Kitabı oku: «Love Works Wonders: A Novel», sayfa 16
CHAPTER XLII.
LOVE AND SORROW
The beautiful golden summer came round, and Darrell Court looked picturesque and lovely with its richness of foliage and flush of flowers. The great magnolia trees were all in bloom – the air was full of their delicate, subtle perfume; the chestnuts were in bloom, the limes all in blossom. Sweet summer had scattered her treasures with no niggard hand; and Lady Darrell had lived to see the earth rejoice once more.
Under the limes, where the shadows of the graceful, tremulous, scented leaves fell on the grass – the limes that were never still, but always responding to some half-hidden whisper of the wind – stood Pauline Darrell and her lover, Sir Vane St. Lawrence. They had met but once since their hurried parting at Omberleigh. Vane had been to Darrell Court – for their engagement was no secret now. They wrote to each other constantly.
On this fair June day Sir Vane had come to the Court with news that stirred the depths of the girl's heart as a fierce wind stirs the ripples on a lake.
As the sunlight fell through the green leaves and rested on her, the change in her was wonderful to see. The beautiful, noble face had lost all its pride, all its defiance; the play of the lips was tremulous, sensitive, and gentle; the light in the dark eyes was of love and kindness. Time had added to her loveliness; the grand, statuesque figure had developed more perfectly; the graceful attitudes, the unconscious harmony, the indefinable grace and fascination were more apparent than ever. But she no longer carried her grand beauty as a protest, but made it rather the crown of a pure and perfect womanhood.
Something dimmed the brightness of her face, for Sir Vane had come to her with strange news and a strange prayer. His arm was clasped round her as they walked under the shadow of the limes where lovers' footsteps had so often strayed.
"Yes, Pauline, it has come so unexpectedly at last," spoke Sir Vane. "Ever since Graveton has been in office, my dear mother has been unwearied in asking for an appointment for me. You know the story of our impoverished fortunes, and how anxious my dear mother is to retrieve them."
Her hand seemed to tighten its clasp on his, as she answered:
"Yes, I know."
"Now an opportunity has come. Graveton, in answer to my mother's continued requests, has found for me a most lucrative office; but, alas, my love, it is in India, and I must shortly set out."
"In India!" repeated Pauline; "and you must set out shortly, Vane? How soon?"
"In a fortnight from now," he answered. "It is an office that requires filling up at once, Pauline. I have come to ask if you will accompany me? Will you pardon the short notice, and let me take my wife with me to that far-off land? Do not let me go alone into exile – come with me, darling."
The color and light died out of her beautiful face, her lips quivered, and her eyes grew dim as with unshed tears.
"I cannot," she replied; and there was a silence between them that seemed full of pain.
"You cannot, Pauline!" he cried, and the sadness and disappointment in his voice made her lips quiver again. "Surely you will not allow any feminine nonsense about dress and preparations, any scruple about the shortness of time, to come between us? My mother bade me say that if you will consent she will busy herself night and day to help us to prepare. She bade me add her prayer to mine. Oh, Pauline, why do you say you cannot accompany me?"
The first shock had passed for her, and she raised her noble face to his.
"From no nonsense, Vane," she said. "You should know me better, dear, than that. Nothing can part us but one thing. Were it not for that, I would go with you to the very end of the world – I would work for you and with you."
"But what is it, Pauline?" he asked. "What is it, my darling?"
She clung to him more closely still.
"I cannot leave her, Vane – I cannot leave Lady Darrell. She is dying slowly – hour by hour, day by day – and I cannot leave her."
"But, my darling Pauline, there are others beside you to attend to the lady – Lady Hampton and Miss Hastings. Why should you give up your life thus?"
"Why?" she repeated. "You know why, Vane. It is the only atonement I can offer her. Heaven knows how gladly, how happily, I would this moment place my hand in yours and accompany you; my heart longs to do so. You are all I have in the world, and how I love you you know, Vane. But it seems to me that I owe Lady Darrell this reparation, and at the price of my whole life's happiness I must make it."
He drew her nearer to him, and kissed the trembling lips.
