. Then the murder seemed so utterly motiveless. The young man swore most solemnly that he knew nothing of the deceased—that she was a stranger whom he had relieved. The handkerchief found upon her he said was his, and that it had been given from motives of charity, to bind her bruised hand. The address on the scrap of paper he admitted was in his own writing—he had given it to her, hoping that either his mother or his aunt would be able to find her work. More than that he refused to say. He refused to account for his time—to say where he had been that night—to make any attempt to prove analibi. He was asked who was his companion at Oakton station, and he refused to answer. His lawyer was in despair. The able counsel whom his distracted mother had sent to his assistance declared themselves completely nonplussed.
"Tell us how you passed the night," they had said, "so that we may know what line of defense to adopt."
"I cannot," he replied. "I swear most solemnly that I know nothing of the murder. More than that I cannot say."
"It is probable you may pay for your obstinacy with your life," said Sergeant Burton, one of the shrewdest lawyers in England.
"There are things more painful than death," Claude replied, calmly; and then the sergeant clapped his hands. "There is a woman in the case," he said—"I am sure of it."
Sergeant Burton and Mr. Landon were retained as counsel for Claude; but never were counsel more hopeless about their case than they. They could call no witnesses in Claude's favor—they did not know whom to call. "He will lose his life," said Mr. Landon, with a groan. "What infatuation! What folly! It strikes me he could clear himself if he would."
But the twenty-third of July had come round, and as yet Claude had made no effort to clear or defend himself. The morning of his trial had dawned at last. It was a warm, beautiful summer day, the sun shone bright and warm. Loadstone streets were filled, and Loadstone Assize Court was crowded. There was quite a solemn hush when "The Crownvs.Lennox" came on. Most of those present knew Claude Lennox—some intimately, others by sight. They looked curiously at him, as he stood in the dock;the air of aristocratic ease and elegance that had always distinguished him was there still, but the handsome face had lost its debonair expression; there were deep lines upon it—lines of thought and care.
"How do you plead, prisoner at the bar—Guilty, or Not Guilty?"
The silence was profound.
"Not guilty, my lord," replied the clear voice; and in some vague way a thrill of conviction shot through each one that the words were true.
Then the business of the trial began. All present noticed the depressed air of the prisoner's counsel and the confident look of the counsel for the prosecution.
"No rebutting evidence," seemed to be the mysterious whisper circulating through the court.
Then the counsel for the prosecution stated his case. It seemed clear and conclusive against the accused; yet the dauntless face and upright figure were hardly those of a murderer. The prisoner was absent from home the whole of the night on which the murder was committed; he was seen at Leybridge station with a woman; he was observed to walk with her toward the meadow where the body was found; his handkerchief was found tightly clinched in her hands, and his London address in her pocket; witnesses would swear to having seen him return alone to Oakton Park, looking terribly agitated. At the same time, the counsel for the Crown admitted that there had been no witnesses to the deed; that no possible motive could be ascribed for the murder; that against the moral character of Mr. Lennox there was not one word to say; that no weapon had been found near the scene of the murder; that on the clothes worn by Mr. Lennox at the time there was not the least stain of human blood. These were points, the counsel admitted, that were in favor of the accused.
At this juncture, just as people were remarking how depressed the prisoner's counsel were looking, there was a slight commotion in the crowded court. A note, written in pencil, was handed to Sergeant Burton; as he read it a sudden light came over his face, and he hastily quitted his seat, first handing the note to the junior counsel, who read:
"I have evidence to give that will save Mr. Lennox's life. Can you spare a few minutes to hear what I have to say?
"Hyacinth Vaughan."
Sergeant Burton was absent for a little while; but he returned in time to hear the concluding part of the opposing counsel's speech. It told hard against the accused, but the learned sergeant only smiled as he listened. He seemed to have grown wonderfully composed. Then the witnesses for the prosecution were called, and gave their evidence clearly enough. Some in court who had felt sure of Claude's innocence began to waver now. Who was with him at Leybridge? That was the point. There was no cross-examination of the witnesses.
"I have no questions to ask," said the counsel. "My client admits the perfect truth of all the evidence."
"This is my case, gentlemen of the jury," concluded the counsel for the prosecution, as he sat down.
"And it is a strong one, too," thought most of the people present. "How can all these facts be explained away?"
Then Sergeant Burton rose.
"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "this is the most painful case I have ever conducted; a more grievous mistake than this accusation of murder against an innocent gentleman has never been made. I will prove to you not only that he is quite innocent of the crime, but that, in his chivalrous generosity, he would rather have forfeited his life than utter one word in his own defense which would shadow, even in the slightest, a woman's honor. I will prove to you that, although the accused was at Leybridge with a lady, and not only spoke to, but relieved the deceased, yet that he is entirely innocent of the crime laid to his charge."
The silence that followed was profound. For the first time Claude's face grew anxious and he looked hurriedly around.
"The first witness I shall call," said the learned counsel, "is one who will tell you where Mr. Lennox spent his time on the night of the murder; will tell you how he relieved the poor woman; will, in short, give such evidence as shall entirely free him of the most foul charge. Call Miss Hyacinth Vaughan."
At the mention of the name the prisoner started and his face flushed crimson.
"Why did she come?" some one near heard him murmur. "I would have died for her."
