Title: The Shadow of a Sin
Author: Brame, Charlotte M., 1836-1884
Language: English
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CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I.
  CHAPTER II.
  CHAPTER III.
  CHAPTER IV.
  CHAPTER V.
  CHAPTER VI.
  CHAPTER VII.
  CHAPTER VIII.
  CHAPTER IX.
  CHAPTER X.
  CHAPTER XI.
  CHAPTER XII.
  CHAPTER XIII.
  CHAPTER XIV.
  CHAPTER XV.
  CHAPTER XVI.
  CHAPTER XVII.
  CHAPTER XVIII.
  CHAPTER XIX.
  CHAPTER XX.
  CHAPTER XXI.
  CHAPTER XXII.
  CHAPTER XXIII.
  CHAPTER XXIV.
  CHAPTER XXV.
  CHAPTER XXVI.
  CHAPTER XXVII.
  CHAPTER XXVIII.
  CHAPTER XXIX.
  CHAPTER XXX.
  CHAPTER XXXI.
  CHAPTER XXXII.
  CHAPTER XXXIII.
  CHAPTER XXXIV.
  CHAPTER XXXV.
  CHAPTER XXXVI.
  CHAPTER XXXVII.



  THE
  SHADOW OF A SIN

  By BERTHA M. CLAY

  [Illustration]

  ROYAL PUBLISHING CO.,
  528 Locust Street  PHILADELPHIA PA.



  THE SHADOW OF A SIN

  BY BERTHA M. CLAY

  AUTHOR OF
  "_Thrown on the World_," "_Lady Damer's Secret_,"
  "_A Passionate Love_," "_Her Faithful Heart_,"
  "_Shadow of the Past_," _etc._

  ROYAL PUBLISHING COMPANY.
  530 Locust Street, Philadelphia



Marriage Guide

By MICHAEL RYAN, MD.


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_LOVE, COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE_

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No. 530 Locust Street, Philadelphia, Pa.



THE SHADOW OF A SIN.



CHAPTER I.

    "She is coming--my own, my sweet;
      Were it ever so airy a tread,
    My heart would hear her and beat
      Had it lain for a century dead."


A rich musical voice trolled out the words, not once, but many times
over--carelessly at first, and then the full sense of them seemed to
strike the singer.

"'Had it lain for a century dead,'" he repeated slowly. "Ah, me! the
difference between poetry and fact--when I have lain for a century dead,
the light footfalls of a fair woman will not awaken me. 'Beyond the sun,
woman's beauty and woman's love are of small account;' yet here--ah,
when will she come?"

The singer, who was growing impatient, was an exceedingly handsome young
man--of not more than twenty--with a face that challenged all
criticism--bright, careless, defiant, full of humor, yet with a gleam of
poetry--a face that girls and women judge instantly, and always like. He
did not look capable of wrong, this young lover, who sung his love-song
so cheerily, neither did he look capable of wicked thoughts.

          "'You really must come, for I said
    I would show the bright flowers their queen.'

That is the way to talk to women," he soliloquized, as the words of the
song dropped from his lips. "They can not resist a little flattery
judiciously mixed with poetry. I hope I have made no mistake. Cynthy
certainly said by the brook in the wood. Here is the brook--but where is
my love?"

He grew tired of walking and singing--the evening was warm--and he sat
down on the bank where the wild thyme and heather grew, to wait for the
young girl who had promised to meet him when the heat of the day had
passed.

He had been singing sweet love-songs; the richest poetry man's hand ever
penned or heart imagined had been falling in wild snatches from his
lips. Did this great poem of nature touch him--the grand song that
echoes through all creation, which began in the faint, gray chaos, when
the sea was bounded and the dry land made, and which will go on until it
ends in the full harmony of heaven?

He looked very handsome and young and eager; his hair was tinged with
gold, his mouth was frank and red; yet he was not quite trustworthy.
There was no great depth in his heart or soul, no great chivalry, no
grand treasure of manly truth, no touch of heroism.

He took his watch from his pocket and looked at it. "Ten minutes past
seven--and she promised to be here at six. I shall not wait much
longer."

He spoke the words aloud, and a breath of wind seemed to move the trees
to respond; it was as though they said, "He is no true knight to say
that."

A hush fell over them, the bees rested on the thyme, the butterflies
nestled close to the blue-bells, the little brook ran on as though it
were wild with joy. Presently a footstep was heard, and then the long
expected one appeared. With something between a sigh and a smile she
held out one little white hand to him. "I hardly thought you would wait
for me, Claude. You are very patient."

"I would wait twice seven years for only one look at your face," he
rejoined.

"Would you?" interrogated the girl wearily. "I would not wait so long
even for a fairy prince."

She sat down on the heather-covered bank, and took off her hat. She
fanned herself with it for a few minutes, and then flung it carelessly
among the flowers.

"You do not seem very enraptured at seeing me, Hyacinth," said the young
lover reproachfully. The girl sighed wearily.

"I do not believe I could go into a rapture over any thing in the
world," she broke out. "I am so tired of my life--so tired of it,
Claude, that I do not believe I could get up an interest in a single
thing."

"I hope you feel some little interest in me," he said.

"I--I--I cannot tell. I think even bitterest pain would be better than
the dead monotony that is killing me."

She remembered those words in after years, and repented of them when
repentance was in vain.

"Surely you might smile now," said Claude. "I hope you do not find
sitting by my side on this lovely evening monotonous."

She laughed, but the laugh had no music in it.

"No, I cannot say that I do; but you are going away soon, you tell me,
and then the only gleam of sunshine in my life will fade, and all will
be darkness again."

"What has depressed you so much?" he asked. "You are not yourself
to-day."

"Shall I tell you what my day has been like?" she said. "Shall I
describe it from the hour when the first sunbeams woke me this morning
until now?" He took both the small white hands in his.

"Yes, tell me; but be merciful, and let me hear that the thought of
meeting me has cheered you."

"It has been the only gleam of brightness," she said, so frankly that
the very frankness of the words seemed not to displease him. "It was
just six when I woke. I could hear the birds singing, and I knew how
cool and fresh and dewy everything was. I dressed myself very quickly
and went down-stairs. The great house was all darkness and silence. I
had forgotten that Lady Vaughan does not allow the front or back doors
to be opened until after breakfast. I thought the birds were calling me,
and the branches of the trees seemed to beckon me; but I was obliged to
go back to my own room, and sit there till the gong sounded for
breakfast."

"Poor child!" he said caressingly.

"Nay, do not pity me. Listen. The breakfast-room is dark and gloomy;
Lady Vaughan always has the windows closed to keep out the air, and the
blinds drawn to keep out the sun; flowers give her the headache, and the
birds make too much noise. So, with every beautiful sound and sight most
carefully excluded, we sit down to breakfast, when the conversation
never varies."

"Of what does it consist?" asked the young lover, beginning to pity the
young girl, though amused by her recital.

"Sir Arthur tells us first of what he dreamed and how he slept. Lady
Vaughan follows suit. After that, for one hour by the clock, I must read
aloud from Mrs. Hannah More, from a book of meditations for each day of
the year, and from Blair's sermons--nothing more lively than that. Then
the books are put away, with solemn reflections from Lady Vaughan, and
for the next hour we are busy with needlework. We sit in that dull
breakfast-room, Claude, without speaking, until I am ready to cry
aloud--I grow so tired of the dull monotony. When we have worked for an
hour, I write letters--Lady Vaughan dictates them. Then comes luncheon.
We change from the dull breakfast-room to the still more dull
dining-room, from which sunshine and fragrance are also carefully
excluded. After that comes the greatest trial of all. A closed carriage
comes to the door, and for two long, wearisome hours I drive with Sir
Arthur and Lady Vaughan. The blinds are drawn at the carriage windows,
and the horses creep at a snail's pace. Then we return home. I go to the
piano until dinner time. After dinner Lady Vaughan goes to sleep, and I
play at chess or backgammon, or something equally stupid, until
half-past nine; and then the bell rings for prayers, and the day is
done."

"It is not a very exhilarating life, certainly," said Claude Lennox.

"Exhilarating! I tell you, Claude, that sometimes I am frightened at
myself--frightened that I shall do something very desperate. I am only
just eighteen, and my heart is craving for what every one else has; yet
it is denied me. I am eighteen, and I love life--oh, so dearly! I should
like to be in the very midst of gayety and pleasure. I should like to
dance and sing--to laugh and talk. Yet no one seems to remember that I
am young. I never see a young face--I never hear a pleasant voice. If I
sing, Lady Vaughan raises her hands to her head, and implores me 'not to
make a noise.' Yet I love singing just as the birds do."

"I see only one remedy for such a state of things, Hyacinth," said the
young lover, and his eyes brightened as he looked on her beautiful face.

"I am just eighteen," continued the girl, "and I assure you that looking
back on my life, I do not remember one happy day in it."

"Perhaps the happiness is all to come," said he quietly.

"I do not know. This is Tuesday; on Thursday we start for Bergheim--a
quiet and sleepy little town in Germany--and there we are to meet my
fate."

"What is your fate?" he asked.

"You remember the story I told you--Lady Vaughan says I am to marry
Adrian Darcy. I suppose he is a model of perfection--as quiet and as
stupid as perfection always is."

"Lady Vaughan cannot force you to marry any one," he cried eagerly.

"No, there will be no forcing in the strict sense of the word--they will
only preach to me, and talk at me, until I shall be driven mad, and I
shall marry him, or do anything else in sheer desperation."

"Who is he, Hyacinth?" asked her young lover.

"His mother was a cousin of Lady Vaughan's. He is rich, clever, and I
should certainly say, as quiet and uninteresting as nearly all the rest
of the world. If it were not so, he would not have been reserved for
me."

"I do not quite understand," said Claude Lennox. "How it is? Was there a
contract between your parents?"

"No," she replied, with a slight tone of scorn in her voice--"there is
never anything of that kind except in novels. I am Lady Vaughan's
granddaughter, and she has a large fortune to leave; this Adrian Darcy
is also her relative, and she says the best thing to be done for us is
to marry each other, and then her fortune can come to us."

"Is that all?" he inquired, with a look of great relief. "You need not
marry him unless you choose. Have you seen him?"

"No; nor do I wish to see him. Any one whom Lady Vaughan likes cannot
possibly suit me. Oh, Claude, how I dread it all!--even the journey to
Germany."

"I should have fancied that, longing as you do for change and
excitement, the journey would have pleased you," observed Claude.

She looked at him with a half-wistful expression on her beautiful face.

"I must be very wicked," she said; "indeed I know that I am. I should be
looking forward to it with rapture, if any one young or amusing were
going with me; but to sit in closed carriages with Sir Arthur and Lady
Vaughan--to travel, yet see nothing--is dreadful."

"But you are attached to them," he said--"you are fond of them, are you
not, Hyacinth?"

"Yes," she replied, piteously; "I should love them very much if they did
not make me so miserable. They are over sixty, and I am just
eighteen--they have forgotten what it is to be young, and force me to
live as they do. I am very unhappy."

She bent her beautiful face over the flowers, and he saw her eyes fill
with tears.

"It is a hard lot," he said; "but there is one remedy, and only one. Do
you love me, Hyacinth?"

She looked at him with something of childish perplexity in her face.

"I do not know," she replied.

"Yes, you do know, Hyacinth; you know if you love me well enough to
marry me."

No blush rose to her face, her eyes did not droop as they met his, the
look of perplexity deepened in them.

"I cannot tell," she returned. "In the first place, I am not sure that I
know really what love means. Lady Vaughan will not allow such a word in
her presence; I have no young girl friends to come to me with their
secrets; I am not allowed to read stories or poetry--how can I tell you
whether I love you or not?"

"Surely your own heart has a voice, and you know what it says."

"Has it?" she rejoined indifferently. "If it has a voice, that voice has
not yet spoken."

"Do not say so, Hyacinth; you know how dearly I love you. I am lingering
here when I ought to be far away, hoping almost against hope to win you.
Do not tell me that all my love, my devotion, my pleading, my prayers
have been in vain."

The look of childish perplexity did not leave her face; the gravity of
her beautiful eyes deepened.

"I have no wish to be cruel," she said; "I only desire to say what is
true."

"Then just listen to your own heart, and you will soon know whether you
love me or not. Are you pleased to see me? Do you look forward to
meeting me? Do you think of me when I am not with you?"

"Yes," she replied calmly; "I look with eagerness to the time when I
know you are coming; I think of you very often all day, and I--I dream
of you all night. In my mind every word that you have ever said to me
remains."

"Then you love me," he cried, clasping her little white hands in his,
his handsome face growing brighter and more eager--"you love me, my
darling, and you must be my wife!"

She did not shrink from him; the words evidently had little meaning for
her. He must have been blind indeed not to see the girl's heart was as
void and innocent of all love as the heart of a dreaming child.

"You must be my wife," he repeated. "I love you better than anything
else in the wide world."

She did not look particularly happy or delighted.

"You shall go away from this dull gloomy spot," he said; "I will take
you to some sunny, far-off city, where the hours have golden wings and
are like minutes--where every breath of wind is a fragrant sigh--where
the air is filled with music, and the speech of the people is song. You
will behold the grandest pictures, the finest statues, the noblest
edifices in the world. You shall not know night from day, nor summer
from winter, because everything shall be so happy for you."

The indifference and weariness fell from her face as a mask. She clasped
her hands in triumph, her eyes brightened, her beautiful face beamed
with joy.

"Oh, Claude, that will be delightful! When shall it be?"

"So soon as you are my wife, sweet. Do you not long to come with me and
be dressed like a lovely young queen, in flowers, and go to balls that
will make you think of fairyland? You shall go to the opera to hear the
world's greatest singers; you shall never complain of dulness or
weariness again."

The expression of happiness that came over her face was wonderful to
see.

"I cannot realize it," she said, with a deep sigh of relief and content.
"The sky looks fairer already. I can imagine how bright this world is to
those who are happy. You do not know how I have longed for some share of
its happiness, Claude. All my heart used to cry out for warmth and love,
for youth and life. In that dull, gloomy house I have pined away. See, I
am as thirsty to enjoy life as the deer on a hot day is to enjoy a
running stream. It would be cruel to catch that little bird swinging on
the boughs and singing so sweetly--it would be cruel to catch that
bright bird, to put it in a narrow cage, and to place the cage in a
dark, dull room, where never a gleam of sunshine could cheer it--but it
is a thousand times more cruel to shut me up in that gloomy house like a
prison, with people who are too old to understand what youth is like."

"It is cruel," he assented; and then a silence fell over them, broken
only by the whispering of the wind.

"Do you know," she went on, after a time, "I have been so unhappy that
I have wished I were like Undine and had no soul?"

Yet, even as she uttered the words, from the books she disliked and
found so dreary there came to her floating memories of grand sentences
telling of "hearts held in patience," "of endurance that maketh life
divine," of aspirations that do not begin and end in earthly happiness.
She drove such memories from her.

"Lady Vaughan says 'life is made for duty.' Is that all, Claude? One
could do one's duty without the light of the sunshine and the fragrance
of flowers. Why need the birds sing so sweetly and the blossoms wear a
thousand different colors? If life is meant for nothing but plain, dull
duty, we do not need starlit nights and dewy evenings, the calm of green
woods and the music of the waves. It seems to me that life is meant as
much for beauty as for duty."

Claude looked eagerly into the lovely face.

"You are right," he said, "and yet wrong. Cynthy, life was made for
love--nothing else. You are young and beautiful; you ought to enjoy
life--and you shall, if you will promise to be my wife."

"I do promise," she returned. "I am tired to death of that gloomy house
and those gloomy people. I am weary of quiet and dull monotony."

His face darkened.

"You must not marry me to escape these evils, Hyacinth, but because you
love me."

"Of course. Well, I have told you all my perplexities, Claude, and you
have decided that I love you."

He smiled at the childlike simplicity of the words.

"Now, Hyacinth, listen to me. You must be my wife, because I love you so
dearly that I cannot live without you and because you have promised.
Listen, and I will tell you how it must be."

Hyacinth Vaughan looked up in her lover's face; there was nothing but
the simple wonder of a child in hers--nothing but awakened
interest--there was not even the shadow of love.

"You say that Lady Vaughan intends starting for Bergheim on Thursday,
and that Adrian Darcy is to meet you there; consequently, after
Thursday, you have not the least chance of escape. I should imagine the
future that lies before you to be more terrible even than the past. Rely
upon it, Adrian Darcy will come to live at the Chase if he marries you;
and then you will only sleep through life. You will never know its
possibilities, its grand realities."

An expression of terror came over her face.

"Claude," she cried, "I would rather die than live as I have been
living!"

"So would I, in your place. Cynthy, your life is in our own hands. If
you choose to be foolish and frightened, you will say good-by to me, go
to Bergheim, marry Darcy, and drag out the rest of a weary life at the
Chase, seeing nothing of brightness, nothing of beauty, and growing in
time as stiff and formal as Lady Vaughan is now."

The girl shuddered; the warm young life in her rebelled; the longing for
love and pleasure, for life and brightness, was suddenly chilled.

"Now here is another picture for you," resumed Claude. "Do what I wish,
and you shall never have another hour's dulness or weariness while you
live. Your life shall be all love, warmth, fragrance and song."

"What do you wish?" she asked, her lovely young face growing brighter at
each word.

"I want you to meet me to-morrow night at Oakton station; we will take
the train for London, and on Thursday, instead of going to Bergheim, we
will be married, and then you shall lead an enchanted life."

An expression of doubt appeared on her face; but she was very young and
easy to persuade.

"It will be the grandest sensation in all the world," he said. "Imagine
an elopement from the Chase--where the goddess of dulness has reigned
for years--an elopement, Cynthy, followed by a marriage, a grand
reconciliation tableau, and happiness that will last for life
afterward."

She repeated the words half-doubtfully.

"An elopement, Claude--would not that be very wrong--wicked almost?"

"Not at all. Lady Helmsdale eloped with her husband, and they are the
happiest people in the world; elopements are not so uncommon--they are
full of romance, Cynthia."

"But are they right?" she asked, half timidly.

"Well in some cases an elopement is not right, perhaps; in ours it is.
Do you think that, hoping as I do to make you my wife, I would ask you
to do anything which would afterward be injurious to you? Though you are
so young, Cynthia, you must know better than that. To elope is right
enough in our case. You are like a captive princess; I am the knight
come to deliver you from the dreariest of prisons--come to open for you
the gates of an enchanted land. It will be just like a romance, Cynthy;
only instead of reading, we shall act it." And then in his rich
cheery-voice, he sung,

    "'But neither bolts nor bars shall keep
    My own true love from me.'"

"I do not see how I can manage it," said Hyacinth, as the notes of her
lover's song died over the flowers. "Lady Vaughan always has the house
locked and the keys taken to her at nine."

"It will be very easy," returned Claude. "I know the library at the
Chase has long windows that open on to the ground. You can leave one of
them unfastened, and close the shutters yourself."

"But I have never been out at night alone," she said, hesitatingly.

"You will not be alone long, if you will only have courage to leave the
house. I will meet you at the end of the grounds, and we will walk to
the station together. We shall catch a train leaving Oakton soon after
midnight, and shall reach London about six in the morning. I have an old
aunt living there who will do anything for us. We will drive at once to
her house; and then I will get a special license, and we will be married
before noon."

"How well you have arranged everything!" she said. "You must have been
thinking of this for a long time past."

"I have thought of nothing else, Cynthy. Then, when we are married, we
will write at once to Lady Vaughan, telling her of our union; and
instead of starting for that dreary Bergheim, we will go at once to
sunny France, or fair and fruitful Italy, where the world will be at our
feet, my darling. You are so beautiful, you will win all hearts."

"Am I so beautiful?" she asked simply. "Lady Vaughan says good looks are
sinful."

"Lady Vaughan is--" The young man paused in time, for those clear,
innocent eyes seemed to be penetrating to the very depths of his heart.
"Lady Vaughan has forgotten that she was ever young and pretty herself,"
he said. "Now, Cynthy, tell me--will you do what I wish?"

"Is it not a very serious thing to do?" she asked. "Would not people
think ill of me?"

His conscience reproached him a little when he answered "No"--the
lovely, trusting face was so like the face of a child.

"I do not expect you to say 'Yes' at once, Hyacinth--think it over.
There lies before you happiness with me, or misery without me."

"But, Claude," she inquired eagerly, "why need we elope? Why not ask
Lady Vaughan if we can be married? She might say 'Yes.'"

"She would not; I know better than you. She would refuse, and you would
be carried off on Thursday, whether you liked it or not. If we are to be
married at all we must elope--there is no help for it."

The young girl did not at once consent, although the novelty, the
romance, the promised happiness, tempted her as a promised journey
pleases a child.

"Think it over to-night," he said, "and let me know to-morrow."

"How can I let you know?" she asked. "I shall be in prison all day; it
is not often that I have an hour like this. I shall not be able to see
you."

"Perhaps not, but you can give me some signal. You have charge of the
flowers in the great western window?"

"Yes, I change them at my pleasure every day."

"Then, if after thinking the matter over, you decide in my favor, and
choose a lifetime of happiness, put white roses--nothing but white
roses--there; if, on the contrary, you are inclined to follow up a life
of unendurable _ennui_, put crimson flowers there. I shall
understand--the white roses will mean 'Yes; I will go;' the crimson
flowers will mean 'No; good-by, Claude.' You will not forget, Cynthy."

"It is not likely that I shall forget," she replied.

"You need not have one fear for the future; you will be happy as a
queen. I shall love you so dearly; we will enjoy life as it is meant to
be enjoyed. It was never intended for you to dream away your existence
in one long sleep. Your beautiful face was meant to brighten and gladden
men's hearts; your sweet voice to rule them. You are buried alive here."

Then the great selfish love that had conquered him rose in passionate
words. How he caressed her! What tender, earnest words he whispered to
her! What unalterable devotion he swore--what affection, what love! The
girl grew grave and silent as she listened. She wondered why she felt
so quiet--why none of the rapture that lighted up his face and shone in
his eyes came to her. She loved him--he said so; and surely he who had
had so much experience ought to know. Yet she had imagined love to be
something very different from this. She wondered that it gave her so
little pleasure.

"How the poets exaggerate it!" she said to herself, while he was pouring
out love, passion, and tenderness in burning words. "How great they make
it, and how little it is in reality."

She sighed deeply as she said these words to herself, and Claude mistook
the sigh.

"You must not be anxious, Hyacinth. You need not be so. You are leaving
a life of dull, gloomy monotony for one of happiness, such as you can
hardly imagine. You will never repent it, I am sure. Now give me one
smile; you look as distant and sad as Lady Vaughan herself. Smile,
Cynthy!"

She raised her eyes to his face, and for long years afterward that look
remained with him. She tried to smile, but the beautiful lips quivered
and the clear eyes fell.

"I must go," she said, rising hurriedly, "Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan
are to be home by eight o'clock."

"You will say 'Yes,' Cynthy?" he said, clasping her hands in his own.
"You will say 'Yes,' will you not?"

"I must think first," she replied; and as she turned away the rush of
wind through the tall green trees sounded like a long, deep-drawn sigh.

Slowly she retraced her steps through the woods, now dim and shadowy in
the sunset light, toward the home that seemed so like a prison to her.
And yet the prospect of an immediate escape from that prison did not
make her happy. The half-given promise rested upon her heart like a
leaden weight, although she was scarce conscious in her innocence why it
should thus oppress her. At the entrance to the Hall grounds she paused,
and with a gesture of impatience turned her back upon the lofty
sombre-looking walls, and stood gazing through an opening in the groves
at the gorgeous masses of purple and crimson sky, that marked the path
of the now vanished sun.

A very pretty picture she made as the soft light fell upon her fair face
and golden hair, but no thought of her young, fresh beauty was in the
girl's mind then. The question, "Dare I say--'Yes'?" was ever before
her, with Claude's fair face and pleading, loving tones.

"O, I cannot decide now," she thought wearily, "I must think longer
about it," and with a sigh she turned from the sunset-light, and walked
up the long avenue that led to her stately home.

How her decision--though speedily repented of and corrected--yet cast
the shadow of a sin over her fair young life; how her sublimely heroic
devotion to THE RIGHT saved the life of an innocent man, yet drove her
into exile from home and friends, and how at last the bright sunshine
drove away the shadows and restored her to home and friends, all she had
lost and more, remains for our story to tell.



CHAPTER II.


Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan lived at Queen's Chase in Derbyshire, a
beautiful and picturesque place, known to artists, poets, and lovers of
quaint old architecture. Queen's Chase had been originally built by good
Queen Elizabeth of York, and was perhaps one of the few indulgences
which that not too happy queen allowed herself. It was large, and the
rooms were all lofty. The building was in the old Tudor style, and one
of its peculiarities was that every part of it was laden with ornament:
it seemed to have been the great ambition of the architect who designed
it to introduce as much carving as possible about it. Heads of fauns and
satyrs, fruit and flowers--every variety of carving was there; no matter
where the spectator turned, the sculptor's work was visible.