"She has suffered so much, Vane, through me – all through me. If I had but foregone my cruel vengeance, and when she came to me with doubt in her heart if I had but spoken one word, the chances are that by this time she would have been Lady Aynsley, and I should have been free to accompany you, my beloved; but I must suffer for my sin. I ought to suffer, and I ought to atone to her."
"Your life, my darling," he said, "your beautiful bright life, your love, your happiness, will all be sacrificed."
"They must be. You see, Vane, she clings to me in her sorrow. His name – Aubrey Langton's name – never passes her lips to any one else but me. She talks of him the night and the day through – it is the only comfort she has; and then she likes me to be with her, to talk to her, and soothe her, and she tires so soon of any one else. I cannot leave her, Vane – it would shorten her life, I am sure."
He made no answer. She looked up at him with tearful eyes.
"Speak to me, Vane. It is hard, I know – but tell me that I am right."
"You are cruelly right," he replied. "Oh, my darling, it is very hard! Yet you make her a noble atonement for the wrong you have done – a noble reparation. My darling, is this how your vow of vengeance has ended – in the greatest sacrifice a woman could make."
"Your love has saved me," she said, gently – "has shown me what is right and what is wrong – has cleared the mist from my eyes. But for that – oh, Vane, I hate to think what I should have been!"
"I wish it were possible to give up the appointment," he remarked, musingly.
"I would not have you do it, Vane. Think of Lady St. Lawrence – how she has worked for it. Remember, it is your only chance of ever being what she wishes to see you. You must not give it up."
"But how can I leave you, Pauline?"
"If you remain in England, it will make but little difference," she said. "I can never leave Lady Darrell while she lives."
"But, Pauline, it may be four, five, or six years before I return, and all that time I shall never see you."
She wrung her hands, but no murmur passed her lips, save that it was her fault – all her fault – the price of her sin.
"Vane," she said, "you must not tell Lady Darrell what you came to ask me. She must know that you are here only to say good-by. I would rather keep her in ignorance; she will be the happier for not knowing."
Was ever anything seen like that love and that sorrow – the love of two noble souls, two noble hearts, and the sorrow that parting more bitter than death brought upon them? Even Miss Hastings did not know until long after Sir Vane was gone of the sacrifice Pauline had made in the brave endeavor to atone for her sin.
She never forgot the agony of that parting – how Sir Vane stood before them, pale, worn, and sad, impressing one thing on them all – care for his darling. Even to Lady Darrell, the frail, delicate invalid, whose feeble stock of strength seemed to be derived from Pauline, he gave many charges.
"It will be so long before I see her again," he said; "but you will keep her safely for me."
"I almost wonder," said Lady Darrell, "why you do not ask Pauline to accompany you, Sir Vane. For my own sake, I am most selfishly glad that you have not done so – I should soon die without her."
They looked at each other, the two who were giving up so much for her, but spoke no word.
Sir Vane was obliged to return to London that same day. He spoke of seeing Pauline again, but she objected – it would only be a renewal of most bitter and hopeless sorrow. So they bade each other farewell under the lime trees. The bitter yet sweet memory of it lasted them for life.
Miss Hastings understood somewhat of the pain it would cause, but with her gentle consideration, she thought it best to leave Pauline for a time. Hours afterward she went in search of her, and found her under the limes, weeping and moaning for the atonement she had made for her sin.
CHAPTER XLIII.
LADY DARRELL'S WILL
Two years passed away, and Sir Vane St. Lawrence's circumstances were rapidly improving; his letters were constant and cheerful – he spoke always of the time when he should come home and claim Pauline for his wife. She only sighed as she read the hopeful words, for she had resolved that duty should be her watchword while Lady Darrell lived – even should that frail, feeble life last for fifty years, she would never leave her.
There came to her chill doubts and fears, dim, vague forebodings that she should never see Vane again – that their last parting was for ever; not that she doubted him, but that it seemed hopeless to think he would wait until her hair was gray, and the light of her youth had left her.
Never mind – she had done her duty; she had sinned, but she had made the noblest atonement possible for her sin.
Two years had passed, and the summer was drawing to a close. To those who loved and tended her it seemed that Lady Darrell's life was closing with it. Even Lady Hampton had ceased to speak hopefully, and Darrell Court was gloomy with the shadow of the angel of death.
