The Shadow of a Sin

"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?"