"Millicent Holte—that is the name you must assume," said Mrs. Chalmers to Hyacinth; "and, though I never was so pretty or so sweet as you are, still I was a very happy girl—and I do not like to see a young life blighted. Kiss me, Millicent; you shall be like a daughter to me."
"I do not remember my own mother," observed the girl, simply, laying her fair head on the kindly breast, "and I thank Heaven for sending me to you."
"Before we finish this subject at once and forever," said the doctor, "let me ask you, Millicent, is there anything that I can do for you in connection with your secret? If so, speak to me just as freely as though I were your brother, and command me as you will."
"You can do nothing," she answered, mournfully. "I should not have given up but that I knew all hope was past, nothing can undo what has been done—nothing can remove, nothing lighten its shadow."
"Are you unjustly punished?" he asked.
"Sometimes I think so, but I cannot tell."
"We will not mention the matter again," said the doctor, kindly; "we will think only of the new life and getting well. As a preparatory step to the latter, let me tell you that you must eat all these grapes, and then lie down and sleep again."
For the sweet face had grown so white and worn, so pale and tired—he saw that the effort she had made had been a most painful one.
"We will leave her alone, mother," he said.
But before Mrs. Chalmers quitted the room she unlocked a drawer and took from it a small purse; this she placed in Millicent's hand.
"This is yours, my dear," she said; "it fell from your pocket the evening you came here."
The sight of the little purse almost unnerved her. She remembered how Adrian had laughed at it, and had promised to buy her one with golden clasps. She took it, and then looked wistfully in the lady's face.
"No, my dear," said Mrs. Chalmers, "it is not to be thought of for one moment. What my son and I have done has not been for gain. Keep it, my poor child; you will need it in this new life that lies before you."
Then they left her alone, and the thoughts that mastered her were very sad ones. This new life looked almost terrible now that she was brought face to face with it. She began to wonder what they were doing at home, whether she should hear their names again, whether Adrian was still with them, and what he now thought of her. How he must despise himself for having ever loved her—she who had been the subject of popular comment and gossip—she whose name had been upon every lip! He who admired delicacy and refinement, how he must dislike her! She checked herself.
"I must not think of it," she said, "or I shall go mad."
Meanwhile mother and son had gone down to the cozy dining-room, and stood looking at each other in silence.
"It is a strange story, mother," said Dr. Chalmers; "I cannot understand it. What should you think the poor girl has been doing?"
"I cannot even form an idea," replied Mrs. Chalmers; "she has done nothing wrong—I am quite sure of that."
"Yet it must have been something very grave and serious to drive a girl from her home and her friends—to cause her to give up her name, and to be, as she says, dead to life."
"Something unusually grave, no doubt, but without wrong on her part; I could no more doubt her than I could myself. However unhappy or unfortunate she may be, she is good, true, pure, innocent, and simple as a child."
"Yes, I believe so, but it puzzles me greatly to know what her story can be. Still, we have taken her to ourselves, poor child; so we must make her strong and well and happy."
"Robert," said Mrs. Chalmers, gently—and she looked anxiously at her son's handsome, clever face—"be as kind as you will to her, but, my dear, do not fall in love with her."
"You may depend upon it, mother," he returned—and his face flushed and he laughed uneasily—"that, even if Ishould do so, I will never say one word about it. I shall think of Millicent, poor child, as of some petted younger sister, and do my best for her." Then the doctor opened a ponderous volume, and his mother knew that all conversation was at an end.
They were not rich, those good Samaritans, although the doctor was making rapid strides in his profession. Theirs had been a hard struggle. The mother had been left a widow when quite young; she had only a small income, the son was desirous of a good education, and then he chose the profession he felt most inclination for. But it had been up-hill work—they had no friends and no influence. They had nothing but his skill and industry to rely upon. Both, however, soon made their way. His practice increased rapidly, and when Hyacinth found refuge with him he had begun to save money, and was altogether in what the people of the world call comfortable circumstances. It was most probably the remembrance of their early struggles that made both mother and son so kind and charitable to the unhappy girl who had fallen under their hands. Perhaps, had they always been prosperous, they might have had harder hearts. As it was, the memory of their past struggles softened them and made them kinder to the whole world.
Mrs. Chalmers, well-born and well-bred herself, was quick to recognize that Hyacinth was a gentlewoman—one who had been accustomed not only to a life of refinement, but of luxury. She was quick also to recognize the pure mind, the innocent, simple, gentle heart.
It was all settled, and Millicent—as Hyacinth Vaughan was now called—became one of the family. Mrs. Chalmers always treated her as though she was her own daughter. The doctor spoiled, indulged, teased, and worshipped her. They did all that was possible for her; still the girl was not happy. She regained her health and strength very slowly, but no color returned to that delicate, lovely face—the beautiful eyes were always shadowed—no one ever saw her smile. As she grew stronger, she busied herself in doing all kinds of little services for Mrs. Chalmers; but this life among the middle class was all new to her. She had never known anything but the sombre magnificence of Queen's Chase and the hotel life at Bergheim. She was lost, and hardly knew what to do. It was new to her to live in small rooms—to be waited on by one servant—to hear and know all that passed in the household—new,strange, and bewildering to her. But she busied herself in attending to Mrs. Chalmers. She did many little services, too, for the doctor; and at last he grew to love the beautiful, sad face and plaintive voice as he had never loved anything before. She grew stronger, but not happier, and they became anxious about her.
"It is so unnatural in a girl of her age," said Mrs. Chalmers; "the trouble must have been a great one, since she cannot forget it. In my opinion, Robert, nothing will rouse her but change of scene and work. She seems to be always in a sorrowful dream."
What Mrs. Chalmers said the young girl often thought. After a time she wearied inexpressibly of the dull routine of her every-day life.
"I am dying," she would say to herself—"dying of inanition. I must begin to work."
One day, when the doctor sat alone in his surgery, she went to him and told him.
"If you will only be kind enough to let me work," she said. "I shall always love this my home; but it seems to me that in body and mind I should be much better if I could work."
"And work you shall," decided the doctor; "leave all to me."