Then, amid profound and breathless silence, there entered the witness-box a graceful girlish figure, on whichall eyes were immediately bent. She raised her veil, and a thrill of admiration went through that thronged assembly as the beautiful, colorless face, so lovely, so pure, so full of earnest purpose, was turned to the judge. She did not seem to notice the hundreds of admiring, wondering eyes—it was as though she stood before the judge alone.
"Do not speak, Hyacinth," said the prisoner, vehemently; and in a low voice he added: "I can bear it all—do not speak."
"Silence!" spoke the judge, sternly. "This is a court of justice; we must have no suppression of the truth."
"Your name is Hyacinth Vaughan?" was the first question asked.
"My name is Hyacinth Vaughan," was the reply; and the voice that spoke was so sweet, so sad, so musical, that people bent forward to listen more eagerly. Sergeant Burton looked at the beautiful, pallid, high-bred face.
"You were in the company of the accused on the night of Wednesday, the 12th of June?"
"Yes," she said.
"Will you state what happened?" asked the sergeant, blandly.
Hyacinth looked at the judge: her lips opened, and then closed, as though she would fain speak, but could not. It was an interval of intense excitement in court.
"Will you tell us why you were in his company, Miss Vaughan, and whither you went?" said the sergeant.
"My lord," she said—for it was at the judge she looked always—of the presence of the jury she seemed totally ignorant—"I will tell you all about it. I went away with Mr. Lennox—to go to London—to be married there."
"Unknown to your friends?" asked the judge.
"Unknown to anyone."
Here Hyacinth paused, and the lips that had been speaking turned deathly white.
"Tell us about it in your own way, Miss Vaughan," said the judge—the sight of that tortured young face moved him to deepest pity—"do not be afraid."
Then the fear seemed to die away from her: in all that vast assembly she saw no face but that of the judge looking steadily and intently at her own.
"My lord," she said, "I was very dull at home; everyone was kind to me, but there was no one there of my own age, and I was very dull. I made Mr. Lennox's acquaintance, and liked him very much—I thought I loved him—andwhen he asked me to run away from home and marry him I was quite willing."
"But what need was there to run away?" asked the judge, kindly. He knew the question pained her, for her lips quivered and her whole face changed.
"In our folly there were reasons that seemed to us to make it imperative," she replied. "My friends had other views for me, and I was to start for the Continent on Friday, the fourteenth of June. It seemed certain to us that unless we were married at once we should never be married at all."
"I understand," put in the judge, kindly; "go on with your story."
"I did not think much about it, my lord," continued Hyacinth,—"that is, about the right and the wrong of it—I thought only of the romance; and we agreed to go up to London by the train that passed Oakton soon after midnight. I left my home and met Mr. Lennox at the end of my grandparents' grounds; we went to the station together. I kept out of sight while he took tickets for both of us at the booking-office."
"The clerk at Oakton station will prove that the accused purchased two tickets," interrupted Sergeant Burton. The judge nodded, and the young girl continued:
"We got into the train and went as far as Leybridge. There the train stopped. Mr. Lennox told me that the mail train we were to meet had been delayed by an accident, and that we should have to wait some hours at the station. The morning was breaking then, and we were alarmed lest someone should come to the station who might recognize me. Mr. Lennox suggested that, as the morning was bright and pleasant, we should go through the fields, and I gladly consented."
All this time the clear, sweet young voice sounded like music in the warmth and silence of the summer air.
"We reached the field called Lime Meadow, and stood there, leaning over the stile, when I thought I saw something under a hedge. We went to see. It was a woman who had been sleeping there. My lord, she looked very faint, very wild and weak. We spoke to her. She told us that her name was Anna Barratt, and that she was married, but that she was very unhappy. She was going with her husband to Liverpool. She told us her story, my lord, and it frightened me. She told us that she had once been a bright happy girl at home, and that against her mother's adviceshe had eloped with the man who had sought her hand, and married him. Her words struck me like a sharp blow. She said it was better to break one's heart at home than to run away from it. Mr. Lennox was very sorry for her; and, when I saw her poor bruised hand lying on the grass, I bound it up. My lord, I asked Mr. Lennox for his handkerchief, and I wrapped it around her hand."
There was such a murmur of excitement in the court that the speaker was obliged to pause.
"Go on, Miss Vaughan," said the judge. Still looking at him, and him only, she continued:
"Mr. Lennox gave her some money. She told us that her husband beat her; that he had bruised her hand, and that she was quite sure he would come back to murder her. Then Mr. Lennox told her, that if she feared that, to get up and come away; he gave her two sovereigns and told her to go to London. He wrote down his address on a piece of folded paper, and told her if she would either come or write to that address, his mother would befriend her. She asked Heaven to bless us, my lord, and turned away her head, as though she were tired. We walked on, and did not see her again."
And again Hyacinth paused, while those in court seemed to hang upon the words that came from her lips.
"Then, my lord," she continued, "I began to think of what she had said—that it was better to break one's heart at home than to run away from it. All at once the folly and wickedness of what I was about to do appeared to me. I began to cry, and begged of Mr. Lennox to take me home."
"A very common termination to an elopement," observed the judge.
