Kitabı oku: «Love Works Wonders: A Novel», sayfa 15

CHAPTER XXXIX.
FACE TO FACE

Captain Langton looked up in surprise not altogether unfounded, the sight that met his eyes was so unusual.

Before him stood Lady Darrell, her face white as death, her lips quivering with excitement, her superb dress of pink brocade all disarranged, her golden hair falling over her beautiful shoulders – a sight not to be forgotten; she held Pauline by the hand, and in all her life Lady Darrell had never looked so agitated as now.

"Captain Langton," said Lady Darrell, "will you come here? I want you most particularly."

It was by pure chance that she opened the library door – it was the one nearest to her.

"Will you follow me?" she said.

He looked from one to the other with somewhat of confusion in his face.

"Miss Darrell!" he cried. "Why, I thought you were at Omberleigh!"

Pauline made no reply.

Lady Darrell held the library door open while they entered, and then she closed it, and turned the key.

Captain Langton looked at her in wonder.

"Elinor," he said, "what does this mean? Are you going to play a tragedy or a farce?"

"That will depend upon you," she answered; "I am glad and thankful to have brought you and Miss Darrell face to face. Now I shall know the truth."

The surprise on his face deepened into an angry scowl.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, sharply. "I do not understand."

It was a scene never to be forgotten. The library was dim with the shadows of the autumn evening, and in the gloom Lady Darrell's pale pink dress, golden hair, and white arms bare to the shoulder, seemed to attract all the light; her face was changed from its great agitation – the calm, fair beauty, the gentle, caressing manner were gone.

Near her stood Pauline, whose countenance was softened with compassion and pity unutterable, the dark eyes shining as through a mist of tears.

Before them, as a criminal before his judges, stood Aubrey Langton, with an angry scowl on his handsome face, and yet something like fear in his eyes.

"What is it?" he cried, impatiently. "I cannot understand this at all."

Lady Darrell turned her pale face to him.

"Captain Langton," she said, gravely, "Miss Darrell brings a terrible accusation against you. She tells me that you stole the roll of notes that Sir Oswald missed, and that at the price of her life you extorted an oath from her not to betray you; is it true?"

She looked at him bravely, fearlessly.

"It is a lie!" he said.

Lady Darrell continued:

"Here, in this room, where we are standing now, she tells me that the scene took place, and that, finding she had discovered you in the very act of theft, you held a loaded pistol to her head until she took the oath you dictated. Is it true or false?"

"It is a lie!" he repeated; but his lips were growing white, and great drops stood upon his brow.

"She tells me," resumed Lady Darrell, "that you loved her, and that you care only for Darrell Court, not for me. Is it true?"

"It is all false," he said, hoarsely – "false from beginning to end! She hates you, she hates me, and this foul slander has only been invented to part us!"

Lady Darrell looked from one to the other.

"Now Heaven help me!" she cried. "Which am I to believe?"

Grave and composed, with a certain majesty of truth that could never be mistaken, Pauline raised her right hand.

"Lady Darrell," she said, "I swear to you, in the presence of Heaven, that I have spoken nothing but the truth."

"And I swear it is false!" cried Aubrey Langton.

But appearances were against him; Lady Darrell saw that he trembled, that his lips worked almost convulsively, and that great drops stood upon his brow.

Pauline looked at him; those dark eyes that had in them no shadow save of infinite pity and sorrow seemed to penetrate his soul, and he shrank from the glance.

"Elinor," he cried, "you believe me, surely? Miss Darrell has always hated you, and this is her revenge."

"Lady Darrell," said the girl, "I am ashamed of my hatred and ashamed of my desire for vengeance. There is no humiliation to which I would not submit to atone for my faults, but every word I have said to you is true."

Once more with troubled eyes Lady Darrell looked from one to the other; once more she murmured:

"Heaven help me! Which am I to believe?"

Then Captain Langton, with a light laugh, said:

"Is the farce ended, Lady Darrell? You see it is no tragedy after all."

Pauline turned to him, and in the light of that noble face his own grew mean and weak.

"Captain Langton," she said, "I appeal to whatever there is of good and just in you. Own to the truth. You need not be afraid of it – Lady Darrell will not injure you. She will think better of you if you confess than if you deny. Tell her that you were led into error, and trust to her kindness for pardon."