Dr. Chalmers was getting on in the world. His practice had at first been confined exclusively to the locality in which he lived; but of late noble ladies had sent for him, and his name was mentioned with great honor in the medical journals. He had been consulted in some very difficult cases, and people said he saved Lady Poldean's life when all the physicians had pronounced her case hopeless. Honors were falling thick and fast upon him.
Lady Dartelle, of Hulme Abbey, was one of those who placed implicit faith in him. Her ladyship was credited with passing through life with one eye firmly fixed on the "main chance." She never neglected an opportunity of saving a guinea; and she was wont to observe that she had much better advice from Dr. Chalmers for five guineas than she could procure from a fashionable physician for twenty. Her youngest daughter, Clara, had been ailingfor some time, and Lady Dartelle decided on leaving Hulme Abbey and coming up to town for the benefit of the doctor's advice.
Lady Dartelle was a widow—"left," as she was accustomed to observe, emphatically, "with four dear children." The eldest, the son and heir, Sir Aubrey, was travelling on the Continent; her two daughters, Veronica and Mildred, were accomplished young ladies who had taken every worldly maxim to heart, and never bestowed a thought upon anything save of the most frivolous nature.
They had made theirdébutsome years before, but it had not been a very successful one. The young ladies were only moderately good looking, and they had not the most amiable of tempers. Perhaps this latter fact might account in some degree for several matrimonial failures. The young ladies had not accompanied Lady Dartelle to town—they objected to be seen there out of season—so that her ladyship had the whole of the mansion to herself.
Dr. Chalmers had one day been sitting for some time by the child, examining her, talking to her and asking her innumerable questions. She was a fair, fragile, pretty child, with great earnest eyes and sensitive lips. The doctor's heart warmed to her; and when Lady Dartelle sent to request his presence in her room, he looked very anxious.
"I want you to tell me the truth, doctor," she said. "The child has never been very well nor very ill. I want to know if you think she is in any danger."
"I cannot tell," he replied. "It seems to me that the child's chances are equal for life or death."
"I may not send her to school, then?" she said; and a shade of annoyance passed over the lady's face.
"Certainly not," was the prompt reply. "She will require the most constant and kindly home-care. She should have a kind and cheerful companion. I should not advise you entirely to forget her education, but it must not be forced."
"That is tantamount to saying that I must have a governess at home—and I do not see my way clear to that at all. Servants are bad enough; but the real plague of life are governesses. I have no idea where to find a suitable one. One's troubles seem to have no end."
To which remark the doctor wisely made no reply. Lady Dartelle looked up at him.
"You must see a great deal of the world, Dr. Chalmers.Can you tell me where I can find a trustworthy governess? I must have a gentlewoman, of course; yet she must not be one likely to thrust herself forward. That I could not endure. What is the matter, doctor?" she asked; for Dr. Chalmers' face had suddenly flushed scarlet, and his eyes intimated something which my Lady Dartelle did not quite understand.
"I was thinking," he replied, "that I do know a young lady who would be all that you require."
"I am very glad," said Lady Dartelle, looking much relieved. "Who is she? What is her name?"
"She is aprotégéeof my mother's—her name is Millicent Holte. She is highly educated, and most sweet-tempered—in fact, I do not think, if all England were searched, that any one so exactly suited for the position could be found. She is of gentle birth, and has a quiet, graceful manner that is very charming. There is only one objection."
"What is that?" asked Lady Dartelle, anxiously.
"She has never been a governess, and might not, perhaps, like the position—I cannot tell."
"She has never taught—of course that would make some difference in the stipend. I do not know that the deficiency need cause concern in respect of anything else. Where is the young lady now?"
"She is staying with my mother," said the doctor, his honest face flushing at the need of concealment.
"That is recommendation sufficient," vouchsafed Lady Dartelle, graciously. "I shall require no other. When will it be convenient for me to see her?"
"I dare say mother could call upon you to-morrow and bring Miss Holte with her."
"That would be very nice. Three o'clock would be a convenient time for me. Suppose Miss Holte should accept the engagement, would she be able, do you think, to return to Hulme Abbey with me at the end of the week?"
"I should imagine so. I do not know of anything to prevent it."
Yet as he spoke, that fair, sweet, sad face seemed to rise before him, and he wondered how he should bear his home when she was there no longer.
Still, he had done what she wanted. She had asked him to find her some work to do, and he had complied with her request. Yet his heart smote him as he thought of her—so fair, so fragile, so sensitive. How would she like tobe among strangers? Fortunately he had no conception of the true life of a governess in a fashionable family; if he had had, it would have been the last work of the kind he would have chosen for her in whom he was interested.
"The work will brace her nerves; it will do her good," he said to himself; "and if by chance she does not like it, she need not stay—there will always be a home for her with us."
When he reached home he told her. She appeared neither pleased nor regretful; it seemed to him that the common events of every-day life no longer possessed the least interest for her. She asked no questions about either Lady Dartelle or her place of residence, or how many children she would have to teach. The young girl agreed with him that she would do well to accept the offer.
"Are you pleased?" he asked. "Do you think you will like the duties?"
"I am very thankful to have some work to do," she replied; "and I am deeply grateful to you, Dr. Chalmers."
"You may well be that. I have never made such a sacrifice in my life as that of letting you go, Millicent. I should not have done so but that I think it will be for your good. Your home is still here, and if you do not like Hulme Abbey, I will fetch you away at once."
That night when the unhappy girl was alone in her room, she threw up her arms with a despairing cry. "How many years have I to live? How many years can I bear this, and live? Oh! Adrian, Adrian, if I could only look once upon your face and die! Oh, my love, my love, how am I to live and never see your face again?"
"There is one thing we are quite forgetting," said Dr. Chalmers, "although we call ourselves such clever people."
He pointed as he spoke to the little rings of golden hair, soft, fine as silk, light as gold in color, like the small tendrils of a vine in shape. She raised her beautiful, blushing face to his.
"You did it," she said, half-reproachfully. "I look just like a boy. What shall I do?"
The doctor touched one of the soft golden rings withhis finger. "This is anything but the conventional governess style; Millicent should have plain, Madonna-like braids of a dull gray tint—should she not, mother?"
