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 x.x.xII.

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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.s. 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 n.o.blest 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."