Hyacinth had looked upon Adrian. In her simplicity she had believed that with that one look all her fever of pain would vanish. Had it been so? Three days since she had stood in Miss Dartelle's room and watched him from the window; and now she looked like one consumed by some hidden fire. In that great busy household no one noticed her, or possibly remarks would have been made. There was a brilliant flush on the beautiful face, the light in her eyes was unnaturally bright, no lips were ever more crimson. She had slept but little. She had spent the nights in pacing her room, doing battle with her sorrow and her love; she had spent the days in fighting against the physical weakness that threatened to overwhelm her.
"It would have been better," she owned to herself in a passion of despair, "never to have seen him. That one look upon his face has made me more wretched than ever."
"It is all my own fault," she would say again—"all my own fault—no one is in the least degree to blame but myself. I have brought it all upon myself. If I had been content with my home—satisfied with the gifts Heaven had given me—if I had refused to listen to Claude's suggestions—if I had been true to my teachings and true to myself, all this would never have happened—I should have been Adrian's wife. There is no one—no one to blame but myself. I have shipwrecked my own happiness, and all I suffer is just punishment."
Like a vision sent purposely to torture her, there came before her a picture of what might have been but for her folly in consenting to meet Claude. By this time she would have been Adrian's wife, living with him in that grand old house he had described to her, loving and beloved, going sometimes to see Lady Vaughan, and brightening the fair old face by the sight of her own great happiness. All this was impossible now because she had been guilty of a terrible folly. It was all at an end. She had to live her own dreary life, and never while the sun shone or the flowers bloomed would the faintest ray of happiness reach her. What Lady Dartelle had foreseen came to pass. She had so many guests to accommodate that she was obliged to ask Miss Holte to give up her large airy room and take a smaller one on the floor above.
"I hope it will not inconvenience you," said her ladyship. "It will not be for long; we are all going to London in May."
The young governess appeared quite unconcerned, and Lady Dartelle felt more pleased with her than ever.
The window of Hyacinth's new apartment looked upon the rose-garden; and at the end of the rose-garden there ran a long path, where the gentlemen visitors were accustomed to smoke their cigars.
One morning Miss Dartelle, with a smiling face, entered the school-room where the young governess and her little pupil sat. She bowed graciously to "Miss Holte" and kissed Clara.
"We are all alone to-day," she said. "Our visitors have gone over to Broughton Park. Mamma thinks Clara may have a holiday."
The child did not look so pleased as the elder sister expected.
"And Miss Holte," continued the young lady, "I want to ask you something. You sketch very beautifully, I know. I have seen some of your drawings, they are exceedingly good." This was a preamble that meant work of some kind. "Have you noticed that very remarkable tree in the park, called 'The King's Oak?' It is a large spreading tree, with an enormous trunk overgrown with ivy, and huge overhanging boughs."
"Yes," was the quiet reply, "I know it very well."
"Lord Chandon has asked me to sketch it for him, Miss Holte. It appears that he is as fond of trees as he is of flowers. I draw very well, but I should like the sketch to be something better than I can do. Will you help me, please?"
"Certainly—if you wish it;" and Hyacinth smiled in bitter scorn. "If he had asked me for a sketch," she thought, "no other fingers should have touched it."
"I thought," resumed Miss Dartelle, "that, as the gentlemen are all away to-day, we might spend a few hours over it."
"If you will put on your hat," said Miss Holte, "I will be ready in a few minutes."
Both sisters appeared presently, and they were unusually gracious to Miss Holte. After a pleasant walk they came in sight of the grand old forest-giant. A servant had followed them, bearing camp-stools and all the necessaries for sketching.
"Will you make a sketch of the tree, please, Miss Holte? And, as I must do something toward it, I will work at the minor details."
Hyacinth sat down at some little distance from the tree and began her task. The morning was bright and almost warm. The sisters at times sat and watched her progress, at others, walked up and down. They conversed before her as unconcernedly as though she had been one of the branches of the oak-tree, and their conversation was all about Lord Chandon. Hyacinth could not hear all they said, but it was evident that Veronica Dartelle was in the highest spirit, and felt sure of her conquest.
Tired of walking, they sat down at last close to Hyacinth, and Miss Dartelle, turning to her sister, said:
"You have no idea how he has altered since he has been here; he was so dull, so reserved, so gloomy at first—now he talks quite freely to me."
"He does not seem to say anything to the purpose," sneered Mildred.
"But he will in time, you will see, Milly. If he could only forget that horrid girl!"
"What 'horrid girl?'" asked Mildred, with some curiosity.
"The girl he used to like—the one who did something or other discreditable. Aubrey told mamma she was a heroine, and one of the truest and noblest girls that ever lived. When Lord Chandon spoke of her to Aubrey, the tears were in his eyes. The girl gave some evidence at a trial, it seems, which saved somebody's life, but lost her home, her friends, and her lover; and has never been seen since."
"She must have been a great simpleton," said Mildred, contemptuously.
"What would you have done in her place?" asked Veronica.
"I should have let the man die," replied her sister. "Self-preservation is the first law of nature. I would not have lost my home, friends, character, lover, and, above all, the chance of being Lady Chandon of Chandon Court, to save the life of any man;" and Mildred Dartelle laughed at the notion of such heroism.
"This girl did. Aubrey says that when Lord Chandon speaks of her it is as though she had done something no other woman could do. All the men are the same. Major Elton said he would give his right hand to see her. What nonsense!"
"Then does Lord Chandon care for her still?" asked Mildred.
"Not as a lover, I should imagine. He affects the greatest admiration for her, and talks of her incessantly; but I should not think he would ever marry a girl who had compromised herself—besides, he cannot find her. She disappeared after the trial, and the general impression seems to be that she is dead. I will teach him to forget her. You shall come to Chandon Court when I am mistress there, and perhaps we may find a rich husband for you."