"I do not like your plan at all, Robert," said Mrs. Chalmers, looking at her sweet, sad face. "I do not see why Millicent cannot be happy with us, nor why she can not recover her strength here. I suppose you know best. One thing is certain; she cannot leave us thus. Should you like, my dear, to wear hair that was not your own?"
"No, I should not like it at all," she replied, her face flushing.
The doctor laughed aloud.
"You will never make a woman of fashion, Millicent, as far as I understand such beings. A lady with a magnificent head of hair of her own carefully puts it out of sight and covers it with some one else's hair. I think the fashion most hateful, but my opinion of course matters little. Seriously speaking, Millicent, my mother must take you to a hair-dresser's, as something must be done; this beautiful, graceful, infantile head would never suit her ladyship."
Much against Millicent's will a hair-dresser was taken into their confidence.
"Could I not wear a cap?" asked Millicent, looking shyly at the magnificent coiffures of all colors.
"It would be very unbecoming," said the hair-dresser.
"A governess in a cap!" spoke Mrs. Chalmers. "No, that will not do at all."
"What does it matter?" thought the girl. "After all, my appearance will really interest no one."
And she submitted passively while a plain band of hair was chosen for her by the hair-dresser and Mrs. Chalmers. When it had been arranged, and she looked in the glass, she hardly recognized her face, the wavy golden hair had always given such a graceful, fairy-like character to her beauty. She looked many years older than she was—sad and subdued. The plain band of hair seemed quite to alter her face. Mrs. Chalmers kissed her.
"Never mind, my dear," she said; "you will soon be your own pretty self again," and the kindly words smote the young girl with deadliest pain. Her own self? Ah, no!—that self was dead, never to live again. It was but fitting that the old, graceful beauty—the girlish beauty Adrian had loved so dearly—should die with it.
"A very proper person indeed," thought Lady Dartelle, when the interview was nearly at an end; "evidently knows her place and mine; and I may own to myself that the outlay is very little."
For Lady Dartelle had, during the course of the interview, been delighted with the brilliant accomplishments of the young girl. Her playing was magnificent, her singing most exquisite—the pure, sweet contralto voice had been highly cultivated. Then she spoke French and German with such a pure, perfect accent, that Lady Dartelle began to think that the terms expected would be high. She managed the matter skilfully. She carefully concealed her admiration, and dwelt principally on the fact that the young lady had never before been engaged in teaching.
"That makes an immense difference," said her ladyship, diplomatically. "Still, as Miss Holte's appearance pleases me, I will not think of the deficiencies. In addition, Miss Holte, to your teaching my youngest daughter, I should wish you to speak French and Italian with my eldest girls."
Miss Holte bowed acquiescence, and her ladyship, finding that she offered no objection to any amount of work, then mentioned a few other "little duties" she wished to be attended to—"duties" she would not have dared to exact from any one else.
All arrangements were concluded greatly to her satisfaction, and then Lady Dartelle asked Millicent if she would not like to see her new pupil. The young girl said "Yes," and in answer to a summons from her ladyship, the child came into the room.
Then, for the first time, Millicent's heart was touched; the large, earnest eyes looked into her own with an appealing expression, the little burning hand trembled as it lay in her own. Millicent bent down and kissed the sweet face. Something stirred in her heart that had long seemed dead—something that brought with it exquisite pleasure and exquisite pain.
"In cases of this kind," said Lady Dartelle, "I find there is nothing like a clear and straightforward understanding. I should like to tell you, Miss Holte, that when we are quite alone you will sometimes dine with us, and occasionally spend the evening in the drawing-room; but when we have visitors such an arrangement will be impossible. My reasons for saying this," continued her ladyship, blandly, turning to Mrs. Chalmers, "are these. My sonAubrey is a frequent visitor at Hulme Abbey; he often brings friends with him; and then I think precautions with young people are necessary. I have seen sad results among my friends where the precautions I think so necessary have not been taken."
"I shall never wish for any society but that of my little pupil, Lady Dartelle," said Millicent.
And her ladyship was graciously pleased to observe that Miss Holte seemed to be very sensible.
It was all arranged; but as they drove home a sudden doubt came to Hyacinth. Lady Dartelle spoke of her son's bringing visitors with him. Suppose among them there should be any one she knew—any one who would recognize her? The very thought of it made her sick and faint. No, it was not likely; she had seen so few people, she had known so few—besides, when visitors came, it was Lady Dartelle's wish that she should not appear.
"Even if I do appear," she said, "who that has known me in my bright happy days—who that has known me as Hyacinth Vaughan—would recognize me now?"
Who could discover the lovely, smiling, radiant face under that sad, careworn look? Where was the light that had shone in the beautiful eyes—where were the smiles that had played round the perfect lips—where the grace and happiness that had made the face like sunshine? Years seemed to have passed over that bowed head—years of sorrow, of care, of misery. No one could recognize her. She need have no fear.
She blushed crimson when Dr. Chalmers, on seeing her, laughed. She had forgotten the false braids of hair. Nothing had the power to interest her long. Her thoughts always flew to Adrian. What had he thought of her? Had he forgotten her? What was he doing? She had completely forgotten the braids. The doctor's mischievous laugh made her remember them.
"I declare, Millicent," he said, "I should have passed you in the street without recognizing you. Why, you look ten years older, child, and so altered!" His face grew serious and sad as he remembered the girl as he had seen her first.
"Shall you like Lady Dartelle?" he asked.
Severe suffering had not blunted her keen instinct—the instinct that had shown her that Claude was more enthusiastic than sincere, and that Adrian was the most noble of men.
"I shall like my pupil," she said, "I shall love her in time."
"Now," observed the doctor, "I have hopes of you. This is the first time you have used that word. Millicent," he continued, kindly, yet gravely, "to love any thing, even though it be only a child, will be the salvation of you."
It was arranged that Millicent—Hyacinth had even learned to think of herself by that name—should join Lady Dartelle on the Friday evening; and on the following Saturday they were to go down to Hulme Abbey together. Dr. Chalmers had promised to find time to run down in the course of a few months.
