UNHEEDED FLEW THE HOURS.
Wilton Hamilton, after obeying his mother’s summons and attending to
her request, went to seek Elaine again in the little room whither he
had taken her to show her his lily.
Something seemed to whisper to him that she might be there waiting for
him to return.
He had all at once become very hopeful that his suit would meet with
just the response which he so ardently craved, for her manner, when he
had given her the lily, had been encouraging, if not almost tender.
He hastened back, resolving that if he found her still in the
ante-room, he would settle this question of his future without further
delay.
As he drew near the still-open door he heard voices.
A moment more he stood upon the threshold and in an instant all the
light and hope went out of his face, and a feeling of blank despair
settled down upon his heart.
He had reached the spot just as Lady Elaine, in response to Philip’s
plea “forgive me,” had looked up with that frank smile and placed a
white gloved hand in his in token of her pardon, and the hopeless
lover, standing behind them and beholding this, believed the simple
act to be but the consummation of a betrothal--believed that, in his
absence, his false friend Philip Paxton had stolen a march upon him and
won away his love.
He did not hear Lady Elaine’s words, “you are freely forgiven,” for
they had been spoken low, and there was a dreadful ringing in his ears,
while all his faculties for the moment seemed to be paralyzed.
Then, with such a sense of misery and desolation as he never had
dreamed a mortal could experience, he crept stealthily away, leaving,
as he believed, a pair of happy lovers to their first moments of bliss.
When Lady Elaine returned to the drawing-room, after Philip had left
her, she at once began to look around for Wil.
She hoped he would come to her and ask her to dance with him. She
longed for his companionship, for she could not forget the look that he
had bent upon her when he asked her if she cared enough for his gift
to preserve it, and the charm of his presence had been so great that
she was impatient to be with him again.
But he was not there, nor did he make his appearance again during
the evening, and the hours dragged heavily to her until the company
separated.
She thought it strange that he should absent himself thus, but supposed
that Lady Hamilton had sent him on some commission, and never once
suspected that he was at that moment in his own room, prone upon his
bed, battling with all his might against the misery that was mastering
him, and the doom which he believed had been pronounced upon his hopes.
He felt as if he could never look upon his lost love again and bear the
pain of it--could never meet the man who had betrayed his confidence
and won the only woman he could ever love.
When, the next morning, he joined the family at breakfast, his face was
white and sunken, his eyes heavy and dull, his manner unnatural and
constrained, and he started violently whenever any one spoke; for he
was in constant fear of hearing an engagement announced.
Lady Hamilton was alarmed and declared he was sick, and was for sending
for a doctor at once.
He said he was not ill, though he confessed he had not slept well, but
affirmed that he should be all right again soon.
He pleaded a headache as an excuse for not joining a party upon an
excursion which had been planned for that day to visit some celebrated
springs about five miles distant, and then felt as if he should go
crazy listening to the regrets that poured upon him from all quarters.
Lady Elaine alone said nothing; but she looked troubled and anxious.
He had not once met her eye--had not spoken one word to her, beyond
a brief “good-morning,” and she was quite sure that something very
serious was the matter, both physically and mentally, and she quietly
resolved to learn the nature of it before the day was ended.
Quite a large party were to visit the springs, many of the neighboring
families having been invited to “picnic” with the Hamiltons, and when
at length the gay company cantered down the avenue, their happy voices
and laughter dying away in the distance, Wil Hamilton, in his room,
with the curtains and blinds drawn close--for he could not even bear
the light of the glad, bright day--heaved a sigh of relief at their
departure.
“They are gone,” he said. “Now I will go where nobody can come near
me--where nobody can see me.”
Rising hastily, he caught up his hat, crushed it down over his eyes,
and stealing down a side stairway, he went out, and, with a quick,
fierce stride, walked across the lawn toward the forest beyond, where
he was soon lost to sight.
An hour later a slight, graceful figure, clad in a dress of crisp,
delicate lavender lawn, made in the daintiest manner, a charming
shade-hat of white chip, lined with blue, upon her golden head, and a
pretty basket hanging on her arm, might have been seen flitting down
the avenue, as if intent upon a solitary ramble.
Arriving at the gate, Lady Elaine--for, of course, it was she--stopped
and looked right and left, as if somewhat in doubt which direction to
take.
She finally decided upon turning to the left, moving with a free, brisk
step, and all unconscious that she was walking straight to meet her
fate, for the forest lay off in that direction.