"Many thanks," returned Mildred; "perhaps I may find one before you do. Who knows? If Lord Chandon has been so much in love, I do not see how you can hope that he will ever care for you."
"We shall see. Time works wonders."
And then Veronica stood up and looked over the governess's shoulders. "This is beautifully done," she said; "but you have not done much—and how your fingers tremble! How pale you are too! Surely you are not ill again, Miss Holte?" she added, impatiently.
"I am quite well," answered Hyacinth, coldly; and then with an iron will she put back the surging thoughts and memories that were gradually overcoming her. "I will think when I am alone," she said to herself—"now I must work." And work she did—so well that in a short time the sketch was almost completed. Presently Veronica came up to her again, and took the pencil from her hands.
"I must do a little," she said; and she finished some of the shading, and then signed her initials in the corner—"V. D."—and laughed as she did so.
"If Lord Chandon praises the sketch, Miss Holte," she said, "I will repeat his compliments to you. He cannot help being pleased with it, it is so beautifully done. You are a true artist."
"I am glad that you are pleased with it," Hyacinth replied.
And then she began to wonder. She had often been out sketching with Adrian, and he had given her many valuable hints. Would he recognize her pencil? Would it be possible? And then she laughed to herself, and said it was only an idle fear—only her nervous imagination that troubled her.
If what they said was true—and they had no motive for speaking falsely—Adrian did not hate her—he did not even despise her. He had called her true and brave; he hadspoken of her with admiration and with tears in his eyes. Ah, thank Heaven for that! Her heart had almost withered believing in his contempt. She knew his estimation of women to be so high that she had not believed it possible he could do anything but hate her. Yet he did not hate her. Tears such as she had not shed since her troubles fell like rain from her eyes—tears that cooled the cruel fever, that were like healing drops. It seemed as though one-half her sorrow had vanished—Adrian did not hate her.
Life would be a thousand times easier now. She felt that no greater happiness could have been bestowed upon her than to know that he thought well of her. Of course, as Miss Dartelle said, he could never marry her—she had compromised herself. The old sweet tie between them could never be renewed. Less than ever now could she bear the thought of meeting him; but the sharpest sting of her pain was gone—he did not hate her.
She was still dead to him, but how much lighter the load was to her. His hatred and contempt had weighed her to the very earth—had bowed her beautiful head in unutterable shame. That was all gone now; he knew the worst there was to know of her, and yet he had called her brave and true. He had mourned for her, he liked to talk about her, and they all believed her dead.
"So I am, my darling," she sobbed; "I would not make myself known for all the world. In time you will forget me and learn to be happy with some one else. I would not be so selfish as to let you know that I am living. He will love me dead—he will forget all my errors, and remember only that I cared for him so much more than any one can care. I little thought, a few weeks since, that so much happiness was in store for me. I have looked upon his face again; and I know that he speaks kindly of me. I shall never see him more, but my life will be brighter."
The rest of that day passed like a tranquil dream; a deep sweet calm had fallen over her, the hot flush dried from her face, her eyes lost their unnatural brilliancy. Little Clara, looking at her governess, said:
"How beautiful you are, Miss Holte! You look as though you had been talking to angels."
"So I have," she replied; "the angels of comfort and peace."
That night Hyacinth slept, and when she stood before her glass the next morning so much of her beauty hadbeen restored to her that she blushed as she looked at herself. On this eventful morning Clara was not well.
"Let us go down to the shore," she begged; "I cannot learn any lesson or do anything until we have been there."
The young governess complied with the child's wish. It was not nine o'clock when they left the house.
"The sea is rough this morning," said Clara. "Do you hear how hollow the sound of the waves is? I like high waves—they are all foam."
They hurried down to the shore. The waves ran high; they broke on the sands in great sheets of foam; they seemed to be contesting with each other which should be highest and which should be swiftest.
"I am sure they are playing, Miss Holte," cried the child, clapping her hands for joy. "Let us sit down and watch them."
"I am afraid it is too cold for you to sit down; I must wrap you in my shawl and hold you in my arms, Clara."
So they sat, the child crying out with delight when one wave higher than the others broke at their feet. The fresh salt breeze brought a lovely color into Hyacinth's face, and there were peace and serenity in the depths of her beautiful eyes. Governess and pupil were suddenly startled by seeing a gentleman hastening to them across the sands. The child sprung from the gentle arms that encircled her.
"It is my brother," she cried, "my brother Aubrey!"
The gentleman caught the little figure in his arms.
"I thought it was a mermaid, Clara—upon my word I did. What are you doing here?"
"We came to watch the waves—Miss Holte and I both love the waves."
Sir Aubrey looked round, and with some difficulty repressed a cry of astonishment as his eyes fell upon Hyacinth's lovely face. He raised his hat and turned to his little sister. "You must introduce me, Clara," he said. The child smiled.
"I do not know how to introduce people," she returned, with a happy little laugh. "Miss Holte, this is my big brother, Aubrey—Aubrey, this is Miss Holte, and I love her with all my heart."
They both laughed at the quaint introduction.
"This is charming, Clara. Now, may I stay for a few minutes and watch the waves with you?"
"You must ask Miss Holte," said the child.
"Miss Holte, will you give me the required permission?" he inquired.
"You must ask Lady Dartelle, Sir Aubrey," she replied, "we are supposed to take our walks by ourselves."
The blush and the smile made her so attractive that without another word Sir Aubrey sat down by her side. He was careful to keep Clara in his arms lest Miss Holte should take her by the hand and retire. "How is it, Miss Holte," he said, "that I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before?"
"I do not know," she replied, "unless it is because my duties have never brought me into the part of the house where you, Sir Aubrey, happened to be."
"I knew Clara had a governess but I did not know—" that she was young and beautiful, he was about to add; but one look at the lovely face checked the words on his lips. "I did not know anything more," he said. "Are you in the habit of coming to the shore every morning?"
"Yes," said Clara, "we love the waves."
"I wish I were a wave," said Sir Aubrey, laughingly.