"Mr. Lennox was very kind to me," continued the earnest voice. "When he saw that I really wanted to go home, he took me back to Oakton, and left me in the grounds where we had met so short a time before. My lord, I swear to you most solemnly that this is the whole truth."
"Will you explain to us," inquired the prosecution, "why, knowing all this, you have allowed matters to proceed so far against the accused? Why did you not come forward earlier, and reveal the truth?"
"My lord," she said, still looking at the quiet face of the judge, "I knew nothing of the case until twenty-four hours ago. I started with my grandparents on the Friday morning for the Continent, and have been living at Bergheimsince. I knew of the trial only the night before last, and I came hither at once."
"You came alone; and immediately?"
"Yes," she replied. "I have lost everything by so coming. I can never go back among my kindred again. I shall never be forgiven."
There was a brief pause. The foreman of the jury gave a written paper to the usher to be handed to the judge—a paper which intimated that the jury did not think it necessary to go on with the case, feeling convinced, from the evidence of Miss Vaughan, that Mr. Lennox was perfectly innocent of the crime imputed to his charge. The judge read the paper carefully, and then, looking at the witness, said:
"Miss Vaughan, you committed a great error—an error perhaps in some degree excusable from your youth. But you have atoned for it more nobly than error was ever atoned for before. At the risk of losing all most dear to you, and of exposing yourself to the comments of the world, you have come forward to save Mr. Lennox. I, for one, must express my admiration of your conduct. Your evidence has acquitted the prisoner—the jury have intimated that there is no need to proceed with the case."
Then arose cheers that could not be silenced. In vain the judge held up his hand in warning and the usher cried "Silence!"
"Heaven bless her," cried the women, with weeping eyes.
"She is a heroine!" the men said, with flushed faces.
There was a general commotion; and when it had subsided she had disappeared. Those who had watched her to the last said that when the judge, in his stately manner, praised her, her face flushed and her lips quivered; then it grew deathly pale again, and she glided away.
The famous trial was over; the "sensation" was at an end. The accused Claude Lennox stood once more free among his fellow-men. Loud cheers greeted him, loud acclamations followed him. He was the popular idol. His friends surrounded him. "Bravo, Claude, old friend! I thought it would come right. We knew you were innocent.But what a terrible thing circumstantial evidence is!" Claude stood in the midst of a large circle of well-wishers. Colonel Lennox, whose anger had all vanished when he found his nephew in real danger, stood by his side. He seemed to have grown older and grayer.
"It was a narrow escape for you, Claude," he said, and his voice trembled and his limbs shook.
"My thanks are due to Heaven," said the young man, reverently. "Humanly speaking, I owe my life to that brave girl who has risked everything to save me. Oh, uncle, where is she? We are talking idly here when I owe my life to her; and I know all she has suffered and lost to save me."
They went back hurriedly to the court, but there was no trace of Hyacinth. People stood in little groups in the street, and of every group she was the subject of conversation.
"I shall never forget her," said one woman, "if I live to be a hundred years old. They may talk of heroines if they like, but I never heard of one braver than she has been."
"Did you hear that, uncle?" cried Claude. "How they admire her! She is noble, good, and true. I know what it has cost her to come forward; I know what a home she has had—her people all so rigid, so cold, so formal. How am I to thank her?"
"Marry her at once, Claude," said Colonel Lennox.
"She would not have me. You do not know her, uncle; she is truth itself. How many girls do you think would have had the resolution to turn back on such a journey as she had begun? She does not love me, I am sure; but after what has happened to-day, I would die for her. Where is she? My mother must take her home at once."
They made inquiries, but there was no trace of her. In the general confusion that ensued, amid the crowding of friends to congratulate Claude, and the hurrying of witnesses, no one had noticed her. She had been the centre of observation for a brief interval, and then she had disappeared, and no one had noticed which way she went. Colonel Lennox and Claude were both deeply grieved; they sought Hyacinth everywhere, they sent messengers all over the town, but no trace of her could be found. Claude was almost desperate; he had made every arrangement—his mother was to take her back to Belgrave Square, and he himself was to go at once to Bergheim to win Hyacinth's pardon from her relatives there.
"There is nothing," he said to himself, over and over again, "that I would not do for her."
He was bitterly disappointed; he would not leave Loadstone until every instruction had been given for communication with him or with Colonel Lennox, if any news should be heard of her. When this was done, he complied with his mother's anxious entreaty and returned with her to London.
"It has been a narrow escape," she said, with a shudder, "and a terrible disgrace. I cannot bear to think of it. You, with your unblemished name, your high position and prospects in life, to be accused of wilful murder! I do not believe you will ever live it down, Claude!"
"Yes, he will," cried the colonel, heartily; "whoever remembers his disgrace, as you term it, will remember also that he was saved by the truth and bravery of the finest and noblest girl in England."
"I will redeem my character, mother," said Claude, earnestly; "this has made a true man of me. I was not very earnest before, but I have paid a terrible price for my boyish escapade. The future with me shall atone for the past."
"The boy is right enough," cried the colonel; "what he says is perfectly true. He wanted more of earnest purpose, and the ordeal that he has just undergone will give it to him. He shall not suffer for the mistake. I will say now what I have never said before—Claude shall be my heir; and," added the colonel, with unconscious egotism, "the world will easily pardon the youthful escapades of the master of Oakton Park."