To Hyacinth Vaughan, dreamy and romantic, it seemed as though the Chase
were peopled by these dull, silent, dark figures. Elizabeth of York did
not enjoy much pleasure in the retreat she had built for herself. It was
there she first heard of and rejoiced in the betrothal of her fair young
daughter Marguerite, to James IV. of Scotland. A few years afterward she
died, and the Chase was sold. Sir Dunstan Vaughan purchased it, and it
had remained in the family ever since. It was now their principal
residence--the Vaughans of Queen's Chase never quitted it.

Though it was picturesque it was not the most cheerful place in the
world. The rooms were dark by reason of the huge carvings of the window
frames and the shade of the trees, which last, perhaps, grew too near
the house. The edifice contained no light, cheerful, sunny rooms, no
wide large windows; the taste of the days in which it was built, led
more toward magnificence than cheerfulness. Some additions had been
made; the western wing of the building had been enlarged; but the
principal apartments had remained unaltered; the stately, gloomy rooms
in which the fair young princess had received and read the royal
love-letters were almost untouched. The tall, spreading trees grew
almost to the Hall door; they made the whole house dark and perhaps
unhealthy. But no Vaughan ventured to cut them down; such an action
would have seemed like a sacrilege.

From father to son Queen's Chase had descended in regular succession.
Sir Arthur, the present owner, succeeded when he was quite young. He was
by no means of the genial order of men: he had always been cold, silent,
and reserved. He married a lady more proud, more silent, more reserved
than himself--a narrow-minded, narrow-hearted woman whose life was
bounded by rigid law and formal courtesies, who never knew a warm or
generous impulse, who lived quite outside the beautiful fairyland of
love and poetry.

Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan had but one son, and though each idolized
him, they could not change their nature; warm, sweet impulses never came
to them. The mother kissed her boy by rule--at stated times; everything
was measured, dated, and weighed.

The boy himself was, strange to say, of a most hopeful, ardent, sanguine
temperament; generous, high-spirited, slightly inclined to romance and
sentiment. He loved and honored his father and mother, but the rigid
formality of home was terrible to him; it was almost like death in life.
Partly to escape it and partly because he really liked the life, he
insisted on joining the army--much against Lady Vaughan's wishes.

"Why could he not be content at home, as his father had been before
him?" she asked.

Captain Randall Vaughan enjoyed his brief military career. As a matter
of course he fell in love, but far more sensibly than might have been
imagined. He married the pretty, delicate Clare Brandon. She was an
orphan, not very rich--in fact had only a moderate fortune--but her
birth atoned for all. She was a lineal descendant of the famous Brandon,
Duke of Suffolk, whom the fair young ex-queen of France had married.

Lady Vaughan was delighted. A little more money might have been
acceptable, but the Vaughans had plenty, and there was no young lady in
England better born and better bred than Clare Brandon. So the young
captain married her and Sir Arthur made them a very handsome allowance.
For one whole year they lived in perpetual sunshine, as happy as they
could possibly be, and then came an outbreak in our Eastern possessions,
and the captain's regiment was ordered abroad.

It was like a deathblow to them. Despite all danger, Mrs. Vaughan would
have gone with her husband, but for the state of her health, which
absolutely forbade it. Her despair was almost terrible; it seemed as if
she had a presentiment of the coming cloud. If the war had not been a
dangerous one the young captain would most certainly have sold out; but
to do so when every efficient soldier was required, would have been to
show the white feather, and that no Vaughan could do--the motto of the
house was "Loyal even to death." He tried all possible means to console
his wife, but she only clung to him with passionate cries, saying she
would never see him again.

It was impossible to leave her alone and she had no near relatives. Then
Lady Vaughan came to the rescue. The heir of the Vaughans, she declared,
must be born at Queen's Chase: therefore her son's wife had better
remain with her. Randall Vaughan thankfully accepted his mother's offer,
and took his wife to the old ancestral home. It was arranged that she
should remain there until his return.

"You will try for my sake to be well and happy," he said to her, "so
that when I come back you will be strong and able to travel with me,
should I have to go abroad, again."

But she clasped her tender arms around him and hid her weeping face on
his breast.

"I shall never see you again, my darling," she said, "never again!"

They called the unconsciousness that came over her merciful. She
remembered nothing after those words. When she opened her eyes again he
was gone.

How the certainty of her doom seemed to grow upon her! How her sweet
face grew paler, and the frail remnant of vitality grew less! He had
been her life--the very sun and centre of her existence. How could she
exist without him? Lady Vaughan, in her kind, formal way, tried to
cheer her, and begged of her to make an effort for Randall's sake; and
for Randall's sake the poor lady tried to live.

They were disappointed in one respect; it was not an heir that was born
to the noble old race, but a lovely, smiling baby girl--so lovely that
Lady Vaughan, who was seldom guilty of sentiment, declared that it
resembled nothing so much as a budding flower, and after a flower, she
said it must be named. They suggested Rose, Violet, Lily--none of them
pleased her; but looking one day through the family record, she saw the
name of Lily Hyacinth Vaughan. Hyacinth it must be. The poor, fragile
mother smiled a feeble assent, and the lovely baby received its name.
Glowing accounts were sent to the young captain.



CHAPTER III.


The news was not long in reaching England. When Lady Vaughan read it she
knew it was Clare's death-warrant. They tried to break it to her very
gently, but her keen, quick perception soon told her what was wrong.

"He is dead," she said; "I knew that I should never see him again."

Clare Vaughan's heart was broken; she hardly spoke after she heard the
fatal words; she was very quiet, very patient, but the light on her face
was not of this world. She lay one day with little Hyacinth in her arms,
and Lady Vaughan, going into her room, said,

"You look better to-day, Clare."

"I have been dreaming of Randall," she said smiling; "I shall soon see
him again."

An hour afterward they went to take the little one from her--the tender
arms had relaxed their hold, and she lay dead, with a smile on her face.

They buried her in Ashton churchyard. People called her illness by all
kinds of different names, but Lady Vaughan knew she had died of a broken
heart. The care of little Hyacinth devolved upon her grandmother. It was
a dreary home for a child: the rooms were always shaded by trees, and
the sombre carvings, the satyr heads, the laughing fauns, all in stone,
frightened her. She never saw any young persons; Sir Arthur's servants
were all old--they had entered the service in their youth, and remained
in it ever since.

Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan felt their son's death very keenly; all
their hopes died with him; all their interest in life was gone. They
became more dull, more formal, more cold every day. They loved the
child, yet the sight of her was always painful to them, reminding them
so forcibly of what they had lost. They reared her in the same precise,
formal manner in which their only son had been reared. She rose at a
stated time; she retired at a certain hour, never varying by one minute;
she studied, she read, she practiced her music--all by rule.

The neighborhood round Queen's Chase was not a very populous one. Among
the friends whom the Vaughans visited, and who visited them in return,
there was not one young person, not one child. It never seemed to enter
their minds that Hyacinth, being a child, longed for the society of
children. At certain times she was gravely told to play. She had a doll
and a Noah's ark; and with these she amused herself alone for long
hours. As for the graces, the fancies, the wants, the requirements of
childhood, its thousand wordless dreams and wordless wants, no one
seemed to understand them at all. They treated the child as if she were
a little old woman, crushing back with remorseless hand all the quick
fancies and bright dreams natural to youth.

Some children would have grown up wicked, hardened, unlovely and
unloving under such tuition; but Hyacinth Vaughan was saved from this by
her peculiar disposition. The child was all poetry. Lady Vaughan never
wearied of trying to correct her. She carefully pruned, as she imagined,
all the excess of imagination and romance. She might as well have tried
to prevent the roses from blooming, the dew from falling, or the leaves
from springing. All that she succeeded in was in making the child keep
her thoughts and fancies to herself. She talked to the trees as though
they were grave, living friends, full of wise counsel; she talked to the
flowers as though they were familiar and dear playfellows. The
imagination so sternly repressed ran riot in a hundred different ways.

It was most unfortunate for the child. If she had been as other
children--if her imagination, instead of being cruelly repressed, had
been trained and put to some useful purpose--if her love of romance had
been wisely guarded--if her great love of poetry and beauty, her great
love of ideality, had been watched and allowed for--the one great error
that darkened her life would never have been committed. But none of this
was done. She was literally afraid to speak of that which filled her
thoughts and was really part of her life. If she asked any uncommon
question Lady Vaughan scolded her, and Sir Arthur, his hands shaking
nervously, would say, "The child is going wrong--going wrong."

It was without exception the dullest and saddest life any child could
lead. At thirteen there came two breaks in the monotony--she had a
music-master come from Oakton, and she found a key that fitted the
library door. How often had she stood against the library windows,
looking through them, and longing to open one of those precious volumes;
but when she asked Sir Arthur for a book, he told her she could not
understand them--she must be content to play with her doll.

There were hundreds of suitable books that might have been provided for
the child; she was refused any--consequently she read whatever came in
her way. She found this key that fitted the library door, and used it.
She would quietly unlock it, and take one of the books nearest to her
without fear of its being missed, for Sir Arthur seldom entered the
room. In this fashion she read many books that were valuable,
instructive, and amusing. She also read many that would have been much
better left alone. Her innocence, however, saved her from harm. She knew
so little of life that what would have perhaps injured another was not
even noticed by her.

In this manner she educated herself, and the result was exactly what was
to be expected. She had in her mind the most curious collection of
poetry and romance, the most curious notions of right and wrong, the
most unreal ideas it was possible to imagine. Then, as she grew older,
life began to unroll itself before her eyes.

She saw that outside this dull world of Oakton there was another world
so fair and bright that it dazzled her. There was a world full of music
and song, where people danced and made merry, where they rode and drove
and enjoyed themselves, where there was no dulness and no gloom--a world
of which the very thought was so beautiful, so bewildering, that her
pulse thrilled and her heart beat as she dreamed of it. Would she ever
find her way into that dazzling world, or would she be obliged to live
here always, shut up with these old, formal people, amid the quaint
carvings and giant trees? And then when she was seventeen, she began to
dream of the other world women find so fair--the fairyland of hope and
love. Her ideas of love were nearly all taken from poetry: it was
something very magnificent, very beautiful, taking one quite out of
commonplace affairs. Would it ever come to her?

She thought life had begun and ended too, for her, when one day Lady
Vaughan told her to come into her room--she wished to talk to her. The
girl followed her with a weary, hopeless expression on her face. "I am
going to have a lecture," she thought; "I have said a word too little or
a word too much."

But, wonderful to say, Lady Vaughan was not prepared with a lecture. She
sat down in her great easy-chair and pointed to a footstool. Hyacinth
took it, wondering very much what was coming.

"My dear Hyacinth," she began; "you are growing up now; you will be
quite a woman soon; and it is time you knew what Sir Arthur and I have
planned for you."

She did not feel much interest in learning what it was--something
intolerably dull it was sure to be.

"You know," continued Lady Vaughan, "there has never been the least
deception used toward you. You are the only child of our only son; but
it has never been understood that you were to be heiress of the Chase."

"I should not like to have the Chase," said Hyacinth timidly. "I should
not know what to do with it."

Lady Vaughan waved her hand in very significant fashion.

"That is not the question. We have not brought you up as our heiress
because both Sir Arthur and I think that the head of our house must be a
gentleman. Of course you will have a dowry. I have money of my own,
which I intend to leave you. Mr. Adrian Darcy, of whom you have heard me
speak, will succeed to Queen's Chase--that is, if no other arrangement
takes him from us; should he have other views in life, the property will
perhaps be left differently. I cannot say. Sir Arthur and I wish very
much that you should marry Mr. Darcy."

The girl looked up at the cold, formal face, with wonder in her own. Was
this to be her romance? Was this to be the end of all her dreams?
Instead of passing into a fairer, brighter world, was she to live always
in this?

"How can I marry him?" she asked quickly. "I have never seen him."

"Do not be so impetuous, Hyacinth. You should always repress all
exhibition of feeling. I know that you have never seen him. Mr. Darcy is
travelling now upon the Continent, and Sir Arthur thinks a short
residence abroad would be very pleasant for us. Adrian Darcy always
shows us the greatest respect. You will be sure to like him--he is so
like us; we are to meet him at Bergheim, and spend a month together, and
then we shall see if he likes you."

"Does he know what you intend?" she asked half shyly.

"Not yet. Of course, in families like our own, marriages are not
conducted as with the plebeian classes; with us they are affairs of
state, and require no little diplomacy and tact."

"Was my father's a diplomatic marriage?" she asked.

"No," replied Lady Vaughan, "your father pleased himself; but then,
remember, he was in a position to do so. He was an only son, and heir of
Queen's Chase."

"And am I to be taken to this gentleman; if he likes me he is to marry
me; if not, what then?"

The scornful sarcasm of her voice was quite lost on Lady Vaughan.

"There is no need for impatience. Even then some other plan will suggest
itself to us. But I think there is no fear of failure--Mr. Darcy will be
sure to like you. You are very good-looking, you have the true Vaughan
face, and, thanks to the care with which you have been educated, your
mind is not full of nonsense, as is the case with some girls. I thought
it better to tell you of this arrangement, so that you may accustom your
mind to the thought of it. Everything being favorable, we shall start
for Bergheim in the middle of August, and then I shall hope to see
matters brought to a sensible conclusion."

"It will not be of any consequence whether I like this Mr. Darcy or
not--will it, Lady Vaughan?"

"You must try to cultivate a kindly liking for him, my dear. All the
nonsense of love and romance may be dispensed with. Well brought up as
you have been, you will find no difficulty in carrying out our wishes.
Now, draw that blind a little closer, my love, and leave me--I am
sleepy. Do not waste your time--go at once to the piano."



CHAPTER IV.


Having acquainted her young relative with the prospective arrangements
she had made for her, Lady Vaughan composed herself to sleep, and
Hyacinth quietly left the room. She dared not stop to think until she
was outside the door, in the free, fresh air; the walls of the old house
seemed to stifle her. Her young soul was awakened, but it rose in a hot
glow of rebellion against this new device of fate. She to be taken
abroad and offered meekly to this gentleman! If he liked her they were
to be married; if not, with the sense of failure upon her, she would
have to return to the Chase. The thought was intolerable.

Was this the promised romance of her life? "It is not fair," cried the
girl passionately, as she paced the narrow garden paths--"it is not
just. Everything has liberty, love, and happiness--why should not I? The
birds love each other, the flowers are happy in the sun--why must I live
without love or happiness, or brightness? I protest against my fate."

Were all the thousand tender and beautiful longings of her life to be
thus rudely treated? Was all the poetry and romance she had dreamed of
to end in "cultivating a kindly liking" and a diplomatic marriage? Oh,
no, it could not be! She shed passionate tears. She prayed, in her wild
fashion, passionate prayers. Better for her a thousand times had she
been commonplace, unromantic, prosaic--better that the flush of youth
and the sweet longings of life had not been hers. Then a break came in
the clouds--a change that was to be most fatal to her. One of the
families with whom Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan were most intimate was
that of old Colonel Lennox, of Oakton Park.

Colonel Lennox and his wife were both old; but one day they received a
letter from Mrs. Lennox, their sister-in-law, who resided in London,
saying how very pleased she should be to pay them a visit with her son
Claude. Mrs. Lennox was very rich. Claude was heir to a large fortune.
Still she thought Oakton Park would be a handsome addition, and it would
be just as well to cultivate the affection of the childless uncle.

Mrs. Lennox and Claude came to Oakton. Solemn dinner-parties, at which
the young man with difficulty concealed his annoyance, were given in
their honor, and at one of these entertainments Hyacinth and Claude met.
He fell in love with her.

In those days she was beautiful as the fairest dream of poet or artist.
In the fresh spring-tide of her young loveliness, she was something to
see and remember. She was tall, her figure slender and girlish, full of
graceful lines and curves that gave promise of magnificent womanhood.
Her face was of oval shape; the features were exquisite, the eyes of the
darkest blue, with long lashes; her lips were fresh and sweet; her mouth
was the most beautiful feature in her beautiful face--it was sweet and
sensitive, yet at times slightly scornful; the teeth were white and
regular; the chin was faultless, with a pretty dimple in it.

It was not merely the physical beauty, the exquisite features and
glorious coloring that attracted; there were poetry, eloquence, and
passion within these. Looking at her, one knew instinctively that she
was not of the common order--that something of the poet and genius was
there. Her brow was fair and rounded at the temples, giving a great
expression of ideality to her face; her fair hair, soft and shining,
seemed to crown the graceful head like a golden diadem.

Claude Lennox, in his half-selfish, half-chivalrous way, fell in love
with her. He said something to Lady Vaughan about her one day, and she
gave him to understand that her granddaughter was engaged. She did not
tell him to whom, nor did she say much about it; but the few words
piqued Claude, who had never been thwarted in his life.

On the first day they met, his mother had warned him not to fall in love
with the beautiful girl, who might be an heiress or might have
nothing--to remember that in his position he could marry whom he would,
and not to throw himself away.

Lady Vaughan, too, on her side, seemed much disposed to forbid him even
to speak to Hyacinth. If he proposed calling at Queen's Chase, she
either deferred his visit or took good care that Hyacinth should not be
in the way; and all this she did, as she believed, unperceived. It was
evident that Sir Arthur also was not pleased; though the old gentleman
was too courtly and polished to betray his feeling openly in the matter.
He did not like Claude Lennox, and the young man felt it. One day he met
the two young people together in a sequestered part of the Chase
grounds, and though he did not utter his displeasure, the stern, angry
look that he gave Claude, fully betrayed it. Hyacinth, whose glance had
fallen to the ground in a sudden accession of shyness that she scarce
understood, at her grandfather's approach, did not see his set, stern
face. Nor did Sir Arthur speak to her of the matter. On talking it over
to Lady Vaughan, the two old people concluded that a show of open
opposition might awaken a favor toward Claude in the young girl's heart
to which it was yet a stranger, and they contented themselves with
throwing every possible obstacle in the way of the young people's
intercourse. This was, in this case, mistaken policy. If the old
gentleman had spoken, he might have saved Hyacinth from unspeakable
misery, and his proud old name from the painful shadow of disgrace that
a childish folly was to bring upon it. The young girl stood greatly in
awe of her grandfather, but she respected him, and in a way loved him,
through her fears. And she was now being led, step by step, into folly,
through her own ignorance of its nature.

Claude Lennox was piqued. He was young, rich, and handsome; he had been
eagerly sought by fashionable mothers. He knew that he could marry Lady
Constance Granville any day that he liked; he had more than a suspicion
that the pretty, coquettish, fashionable young widow, Mrs. Delamere,
liked him; Lady Crown Harley had almost offered him her daughter. Was he
to be defied and set at naught in this way--he, a Lennox, come of a race
who had never failed in love or war? No, it should never be; he would
win Hyacinth in spite of all. He disarmed suspicion by ceasing, when
they met, to pay her any particular attention. His lady-mother
congratulated herself; she retired to London, leaving her son at Oakton
Park. He said his visit was so pleasant that he could not bring it to a
close. The colonel, delighted with his nephew, entreated him to stay,
and Claude said, smiling to himself, that he had a fair field and all to
himself.

His love for Hyacinth was half-selfish, half-chivalrous. It was pique
and something like resentment that made him first of all determined to
woo her, but he soon became so interested, that he believed his life
depended on winning her. She was so different from other girls. She was
child, poet, and woman. She had the brightest and fairest of fancies.
She spoke as he had never heard any one else speak--as though her lips
had been touched with divine fire.

Fortune favored him. He went one morning to the Chase, and found Sir
Arthur and Lady Vaughan at home--alone. He did not mention Hyacinth's
name; but as he was going out, he gave one of the footmen a sovereign
and learned from him that Miss Vaughan was walking alone in the wood.
She had complained of headache, and "my lady" had sent her out into the
fresh air.

Of course he followed her and found her. He made such good use of the
hour that succeeded, that she promised to meet him again. He was very
careful to keep her attention fixed on the poetry of such meetings; he
never hinted at the wrong of concealment, the dishonor of any thing
clandestine, the beauty of obedience; he talked to her only of love, and
of how he loved her and longed to make her his wife. She was very young,
very impressionable, very romantic; he succeeded completely in blinding
her to the harm and wrong she was doing; but he could not win from her
any acknowledgement of her love. She enjoyed the break in the dull
monotony of her life. She enjoyed the excitement of having to find time
to meet him. She liked listening to him; she liked to hear him praise
her beauty, and rave about his devotion to her. But did she love him?
Not if what the poets wrote was true--not if love be such as they
describe.



CHAPTER V.


So for three or four weeks of the beautiful summer, this little love
story went on. Claude Lennox was _au fait_ as to all the pretty wiles
and arts of love, he made a post-office of the trunk of a grand old
oak-tree--a trunk that was covered with ivy; he used to place letters
there every day, and Hyacinth would fetch and answer them. These letters
won her more than any spoken words; they were eloquently written and
full of poetry. She could read them and muse over them; their poetry
remained with her.

When she was talking to him a sense of unreality used to come over
her--a vague, uncertain, dreamy kind of conviction that in some way he
was not true; that he was saying more than he meant, or that he had said
the same things before and knew them all by heart. His letters won her.
She answered them, and in those answers found some vent for the romance
and imagination that had never had an outlet before. Claude Lennox, as
he read them, wondered at her.

"The girl is a genius," he said; "if she were to take to writing, she
would make the world talk of her. I have read all the poetry of the day,
but I have never read anything like these lines."

Claude Lennox had been a successful man. He had not been brought up to
any profession--there was no need for it; he was to inherit a large
fortune from his mother, and he had already one of his own. He had lived
in the very heart of society; he had been courted, admired and flattered
as long as he could remember. Bright-eyed girls had smiled on him, and
fair faces grown the fairer for his coming. He had had many loves, but
none of them had been in earnest. He liked Hyacinth Vaughan better than
any one he had ever met. If her friends had smiled upon him and
everything had been _couleur de rose_, he would have loved lightly, have
laughed lightly, and have ridden away. But because, for the first time
in his life, he was opposed and thwarted, frowned upon instead of being
met with eagerness, he vowed that he would win her. No one should say
Claude Lennox had loved in vain.

He was a strange mixture of vanity and generosity, of selfishness and
chivalry. He loved her as much as it was in his nature to love any one.
He felt for her; the descriptions she gave him of her life, its dull
monotony, its dreary gloom, touched his heart. Then, too, his vanity was
gratified; he knew that if he took such a peerlessly beautiful girl to
London as his wife, she would be one of the most brilliant queens of
society. He knew that she would create an almost unrivalled sensation.
So love, vanity, generosity, selfishness, chivalry, all combined, made
him resolve to win her.

He knew that if he were to go to Queen's Chase and ask permission to woo
her, it would be refused him--she would be kept away from him and
hurried away to Germany. That was the honest, honorable course, but he
felt sure it was hopeless to pursue it. Man of the world as he was, the
first idea of an elopement startled him; then he became accustomed to
it, and began at last to think an elopement would be quite a romance and
a sensation. So, by degrees he broke it to her. She was startled at
first, and then, after a time, became accustomed to it. It would be very
easy, soon over, and when they were once married his mother would say
nothing; if the Vaughans were wise, they too would be willing to forgive
and say nothing.

He found Hyacinth so simple, so innocent and credulous, that he had no
great difficulty in persuading her. If any thought of remorse came to
him--that, as the stronger of the two he was betraying his trust--he
quickly put the disagreeable reflection away--he intended to be very
kind to her after they were married, and to make her very happy.

So he waited in some anxiety for the signal. It was not a matter of life
or death with him; neither did he consider it as such; but he was very
anxious, and hoped she would consent. The library window could be seen
from the park; he had but to walk across it, and then he could see.
Claude Lennox was almost ashamed to find how his heart beat, and how
nervously his eyes sought the window.

"I did not think I could care about anything so much," he said to
himself; "I begin to respect myself for being capable of such devotion."

It was early on Wednesday morning, but he had not been able to sleep.
Would she go, or would she refuse? How many hours of suspense must he
pass before he knew? The sun was shining gayly, the dew lay on the
grass--it was useless to imagine that she would be thinking of her
flowers; yet he could not leave the place--he must know.

At one moment his hopes were raised to the highest point--it was not
likely that she would refuse. She would never be so foolish as to choose
a life of gloom and wretchedness instead of the golden future he had
offered her. Then again his heart sunk. An elopement! It was such a
desperate step; she would surely hesitate before taking it. He walked to
the end of the park, and then he returned. His heart beat so violently
when he raised his eyes that it seemed to him as if he could hear it--a
dull red flush rose to his face, his lips quivered. He had won--the
white flowers were there!