"You will naturally be anxious to see how Miss Holte gets on," said her ladyship, adroitly; "and I shall be glad of your advice about Clara."
Then the time for parting came. The separation proved harder than they had thought. Millicent had grown to love the place and the people, as it was characteristic of her grateful, loving nature, to care for all those who were kind to her. It was her only home now; and the friends who dwelt there had been goodness itself. Her sad heart grew heavier as she thought of leaving them.
"Yet, if I live on here as I have been doing," she said to herself, "I shall lose my reason."
When the time came to say farewell, Dr. Chalmers held her hands in his.
"I am not a man of many words," he said, "but I tell you this—the sunshine and joy of my heart go with you. How much I care for you, you will never know; but Heaven's best blessing go with you and prosper you! If you ever want a friend, send for me."
In another minute Hyacinth had left the house that had been to her as a haven of refuge and a heaven of rest.
The beautiful November day was drawing to a close as Lady Dartelle and Hyacinth neared the end of their journey. It had been a lovely day. The branches of the trees were all bare of leaves, but the sun shone brightly and the sky was clear.
After the railway journey was ended, as they drovealong the country roads, a faint color came into Millicent's face, faint and exquisite as the delicate bloom on the inner leaf of a wild rose, and a light shone in her eyes. New life had come to her. The trees seemed to spread out their grand branches as though to welcome her. The time was not so long since she had talked to them in her pretty childlike way, believing they could hear if not answer her. The life in that dull London house, where no green leaf was to be seen, faded like a heavy dream. She could have stretched out her hands to the trees, in fondest welcome. How had she lived so long without seeing them? A long, deep sigh escaped her. Lady Dartelle looked up.
"I hope you are not tired, Miss Holte?" she said.
"No, not at all, thank you; but the country looks so beautiful, and the trees are like dear old friends."
Her ladyship did not look very well pleased; she had not bargained for a sentimental governess.
"I hope," she returned stiffly, "you will find better friends at Hulme Abbey than the trees are likely to prove."
Another cry of delight escaped Hyacinth, for, on turning a sharp corner of the road, the sea lay spread out before them.
"Is Hulme Abbey near the sea?" she asked.
"Almost too near," said Lady Dartelle, "for when the wind blows and the tide is high we can hear the noise of the surf too plainly—that is the only fault that any one could possibly find with Hulme. Do you like the sea, Miss Holte?"
She did not know. She had seen it twice—once when the world was all fair and she was going to Bergheim, and again when the waves had sobbed a dull requiem to all her hope and her love. Did she like it? The very music seemed full of the sorrow of her life. She thought that she would soon grow to love it with a passion that only poets lavish on the fair beauties of nature. Then the gray turrets of the Abbey came in sight.
"We are at home," said Lady Dartelle.
Hulme Abbey was neither so spacious nor so magnificent as Queen's Chase. It was an ancient building of imposing aspect, with square towers and an old-fashioned gateway, the windows were large, and the exterior of the house was ornamented with heavy carvings of stone. The building stood in the midst of the beautiful grounds; along chestnut avenue at the back led to the woods, and these last sloped down to the very edge of the sea.
"We are not many minutes' walk from the shore," said Lady Dartelle, "and one of your most important duties, Miss Holte, will be to take Miss Clara down to the sea every day. The walk will be most beneficial to her."
The lonely, sorrowful heart clung to that idea of the sea; it would be a companion, almost a friend to her. It had a voice that would speak to her, that would tell her of her love, lost forever, and that would whisper of the mysteries of life, so hard to understand. Lady Dartelle almost wondered at the rapt, sublime expression that came over the sweet, sad face. In another moment they were in the spacious entrance-hall, servants bowing, Lady Dartelle proud and patronizing.
"You are tired, and will like to go to your room," she said. "King, show Miss Holte to her room."
So for that one night the young girl escaped the ordeal she had dreaded—the introduction to the daughters of Lady Dartelle.
Hyacinth rose early the next morning. She could not control her impatience to see the sea; it was as though some one she loved were waiting for her. After a few inquiries from one of the servants, she found her way to the shore; her whole heart went out in rapture to the restless waters. She sat down and watched the waves as they rolled in and broke on the shore. The smell of the salt breeze was delicious, the grand anthem of the waves was magnificent to hear; and as she sat there she wept—as she had not wept since her sorrow fell upon her—tears that eased her heart of its burning load, and that seemed to relieve her brain of its terrible pressure.
Where was Adrian? The waves murmured his name. "My love, my lost, my own," they seemed to chant, as the murmur died along the shore. Where was he? Could it be that these same waves were chanting to him?
"If I could only go to him," she said, "and fall sobbing at his feet, and tell him how I love him!"
Presently she went back to the house, feeling better than she had felt for long months, and found, to her great relief, that none of the ladies were up yet. The servant who had attended to her the night before was in her room.
"My name is Mary King, miss," she said, "and my lady told me I was to attend the school-room. Would you like to see it?"
Millicent followed her and the girl led the way to a pretty little room that overlooked the woods. It was plainly furnished; but there was a piano, an easel, and plenty of books and flowers.
"This is the school-room, miss," said the maid, "and my lady thought that, as Miss Clara will be here for only six hours during the day—that is, for study—it would answer as a sitting-room for you as well."
Hyacinth desired nothing better than the grand old trees to look at. The maid wondered that she looked from the window instead of round the room.
"I will bring you your breakfast at once, miss," said the girl. "Miss Clara takes hers with you."
After breakfast Lady Dartelle came in with the written order of studies in her hand, and then Millicent found that her office was no sinecure. There was one thing pleasant—every day she must spend two hours out of doors with the young ladies in order to converse in French and Italian with them.
Lady Dartelle added that she had one remark to make, and that was that she had noticed in Miss Holte a tendency to dreaminess—this was always bad in young people, but especially out of place in a governess. She trusted that Miss Holte would try and cure herself of it. When the lady had gone away, the girl looked round the room, she wondered how long she would have to live in it, and what she would have to pass through. What sorrowful thoughts, what ghosts of her lost love and lost happiness would haunt her! But in her wildest dreams she never fancied anything so strange as that which afterward came to pass.
