The Shadow of a Sin

"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.