There was no one to see him, but he raised his Glengarry cap from his
head and waved it in the air.

"I have won," he said to himself; "now for my arrangements."

He went back to Oakton Park in a fever of anxiety; he telegraphed from
Oakton Station to the kind old aunt who had never refused him a favor,
asking her, for particular reasons which he would explain afterward, to
meet him at Euston Square at 6 A.M. on Thursday.

"There is some one coming with me whom I wish to put under your charge,"
he wrote; and he knew she would comply with his request.

He had resolved to be very careful--there should be no imprudence
besides the elopement; his aunt should meet them at the station,
Hyacinth should go home with her and remain with her until the hour
fixed for the wedding.

Hyacinth had taken her life into her own hands, and the balance had
fallen. She had decided to go; this gray, dull, gloomy life she could
bear no longer; and the thought of a long, dull residence in a sleepy
German town with a relative of Lady Vaughan's positively frightened her.

Claude had dazzled her imagination with glowing pictures of the future.
She did not think much of the right or wrong of her present behavior;
the romance with which she was filled enthralled her. If any one had in
plain words pointed out to her that she was acting badly, dishonorably,
deceitfully, she would have recoiled in dread and horror; but she did
not see things in their true colors.

All that day Lady Vaughan thought her granddaughter very strange and
restless. She seemed unable to attend to her work; she read as one who
does not understand. If she was asked a question, her vacant face
indicated absence of mind.

"Are you ill, Hyacinth?" asked Lady Vaughan at last. "You do not appear
to be paying the least attention to what you are doing."

The girl's beautiful face flushed crimson.

"I do not feel quite myself," she replied.

Lady Vaughan was not well pleased with the answer. Ill-health or
nervousness in young people was, as she said, quite unendurable--she had
no sympathy with either. She looked very sternly at the sweet crimsoned
face.

"You do not have enough to do, Hyacinth," she said gravely; "I must find
more employment for you. Miss Pinnock called the other day about the
clothing club; you had better write and offer your services."

"As though life was not dreary enough," thought the girl, "without
having to sew endless seams by the hour!"

Then, with a sudden thrill of joy, she remembered that her freedom was
coming. After this one day there would be no more gloom, no more tedious
hours, no more wearisome lectures, no more dull monotony; after this one
day all was to be sunshine, beauty, and warmth. How the day passed she
never knew--it was like a long dream to her. Yet something like fear
took possession of her when Lady Vaughan said:

"It is growing late, Hyacinth; it is past nine."

She went up to her and kissed the stern old face.

"Good-night," she said simply with her lips, and in her heart she added
"good-by."

She kissed Sir Arthur, who had never been quite so harsh with her and as
she closed the drawing-room door, she said to herself,

"So I leave my old life behind."



CHAPTER VI.


A beautiful night--not clear with the light of the moon, but solemn and
still under the pale, pure stars; there was a fitful breeze that
murmured among the trees, rippling the green leaves and stirring the
sleeping flowers. The lilies gleamed like pale spectres, the roses were
wet with dew; the deer lay under the trees in the park; there was hardly
a sound to break the holy calm.

Queen's Chase lay in dark shadow under the starlight, the windows and
doors all fastened except one, the inmates all sleeping save one. The
great clock in the turret struck ten. Had any been watching, they would
have seen a faint light in the room where Hyacinth Vaughan slept; it
glimmered there only for a minute or two, and then disappeared. Soon
afterward there appeared at the library window a pale, sweet, frightened
face; the window slowly opened and a tall, slender figure, closely
wrapped in a dark gray cloak, issued forth from the safe shelter of
home, under the solemn stars, to take the false step that was to darken
her life for so many years.

She stole along in the darkness and silence, between the trees, till
Claude came to her; and her heart gave a great bound at his approach,
while a crimson flush rose to her face.

"My darling," he said, clasping her hand in his, "how am I to thank
you?"

Then she began to realize in some faint degree what she had done. She
looked up at Claude's handsome, careless face, and began to understand
that she had given up all the world for him--all the world.

"You are frightened, Hyacinth," he said, "but there is no need. Your
hand trembles, and your face is so pale that I notice it even by
starlight."

"I am frightened," she confessed. "I have never been out at night
before. Oh, Claude, do you think I have done right?"

He spoke cheerily: "That you have, my darling. Such gloomy cages were
never made for bright birds like you; let me see you smile before you go
one step further."

It was almost midnight when they reached Oakton station; the few lamps
glimmered fitfully and there was no one about but the sleepy porters.

"Keep your veil well drawn over your face, Hyacinth," he whispered; "I
will get the tickets. Sit down here and no one need see you."

She obeyed him, trembling in every limb. She sat down on the little
wooden bench, her veil closely drawn over her face; her cloak wrapped
round her; and then, after what seemed to be but a moment of time, yet
was in reality over ten minutes, the train ran steaming into the
station. One or two passengers alighted. Claude took her hand and placed
her in a first-class carriage--no one had either seen or noticed her--he
sprang in after her, the door was shut, the whistle sounded, and the
train was off.

"It is done!" she gasped, her face growing deadly white, and the color
fading even from her lips. She laid her head back on the cushion. "It is
done!" she repeated, faintly.

"And you will see, my darling, that all is for the best."

He would not allow her time to think or to grow dull. He talked to her
till the color returned to her face and the brightness to her eyes. They
looked together from the carriage windows, watching the shining stars
and the darkened earth, wondering at the beautiful, holy silence of
night, until the faint gray dawn broke in the skies. Then a mishap
occurred.

The train had proceeded on its way safely enough until a station called
Leybridge had been reached. There the passengers for London leave it,
and await the arrival of the mail train. Hyacinth and Claude left the
carriage; the train they had travelled by went on.

"We have not long to wait for the mail train," said Claude, "and then,
thank goodness, there will be no more changing until we reach London."

The faint gray dawn of the morning was just breaking into rose and
gold. Hyacinth looked pale and cold; the excitement, the fatigue, and
the night travelling were rapidly becoming too much for her.

They walked up and down the platform for a few minutes. A quarter of an
hour passed--half an hour--and then Claude, still true to his
determination that Hyacinth should not be seen, bade her to sit down
again while he went to inquire at the office the cause of delay. There
were several other passengers, for Leybridge Junction was no
inconsiderable one.

Suddenly there seemed to arise a scene of confusion in the station. The
station master came out with a disturbed face; the porters were no
longer sleepy, but anxious. Then the rumor, whispered first with bated
breath, grew--"An accident to the mail train below Lewes. Thirty
passengers seriously injured and half as many killed. Traffic on the
line impossible."

Claude heard the sad news with a sorrowful heart. He did not wish
Hyacinth to know it--it would seem like an omen of misfortune to her.
"When will the next train start for London?" he asked one of the
porters.

"There is none between now and seven o'clock," the man replied.

"Was there ever anything so unfortunate?" muttered Claude to himself.

Leybridge was only twenty miles from Oakton.

"I should not like any one to see me about the station," he thought;
"and Hyacinth is sure to be known here. How unfortunate that we should
be detained so near home!" He went out to her: "You must not lose
patience, Hyacinth," he said; "the mail train is delayed, and we have to
wait here until seven."

She looked up at him, alarmed and perplexed. "Seven," she repeated--"and
now it is only three. What shall we do, Claude?"

"If you are willing, we will go for a walk through the fields. I fancy
we shall be recognized if we stop here."

"I am sure we shall--I have often been to Leybridge with Lady Vaughan."

They went out of the station and down the quiet street; they saw an
opening that led to the fields.

"You will like the fields better than anywhere else," said Claude, and
she assented.

They crossed a stile that led into the fertile clover meadows. It seemed
as though the beauty and fragrance of the summer morning broke into
full glow to welcome them; the rosy clouds parted, and the sun shone in
the full lustre of its golden light; the trees, the hedges, the clover,
were all impearled with dew--the drops lay thick, shining and bright, on
the grass; there was a faint twitter of birds, as though they were just
awakening; the trees seemed to stir with new life and vigor.

"Is this the morning?" said Hyacinth, looking round. "Why, Claude, it is
a thousand times more beautiful than the fulness of day!"



CHAPTER VII.


Hyacinth and Claude stood together leaning against the stile. Something
in the calm beauty of the summer morning awoke the brightest and purest
emotions in him; something in the early song of the birds and in the
shining dewdrops made Hyacinth think more seriously than she had yet
done.

"I wonder," she said, turning suddenly to her lover, "if we shall ever
look back to this hour and repent what we have done?"

"I do not think so. It will rather afford subject for pleasant
reflection."

"Claude," she cried suddenly, "what is that lying over there by the
hedge? It--it looks so strange."

He glanced carelessly in the direction indicated. "I can see nothing,"
he replied. "My eyes are not so bright as yours."

"Look again, Claude. It is something living, moving--something human I
am sure! What can it be?"

He did look again, shading his eyes from the sun. "There is something,"
he said slowly, "but I cannot tell what it is."

"Let us see, Claude; it may be some one ill. Who could it be in the
fields at this time of the morning?"

"I would rather you did not go," said Claude; "you do not know who it
may be. Let me go alone."

But she would not agree to it; and as they stood there, they heard a
faint moan.

"Claude," cried the girl, in deep distress, "some one is ill or hurt;
let us go and render assistance."

He saw that she was bent upon it and held out his hand to help her over
the stile. Then when they were in the meadow, and under the hedge,
screened from sight by rich, trailing woodbines, they saw the figure of
a woman.

"It is a woman, Claude!" cried Hyacinth; and then a faint moan fell on
their ears.

Hastening to the spot, she pushed aside the trailing eglantines. There
lay a girl, apparently not much older than herself, fair of face, with a
profusion of beautiful fair hair lying tangled on the ground. Hyacinth
bent over her.

"Are you ill?" she asked. But no answer came from the white lips.
"Claude," cried Hyacinth, "she is dying! Make haste; get some help for
her!"

"Let us see what is the matter first," he said.

The sound of voices roused the prostrate girl. She sat up, looking
wildly around her, and flinging her hair from her face; then she turned
to the young girl, who was looking at her with such gentle, wistful
compassion.

"Are you ill?" repeated Hyacinth. "Can we do any thing to help you?"

The girl seemed to gather herself together with a convulsive shudder, as
though mortal cold had seized her.

"No, I thank you," she said. "I am not ill. I am only dying by
inches--dying of misery and bad treatment."

It was such a weary young face that was raised to them. It looked so
ghastly, so wretched, in the morning sunlight, that Hyacinth and Claude
were both inexpressibly touched. Though she was poorly clad, and her
thin, shabby clothes were wet with dew, and stained by the damp grass,
still there was something about the girl that spoke of gentle culture.

Claude bent down, looking kindly on the dreary young face.

"There is a remedy for every evil and every wrong," he said; "perhaps we
could find one for you."

"There is no remedy and no help for me," she replied; "my troubles will
end only when I die."

"Have you been sleeping under this hedge all night?" asked Hyacinth.

"Yes. I have no home, no money, no food. Something seemed to draw me
here. I had a notion that I should die here."

Hyacinth's face grew pale; there was something unutterably sad in the
contrast between the bright morning and the crouching figure underneath
the hedge.

"Are you married?" asked Claude, after a short pause.

"Yes, worse luck for me!" she replied, raising her eyes, with their
expression of guilt and misery, to his, "I am married."

"Is your husband ill, or away from you? or what is wrong?" he pursued.

"It is only the same tale thousands have to tell," she replied. "My
husband is not ill; he simply drinks all day and all night--drinks every
shilling he earns--and when he has drunk himself mad he beats me."

"What a fate!" said Claude. "But there is a remedy--the law interferes
to protect wives from such brutality."

"The law cannot do much; it cannot change a man's heart or his nature;
it can only imprison him. And then, when he comes out, he is worse than
before. Wise women leave the law alone."

"Why not go away from him and leave him?"

"Ah, why not? Only that I have chosen my lot and must abide by it.
Though he beats me and ill-treats me, I love him. I could not leave
him."

"It was an unfortunate marriage for you, I should suppose," said
Hyacinth soothingly. The careworn sufferer looked with her dull, wistful
eyes into the girl's beautiful face.

"I was a pretty girl years ago," she said, "fresh, and bright, and
pleasing. I lived alone with my mother, and this man who is now my
husband came to our town to work. He was tall, handsome, and strong--he
pleased my eyes; he was a good mechanic, and made plenty of money--but
he drank even then. When he came and asked me to be his wife, my mother
said I had better dig my grave with my own hands, and jump into it
alive, than marry a man who drank."

She caught her breath with a deep sob.

"I pleased myself," she continued, with a deep sigh; "I had my own way.
My mother was not willing for me to marry him, so I ran away with him."

Hyacinth Vaughan's face grew paler.

"You did what?" she asked gently.

"I ran away with him," repeated the woman; "and, if I could speak now
with a voice that all the world could hear, I would advise all girls to
take warning by me, and rather break their hearts at home than run away
from it."

Paler and paler grew the beautiful young face; and then Hyacinth
suddenly noticed that one of the woman's hands lay almost useless on
the grass. She raised it gently and saw that it was terribly wounded and
bruised. Her heart ached at the sight.

"Does it pain you much?" she inquired.

The woman laughed--a laugh more terrible by far than any words could
have been.

"I am used to pain," she said. "I put that hand on my husband's shoulder
last night to beg him to stay at home and not to drink any more. He took
a thick-knotted stick and beat it; and yet, poor hand, it was not
harming him." Hyacinth shuddered. The woman went on, "We had a terrible
quarrel last night. He vowed that he would come back in the morning and
murder me."

"Then why not go away? Why not seek a safe refuge?"

She laughed again--the terrible, dreary laugh. "He would find me; he
will kill me some day. I know it; but I do not care. I should not have
run away from him."

"Why not go home again?" asked Hyacinth.

"Ah, no--there is no returning--no undoing--no going back."

Hyacinth raised the poor bruised hand.

"I am afraid it is broken," she said gently. "Let me bind it for you."

She took out her handkerchief; it was a gossamer trifle--fine cambric
and lace--quite useless for the purpose required. She turned to Claude
and asked for his. The request was a small one, but the whole afterpart
of her life was affected by it. She did not notice that Claude's
handkerchief was marked with his name in full--"Claude Lennox." She
bound carefully the wounded hand.

"Now," she said, "be advised by us; go away--don't let your husband find
you."

"Go to London," cried Claude eagerly; "there is always work to be done
and money to be earned there. See--I will give you my address. You can
write to me; and I will ask my aunt or my mother to give you
employment."

He tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote on it; "Claude Lennox, 200
Belgrave Square, London."

He looked very handsome, very generous and noble, as he gave the folded
note to the woman, with two sovereigns inside it.

"Remember," he said, "that I promise my mother will find you some work
if you will apply to us."

She thanked him, but no ray of hope came to her poor face. She did not
seem to think it strange that they were there--that it was unusual at
that early hour to see such as they were out in the fields.

"Heaven bless you!" she said gratefully. "A dying woman's blessing will
not hurt you."

"You will not die," said Claude cheerily; "you will be all right in
time. Do you belong to this part?"

"No," she replied; "we are quite strangers here. I do not even know the
name of the place. We were going to walk to Liverpool; my husband
thought he should get better wages there."

"Take my advice," said Claude earnestly--"leave him; let him go his own
road. Travel to London, and get a decent living for yourself there."

"I will think of it," she said wearily; and then a vague unconsciousness
began to steal over her face.

"You are tired," said Hyacinth gently; "lie down and sleep again.
Good-by." The birds were singing gayly when they turned to leave her.

"Stay," said Claude; "what is your name?"

"Anna Barratt," she replied; and only Heaven knows whether those were
the last words she spoke.



CHAPTER VIII.


The woman laid her weary head down again as one who would fain rest, and
they walked away from her.

"We have done a good deed," said Claude thoughtfully; "saved that poor
woman from being murdered, perhaps. I hope she will do what I
advised--start for London. If my mother should take a fancy to her, she
could easily put her in the way of getting her living."

To his surprise, Hyacinth suddenly took her hand from his, and broke out
into a wild fit of weeping.

"My darling, what is it? Cynthy, what is the matter?"

She sat down upon a large moss-covered stone and wept as though her
heart would break. The sight of those raining tears, the sound of those
deep-drawn sobs and passionate cries filled him with grief and dismay.
He knelt down by the girl's side, and tried to draw her hands from her
face.

"Cynthy, you make me so wretched! Tell me what is wrong--I cannot bear
to see you so."

Then the violence of her weeping abated. She looked at him. "Claude,"
she said, "I am so sorry I left home--it is all so wicked and so wrong.
I must go back again."

He started from her. "Do you mean that you are sorry you have come with
me, Hyacinth?"

"Yes, very sorry," she sobbed. "I must go back. I did not think of
consequences. I can see them so plainly now. It is wicked to run away
from home. That poor woman did it, and see what has come to her. Claude,
I believe that Providence has placed that woman across my path, and that
the words she has spoken are a warning message."

"That is all nonsense, Cynthy; there can be no comparison between the
two cases. I am not a ruffian like that woman's husband."

"No you are not; but the step was wicked, Claude. I understand all now.
Be kind to me, and let me go back home."

"Of course," said Claude sullenly, "I cannot run away with you against
your will. If you insist upon it, I will do as you ask; but it is making
a terrible simpleton of me."

"You will forgive me," she returned. "You will say afterward that I
acted rightly. I shall be miserable, Claude--I shall never be happy
again--if I do not return home."

"If you persist in this, we shall be parted forever," he said angrily.

"It will be best," she replied. "Do not be angry with me, Claude. I do
not think--I--I love you enough to marry you and live with you always. I
have blinded myself with romance and nonsense. I do not love you--not
even so much as that poor woman loves her husband. Oh, Claude, let me
return home."

She looked up at him, her face wet with tears, and an agony of entreaty
in her eyes.

"You might have found this out before, Hyacinth. You have done me a
great wrong--you have trifled with me. If you had said before that you
did not love me, I should never have proposed this scheme."

"I did not know," she said, humbly. "I am very sorry if I have wronged
you. I did not mean to pain you. It is just as though I had woke up
suddenly from an ugly dream. Oh, for my dear mother's sake, take me
home!"

He looked down at her, for some few minutes in silence, vanity and
generosity doing hard battle together. The sight of her beautiful,
tearful face touched, yet angered him, he did not like to see it clouded
by sorrow; yet he could not bear to think that he must lose its
loveliness, and never call it his own.

"Do you not love me, Hyacinth?" he asked sadly.

"Oh, no--not as I should love you, to be your wife. I thought I did not,
but you said I did. I am quite sure of it, Claude; ever since we started
I have been thinking so."

"Well, I must bear my disappointment like a man, I suppose," he said;
"and since you wish to go back, I suppose you must. But remember all
that you are going back to, Cynthy."

"It is better to break one's heart at home than to run away from it,"
she rejoined.

"I see," he said quietly; "that woman has frightened you. I thought you
brave--you are a coward. I thought you capable of great sacrifice for my
sake--you are not so. You shall go home in safety and security, Miss
Vaughan."

"Heaven bless you, Claude!" she cried. "You are very good to me."

"I do not like it, mind," he said. "I think it is the shabbiest trick
that was ever played on any man. Still, your wishes shall be obeyed."
Without another word, they went back to the station.

"I will inquire at what time the train leaves here for Oakton," he said.
"Stay outside, Hyacinth--it will not do for you to be seen now."

She was very fortunate. A train went back to Oakton at six o'clock--a
quick train too--so that she would be there in little more than half an
hour.

"Then," she said breathlessly, "I can walk quickly back again. I can get
into the grounds--perhaps into the house--unnoticed. I pray Heaven that
I may do so! If I may but once get safely freed from this danger, never
will I run into any more. How much would I not give to be once more safe
at home!"

Claude looked as he felt--exceedingly angry. "I will accompany you," he
said, "as far as the Oakton station, and then I must walk back to the
park. I can only hope that I have not been missed. I will take care that
no woman ever makes such a simpleton of me again."

He went to the booking-office and obtained two tickets. When the train
was ready for starting, and not before, he went to summon Hyacinth, and
by a little dexterous management, she got into a carriage unseen.

They did not exchange words on that return journey; he was too
angry--too indignant; she was praying that she might reach home
safely--that she might not be too heavily punished for her sin.

At last the train reached Oakton. There were few people at the station.
She gave up the ticket to the official, who little guessed who she was.

"Thank Heaven," she said, with quivering lips. The next minute she was
on the road that led to the woods. Claude followed her.

"We will say good-by here, Claude," she said, holding out her hand to
him.

"And you were to have been my wife before noon!" he cried. "How cold,
how heartless women are!"

"You should not have persuaded me," she said, with gentle dignity. "You
blinded me by talking of the romance. I forgot to think of the right and
wrong. But I will not reproach you. Good-by."

He held her hand one minute; all the love he had felt for her seemed to
rise and overwhelm him--his face grew white with the pain of parting
from her.

"You know that this good-by is forever," he said sadly; "you know that
we who were to have been all in all to each other, who were to have been
married by noon, will now in all probability never meet again."

"Better that than an elopement," she returned "Good-by, Claude."

He bent down and kissed her white brow; and then, without another word,
she broke from him, and hastened away, while he, strong man as he was,
lay sobbing on the grass.

Fortune favored her. No one saw her hurrying back through the woods and
the pleasure-grounds. She waited until the back gates were all
unfastened, and the maid whose office it was to feed the bantams Lady
Vaughan was so proud of, came out. She spoke to her, and the maid
thought Miss Vaughan had come, as she had often done before, to watch
the feeding of the poultry. She wondered a little that the young lady
was dressed in a gray travelling cloak, and wore a thick veil.

"Just for all the world," said the maid to herself, "as though she were
going on a long journey." She was struck, too, by the sound of Miss
Vaughan's voice; it was so weak, so exhausted; it had none of its usual
clear, musical tones.

"Mary," said Hyacinth, at last, "do you think you could get me a cup of
tea from the kitchen? Breakfast will not be ready for some time yet."

The good-natured maid hastened down into the kitchen, and soon returned
with a cup of hot, strong tea. Hyacinth drank it eagerly; her lips were
parched and dry. The tea revived her wonderfully. Suddenly Mary
exclaimed,

"Oh, Miss Vaughan where have you been? Your cloak is covered with dust."

"Hush, Mary," she said, with a forced smile. "Do not tell tales of me."
And then she hastened into the house. She met no one; her little room
was just as she had left it. No one had entered, nothing was disturbed.
She locked the door and fell on her knees. Rarely has maiden prayed as
Hyacinth Vaughan prayed then. How she thanked Providence--how her heart,
full of gratitude, was raised to Heaven! How she promised that for all
the remainder of her life she would be resigned and submissive.

How safe and secure was this haven of home after all! She shuddered as
she thought of that dreadful night passed in the confusion of railway
travelling; of the woman whose pitiful story still rang in her ears.

"Thank Heaven, I have escaped!" she cried. "With all my heart I offer
thanks!"

Then she changed her dress and did her best to remove all traces of
fatigue, and when the breakfast bell rang she went down-stairs with a
prayer on her lips--she was so thankful, so grateful, for her escape.
Claude Lennox did not fare so well; he had been missed and the colonel
was very angry about it.

"You have been dining with the officers again, I suppose," he said, "and
have spent the night over cards and wine. It is bad, sir--bad. I do not
like it. It is well Mrs. Lennox does not know it."

He made no excuses; he said nothing to defend himself; all the servants
in the house knew there was a dispute between the colonel, their master,
and Mr. Lennox.

"If my conduct does not please you, uncle," said the young man, "I can
go, you know."

This threat somewhat mollified the colonel, who had no great wish to
quarrel with his handsome young nephew.

"I have no wish to be harsh," he said, "but a whole night at cards is
too much."

"I am sorry I have not pleased you," rejoined Claude. "I shall go back
to London on Saturday; my engagements will not permit me to remain here
after then."

He was angry and annoyed; he had been baffled, irritated, placed in a
false and most absurd position; he did not care to remain at Oakton. He
could not endure to look at Hyacinth Vaughan's face again. But he did
not know what terrible events were to happen before Saturday. The
future, with its horrible shame and disgrace, was hidden from him.



CHAPTER IX.


"What has come over the child?" thought Lady Vaughan to herself. "She is
so submissive, so quiet, so obedient, I hardly know her."

For, though Lady Vaughan exercised Hyacinth's patience very severely the
whole of that day, in the packing up, no murmur escaped her lips; she
was very quiet and subdued, and made no complaint even when she heard
that they were to travel in a close carriage; no impetuous bursts of
song came from her lips--no half-murmured reply to Lady Vaughan's
homilies. That lady thought, with great complacency, how very
efficacious her few words must have been.

"It is the prospect of being married, I suppose, that has made her so
good," she said to herself.