So Claude's mother did not return quite broken-hearted to London. The trial had been a nine days' wonder—a great sensation; but people seemed more inclined to blame the stupidity of Hyacinth's relatives than the young man, whose fault had been simply that of loving a lovely girl too well. Mrs. Lennox watched anxiously to see if her son had lost caste; but she could not perceive that he had. He was heir of the rich old Indian colonel—heir of Oakton Park. The Duchess of Grandecourt invited him to Rummere Park, and Lady Ansley gave him pretty clearly to understand that her daughter knew how to appreciate him.
"No great harm has been done," sighed the anxious mother, "and I may thank that brave young girl for matters being no worse."
On the third day after the assizes had begun a gentleman—a stranger—drove up hurriedly to the Loadstonecourt-house. His handsome face was white and haggard, his eyes were dim with fear. He looked as though he had been travelling night and day, and had known neither sleep nor rest. He sprung impatiently from the carriage and hurried up the steps of the court-house. He saw one of the officers standing inside, and he went up to him eagerly.
"Has the trial for murder commenced?" he asked.
"It is over, sir. It was finished the day that it was begun."
"Tell me all about it, please. Make haste—my time is precious. Was there a young lady—did a young lady come to give evidence?"
"Yes; and her evidence saved the prisoner's life, sir. I will tell you as briefly as I can."
He repeated what had taken place, and as he spoke, an expression of pity came over the handsome face of the listener.
"Poor child," he murmured to himself—"my brave, noble love! What was the young lady's name?" he asked, aloud.
"Vaughan, sir—I remember it well—Hyacinth Vaughan."
"Thank you," said the gentleman, remunerating his informant. "And now can you tell me where she is? Where did she go after the trial?"
"There are many who would like to know that, sir. Colonel Lennox has offered a hundred pounds to anyone who will bring him news of her. I should say every inch of ground in Loadstone had been searched over and over again."
Adrian Darcy—for it was he—looked at the man in bewildered surprise.
"You don't mean to tell me that she is lost?" he cried.
"She is indeed, sir. There have been advertisements, and rewards have been offered; but all has been in vain. The gentleman whose life she saved—Mr. Lennox—is almost wild about her disappearance. But, if you are interested in the case, read the report in theLoadstone Journal. It is a splendid one."
"Lost one!" repeated Adrian. "It is impossible! Oh, my darling, my child-like, innocent love, what terrible fate has befallen you?"
The search that Adrian Darcy made proved as unsatisfactory as that which had been conducted by Colonel Lennox. Do what he would, Adrian could find no trace of Hyacinth. He was not long in procuring a copy of theLoadstone Journal, and there, in simple, truthful words, he read her story. His first feeling was one of intense indignation against Claude Lennox.
"She is so young," he said to himself—"so young and so easily led. Her very simplicity ought to have been her shield. How could he betray the trust she placed in him?"
Then he saw what was said of Claude. He was young, handsome, gifted, eagerly sought after, greatly admired. It was not to be wondered at that a girl who had led the retired, dull, monotonous life of Hyacinth Vaughan should have been dazzled by him and have placed implicit faith in him. But, after all, she did not love him. If she had she would not have repented of her elopement before it was concluded—she would not have returned home. It had been but a temporary charm after all. She had, doubtless, been captivated by his handsome face. Youth invariably loves youth. It must have been a novelty to her, living as she did in the midst of old people, who, though kind, were cold and formal, to meet someone lively, gay, and fascinating. It was not wonderful that she should let her calmer, better judgment sleep, and act under his influence.
It was such a simple story, and she had told it so clearly, with such humble acknowledgment of her own fault in every word—with such an entire conviction that in coming forward to save Claude Lennox she had lost every hope in life—that his heart ached as he read. He could picture that fair sweet face, with its sorrowful eyes and quivering lips, the centre of all observation in that crowded court. He could almost feel the shock and the horror that had mastered her when she found that she must appear in public and tell the story that she had never dared to tell even him.
"My poor Hyacinth!" he said. "Oh, if she had but trusted me—if she had but trusted me—if she had but told me herself of this error, and not left me to hear it from others! I can forgive that half-elopement; it was but the shadow of a sin, after all, repented of before it was halfcommitted, and atoned for by bitter suffering. But I find it hard to forgive her for not having trusted me." Then, again he remembered how young, how shy, how timid she was. "I must not be hard on her, even in my thoughts," he said; "perhaps she intended to tell me when she was more at her ease with me."
Then, as the simple story of her heroism told upon him, he ceased to think of her fault, and was lost in admiration of her courage.
"How many there are," he thought, "who would have let the prisoner take his chance, and would have thought more of saving their reputation than of preserving his life! How simple and brave, how true and loyal she is! Oh, Cynthy, my lost love, if you had but trusted me!"
He took up theTimes, and there he found the story told again. All notice of her fault was quite hidden by the admiration expressed for her courage, her unselfish heroism, her undaunted bravery. "If I could but find her," he said—"find her and tell her the world admires instead of condemning her!"
