The Shadow of a Sin

She evidently expected the young girl to go. But all strength had departed from the delicate frame. Hyacinth was as incapable of movement as she was of speech. At last, in a voice which Lady Dartelle scarcely recognized, it was so harsh and hoarse, Hyacinth said: "I did not hear plainly; what name did you mention, Lady Dartelle?"

"My lady" was too much taken by surprise to reflect whether it was compromising her dignity to reply. A rush of hope had restored the girl's strength. She said to herself that she could not have heard aright.

"Lord Chandon, Major Elton, and Sir Richard Hastings," said Lady Dartelle, stiffly.

"Great heavens," groaned the girl to herself, "what shall I do?"

"Did you speak, Miss Holte?" inquired the elder lady.

"No," replied Hyacinth, stretching out her hand as though she were blinded.

Then Lady Dartelle took up her pen and began to write. This was a signal of dismissal. Presently a sudden idea occurred to her.

"I had almost forgotten to say that I should wish the rules I have mentioned to be conformed to to-day. It is possible my son may arrive this evening or to-morrow morning. Good morning, Miss Holte."

One meeting Hyacinth would have thought she had been struck with sudden blindness. She stumbled as she walked; with one hand outstretched she touched the wall as she went along. It seemed to her that hours elapsed before she reached her own room; but she found herself there at last. Blind, dizzy, bewildered, unable to collect her thoughts, unable to cry out, though her silence seemed to torture her, she fell on her knees with a dull moan, and stretched out her hands as though asking help from Heaven. How long she knelt there she never knew. Wave after wave of anguish rolled over her soul – pain after pain, each bitter and keen as death, pierced her heart. Then the great waves seemed to roll back, and one thought stood clearly before her.

He from whom she had fled in sorrowful dismay – he whom she loved more dearly than her own life – he whose contempt and just disdain she had incurred – was coming to Hulme Abbey. She said the words over and over again to herself. "Adrian is coming – Heaven help and pity me, Adrian is coming!" Great drops stood on her white brow, her whole body trembled as a leaf trembles in the wind.

A wild idea of escape came to her – she could run away – there was time enough. Ah, now! they were coming perhaps to-night, and if Adrian heard that some one had run away from the house, he would suspect who it was. She wrung her hands like one helpless and hopeless.

"What shall I do?" she cried. "Dear Heaven, have pity on me, for I have suffered enough. What shall I do?"

Another hope came to her. Perhaps, after all, her fears were groundless. Lady Dartelle had said "Lord Chandon." It must be the old lord; she had never heard or read of his death. Adrian was to be Lord Chandon some day; but that day might be far distant yet. She would try to be patient and see; she would try to control her quivering nerves. If it were indeed Adrian, then she must be careful; all hope of escape was quite useless; she must keep entirely to her room until he was gone. She tried to quiet the trembling nerves, but the shock had been too great for her. Her face was ghastly in its pallor and fear. Clara looked at her in dismay. "I do not feel well," she said, in a trembling voice; "you shall draw instead of read."

She would have given anything to escape the ordeal of reading to the young ladies. But it must be gone through; they made no allowances for headaches. She found them as little disposed to receive as she was to give a lesson.

"Sit down, Miss Holte," said Veronica; "we will not attend to our French just now; it's such nonsense of mamma to insist upon it! Would you mind threading these beads? I want to make a purse."

She placed a quantity of small gold and silver beads in the young girl's hands, and then eagerly resumed her conversation with her sister.

"I am the elder," she argued; "the first chance and the best chance ought to be mine. I have set my heart on winning Lord Chandon, and I shall think it very unkind of you to interfere."

"You do not know whether he will be willing to be won," said Mildred, sneeringly.

"I can but try; you could do no more. I should like to be Lady Chandon, Mildred. Of course I shall not be unsisterly. If I see that he prefers you, I shall do all in my power to help you; but, if he shows no decided preference, it will not be fair for you to interfere with me."

"He may not like either of us," said Mildred, who enjoyed nothing so much as irritating her sister.