She little knew that the girl's heart was weighed down with gratitude to
Heaven for an escape that she deemed almost miraculous. She little
thought how suddenly the quiet old home had become a sure refuge and
harbor to her--and how, for the first time in her life, Hyacinth clung
to it with love and fondness.

She was busy at work all day, for they were to start early on the next
morning. She executed all Lady Vaughan's commissions--she did all her
errands--she helped in every possible way, thinking all the time how
fortunate she was--that the past two months were like a horrible dream
from which she had only just awoke. How could she have been so blinded,
so foolish, so mad? Ah, thank heaven, she had awoke in time!

She was not afraid of discovery, though she knew perfectly well that,
if ever Lady Vaughan should know what she had done, she would never
speak to her again--she would not allow her to remain at Queen's Chase.
But there was no fear of her ever learning what she had done; thanks to
Claude's care, no one had recognized her--her secret was quite safe. But
the consciousness that she had such a secret, humiliated her as nothing
else could have done. Her grandmother might well wonder what brought
that expression of grateful contentment to her beautiful face.

Then Lady Vaughan bade her go to rest early, for she must be up by
sunrise. She went, tears of gratitude filling her eyes. She was at home,
and so safe!

She thought very kindly of Claude. She was sorry for his discomfiture,
and for the pain he suffered; but a sudden sense of womanly dignity had
come over her.

"He should not have persuaded me," she said to herself over and over
again. "He knows the world better than I do; he is older than I am. He
should have been the one to teach me, and not to lead me astray."

Still she felt kindly toward him, and she knew that, as time went on,
and the gloom of her home enclosed her again, she should miss him. She
was too grateful for her escape, however, too remorseful for what she
had done, to feel any great grief at losing him now.

On the Thursday morning, when great events of which she knew nothing
were passing around her, Hyacinth rose early, and the bustle of
preparation began. They did not go to Oakton station. Sir Arthur had his
own particular way of doing every thing, and he chose to post to London.
He did not quite approve of railway travelling--it was levelling--all
classes were mixed up too much for his taste. So they drove in the grand
old family carriage to London, whence they travelled instate to Dover,
thence to Bergheim.

As far as it was possible to make travelling dull, this journey was
rendered dull. Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan seemed to have only one
dread, and that was of seeing and being seen. The blinds of the carriage
windows were all drawn. "They had not come abroad for scenery, but for
change of air," her ladyship observed several times each day. When it
was necessary to stay at a hotel, they had a separate suite of rooms.
There was no _table d'hote_, no mixing with other travellers; they were
completely exclusive.

As they drew near Bergheim, Hyacinth's beautiful face grew calm and
serene. She even wondered what he would be like, this Adrian Darcy. He
was a scholar and a gentleman--but what else? Would he despise her as a
child, or admire her as a woman? Would he fall in love with her, or
would he remain profoundly indifferent to her charms? She was startled
from her reverie by Lady Vaughan's voice.

"We will drive straight to the hotel," she said; "Mr. Darcy has taken
rooms for us there."

"Shall we see him to-night?" asked Sir Arthur.

"No, I should imagine not. Adrian is always considerate. He will know we
are tired, and consequently not in the best of moods for visitors," she
replied. "He will be with us to-morrow morning."

And, strange to say, Hyacinth Vaughan, who had once put from her even
the thought of Adrian Darcy, felt some slight disappointment that she
was not to see him until the morrow.



CHAPTER X.


"This is something like life," thought Hyacinth Vaughan, as the summer
sun came streaming into her room.

It was yet early in the morning, but there was a sound of music from the
gardens. She drew aside the blinds, and saw a lake in all its beauty,
the most cheerful, the brightest scene upon which she had ever gazed.

The Hotel du Roi is by far the most aristocratic resort in Bergheim.
"Kings, queens, and emperors" have lodged there; some of the leading men
and the fairest women in Europe have at times made their home there. The
hotel has a certain aristocratic character of its own. Second-rate
people never go there; its magnificence is of too quiet and dignified a
kind. The gorgeous suites of rooms are always inhabited by some of the
leading Continental families. Bergheim itself is a sleepy little town.
The lake is very beautiful; tall mountains slope down to the edge; the
water is deep, clear, and calm; green trees fringe the banks;
water-lilies sleep on its tranquil breast. The Lake of Bergheim has
figured in poetry, in song, and in pictures.

Hyacinth gazed at it with keen delight. Suddenly it struck her that the
house was not Lady Vaughan's, consequently not under her ladyship's
control, and that she could go out into those fairylike looking grounds
if she wished.

She took her hat and a black lace shawl and went down-stairs. She was
soon reassured. She was doing nothing unusual. One or two ladies were
already in the gardens, and in one of the broad open paths she saw an
English nursemaid with some little children around her. Hyacinth walked
on with a light, joyous heart. She never remembered to have seen the
world so fair; she had never seen sunshine so bright, or flowers so
fair; nor had she ever heard such musical songs from the birds.

Over the girl's whole soul, as she stood, there came a rapturous sense
of security and gratitude. She was safe; the folly, amounting almost to
sin, of her girlhood, was already fading into the obscurity of a dark, a
miserable dream. She was safe under heaven's blessed sunlight, life
growing fairer and more beautiful every hour. She was grateful for her
escape.

Then it struck her that she heard the sound of falling water, and she
went down a long, vine-covered path--surely the loveliest picture in the
world. The vines had been trained so as to form a perfect arch; the
grapes hung in rich, ripe bunches; flowers grew underfoot; and at the
end of the grove was a high white rock from which water fell with a
rippling, rushing, musical sound, into a small clear pool. Hyacinth
looked at the scene in wonder. She had never seen anything so pretty in
her life. She went up to the water; it was cool, so clear, so fresh and
sparkling. She threw off her hat and plunged her hands into it. She
laughed aloud as the water ran foaming over them. She little dreamed
what a lovely picture she herself made standing under the shade of the
vines, her fair, brilliant face almost dazzling in the dim light, her
fair hair shining like gold. The morning breeze had brought the most
dainty and exquisite bloom to her face, her eyes were as bright as
stars, her lips like newly-blown roses, and, as she stood with the foam
rushing over her little white hands, the world might have searched in
vain for one more lovely.

Then she thought how refreshing a draught of that sparkling water would
be. She gathered a large vine-leaf and filled it. She had just raised it
to her lips when a rich, deep, musical voice said:

"Do not drink that water; it is not considered good."

The vine-leaf fell from her hands, her face flushed crimson. She had
thought that she was quite alone. She looked around, but could see no
one.

"I beg pardon if I have alarmed you," said the same voice, "but the
water of the fall is not considered good; it is supposed to come from
the lake."

Then she looked in the direction whence the voice proceeded--a gentleman
was reclining on a rock by the waterfall. He had been reading, for an
open book lay by his side; but Hyacinth strongly suspected, from the
quiet smile on his lips and in his luminous eyes, that he had been
watching her.

"I am afraid I startled you," he continued; "but the water is not so
clear as it looks."

"Thank you," she returned, gently.

He took up his book again, and she turned to leave the grove. But in
those few moments, the world had all changed for her. She walked out of
the vine grove, and sat down by the edge of the lake, trying to live
every second of those few minutes over again.

What was that face like? Dark, beautiful, noble--the face of a king,
with royal brows, and firm, grave, yet sweet lips--a face that in her
girlish dreams she would have given to the heroes she loved--to King
Arthur--to the Chevalier Bayard--to Richard the Lion Heart--the face of
a man born to command, born to rule.

She had looked at it for perhaps only two minutes, but she could have
sketched it accurately from memory. The dark hair was thrown back in
masses--not in effeminate curls, but in the same waving lines that may
be seen on the heads of famous Grecian statues; the forehead was white,
broad, well-developed, rounded at the temples, full of ideality, of
genius, of poetry, of thought; the brows were dark and straight as those
of a Greek god; the eyes luminous and bright--she could not tell what
they were like--they had dazzled her. The dark mustache did not hide a
beautiful mouth that had nothing effeminate in it.

It was a face that filled her mind with thoughts of beauty. She mused
over it. There was nobility, power, genius, loyalty, truth, in every
feature. The voice had filled her ears with music.

"I wish," she thought, "he had given me some other command; I should
like to obey him; I would do anything he told me; he has the face and
the voice of a king. I have read of god-like men; now I have seen one.
Shall I ever see him again? I can imagine that face flashing with
indignation, eloquent with pleading, royal in command, softened in
tenderness, eloquent in speech."

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a bell. "That must be for
breakfast," she thought, and she hurried back to the house. She did not
see the stranger follow her, with a smile still on his face.

Lady Vaughan was unusually gracious.

"You have been out in the gardens, my dear," she said to the young girl,
who evidently expected a reproof. "That is right. You are looking very
well this morning."

She spoke coldly; but in her heart she marvelled at the girl's wonderful
beauty. She had seen nothing so fair, so dainty, so brilliant as the
bloom that overspread her lovely face. "I have had a note from Mr.
Darcy," continued her ladyship, "and he will be with us before noon."

During breakfast Lady Vaughan was more gracious than ever Hyacinth
remembered to have seen her. When it was over, she said to the girl:

"I should like you to look your best, Cynthy, when Mr. Darcy comes. Make
a fresh toilet, and then amuse yourself as you like until I send for
you."

Over the glowing dream of the morning the name of Adrian Darcy seemed to
fall like the breath of a cold east wind over flowers. She had for the
time almost forgotten him, and at the sound of his name a whole host of
disagreeable memories arose.

"Never mind," she said to herself; "they cannot force me to marry him
against my will. I can tell him I do not like him." She went away, with
smiles on her lips and music in her heart, to change her dress, as Lady
Vaughan had desired. A surprise awaited her in her room; Pincott, Lady
Vaughan's maid, was standing before a large trunk.

"These are dresses, Miss Vaughan," she said, "that my lady has ordered
from Paris for you. She did not tell you, because she wished to keep it
as a surprise for you."

The girl's face flushed crimson.

"For me!" she cried. "How kind of her! Oh, Pincott, how beautiful they
are!"

The maid unfolded the glistening treasures of silk, lace, and velvet,
displaying them to Hyacinth's enraptured eyes.

"My lady ordered me to attend to your toilet, this morning, Miss
Vaughan," continued Pincott, who knew perfectly well why her mistress
desired the young girl to look her best. "I have brought these blush
roses; no ornaments look so well as natural flowers."

From the collection of dresses one of embroidered Indian muslin was
selected. It was daintily trimmed with pale pink ribbon and white lace,
and was exquisitely made. The girlish graceful figure, with its
beautiful curves and symmetrical lines, was shown to perfection; the
sleeves fell back, showing a fair, rounded arm. Pincott had great
natural taste; she dressed the fair hair after some simple girlish
fashion, and fastened a blush rose in it; she fastened another in the
high bodice of the white dress.

"You look lovely, Miss Vaughan," she said; and Hyacinth, looking at her
fair flower-like face, blushed for her own great beauty.

Then Pincott left her, and the way in which she amused herself was by
sitting at the open window, dreaming of the face she had seen at the
waterfall. She was roused by the maid's return. "Lady Vaughan will be
glad to see you in her room, Miss Vaughan. Mr. Darcy is there."

Again the name fell like cold water over her, chilling her bright
dreams, her growing content and happiness: and again she consoled
herself by remembering that no one could force her to marry Mr. Darcy
against her will. She heard the sound of voices as she drew near the
room; she opened the door and entered, her beautiful face calm and
serene, looking as fair a picture of youth and loveliness as ever
greeted human eyes. "Hyacinth," said Lady Vaughan, "come here my dear. I
want to introduce you to Mr. Darcy."

She went up to her. A tall figure stood near Lady Vaughan's chair. Lady
Vaughan took her hand.

"This is my granddaughter. Hyacinth--Mr. Darcy."

Hyacinth raised her eyes. Was she blinded by a great golden sunbeam? Was
she dreaming? Was she haunted or bewitched? Adrian Darcy, whom she had
dreaded to see, whose name even she had detested, was the same gentleman
that she had seen by the waterfall.

When she remembered all she had been thinking and dreaming, it was no
wonder that the beautiful face grew crimson as a damask rose, and that
the bright eyes fell until he could see nothing of them. She was
spell-bound--this unknown hero of whom she had dreamed the whole summer
morning was Adrian Darcy! He held out his hand to her.

"We are old friends," he said frankly. "I saw this young lady about to
drink some clear, cold, sparkling poison this morning, and I interfered
to prevent her doing so."

Then he was obliged to explain to Lady Vaughan who smiled most
graciously; but Hyacinth said never a word. She could not realize the
truth, yet she sat like one blinded by a great flood of sunlight. If she
had known how this sweet shy confusion became her--how beautiful it
was--how Adrian Darcy admired it! Nothing could have charmed him half so
much.

"How beautiful she is!" he thought. "She is like a rosebud shrouded in
green leaves."

Hyacinth was almost in despair.

"How stupid he will think me!" she reflected. "But I cannot help it--I
cannot speak."

When she had collected her senses sufficiently to listen, Adrian was
saying--

"Yes; we have very good music here, indeed. I think the hotel gardens on
a bright summer day the most charming place I know. The fountains are
very beautiful; and the band is one of the best I have heard. Lady
Vaughan, I hear the music beginning now; will you allow me to escort
you? There are very comfortable seats in the gardens!"

He saw the sudden, startled flush of joy in the young face. Hyacinth
raised her head and looked eagerly at her grandmamma; but Lady Vaughan
excused herself.

"The journey has been delightful," she said, "but fatiguing. To-morrow I
will go out, but not to-day. Hyacinth will go, though, Adrian, if you
will be so kind as to give the child the pleasure."

The "child" rose, her cheeks aflame, her heart beating as it had never
beat before. To go out into those sunlit gardens and to listen to music
with him--well, she had not even guessed before what a beautiful, happy
world it was. She put on the prettiest of her hats--one with a white
plume--and a lace mantilla, and then stood, half smiling, but wholly
happy, waiting for him. He came up to her smiling.

"Hyacinth," he said, "we are--to use an old-fashioned term--of the same
kin; so I am not going to call you Miss Vaughan. And I want you not to
look so shy, but to feel quite at home with me."

At home with him, this hero, this king amongst men, whose presence
filled her whole soul with light! It could never be.

"I had no idea," he continued, "that I had such a fair young kinswoman.
Lady Vaughan had always written as though you were a child."

Her heart sank. Was this how he thought of her--was this what made him
so kind and gracious to her?

"I am not a child," she said, with some little attempt at dignity, "I am
more than eighteen."

"Quite a philosophic age," was the smiling reply. "Now, Hyacinth, tell
me, what do you like to look at best--flowers, trees, or water?"

"I like all three," she said truthfully.

"Do you? Then I will find you a seat where you can see all. Here is one
not too near the music."

He had found a quaint, pretty garden seat, under the shade of a tall
spreading tree. In front of them were beds of lilies and roses, and the
blue waters of the lake. The band began to play the sad, passionate
music of Verdi's "Miserere;" and to Hyacinth Vaughan it seemed as though
the earth had changed into heaven.

"Do you like music?" he said watching the changes on the beautiful young
face.

"Yes," she replied, "but I have heard so little."

"You have had a very quiet life at Queen's Chase, I should imagine," he
said.

"Yes, as quiet as life could well be."

"You should not regret it. I am quite of the old _régime_. I think young
girls should be so reared."

"For what reason?" she asked.

"For a hundred reasons. If there is one character I detest more than
another, it is that of a worldly woman. Delicacy, purity, refinement,
are all so essential--and no girl can possess them brought up under the
glare and glitter of the world. You have been singularly fortunate in
living at Queen's Chase."

"Thank Heaven," she thought to herself, "that he does not know the
shameful escape I tried to make--that he does not know how I loathed and
hated the place."

"But," she said aloud, "it is not pleasant to be always dull."

"Dull! No. Youth is the very time for enjoyment; every thing rejoices in
youth. You, for instance, have been happy with your books and flowers at
Queen's Chase: the world now is all new to you. You are not what
fashionable jargon calls 'used up.' You have not been playing at being a
woman while you were yet a child; your heart has not been hardened by
flirtations; your soul has not been soiled by contact with worldlings;
you are fresh, and pure, and beautiful as the flowers themselves. If you
had been living all these years in the hot-bed of society, this would
not have been the case. There is nothing so detestable, so unnatural, as
a worldly young girl."

He liked her as she was! For the first time in her life Hyacinth blessed
Lady Vaughan and Queen's Chase.

"I do not want to tire you with argument," he continued, "but tell me
Hyacinth, what becomes of a flower, the growth of which has been
forced?"

"It soon dies," she replied.

"Yes; and girls brought up in the artificial atmosphere of modern
society, and its worship of Mammon, its false estimates, its love of
sensation and excitement, soon die to all that is fairest and best in
life. You," he continued, "enjoy--see, your face tells tales,
Hyacinth--you enjoy the sunshine, the flowers, the music, the lake."

"Yes, indeed I do," she confessed.

"If you had danced and flirted through one or two London seasons, you
would not enjoy nature as you do; it would pall upon you--you would be
apt to look at it through an eye-glass, and criticise the color of the
water and the tints of the flowers--you would detect motes in the
sunbeam and false notes in music."

She laughed. "I should not be so keen a critic, Mr. Darcy."

"One who can criticise is not always one who enjoys most," he said. "I
like to see people honestly enjoying themselves, and leaving criticism
alone."

The gardens were not crowded; there were seldom visitors enough at the
hotel to form a crowd; but Hyacinth was struck by the pleasant,
high-bred faces and elegant dresses.

"Do you see that lady there in the gray dress," said Mr. Darcy--"the one
with two children by her side?" Hyacinth looked in the direction
indicated.

"That is the Princess Von Arten, the daughter of a queen. How simple and
unassuming she is! She is staying here with her children. The gentleman
now saluting her is the eminent Weilmath."

Her face lighted up.

"I am glad to have seen him," she said; "I have read of him so often. Do
you admire him?"

"I admire bravery," he replied, "but not unscrupulous daring. Do you
see that lady sitting under the ilex tree?"

"The one with the sad, thoughtful face?" asked Hyacinth.

"Yes. Twelve months ago she was the leading star of the most brilliant
court in Europe; now she has no home that she can call her own."

Hyacinth turned her face to his.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, "is the world then so full of reverses? I thought
that, when one was happy and prosperous, sorrow and trouble did not
approach. What is stable if money, and friendship, and happiness fail?"

"Just one thing," he replied, with the beautiful luminous smile she had
never seen on any other face--"Heaven!"



CHAPTER XI.


Hyacinth Vaughan repeated one sentence over and over again to
herself--they were always the same words--"Thank Heaven, Adrian does not
know what I have done."

For, as the days passed on, she learned to care for him with a love that
was wonderful in its intensity. It was not his personal beauty that
impressed her. By many people Claude Lennox would have been considered
the handsomer man of the two. It was the grandeur of Adrian Darcy's
character, the loyalty and nobility of his most loyal soul; the beauty
of his mind, the stretch and clearness of his intellect, that charmed
her.

She had never met any one like him--never met so perfect a mixture of
chivalry and strength. She learned to have the utmost reliance upon him.
His most lightly spoken word was to her as the oath of another. She saw
that every thought, every word, every action of his was so perfectly
correct that his least judgment was invaluable. If he said a thing was
right, the whole world could not have made her think it wrong; if he
disapproved of anything, so entire was her reliance upon him, that she
could not be brought to consider it right.

It seemed so strange that she should have been so ready to run away, so
as to escape this Adrian Darcy; and now the brightest heaven of which
she could dream was his friendship--for his love, after she understood
him, she could hardly hope.

"How can he care for a child like me," she was accustomed to ask
herself, "uninformed, inexperienced, ignorant? He is so great and so
noble, how can he care for me?"

She did not know that her sweet humility, her graceful shyness, her
_naïveté_, her entire freedom from all taint of worldliness, was more
precious to him, more charming, than all the accomplishments she could
have displayed.

"How can I ever have thought that I loved Claude?" she said to herself.
"How can I have been so blind? My heart never used to beat more quickly
for his coming. If I had had the same liberty, the same amusements and
pleasures which other girls have, I should never have cared for him. It
was only because he broke the monotony of my life, and gave me something
to think of."

Then in her own mind she contrasted the two men--Adrian, so calm, so
dignified, so noble in thought, word, and deed, and so loyal, so
upright; Claude, all impetuosity, fire, recklessness and passion--not to
be trusted, not to be relied upon. There was never a greater difference
of character surely than between these two men.

She learned to look with Adrian's eyes, to think with his mind; and she
became a noble woman.

Life at Bergheim was very pleasant; there was no monotony, no dreariness
now. Her first thought when she woke in the morning, was that she should
see Adrian, hear him speak, perhaps go out with him. Quite unconsciously
to herself, he became the centre of her thoughts and ideas--the soul of
her soul, the life of her life. She did not know that she loved him;
what she called her "love" for Claude had been something so
different--all made up of gratified vanity and love of change. The
beautiful affection rapidly mastering her was so great and reverent, it
filled her soul with light, her heart with music, her mind with beauty.
She did not know that it was love that kept her awake throughout the
night thinking of him, bringing back to her mind every word he had
spoken--that made her always anxious to look well.

"I always thought," she said to him one day, "that grave and thoughtful
people always despised romance."

"They despise all affectation and caricature of it," he replied.

"Since I have been out in the world and have listened to people
talking, I have heard them say, 'Oh, she is romantic!' as though romance
were wrong or foolish."

"There is romance and romance," he said; "romance that is noble,
beautiful and exalting; and romance that is the overheated sentiment of
foolish girls. What so romantic as Shakespeare? What love he paints for
us--what passion, what sadness! Who more romantic than Fouque? What wild
stories, what graceful, improbable legends he gives us! Yet, who sneers
at Shakespeare and Fouque?"

"Then why do people apply the word 'romantic' almost as a term of
reproach to others?"

"Because they misapply the word, and do not understand it. I plead
guilty myself to a most passionate love of romance--that is, romance
which teaches, elevates, and ennobles--the soul of poetry, the high and
noble faculty that teaches one to appreciate the beautiful and true. You
know, Hyacinth, there are true romance and false romance, just as there
are true poetry and false poetry."

"I can understand what you call true romance, but not what you mean by
false," she said.

"No; you are too much like the flower you are named after to know much
of false romance," he rejoined. "Everything that lowers one's standard,
that tends to lower one's thoughts, that puts mere sentiment in the
place of duty, that makes wrong seem right, that leads to underhand
actions, to deceit, to folly--all that is false romance. Pardon my
alluding to such things. The lover who would persuade a girl to deceive
her friends for his sake, who would persuade her to give him private
meetings, to receive secret letters--such a lover starts from a base of
the very falsest romance; yet many people think it true."

He did not notice that her beautiful face had suddenly grown pale, and
that an expression of fear had crept into her blue eyes.

"You are always luring me into argument, Hyacinth," he said, with a
smile.

"Because I like to hear you talk," she explained. She did not see how
full of love was the look he bent on her as he plucked a spray of azalea
flowers and passed it to her. Through the tears that filled her downcast
eyes she saw the flower, and almost mechanically took it from his hand,
not daring to look up. But in the silence of her own room she pressed
the flowers passionately to her lips and rained tears upon them, as she
moaned, "Oh, if he knew, what would he think of me? what would he
think?"



CHAPTER XII.


Hyacinth Vaughan was soon to learn more of Mr. Darcy's sentiments. He
was dining with them one day, when the conversation turned upon some
English guests who had arrived at the hotel the evening before--Lord and
Lady Wallace.

"She looks quite young," said Lady Vaughan. "She would be a nice
companion for Hyacinth."

Mr. Darcy, to whom she was speaking, made no reply. Lady Vaughan noticed
how grave his face had grown.

"Do you not think so, Adrian?" she asked.

"Since you wish me to speak, my answer is, no; I do not think so."

"Do you mind telling me why?" pursued Lady Vaughan "I have been so long
out of the world I am ignorant of its proceedings."

"I would rather you would not ask me, Lady Vaughan," he said.

"And I would rather hear what you have to tell," she persisted, with a
smiling air of command that he was too courteous not to obey.

"I do not think Lady Wallace would be a good companion for Hyacinth,
because she is what people of the period call 'fast.' She created a
great sensation three years ago by eloping with Lord Wallace. She was
only seventeen at the time."

Lady Vaughan looked slightly disgusted; but Hyacinth, who perhaps felt
in some measure that she was on her trial, said: "Perhaps she loved
him."

Adrian turned to her eagerly. "That is what I was trying to explain to
you the other day--false romance--how the truest, the purest, the
brightest romance would have been, not eloping--which is the commonplace
instinct of commonplace minds--but waiting in patience. Think of the
untruths, the deceit, the false words, the underhand dealings that are
necessary for an elopement!"

"But surely," said Lady Vaughan, "there are exceptions?"