There came an evening when earth was very lovely – when the gold of the setting sun, the breath of the western wind, the fragrance of the flowers, the ripple of the fountains, the song of the birds, were all beautiful beyond words to tell; and Lady Darrell, who had lain watching the smiling summer heavens, said:
"I should like once more to see the sun set, Pauline. I should like to sit at the window, and watch the moon rise."
"So you shall," responded Pauline. "You are a fairy queen. You have but to wish, and the wish is granted."
Lady Darrell smiled – no one ever made her smile except Pauline; but the fulfillment of the wish was not so easy after all. Lady Hampton's foreboding was realized. Lady Darrell might have recovered from her long, serious illness but that her mother's complaint, the deadly inheritance of consumption, had seized upon her, and was gradually destroying her.
It was no easy matter now to dress the wasted figure; but Pauline seemed to have the strength, the energy of twenty nurses. She was always willing, always cheerful, always ready; night and day seemed alike to her; she would look at her hands, and say:
"Oh! Elinor, I wish I could give you one-half my strength – one-half my life!"
"Do you? Pauline, if you could give me half your life, would you do so?"
"As willingly as I am now speaking to you," she would answer.
They dressed the poor lady, whose delicate beauty had faded like some summer flower. She sat at the window in a soft nest of cushions which Pauline had prepared for her, her wasted hands folded, her worn face brightened with the summer sunshine. She was very silent and thoughtful for some time, and then Pauline, fearing that she was dull, knelt in the fashion that was usual to her at Lady Darrell's feet, and held the wasted hands in hers.
"What are you thinking about, Elinor?" Pauline asked. "Something as bright as the sunshine?"
Lady Darrell smiled.
"I was just fancying to myself that every blossom of that white magnolia seemed like a finger beckoning me away," she said; "and I was thinking also how full of mistakes life is, and how plainly they can be seen when we come to die."
Pauline kissed the thin fingers. Lady Darrell went on.
"I can see my own great mistake, Pauline. I should not have married Sir Oswald. I had no love for him – not the least in the world; I married him only for position and fortune. I should have taken your warning, and not have come between your uncle and you. His resentment would have died away, for I am quite sure that in his heart he loved you; he would have forgiven you, and I should have had a happier, longer life. That was my mistake – my one great mistake. Another was that I had a certain kind of doubt about poor Aubrey. I cannot explain it; but I know that I doubted him even when I loved him, and I should have waited some time before placing the whole happiness of my life in his hands. Yet it seems hard to pay for those mistakes with my life, does it not?"
And Pauline, to whom all sweet and womanly tenderness seemed to come by instinct, soothed Lady Darrell with loving words until she smiled again.
"Pauline," she said, suddenly, "I wish to communicate something to you. I wish to tell you that I have made my will, and have left Darrell Court to you, together with all the fortune Sir Oswald left me. I took your inheritance from you once, dear; now I restore it to you. I have left my aunt, Lady Hampton, a thousand a year; you will not mind that – it comes back to you at her death."
"I do not deserve your kindness," said Pauline, gravely.
"Yes, you do; and you will do better with your uncle's wealth than I have done. I have only been dead in life. My heart was broken – and I have had no strength, no energy. I have done literally nothing; but you will act differently, Pauline – you are a true Darrell, and you will keep up the true traditions of your race. In my poor, feeble hands they have all fallen through. If Sir Vane returns, you will marry him; and, oh! my darling, I wish you a happy life. As for me, I shall never see the sun set again."
The feeble voice died away in a tempest of tears; and Pauline, frightened, made haste to speak of something else to change the current of her thoughts.
But Lady Darrell was right. She never saw the sun set or the moon rise again – the frail life ended gently as a child falls asleep. She died the next day, when the sun was shining its brightest at noon; and her death was so calm that they thought it sleep.
She was buried, not in the Darrell vault, but, by Pauline's desire, in the pretty cemetery at Audleigh Royal. Her death proved no shock, for every one had expected it. Universal sympathy and kindness followed her to her grave. The short life was ended, and its annals were written in sand.