The child looked up at him with great solemn eyes. "Why, brother?" she asked.
"Because then you would love me."
"I love you now," said Clara, clasping her arms around his neck and kissing his face.
"You are a dear, loving little child," he said, and his voice was so sincere that Miss Holte forgot her shyness and looked at him.
He was a tall, stately gentleman; not handsome, but with a face of decision and truth. He had frank, clear eyes, a good mouth, with kindly lines about it, a quantity of clustering hair, and a brown beard. It was a true, good face, and the young governess liked him at once. Nothing in his appearance, however, caused her to take such a deep interest in him, but solely the fact that he was Adrian's friend.
Perhaps even that very morning he had been conversing with Adrian—had, perhaps touched his hand. She knew for certain that Adrian had spoken to him of her. Her beautiful eyes lingered on his face as though she would fain read all his thoughts. On his part, Sir Aubrey Dartelle was charmed with the young governess. He said to himself that he had never seen any one half so fair, half so lovely; and he vowed to himself that it should not be his fault if he did not meet her again.
Sir Aubrey Dartelle did not forget that interview; the beautiful face of the young governess haunted him. He went to the sea-shore in the hope of meeting her, but she was prudent and did not go thither. She knew Lady Dartelle's wish that she should not meet any of her visitors—above all, her son. Indeed, when the young girl thought of all that might arise from even that interview, she became frightened.
Those words of Veronica's were always present to her—"he cannot marry her because she has compromised herself." She would not have Adrian see her in this, her fallen and altered state, for the whole world. More than ever she wished to hide herself under the mantle of obscurity. He believed her dead; and, in her noble, self-sacrificing love, she said it was better it should be so. Suppose that Sir Aubrey should say something to Lord Chandon about her, and he should ask to see her? She must be prudent, and not let Sir Aubrey see her again. So the baronet walked disconsolately along the shore; but the lovely face he had seen there once was not to be met again. He determined that he would see her. She evidently loved Clara, and Clara loved her. It was plain, too, that they spent all their time together. Consequently, wherever Clara went, she would go. He would propose to take the child over to Broughton Park, under the pretext of showing her the beautiful swans there. Most certainly if the child went, the governess would go.
He was absorbed in his plan. Walking one morning with Lord Chandon, he was so long silent that his companion looked into his face with a smile.
"What are you thinking about, Aubrey?" he asked. "I have never seen you so meditative before."
The baronet laughed in his gay, careless fashion.
"I have never had the same cause," he said. "I have seen a face that haunts me, and I cannot forget it."
One of the peculiarities of Lord Chandon was that he never laughed after the fashion of many men, and never jested aboutaffaires du cœur. There was no answering smile on his face, and he said kindly: "There is no cure for that; I know what it is to be haunted through long days and longer nights by one fair face."
"My mother has such a lovely governess," said Sir Aubrey confidingly. "I have never seen a face so beautiful. It seems to me that they keep her a close prisoner, and I am quite determined to see her again."
"Of what use will that be?" inquired Lord Chandon. "Her face haunts you now, you say; the chances are that if you see her again it will trouble you still more. You cannot marry her; why fall in love with her?"
"I have not fallen in love with her yet," said Sir Aubrey; "but I shall if I see much more of her. As for marrying her, I do not see why I should not. She is fair, graceful, and lovely."
"Still, perhaps, she is not the kind of lady you should marry. Let the little child's governess remain in peace, Aubrey. Straight ways are the best ways."
"You are a good fellow," returned the young baronet, easily touched by good advice. "I should like to see you happier, Adrian."
"I shall live my life," said Lord Chandon—and his voice was full of pathos—"do my duty, and die like a Christian, I hope; but my earthly happiness died when I lost my love."
"That was a sad affair," remarked Sir Aubrey.
"Yes; we will not discuss it. I only mention it to warn you as to admitting the love of any woman into your heart, for you can never drive it away again."
That day, after the gentlemen had entered the drawing-room, Sir Aubrey went up to Lady Dartelle. She was both proud and fond of her handsome son, who as a rule could do pretty much as he liked with her.
"Mother," he said, "why does not little Clara come down sometimes?"
"She can come, my dear Aubrey, whenever you wish," was the smiling reply.
"And her governess—what has she done that she is never asked to play and sing?"
At the mention of the word "governess" Lady Dartelle became suspicious. "He has seen her," she thought, "and has found out how pretty she is."
"One of our arrangements," she said aloud, "was that Clara's governess was not to be asked into the drawing-room when we had visitors."
"Why not?" inquired the baronet, carelessly.
"My dear boy, it would not be prudent; and it would displease your sisters very much, and perhaps interfere with their plans and wishes."
"Being a very pretty—nay, a most lovely girl, she is to be punished for her beauty, then, by being shut out of all society?"
"How do you know she is beautiful?" asked Lady Dartelle. "Do not speak too loudly, my dear; your sisters may hear you."
"I saw her the other morning on the shore, and I tell you honestly, mother, I think her the most beautiful girl I have ever seen; and she is as good as she is beautiful."
"How do you know that?" asked Lady Dartelle a little anxiously.
"Because she told me quite frankly that you did not wish her to be in the way of visitors, and because she has kept out of my way ever since."
"She is a prudent girl," said Lady Dartelle. "Aubrey, my dear, I know how weak young men are in the matter of beauty. Do not try to get up a flirtation with her. Your sisters do not like her very much; and if there should be anything of what I have mentioned, I shall be obliged to send her away at once. Your own good sense will tell you that."
"My sisters are—what are they?" returned Sir Aubrey, indignantly; "all women are jealous of each other, I suppose."
"Aubrey," said Lady Dartelle, thinking it advisable to change the subject of conversation, "tell me whether you think either Veronica or Mildred has any chance of succeeding with Lord Chandon?"
"Not the least in the world, I should say," he replied, "I fancied when he came down that he would take a little consolation; now I know there is not the least chance."