As soon as Wil had announced his intention of remaining at home she
mentally resolved that she would not accompany the party, either. It
would not be pleasant to be in the presence of Mr. Paxton after what
had occurred the previous evening, while she judged from his last words
before leaving her, and his manner, that he did not take her refusal as
final, and intended to prosecute his attentions still further.
It was with a feeling of relief that she, too, heard the gay party
cantering down the avenue, and knew that she should have the day to
dispose of at her own sweet will.
A sense of freedom and something of exhilaration seemed to possess
her as she found herself walking alone along the highway, beneath the
friendly shade of the huge overarching elms.
After walking a short distance, she turned into a cart-path leading
into the woods, where she roamed about for an hour or more filling her
pretty basket with sylvan treasures, then, feeling somewhat weary and
warm, she resolved to make her way to a tiny brook, where there was a
rustic seat, and where she and Annie often came with their books and
work to spend a warm afternoon.
Softly and almost as light-footed as a fairy she glided along the mossy
way, and ere long reached the spot. Parting a thick growth of foliage,
she stepped instantly into a small open space, and the next instant
started back suddenly with a smothered cry of terror, for there, prone
upon the earth before her, was the stretched form of a man, his face to
the ground.
He did not move, he scarcely seemed to breathe, and for a moment she
stood irresolute whether to fly or go to his aid.
Then, as her quick eye marked and recognized his clothing, she became
pale as death with a sudden fear.
It was Wil Hamilton, and so wretched and absorbed as he was in his
sorrow, he had not been conscious of the approach of any one, and lay
as motionless as if he were dead.
Lady Elaine’s first thought was that he had met with some accident, and
was unconscious.
But with all her delicacy and gentle breeding, she was brave at heart,
and possessed a latent energy and force which few gave her credit for.
Lightly and as fleet as a deer, she sped over the turf, and knelt
beside the prostrate man, sweeping back the moist brown locks from his
forehead as she did so.
“Wil, Wil--oh! is anything the matter? are you hurt?” she cried, her
voice shaking with the great fear that had taken possession of her.
In an instant he had sprung to his feet, and stood looking down upon
her, as if he thought her some thunderbolt which had just missed
striking him dead; while she, startled by the suddenness of his act,
sat staring up at him, every atom of strength and color forsaking her.
“I thought you had gone to the springs,” Wil said, abruptly, almost
rudely, after a moment.
His voice was harsh and constrained, his face as white as her own, with
great, deep circles beneath his eyes, which were bloodshot, and were so
full of pain that Lady Elaine almost cried out as she looked at them.
“No. I--I did not care to go,” she returned, struggling to her feet and
shrinking slightly from him.
She felt as if she had no right to be there--as if she had intruded
upon him and his grief, whatever it might be. She would have given
worlds to have been anywhere else at that moment.
He looked at her curiously.
“She did not care to go!” he thought, wonderingly.
But Philip had gone with the rest, and it seemed strange that he should
leave his betrothed behind; and if they were happy lovers, it was even
more strange that she “did not care to go” with him.
“Are you not well to-day?” he asked, less abruptly, and not knowing
what else to say, but realizing the absurdity of the question
instantly, for saving her momentary pallor, she had never looked better
or more lovely in her life.
“Yes, I am well,” Lady Elaine replied, “but,” with a slight blush, “I
preferred to stay at home.”
Her blush pierced him like a dagger.
She was shy then; she had wanted to get a little used to her new
happiness before she appeared in public with her lover.
The thought was nearly maddening, and before he was aware of it, a
groan burst from him.
Lady Elaine advanced a step toward him at the sound, a wistful,
troubled look in her lovely eyes.
“You are in trouble,” she said. “Won’t you tell me what it is?”
“It is nothing--at least nothing that you can help,” he answered,
setting his teeth together with a snap.
“Let me share it, then. You know, ‘A burden lighter grows when
shared,’” she said, but her red lips trembled even though she tried to
smile. “Perhaps,” she added, trying to speak more lightly, “your little
fairy or water-nymph, who went to sleep in the lily, has sent me here
to exorcise the evil spirit that vexes you.”
He gave her a quick, startled glance, astonished that she should have
remembered his words, when doubtless she must have far pleasanter
things to think of now.
“Ah! if you could--if----” he began, passionately, and then suddenly
checking himself.
“Try me, Wil, and see,” she returned, reaching out her white hand, and
laying it gently, yet appealingly, on his arm, while her eyes seemed
pleading for his confidence.
He seized her hand and lifted it to his burning lips.
“Shall I try you? Dare I try you? You cannot mean what you say. You do
not even know what you are tempting me to,” he cried, wildly.
She regarded him with surprise, but she did not withdraw her hand. It
lay perfectly passive in his.