She found that it was not without reason that she had dreaded the ordeal of meeting the young ladies. They were not amiable girls. They were tall, with good figures and high-bred faces—faces that, if they had taken the trouble to cultivate more amiability and good temper, would even have been passable, if not comely, but they wore continually an expression of pride, discontent, and ill-temper. Lady Dartelle, like the valiant and enterprising lady that she was, did her best with them and tried to make the most of them. She tried to smooth down the little angularities of temper—she tried to develop the best traits in their characters and to conceal their faults. It was a difficult task, and nothing but the urgency of the case would have given her ladyship courage. The MissesDartelle had been for three years in society, and all prospect of their settlement in life seemed remote. It was a serious matter to Lady Dartelle. She did not care to pass through life with two cross old maids hampering her every movement.
Sir Aubrey had listened to his mother's complaints, and had laughingly tried to comfort her. "I shall come down some time in February," he said; "and I will bring some of the most eligible bachelors of my acquaintance with me. If you make good use of the opportunity, you will surely get one of the girls 'off.' I know how fatal country-house life is to an idle man."
The prospect was rather a poor one; still Lady Dartelle was not without hope.
The gentleman who was to win one of the Misses Dartelle was not to be envied for the exceeding happiness of his lot. They treated the governess with a mixture of haughty scorn and patronizing disdain which at times even amused her. She was, as a rule, supremely indifferent, but there were times when a sarcasm from one of the young ladies brought a smile to her lips, for the simple reason that it was so very inappropriate.
Time passed on and Christmas came at last. By that time Hyacinth had grown accustomed to her new home. Dr. Chalmers had been to see her, and had professed himself delighted with the change in her appearance. She did not regain all of her lost happiness, but she did regain some of her lost health and strength. Though she had not a single hope left, and did not value her life, the color slowly returned to her face and the light to her eyes. The fresh sea-breeze, the regular daily exercise, the quiet life, all tended to her improvement. She did not seem the same girl when Christmas, with its snow and holly, came round.
Hyacinth found wonderful comfort in the constant childish prattle and numerous questions of little Clara; the regular routine of studies took her thoughts in some measure from herself. She was obliged to rouse herself; she could not brood over her sorrows to the exclusion of everything else. She had thought her heart dead to all love,and yet at Hulme Abbey she had learned to love two things with a passion of affection—one was her little pupil; the other, the broad, open, restless sea. How long her present mode of life was to last she did not know—she had not asked herself; some day or other she supposed it would end, and then she must go somewhere else to work. But it was certain she would have to work on in quiet hiding till she died. It was not a very cheerful prospect, but she had learned to look at it with resignation and patience.
"The end will come some day," she thought; "and perhaps in a better world I shall see Adrian again."
Adrian—he was still her only thought. When she was sitting at times, by the sea-shore, with the child playing on the sands, she would utter his name aloud for the sake of hearing its music.
"Adrian," she would say; and a light that was wonderful to see would come over the lovely face. "Adrian," the winds and waves would seem to re-echo; and she would bend forward, the better, as she thought, to hear the music of the name.
"Mamma," said Veronica to Lady Dartelle one day, "I think you have done a very foolish thing."
"What is that, my dear?" asked the lady, quite accustomed to her daughter's free criticism.
"Why, to bring that girl here. Do you not see that she is growing exceedingly beautiful? You do not give her enough to do."
"I quite agree with Veronica, mamma," put in Mildred; "you have let your usual judgment sleep." Lady Dartelle looked up in astonishment.
"I assure you, my dears, that when I saw her first she did not look even moderately pretty."
"She has very much altered then," said Veronica. "When she came in with Clara yesterday, I was quite astonished. I have never seen a color half so lovely on any face before."
"I hope," observed Mildred, "that you will keep to your resolution, and not allow her to appear when we have visitors. You know how Aubrey admires a pretty face. Remembering how many plain women there are in the world, and how few pretty ones, it seems odd that you did not bring a plain one here."
A slight expression of alarm came over Lady Dartelle's face.
"If you think there is any danger of that kind," she said, "I will send her away at once. But I am of opinion that you exaggerate her good looks. I see nothing so very noticeable about the girl. And you know I shall never be able to secure another governess so thoroughly accomplished on the same terms; that, of course, is a consideration."
"You can please yourself, mamma," returned Veronica. "But I warn you that, if you are not very careful, you will most bitterly repent having a girl of that kind about the place when Aubrey comes home. You may do your best to keep her out of the way; but, depend upon it, she will contrive to be seen. Where there's a will there's a way."
"I think you are alarming yourself unnecessarily, my dear Veronica," said Lady Dartelle.
"Am I, mamma? Then judge for yourself. I see the gleam of Clara's scarlet cloak through the trees—they are just returning. Send for Miss Holte; ask her some trifling question; and when she is gone tell me if you have ever seen a more beautiful face."
Lady Dartelle complied with her daughter's request and in a few minutes "Miss Holte" and her little pupil entered the room. Lady Dartelle asked Hyacinth some unimportant question, looking earnestly as she did so at the lovely face. She owned to herself that she had had no idea how perfectly beautiful it was; the faintest and most exquisite bloom mantled it, the sweet eyes were bright, the lips like crimson flowers.
"She must have been ill when I engaged her," thought her ladyship—"I will ask her." Smiling most graciously, she said: "You are looking much better, Miss Holte; the air of Hulme seems to agree with you. Had you been ill when I saw you first?"
The beautiful face flushed, and then grew pale. The young ladies looking on were quick to note it. "Yes," she replied, quietly, "I had been very ill for some weeks."
"Indeed! I am glad to see you so fully restored;" and then a gracious bow intimated to "Miss Holte" that the interview was at an end.
"There, mamma," cried Mildred; "you see that we are perfectly right. You must acknowledge that you have never seen any one more lovely."
Lady Dartelle looked slightly bewildered.
"To tell the truth, my dears," she said, "I have hardly noticed the young girl lately. All that I can say is that Idid not observe anything so very pretty about her when I engaged her. I thought her very pleasant-looking and graceful, but not beautiful."