"There may be. I do not know. I am only saying what I think. A girl who
deceives all her friends, who leaves home in such a fashion, must be
devoid of refinement and delicacy--not to mention truth and honesty."

"You are very hard," murmured Hyacinth.

"Nay," he rejoined, turning to her with infinite tenderness of manner;
"there are some things in which one cannot be too hard. Anything that
touches the fair and pure name of a woman should be held sacred."

"You think highly of women," she said.

"I do--so highly that I cannot bear even a cloud to shadow the fairness
and brightness that belong to them. A woman's fair name is her
inheritance--her dower. I could not bear, had I a sister, to hear her
name lightly spoken by light lips. What the moss is to the rose, what
green leaves are to the lily, spotless repute is to a woman."

As he spoke the grave words, Hyacinth looked at him. How pure, how noble
the woman must be who could win his love!

"Ah me, ah me!" thought the girl, with a bitter sigh, "what would he say
to me if he knew all? Who was ever so near the scandal he hated as I
was? Oh, thank Heaven, that I drew back in time, and that mine was but
the shadow of a sin!"

There were times when she thought, with a beating heart, of what Lady
Vaughan had said to her--that it was her wish Adrian Darcy should marry
her. The lot that had once seemed so hard to her was now so bright, so
dazzling, that she dared not think of it--when she remembered it, her
face flushed crimson.

"I am not worthy," she said over and over again to herself--"I am not
worthy."

She thought of Adrian's love as she thought of the distant stars in
heaven--bright, beautiful, but far away. In her sweet humility, she did
not think there was anything in herself which could attract him. She
little dreamed, how much he admired the loveliness of her face, the
grace of her girlish figure, the purity, the innocence, the simplicity
that, despite the shadow of a sin, still lingered with her.

"She is innately noble," he said one day to Lady Vaughan. "She is sure
always to choose the nobler and better part; her ideas are naturally
noble, pure, and correct. She is the most beautiful combination of child
and woman that I have ever met. Imagination and common sense, poetry,
idealisms and reason, all seem to meet in her."

Years ago, Adrian Darcy had heard something of Lady Vaughan's
half-expressed wish that he should marry her granddaughter. He laughed
at it at the time; but he remembered it with a sense of acute pleasure.
His had been a busy life; he had studied hard--had carried off some of
the brightest honors of his college--and, after leaving Oxford, had
devoted himself to literary pursuits. He had written books which had
caused him to be pronounced one of the most learned scholars in England.
He cared little for the frivolities of fashion--they had not interested
him in the least--yet his name was a tower of strength in the great
world.

Between Adrian Darcy and the ancient Barony of Chandon there was but the
present Lord Chandon, an old infirm man, and his son, a sickly boy.
People all agreed that sooner or later Adrian must succeed to the
estate; great, therefore, was the welcome he received in Vanity Fair.
Mothers presented their fairest daughters to him; fair-faced girls
smiled their sweetest smiles when he was present; but all was in
vain--the world and the worldly did not please Adrian Darcy. He cared
more for his books than woman's looks; he had never felt the least
inclination to fall in love until he met Hyacinth Vaughan.

It was not her beauty that charmed him, although he admitted that it was
greater than he had ever seen. It was her youth, her simplicity, her
freedom from all affectation, the entire absence of all worldliness, the
charm of her fresh, sweet romance, that delighted him. She said what she
thought, and she expressed her thoughts in such beautiful, eloquent
words that he delighted to listen to them. He was quite unused to such
frank, sweet, candid simplicity--it had all the charms of novelty for
him. He had owned to himself, at last, that he loved her--that life
without her would be a dreary blank.

"If I had never met her," he said to himself, "I should never have loved
anyone. In all the wide world she is the only one for me." He wondered
whether he could speak to her yet of his love. "She is like some shy,
bright bird," he said to himself, "and I am afraid of startling her. She
is so simple, so child-like, in spite of her romance and poetry, that I
am half afraid."

His manner to her was so chivalrous that it was like the wooing of some
gracious king. She contrasted him over and over again with
Claude--Claude, who had respected her girlish ignorance and inexperience
so little. So the sunny days glided by in a dream of delight. Adrian
spent all his time with them; and one day Lady Vaughan asked him what
he thought of his chance of succeeding to the Barony of Chandon.

"I think," he replied slowly, "that sooner or later it must be mine."

"Do you care much for it?" she asked. "Old people are always
inquisitive, Adrian--you must forgive me."

"I care for it in one sense," he replied; "but I cannot say honestly
that title or rank give me any great pleasure. I would rather be Adrian
Darcy, than Baron Chandon of Chandon. But, Lady Vaughan, I will tell you
something that I long for, that I covet and desire."

"What is it?" she asked, looking at the handsome face, flushed, eager,
and excited.

"It is the love of Hyacinth Vaughan," he answered. "I love her--I have
never seen anyone so simple, so frank, so _spirituelle_. I love her as I
never thought to love any woman. If I do not marry her, I will never
marry anyone. I have your permission, I know; but she is so shy, so coy,
I am afraid to speak to her. Do you think I have any chance, Lady
Vaughan?"

She raised her fair old face to his.

"I do," she replied. "Thanks to our care, the girl's heart is like the
white leaf of a lily. No shadow has ever rested on her. She has not been
flirted with and talked about. I tell you honestly, Adrian, that the
lilies in the garden are not more pure, more fair, or fresh than she."

"I know it," he agreed; "and, heaven helping me, I will so guard and
shield her that no shadow shall ever fall over her."

"She has never had a lover," continued Lady Vaughan. "Her life has been
a most secluded one."

"Then I shall try to win her," he said; and when he had gone away Lady
Vaughan acknowledged to herself that the very desire of her heart was
near being gratified.



CHAPTER XIII.


It may be that Hyacinth Vaughan read Adrian Darcy's determination in his
face, for she grew so coy and frightened that had he not been brave he
would have despaired. If by accident she raised her eyes and met his
glance her face burned and her heart beat; when he spoke to her it was
with difficulty she answered him. She had once innocently and eagerly
sought his society--she had loved to listen to him while he was talking
to Lady Vaughan--she had enjoyed being with him as the flowers enjoy the
sunlight. But something was awake in her heart and soul which had been
sleeping until now. When she saw Adrian, her first impulse was to turn
aside and fly, no matter whither, because of the sweet pain his presence
caused her. He met her one morning in the broad corridor of the hotel;
she looked fresh and bright, fair and sweet as the morning itself. Her
face flushed at his coming, she stopped half undecided whether to go on
or turn and fly.

"Hyacinth," he said, holding out his hand in greeting, "it seems an age
since I have had any conversation with you. Where do you hide yourself?
What are you always doing?"

Then he paused and looked at her--admiration, passion, and tenderness
unspeakable in his eyes. She little knew how fair a picture she
presented in her youthful loveliness and timidity--how graceful and pure
she was in her girlish embarrassment.

"Have you not one word of greeting, Hyacinth? It is the morning of a
fresh day. I have not seen you since the noon of yesterday. Speak to
me--after your own old bright way. Why, Hyacinth, what has changed you?
We used to laugh all the sunny summer day through, and now you give me
only a smile. What has changed you?"

She never remembered what answer she made him, nor how she escaped. She
remembered nothing until she found herself in her own room, her heart
beating, her face dyed with burning blushes, and her whole soul awake
and alarmed.

"What has changed me?" she asked. "What has come over me? I know--I
know. I love him!"

She fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands--she wept
passionately.

"I love him," she said--"oh, Heaven, make me worthy to love him!"

She knelt in a kind of waking trance, a wordless ecstasy. She loved him;
her heart was awake, her soul slept no more. That was why she dreaded
yet longed to meet him--why his presence gave her pain that was sweeter
than all joy.

This paradise she had gained was what, in her blindness and folly she
had flown from; and she knew now, as she knelt there, that, had all the
treasures of earth been offered to her, had its fairest gifts been laid
at her feet, she would have selected this from them.

At last the great joy, the great mystery, the crowning pleasure of
woman's life, was hers. She called to mind all that the poets had
written of love. Was it true? Ah, no! It fell a thousand fathoms short.
Such happiness, such joy as made music in her heart could not be told in
words, and her face burned again as she remembered the feeble sentiment
that she had dignified by the name of love. Now that she understood
herself, she knew that it was impossible she could ever have loved
Claude Lennox; he had not enough grandeur or nobility of character to
attract her.

When she went down to the _salon_, Sir Arthur and Adrian were there
alone; she fled like a startled fawn. He was to dine with them that day,
and she spent more time than usual over her toilet. How could she make
herself fair enough in the eyes of the man who was her king? Very fair
did she look, for among her treasures she found an old-fashioned
brocade, rich, heavy, and beautiful, and it was trimmed with rich point
lace. The ground was white, with small rosebuds embroidered on it. The
fair, rounded arms and white neck shone out even fairer than the white
dress; a few pearls that Lady Vaughan had given her shone like dew-drops
in the fair hair. She looked both long and anxiously in the mirror, so
anxious was she to look well in his eyes.

"Miss Vaughan grows quite difficult to please," said Pincott to her
mistress, later on; and Lady Vaughan smiled.

"There may be reasons," she returned; "we have all been young once--we
must not quite forget what youth is like. Ah--there is the dinner-bell."

But, as far as the mere material dinner was concerned, Adrian did not
show to great advantage; it was impossible to eat while that lovely
vision in white brocade sat opposite to him.

"She flies from me--she avoids me," he thought; "but she shall listen. I
have tamed the white doves--I have made the wildest, brightest
song-birds love me and eat from my hands. She shall love me, too."

He could not succeed in inducing her to look at him; when he spoke she
answered, but the sweet eyes were always downcast.

"Never mind. She shall look at me yet," he thought.

After dinner he asked her to sing. She saw with alarm that if she did so
she would be alone with him--for the piano was at the extreme end of the
room. So she excused herself, and he understood perfectly the reason
why.

"Will you play at chess?" he asked.

Not for the wealth of India could she have managed it.

"I shall win you," his eyes seemed to say. "You may try to escape.
Flutter your bright wings, my pretty bird; it is all in vain."

Then he asked her if she would go into the grounds. She murmured some
few words of apology that he could hardly hear. A sudden great love and
sweetest pity for her youth and her timidity came over him. "I will be
patient," he said to himself; "the shy bird shall not be startled. In
time she will learn not to be so coy and timid."

So he turned away and asked Sir Arthur if he should read the leading
article from the _Times_ to him, and Sir Arthur gratefully accepted the
offer. Lady Vaughan, with serenely composed face, went to sleep.
Hyacinth stole gently to the window; she wanted no books, no music; a
fairyland was unfolded before her, and she had not half explored it. She
only wanted to be quite alone, to think over and over again how
wonderful it was that she loved Adrian Darcy.

"Come out," the dewy, sleepy flowers seemed to say. "Come out," sung the
birds. "Come out," whispered the wind, bending the tall magnolia trees
and spreading abroad sweet perfume. She looked round the room; Lady
Vaughan was fast asleep, Sir Arthur listening intently, and Adrian
reading to him. "No one will miss me," she thought.

She took up a thin shawl that was lying near, opened the long window
very gently, and stepped out. But she was mistaken: some one did miss
her, and that some one was Adrian. No gesture, no movement of hers ever
escaped him. She was gone out into the sweet, dewy, fragrant gloaming,
and he longed to follow her.

He read on patiently until--oh, pleasant sight!--he saw Sir Arthur's
eyes begin to close. He had purposely chosen the dryest articles, and
had read slowly until the kind god Morpheus came to his aid, and Sir
Arthur slept. Then Adrian rose and followed Hyacinth. The band was
playing at the further end of the gardens, and Mozart's sweet music came
floating through the trees.

It was such a dim pleasant light under the vines, and the music of the
dripping water was so sweet. His instinct had not deceived him:
something white was gleaming by the rock. He walked with quiet steps.
She was sitting watching the falling waters, looking so fair and lovely
in that dim green light. He could contain himself no longer; he sprung
forward and caught her in his arms.

"I have found you at last, Hyacinth," he said--"I have found you at
last."



CHAPTER XIV.


Hyacinth Vaughan turned round in startled fear and wonder, and then she
saw her lover's face, and knew by her womanly instinct what was coming.
She made no effort to escape; she had been like a frightened,
half-scared bird, but now a great calm came over her, a solemn and
beautiful gladness.

"Hyacinth, forgive me," he said--"I have been looking for you so long.
Oh, my darling, if ever the time should come that I should look for you
and not find you, what should I do?"

In this, one of the happiest moments of his life, there came to him a
presentiment of evil--one of those sharp, sudden, subtle instincts for
which he could never account--a sense of darkness, as though the time
were coming when he should look for that dear face and not find it,
listen for the beloved voice and not hear it--when he should call in
vain for his love and no response meet his ears. All this passed through
his mind in the few moments that he held her in his arms and looked in
her pure, faultless face.

"Have I startled you?" he asked, seeing how strangely pale and calm it
had grown. "Why have you been so cruel to me, Hyacinth? Did you not know
that I have been seeking for you all day, longing for five minutes with
you? For, Hyacinth, I want to ask you something. Now you are
trembling--see how unsteady these sweet hands are. I do not want to
frighten you, darling; sit down here and let us talk quietly."

They sat down, and for a few moments a deep silence fell over them,
broken only by the ripple of the water and the sound of distant music.

"Hyacinth," said Adrian, gently, "I little thought, when I came here
four short weeks since, thinking of nothing but reading three chapters
of Goethe before breakfast, that I should find my fate--the fairest and
sweetest fate that ever man found. I believe that I loved you then--at
that first moment--as dearly as I love you now. You seemed to creep into
my heart and nestle there. Until I die there will be no room in my heart
for any other."

She sat very still, listening to his passionate words, letting her hands
lie within his. It seemed to her like a king coming to take possession
of his own.

"I can offer you," he said, "the deepest, best, and purest, love. It has
not been frittered away on half a dozen worthless objects. You are my
only love. I shall know no other. Hyacinth, will you be my wife?"

It had fallen at last, this gleam of sunlight that had dazzled her so
long by its brightness; it had fallen at her feet, and it blinded her.

"Will you be my wife, Hyacinth? Do not say 'Yes' unless you love me; nor
because it is any one's wish; nor because Lady Vaughan may have said,
'It would be a suitable arrangement.' But say it if you love me--if you
are happy with me."

He remembered in after-years how what she said puzzled him. She clasped
her little white hands; she bent her head in sweetest humility.

"I am not worthy," she whispered.

He laughed aloud in the joy of his heart. "Not worthy? I know best about
that, Hyacinth. I know that from the whole world I choose you for my
wife, my queen, my love, because you are the fairest, the truest, the
purest woman in it. I know that, if a king were kneeling here in my
place, your love would crown him. It is I who am not worthy, sweet. What
man is worthy of love so pure as yours? Tell me, Hyacinth, will you be
my wife?"

The grave pallor left her face; a thousand little gleams and lights
seemed to play over it.

"My wife--to love me, to help me while we both live."

"I--I cannot think that you love me," she said, gently. "You are so
gifted, so noble, so clever--so brave and so strong."

"And what are you?" he asked, laughingly.

"I am nothing--nothing, that is, compared to you."

"A very sweet and fair nothing. Now that you have flattered me, listen
while I tell you what you are. To begin, you are, without exception,
the loveliest girl that ever smiled in the sunshine. You have a royal
dowry of purity, truth, innocence and simplicity, than which no queen
ever had greater. All the grace and music of the world, to my mind, are
concentrated in you. I can say no more, sweet. I find that words do not
express my meaning. All the unworthiness is on my side--not on yours."

"But," she remonstrated, "some day you will be a very rich, great man,
will you not?"

"I am what the world calls rich, now," he replied, gravely. "And--yes,
you are right, Hyacinth--it is most probable that I may be Baron Chandon
of Chandon some day. But what has that to do with it, sweet?"

"You should have a wife who knows more than I do--some one who
understands the great world."

"Heaven forbid!" he said, earnestly. "I would not marry a worldly woman,
Cynthy, if she brought me Golconda for a fortune. There is no one else
who could make such a fair and gentle Lady Chandon as you."

"I am afraid that you will be disappointed in me afterward," she
remarked, falteringly.

"I am very willing to run the risk, my darling. Now you have been quite
cruel enough, Cynthy. We will even go so far as to suppose you have
faults; I know that, being human, you cannot be without them. But that
does not make me love you less. Now, tell me, will you be my wife?"

She looked up at him with sweet, shy grace. "I am afraid you think too
highly of me," she opposed, apologetically; "in many things I am but a
child."

"Child, woman, fairy, spirit--no matter what you are--just as you are, I
love you, and I would not have you changed; nothing can improve you,
because, in my eyes, you are perfect. Will you be my wife, Hyacinth?"

"Yes," she replied; "and I pray that I may be worthy of my lot."

He bent down and kissed the fair flushed face, the sweet quivering lips,
the white drooping eyelids.

"You are my own now," he said--"my very own. Nothing but death shall
part us."

So they sat in silence more eloquent than words; the faint sound of the
music came over the trees, the wind stirred the vine leaves--there never
came such another hour in life for them. In the first rapture of her
great happiness Hyacinth did not remember Claude, or perhaps she would
have told her lover about him, but she did not even remember him. Over
the smiling heaven of her content no cloud, however light, sailed--she
remembered nothing in that hour but her love and her happiness.

Then he began to talk to her of the life that lay before them.

"We must live so that others may be the better for our living, Cynthy.
Should it happen that you become Lady Chandon, we will have a vast
responsibility on our hands."

She looked pleased and happy.

"We will build schools," she said, "almshouses for the poor people; we
will make every one glad and happy, Adrian."

"That will be a task beyond us, I fear," he rejoined, with a smile, "but
we will do our best."

"I must try to learn every thing needful for so exalted a position," she
observed, with a great sigh of content.

"You must be very quick about it, darling," he said. "I am going to
presume upon your kindness. It is not enough to know that I have won
you, but I want to know when you will be mine."

She made no reply, and he went on.

"I do not see why we need wait--do you, Cynthy?"

"I do not see why we need hurry," she replied.

"I can give you a reason for that--I want you; my life will be one long
sigh until I can say in very truth that you are my wife. Will you let me
tell Lady Vaughan this evening, that I have been successful?"

She clung to him, her hand clasping his arm. "Not to-night," she said,
softly. "Adrian, let me have this one night to myself to think it all
over."

"It shall be just as you like, my darling; I will tell her to-morrow.
Now, Cynthy, this is the 19th of July--why should we not be married in
two months from to-day?" Ah, why not? She said nothing. The wind, that
whispered so many secrets to the trees, did not tell them that.



CHAPTER XV.


When Hyacinth woke next morning, it was with difficulty that she
disentangled dreams and truth; then the whole of her untold joys rushed
over her, and she knew it was no fancy--no dream. She went down to
breakfast looking, if possible, more beautiful than she had ever
looked; the love-light on her face made it radiant; her eyes were bright
as stars. Lady Vaughan gazed at her, as she had often done before, in
sheer wonder. During breakfast she heard Sir Arthur complaining of his
papers.

"I am told they will not come until night," he said. "I really do not
see how I am to get through the day without my papers."

"What is the cause of the delay?" asked Lady Vaughan.

"Some accident to the mail train. The company ought to be more careful."

"Adrian will perhaps be able to do something to amuse you," said Lady
Vaughan.

"Adrian has gone out," returned Sir Arthur, in an injured tone of voice.
"Some friends of his came to the hotel late last night, and he has gone
out with them; he will not return till evening."

"Who told you so?" asked Lady Vaughan.

"He wrote this note," said Sir Arthur, "and sent it to me the first
thing this morning." Then Hyacinth smiled to herself, for she knew the
note was written for her.

"We must get through the day as well as we can," said Lady Vaughan.

Greatly to Sir Arthur's surprise, Hyacinth volunteered to spend the
morning with him.

"I can amuse you," she said--"not perhaps as well as Mr. Darcy, but I
will do my best. We will go out into the grounds if you like; the band
is going to play a selection from 'Il Flauto Magico.'"

And Sir Arthur consented, inwardly wondering how sweet, gentle, and
compliant his granddaughter was.

Just before dinner a messenger came to the _salon_ to say that Mr. Darcy
had returned, and, with Lady Vaughan's permission would spend the
evening with them.

"He will tell Lady Vaughan this evening," thought Hyacinth; "and then
every one will know."

She dressed herself with unusual care; it would be the first time of
seeing him since she had promised to be his wife. Amongst her treasures
was a dress of white lace, simple and elegant, somewhat elaborately
trimmed with green leaves. Pincott came again, by Lady Vaughan's wish,
to superintend the young lady's toilet. She looked curiously at the
white lace dress.

"Begging your pardon, Miss Vaughan," she said, "but I never saw a young
lady so changed. I used to feel quite grieved when you were so careless
about your dress."

"I will try not to grieve you again," said the young girl, laughingly.

"You must not wear either jewels or ribbons with this dress," observed
Pincott. "There must be nothing but a simple cluster of green leaves."

"It shall be just as you like," observed Miss Vaughan.

But the maid's taste was correct--nothing more simply elegant or
effective could have been devised than the dress of white lace and the
cluster of green leaves on the fair hair. Hyacinth hardly remembered how
the time passed until he came. She heard his footsteps--heard his voice;
and her heart beat, her face flushed, her whole soul seemed to go out to
meet him.

"Hyacinth," he cried, clasping her hand, "this day seemed to me as long
as a century."

Lady Vaughan was sitting alone in her favorite arm-chair near the open
window. Adrian went up to her, leading Hyacinth by the hand.

"Dearest Lady Vaughan," he said, "can you guess what I have to tell
you?"

The fair old face beamed with smiles.

"Is it what I have expected, Adrian?" she asked. "Does my little
Hyacinth love you?"

The girl hid her blushing face; then she sunk slowly on her knees, and
the kind old hands were raised to bless her. They trembled on her bowed
head; Hyacinth seized them and covered them with passionate kisses and
tears. She had thought them stern hands once, and had felt disposed to
fly from their guidance; but now, as she kissed them, she blessed and
thanked them that their guidance had brought her to this happy haven of
rest.

"Heaven bless you, my child!" said the feeble voice. The lady bowed her
stately head and fair old face over the young girl.

"If you have ever thought me stern, Hyacinth," she said--"if you have
ever fancied the rules I laid down for you hard--remember it was all for
your own good. The world is full of snares--some of them cruel ones--for
the unwary. I saw that you were full of romance and poetry; and I--I did
my best, my dear. If you have thought me hard, you must forgive me
now--it was all for your own good. I know the value of a pure mind, an
innocent heart, and a spotless name; and that is the dowry you bring
your husband. No queen ever had one more regal. The Vaughans are a
proud old race. There has never been even the faintest slur or shadow
resting on any one who bore the name; and the highest praise that I can
give you is that you are worthy to bear it."

Adrian did not know why the fair young head was bent in such lowly
humility, why such passionate sobs rose to the girl's lips as he raised
her and held her for a moment in his arms.

"Go to your room, Hyacinth, and remove all traces of tears," said Lady
Vaughan. "We must be glad, not sorry, this evening--it is your betrothal
night. And see, here are the papers, Sir Arthur; now you will be quite
happy, and forgive that unfortunate mail train."



CHAPTER XVI.


Hyacinth was not long absent. She bathed her face in some cool, fragrant
water, smiling to herself the while at finding that Lady Vaughan could
be sentimental, thankful that the needful little scene was over, and
wondering shyly what this new and bewildering life would be like, with
Adrian by her side as her acknowledged lover. So happy she was--ah, so
happy! There was not one drawback--not one cloud. She rearranged the
pretty lace dress and the green leaves, and then tripped down-stairs, as
fair a vision of youth, beauty, and happiness as ever gladdened the
daylight. Just as she reached the _salon_ door she dropped her
handkerchief, and stooping to pick it up, she heard Lady Vaughan say,

"Do not tell Hyacinth--it will shock her so."

"She must hear of it," Sir Arthur returned; "better tell her yourself,
my dear."

Wondering what they could be discussing she opened the door and saw a
rather unusual _tableau_. Lady Vaughan was still in her comfortable
arm-chair; she held a newspaper in her hands, and Sir Arthur and Adrian
Darcy were bending over her, evidently deeply interested. Hyacinth's
entrance seemed to put an end to their discussion. Adrian went up to
her. Sir Arthur took the paper from his lady's hand and began to read it
for himself.

"You will not refuse to sing for me to-night, Cynthy?" said Adrian. "It
is, you know, as Lady Vaughan says, our betrothal night. Will you give
me that pleasure?"