"She speaks well," observed Lady Darrell, slowly. "If you are guilty, it is better to tell me so."

He laughed again, but the laugh was not pleasant to hear. Pauline continued:

"Let the evil rest where it is, Captain Langton; do not make it any greater. In your heart you know that you have no love for this lady – it is her fortune that attracts you. If you marry her, it will only be to make her unhappy for life. Admit your fault and leave her in peace."

"You are a remarkably free-spoken young lady, Miss Darrell – you have quite an oratorical flow of words. It is fortunate that Lady Darrell knows you, or she might be tempted to believe you. Elinor, I rest my claim on this – since you have known Miss Darrell, have you ever received one act of kindness from her, one kind word even?"

Lady Darrell was obliged to answer:

"No."

"Then I leave it," he said, "to your sense of justice which of us you are to believe now – her who, to anger you, swears to my guilt, or me, who swears to my innocence? Elinor, my love, you cannot doubt me."

Pauline saw her eyes soften with unutterable tenderness – he saw a faint flush rise on the fair face. Almost involuntarily Lady Darrell drew near to him.

"I cannot bear to doubt you, Aubrey," she said. "Oh, speak the truth to me, for my love's sake!"

"I do speak the truth. Come with me; leave Miss Darrell for a while. Walk with me across the lawn, and I will tell you what respect for Miss Darrell prevents my saying here."

Lady Darrell turned to Pauline.

"I must hear what he has to say – it is only just."

"I will wait for you," she replied.

The captain was always attentive; he went out into the hall and returned with a shawl that he found there.

"You cannot go out with those beautiful arms uncovered, Elinor," he said, gently.

He placed the shawl around her, trying to hide the coward, trembling fear.

"As though I did not love you," he said, reproachfully. "Show me another woman only half so fair."

Pauline made one more effort.

"Lady Darrell," she cried, with outstretched hands, "you will not decide hastily – you will take time to judge?"

But as they passed out together, something in the delicate face told her that her love for Aubrey Langton was the strongest element in her nature.

"Lady Darrell," she cried again, "do not listen to him! I swear I have told you the truth – Heaven will judge between him and me if I have not!"

"You must have studied tragedy at the Porte St. Martin," said Aubrey Langton, with a forced laugh; "Lady Darrell knows which to believe."

She watched them walk across the lawn, Captain Langton pleading earnestly, Lady Darrell's face softening as she listened.

"I am too late!" cried the girl, in an agony of self-reproach. "All my humiliation is in vain; she will believe him and not me. I cannot save her now, but one word spoken in time might have done so."

Oh, the bitterness of the self-reproach that tortured her – the anguish of knowing that she could have prevented Lady Darrell's wrecking her whole life, yet had not done so! It was no wonder that she buried her face in her hands, weeping and praying as she had never wept and prayed in her life before.

"Elinor, look at me," said Captain Langton; "do I look like a thief and a would-be murderer?"

Out of Pauline's presence the handsome face had regained its usual careless, debonair expression.

She raised her eyes, and he saw in them the lingering doubt, the lingering fear.

"If all the world had turned against me," he said, "and had refused to believe in me, you, Elinor, my promised wife, ought to have had more faith."

She made no reply. There had been something in the energy of Pauline's manner that carried conviction with it; and the weak heart, the weak nature that had always relied upon others, could form no decision unaided.

"For argument sake, let us reverse the case. Say that some disappointed lover of yours came to tell to me that you had been discovered stealing; should I not have laughed? Why, Elinor, you must be blind not to see the truth; a child might discern it. The fact is that long ago I was foolish enough to believe myself in love with Miss Darrell; and she – well, honestly speaking, she is jealous. A gentleman does not like to refer to such things, but that is the simple truth. She is jealous, and would part us if she could; but she shall not. My beautiful Elinor is all my own, and no half-crazed, jealous girl shall come between us."

"Is it so, Aubrey?" asked Lady Darrell.

"My dearest Elinor, that is the whole secret of Miss Darrell's strange conduct to me. She is jealous – and you know, I should imagine, what jealous women are like."

She tried to believe him, but, when she recalled the noble face, with its pure light of truth and pity, she doubted again. But Captain Langton pleaded, prayed, invented such ridiculous stories of Pauline, made such fervent protestations of love, lavished such tender words upon her, that the weak heart turned to him again, and again its doubtings were cast aside.