Lady Hampton had given way; her old dislike of Pauline had changed into deep admiration of her sweet, womanly virtues, her graceful humility.
"If any one had ever told me," she said, "that Pauline Darrell would have turned out as she has, I could not have believed it. The way in which she devoted herself to my niece was wonderful. I can only say that in my opinion she deserves Darrell Court."
The legacy made Lady Hampton very happy; it increased her income so handsomely that she resolved to live no longer at the Elms, but to return to London, where the happiest part of her life had been spent.
"I shall come to Darrell Court occasionally," she said, "so that you may not quite forget me;" and Pauline was surprised to find that she felt nothing save regret at parting with one whom she had disliked with all the injustice of youth.
A few months afterward came a still greater surprise. The lover from whom Miss Hastings had been parted in her early youth – who had left England for Russia long years ago, and whom she had believed dead – returned to England, and never rested until he had found his lost love.
In vain the gentle, kind-hearted lady protested that she was too old to marry – that she had given up all thoughts of love. Mr. Bereton would not hear of it, and Pauline added her entreaties to his.
"But I cannot leave you, my dear," said Miss Hastings. "You cannot live all by yourself."
"I shall most probably have to spend my life alone," she replied, "and I will not have your happiness sacrificed to mine."
Between her lover and her pupil Miss Hastings found all resistance hopeless. Pauline took a positive delight and pleasure in the preparations for the marriage, and, in spite of all that Miss Hastings could say to the contrary, she insisted upon settling a very handsome income upon her.
There was a tone of sadness in all that Pauline said with reference to her future which struck Miss Hastings with wonder.
"You never speak of your own marriage," she said, "or your own future – why is it, Pauline?"
The beautiful face was overshadowed for a moment, and then she replied:
"It is because I have no hope. I had a presentiment when Vane went away, that I should not see him again. There are some strange thoughts always haunting me. If I reap as I have sowed, what then?"
"My dear child, no one could do more than you have done. You repented of your fault, and atoned for it in the best way you were able."
But the lovely face only grew more sad.
"I was so willful, so proud, so scornful. I did not deserve a happy life. I am trying to forget all the romance and the love, all the poetry of my youth, and to live only for my duty."
"But Sir Vane will come back," said Miss Hastings.
"I do not know – all hope seemed to die in my heart when he went away. But let us talk of you and your future without reference to mine."
Miss Hastings was married, and after she had gone away Pauline Darrell was left alone with her inheritance at last.
CHAPTER XLIV.
SHADOW OF ABSENT LOVE
Six years had passed since the marriage of the governess left Miss Darrell alone. She heard as constantly as ever from Sir Vane; he had made money rapidly. It was no longer the desire to make a fortune which kept him away, but the fact that in the part of the country where he was great danger existed, and that, having been placed there in a situation of trust, he could not well leave it; so of late a hopeless tone had crept into his letters. He made no reference to coming home; and Pauline, so quick, so sensitive, saw in this reticence the shadow of her own presentiment.
Six years had changed Pauline Darrell from a beautiful girl to a magnificent woman; her beauty was of that grand and queenly kind that of itself is a noble dowry. The years had but added to it. They had given a more statuesque grace to the perfect figure; they had added tenderness, thought, and spirituality to the face; they had given to her beauty a charm that it had never worn in her younger days.
Miss Darrell, of Darrell Court, had made for herself a wonderful reputation. There was no estate in England so well managed as hers. From one end to the other the Darrell domain was, people said, a garden. Pauline had done away with the old cottages and ill-drained farm-houses, and in their stead pretty and commodious buildings had been erected. She had fought a long and fierce battle with ignorance and prejudice, and she had won.
She had established schools where children were taught, first to be good Christians, and then good citizens, and where useful knowledge was made much of. She had erected almshouses for the poor, and a church where rich and poor, old and young, could worship God together. The people about her rose up and called her blessed; tenants, dependents, servants, all had but one word for her, and that was of highest praise. To do good seemed the object of her life, and she had succeeded so far.