He understood better than anyone her sensitive disposition; he knew that she would deem herself all unworthy—that she would look upon herself as lost to home, to friends, to hope, to happiness, to love; he knew how her tender conscience magnified even trifling faults, and his heart grew heavy for her. Where was she? What was she doing? What would become of her? He redoubled his efforts, but they were all in vain. After days and weeks fruitlessly spent, he returned to Bergheim, having no good news to tell. By the stately baronet and his wife Adrian's story was heard without one comment. Lady Vaughan's fair old face grew cold and sad.
"Did she—the child I trusted—deceive me so far as to leave my roof with a stranger? Tell me no more, Adrian; my heart is heavy and sore. This is the first taint that has ever fallen on the Vaughans."
"You must not call it a taint," cried Adrian. "Do not forget how young she was, how full of poetry and romance, how easily persuaded—a girl like Hyacinth would be but as a reed in the hands of Claude Lennox."
"The Vaughans are never weak, Adrian; they have ever been a brave and noble race."
"Not one of them has been braver or more noble than Hyacinth," cried Adrian, hotly. "I do not say that she is without fault, or that she is not to blame; but I do say theatonement made far exceeds the fault; think of the courage required of a young girl like her to stand up in a public court and tell the story of an error like hers, even though it was so quickly repented of."
"Think of the shame," said Lady Vaughan, with a shudder. But Adrian would not have it so. He told Lady Vaughan what the newspapers said of her granddaughter.
"To me," remarked the lady, "it is almost immaterial whether the papers praise her or blame her; the disgrace lies in such a name as hers being in the newspapers at all."
But Sir Arthur was not quite so hard.
"She must have been very dull at Queen's Chase," he said. "I have often thought so. There was not a young face about the place but hers. That young Lennox is very handsome—just the man to take a girl's fancy."
"You have used the right word, Sir Arthur," observed Adrian. "He did stir her fancy, but not her heart; he stirred her imagination. I have no doubt that in his eloquent way he made her believe that in leaving home she was doing something grand and heroic. See how quickly her better judgment came to her aid, and how quickly she repented of her error."
"It is very noble of you to defend her," said Lady Vaughan, "but—but I cannot hold with you. She was the dearly loved child of my old age—all my hopes rested on her. I thought I had preserved her like a lily in the shade, and the result of all my care was an elopement and a public appearance in a court of justice. Oh, Adrian, say no more to me—say no more!"
He found it was useless to defend Hyacinth; the proud and stately old lady could not brook the idea.
"No lady—mind, I mean no true lady—ever makes a public sensation. The child has ruined, blighted her whole life, and no one can help her."
But even Lady Vaughan, after her first resentment had died away, began to share Adrian's uneasiness. "It would have been better," she said, "if the child had returned to us and lived it down!"
It dawned upon her at last, as it did upon all of them, that Hyacinth believed herself cut off from them forever. "It shows at least," said Lady Vaughan, "how keenly she felt the enormity of the wrong done."
As the long months passed on and no news came of Hyacinth, the hot, proud anger died from Lady Vaughan, the fair old face grew wistful and sad; her grandchild'soffence grew less in her eyes, and the great atonement made grew greater; and then other events happened: Lord Chandon died, and then Adrian was obliged to return to England. Sir Arthur absolutely refused to remain at Bergheim without him.
"We must go home some time, my lady," he said; "why not now? After all, I think you exaggerate what you call the disgrace: let us go! People, I am sure, will not distress us by even mentioning the matter."
And Sir Arthur was right: whatever opinions might have been expressed among the inhabitants at Oakton, they had, one and all, too much respect for the stately mistress of Queen's Chase to speak their minds before her. It was understood that Miss Vaughan preferred remaining abroad, so there was nothing more to be said. No one knew how sorely the sweet face was missed from the old mansion, or what long hours Lady Vaughan spent in wondering what had become of Hyacinth. Sir Arthur and his wife settled down to the old life again, but they found out then how much brightness had vanished with the fair face they missed so sorely.
The new Lord Chandon took possession of his estate; there was no difficulty about it; he was the direct heir, and the old lord had always spoken of him as his successor. He took possession of Chandon Court, with its magnificent rent-roll, and its thousand treasures of art; but despite his wealth, his position, and his grandeur, Lord Adrian was the most unhappy of men. He would have given all he had, and all he ever hoped to enjoy, to find Hyacinth Vaughan; he would have poured out his wealth like water, so that he might find her. But long months had passed now since the day on which she disappeared, and no news had been heard of her yet.
As Hyacinth Vaughan left the Loadstone Assize Court she drew her veil tightly over her face, and, looking neither to the right nor left, made her way through the dense crowd of people. No one noticed her; they were all too busily engaged in discussing the events of the trial. She had not the least idea whither she was going, or what she wasabout to do; all she remembered was that she had broken every tie that bound her to her past life, that it was all dead to her, and that she had saved Claude. How vividly, as she walked through the long street, there came back to her a remembrance of one day when she had driven over with Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan to Loadstone. What a deep gulf lay between that time and this! Then people had bowed to her as though she had been some great lady, and honor and respect had been shown to her. Now, homeless, friendless, she was a fugitive in that same town, and knew not where to lay her head.
She walked until her limbs ached, and then she stopped suddenly, for the first time asking herself where she was going—what she was to do. "For I am dead," she said to herself, with a low moan, "to all who know me—dead to my beautiful past. There is no Hyacinth Vaughan. And what is to become of the wretched girl who once bore the name? I do not know."
