The Shadow of a Sin

"Even if I do appear," she said, "who that has known me in my bright happy days – who that has known me as Hyacinth Vaughan – would recognize me now?"

Who could discover the lovely, smiling, radiant face under that sad, careworn look? Where was the light that had shone in the beautiful eyes – where were the smiles that had played round the perfect lips – where the grace and happiness that had made the face like sunshine? Years seemed to have passed over that bowed head – years of sorrow, of care, of misery. No one could recognize her. She need have no fear.

She blushed crimson when Dr. Chalmers, on seeing her, laughed. She had forgotten the false braids of hair. Nothing had the power to interest her long. Her thoughts always flew to Adrian. What had he thought of her? Had he forgotten her? What was he doing? She had completely forgotten the braids. The doctor's mischievous laugh made her remember them.

"I declare, Millicent," he said, "I should have passed you in the street without recognizing you. Why, you look ten years older, child, and so altered!" His face grew serious and sad as he remembered the girl as he had seen her first.

"Shall you like Lady Dartelle?" he asked.

Severe suffering had not blunted her keen instinct – the instinct that had shown her that Claude was more enthusiastic than sincere, and that Adrian was the most noble of men.

"I shall like my pupil," she said, "I shall love her in time."

"Now," observed the doctor, "I have hopes of you. This is the first time you have used that word. Millicent," he continued, kindly, yet gravely, "to love any thing, even though it be only a child, will be the salvation of you."

It was arranged that Millicent – Hyacinth had even learned to think of herself by that name – should join Lady Dartelle on the Friday evening; and on the following Saturday they were to go down to Hulme Abbey together. Dr. Chalmers had promised to find time to run down in the course of a few months.

"You will naturally be anxious to see how Miss Holte gets on," said her ladyship, adroitly; "and I shall be glad of your advice about Clara."

Then the time for parting came. The separation proved harder than they had thought. Millicent had grown to love the place and the people, as it was characteristic of her grateful, loving nature, to care for all those who were kind to her. It was her only home now; and the friends who dwelt there had been goodness itself. Her sad heart grew heavier as she thought of leaving them.

"Yet, if I live on here as I have been doing," she said to herself, "I shall lose my reason."

When the time came to say farewell, Dr. Chalmers held her hands in his.

"I am not a man of many words," he said, "but I tell you this – the sunshine and joy of my heart go with you. How much I care for you, you will never know; but Heaven's best blessing go with you and prosper you! If you ever want a friend, send for me."

In another minute Hyacinth had left the house that had been to her as a haven of refuge and a heaven of rest.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The beautiful November day was drawing to a close as Lady Dartelle and Hyacinth neared the end of their journey. It had been a lovely day. The branches of the trees were all bare of leaves, but the sun shone brightly and the sky was clear.

After the railway journey was ended, as they drove along the country roads, a faint color came into Millicent's face, faint and exquisite as the delicate bloom on the inner leaf of a wild rose, and a light shone in her eyes. New life had come to her. The trees seemed to spread out their grand branches as though to welcome her. The time was not so long since she had talked to them in her pretty childlike way, believing they could hear if not answer her. The life in that dull London house, where no green leaf was to be seen, faded like a heavy dream. She could have stretched out her hands to the trees, in fondest welcome. How had she lived so long without seeing them? A long, deep sigh escaped her. Lady Dartelle looked up.

"I hope you are not tired, Miss Holte?" she said.

"No, not at all, thank you; but the country looks so beautiful, and the trees are like dear old friends."

Her ladyship did not look very well pleased; she had not bargained for a sentimental governess.

"I hope," she returned stiffly, "you will find better friends at Hulme Abbey than the trees are likely to prove."

Another cry of delight escaped Hyacinth, for, on turning a sharp corner of the road, the sea lay spread out before them.

"Is Hulme Abbey near the sea?" she asked.

"Almost too near," said Lady Dartelle, "for when the wind blows and the tide is high we can hear the noise of the surf too plainly – that is the only fault that any one could possibly find with Hulme. Do you like the sea, Miss Holte?"

She did not know. She had seen it twice – once when the world was all fair and she was going to Bergheim, and again when the waves had sobbed a dull requiem to all her hope and her love. Did she like it? The very music seemed full of the sorrow of her life. She thought that she would soon grow to love it with a passion that only poets lavish on the fair beauties of nature. Then the gray turrets of the Abbey came in sight.

"We are at home," said Lady Dartelle.

Hulme Abbey was neither so spacious nor so magnificent as Queen's Chase. It was an ancient building of imposing aspect, with square towers and an old-fashioned gateway, the windows were large, and the exterior of the house was ornamented with heavy carvings of stone. The building stood in the midst of the beautiful grounds; a long chestnut avenue at the back led to the woods, and these last sloped down to the very edge of the sea.

"We are not many minutes' walk from the shore," said Lady Dartelle, "and one of your most important duties, Miss Holte, will be to take Miss Clara down to the sea every day. The walk will be most beneficial to her."

The lonely, sorrowful heart clung to that idea of the sea; it would be a companion, almost a friend to her. It had a voice that would speak to her, that would tell her of her love, lost forever, and that would whisper of the mysteries of life, so hard to understand. Lady Dartelle almost wondered at the rapt, sublime expression that came over the sweet, sad face. In another moment they were in the spacious entrance-hall, servants bowing, Lady Dartelle proud and patronizing.