"I hope she is what she is represented," remarked Mildred; "but Mary King says that she has all the ways of a grand lady, and that she does not understand what I should have imagined every governess to be familiar with."
"My dear Mildred, you are saying too much. She is highly respectable—a ward orprotégéeof Mrs. Chalmers—the doctor would never have named her to me if she had not been all that was irreproachable."
"We will hope for the best; but I advise you again, mamma, to keep her out of sight when our visitors come."
Lady Dartelle smiled calmly—of the success of anything that she undertook that far-seeing lady never doubted. It was the end of January when Lady Dartelle received a letter from her son.
"Here is good news, my dear children," she said, smiling. "Your brother is coming; and he brings with him Lord Chandon and Major Elton. We shall have a very pleasant time, I foresee."
February came in mild and clear, with a pleasant foretaste of spring. In the woods the early violets were peeping out and the snow-drops were bowing their white heads; the buds were beginning to form on the hedges and trees, there was a faint song from the birds and silence reigned in the woods, as though the goddess of spring were hovering over them. It was Valentine's Day—in after-years Hyacinth remembered every incident of it—Clara had complained of not feeling well, and they had gone out into the woods—the governess and child. They sat down near a brook on some moss-covered stones. The child was unconsciously a poet in her way.
"Miss Holte," she said, suddenly, "do you never pity the flowers for being obliged to hide so long in the dark cold earth? How they must be longing for sunshine and for spring! It is just as though they were in prison, and the sun is the good fairy that lets them out."
Hyacinth made a point of never checking the child'sthoughts; she always allowed her to tell them freely as they came.
"I think so much about the flowers," continued the little one; "it seems to me that in some distant way they are related to the stars. I wonder if they live as we do—if some are proud of their color, and some of their fragrance—if they love and hate each other—if some are jealous, and others contented; I should like to know."
"The world is full of secrets," returned Hyacinth, musingly—"I cannot tell. But, if flowers could have souls, I can imagine the kind of soul that would belong to each flower."
"So can I," cried the child, joyously. "Why is the world full of secrets, Miss Holte? Men are so clever; why can they not find all the secrets out?"
"Ah, my darling," sighed the young girl, "the skill of man does not go very far. It has mastered none of the great problems of life."
They walked down to the shore and watched the waves rolling in; great sheets of white foam spread over the sand, the chant of the sea seemed on that day louder and more full of mystery than ever.
"The salt breeze has blown away all my headache," said the child; "shall we go home, Miss Holte? Mildred says this is Valentine's Day. I wonder if it will bring anything pleasant to us. I wonder if it is a day we shall remember."
The young governess smiled sadly.
"One day is very much like another," she said, little dreaming that this was to be one of the most eventful of her life.
"My lady wishes to see you, Miss Holte," said the footman to Hyacinth as she entered the room; "she is in her own room."
The young girl went thither at once.
"I want to speak to you, Miss Holte," she said. "As I have already mentioned, I always like sensible, straightforward dealings. My son, Sir Aubrey Dartelle, comes home to-morrow and brings some visitors with him."
My lady was seated at her writing-table, the room was shaded by rose-colored curtains, half drawn, and the young governess fortunately did not stand where her face could be seen.
"I have told you before that when we have visitors at the Abbey I shall wish you and Miss Clara to keep to yourown apartments; she is far too young and too delicate to be brought forward in any way."
"I will be careful to comply with your wishes, Lady Dartelle," replied Hyacinth.
"I am sure you will; I have always found you careful, Miss Holte. I wish Clara to take her morning walk before the day's study begins; and, as we do not breakfast until nearly ten, that will be more convenient. If she requires to go out again, half an hour while we are at luncheon will suffice. I do not know," continued the lady—"I am almost afraid that I shall have to ask you to give up your room for a short time; if it should be so, you can have the one next to Miss Clara—Lord Chandon, Major Elton, and Sir Richard Hastings bring so many servants with them."
Fortunately she did not see the ghastly change that came over that beautiful face as she uttered the name of Lord Chandon; it was as though some one had struck the girl a mortal blow. Her lips opened as though she would cry out, but all sound died on them; a look of fear and dread, almost of horror, came into the violet eyes.
"If I see any necessity for the change," said her ladyship, "I will tell King to attend to it."
No words came from those white, rigid lips. Lady Dartelle never turned her head but concluded, blandly:
"That was what I wanted to speak to you about, Miss Holte."
She evidently expected the young girl to go. But all strength had departed from the delicate frame. Hyacinth was as incapable of movement as she was of speech. At last, in a voice which Lady Dartelle scarcely recognized, it was so harsh and hoarse, Hyacinth said: "I did not hear plainly; what name did you mention, Lady Dartelle?"
"My lady" was too much taken by surprise to reflect whether it was compromising her dignity to reply. A rush of hope had restored the girl's strength. She said to herself that she could not have heard aright.
"Lord Chandon, Major Elton, and Sir Richard Hastings," said Lady Dartelle, stiffly.
"Great heavens," groaned the girl to herself, "what shall I do?"
"Did you speak, Miss Holte?" inquired the elder lady.
"No," replied Hyacinth, stretching out her hand as though she were blinded.
Then Lady Dartelle took up her pen and began to write.This was a signal of dismissal. Presently a sudden idea occurred to her.
"I had almost forgotten to say that I should wish the rules I have mentioned to be conformed to to-day. It is possible my son may arrive this evening or to-morrow morning. Good morning, Miss Holte."
One meeting Hyacinth would have thought she had been struck with sudden blindness. She stumbled as she walked; with one hand outstretched she touched the wall as she went along. It seemed to her that hours elapsed before she reached her own room; but she found herself there at last. Blind, dizzy, bewildered, unable to collect her thoughts, unable to cry out, though her silence seemed to torture her, she fell on her knees with a dull moan, and stretched out her hands as though asking help from Heaven. How long she knelt there she never knew. Wave after wave of anguish rolled over her soul—pain after pain, each bitter and keen as death, pierced her heart. Then the great waves seemed to roll back, and one thought stood clearly before her.