"I have an idea that he is to be won; I feel almost certain of it. Sir Richard Hastings would be a good match, too; he is very wealthy and handsome – and so, for that matter, is Major Elton."

"What has that to do with it?" asked Mildred. "You have such confused ideas, Veronica. What was that story mamma was telling you about Lord Chandon?"

"Some doleful romance – I did not listen attentively. I think she said he was engaged, before his uncle's death, to marry some girl he was much attached to, and she ran away. She did something or other horrible, and then fled; I think that was it."

"And does he wear the willow for her still?" asked Mildred.

"I should say he has more sense. When girls do anything horrible, they ought to die. Men never mourn long, you know."

"But what did the girl do?" pursued Mildred. "Did she deceive him and marry some one else – or what?"

"I did not feel interested enough to listen," replied Veronica. "Mamma seemed to imply everything most terrible; you must consult her if you want to know the particulars. Aubrey says that a man's heart is often caught at a rebound; and he seems to think that if we are kind and sympathizing to Lord Chandon – smoothing his ruffled plumes, you know – one of us cannot fail to win him."

"How long will our visitors remain?" asked Mildred.

"A month; and much may be done in a month, you know. What is that?"

Well might she ask. First the gold and silver beads fell upon the floor; and then the unhappy girl who held them, white and senseless, fell from the seat, and lay like a crushed and broken lily on the ground.

"Ring the bell," said Veronica; "she has fainted, I suppose. How tiresome! I wonder how it is that governesses have such a propensity to faint."

"She looks like a beautiful statue; but if she takes to this kind of thing, mamma will not find her so very useful after all. Here, King," to the servant who entered, "Miss Holte has fainted; tend to her."

And the two sisters swept from the room with the air of two very superior beings indeed. They never dreamed of helping the unconscious girl; such condescension would have been far too great. Mary King and a fellow-servant carried Hyacinth to her room, and laid her on her bed. Kindly hands ministered to her; she was respected and beloved by the servants, who, quick to judge, pronounced her "a real lady" – much more of a lady than the Misses Dartelle. So now in her distress they ministered unto her.

"If I might but die," she said, with a great tearless sob – "if I might but die!"

That she should be looked upon as so utterly lost – as having done something so terrible – seemed worse to her than all.

"I did right to leave them," she said, "and now I shall never look upon them again. I did right to hide myself from the faces of all who knew me. Adrian despises me. I cannot bear it."

Her face burned and her heart beat wildly as she thought of Veronica's insulting words and sneering tones. What she had done was too terrible even for Lady Dartelle to speak of. How rightly she had judged that her proper position was past for ever! How rightly she had decided that her own deed had banished her forever from those whom she loved best!

Lady Dartelle, with unusual consideration, had sent word that Miss Holte was not to rise; so Hyacinth lay through the day in a stupor of fear and dread, one longing in her heart, one prayer on her lips, and that was to die. She lay trying to form feeble plans of escape, and breaking down every now and then with a terrible cry. Dr. Chalmers had told her if she wanted a friend to send for him; but if he came now, exposure must follow. She was hopeless, helpless, bewildered.

Then she began to think how heavily she had been punished for her sin. Some girls ran away from their home, were married, and lived happily. Why had so cruel a fate befallen her? She lay until evening, her brain burning, her head aching, her whole body one throb of pain. A new fear came to her: what if that terrible fever came back, robbing her of her senses and reason? They would find out then that she was here in some kind of disguise. It was night when she heard the sound of carriage wheels; this was followed by a noise as of many arrivals. Her heart gave one great bound, and then seemed to stand still. She did not know how time passed until Mary King entered with a basin of soup.

"They are all gone to dinner, miss," she said, "and cook has sent you this."

"Have the visitors arrived?" she asked.

"Yes, miss; there seems to be quite a crowd of them. Try to take this – it will do you good."

She tried, but failed. Adrian was there under the same roof, and the wonder was that her sorrow did not kill her.

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.