"Why not?" inquired his mother.
"Because of his love for that brave girl, Miss Vaughan, he will never care for any one else while he lives."
Lady Dartelle's face fell considerably.
"I thought he fancied her dead," she observed.
"So he does; and so she must be; or, with all the search that has been made for her, she would have been found."
"But, Aubrey, if she were living, and he did find her, do you really think that he would marry her?"
"Indeed he would, mother. Were she alive he would marry her to-morrow, if he could."
"After that terribleexposé?" cried Lady Dartelle.
"There was nothing terrible in it," he opposed. "Theworst thing the girl did was to half-elope with one of the bestpartisin England. If she had completed the elopement, every one would have admired her, and she would have been received at once amongst the spotless band of English matrons. The very truth and sincerity with which the girl told her story ennobled her in the eyes of every sensible person."
"Well," said Lady Dartelle, with a sigh, "if you really think, my dear, that there is no chance of his liking either of the girls, I should not ask him to prolong his visit." Lady Dartelle hardly liked the hearty laughter with which her son received her words.
"I will remember, mother," he said. "Will it console you to know that Sir Richard told me yesterday that he never saw such a perfectly-shaped hand as Mildred's?"
"Did he? Mildred likes him, I think. It would be such a comfort to me, Aubrey, if one or the other were married."
"While there's life there's hope. Here comes Major Elton to remind me of my engagement to play a billiard match. Good-night, mother."
But after a few days the good-natured baronet returned to the charge, and begged hard that Clara might be allowed to go to Broughton Park to see the swans. He thought, as a matter of course, that the governess would go with her, but, to make sure, he added: "Be good-natured for once, mother, and let the governess go. I promise neither to speak to her nor to look at her."
But the next morning when the carriage came round, and little Clara, flushed with excitement, took her seat by Lady Dartelle's side, Sir Aubrey looked in vain for the lovely face and graceful figure. He went to the side of the carriage.
"Mother," he said in a low voice, "where is Miss—I do not even know her name—the governess?"
"My dear Aubrey," replied Lady Dartelle, "the governess is fortunately a very sensible young woman, and when I mentioned the matter to her, she positively and resolutely declined to come. I quite approve of her resolution. I have no doubt that she will greatly enjoy a day to herself."
They little dreamed what this day was to bring forth. They were to lunch and dine at Broughton Park, and then drive home in the evening. Veronica was in the highest spirits, for Lord Chandon, declining to ride, had taken his seat in the carriage.
"A day to myself," said the young governess, as she heard the carriage drive away. "I have not been alone for so long, and I have so much to think of."
A great silence had fallen over the house; there was no sound of laughing voices, no busy tread of feet, no murmur of conversation; the silence seemed strange after the late gayety and noise. At first a great temptation came over her to roam through the rooms and seek out the traces of Adrian's presence. She might see the books he had been reading, the papers he had touched. She remembered how precious at Bergheim everything seemed to her that he had ever used. It was a great temptation, but she resisted it. She would not disturb the calm that had fallen on her.
"It is of no use," she said to herself, "to open my old wounds. I will go out, and then, if the temptation comes to me again, I cannot yield to it. I will go down to the shore and read; there is no one to interrupt me to-day."
She found a volume that pleased her; and then, book in hand, she walked through the woods and down to the shore, where the restless waves were chanting their grand old anthem. It was only the middle of April, but the day was warm and bright; the sun shone on the blue heaving sea. She sat down under the shelter of a huge bowlder and opened her book, but the beautiful eyes soon wandered from the printed pages; a fairer and far more wonderful volume lay open before her. The place where she sat was so retired and solitary that it seemed as though she were alone in the world. She gave herself up entirely to thought. Past and present were all mingled in one long dream.
It was too delightful to be alone, the luxury was so great. She gave a sigh of unutterable relief. Presently the hat she wore incommoded her; she took it off and laid it on the sands. In removing it she disarranged the brown plaits which Mrs. Chalmers had thought such a success. With impatient fingers she removed them, and the graceful head appeared in all its beauty of clustering hair—golden waves of indescribable loveliness. She laughed as the wind played among them.
"I am my own self again," she said; "and I may be myself for a few minutes without any one seeing me."
The wind that stirred the clustering hair had brightened her eyes and brought the most exquisite bloom to her face.
She began to think of Adrian, and forgot all about the brown plaits; she was living over and over again those happy days at Bergheim. She was recalling his looks and words, every one of which was impressed on her heart. She had forgotten even where she was; the song of the sea had lulled her into a half-waking dream; she forgot that she was sitting there—forgot the whole world—all save Adrian—when she was suddenly startled by a shadow falling between herself and the sunshine, while a voice, half frightened, half wondering, cried out, in tones she never forgot:
"Miss Vaughan!"
With a low cry she rose from her seat and stood with blanched lips; a great dark mist came before her eyes; for one terrible moment it seemed to her that the waters and the sky had met. Then she steadied herself and looked into the face of the man who had uttered her name.
She recognized him; it was Gustave, the favorite valet and confidential servant of Lord Chandon. She clasped her hands with a low moan, while he cried again, in a wondering, frightened voice—"Miss Vaughan!" He looked at her, a strange fear dilating his eyes.
"I am Hyacinth Vaughan," she said, in a low hoarse voice.
The next moment he had taken off his hat, and stood bareheaded before her. "Miss Vaughan," he stammered, "we—we thought you dead."
"So I am," she cried passionately—"I am dead in life! You must not betray me, Gustave. For Heaven's sake, promise not to tell that you have seen me!"
The man looked anxious and agitated.
"I cannot, miss," he replied—"I dare not keep such a secret from my lord."
She stepped back with a moaning cry and white lips. She wrung her hands like one who has no hope, no help.
"What shall I do?" she cried. "Oh, Heaven take pity upon me, and tell me what to do!"