“I do not understand you,” she said. “How am I tempting you? Why do you
not dare to try me? You need not fear, Wil. I will not fail you.”
“You ‘will not fail’ me,” he repeated, with trembling lips. “You
have failed me already. You are lost to me, and that is why I am so
wretched.”
A dry sob broke from him as he said it.
She had driven him desperate with her innocent words and questions, and
he poured forth his misery regardless of consequences.
For one moment she stood regarding him with wonder-wide eyes, too
astonished to comprehend what he really meant.
Then it began to dawn on her, and a burning blush overspread her fair
face; her white, golden-fringed lids drooped over her beautiful eyes,
and she stood silent and covered with confusion before him.
She could not ask him how or why he regarded her as lost to him,
because that would seem to imply that she was not--that she loved him
before she was asked; so her lips were sealed and she was mute.
“Have I startled you by this confession?” he resumed, bitterly, as he
marked how lovely she was in her maidenly modesty, and, having once
given the rein to his misery, he could not stop. “Have you not seen,
during all these weeks, how I have grown to love, to idolize you--how
my heart has melted before you--how I have had no will but yours, no
thought but for you? And now to lose you, to have you stolen from me
before my very eyes, and just when I was beginning to hope that I might
win you--oh, my darling; if I could but die here and now, at your feet,
I should be comparatively happy.”
He wrung her hand in his vehemence so that at any other time she would
have cried out with pain; but she hardly felt it now. Her heart beat
with a strange new joy; he loved her--his wild words told her that
plainly enough--and she saw that this same love was causing him great
suffering, but just how and why she could not comprehend--she was
puzzled by what he had said.
Her lids fluttered, she gave him one brief, bewailing glance, and
murmured:
“I should not be happy--I do not want you to die, Wil; and--I do not
know what you mean by--by my being stolen from you, and all that
nonsense.”
He caught his breath; there was no mistaking the glance she had given
him, nor the tender tone in which she had said she did not wish him to
die.
Could it be possible that he had been deceiving himself after all?
“Elaine, my darling, have I been a fool?” he cried; “dare I hope that
you----But tell me first, after I left you last night did not Philip
Paxton come to you and ask you to be his wife?”
“Yes,” she answered, with downcast eyes and burning cheeks.
“Ah!” he began, almost fiercely, “and you----”
“I refused him, Wil,” holding out both her hands to him and looking
shyly up into his face, “is it that which has been troubling you so?”
He caught her hands with a glad cry and drew her into his arms.
“Not the refusal, surely,” he said, a joyous note in his trembling,
eager voice, “but the belief that you had accepted him.”
“How could I do that, when----” Lady Elaine began, and then stopped
short in confusion.
“When what, my darling?”
“When I did not love him--when my heart has long belonged to some one
else--to you--Wil.”
He bent and touched almost reverently the lips that had uttered this so
sweetly.
“But,” she added, after a moment of silence, “what could have made you
imagine that I had accepted him?”
Then he told her what he had seen--how, when having attended to his
mother’s request, he went back to the ante-room, intending to tell her
all the sweet story that was in his heart, he had seen her standing
there with her hand in Philip Paxton’s, and looking up smilingly into
his face, as if she had just granted him the favor for which he had
been suing, and it had seemed as if the very fountain of his life had
dried up in that moment, and all his future darkened.
“Poor, foolish, faithless boy!” she said, while she caressingly toyed
with the rings of moist hair which lay upon his forehead, “where
were your eyes, that you could not read me better?--where were your
intuitions, that they did not tell you what others have learned all too
readily? It is a pity that your fairy did not whisper something in your
ear before you brought her to me in the lily.”
“How could she--she was asleep, you know,” Wil retorted, archly; but
drawing the fair girl closer to him with a sort of exultant clasp, all
the pain gone like magic from his face, all the misery from his eyes.
“True; I had forgotten that,” she replied, with a clear, sweet laugh.
She told him as briefly as she could all that had passed between Philip
and herself, for she felt that he had a right to know it; and then--the
moments slipped unheeded by, as they always do with all lovers, until
warned by the blowing of a horn at a distant farmhouse that it was high
noon, and they must return to Hazelmere, or a detachment would be sent
out to search for them.
“I can scarcely believe that I am the same person that I was two hours
ago,” Wil said, as they arose, and he drew Lady Elaine’s hand within
his arm, though still retaining it in his own. “To think that I came
out here the most miserable wretch on the face of the earth, and now
I am returning the happiest mortal that walks, and with the Lily of
Mordaunt all my own!”