No young queen was ever more popular or more beloved than this lady with her sweet, grave smile, her tender, womanly ways, her unconscious grandeur of life. She made no stir, no demonstration, though she was the head of a grand old race, the representative of an old honored family, the holder of a great inheritance; she simply did her duty as nobly as she knew how to do it. There was no thought of self left in her, her whole energies were directed for the good of others. If Sir Oswald could have known how the home he loved was cared for, he would have been proud of his successor. The hall itself, the park, the grounds, were all in perfect order. People wondered how it was all arranged by this lady, who never seemed hurried nor talked of the work she did.
Pauline occupied herself incessantly, for the bright hopes of girlhood, she felt, were hers no longer; she had admitted that the romance, the passion, the poetry of her youth were unforgotten, but she tried to think them dead. People wondered at her gravity. She had many admirers, but she never showed the least partiality for any of them. There seemed to be some shadow over her, and only those who knew her story knew what it was – that it was the shadow of her absent love.
She was standing one day in the library alone, the same library where so much of what had been eventful in her life had happened. The morning had been a busy one; tenants, agents, business people of all kinds had been there, and Pauline felt tired.
Darrell Court, the grand inheritance she had loved and in some measure longed for, was hers; she was richer than she had ever dreamed of being, and, as she looked round on the treasures collected in the library, she thought to herself with a sigh, "Of what avail are they, save to make others happy?" She would have given them all to be by Vane's side, no matter how great their poverty, no matter what they had to undergo together; but now it seemed that this bright young love of hers was to wither away, to be heard of no more.
So from the beautiful lips came a deep sigh; she was tired, wearied with the work and incessant care that the management of her estates entailed. She did not own it even to herself, but she longed for the presence of the only being whom she loved.
She was bending over some beautiful japonicas – for, no matter how depressed she might be, she always found solace in flowers – when she heard the sound of a horse's rapid trot.
"Farmer Bowman back again," she said to herself, with a smile; "but I must not give way to him."
She was so certain that it was her tiresome tenant that she did not even turn her head when the door opened and some one entered the room – some one who did not speak, but who went up to her with a beating heart, laid one hand on her bowed head, and said:
"Pauline, my darling, you have no word of welcome for me?"
It was Vane. With a glad cry of welcome – a cry such as a lost child gives when it reaches its mother's arms – the cry of a long-cherished, trusting love – she turned and was clasped in his arms, her haven of rest, her safe refuge, her earthly paradise, attained at last.
"At last!" she murmured.
But he spoke no word to her. His eyes were noting her increased beauty. He kissed the sweet lips, the lovely face.
"My darling," he said, "I left you a beautiful girl, but I find you a woman beautiful beyond all comparison. It has seemed to me an age since I left you, and now I am never to go away again. Pauline, you will be kind to me for the sake of my long, true, deep love? You will be my wife as soon as I can make arrangements – will you not?"
There was no coquetry, no affectation about her; the light deepened on her noble face, her lips quivered, and then she told him:
"Yes, whenever you wish."
They conversed that evening until the sun had set. He told her all his experience since he had left her, and she found that he had passed through London without even waiting to see Lady St. Lawrence, so great had been his longing to see her.
But the next day Lady St. Lawrence came down, and by Sir Vane's wish preparations for the marriage were begun at once. Pauline preferred to be married at Audleigh Royal and among her own people.
They tell now of that glorious wedding – of the sun that seemed to shine more brightly than it had ever shone before – of the rejoicings and festivities such as might have attended the bridal of an empress – of the tears and blessings of the poor – of the good wishes that would have made earth Heaven had they been realized. There never was such a wedding before.
Every other topic failed before the one that seemed inexhaustible – the wonderful beauty of the bride. She was worthy of the crown of orange-blossoms, and she wore them with a grace all her own. Then, after the wedding, Sir Vane and Pauline went to Omberleigh. That was the latter's fancy, and, standing that evening where she had seen Vane first, she blessed him and thanked him with grateful tears that he had redeemed her by his great love.
There was a paragraph in a recent issue of the Times announcing that Oswald St. Lawrence, second son of Sir Vane and Lady St. Lawrence, had, by letters-patent, assumed the name of Darrell. So that the old baronet's prayer is granted, and the race of Darrell – honored and respected, beloved and esteemed – is not to be without a representative.