Still wondering at what she had heard, Hyacinth complied with his
request. She played well, and she had a magnificent, well-trained voice.
She sung now some simple ballad, telling of love that was never to die,
of faith that was never to change, of happiness that was to last forever
and ever; and as she sung the divine light of love played on her face
and deep warm gratitude rose in her heart. He thanked her--he kissed the
white hands that had touched the keys so deftly; and, then she heard Sir
Arthur say again:

"He cannot be guilty; it is utterly impossible. I cannot say I liked the
young fellow; he seemed to me one of the careless, reckless kind. But
rely upon it he is too much of a gentleman to be capable of such a
brutal, barbarous deed."

"If he is innocent," observed Lady Vaughan, "he will be released. In our
days justice is too sure and too careful to destroy an innocent man."

"Colonel Lennox will never get over it. Such a blow will kill a proud
man like him."

"I pity his mother most," said Lady Vaughan.

Every word of this conversation had been heard by Hyacinth and Adrian.
She was looking over some music, and he stood by her. A strange, vague,
numb sensation was gradually creeping over her. She raised her eyes to
her lover's face, and they asked, as plainly as eyes could speak:

"What are they discussing?"

"A strange, sad story," he spoke in answer to the look, for she had
uttered no word. Lady Vaughan heard him.

"You will be grieved, Hyacinth," she said; "but that you will be sure to
hear of it sooner or later, I would not tell you one word. Do you
remember young Claude Lennox, who was visiting his uncle? He came over
to the Chase several times."

"I remember him," she replied, vaguely conscious of her own words--for a
terrible dread was over her. She could have cried aloud in her anguish,
"What is it--oh, what is it?"

"Appearances are against him, certainly," continued Lady Vaughan, in her
calm tone--oh, would she never finish?--"but I cannot think him guilty."

"Guilty of what?" asked Hyacinth; and the sound of her own voice
frightened her as it left her rigid lips.

"Guilty of murder, my dear. It is a strange case. It appears that the
very day after we left the Chase, a dreadful murder was discovered at
Leybridge--a woman was found cruelly murdered under a hedge in one of
the fields near the station. In the poor woman's clinched hand was a
handkerchief, with the name 'Claude Lennox' upon it. On searching
further the police found his address, 'Claude Lennox, 200 Belgrave
Square,' written in pencil on a small folded piece of paper. The woman's
name is supposed to be Anna Barratt. Circumstantial evidence is very
strong against Claude. One of the porters at Leybridge Station swears
that he saw him walk with a woman in the direction of the fields; a
laboring man swears that he saw him returning alone to Oakton Park in
the early dawn of the morning; and the colonel's servants say he was
absent from Oakton the whole night."

"Still, that may only be circumstantial evidence," said Sir Arthur,
"though it is strongly against him. Why should he kill a woman who was
quite a stranger to him, as he solemnly swears she was?"

"Who, then, was with him at the station? You see, three people swear to
have noticed him leave Leybridge Station with a woman whom none of them
recognized."

They might perhaps have continued the discussion, but a slight sound
disturbed them, and, looking round, they saw that Hyacinth had fallen to
the floor. She had risen from her seat with a ghastly face and burning
eyes; her white lips had opened to say, "It is not Claude who killed
her, but her husband." She tried to utter the words, but her voice was
mute, and then with outstretched arms she fell face foremost to the
ground in a dead swoon. Adrian ran to her; he raised her--he looked in
wondering alarm at the colorless face with its impress of dread and
fear.

"It has frightened her almost to death," he said. "Did she know this
Claude Lennox, Lady Vaughan?"

"Yes, very slightly; we met him once or twice at Oakton Park, and he
called at the Chase. But I did not like him. I kept Hyacinth carefully
out of his way."

"What can we do for her?" he asked, in a trembling voice.

"Nothing," said Lady Vaughan. "Do not call the servants; they make such
a fuss about anything of this kind. Let the fresh air blow over her."

They raised her up and laid her upon the couch. Sir Arthur threw open
the doors into the conservatory, and opened the windows in that room
also, to admit currents of fresh air. Lady Vaughan withdrew with
noiseless step to another room for a glass of cool water. Adrian bent
over the wholly unconscious form of his darling, his face almost as
white as her own in his anxiety. Suddenly he remembered that he had
acquired a slight knowledge of surgery in his University life, and
drawing a lancet from his pocket, he made a slight incision in the
beautiful snowy arm that lay so limp and lifeless upon his hand.

One or two drops of blood from the cut stained his fingers. Passionately
he kissed the wound that he had made in his love, but though a slight
moan escaped her lips, Hyacinth did not yet move nor awaken from her
swoon. The old people returned, and Lady Vaughan moistened the pallid
brow and colorless lips. Again that moan came, the girl moved, and
presently the white lips parted with a sigh, and the eyes opened with a
look of terror in them which Adrian never forgot.

"I am so frightened!" she said.

"My darling!" cried Adrian, "I am sorry you heard anything about it. Why
need you be frightened?"

"I am shocked," she said, and the ghastly fear deepened in her eyes.

"Of course you are--one so young, so fair, so gentle. The very word
'murder' is enough to terrify you."

Then she lay perfectly still--holding her lover's hand in hers, looking
at him with such wordless sorrow, such unutterable woe in her face. Lady
Vaughan brought her a glass of wine; she drank it, hardly knowing what
she did, and then the elder lady, bending over her, kissed her face.

"You must not be so sensitive, my dear," she said. "How will you get
through life if you feel for everybody's trouble in this fashion? Of
course we are all deeply grieved for the young man, but he is nothing to
us."

Her words fell on dulled ears and an unconscious brain; the girl, still
holding her lover's hand, turned her face to the wall. She had not been
able to collect her thoughts--they were in a state of chaos. Of all that
crowded upon her, that seemed to burn into her brain, that crushed and
crowded like living figures around her, one stood out clear, distinct,
and terrible--Claude was innocent, and no one in the world knew it but
herself. Look where she would, these words seemed to be before her, in
great red letters--"No one but myself!" She turned her white face
suddenly to Adrian Darcy:

"If they find him guilty," she asked, "what will they do to him?"

"If he is guilty, he will pay for the crime with his life. But now,
Cynthy, you must not think so intently of this. Try to forget it for a
little time."

Forget it! Ah, if he knew? When should she forget again?

"He is innocent, and no one in the world knows it but myself, and no one
else can prove it."

Over and over again she said the words; it seemed to her they had
bewitched her. As soon as she had finished them, she began the terrible
phrase over again. Then the darkness seemed to fall over her. When she
raised her eyes again, Adrian was reading to her. She tried hard to
grasp the sense of what he was saying. She tried to understand the
words, but they were like a dull distant sound--not one was plain or
distinct to her.

"I must be going mad," she thought, starting up in wild affright; and
then Adrian's arms were encircling her. He could feel the terrible
beating of her heart; he could see the awful fear in her face.

"My dearest Hyacinth," he said gently, "you must not give way to this
nervous fear--you will do yourself harm."

He laid the fair young head on his breast; he soothed and caressed her
as he would have soothed a frightened child; and then Lady Vaughan
insisted that she was tired and must go to rest. They did not notice
that as she left the room she took with her the paper Sir Arthur had
been reading.



CHAPTER XVII.


Alone at last; and the ghastly fear, the terrible dread, overwhelmed
Hyacinth. The paper dropped from her hands, and she fell, with a low,
shuddering cry, on her knees. The news was too cruel, too dreadful, too
horrible. She moaned rather than cried--"Oh, merciful Heaven, let me
die! let me die!"

The fear that was upon her was far more trying than any physical
anguish. Who could have recognized her crouching there with fever in her
brain, with anguish in her heart, as the beautiful brilliant girl who
quitted that same room a few hours since, radiant with love and hope?

Then she took up the paper, and with wild, distended eyes read this
paragraph:

"SHOCKING MURDER AT LEYBRIDGE.--The whole of this district has been
thrown into the greatest consternation by the discovery of a terrible
murder that has been committed in the pleasant meadows near the railway
station. On Thursday morning as John Dean, a laborer, was going to his
work, his attention was attracted by something lying under the hedge in
the field known as Lime Meadow. He found, on inspection, that it was the
body of a woman who had been most cruelly murdered. He hastened to the
police station and gave information to Inspector Henderson. The
inspector went at once to the spot with two of his men. The woman had
been dead, it was supposed, over two hours; there were signs of a
violent struggle; and she had evidently tried hard to defend herself. At
first no clew could be discovered as to her identity or that of her
murderer; but it was seen that she held a handkerchief tightly clinched
in her hands. With some difficulty it was taken away, and the name
'Claude Lennox' was found upon it. Further search brought to light a
folded paper, on which the address of Mr. Lennox was written in full.
The woman's clothes were marked, 'Anna Barratt.' She was quite a
stranger to the neighborhood, and no one remembers to have seen her
before. The police immediately began to make inquiries, the result of
which was the apprehension of Claude Lennox on the charge of wilful
murder. He has been brought before the magistrates at Ashton, and the
evidence given is very strong against him. Mr. Lennox is the nephew of
Colonel Lennox, of Ashton Park; and it appears that, much to the
colonel's anger and annoyance, the young gentleman was absent all
Wednesday night. A porter at Leybridge Station swears to having seen Mr.
Lennox in company with some woman--whose features he did not see--quite
early on Thursday morning. He noticed him particularly, because Mr.
Lennox seemed anxious that his companion should escape all observation.
He saw them walking toward the meadow, but not having seen the woman's
face, could not identify her. Thomas Hannan, a signalman, also swore to
the same facts. Robert Cliffe, a day-laborer, deposed that, as he was
going to work early on Thursday morning, he saw the accused walking
alone and hurriedly toward the park. He thought the gentleman looked
agitated. The prisoner admitted at once that the handkerchief and folded
paper containing the address were his, but refused to explain how they
came into the possession of the deceased. He swore that he was not
guilty of the murder, and that the woman was a stranger to him. When
asked to state where he had been during the night, he declined. When
asked to prove an _alibi_--if he could bring any witnesses to prove
where he had been--he replied abruptly that it was impossible--he could
not do it. The magistrates have committed him for trial at the Loadstone
assizes, and unless he can give some satisfactory information as to
where he passed the night of Wednesday, the weight of circumstantial
evidence will tell strongly against him. The refusal of Mr. Lennox to
make any exculpatory statement has created a great sensation in the
neighborhood. The assizes commences on the twenty-third of July."

The paper fell from Hyacinth's trembling hands, and a terrible moan came
from her lips. Clear as the daylight the incidents of that morning rose
before her in their full horror.

Whatever happened, cost what it would, she must go--she must clear
Claude. No one in the wide world knew that he was innocent, no one could
clear him but herself. Dear Heaven, how plainly the whole scene rose
before her! The dewy meadows lying so still and calm in the half
light--the woman's pale face and bruised hand! How well she remembered
wrapping Claude's handkerchief round it. How kind and compassionate
Claude had been to her!

"He will kill me some day," the woman had said, speaking of her
husband--Hyacinth could hear the voice even now. That was nearly a month
ago, and kind, generous, reckless Claude had been lying in prison ever
since, on a charge of wilful murder. He would not incriminate her; he
might have rebutted the whole charge by telling the story of that night
and calling her as a witness, but he would not do so. She had not
thought there was such generosity, such chivalry in him. It was a noble
thing of him to refuse to speak, but he must not lose his life for her.

The more she weighed the evidence, the more startled she was to find how
strongly circumstances were against Claude. She must clear him. If he
would not speak, she must.

What would it cost her? Ah, Heaven, more than her life--her love! If she
went into court to tell the truth, she could never hope to see Adrian
again. He who had valued purity, delicacy, refinement and truth so
highly--what would he say when he found that she had not only carried on
a clandestine correspondence, deceived those with whom she lived, and
stolen out to meet her lover, but had eloped with him--had left home,
and travelled as far as Leybridge with him, and walked through the
fields with him, and then, repenting, had gone back? What would he say
when he knew all? She remembered how sternly he had spoken of Lady
Wallace--what would he say of her? She was more unfortunate, more
disgraced. Her name henceforward would be associated with a murder case.
She, a Vaughan, one of the race, as Lady Vaughan had told her that
morning, that had never experienced the shadow of disgrace or shame--she
who had been, as they believed, so carefully kept from the world, so
shielded from all its snares--she to bow those gray heads with sorrow,
and slay her love with unmerited shame?

She was as one fastened to a stake; turn which way she would, her
torture increased. Could she take advantage of Claude's honorable
silence and saving herself, like a coward, let him die? Ah, no, she
could not. "Loyal, even unto death," was the motto of her race; she
could not do that. If she did--though her secret would be safe, her
miserable weakness never be known--she would hate herself, loathe her
life, so shamefully laden with secrecy and sin.

The temptation to take advantage of Claude's chivalrous silence lasted
only a few moments. She would not have purchased life and love at such a
price. She must save him.

What would it cost her? Her love--ah, yes, her love! She would never see
Adrian again; he would never speak to one so disgraced. For she did not
hide from herself the extent of that disgrace; she who had been reared
as a lily in the seclusion of home would become, for a few days at
least, the subject of scandal; the name of Hyacinth Vaughan would be
lightly spoken by light lips; men would sneer at her, women turn away
when her name was mentioned.

"Oh, how bitterly I am punished!" she cried. "What have I done that I
must suffer so?"

She knew she must go into court when Claude was tried, and tell her
shameful story before the hard-headed men of the world. She knew that
her name and what she had to tell would be commented upon by every
newspaper in England. After that, there could be no returning home, no
love, no marriage, no safe rest in a haven of peace. It would be all at
an end. She might lie down and die afterward; the world would all be
closed to her.

Only a few hours ago she had lain on that little white bed scarcely able
to bear the weight of her own happiness. How long was it since Adrian
had asked her to be his wife? The misery, the pain, the anguish of a
hundred years seemed to have passed over her head since then.

"Oh, if I had but refused to go when Claude asked me!" she cried in a
voice of anguish. "If I had only been true to what I knew was right! I
am bitterly punished."

Not more bitterly than he was. The thought seemed to strike her
suddenly. He had been in prison for over three weeks; he had been
charged with the most terrible crime--he whose only fault was that of
loving her too well. She must save him.

Then with a sudden thrill of fear she remembered how near the assizes
were--they were to be held on the twenty-third and this was the
twentieth. She would have only just time to reach Loadstone. She must
say good-by to those who loved her, and had watched over her; she must
leave all her love, her hope, her happiness behind, and go forth to save
him who was willing to give even his life to save her. She must go. She
must find out how she could reach England. The great brooding anguish of
despair seemed to have fallen over her; her heart ached until it could
ache no more; she wept until she seemed to have no more tears; she
appeared to grow insensible to the pain that was wearing her young life
away.

"I must go to-morrow night," she said to herself. "I shall see Adrian
just once again, and then I must bid him farewell forever. Oh, my love,
my love!"

She flung herself upon the floor, and wept until the morning dawned and
the summer sun peeped into the room.



CHAPTER XVIII.


She was roused from her heavy trance of exhaustion and grief by a knock
at her door. It was one of the housemaids bearing in her hand a bouquet
of beautiful flowers--"From Mr. Darcy." The girl looked in wonder at her
young lady's pale face and heavy eyes.

"You do not seem well this morning, miss," she said.

"I have not slept," returned Hyacinth.

But the few words put her on her guard. She bathed her face, rearranged
her hair, and changed her dress, though the weight of misery lay like a
weight of lead upon her. Then Lady Vaughan, thinking that she was tired
from the emotion and shock of the previous evening, sent word that Miss
Vaughan had better remain in her own room for a few hours. The hapless
girl was thankful for the respite.

She looked so terribly ill, so ghastly pale, that, when Pincott brought
her breakfast, she started in alarm.

"There is nothing the matter," said Hyacinth, "but that I did not sleep
well." Pincott went away only half satisfied.

Hyacinth managed to obtain a railway guide. A train would leave Bergheim
at ten that night, and reach Ostend on the following morning before the
boat started. She would have time to secure a passage and cross. She
could take the mail train for Dover, and reach Loadstone so as to be in
time for the trial.

At ten that night she must go. She had run away from home once before.
Then she had been blinded, tempted and persuaded--then she had believed
herself going straight into the fairyland of love and happiness; but now
it was all changed. She was running away once more; but this time she
was leaving all the hope, all the happiness of her life behind her.

It was well for her that the dull stupor of exhaustion fell over her, or
the pain she was suffering must have killed her. She did not know how
the time passed. It was like one long, cruel dream of anguish, until the
summons came for luncheon. Then she went down stairs. Adrian was not
there--that was some consolation. She looked quickly around the room.

"How could I look on his face and live, knowing that I shall see it no
more?" she said to herself.

It was like a horrible travesty--the movements of the servants, the
changing of the dishes, Lady Vaughan's anxiety about the cold chicken,
Sir Arthur's complaint about the wine, while her heart was breaking, and
Claude lay in the prison from which she must free him.

Lady Vaughan was very kind to her. She expressed great concern at seeing
her look so ill--tried to induce her to eat some grapes--told her that
Adrian was coming to dinner, and would bring some friends with him; then
said a few words about Claude, pitied his mother, yet blamed her for not
bringing him up better, and the ordeal was over.

Hyacinth went away from the dining-room with a faint, low moan.

"How shall I bear it?" she said--"how shall I live through it?"

It was two o'clock then. How were the long hours to be passed? How was
she to bear the torture of her own thoughts? Whither could she go for
refuge? Suddenly it occurred to her that she had no money. How was she
to travel in England without some?

She did not give herself time for thought; if she had, her courage would
have failed her. She went to Sir Arthur's room and tapped at the door.
The tremulous, feeble voice bade her enter. Sir Arthur was writing some
letters. She went up to him.

"Grandpa," she said, "I have no money--and I want some. Will you give me
a little, please?"

He looked at her in surprise--she had never made such a request to him
before.

"Money, child," he repeated--"of course you shall have some. You want to
buy some trinkets--something for Adrian. What shall I give
you--ten--twenty pounds?"

"Twenty, if you please."

He drew a small cash-box near to him, and counted twenty bright
sovereigns into her hand.

"Five more, for luck!" he said with a smile. "Always come to me when you
want money, Hyacinth."

She kissed him--he was so kind, and she had to leave him so soon.

"Good girl," he said. "You will be very happy, Hyacinth. Adrian Darcy is
the noblest man in the wide world."

She turned aside with a groan. Alas! Adrian Darcy was to be nothing to
her--in this terrible future that was coming he would have no place.
Then she went to her own room, and sat there mute and still. Pincott
came to dress her, and the girl went through her toilet mechanically.
She never remembered what dress she wore. The maid asked something about
it, and Hyacinth looked up with a vague, dreamy expression.

"It does not matter--anything will do," she said, almost wondering that
people could think of such trifles when life and death were in the
balance.

"There has been a lover's quarrel," thought Pincott, "and my young lady
does not care how she looks."

When the bell rang Hyacinth went down. How she suffered when she looked
in her lover's face and listened to his voice, knowing it was for the
last time! She did not even hear the name of his friends, when they were
introduced to her. She sat wondering whether any one living had ever
gone through such torture before--wondering why it did not kill her; and
then it seemed to her but two or three minutes before dinner was over.
Mr. and Mrs. Vernon--two of the visitors--suggested that they should go
out into the grounds; and Adrian, delighted at the chance of a
_tête-à-tête_ with Hyacinth, gladly consented. In after years she liked
to recall this last interview.

"Let us walk to the waterfall," said Adrian. "I shall have a photograph
taken of it, Cynthy, because it reminds me so much of you."

She said to herself he would not when he knew all--that he would hate
it, and would not think of the place. They sat down in the old favorite
resort. Suddenly she turned to him, and clasped his hand with one of
hers.

"Adrian," she asked, "do you love me very much?"

The face bent over her afforded answer sufficient.

"Love you?" he replied. "I do not think, Hyacinth, that I could love you
more; to me it does not seem possible."

"If you were to lose me, then, it would be a great sorrow?"

"Lose you!" he cried. "Why, Cynthy, I would rather ten thousand times
over lose my own life."

She liked to remember afterward how he drew her head upon his
breast--how he caressed her and murmured sweet words of tenderness to
her--how he told her of his love in such ardent words that the fervor of
them lasted with her until she died. It was for the last time. A great
solemn calm of despair fell over her. To-morrow she would be far away;
his arm would never enfold her, his eyes never linger on her, his lips
never touch her more. It was for the last time, and she loved him better
than her life; but for her sin and folly, she would now have been the
happiest girl in the wide world.

"My darling," he murmured, "as though weak words could tell how dear you
are to me."

He kissed her trembling lips and then she broke from him with a great
cry. She could bear no more. She fled through the pine grove, crying to
herself with bitter tears: "If I could but die! Oh, Heaven, be merciful
to me, and let me die!"



CHAPTER XIX.


"Good-night, Hyacinth," Lady Vaughan said, when, half an hour afterward,
the girl went to her with a white face and cold rigid lips; "good-night.
I hope to see you something like yourself to-morrow--you do not seem
well."

And for the last time, Hyacinth Vaughan kissed the fair, stately old
face. "To-morrow--ah, where would she be to-morrow?"

"You have been very kind to me," she murmured, "and I am not
ungrateful."

Afterward Lady Vaughan understood why the girl lingered near her, why
she kissed the withered, wrinkled hands with such passionate tenderness,
why her lips opened as if she would fain speak, and then closed mutely.
She thought of Hyacinth's strange manner for several minutes after the
young girl had quitted the room.

"That terrible news shocked her. She is very sensitive and very
tender-hearted--the Vaughans are all the same. I am heartily glad she is
to marry Adrian: he is gentle enough to understand and firm enough to
manage her. I shall have no more anxiety about the child."

       *       *       *       *       *

Hyacinth had looked her last on them, and had spoken to them for the
last time. She stood in her room now waiting until there should be a
chance of leaving the hotel unnoticed, then it suddenly struck her how
great would be the consternation on the morrow, when she was missed.
What would Adrian do or say--he who loved her so dearly? She went to her
little desk and wrote a note to him. She addressed it and left it on the
toilet table of her room.

Then she went quietly down-stairs. No one was about. She opened the
great hall-door and went out. Some few people still lingered in the
grounds; she was not noticed. She walked down the long carriage-drive,
and then stood in the street of the little town, alone. She found her
way to the station. A great, despairing cry was rising from her heart to
her lips, but she stifled it, a faint strange sensation, as though life
were leaving her, came over her. She nerved herself.

"I must live until he is free," she said with stern determination--"then
death will be welcome!"

They were no idle words that she spoke; all that life held brightest,
dearest, and best, was past for her. Her only hope was that she might
reach Loadstone in time to save Claude. She knew how soon she would be
missed, and how easily she might be tracked. Suppose that they sent or
went to her room and found it empty, and then made inquiries and learned
that she had taken a ticket for Ostend? They could not overtake the
train, but they could telegraph to Ostend and stop her. In that case she
would be too late to save Claude. The station was full of people. She
saw a lad among them--he seemed to be about fifteen--and she went up to
him.

"Are you going to Ostend?" she asked.

He doffed his hat and bowed.

"I am going by this train," he replied. "Can I be of any service to the
_Fraulein_?"

"I am always nervous in a crowd," she said--"will you buy my ticket?"

He took the money. He could not see her face, for it was veiled, but he
could distinguish its white, rigid mystery, and, full of wonder, he
complied with her request. In a short time he returned with the ticket.

"Can I do anything else for you, _Fraulein_?" he asked.

"No," she replied, thanking him; and all the way to Ostend, the lad
mused over the half-hidden beauty of that face, and the dreary tones of
the sad young voice.

"There is some mystery," he said; and afterward, when he had read the
papers, he knew what the mystery was.

She was safely seated in the furthest corner of a second-class carriage
at last, her heart beating so that each throb seemed to send a thrill of
fiery pain through her. Would she be in time? The train was an express,
and was considered an unusually fast one, but it seemed slow to her--so
slow. Her heart beat fast and her pulse throbbed quickly. Her face
burned as with a flaming fire.

"What shall I do," she thought, with a terrified face, "if I fall ill,
and cannot save him? Suppose--my brain is on fire now--suppose it
becomes worse, and when the train stops I have no sense left to speak?
They will try him--they will sentence him to death before I arrive. He
will perhaps be dead when I am able to speak. What shall I do?" And the
dread so overpowered her that she cried aloud in her anguish.

"Are you ill?" asked a fellow-traveller, kindly.

"No, I was dreaming," she replied, hurriedly.