He from whom she had fled in sorrowful dismay—he whom she loved more dearly than her own life—he whose contempt and just disdain she had incurred—was coming to Hulme Abbey. She said the words over and over again to herself. "Adrian is coming—Heaven help and pity me, Adrian is coming!" Great drops stood on her white brow, her whole body trembled as a leaf trembles in the wind.
A wild idea of escape came to her—she could run away—there was time enough. Ah, now! they were coming perhaps to-night, and if Adrian heard that some one had run away from the house, he would suspect who it was. She wrung her hands like one helpless and hopeless.
"What shall I do?" she cried. "Dear Heaven, have pity on me, for I have suffered enough. What shall I do?"
Another hope came to her. Perhaps, after all, her fears were groundless. Lady Dartelle had said "Lord Chandon." It must be the old lord; she had never heard or read of his death. Adrian was to be Lord Chandon some day; but that day might be far distant yet. She would try to be patient and see; she would try to control her quivering nerves. If it were indeed Adrian, then she must be careful; all hope of escape was quite useless; she must keep entirely to her room until he was gone. She tried to quiet the trembling nerves, but the shock had been toogreat for her. Her face was ghastly in its pallor and fear. Clara looked at her in dismay. "I do not feel well," she said, in a trembling voice; "you shall draw instead of read."
She would have given anything to escape the ordeal of reading to the young ladies. But it must be gone through; they made no allowances for headaches. She found them as little disposed to receive as she was to give a lesson.
"Sit down, Miss Holte," said Veronica; "we will not attend to our French just now; it's such nonsense of mamma to insist upon it! Would you mind threading these beads? I want to make a purse."
She placed a quantity of small gold and silver beads in the young girl's hands, and then eagerly resumed her conversation with her sister.
"I am the elder," she argued; "the first chance and the best chance ought to be mine. I have set my heart on winning Lord Chandon, and I shall think it very unkind of you to interfere."
"You do not know whether he will be willing to be won," said Mildred, sneeringly.
"I can but try; you could do no more. I should like to be Lady Chandon, Mildred. Of course I shall not be unsisterly. If I see that he prefers you, I shall do all in my power to help you; but, if he shows no decided preference, it will not be fair for you to interfere with me."
"He may not like either of us," said Mildred, who enjoyed nothing so much as irritating her sister.
"I have an idea that he is to be won; I feel almost certain of it. Sir Richard Hastings would be a good match, too; he is very wealthy and handsome—and so, for that matter, is Major Elton."
"What has that to do with it?" asked Mildred. "You have such confused ideas, Veronica. What was that story mamma was telling you about Lord Chandon?"
"Some doleful romance—I did not listen attentively. I think she said he was engaged, before his uncle's death, to marry some girl he was much attached to, and she ran away. She did something or other horrible, and then fled; I think that was it."
"And does he wear the willow for her still?" asked Mildred.
"I should say he has more sense. When girls do anything horrible, they ought to die. Men never mourn long, you know."
"But what did the girl do?" pursued Mildred. "Did she deceive him and marry some one else—or what?"
"I did not feel interested enough to listen," replied Veronica. "Mamma seemed to imply everything most terrible; you must consult her if you want to know the particulars. Aubrey says that a man's heart is often caught at a rebound; and he seems to think that if we are kind and sympathizing to Lord Chandon—smoothing his ruffled plumes, you know—one of us cannot fail to win him."
"How long will our visitors remain?" asked Mildred.
"A month; and much may be done in a month, you know. What is that?"
Well might she ask. First the gold and silver beads fell upon the floor; and then the unhappy girl who held them, white and senseless, fell from the seat, and lay like a crushed and broken lily on the ground.
"Ring the bell," said Veronica; "she has fainted, I suppose. How tiresome! I wonder how it is that governesses have such a propensity to faint."
"She looks like a beautiful statue; but if she takes to this kind of thing, mamma will not find her so very useful after all. Here, King," to the servant who entered, "Miss Holte has fainted; tend to her."
And the two sisters swept from the room with the air of two very superior beings indeed. They never dreamed of helping the unconscious girl; such condescension would have been far too great. Mary King and a fellow-servant carried Hyacinth to her room, and laid her on her bed. Kindly hands ministered to her; she was respected and beloved by the servants, who, quick to judge, pronounced her "a real lady"—much more of a lady than the Misses Dartelle. So now in her distress they ministered unto her.
"If I might but die," she said, with a great tearless sob—"if I might but die!"
That she should be looked upon as so utterly lost—as having done something so terrible—seemed worse to her than all.
"I did right to leave them," she said, "and now I shall never look upon them again. I did right to hide myself from the faces of all who knew me. Adrian despises me. I cannot bear it."
Her face burned and her heart beat wildly as she thought of Veronica's insulting words and sneering tones. What she had done was too terrible even for Lady Dartelleto speak of. How rightly she had judged that her proper position was past for ever! How rightly she had decided that her own deed had banished her forever from those whom she loved best!
Lady Dartelle, with unusual consideration, had sent word that Miss Holte was not to rise; so Hyacinth lay through the day in a stupor of fear and dread, one longing in her heart, one prayer on her lips, and that was to die. She lay trying to form feeble plans of escape, and breaking down every now and then with a terrible cry. Dr. Chalmers had told her if she wanted a friend to send for him; but if he came now, exposure must follow. She was hopeless, helpless, bewildered.
Then she began to think how heavily she had been punished for her sin. Some girls ran away from their home, were married, and lived happily. Why had so cruel a fate befallen her? She lay until evening, her brain burning, her head aching, her whole body one throb of pain. A new fear came to her: what if that terrible fever came back, robbing her of her senses and reason? They would find out then that she was here in some kind of disguise. It was night when she heard the sound of carriage wheels; this was followed by a noise as of many arrivals. Her heart gave one great bound, and then seemed to stand still. She did not know how time passed until Mary King entered with a basin of soup.
"They are all gone to dinner, miss," she said, "and cook has sent you this."
"Have the visitors arrived?" she asked.
"Yes, miss; there seems to be quite a crowd of them. Try to take this—it will do you good."
She tried, but failed. Adrian was there under the same roof, and the wonder was that her sorrow did not kill her.