"How we shall laugh over this in the happy after years!" he said. "It is really like a drama. Oh, Elinor, I am so thankful that I was here to save you! And now, my darling, you are trembling with cold. My fair, golden-haired Elinor, what must you think of that cruel girl? How could she do it? No; I will not go in again to-night – I should not be able to keep my temper. Your grand tragedy heroine will be gone to-morrow."

They stood together under the shadow of the balcony, and he drew her nearer to him.

"Elinor," he said, "I shall never rest again until you are my wife. This plot has failed; Miss Darrell will plot again to part us. I cannot wait until the spring – you must be my wife before then. To-morrow morning I shall ride over to talk to you about it."

She clasped her arms round his neck, and raised her sweet face to his.

"Aubrey," she said, wistfully, "you are not deceiving me?"

"No, my darling, I am not."

He bent down and kissed her lips. She looked at him again, pleadingly, wistfully.

"Heaven will judge between us, Aubrey," she said, solemnly. "I have a sure conviction that I shall know the truth."

"I hope Heaven will assist you," he returned, lightly; "I am quite sure the decision will be in my favor."

And those words, so wickedly, so blasphemously false, were the last he ever spoke to her.

CHAPTER XL.
DYING IN SIN

Captain Langton left Lady Darrell at the door of the porch, and went round to the stables. He was a man as utterly devoid of principle as any man could well be, yet the untruths he had told, the false testimony he had given, the false oaths he had taken, had shaken his nerves.

"I should not care to go through such a scene as that again," he said – "to stand before two women as before my judges."

He found his hands unsteady and his limbs trembling; the horse he had to ride was a spirited one. The captain half staggered as he placed his hand on the saddle.

"I am not very well," he said to one of the grooms; "go to the house and tell Frampton, the butler, to bring some brandy here."

In a few minutes the butler appeared with a tray, on which stood bottle and glass.

"This is some very old brandy, sir," he said, "and very strong."

But Captain Langton did not appear to heed him; he poured out half a tumblerful and drank it, while the butler looked on in amazement.

"It is very strong, sir," he repeated.

"I know what I am doing," returned the captain, with an oath.

He was dizzy with fear and with his after-success; he shuddered again as he mounted his horse, and the memory of Pauline's face and Pauline's words came over him. Then he galloped off, and Frampton, turning to the groom, with a scared face, said:

"If he gets home safely after taking so much of that brandy, and with that horse, I will never venture to say what I think again."

Lady Darrell returned to the library, where she had left Pauline. They looked at each other in silence, and then Lady Darrell said:

"I – I believe in him, Pauline; he cannot be what you say."

Miss Darrell rose and went up to her; she placed her in a chair, and knelt at her feet.

"You do not believe what I have told you?" she questioned, gently.

"I cannot; my love and my faith are all his."

"I have done my best," said Pauline, sorrowfully, "and I can do no more. While I live I shall never forgive myself that I did not speak sooner, Lady Darrell. Elinor, I shall kneel here until you promise to forgive me."

Then Lady Darrell looked at the beautiful face, with its expression of humility.

"Pauline," she said, suddenly, "I hardly recognize you. What has come to you? What has changed you?"

Her face crimson with hot blushes, Pauline answered her.

"It is to me," she said, "as though a vail had fallen from before my eyes. I can see my sin in all its enormity. I can see to what my silence has led, and, though you may not believe me, I shall never rest until you say that you have forgiven me."

Lady Darrell was not a woman given to strong emotion of any kind; the deepest passion of her life was her love for Aubrey Langton; but even she could give some faint guess as to what it had cost the proud, willful Pauline to undergo this humiliation.

"I do forgive you," she said. "No matter how deeply you have disliked me, or in what way you have plotted against me, I cannot refuse you. I forgive you, Pauline."

Miss Darrell held up her face.

"Will you kiss me?" she asked. "I have never made that request in all my life before, but I make it now."

Lady Darrell bent down and kissed her, while the gloom of the evening fell round them and deepened into night.

"If I only knew what to believe!" Lady Darrell remarked. "First my heart turns to him, Pauline, and then it turns to you. Yet both cannot be right – one must be most wicked and most false. You have truth in your face – he had truth on his lips when he was talking to me. Oh, if I knew – if I only knew!"