She must go somewhere—she could not pace the long street and the silent road all night; she must rest or she should fall, a helpless inert mass, on the ground. Suddenly she came to the railway station; a porter was shouting—"Train for London! Passengers for London, take your seats!"
She could not account for the impulse which led her to purchase a ticket and take her place in a second-class carriage for London. She had no idea what she should do when she reached her destination.
It was a rest to sit alone in the carriage—a luxury to close the tired eyes, and say to herself that she had no more to do, for Claude was saved; yet, when her eyes were closed, so many strange scenes flashed before them, that she opened them with a terrified cry. It seemed to her that she was too tired even to rest, and that the aching pains in her limbs grew worse, her eyes burned, and her head throbbed with pain.
Yet through it all—through fatigue and pain—there was the great relief that Claude was saved. Of Adrian she dared not think. She knew that this "fiery sorrow" was waiting for her when she should regain strength and calmness, when she could look it in the face; as it was, she shrunk, sick and shuddering, from it. She put it from her. She would have none of it. If she had then remembered all about Adrian Darcy, she would have gone mad and nothing would have saved her.
The train sped on. When she dared not keep her eyes closed any longer, she watched the fields and trees as the train whirled by. It was strange how mingled were her thoughts; at one time she was at Queen's Chase, sitting with Lady Vaughan in the silent rooms; at another she was with Claude in the faint rosy morning dawn, and the murdered woman was lying under the hedge; then she was with Adrian by the waterfall, and he was telling her, that he should love her for evermore; then she stood beside a green grave in a country churchyard, over which the foliage of a large tree drooped—beneath was a stone with the inscription, "Hyacinth Vaughan—aged eighteen."
From all these mingled dreams and visions she woke with a terrible scream.
"If I cannot sleep," she thought to herself, "I shall go mad."
Then everything went black before her eyes, her head fell back, and she knew no more until loud, strange voices shouted "Euston Square."
She was in the great Babylon at last. So young, so lovely, so simple in her child-like innocence; alone, unprotected, unknown in the streets of that great city: having neither home nor friends—having neither brain nor mind clear—what was to save her? She left the carriage and sat for some time on one of the seats on the platform; the same heaviness, the same strange mixture of past and present confused her.
"I must sleep," she said to herself—"I must sleep or I shall go mad." She rose and walked out of the station. What a labyrinth of streets, squares, and houses! Where could she find rest? Suddenly across the bewildered mind came one clear thought.
"I have money, and I must take lodgings—I can pay for them; and, in a room of my own, I can sleep until my brain is clear."
She walked slowly down one street, and up another, but saw no announcement of "Lodgings to Let." Then she fancied all the houses were reeling, and the sky closing in upon her. The next moment they were steady again, and she was standing, looking wildly around. Again she walked on a little farther, and then became sick, faint and giddy.
"This is something more than the want of sleep," she said to herself. "I am ill. I cannot walk—I cannot stand. Everything is reeling around me."
Suddenly her eyes fell on a brass plate on the door of a house quite near—"Dr. Chalmers."
"I will consult him," she thought. "Perhaps he can prescribe something that will take this dreadful feeling away."
She went up the little flight of steps and knocked. Then it seemed as though the door were falling on her, and she seized one of the iron railings to save herself from falling. A neat maid-servant opened the door.
"Is Dr. Chalmers at home?" asked Hyacinth; and the sound of her voice struck her as being so strange that she hardly knew it.
"Yes, miss," was the smiling reply.
"I wish to see him," said Hyacinth.
"What name shall I give?" asked the maid.
"None—I am quite a stranger."
She was shown into the surgery, and sat down on a large low lounge. A strange drowsy calm came over her. She pulled off her hat and veil, and laid back her tired head on the cushion.
Some few minutes elapsed before Dr. Chalmers entered the surgery; and when he did so, he started back in wonder that was half alarm. There on the lounge sat a girl, quite young, and lovely as a vision. The whole face, so white and rigid, was peacefully beautiful—he had never seen anything like it before. A profusion of golden hair had fallen over the cushions, and two little white hands were clasped convulsively together. Dr. Chalmers went a few steps nearer, and then his professional instinct told him that this was no sleep. The girl seemed perfectly unconscious.
He spoke to her, and she seemed to arouse partially, and sat up, gazing before her in a dazed, vacant way. Her little hands fell helplessly upon her lap, and she seemed wholly unconscious of the presence of another in the room. The good doctor looked at her in anxious alarm. He spoke to her once, twice, thrice. She did not hear him. The doctor was wondering what he should do, when she started up with a loud cry.
"He is innocent—he is quite innocent. Oh, shall I be in time to save him?"
She sprung toward the door, but never reached it, for, with a low moaning cry, she fell senseless on the floor. He raised her and laid her on the couch, and then opened the door hastily and went to the foot of the stairs.
"Mother," he called, "will you come down? I want you at once!"
A kindly-looking lady with a pleasant, comely face entered the room.
"Look here," said Dr. Robert Chalmers, pointing to the white figure. "What are we to do, mother?"
Mrs. Chalmers went up to Hyacinth; with a soft womanly touch she put back the rich, clustering hair, with keen womanly eyes she noted the loveliness of the white face.