She pressed her hand on her hot brow--she tried to still the quick
nervous beating of her heart; but all was in vain. The night was hot;
the atmosphere seemed overcharged with electricity; there was not a
breath of air stirring; the noisy clang of the wheels seemed to pierce
her brain; a sound as of rushing torrents filled her ears. She tried to
calm herself--to steady those quivering nerves--to remember what she
would have to say in a short time, when she would be standing before a
tribunal of justice to save Claude's life. She tried and failed in the
effort; she broke down and laughed a strange, unnatural laugh. The noise
of the train drowned it, the monotonous clangor of the wheels dulled all
other sounds. The next minute the overstrained nerves--the over-taxed
brain--had given away, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

The train drew near to Ostend, and those who loved her had not
discovered Hyacinth's flight. Lady Vaughan wondered she did not come
down as usual to breakfast. Pincott went to see if she was up. She
tapped at the door; there was no answer, and the maid went to tell her
lady. "I am almost glad," said Lady Vaughan; "she looked very ill last
night. She is sleeping; do not awaken her, Pincott."

But when noon came, and Hyacinth had not rung, Pincott went to her room
again. She opened the door this time and walked in. The room was empty,
the bed had not been slept in, and there was no trace of Miss Vaughan.
The woman turned quite white and sunk, half-fainting, on a chair. She
was frightened. Presently, recovering herself a little, she looked
round. "How foolish I am!" she thought. "Miss Vaughan must have gone
down unknown to me and her room has been arranged." Still she trembled
with a strange presentiment of dread. Suddenly her eyes fell upon the
note addressed to Mr. Darcy--it was sealed. "There can be no harm in my
giving him this," she said.

She went down-stairs and made inquiries about Miss Vaughan. No one had
seen her--she could hear nothing of her. Then Pincott went to her lady.
It so happened that Mr. Darcy was chatting with her.

"What do you say?" interrupted Lady Vaughan, sharply. "You cannot find
Miss Vaughan? Pray use your common sense, Pincott; do not say such
absurd things."

But Adrian had caught sight of the note in the maid's hand. "What is
this?" he asked.

"I found it in Miss Vaughan's room, sir," said Pincott; "it is addressed
to you."

He took it from her and opened it. As he read a deadly pallor came over
his face.

"Great Heaven!" he cried. "What can this mean?"

Lady Vaughan asked what had happened. He passed the note to her and she
read:

"I have looked at you and have spoken to you for the last time, Adrian.
I am going away and I shall never see any of you again. You will try to
comfort Lady Vaughan. Pray Heaven my sin and my disgrace may not kill
her.

"You will find out from the newspapers what I have gone to do; and oh,
my lost dear love, when you read this, be merciful to me! I was so
young, and I longed so for some of the brightness of life. I never loved
him; and, as you will see, I repented--ah, me, so sorely!--before half
the journey was accomplished. I have never loved any one but you--and
that I have lost you is more bitter than death.

"Many people have died from less suffering than that which I am
undergoing now. Oh, Adrian, I do not think I deserved this terrible
punishment! I did not mean to do anything wrong. I do not ask you to
forgive me! I know you never can. You will fling off all thought of me
as of one unworthy. I told you I was unworthy, but I--oh, Adrian--I
shall love you till I die! All my thoughts will be of you; and I pray
to Heaven that I may die when I have achieved what I am going to do.
Living, you must loathe me; dead, you will pity me.

"Adrian, I have written your name here. I have wept hot, bitter tears
over it; I have kissed it; and now I must part from you, my heart's own
love! Farewell for ever and ever!

                                                       "HYACINTH."

"What does it all mean?" he cried, great drops of anguish gathering on
his brow. "Where is the child? What has she done?"

"I do not know," said Lady Vaughan--"I cannot understand it, Adrian. She
has done nothing. What can she have done? All her life has been passed
with me."

"I shall see in the newspapers what she has done, she says. What can she
mean?"

A sudden light seemed to break in upon him: he turned to Lady Vaughan.
"Rely upon it," he said, "it is some fancy of hers about that murder. I
shall not lose a moment. I shall go in search of her."



CHAPTER XX.


The court at Loadstone was crowded to excess. Since the town was built
there had never been so great a sensation. The terrible murder at Oakton
had been a subject of discussion over all England. The colonel was one
of the most prominent men in the county; he had always been very proud
and very exclusive, and the county had grown proud of the old
aristocrat. It was a terrible blow to him when his nephew was charged
with wilful murder.

All the _élite_ of the county had crowded to the trial. Loadstone had
never been so full; the hotels could not hold half the number who
flocked to hear Claude Lennox tried. There were no more lodgings to be
had for love or money. It was not only the county people who testified
their interest. Claude Lennox was well-known, and had been courted,
popular, and eagerly _fêted_ in London drawing-rooms. Many of his old
friends, members of his club came to see him tried.

It was an unusual case because of the rank, wealth, and position of the
accused--Claude Lennox, the idol of London coteries, the Adonis of the
clubs, the heir of grand, exclusive Colonel Lennox. Then the murder
seemed so utterly motiveless. The young man swore most solemnly that he
knew nothing of the deceased--that she was a stranger whom he had
relieved. The handkerchief found upon her he said was his, and that it
had been given from motives of charity, to bind her bruised hand. The
address on the scrap of paper he admitted was in his own writing--he had
given it to her, hoping that either his mother or his aunt would be able
to find her work. More than that he refused to say. He refused to
account for his time--to say where he had been that night--to make any
attempt to prove an _alibi_. He was asked who was his companion at
Oakton station, and he refused to answer. His lawyer was in despair. The
able counsel whom his distracted mother had sent to his assistance
declared themselves completely nonplussed.

"Tell us how you passed the night," they had said, "so that we may know
what line of defense to adopt."

"I cannot," he replied. "I swear most solemnly that I know nothing of
the murder. More than that I cannot say."

"It is probable you may pay for your obstinacy with your life," said
Sergeant Burton, one of the shrewdest lawyers in England.

"There are things more painful than death," Claude replied, calmly; and
then the sergeant clapped his hands. "There is a woman in the case," he
said--"I am sure of it."

Sergeant Burton and Mr. Landon were retained as counsel for Claude; but
never were counsel more hopeless about their case than they. They could
call no witnesses in Claude's favor--they did not know whom to call. "He
will lose his life," said Mr. Landon, with a groan. "What infatuation!
What folly! It strikes me he could clear himself if he would."

But the twenty-third of July had come round, and as yet Claude had made
no effort to clear or defend himself. The morning of his trial had
dawned at last. It was a warm, beautiful summer day, the sun shone
bright and warm. Loadstone streets were filled, and Loadstone Assize
Court was crowded. There was quite a solemn hush when "The Crown _vs._
Lennox" came on. Most of those present knew Claude Lennox--some
intimately, others by sight. They looked curiously at him, as he stood
in the dock; the air of aristocratic ease and elegance that had always
distinguished him was there still, but the handsome face had lost its
debonair expression; there were deep lines upon it--lines of thought and
care.

"How do you plead, prisoner at the bar--Guilty, or Not Guilty?"

The silence was profound.

"Not guilty, my lord," replied the clear voice; and in some vague way a
thrill of conviction shot through each one that the words were true.

Then the business of the trial began. All present noticed the depressed
air of the prisoner's counsel and the confident look of the counsel for
the prosecution.

"No rebutting evidence," seemed to be the mysterious whisper circulating
through the court.

Then the counsel for the prosecution stated his case. It seemed clear
and conclusive against the accused; yet the dauntless face and upright
figure were hardly those of a murderer. The prisoner was absent from
home the whole of the night on which the murder was committed; he was
seen at Leybridge station with a woman; he was observed to walk with her
toward the meadow where the body was found; his handkerchief was found
tightly clinched in her hands, and his London address in her pocket;
witnesses would swear to having seen him return alone to Oakton Park,
looking terribly agitated. At the same time, the counsel for the Crown
admitted that there had been no witnesses to the deed; that no possible
motive could be ascribed for the murder; that against the moral
character of Mr. Lennox there was not one word to say; that no weapon
had been found near the scene of the murder; that on the clothes worn by
Mr. Lennox at the time there was not the least stain of human blood.
These were points, the counsel admitted, that were in favor of the
accused.

At this juncture, just as people were remarking how depressed the
prisoner's counsel were looking, there was a slight commotion in the
crowded court. A note, written in pencil, was handed to Sergeant Burton;
as he read it a sudden light came over his face, and he hastily quitted
his seat, first handing the note to the junior counsel, who read:

"I have evidence to give that will save Mr. Lennox's life. Can you spare
a few minutes to hear what I have to say?

                                               "HYACINTH VAUGHAN."

Sergeant Burton was absent for a little while; but he returned in time
to hear the concluding part of the opposing counsel's speech. It told
hard against the accused, but the learned sergeant only smiled as he
listened. He seemed to have grown wonderfully composed. Then the
witnesses for the prosecution were called, and gave their evidence
clearly enough. Some in court who had felt sure of Claude's innocence
began to waver now. Who was with him at Leybridge? That was the point.
There was no cross-examination of the witnesses.

"I have no questions to ask," said the counsel. "My client admits the
perfect truth of all the evidence."

"This is my case, gentlemen of the jury," concluded the counsel for the
prosecution, as he sat down.

"And it is a strong one, too," thought most of the people present. "How
can all these facts be explained away?"

Then Sergeant Burton rose.

"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "this is the most painful case I have
ever conducted; a more grievous mistake than this accusation of murder
against an innocent gentleman has never been made. I will prove to you
not only that he is quite innocent of the crime, but that, in his
chivalrous generosity, he would rather have forfeited his life than
utter one word in his own defense which would shadow, even in the
slightest, a woman's honor. I will prove to you that, although the
accused was at Leybridge with a lady, and not only spoke to, but
relieved the deceased, yet that he is entirely innocent of the crime
laid to his charge."

The silence that followed was profound. For the first time Claude's face
grew anxious and he looked hurriedly around.

"The first witness I shall call," said the learned counsel, "is one who
will tell you where Mr. Lennox spent his time on the night of the
murder; will tell you how he relieved the poor woman; will, in short,
give such evidence as shall entirely free him of the most foul charge.
Call Miss Hyacinth Vaughan."

At the mention of the name the prisoner started and his face flushed
crimson.

"Why did she come?" some one near heard him murmur. "I would have died
for her."

Then, amid profound and breathless silence, there entered the
witness-box a graceful girlish figure, on which all eyes were
immediately bent. She raised her veil, and a thrill of admiration went
through that thronged assembly as the beautiful, colorless face, so
lovely, so pure, so full of earnest purpose, was turned to the judge.
She did not seem to notice the hundreds of admiring, wondering eyes--it
was as though she stood before the judge alone.

"Do not speak, Hyacinth," said the prisoner, vehemently; and in a low
voice he added: "I can bear it all--do not speak."

"Silence!" spoke the judge, sternly. "This is a court of justice; we
must have no suppression of the truth."

"Your name is Hyacinth Vaughan?" was the first question asked.

"My name is Hyacinth Vaughan," was the reply; and the voice that spoke
was so sweet, so sad, so musical, that people bent forward to listen
more eagerly. Sergeant Burton looked at the beautiful, pallid, high-bred
face.

"You were in the company of the accused on the night of Wednesday, the
12th of June?"

"Yes," she said.

"Will you state what happened?" asked the sergeant, blandly.

Hyacinth looked at the judge: her lips opened, and then closed, as
though she would fain speak, but could not. It was an interval of
intense excitement in court.

"Will you tell us why you were in his company, Miss Vaughan, and whither
you went?" said the sergeant.

"My lord," she said--for it was at the judge she looked always--of the
presence of the jury she seemed totally ignorant--"I will tell you all
about it. I went away with Mr. Lennox--to go to London--to be married
there."

"Unknown to your friends?" asked the judge.

"Unknown to anyone."

Here Hyacinth paused, and the lips that had been speaking turned deathly
white.

"Tell us about it in your own way, Miss Vaughan," said the judge--the
sight of that tortured young face moved him to deepest pity--"do not be
afraid."

Then the fear seemed to die away from her: in all that vast assembly she
saw no face but that of the judge looking steadily and intently at her
own.

"My lord," she said, "I was very dull at home; everyone was kind to me,
but there was no one there of my own age, and I was very dull. I made
Mr. Lennox's acquaintance, and liked him very much--I thought I loved
him--and when he asked me to run away from home and marry him I was
quite willing."

"But what need was there to run away?" asked the judge, kindly. He knew
the question pained her, for her lips quivered and her whole face
changed.

"In our folly there were reasons that seemed to us to make it
imperative," she replied. "My friends had other views for me, and I was
to start for the Continent on Friday, the fourteenth of June. It seemed
certain to us that unless we were married at once we should never be
married at all."

"I understand," put in the judge, kindly; "go on with your story."

"I did not think much about it, my lord," continued Hyacinth,--"that is,
about the right and the wrong of it--I thought only of the romance; and
we agreed to go up to London by the train that passed Oakton soon after
midnight. I left my home and met Mr. Lennox at the end of my
grandparents' grounds; we went to the station together. I kept out of
sight while he took tickets for both of us at the booking-office."

"The clerk at Oakton station will prove that the accused purchased two
tickets," interrupted Sergeant Burton. The judge nodded, and the young
girl continued:

"We got into the train and went as far as Leybridge. There the train
stopped. Mr. Lennox told me that the mail train we were to meet had been
delayed by an accident, and that we should have to wait some hours at
the station. The morning was breaking then, and we were alarmed lest
someone should come to the station who might recognize me. Mr. Lennox
suggested that, as the morning was bright and pleasant, we should go
through the fields, and I gladly consented."

All this time the clear, sweet young voice sounded like music in the
warmth and silence of the summer air.

"We reached the field called Lime Meadow, and stood there, leaning over
the stile, when I thought I saw something under a hedge. We went to see.
It was a woman who had been sleeping there. My lord, she looked very
faint, very wild and weak. We spoke to her. She told us that her name
was Anna Barratt, and that she was married, but that she was very
unhappy. She was going with her husband to Liverpool. She told us her
story, my lord, and it frightened me. She told us that she had once been
a bright happy girl at home, and that against her mother's advice she
had eloped with the man who had sought her hand, and married him. Her
words struck me like a sharp blow. She said it was better to break one's
heart at home than to run away from it. Mr. Lennox was very sorry for
her; and, when I saw her poor bruised hand lying on the grass, I bound
it up. My lord, I asked Mr. Lennox for his handkerchief, and I wrapped
it around her hand."

There was such a murmur of excitement in the court that the speaker was
obliged to pause.

"Go on, Miss Vaughan," said the judge. Still looking at him, and him
only, she continued:

"Mr. Lennox gave her some money. She told us that her husband beat her;
that he had bruised her hand, and that she was quite sure he would come
back to murder her. Then Mr. Lennox told her, that if she feared that,
to get up and come away; he gave her two sovereigns and told her to go
to London. He wrote down his address on a piece of folded paper, and
told her if she would either come or write to that address, his mother
would befriend her. She asked Heaven to bless us, my lord, and turned
away her head, as though she were tired. We walked on, and did not see
her again."

And again Hyacinth paused, while those in court seemed to hang upon the
words that came from her lips.

"Then, my lord," she continued, "I began to think of what she had
said--that it was better to break one's heart at home than to run away
from it. All at once the folly and wickedness of what I was about to do
appeared to me. I began to cry, and begged of Mr. Lennox to take me
home."

"A very common termination to an elopement," observed the judge.

"Mr. Lennox was very kind to me," continued the earnest voice. "When he
saw that I really wanted to go home, he took me back to Oakton, and left
me in the grounds where we had met so short a time before. My lord, I
swear to you most solemnly that this is the whole truth."

"Will you explain to us," inquired the prosecution, "why, knowing all
this, you have allowed matters to proceed so far against the accused?
Why did you not come forward earlier, and reveal the truth?"

"My lord," she said, still looking at the quiet face of the judge, "I
knew nothing of the case until twenty-four hours ago. I started with my
grandparents on the Friday morning for the Continent, and have been
living at Bergheim since. I knew of the trial only the night before
last, and I came hither at once."

"You came alone; and immediately?"

"Yes," she replied. "I have lost everything by so coming. I can never go
back among my kindred again. I shall never be forgiven."

There was a brief pause. The foreman of the jury gave a written paper to
the usher to be handed to the judge--a paper which intimated that the
jury did not think it necessary to go on with the case, feeling
convinced, from the evidence of Miss Vaughan, that Mr. Lennox was
perfectly innocent of the crime imputed to his charge. The judge read
the paper carefully, and then, looking at the witness, said:

"Miss Vaughan, you committed a great error--an error perhaps in some
degree excusable from your youth. But you have atoned for it more nobly
than error was ever atoned for before. At the risk of losing all most
dear to you, and of exposing yourself to the comments of the world, you
have come forward to save Mr. Lennox. I, for one, must express my
admiration of your conduct. Your evidence has acquitted the
prisoner--the jury have intimated that there is no need to proceed with
the case."

Then arose cheers that could not be silenced. In vain the judge held up
his hand in warning and the usher cried "Silence!"

"Heaven bless her," cried the women, with weeping eyes.

"She is a heroine!" the men said, with flushed faces.

There was a general commotion; and when it had subsided she had
disappeared. Those who had watched her to the last said that when the
judge, in his stately manner, praised her, her face flushed and her lips
quivered; then it grew deathly pale again, and she glided away.



CHAPTER XXI.


The famous trial was over; the "sensation" was at an end. The accused
Claude Lennox stood once more free among his fellow-men. Loud cheers
greeted him, loud acclamations followed him. He was the popular idol.
His friends surrounded him. "Bravo, Claude, old friend! I thought it
would come right. We knew you were innocent. But what a terrible thing
circumstantial evidence is!" Claude stood in the midst of a large circle
of well-wishers. Colonel Lennox, whose anger had all vanished when he
found his nephew in real danger, stood by his side. He seemed to have
grown older and grayer.

"It was a narrow escape for you, Claude," he said, and his voice
trembled and his limbs shook.

"My thanks are due to Heaven," said the young man, reverently. "Humanly
speaking, I owe my life to that brave girl who has risked everything to
save me. Oh, uncle, where is she? We are talking idly here when I owe my
life to her; and I know all she has suffered and lost to save me."

They went back hurriedly to the court, but there was no trace of
Hyacinth. People stood in little groups in the street, and of every
group she was the subject of conversation.

"I shall never forget her," said one woman, "if I live to be a hundred
years old. They may talk of heroines if they like, but I never heard of
one braver than she has been."

"Did you hear that, uncle?" cried Claude. "How they admire her! She is
noble, good, and true. I know what it has cost her to come forward; I
know what a home she has had--her people all so rigid, so cold, so
formal. How am I to thank her?"

"Marry her at once, Claude," said Colonel Lennox.

"She would not have me. You do not know her, uncle; she is truth itself.
How many girls do you think would have had the resolution to turn back
on such a journey as she had begun? She does not love me, I am sure; but
after what has happened to-day, I would die for her. Where is she? My
mother must take her home at once."

They made inquiries, but there was no trace of her. In the general
confusion that ensued, amid the crowding of friends to congratulate
Claude, and the hurrying of witnesses, no one had noticed her. She had
been the centre of observation for a brief interval, and then she had
disappeared, and no one had noticed which way she went. Colonel Lennox
and Claude were both deeply grieved; they sought Hyacinth everywhere,
they sent messengers all over the town, but no trace of her could be
found. Claude was almost desperate; he had made every arrangement--his
mother was to take her back to Belgrave Square, and he himself was to go
at once to Bergheim to win Hyacinth's pardon from her relatives there.

"There is nothing," he said to himself, over and over again, "that I
would not do for her."

He was bitterly disappointed; he would not leave Loadstone until every
instruction had been given for communication with him or with Colonel
Lennox, if any news should be heard of her. When this was done, he
complied with his mother's anxious entreaty and returned with her to
London.

"It has been a narrow escape," she said, with a shudder, "and a terrible
disgrace. I cannot bear to think of it. You, with your unblemished name,
your high position and prospects in life, to be accused of wilful
murder! I do not believe you will ever live it down, Claude!"

"Yes, he will," cried the colonel, heartily; "whoever remembers his
disgrace, as you term it, will remember also that he was saved by the
truth and bravery of the finest and noblest girl in England."

"I will redeem my character, mother," said Claude, earnestly; "this has
made a true man of me. I was not very earnest before, but I have paid a
terrible price for my boyish escapade. The future with me shall atone
for the past."

"The boy is right enough," cried the colonel; "what he says is perfectly
true. He wanted more of earnest purpose, and the ordeal that he has just
undergone will give it to him. He shall not suffer for the mistake. I
will say now what I have never said before--Claude shall be my heir;
and," added the colonel, with unconscious egotism, "the world will
easily pardon the youthful escapades of the master of Oakton Park."

So Claude's mother did not return quite broken-hearted to London. The
trial had been a nine days' wonder--a great sensation; but people seemed
more inclined to blame the stupidity of Hyacinth's relatives than the
young man, whose fault had been simply that of loving a lovely girl too
well. Mrs. Lennox watched anxiously to see if her son had lost caste;
but she could not perceive that he had. He was heir of the rich old
Indian colonel--heir of Oakton Park. The Duchess of Grandecourt invited
him to Rummere Park, and Lady Ansley gave him pretty clearly to
understand that her daughter knew how to appreciate him.

"No great harm has been done," sighed the anxious mother, "and I may
thank that brave young girl for matters being no worse."

       *       *       *       *       *

On the third day after the assizes had begun a gentleman--a
stranger--drove up hurriedly to the Loadstone court-house. His handsome
face was white and haggard, his eyes were dim with fear. He looked as
though he had been travelling night and day, and had known neither sleep
nor rest. He sprung impatiently from the carriage and hurried up the
steps of the court-house. He saw one of the officers standing inside,
and he went up to him eagerly.

"Has the trial for murder commenced?" he asked.

"It is over, sir. It was finished the day that it was begun."

"Tell me all about it, please. Make haste--my time is precious. Was
there a young lady--did a young lady come to give evidence?"

"Yes; and her evidence saved the prisoner's life, sir. I will tell you
as briefly as I can."

He repeated what had taken place, and as he spoke, an expression of pity
came over the handsome face of the listener.

"Poor child," he murmured to himself--"my brave, noble love! What was
the young lady's name?" he asked, aloud.

"Vaughan, sir--I remember it well--Hyacinth Vaughan."

"Thank you," said the gentleman, remunerating his informant. "And now
can you tell me where she is? Where did she go after the trial?"

"There are many who would like to know that, sir. Colonel Lennox has
offered a hundred pounds to anyone who will bring him news of her. I
should say every inch of ground in Loadstone had been searched over and
over again."

Adrian Darcy--for it was he--looked at the man in bewildered surprise.

"You don't mean to tell me that she is lost?" he cried.

"She is indeed, sir. There have been advertisements, and rewards have
been offered; but all has been in vain. The gentleman whose life she
saved--Mr. Lennox--is almost wild about her disappearance. But, if you
are interested in the case, read the report in the _Loadstone Journal_.
It is a splendid one."

"Lost one!" repeated Adrian. "It is impossible! Oh, my darling, my
child-like, innocent love, what terrible fate has befallen you?"



CHAPTER XXII.


The search that Adrian Darcy made proved as unsatisfactory as that which
had been conducted by Colonel Lennox. Do what he would, Adrian could
find no trace of Hyacinth. He was not long in procuring a copy of the
_Loadstone Journal_, and there, in simple, truthful words, he read her
story. His first feeling was one of intense indignation against Claude
Lennox.

"She is so young," he said to himself--"so young and so easily led. Her
very simplicity ought to have been her shield. How could he betray the
trust she placed in him?"

Then he saw what was said of Claude. He was young, handsome, gifted,
eagerly sought after, greatly admired. It was not to be wondered at that
a girl who had led the retired, dull, monotonous life of Hyacinth
Vaughan should have been dazzled by him and have placed implicit faith
in him. But, after all, she did not love him. If she had she would not
have repented of her elopement before it was concluded--she would not
have returned home. It had been but a temporary charm after all. She
had, doubtless, been captivated by his handsome face. Youth invariably
loves youth. It must have been a novelty to her, living as she did in
the midst of old people, who, though kind, were cold and formal, to meet
someone lively, gay, and fascinating. It was not wonderful that she
should let her calmer, better judgment sleep, and act under his
influence.

It was such a simple story, and she had told it so clearly, with such
humble acknowledgment of her own fault in every word--with such an
entire conviction that in coming forward to save Claude Lennox she had
lost every hope in life--that his heart ached as he read. He could
picture that fair sweet face, with its sorrowful eyes and quivering
lips, the centre of all observation in that crowded court. He could
almost feel the shock and the horror that had mastered her when she
found that she must appear in public and tell the story that she had
never dared to tell even him.

"My poor Hyacinth!" he said. "Oh, if she had but trusted me--if she had
but trusted me--if she had but told me herself of this error, and not
left me to hear it from others! I can forgive that half-elopement; it
was but the shadow of a sin, after all, repented of before it was half
committed, and atoned for by bitter suffering. But I find it hard to
forgive her for not having trusted me." Then, again he remembered how
young, how shy, how timid she was. "I must not be hard on her, even in
my thoughts," he said; "perhaps she intended to tell me when she was
more at her ease with me."