And when she had repeated this many times, Pauline said to her:

"Leave it to Heaven; he has agreed that Heaven shall judge between us, and it will. Whoever has told the lie shall perish in it."

So some hours passed, and the change that had come over Lady Darrell was almost pitiful to see. Her fair face was all drawn and haggard, the brightness had all left it. It was as though years of most bitter sorrow had passed over her. They had spoken to her of taking some refreshment, but she had sent it away. She could do nothing but pace up and down with wearied step, moaning that she only wanted to know which was right, which to believe, while Pauline sat by her in unwearied patience. Suddenly Lady Darrell turned to her.

"What is the matter with me?" she asked. "I cannot understand myself; the air seems full of whispers and portents – it is as though I were here awaiting some great event. What am I waiting for?"

They were terrible words, for the answer to them was a great commotion in the hall – the sound of hurried footsteps – of many voices. Lady Darrell stood still in dismay.

"What is it?" she cried. "Oh, Pauline, I am full of fear – I am sorely full of fear!"

It was Frampton who opened the door suddenly, and stood before them with a white, scared face.

"Oh, my lady – my lady!" he gasped.

"Tell her quickly," cried Pauline; "do you not see that suspense is dangerous?"

"One of the Court servants," said the butler, at once, in response, "returning from Audleigh Royal, has found the body of Captain Langton lying in the high-road, where his horse had thrown him, dragged him, and left him – dead!"

"Heaven be merciful to him!" cried Pauline Darrell. "He has died in his sin."

But Lady Darrell spoke no words. Perhaps she thought to herself that Heaven had indeed judged between them. She said nothing – she trembled – a gasping cry came from her, and she fell face forward on the floor.

They raised her and carried her up stairs. Pauline never left her; through the long night-watches and the long days she kept her place by her side, while life and death fought fiercely for her. She would awake from her stupor at times, only to ask about Aubrey – if it could be true that he was dead – and then seemed thankful that she could understand no more.

They did not think at first that she could recover. Afterward Doctor Helmstone told her that she owed her life to Pauline Darrell's unchanging love and care.

CHAPTER XLI.
THE WORK OF ATONEMENT

The little town of Audleigh Royal had never been so excited. It was such a terrible accident. Captain Langton, the guest of Sir Peter Glynn, so soon to be master of Darrell Court – a man so handsome, so accomplished, and so universal a favorite – to be killed in the gloom of an autumn night, on the high-road! Society was grieved and shocked.

"That beautiful young lady at the Hall, who loved him so dearly, was," people whispered to each other, "at death's door – so deep was her grief."

An inquest was held at the "Darrell Arms;" and all the revelations ever made as to the cause of Captain Langton's death were made then. The butler and the groom at Darrell Court swore to having felt some little alarm at seeing the deceased drink more than half a tumblerful of brandy. The butler's prophecy that he would never reach home in safety was repeated. One of the men said that the captain looked pale and scared, as though he had seen a ghost; another told how madly he had galloped away; so that no other conclusion could be come to but this – that he had ridden recklessly, lost all control over the horse, and had been thrown. There was proof that the animal had dragged him along the road for some little distance; and it was supposed the fatal wound had been inflicted when his head was dashed against the mile-stone close to which he had been found.

It was very shocking, very terrible. Society was distressed. The body lay at the "Darrell Arms" until all arrangements had been made for the funeral. Such a funeral had never been seen in Audleigh Royal. Rich and poor, every one attended.

Captain Langton was buried in the pretty little cemetery at Audleigh; and people, as they stood round the grave, whispered to each other that, although the horse that killed him had cost over a hundred pounds, Sir Peter Glynn had ordered it to be shot.

Then, when the autumn had faded into winter, the accident was forgotten. Something else happened which drove it from people's minds, and the tragedy of Audleigh Royal became a thing of the past.

Pauline did not return to Omberleigh. Miss Hastings was dreadfully shocked when she received a letter telling her of Captain Langton's death and of Lady Darrell's serious illness. No persuasions could induce her to remain longer away. She returned that same day to the Court, and insisted upon taking her share in the nursing of Lady Darrell.

Lady Hampton looked upon the captain's accident as the direct interposition of Providence. Of course such a death was very shocking, very terrible; but certainly it had never been a match she approved; and, after all, say what one would, everything had happened for the best.