"If you knew, miss," said the man, "what my lord has suffered you would not ask me to keep such a secret from him. I do not think he has ever smiled since you went away. He is worn to a shadow—he has spent a fortune in trying to find you. I know that night and day heknows no peace, no hope, no comfort, no happiness, because he has lost you. I love my lord—I would lay down my life to serve him."
"You do not know all," she cried.
"I beg your pardon, miss," he returned, sturdily. "I do know all; and I know that my lord would give all he has on earth to find you—he would give the last drop of blood in his heart, the last shilling in his purse. How could I be a faithful servant to him, and see him worn, wretched, and miserable under my very eyes, while I kept from him that which would make him happy?"
"You are wrong," she said, with dignity. "It would not add to your master's happiness to know that I am living; rather the contrary. Believing me dead, he will in time recover his spirits; he will forget me and marry some one who will be far better suited to him than I could ever be. Oh, believe me—believe I know best! You will only add to his distress, not relieve it."
But the man shook his head doubtfully.
"You are mistaken, Miss Vaughan," he said. "If you had seen my master's distress, you would know that life is no life to him without you."
A sudden passion of despair seemed to seize her.
"I have asked you not to betray me," she said. "Now I warn you that if you do, I will never forgive you; and I tell you that you will cause even greater misery than now exists. I am dead to Lord Chandon and to all my past life. I tell you plainly that if you say one word to your master, I will go away to the uttermost ends of the earth, where no one shall recognize me. Be persuaded—do not—as you are a man yourself—do not drive a helpless, suffering woman to despair. My fate is hard enough—do not render it any harder. I have enough to bear—do not add to my burden."
"Upon my word, Miss Vaughan," returned the man irresolutely, "I do not know what to do."
"You can think the matter over," she said. "Meanwhile, Gustave, grant me one favor—promise me that you will not tell Lord Chandon without first warning me."
"I will promise that," he agreed.
"Thanks," said Hyacinth, gratefully, to whom even this concession was a great deal. "I shall not, perhaps, be able to see you again, Gustave; but you can write to me and tell me what you have decided on doing."
"I will, Miss Vaughan," he assented.
"And pray be careful that my name does not pass your lips. I am known as Miss Holte here."
With a low bow the man walked away; and they were both unconscious that the angry eyes of a jealous woman had been upon them.
Kate Mansfield, Miss Dartelle's maid, had taken, as she expressed it, "a great fancy" to Gustave. She was a pretty, quick, bright-eyed girl, not at all accustomed to giving her smiles in vain. Gustave—who had been with Lord Chandon for many years—was handsome too in his way. He had an intelligent face, eyes that were bright and full of expression, and a somewhat mocking smile, which added, in Kate's mind, considerable to his charms. He had certainly appeared very attentive to her; and up to the present Kate had felt pretty sure of her conquest. She heard Gustave say, as his master was out for the day, he should have a long ramble on the seashore; and the pretty maid, having put on her most becoming bonnet, made some pretext for going to the shore at the same time. She quite expected to meet him, "And then," as she said to herself, with a smile, "the seaside is a romantic place. And who knows what may happen?"
But when Kate had reached the shore, and her bright eyes had wandered over the sands she saw no Gustave. "He has altered his mind," she thought, "and has gone elsewhere."
She walked on, somewhat disappointed, but feeling sure that she should meet him before she returned home. Presently her attention was attracted by the sound of a man's voice, and, looking round a bowlder, she saw Gustave in deep conversation with the governess, Miss Holte.
Kate was already jealous of Miss Holte—jealous of her beauty and of the favor with which Lady Dartelle regarded her.
"I do hate governesses!" Kate was wont to observe to her friends in the kitchen. "I can do with the airs and graces of real ladies—they seem natural—but I cannot endure governesses; they always seem to me neither the one thing nor the other."
Then a sharp battle of words would ensue with Mary King, who was devoted to the young governess.
"You may say what you like, Kate, but I tell you Miss Holte is a lady. I know one when I see one."
And now the jealous eyes of Kate Mansfield dwelt with fierce anger on Hyacinth.
"Call her a lady!" she said to herself sneeringly. "Ladies do not talk to servants in that fashion. Why, she clasps hands as though she were begging and praying him about something! I will say nothing now, but I will tell Miss Dartelle; she will see about it." And Kate went home in what she called a "temper."
Gustave walked away full of thought. He would certainly act honorably toward Miss Vaughan—would give her fair warning before he said anything to Lord Chandon. Perhaps, after all, she knew best. It might be better that his master should know nothing of her being there; it was just possible that there were circumstances in the case of which he knew nothing, and there was some rumor in the servant's hall about his master and Miss Dartelle. Doubtless it would be wise to accede to Miss Vaughan's request and say nothing.
But during the remainder of that day Gustave was so silent, so preoccupied, that his fellow-servants were puzzled to discover the reason. He did not even take notice of Kate's anger. He spoke to her, and did not observe that she was disinclined to answer; nor did he seem to understand her numerous allusions to "underhand people" and "cunning ways."
"I almost think," said Gustave to himself, "that I will send Miss Vaughan three lines to say that I have decided not to mention anything about her; she looked so imploringly at me, I had better not interfere."
Of all the blows that could have fallen on the hapless girl, she least expected this. She had feared to meet Lord Chandon, and had most carefully kept out of his way; she had avoided Sir Aubrey lest any chance word of his should awaken Adrian's curiosity. She had taken every possible precaution, but she had never given one thought to Gustave. She remembered now having heard Lady Vaughan say how faithful he was, and how highly Adrian valued his services—how Gustave had never had any other master, and how he spared no pains to please him.
And now suddenly he had become the chief person inher world. Her fate—nay, her life—lay in his hands—honest hands they were, she knew, and could rely implicitly on his word.