"You are tired, and will like to go to your room," she said. "King, show Miss Holte to her room."

So for that one night the young girl escaped the ordeal she had dreaded – the introduction to the daughters of Lady Dartelle.

Hyacinth rose early the next morning. She could not control her impatience to see the sea; it was as though some one she loved were waiting for her. After a few inquiries from one of the servants, she found her way to the shore; her whole heart went out in rapture to the restless waters. She sat down and watched the waves as they rolled in and broke on the shore. The smell of the salt breeze was delicious, the grand anthem of the waves was magnificent to hear; and as she sat there she wept – as she had not wept since her sorrow fell upon her – tears that eased her heart of its burning load, and that seemed to relieve her brain of its terrible pressure.

Where was Adrian? The waves murmured his name. "My love, my lost, my own," they seemed to chant, as the murmur died along the shore. Where was he? Could it be that these same waves were chanting to him?

"If I could only go to him," she said, "and fall sobbing at his feet, and tell him how I love him!"

Presently she went back to the house, feeling better than she had felt for long months, and found, to her great relief, that none of the ladies were up yet. The servant who had attended to her the night before was in her room.

"My name is Mary King, miss," she said, "and my lady told me I was to attend the school-room. Would you like to see it?"

Millicent followed her and the girl led the way to a pretty little room that overlooked the woods. It was plainly furnished; but there was a piano, an easel, and plenty of books and flowers.

"This is the school-room, miss," said the maid, "and my lady thought that, as Miss Clara will be here for only six hours during the day – that is, for study – it would answer as a sitting-room for you as well."

Hyacinth desired nothing better than the grand old trees to look at. The maid wondered that she looked from the window instead of round the room.

"I will bring you your breakfast at once, miss," said the girl. "Miss Clara takes hers with you."

After breakfast Lady Dartelle came in with the written order of studies in her hand, and then Millicent found that her office was no sinecure. There was one thing pleasant – every day she must spend two hours out of doors with the young ladies in order to converse in French and Italian with them.

Lady Dartelle added that she had one remark to make, and that was that she had noticed in Miss Holte a tendency to dreaminess – this was always bad in young people, but especially out of place in a governess. She trusted that Miss Holte would try and cure herself of it. When the lady had gone away, the girl looked round the room, she wondered how long she would have to live in it, and what she would have to pass through. What sorrowful thoughts, what ghosts of her lost love and lost happiness would haunt her! But in her wildest dreams she never fancied anything so strange as that which afterward came to pass.

She found that it was not without reason that she had dreaded the ordeal of meeting the young ladies. They were not amiable girls. They were tall, with good figures and high-bred faces – faces that, if they had taken the trouble to cultivate more amiability and good temper, would even have been passable, if not comely, but they wore continually an expression of pride, discontent, and ill-temper. Lady Dartelle, like the valiant and enterprising lady that she was, did her best with them and tried to make the most of them. She tried to smooth down the little angularities of temper – she tried to develop the best traits in their characters and to conceal their faults. It was a difficult task, and nothing but the urgency of the case would have given her ladyship courage. The Misses Dartelle had been for three years in society, and all prospect of their settlement in life seemed remote. It was a serious matter to Lady Dartelle. She did not care to pass through life with two cross old maids hampering her every movement.

Sir Aubrey had listened to his mother's complaints, and had laughingly tried to comfort her. "I shall come down some time in February," he said; "and I will bring some of the most eligible bachelors of my acquaintance with me. If you make good use of the opportunity, you will surely get one of the girls 'off.' I know how fatal country-house life is to an idle man."

The prospect was rather a poor one; still Lady Dartelle was not without hope.

The gentleman who was to win one of the Misses Dartelle was not to be envied for the exceeding happiness of his lot. They treated the governess with a mixture of haughty scorn and patronizing disdain which at times even amused her. She was, as a rule, supremely indifferent, but there were times when a sarcasm from one of the young ladies brought a smile to her lips, for the simple reason that it was so very inappropriate.

CHAPTER XXIX

Time passed on and Christmas came at last. By that time Hyacinth had grown accustomed to her new home. Dr. Chalmers had been to see her, and had professed himself delighted with the change in her appearance. She did not regain all of her lost happiness, but she did regain some of her lost health and strength. Though she had not a single hope left, and did not value her life, the color slowly returned to her face and the light to her eyes. The fresh sea-breeze, the regular daily exercise, the quiet life, all tended to her improvement. She did not seem the same girl when Christmas, with its snow and holly, came round.

Hyacinth found wonderful comfort in the constant childish prattle and numerous questions of little Clara; the regular routine of studies took her thoughts in some measure from herself. She was obliged to rouse herself; she could not brood over her sorrows to the exclusion of everything else. She had thought her heart dead to all love, and yet at Hulme Abbey she had learned to love two things with a passion of affection – one was her little pupil; the other, the broad, open, restless sea. How long her present mode of life was to last she did not know – she had not asked herself; some day or other she supposed it would end, and then she must go somewhere else to work. But it was certain she would have to work on in quiet hiding till she died. It was not a very cheerful prospect, but she had learned to look at it with resignation and patience.