Then, as the simple story of her heroism told upon him, he ceased to
think of her fault, and was lost in admiration of her courage.

"How many there are," he thought, "who would have let the prisoner take
his chance, and would have thought more of saving their reputation than
of preserving his life! How simple and brave, how true and loyal she is!
Oh, Cynthy, my lost love, if you had but trusted me!"

He took up the _Times_, and there he found the story told again. All
notice of her fault was quite hidden by the admiration expressed for her
courage, her unselfish heroism, her undaunted bravery. "If I could but
find her," he said--"find her and tell her the world admires instead of
condemning her!"

He understood better than anyone her sensitive disposition; he knew that
she would deem herself all unworthy--that she would look upon herself as
lost to home, to friends, to hope, to happiness, to love; he knew how
her tender conscience magnified even trifling faults, and his heart grew
heavy for her. Where was she? What was she doing? What would become of
her? He redoubled his efforts, but they were all in vain. After days and
weeks fruitlessly spent, he returned to Bergheim, having no good news to
tell. By the stately baronet and his wife Adrian's story was heard
without one comment. Lady Vaughan's fair old face grew cold and sad.

"Did she--the child I trusted--deceive me so far as to leave my roof
with a stranger? Tell me no more, Adrian; my heart is heavy and sore.
This is the first taint that has ever fallen on the Vaughans."

"You must not call it a taint," cried Adrian. "Do not forget how young
she was, how full of poetry and romance, how easily persuaded--a girl
like Hyacinth would be but as a reed in the hands of Claude Lennox."

"The Vaughans are never weak, Adrian; they have ever been a brave and
noble race."

"Not one of them has been braver or more noble than Hyacinth," cried
Adrian, hotly. "I do not say that she is without fault, or that she is
not to blame; but I do say the atonement made far exceeds the fault;
think of the courage required of a young girl like her to stand up in a
public court and tell the story of an error like hers, even though it
was so quickly repented of."

"Think of the shame," said Lady Vaughan, with a shudder. But Adrian
would not have it so. He told Lady Vaughan what the newspapers said of
her granddaughter.

"To me," remarked the lady, "it is almost immaterial whether the papers
praise her or blame her; the disgrace lies in such a name as hers being
in the newspapers at all."

But Sir Arthur was not quite so hard.

"She must have been very dull at Queen's Chase," he said. "I have often
thought so. There was not a young face about the place but hers. That
young Lennox is very handsome--just the man to take a girl's fancy."

"You have used the right word, Sir Arthur," observed Adrian. "He did
stir her fancy, but not her heart; he stirred her imagination. I have no
doubt that in his eloquent way he made her believe that in leaving home
she was doing something grand and heroic. See how quickly her better
judgment came to her aid, and how quickly she repented of her error."

"It is very noble of you to defend her," said Lady Vaughan, "but--but I
cannot hold with you. She was the dearly loved child of my old age--all
my hopes rested on her. I thought I had preserved her like a lily in the
shade, and the result of all my care was an elopement and a public
appearance in a court of justice. Oh, Adrian, say no more to me--say no
more!"

He found it was useless to defend Hyacinth; the proud and stately old
lady could not brook the idea.

"No lady--mind, I mean no true lady--ever makes a public sensation. The
child has ruined, blighted her whole life, and no one can help her."

But even Lady Vaughan, after her first resentment had died away, began
to share Adrian's uneasiness. "It would have been better," she said, "if
the child had returned to us and lived it down!"

It dawned upon her at last, as it did upon all of them, that Hyacinth
believed herself cut off from them forever. "It shows at least," said
Lady Vaughan, "how keenly she felt the enormity of the wrong done."

As the long months passed on and no news came of Hyacinth, the hot,
proud anger died from Lady Vaughan, the fair old face grew wistful and
sad; her grandchild's offence grew less in her eyes, and the great
atonement made grew greater; and then other events happened: Lord
Chandon died, and then Adrian was obliged to return to England. Sir
Arthur absolutely refused to remain at Bergheim without him.

"We must go home some time, my lady," he said; "why not now? After all,
I think you exaggerate what you call the disgrace: let us go! People, I
am sure, will not distress us by even mentioning the matter."

And Sir Arthur was right: whatever opinions might have been expressed
among the inhabitants at Oakton, they had, one and all, too much respect
for the stately mistress of Queen's Chase to speak their minds before
her. It was understood that Miss Vaughan preferred remaining abroad, so
there was nothing more to be said. No one knew how sorely the sweet face
was missed from the old mansion, or what long hours Lady Vaughan spent
in wondering what had become of Hyacinth. Sir Arthur and his wife
settled down to the old life again, but they found out then how much
brightness had vanished with the fair face they missed so sorely.

The new Lord Chandon took possession of his estate; there was no
difficulty about it; he was the direct heir, and the old lord had always
spoken of him as his successor. He took possession of Chandon Court,
with its magnificent rent-roll, and its thousand treasures of art; but
despite his wealth, his position, and his grandeur, Lord Adrian was the
most unhappy of men. He would have given all he had, and all he ever
hoped to enjoy, to find Hyacinth Vaughan; he would have poured out his
wealth like water, so that he might find her. But long months had passed
now since the day on which she disappeared, and no news had been heard
of her yet.



CHAPTER XXIII.


As Hyacinth Vaughan left the Loadstone Assize Court she drew her veil
tightly over her face, and, looking neither to the right nor left, made
her way through the dense crowd of people. No one noticed her; they were
all too busily engaged in discussing the events of the trial. She had
not the least idea whither she was going, or what she was about to do;
all she remembered was that she had broken every tie that bound her to
her past life, that it was all dead to her, and that she had saved
Claude. How vividly, as she walked through the long street, there came
back to her a remembrance of one day when she had driven over with Sir
Arthur and Lady Vaughan to Loadstone. What a deep gulf lay between that
time and this! Then people had bowed to her as though she had been some
great lady, and honor and respect had been shown to her. Now, homeless,
friendless, she was a fugitive in that same town, and knew not where to
lay her head.

She walked until her limbs ached, and then she stopped suddenly, for the
first time asking herself where she was going--what she was to do. "For
I am dead," she said to herself, with a low moan, "to all who know
me--dead to my beautiful past. There is no Hyacinth Vaughan. And what is
to become of the wretched girl who once bore the name? I do not know."

She must go somewhere--she could not pace the long street and the silent
road all night; she must rest or she should fall, a helpless inert mass,
on the ground. Suddenly she came to the railway station; a porter was
shouting--"Train for London! Passengers for London, take your seats!"

She could not account for the impulse which led her to purchase a ticket
and take her place in a second-class carriage for London. She had no
idea what she should do when she reached her destination.

It was a rest to sit alone in the carriage--a luxury to close the tired
eyes, and say to herself that she had no more to do, for Claude was
saved; yet, when her eyes were closed, so many strange scenes flashed
before them, that she opened them with a terrified cry. It seemed to her
that she was too tired even to rest, and that the aching pains in her
limbs grew worse, her eyes burned, and her head throbbed with pain.

Yet through it all--through fatigue and pain--there was the great relief
that Claude was saved. Of Adrian she dared not think. She knew that this
"fiery sorrow" was waiting for her when she should regain strength and
calmness, when she could look it in the face; as it was, she shrunk,
sick and shuddering, from it. She put it from her. She would have none
of it. If she had then remembered all about Adrian Darcy, she would have
gone mad and nothing would have saved her.

The train sped on. When she dared not keep her eyes closed any longer,
she watched the fields and trees as the train whirled by. It was strange
how mingled were her thoughts; at one time she was at Queen's Chase,
sitting with Lady Vaughan in the silent rooms; at another she was with
Claude in the faint rosy morning dawn, and the murdered woman was lying
under the hedge; then she was with Adrian by the waterfall, and he was
telling her, that he should love her for evermore; then she stood beside
a green grave in a country churchyard, over which the foliage of a large
tree drooped--beneath was a stone with the inscription, "Hyacinth
Vaughan--aged eighteen."

From all these mingled dreams and visions she woke with a terrible
scream.

"If I cannot sleep," she thought to herself, "I shall go mad."

Then everything went black before her eyes, her head fell back, and she
knew no more until loud, strange voices shouted "Euston Square."

She was in the great Babylon at last. So young, so lovely, so simple in
her child-like innocence; alone, unprotected, unknown in the streets of
that great city: having neither home nor friends--having neither brain
nor mind clear--what was to save her? She left the carriage and sat for
some time on one of the seats on the platform; the same heaviness, the
same strange mixture of past and present confused her.

"I must sleep," she said to herself--"I must sleep or I shall go mad."
She rose and walked out of the station. What a labyrinth of streets,
squares, and houses! Where could she find rest? Suddenly across the
bewildered mind came one clear thought.

"I have money, and I must take lodgings--I can pay for them; and, in a
room of my own, I can sleep until my brain is clear."

She walked slowly down one street, and up another, but saw no
announcement of "Lodgings to Let." Then she fancied all the houses were
reeling, and the sky closing in upon her. The next moment they were
steady again, and she was standing, looking wildly around. Again she
walked on a little farther, and then became sick, faint and giddy.

"This is something more than the want of sleep," she said to herself. "I
am ill. I cannot walk--I cannot stand. Everything is reeling around
me."

Suddenly her eyes fell on a brass plate on the door of a house quite
near--"Dr. Chalmers."

"I will consult him," she thought. "Perhaps he can prescribe something
that will take this dreadful feeling away."

She went up the little flight of steps and knocked. Then it seemed as
though the door were falling on her, and she seized one of the iron
railings to save herself from falling. A neat maid-servant opened the
door.

"Is Dr. Chalmers at home?" asked Hyacinth; and the sound of her voice
struck her as being so strange that she hardly knew it.

"Yes, miss," was the smiling reply.

"I wish to see him," said Hyacinth.

"What name shall I give?" asked the maid.

"None--I am quite a stranger."

She was shown into the surgery, and sat down on a large low lounge. A
strange drowsy calm came over her. She pulled off her hat and veil, and
laid back her tired head on the cushion.

Some few minutes elapsed before Dr. Chalmers entered the surgery; and
when he did so, he started back in wonder that was half alarm. There on
the lounge sat a girl, quite young, and lovely as a vision. The whole
face, so white and rigid, was peacefully beautiful--he had never seen
anything like it before. A profusion of golden hair had fallen over the
cushions, and two little white hands were clasped convulsively together.
Dr. Chalmers went a few steps nearer, and then his professional instinct
told him that this was no sleep. The girl seemed perfectly unconscious.

He spoke to her, and she seemed to arouse partially, and sat up, gazing
before her in a dazed, vacant way. Her little hands fell helplessly upon
her lap, and she seemed wholly unconscious of the presence of another in
the room. The good doctor looked at her in anxious alarm. He spoke to
her once, twice, thrice. She did not hear him. The doctor was wondering
what he should do, when she started up with a loud cry.

"He is innocent--he is quite innocent. Oh, shall I be in time to save
him?"

She sprung toward the door, but never reached it, for, with a low
moaning cry, she fell senseless on the floor. He raised her and laid her
on the couch, and then opened the door hastily and went to the foot of
the stairs.

"Mother," he called, "will you come down? I want you at once!"

A kindly-looking lady with a pleasant, comely face entered the room.

"Look here," said Dr. Robert Chalmers, pointing to the white figure.
"What are we to do, mother?"

Mrs. Chalmers went up to Hyacinth; with a soft womanly touch she put
back the rich, clustering hair, with keen womanly eyes she noted the
loveliness of the white face.

"Has she fainted? Who is she?" she asked of her son.

"I do not know--I had no time to speak to her. She is some lady who has
called for medical advice, no doubt. It seems to me more like a case of
incipient brain fever than of mere fainting; by the strange way in which
she cried out I should imagine her to be quite delirious."

Then they both stood for some minutes gazing in silence on that
exquisite face.

"She does not look more than eighteen," said the doctor--"she is very
young. What shall we do with her, mother?"

The lady laid her hand on her son's arm.

"We must do as the good Samaritan did when he found his fellow-man
wounded and helpless by the wayside," was the gentle reply.



CHAPTER XXIV.


It was in September that the poor distraught girl went in the madness of
her grief and pain to the doctor's house, and if she had been a child of
the house, she could not have been more kindly treated. It was October
when she opened her eyes with a faint gleam of reason in their troubled
depths. She looked around in wonder; she had not the least idea where
she was. The room she was in was exquisitely neat and clean, there were
some fine engravings on the walls, the furniture was of quaint design,
and there were a few vases and ornaments; yet it was neither the almost
royal grandeur of Queen's Chase nor the simple luxury of the hotel at
Bergheim. Where was she? Why was she lying in this strange place with
this feeling of weakness and weariness upon her?

Presently a kind, motherly, comely face bent over her, and a quiet,
soothing voice said: "I am so glad to find you a little better, my
dear."

"Have I been very ill?" she asked; and the sound of her voice was so
faint, so unlike her own that it seemed as though it came from a great
distance.

"Yes, you have been very ill, dear child."

"Where am I?" she asked; and the kind face smiled again.

"I will tell you all about it when you are a little better. You are
quite safe and with good friends. Try to drink this and go to sleep
again."

Hyacinth drank something that was warm and nice, and then looked up in
the kindly face.

"Do you know," she said, "it is very strange, but I have really
forgotten my own name!" She laughed a little hysterical laugh, and Mrs.
Chalmers looked anxious.

"I must forbid you to speak again," she said; "my son is the doctor,
and, if you disobey me, I shall summon him."

Hyacinth closed her eyes; a quiet sense of rest fell over her, and she
was asleep again.

"Poor child," said Mrs. Chalmers, looking at her. "Who is she? I wonder
what is her name?"

She slept so long that the kind-hearted woman began to feel uneasy. She
went down and told her son.

"Sleeping, is she? Then do not wake her; sleep is the best medicine for
her. Mind she has plenty of port wine and beef-tea."

"She says she has forgotten her own name," said Mrs. Chalmers,
anxiously.

"She will be all right by and by, mother. I only hope the return of
memory will not bring her pain."

The next time Hyacinth opened her eyes, she saw a keen, kind, shrewd
face looking at her own, and a pair of dark eyes that smiled as she
smiled.

"You are getting better," said Dr. Chalmers.

She raised her hand to her head, and then a slight look of alarm crossed
her face. "Where is my hair?" she asked, wonderingly.

"We sacrificed your hair to save your brain," he replied; "it was all
cut off."

Then he heard her give a profound sigh, and he guessed that memory was
returning. He took one of the thin worn hands in his.

"I do not want you to think of painful things just now," he said. "Will
you bear in mind that nothing but absolute rest will restore you to
health, and compose yourself accordingly?"

Hyacinth did as she was advised: she discarded all painful thoughts from
her mind, and consequently slept as she had not slept for many long
weeks. She awoke one morning calm and composed, with reason and memory
fully restored. She knew that she was Hyacinth Vaughan. Slowly and by
degrees the terrible past returned to her.

"I was in time, thank Heaven!" she said. "I was in time!" She remembered
the crowded court--the hundreds of eyes that had been turned upon
her--the thunder of applause that none of the officers could
repress--the ringing cheers that followed Claude's release. But after
that all was a blank. She remembered nothing that had passed since she
stood in the assize court, blind and dizzy, until she opened her eyes in
that pretty room.

White, fragile, worn almost to a shadow, helpless as a child, she lay
there now with reason in full sway. Dead to her old life, to her
friends, her hopes, her plans--dead to her lover and her love--she was
painfully beginning a new life, in which none of these had any part--a
new life into which she felt that hope, love, or happiness could never
come.

A week later, and Hyacinth Vaughan, looking like a frail shadow of her
former self, sat, propped up by pillows, in a large easy-chair that had
been placed for her near the window; her nerveless hands were clasped,
her large eyes, so sad and dreamy, lingered on the clouds that drifted
rapidly over the sky.

She was alone and deeply engrossed in thought; the time had come when
she must speak to these people who had been so kind to her--when she
must tell something of herself. They had been so kind to her, so
attentive, so considerate--they had not even asked her name. Mrs.
Chalmers always called her "child." Her son had a variety of names for
her, the principal of which was Queen Mab. Such kindness could spring
only from noble and generous hearts. Both mother and son had refrained
from asking her any questions. Said Dr. Chalmers to his mother:

"When she knows us, and feels that she can trust us she will speak."

They had both divined that there had been some terrible sorrow in the
girl's life--some sorrow that had struck her down and brought her to the
brink of the grave. They knew, too, that she must be a lady of good
birth and refinement. But never by word or deed did they distress her by
the least symptom of curiosity. They had gone still further--when she
attempted to say anything, Mrs. Chalmers had laid kindly fingers on her
trembling lips, and said:

"Hush! Wait till you are stronger and better, my dear and then you shall
talk."

But now the time had come when she knew that she must speak to
them--must thank them for such kindness as the world rarely shows--must
tell them how she was dead, but had risen to this new, fresh life in
which the past was to have neither share nor place. The task was
terrible to her, but she must undergo it. It seemed a direct answer to
her thoughts when the door opened, and Dr. Chalmers came in with his
mother. The doctor carried with him a bunch of purple grapes, which he
laid before her.

"How kind you are to me!" she said, with trembling lips. "I have been
thinking all the morning. How can I thank you? How can I ever repay
you?"

"Doctors never expect thanks," said Dr. Chalmers; "and we are repaid by
your recovery."

But the beautiful eyes were filled with tears. She took the old lady's
hand and raised it to her lips. The doctor held up his finger in
warning, but Hyacinth said:

"Let me speak--do let me speak. I cannot live in this silence and
constraint any longer."

"Let her speak, Robert," said his mother; "it is best."

Hyacinth kissed again the kindly hand she held in hers. She took the
doctor's and clasped them both together.

"You have been so kind to me," she said. "I can never repay you. I have
no money to pay even for the necessaries you have given me. I know you
do not want it, but I cannot understand how it is that you have been so
good to me."

"My dear child," cried Mrs. Chalmers, "we have done nothing but what
every Christian should. You came by accident to us, sick unto death,
unhappy, friendless, and homeless, as it seemed--what less could we do
than to take you in and succor you? We could not send you sick and
almost dying into the streets."

"No! but you might have sent me to some hospital. I am sure that few
would have done to me as you have done."

"We have only done what we thought to be right--no more."

"What you have done to me," returned Hyacinth, "I pray Heaven to return
to you a thousandfold. I can never sufficiently thank you, but I want to
say something else to you."

Her face grew so white, and her lips trembled so, that the doctor was on
the point of forbidding another word. She looked piteously at him.

"Let me speak," she said; "the weight on my heart is so great I can
hardly bear it. Were I to do what I wish, I should tell you all my
story; but think of me as mercifully as you can--I am dead in life."

They looked at her in utter wonder. In the same faint voice she
continued:

"I am dead to my home--I shall never see it again, and to my friends--I
shall never see them again. I am dead to all the hopes that once made
earth like heaven for me."

Her voice died away in a faint, moaning sob, and there was
silence--silence that was broken at last by the clear, deep voice of the
doctor.

"Will you tell us why this is?" he asked.

"I cannot," she replied, "I can only trust to your mercy. I cannot tell
you either my name or my station, or what has slain me, when life was
most sweet."

"Did you do something very wrong?" asked Mrs. Chalmers, with a shadow on
her kindly face.

Hyacinth raised her beautiful eyes to the drifting clouds, which she
could see from the window.

"I did something," she replied--"but, no--I don't think it was so very
wrong; hundreds do it, and never think it wrong at all. I only planned
it; a fear that it might be wrong came over me, and I did not do it. But
the consequences of even the little I did--the shadow as it were of a
sin--fell over me, and my whole life is darkened."

"You can tell us no more?" said the doctor.

"No!" she replied; mournfully; "I throw myself on your mercy."

"She has never done anything wrong, Robert," interrupted Mrs. Chalmers,
addressing her son; "take my word for it. Look at that innocent face,
those clear, true eyes--no one could believe they were coupled with
guilt. I trust you, my dear," she added, turning to Hyacinth. "Keep your
secret--never mind it; I believe in you, and shall never ask what it
is."

A grateful look came over the girl's face.

"Thank you," she said. "You are right; I am not wicked. In one action of
my life I was imprudent and foolish; the consequences of that action,
which could not have been foreseen by any one, have crushed me. I am not
wicked. See, I ask you to let me kiss your face; if my lips were stained
with false words, I would not--I could not do so. I clasp your
hands--ah, such true, kind hands they have been to me!--in my own; but,
if mine were stained with crime, I could not do it."

"I believe you, my dear child," said Mrs. Chalmers; "you need say no
more."

"I may tell you this," continued the girl. "I had a name as old and
honored as any in the land; but I have laid it down and shall never use
it again. I had friends--kind, strict, noble, generous; I have looked my
last upon them. I had--oh, dear Heaven, it is hard to say!--I had a
lover, whom I loved dearly, and his face I have looked upon for the last
time. I am dead to all--dead in life!"

Her voice faltered, she broke into a passionate fit of weeping. During
this time the doctor had spoken never a word, but now he bent over her.

"Child," he said, "you are so young, so simple, that, if any wrong has
been done, you have been sinned against, not the sinner. Like my mother,
I trust you. We have neither daughter nor sister; you shall be both. Our
home shall be your home--what we have you shall share with us as long as
life lasts."

She kissed the strong hand clasped in her own; her warm tears fell on
it.

"You are very good to me," she said, "and though I tell you that I come
to you as one risen from the dead--though I have no name, no
friends--you will trust me, you will believe in me?"

"Yes," replied Dr. Chalmers, calmly. "I have not studied the human face
all these years to be mistaken at last. I trust you implicitly."

"You must have a name," cried Mrs. Chalmers; "all the world need not
know what we know. People will think you are a ward or _protégée_ of
mine; but you must have a name."

"Let her take ours, mother," suggested her son. But Hyacinth's face
flushed.

"That would hardly do," said Mrs. Chalmers. "I will give you mine, my
dear--the name that was mine in my girlhood--people used to think it a
pretty one--Millicent Holte."



CHAPTER XXV.


"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 I should 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."



CHAPTER XXVI.


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 ailing for 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 their _début_ some 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 a _protégée_ of 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 to be 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?"



CHAPTER XXVII.


"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 with his 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 son Aubrey 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.



CHAPTER XXVIII.


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 drove along 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; a long 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 Misses Dartelle 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.



CHAPTER XXIX.


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 I did 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 or _protégée_ of 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."



CHAPTER XXX.


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's thoughts; 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 your own 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 too great 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 Dartelle to 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.



CHAPTER XXXI.


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 idea of 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.



CHAPTER XXXII.


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 had spoken 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 had been 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.



CHAPTER XXXIII.


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 about _affaires du coeur_.
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 terrible _exposé_?" cried Lady Dartelle.

"There was nothing terrible in it," he opposed. "The worst thing the
girl did was to half-elope with one of the best _partis_ in 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.



CHAPTER XXXIV.


"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 he knows 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.



CHAPTER XXXV.


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 in her 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 that did 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."



CHAPTER XXXVI.


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 intrigue with 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.



CHAPTER XXXVII.


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."


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Transcriber's Notes


Bertha M. Clay is a pseudonym sometimes used by American publishers when
reprinting books written by Charlotte M. Brame; this novel has been
published at different times under both names.

Italics are represented using _underscores_. Bold is represented with
=equals signs=.

Added Table of Contents.

Retained some inconsistent hyphenation from the original (e.g. dewdrops
vs. dew-drops; fairylike vs. fairy-like).

Title page, added close quote after "Lady Damer's Secret."

Marriage Guide ad, changed "Gastation" to "Gestation" and "PUPLISHING"
to "PUBLISHING."

Page 7, changed single to double quote before "You need not marry
him..."

Page 13, changed "to night" to "to-night" and added missing quote after
'Yes; I will go.'

Page 15, changed comma to period after "queen allowed herself."

Page 16, changed "then" to "than" in "more toward magnificence than
cheerfulness."

Page 36, changed "thick-notted" to "thick-knotted."

Page 58, added missing "s" to "Darcy's" at end of first line of Chapter
XIII.

Page 69, changed "to sure" to "too sure."

Page 77, changed "pursuaded" to "persuaded."

Page 79, added missing period after "life and death were in the
balance."

Page 83, changed "seen hear" to "seen her."

Page 84, moved letter signature to its own line and added an opening quote
for more consistent formatting.

Page 106, added missing quote before "take my word for it."

Page 119, added missing close quote after "dear old friends."

Page 132, changed "correet" to "correct."

Page 137, changed question mark to exclamation point after "If he could
only forget that horrid girl!"

Page 142, changed oe ligature to oe in "coeur" for text edition.

Page 153, added missing "an" to "more than an hour."

Page 158, changed "brady" to "brandy."





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