He would give her fair warning. "And when I get the warning," she said to herself, "I shall go far away from England. No place is safe here. For I would not drag him down—my noble, princely Adrian, who has searched for me, sorrowed for me, and who loves me still. I would not let him link his noble life with mine; the name that he bears must not be sullied by me. It shall not be said of the noblest of his race that he married a girl who had compromised herself. People shall not point to his wife and say, 'She was the girl who was talked about in the murder case.' Ah, no, my darling, I will save you from yourself—I will save you from the degradation of marrying me!"
She spent the remainder of the day—her holiday—in forming plans for going abroad. It was not safe for her to remain in England; at some time or other she must be inevitably discovered. It would be far better to go abroad—to leave England and go to some distant land—where no one would know her. She had one friend who could help her in her new decision. Her heart turned gratefully to Dr. Chalmers. Heaven bless him—he would not fail her.
She must tell him that she was not happy—that a great danger threatened her; and she must ask him to help her to procure some situation abroad. Nor would she delay—she would write that very day, and ask him to begin to make inquiries at once. Soon all danger would be over, and she would be in peace. The long day passed all too quickly, she was so busy with her plans. It was late in the evening when she heard the carriage return, and soon afterward she knew that Adrian was once more under the same roof.
Veronica Dartelle was not in the most sunny of tempers. She had spent a long day with Lord Chandon, yet during the whole of it he had not said a word that gave her the least hope of his ultimately caring for her, while she liked him better and better every day. She wondered if that "tiresome girl" was really the cause of his indifference, or if there was any one else he liked better.
"Perhaps," she thought to herself, "I have not beauty enough to please him. I hear that this girl he loved was very lovely."
An aversion to all beautiful girls and fair women entered her mind and remained there. She was tired—and thatdid not make her more amiable; so, when Kate Mansfield came in with her story, Veronica was in the worst possible mood to hear it.
"What are you saying, Kate?" she cried, angrily. "It cannot be possible—Miss Holte would never go to meet a servant. You must be mistaken."
"I am not, indeed, Miss Dartelle. I thought it my duty to mention it to you. They were talking for more than half an hour, and Miss Holte had her hands clasped, as though she were begging and praying him about something."
"Nonsense," said Miss Dartelle—"you must be mistaken. What can Miss Holte know of Lord Chandon's servant?"
Even as she said the words a sudden idea rushed through her mind. "What if the servant was taking some message from his master?"
"I will make inquiries," she said aloud. "I will go to Miss Holte."
But further testimony was not needed, for, as Miss Dartelle crossed the upper corridor, she saw Hyacinth standing by the window. To her came Gustave, who bowed silently, placed a note in her hand, and then withdrew.
"I have had absolute proof now," she said. "This shall end at once."
Lady Dartelle sat alone in her own room. The evening had suddenly grown cold and chilly; heavy showers of rain were beating against the windows; the fine warm day had ended in something like a tempest. Then there came a lull. They could hear the beating of the waves on the shore, while from the woods came the sobbing and wailing of the wind; the night came on in intense darkness and cold. Lady Dartelle had ordered a fire in her room, and told the maid to bring her a cup of warm tea there, for her ladyship was tired with the long day in the fresh air.
She was reclining comfortably, and at her ease, with a new novel in her hand, when the door suddenly opened, and Veronica entered, her face flushed with anger. Lady Dartelle's heart sunk at the sight; there was nothing she dreaded more than an ebullition of temper from her daughters.
"Mamma," cried the young lady, "be good enough to attend to me. You laughed at my advice before; now, perhaps, when the mischief is done, you will give more heed."
Lady Dartelle laid down her book with a profound sigh of resignation.
"What is the matter, Veronica?" she asked calmly.
"The matter is, mamma, that everything has turned out as I foresaw it would. Your governess has contrived to get up some kind of acquaintance with Lord Chandon." Veronica's face broke down with anger and emotion.
"I feel sure you are mistaken, Veronica. I have reason to think very highly of Miss Holte's prudence. I have not mentioned it before, but I have really been delighted with her. She might have caused your brother to make a fool of himself; but she refrained, and would have nothing to say to him." Veronica laughed contemptuously.
"Why trouble herself about a baronet, when she can flirt with a lord? I tell you, mamma, that girl is a mask of deceit—all the worse, doubly worse, because she tries to blind you by her seeming simplicity."
"What has she done?" asked Lady Dartelle, gravely.
"Yesterday she declined to go with us; but the reason was not, as you imagine, self-denial. She remained at home purposely to meet Gustave, Lord Chandon's valet; and my maid saw her talking to him for more than an hour on the sands. Now, mamma, you and I know what such a proceeding means. Of course Miss Holte's refinement and education forbid the notion that she went out to meet a servant for his own sake. It was simply to receive a message from, or arrange some plan about, his master."
"Servants' gossip, my dear," decided Lady Dartelle.
"Nothing of the kind, mamma. Perhaps you will believe me when I say that as I was passing the upper corridor—on my way, in fact, to see Miss Holte—I saw Gustave go up to her; she was standing at the window. He put a note into her hand and went away, after making her a low bow."
"You really witnessed that, Veronica, yourself?"
"I did, indeed, mamma; and I tell you that, with all her seeming meekness, that girl is carrying on an underhand correspondence with Lord Chandon. In justice to myself and my sister, I demand that she be sent from the house—I demand it as a right!" she added passionately.
"I will inquire into it at once," said Lady Dartelle; "if she be guilty, she shall go. I will send for her."
While a servant was sent to summon Miss Holte to her ladyship's presence, Lady Dartelle looked very anxious.
"This is a serious charge, Veronica. Aubrey has taught us to look upon Lord Chandon as a man of such unblemished honor that I can hardly believe he would lower himself to carry on an intrigue in any house where he was visiting, least of all with a governess."
"It is quite possible," said Veronica, "that Miss Holte may have known him before he came here; there is evidently something of the adventuress about her."
But when, a few minutes afterward, Miss Holte entered the room, there was something in the pure lovely face that belied such words.