When Hyacinth rose the next morning, it was as though long years had passed over her. Lady Dartelle was not unkind or ungrateful. She sent to ask if Miss Holte was better and able to resume her work; she also desired the housekeeper to see that the governess had all she required, and then, thinking that she had done her duty, she forgot all about her.
Hyacinth resumed her work, but a burning thirst was upon her—a thirst that could not be quenched. Adrian was near her, he was under the same roof, breathing the same air, his eyes would rest on the same scenes, he would speak every day to the same people. A fever that nothing could cool seemed to run riot in her veins; her heart burned, her eyes were hot and weary with watching—a thirst, a longing, a fever, a very madness possessed her, and she could not control it. She must see him; she must look upon his face, even should his glance slay her—for she had loved him so dearly, and in all her lonely life she had never loved any one else. As flowers thirst in the sultry heat for dew, as the tired deer longs for cooling streams, so she craved for one glance at the face that had made all the sunshine and brightness of earth for her.
So she watched and waited. She promised herself this one short glimpse of happiness. She would look on his face, giving full vent to all the passionate love of her heart, and then welcome darkness, oblivion, and death.
Once, in crossing the upper corridor, the door of the billiard-room suddenly opened, and she heard the sound of laughter and of many voices; his was among them—clear, rich, distinct—the old musical tone that had so often made her heart thrill. The sound of it smote her like a deadly blow. She shrunk back, pale with the pallor of death, faint, trembling.
"My love, my love," murmured the white lips. Hyacinth bent eagerly forward—she would have given much to hear the sound again, but it had ceased—the door was closed, and she went on to her room like one who had stood outside the gates of an earthly paradise, yet knew that those gates were never to be opened.
Her recent experiences increased the fever of her longing—a fever that soon began to show itself in her face. She became unwontedly lovely, her beautiful violet eyes shone with a brilliancy and light almost painful to see, the red lips were parted as the lips of one who suffers from intensity of pain, the white hands grew burning hot; the fever of longing was wearing her very life away, and she thought she could still it by one look at his face. She might as well have tried to extinguish flame by pouring oil upon it. At last the chance she had waited and watched for came. Veronica sent to ask her to go to her room.
"I want you to grant me a great favor," she said. "My maid is correct in her ideas of dress, but she has no ideaof flowers. I have some flowers here, and knowing your great taste, I should be obliged to you if you would arrange a spray for my hair."
This speech was so unusually civil for Miss Dartelle that the young governess was quite overpowered.
"I will do it with pleasure," she replied.
"I want it to be very nice," said Miss Dartelle, with a conscious smile that was like a dagger in the girl's breast; "one of our visitors, Lord Chandon, seems to have a mania for flowers. I had almost forgotten—are there any white hyacinths among the collection?"
"Yes," was the brief reply.
"Do you think there are sufficient to form a nice spray, mixed with some maiden-hair fern?" she asked. "I should be so pleased if you could manage it."
"I will try; but, Miss Dartelle, there are so many other beautiful flowers here—why do you prefer the white hyacinths?"
Her voice faltered as she uttered her name—a name she had never heard since she fled from all that was dearest to her. Miss Dartelle, who happened to be in the most gracious humors, smiled at the question.
"I was talking to that same gentleman, Lord Chandon, yesterday, and I happened to ask him what was his favorite flower. He said the white hyacinth—oh, Miss Holte, what are you doing?"
For the flowers were falling from the nerveless hand. How could he have said that? Adrian used to call her his white Hyacinth. Had he not forgotten her? What could he mean?
"So you see, Miss Holte," continued Miss Dartelle, blandly, "that, as I should like to please his lordship, I shall wear his favorite flowers."
Yes, she saw plainly enough. She remembered one of those happy days at Bergheim when she too had worn some fresh, fragrant hyacinths to please him; and she remembered how he had caressed her, and what loving words he had murmured to her—how he had told her that she was fairer in his eyes than any flower that had ever bloomed—how he had taken one of the hyacinths from her, and, looking at it, had said: "You were rightly named, my love. You are a stately, fair, fragrant hyacinth indeed."
Now—oh, bitter irony of fate!—now she was to make another beautiful with these same flowers, in order to charm him.
She was dead to him and to all the bright past; yet at the very thought of his loving another she grew faint with anguish that had no name. She went to the window and opened it to admit the fresh, cool air; and then the opportunity she had waited and longed for came. It was a bright, clear morning, the sun was shining, and the promise of spring filled the air. She did not think of seeing Adrian then; but the window overlooked the grove of chestnut trees, and he was walking serenely underneath them.
She sunk on her knees, her eyes were riveted on his face with deepest intensity. It was he—Heaven bless him!—looking graver, older, and more careworn, but still the same brave, handsome, noble man. Those were the true, clear eyes that had looked so lovingly into her own; those were the lips, so firm, so grave, so kind, that had kissed hers and told her how dear she was to him; those were the hands that had clasped her own.
Shine on him, blessed sun; whisper round him, sweet wind; for there is none like him—none. She envied the sun that shone on him, the breeze that kissed his face. She stretched out her hands to him. "My love," she cried—"my dear lost love!" Her wistful longing eyes followed him.
This was the one glance that was to cool the fever preying upon her; this was to be her last look on earth at him—and the chestnut grove was not long—he had passed half through it already. Soon—oh, so soon—he would pass out of her sight forever. Suddenly he stood still and looked down the long forest glade; he passed his hand over his brow, as though to drive away some saddening thought, and her longing eyes never left him. She thanked Heaven for that minute's respite, and drank in the grave manly beauty of his face with eyes that were pitiful to see.
"My love," she murmured, in a low hoarse voice, "if I might but die looking at you."
Slowly the large burning tears gathered in the sorrowful eyes, and sob after sob rose to the quivering lips: it seemed to her that, kneeling there with outstretched hands, she was weeping her life away; and then he began to walk again, and had almost passed out of her sight.
She held out her hands to him with weeping eyes.
"Adrian," she called, "good-by, my love, good-by!"
And he, all unconscious of the eyes that were bent upon him, turned away, while the darkness and desolation of death fell over the girl who loved him so dearly.