"Has she fainted? Who is she?" she asked of her son.
"I do not know—I had no time to speak to her. She is some lady who has called for medical advice, no doubt. It seems to me more like a case of incipient brain fever than of mere fainting; by the strange way in which she cried out I should imagine her to be quite delirious."
Then they both stood for some minutes gazing in silence on that exquisite face.
"She does not look more than eighteen," said the doctor—"she is very young. What shall we do with her, mother?"
The lady laid her hand on her son's arm.
"We must do as the good Samaritan did when he found his fellow-man wounded and helpless by the wayside," was the gentle reply.
It was in September that the poor distraught girl went in the madness of her grief and pain to the doctor's house, and if she had been a child of the house, she could not have been more kindly treated. It was October when she opened her eyes with a faint gleam of reason in their troubled depths. She looked around in wonder; she had not the least idea where she was. The room she was in was exquisitely neat and clean, there were some fine engravings on the walls, the furniture was of quaint design, and there were a few vases and ornaments; yet it was neither the almost royal grandeur of Queen's Chase nor the simple luxury of the hotel at Bergheim. Where was she? Why was she lying in this strange place with this feeling of weakness and weariness upon her?
Presently a kind, motherly, comely face bent over her, and a quiet, soothing voice said: "I am so glad to find you a little better, my dear."
"Have I been very ill?" she asked; and the sound of her voice was so faint, so unlike her own that it seemed as though it came from a great distance.
"Yes, you have been very ill, dear child."
"Where am I?" she asked; and the kind face smiled again.
"I will tell you all about it when you are a little better. You are quite safe and with good friends. Try to drink this and go to sleep again."
Hyacinth drank something that was warm and nice, and then looked up in the kindly face.
"Do you know," she said, "it is very strange, but I have really forgotten my own name!" She laughed a little hysterical laugh, and Mrs. Chalmers looked anxious.
"I must forbid you to speak again," she said; "my son is the doctor, and, if you disobey me, I shall summon him."
Hyacinth closed her eyes; a quiet sense of rest fell over her, and she was asleep again.
"Poor child," said Mrs. Chalmers, looking at her. "Who is she? I wonder what is her name?"
She slept so long that the kind-hearted woman began to feel uneasy. She went down and told her son.
"Sleeping, is she? Then do not wake her; sleep is the best medicine for her. Mind she has plenty of port wine and beef-tea."
"She says she has forgotten her own name," said Mrs. Chalmers, anxiously.
"She will be all right by and by, mother. I only hope the return of memory will not bring her pain."
The next time Hyacinth opened her eyes, she saw a keen, kind, shrewd face looking at her own, and a pair of dark eyes that smiled as she smiled.
"You are getting better," said Dr. Chalmers.
She raised her hand to her head, and then a slight look of alarm crossed her face. "Where is my hair?" she asked, wonderingly.
"We sacrificed your hair to save your brain," he replied; "it was all cut off."
Then he heard her give a profound sigh, and he guessed that memory was returning. He took one of the thin worn hands in his.
"I do not want you to think of painful things just now," he said. "Will you bear in mind that nothing but absolute rest will restore you to health, and compose yourself accordingly?"
Hyacinth did as she was advised: she discarded all painful thoughts from her mind, and consequently slept as she had not slept for many long weeks. She awoke one morning calm and composed, with reason and memory fully restored. She knew that she was Hyacinth Vaughan. Slowly and by degrees the terrible past returned to her.
"I was in time, thank Heaven!" she said. "I was in time!" She remembered the crowded court—the hundreds of eyes that had been turned upon her—the thunder of applause that none of the officers could repress—the ringing cheers that followed Claude's release. But after that all was a blank. She remembered nothing that had passed since she stood in the assize court, blind and dizzy, until she opened her eyes in that pretty room.
White, fragile, worn almost to a shadow, helpless as a child, she lay there now with reason in full sway. Dead to her old life, to her friends, her hopes, her plans—dead to her lover and her love—she was painfully beginning a new life, in which none of these had any part—a new life into which she felt that hope, love, or happiness could never come.
A week later, and Hyacinth Vaughan, looking like a frail shadow of her former self, sat, propped up by pillows, in a large easy-chair that had been placed for her near the window; her nerveless hands were clasped, her large eyes, so sad and dreamy, lingered on the clouds that drifted rapidly over the sky.
She was alone and deeply engrossed in thought; the time had come when she must speak to these people who had been so kind to her—when she must tell something of herself. They had been so kind to her, so attentive, so considerate—they had not even asked her name. Mrs. Chalmers always called her "child." Her son had a variety of names for her, the principal of which was Queen Mab. Such kindness could spring only from noble and generous hearts. Both mother and son had refrained from asking her any questions. Said Dr. Chalmers to his mother:
"When she knows us, and feels that she can trust us she will speak."
They had both divined that there had been some terriblesorrow in the girl's life—some sorrow that had struck her down and brought her to the brink of the grave. They knew, too, that she must be a lady of good birth and refinement. But never by word or deed did they distress her by the least symptom of curiosity. They had gone still further—when she attempted to say anything, Mrs. Chalmers had laid kindly fingers on her trembling lips, and said:
"Hush! Wait till you are stronger and better, my dear and then you shall talk."