"Miss Holte," said Lady Dartelle, "I have sent for you on a very painful matter. I need hardly say that during your residence with me I have learned to trust you; but I have heard that which makes me fear my trust may have been misplaced. Is it true that yesterday you met and talked for some time with the servant of Lord Chandon?"
Veronica noted with malicious triumph how the sweet face grew white and a great fear darkened the violet eyes.
Hyacinth opened her lips to speak, but the sound died away upon them.
"Is it true?" asked Lady Dartelle.
"It was quite accidental," she murmured, and she trembled so violently that she was obliged to hold the table for support.
"Governesses do not meet men-servants and talk to them by the hour accidentally," said Veronica.
"You do not deny it, then, Miss Holte?"
"I do not," she replied, faintly. She was thinking to herself, "I shall have time to run away before the blow falls;" and that thought alone sustained her.
"I am sorry for it," continued Lady Dartelle. "May I ask also if that servant brought a note for you this evening, and gave it in your hand?"
"I refuse to answer," she replied, with quiet dignity.
"No answer is needed," said Veronica; "I saw you receive the note."
A deeper pallor came over the fair face—a hunted look came into the sad eyes. The girl clasped her hands nervously.
"I am sorry that this should have happened," said Lady Dartelle. "Knowing you to be a person of refinement and education, I cannot believe you to be guilty of an intriguewith a servant—that I am sure is not the case. I can only imagine that you have some underhand correspondence with a gentleman whom I have hitherto highly respected—with Lord Chandon."
"I have not. Oh, believe me, Lady Dartelle, indeed I have not! He has never seen me—at least, I mean—O Heaven help me!"
"You see," said Veronica to Lady Dartelle, "that confusion means guilt." Miss Dartelle turned to the trembling, pallid girl.
"Do you mean to tell us," she asked, "that you do not know Lord Chandon?"
"I—I mean," murmured the white lips, and then Hyacinth buried her face in her hands and said no more.
"I think, mamma," said Miss Dartelle, "that you have proof sufficient."
"I am very sorry that you have forgotten yourself, Miss Holte," said her ladyship, gravely. "I shall consider it my duty to speak to his lordship in the morning; and you must prepare to leave Hulme Abbey at once."
The girl raised her white face with a look of despair which Lady Dartelle never forgot. "May I ask your ladyship," she said, faintly, "not to mention my name to—to the gentleman, and to let me go away in the morning?"
This was the most unfortunate question that, for her own sake, she could have asked—it only confirmed Lady Dartelle's opinion of her guilt and aroused her curiosity.
"I shall most certainly speak to Lord Chandon; it is only due to him that he should have the opportunity of freeing himself from what is really a most disgraceful charge."
Hyacinth wrung her hands with a gesture of despair, which was not lost upon the two ladies.
"You can retire to your room," said Lady Dartelle, coolly; "we will arrange to-morrow about the time of your going."
As the unhappy girl closed the door, Veronica turned to her mother with an air of triumph.
"That girl is an adventuress—there is something wrong about her. You will act very wisely to let her go." At a violent blast of the tempest without Veronica paused in her remarks about Miss Holte, and exclaimed, "What a terrible storm, mamma! Do you hear the rain?"
"Yes," replied Lady Dartelle; "they who are safe and warm at home may thank Heaven for it."
The young governess went to her room and stood there a picture of despair. What was she to do? Gustave, in the little note that he had brought, told her he had decided to obey her and say nothing; so that she had begun to feel a sense of security again. The present discovery was more dreadful than anything she had ever imagined, more terrible than anything else that could have happened. What would Adrian say or think? Oh, she must go—go before this crowning shame and disgrace came! In the morning Lord Chandon would be asked about her, and would, of course, deny all knowledge of her. She would probably be forced to see him then—dear Heaven, what misery!
"I would rather," she said to herself, "die ten thousand deaths. I have wronged you enough, my love—I will wrong you no more."
Perhaps her brain was in some degree weakened by the continued shocks and by bitter suffering, but there came to her in that hour, the crisis of her life, no idea but of flight—anyhow, anywhere—flight where those cruel words could not follow her—flight were it even into the cold arms of death.
She would go to Dr. Chalmers and ask him at once to take her abroad, to guide her to some place where those who persecuted her could never reach her more. She did not stop to think; every footstep made her tremble, every sound threw her into a paroxysm of fear. What if they should be coming to confront her now with Lord Chandon?
"I cannot see him," she said; "death rather than that!"
At last she could bear the suspense no longer. What mattered the rain, the wind, the blinding tempest to her? Out of the house she would be safe; in the house danger greater than death threatened her—danger she could not, would not, dared not face.
She did not stop to think; she did not even go to the bedside of the little one she loved so dearly to kiss her for the last time; a wild, half-mad frenzy had seized upon her.
She must go, for her persecutors were close upon her, were hunting her down. She must go, or her doom was sealed. She put on her cloak and hat, and went down the staircase and out by one of the side doors, unseen, unnoticed. The wind almost blinded her, the rain beat fast and heavy upon her; but the darkness, the storm, the leaden sky, the wailing wind, seemed preferable to what lay before her.
It appeared to Adrian, Lord Chandon, on the morning following, that there was some unusual confusion in the house. Lady Dartelle was late in coming down to breakfast. When breakfast was over, she asked to speak with Lord Chandon alone, and he followed her to the library.
"My lord," she began, "pray tell me, do you know anything of the whereabouts of this unfortunate girl? I had perhaps better explain to you that much scandal has been caused in my household by the fact that my governess met your valet on the sands, and was seen talking to him for more than an hour. One of my daughters also saw him give Miss Holte a note. Now, as we could not imagine her capable of any correspondence with a servant it was only natural to suppose that he was acting for his master. I sent for Miss Holte and spoke to her, and she evinced the utmost confusion, and terrible agitation. She did not deny that she was acquainted with you. I told her I should consider it my duty to speak to you; this morning we find she must have left the house last night. Had I not reason to seek an explanation, Lord Chandon?"
