Kitabı oku: «The Shadow of a Sin», sayfa 12

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.