But now the time had come when she knew that she must speak to them—must thank them for such kindness as the world rarely shows—must tell them how she was dead, but had risen to this new, fresh life in which the past was to have neither share nor place. The task was terrible to her, but she must undergo it. It seemed a direct answer to her thoughts when the door opened, and Dr. Chalmers came in with his mother. The doctor carried with him a bunch of purple grapes, which he laid before her.
"How kind you are to me!" she said, with trembling lips. "I have been thinking all the morning. How can I thank you? How can I ever repay you?"
"Doctors never expect thanks," said Dr. Chalmers; "and we are repaid by your recovery."
But the beautiful eyes were filled with tears. She took the old lady's hand and raised it to her lips. The doctor held up his finger in warning, but Hyacinth said:
"Let me speak—do let me speak. I cannot live in this silence and constraint any longer."
"Let her speak, Robert," said his mother; "it is best."
Hyacinth kissed again the kindly hand she held in hers. She took the doctor's and clasped them both together.
"You have been so kind to me," she said. "I can never repay you. I have no money to pay even for the necessaries you have given me. I know you do not want it, but I cannot understand how it is that you have been so good to me."
"My dear child," cried Mrs. Chalmers, "we have done nothing but what every Christian should. You came by accident to us, sick unto death, unhappy, friendless, and homeless, as it seemed—what less could we do than to take you in and succor you? We could not send you sick and almost dying into the streets."
"No! but you might have sent me to some hospital.I am sure that few would have done to me as you have done."
"We have only done what we thought to be right—no more."
"What you have done to me," returned Hyacinth, "I pray Heaven to return to you a thousandfold. I can never sufficiently thank you, but I want to say something else to you."
Her face grew so white, and her lips trembled so, that the doctor was on the point of forbidding another word. She looked piteously at him.
"Let me speak," she said; "the weight on my heart is so great I can hardly bear it. Were I to do what I wish, I should tell you all my story; but think of me as mercifully as you can—I am dead in life."
They looked at her in utter wonder. In the same faint voice she continued:
"I am dead to my home—I shall never see it again, and to my friends—I shall never see them again. I am dead to all the hopes that once made earth like heaven for me."
Her voice died away in a faint, moaning sob, and there was silence—silence that was broken at last by the clear, deep voice of the doctor.
"Will you tell us why this is?" he asked.
"I cannot," she replied, "I can only trust to your mercy. I cannot tell you either my name or my station, or what has slain me, when life was most sweet."
"Did you do something very wrong?" asked Mrs. Chalmers, with a shadow on her kindly face.
Hyacinth raised her beautiful eyes to the drifting clouds, which she could see from the window.
"I did something," she replied—"but, no—I don't think it was so very wrong; hundreds do it, and never think it wrong at all. I only planned it; a fear that it might be wrong came over me, and I did not do it. But the consequences of even the little I did—the shadow as it were of a sin—fell over me, and my whole life is darkened."
"You can tell us no more?" said the doctor.
"No!" she replied; mournfully; "I throw myself on your mercy."
"She has never done anything wrong, Robert," interrupted Mrs. Chalmers, addressing her son; "take my word for it. Look at that innocent face, those clear, true eyes—noone could believe they were coupled with guilt. I trust you, my dear," she added, turning to Hyacinth. "Keep your secret—never mind it; I believe in you, and shall never ask what it is."
A grateful look came over the girl's face.
"Thank you," she said. "You are right; I am not wicked. In one action of my life I was imprudent and foolish; the consequences of that action, which could not have been foreseen by any one, have crushed me. I am not wicked. See, I ask you to let me kiss your face; if my lips were stained with false words, I would not—I could not do so. I clasp your hands—ah, such true, kind hands they have been to me!—in my own; but, if mine were stained with crime, I could not do it."
"I believe you, my dear child," said Mrs. Chalmers; "you need say no more."
"I may tell you this," continued the girl. "I had a name as old and honored as any in the land; but I have laid it down and shall never use it again. I had friends—kind, strict, noble, generous; I have looked my last upon them. I had—oh, dear Heaven, it is hard to say!—I had a lover, whom I loved dearly, and his face I have looked upon for the last time. I am dead to all—dead in life!"
Her voice faltered, she broke into a passionate fit of weeping. During this time the doctor had spoken never a word, but now he bent over her.
"Child," he said, "you are so young, so simple, that, if any wrong has been done, you have been sinned against, not the sinner. Like my mother, I trust you. We have neither daughter nor sister; you shall be both. Our home shall be your home—what we have you shall share with us as long as life lasts."
She kissed the strong hand clasped in her own; her warm tears fell on it.
"You are very good to me," she said, "and though I tell you that I come to you as one risen from the dead—though I have no name, no friends—you will trust me, you will believe in me?"
"Yes," replied Dr. Chalmers, calmly. "I have not studied the human face all these years to be mistaken at last. I trust you implicitly."
"You must have a name," cried Mrs. Chalmers; "all the world need not know what we know. People will think you are a ward orprotégéeof mine; but you must have a name."
"Let her take ours, mother," suggested her son. But Hyacinth's face flushed.
"That would hardly do," said Mrs. Chalmers. "I will give you mine, my dear—the name that was mine in my girlhood—people used to think it a pretty one—Millicent Holte."