"You had, indeed," he replied, "but I can throw no light on the mystery. Here is Gustave; perhaps he can enlighten us."
"Gustave," asked Lord Chandon, "for whom have you been carrying notes to Lady Dartelle's governess?"
"For no one, my lord. I took her one note, but it was written by myself."
"Gustave," said Lord Chandon, sternly, "I command you to tell all you know of the lady."
"I promised not to betray her, my lord," and as he spoke he looked wistfully at his master. Adrian thought that he saw tears in his eyes.
"Gustave," he said, "you have always been faithful to me. Tell me, who is this lady?"
"Oh, my lord!" cried the man, in a strange voice, "can you not guess?" Lord Chandon was puzzled, and then his face changed, a ghastly pallor came over it.
"Do you mean to tell me," he demanded, in a trembling voice, "that it is—it is Miss Vaughan?"
A look of wild excitement came over Adrian's face, as he turned to Lady Dartelle.
"I believe," he said, "that the lady you call your governess is the one I have so long searched for—the lady who is betrothed to me—Miss Vaughan. Where is she?" he cried, "she must be looked for. Thank heaven, I have found some trace of her at last!"
"Where is Aubrey?" he asked, and in a few minutes the young baronet had heard the story. He could scarcely conceal his excitement and wonder. "I will find her," said Adrian to Sir Aubrey. "Will you go down to the seashore, Aubrey? And I will take Gustave with me through the woods. I will find her, living or dead."
They were half way through the woods, walking on in profound silence, when Gustave, looking through a cluster of trees, suddenly clutched his master's arm. "Look, my lord, there is something lying under that tree!"
It was Hyacinth's silent, prostrate form.
"She is dead!" cried Gustave.
But Lord Chandon pushed him away. With a cry of agony the man never forgot, he raised the silent figure in his arms. "My darling!" he cried, "Oh, heaven, do not let me lose her! Give me the brandy, Gustave, quickly," he said, "and run—run for your life. Tell Lady Dartelle that we have found Miss Vaughan, and ask her to send a carriage to the entrance to the woods, telegraph for a doctor, and have all ready as soon as possible."
Adrian would allow no other hands to touch her. He raised her, carried her to the carriage, and held her during the short drive. When they reached the house, and she had been carried to her room, he went to Lady Dartelle and took her hands in his. Tears shone in his eyes.
"Lady Dartelle," he said, "I would give my life for hers! Will you do your best to save her for me?"
"I will," she replied, "you may trust me."
Adrian did not leave the house, but Sir Aubrey Dartelle telegraphed Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan the glad tidings that the lost one had been found. Dr. Ewald was astonished, when he went down stairs, to find himself caught in a most impulsive and excited manner by the hand.
"The truth, doctor," said Lord Chandon, "I must know the truth! Is there any danger?"
"I think not. If she is kept quiet, and free from excitement for two days, I will predict a perfect recovery."
On the third day Lady Dartelle sought Lord Chandon. "Miss Vaughan is much better, and is sitting up," she said, with a quiet smile. "Would you like to go up and see her?"
Hyacinth rose when Adrian entered Lady Dartelle's sitting-room. She stretched out her hands to him with a little imploring cry, and the next moment he had folded her to his heart—he had covered her face with passionate kisses and tears. She trembled in his strong grasp.
"Adrian," she whispered, "do you quite forgive me?"
"My darling," he said, "I have nothing to forgive; it was, after all, but the shadow of a sin."
Never had the May sun shone more brightly. It was the twenty-second of the month, yet everyone declared it was more like the middle of June than of May.
Hyacinth and Adrian were to be married in the old parish church at Oakton. Long before the hour of celebration, crowds of people had assembled, all bearing flowers to throw beneath the bride's feet.
Sir Aubrey Dartelle—best man—with Lord Chandon, was already waiting at the altar, and to all appearances seemed inclined to envy his friend's good fortune.
The ceremony was performed, the marriage vows were repeated, and Adrian Lord Chandon and Hyacinth Vaughan were made husband and wife—never to be parted more until death.
Three years have passed since that bright wedding day. Looking on the radiant face of Lady Chandon, one could hardly believe that desolation and anguish had marked her for their own. There was no shadow now in those beautiful eyes, for the face was full of love and of happiness.
One morning Lady Chandon was in the nursery with Lady Vaughan, who had gone to look at the baby. They were admiring him, his golden curls, his dark eyes,the grace of his rounded limbs, when Lord Chandon suddenly appeared on the scene.
"Hyacinth," he said, "will you come down stairs? There are visitors for you."
"Who is it, Adrian?" she asked.
"The visitors are Mr. and Mrs. Lady Claude Lennox."
She drew back with a start, and her face flushed hotly. "Claude," she repeated. "Oh, Adrian, I would rather not go."
"Go for my sake, darling, and because I ask it."
Her husband's wish was sufficient. She entered the room, and Claude advanced to meet her. "Lady Chandon," he said, "I am delighted to see you."
She was introduced to his wife, and Hyacinth speedily conceived a liking for her. Lady Geraldine was very fond of flowers, and during the course of conversation she asked Lord Chandon to show her his famous conservatories. They all four went together, but Claude, who was walking with Lady Chandon, purposely lingered near some beautiful heliotrope.
"Pardon me," he said, "Lady Chandon, I wish to ask you a great favor. You will like my wife, I think. Will you be her friend? Will you let us all be friends? We should be so happy."
She answered, "Yes." And to this day they are all on the most intimate and friendly terms.
After Claude and Lady Geraldine had driven away, Lord Chandon returned to the drawing-room, and saw his wife standing by the window, with a grave look on her beautiful face. He went to her.
"What are you thinking about, Hyacinth?" he asked.
"I am thinking, Adrian," she said, "that, remembering my great fault, I do not deserve to be half as happy as I am."
But he kissed the sweet lips, and said—
"Hush! That is passed and done with. After all, my darling, it was but the Shadow of a Sin."
THE END.