Lady Hampton went over to Darrell Court, and assisted in attending to the invalid; but her thoughts ran more on Lord Aynsley, and the chances of his renewing his offer, than on anything else. Elinor would soon recover, there was no fear; the shock to her nerves had been great, but people never died of nervousness; and, when she did get well, Lady Hampton intended to propose a season in London.

But Lady Darrell did not get well as soon as Lady Hampton had anticipated. Indeed, more than one clever doctor, on leaving her presence, shook his head gravely, and said it was doubtful whether Lady Darrell would ever recover at all; the shock to her nerves had been terrible.

But there was something to be said also of a blighted life and a broken heart.

Autumn had drifted into winter; and one morning Lady Darrell, who had been sleeping more soundly than usual, suddenly turned to Pauline, who seldom left her.

"Pauline," she whispered, "you have not told any one, have you?"

"Told what?" she inquired.

"About poor Aubrey's faults. I know now that he was guilty. Strange, solemn thoughts, strange revelations, come to us, are made to us in sickness, when we lie, where I have been lying, in the valley of the shadow of death. I know that he was guilty, and that he died in his sin. I know it now, Pauline."

Miss Darrell bent over her and kissed the white brow.

"Listen to me, dear," continued the weak voice. "Let this secret die with us – let there be a bond between us never to reveal it. You will never tell any one about it, will you, Pauline?"

"No," she replied, "never. I should never have told you but that I hoped to save you from a dreadful fate – and it would have been a dreadful fate for you to have married him; he would have broken your heart."

"It is broken now," she said, gently. "Yet it comforts me to know that no reproach will be heaped on Aubrey's memory."

"You will get better," observed Pauline, hopefully, "and then there will be happier days in store for you."

"There will be no happy days for me," returned Lady Darrell, sorrowfully. "You see, Pauline, I loved him very dearly – more dearly than I knew. I had never loved any one very much until I saw him. I could more easily have checked a raging fire than have restrained my love after I had once given it. My life had in some way passed into his, and now I do not care to live."

"But you have so much to live for," said Pauline.

"Not now. I do not care for aught about me. I have tried to remember Darrell Court and all my wealth and grandeur, but they give me no pleasure – the shadow of death lies over all."

And it was all in vain that Pauline tried to rouse her; Lady Darrell, after her unhappy love, never cared to be roused again. Lady Hampton would not think seriously of her illness – it would pass away in time, she said; but Miss Hastings shook her head gravely, and feared the worst.

The time came when Pauline told some part of her story to the governess. She did not mention Aubrey's crime – that secret she kept until death – but she gave a sketch of what had passed between her and Lady Darrell.

"Did I do right?" she asked, with that sweet humility which had vanquished all pride in her.

"You acted worthily," replied Miss Hastings, while she marveled at the transformation which love had wrought in that once proud, willful girl.

Time passed on, and by the wish of Miss Hastings a celebrated physician was sent for from London, for Lady Darrell grew no better. His opinion sounded somewhat like a death-warrant.

"She may recover sufficiently to quit her room and to linger on in life – how long is uncertain; but the shock to her nerves she will never fully recover from – while she lives she will be a victim to nervousness. But I do not think she will live long. Let her have as much cheerful society as possible, without fatigue; nothing more can be done for her."

And with that they were obliged to be content. Lady Hampton would not admit that the London physician was correct.

"Nerves are all nonsense," she said, brusquely. "How many nervous shocks have I been through, with husband dead and children dead? Elinor's only danger is her mother's complaint. She died of consumption quite young."

It was found, however, despite Lady Hampton's disbelief, that the London physician had spoken truthfully. Lady Darrell rose from her sick bed, but she was but the shadow of herself, and a victim to a terrible nervous disorder.

Miss Hastings watched over her with great anxiety, but Pauline was like a second self to the unhappy lady. They were speaking of her one day, and Miss Hastings said:

"An illness like Lady Darrell's is so uncertain, Pauline; you must not occupy yourself with her so entirely, or you will lose your own health."

But Pauline looked up with a smile – perhaps the gravest, the sweetest and most tender her face had ever worn.

"I shall never leave her," she returned.

"Never leave her?" questioned Miss Hastings.

"No. I shall stay with her to comfort her while life lasts, and that will be my atonement."