So for three or four weeks of the beautiful summer, this little love
story went on. Claude Lennox was _au fait_ as to all the pretty wiles
and arts of love, he made a post-office of the trunk of a grand old
oak-tree--a trunk that was covered with ivy; he used to place letters
there every day, and Hyacinth would fetch and answer them. These letters
won her more than any spoken words; they were eloquently written and
full of poetry. She could read them and muse over them; their poetry
remained with her.
When she was talking to him a sense of unreality used to come over
her--a vague, uncertain, dreamy kind of conviction that in some way he
was not true; that he was saying more than he meant, or that he had said
the same things before and knew them all by heart. His letters won her.
She answered them, and in those answers found some vent for the romance
and imagination that had never had an outlet before. Claude Lennox, as
he read them, wondered at her.
"The girl is a genius," he said; "if she were to take to writing, she
would make the world talk of her. I have read all the poetry of the day,
but I have never read anything like these lines."
Claude Lennox had been a successful man. He had not been brought up to
any profession--there was no need for it; he was to inherit a large
fortune from his mother, and he had already one of his own. He had lived
in the very heart of society; he had been courted, admired and flattered
as long as he could remember. Bright-eyed girls had smiled on him, and
fair faces grown the fairer for his coming. He had had many loves, but
none of them had been in earnest. He liked Hyacinth Vaughan better than
any one he had ever met. If her friends had smiled upon him and
everything had been _couleur de rose_, he would have loved lightly, have
laughed lightly, and have ridden away. But because, for the first time
in his life, he was opposed and thwarted, frowned upon instead of being
met with eagerness, he vowed that he would win her. No one should say
Claude Lennox had loved in vain.
He was a strange mixture of vanity and generosity, of selfishness and
chivalry. He loved her as much as it was in his nature to love any one.
He felt for her; the descriptions she gave him of her life, its dull
monotony, its dreary gloom, touched his heart. Then, too, his vanity was
gratified; he knew that if he took such a peerlessly beautiful girl to
London as his wife, she would be one of the most brilliant queens of
society. He knew that she would create an almost unrivalled sensation.
So love, vanity, generosity, selfishness, chivalry, all combined, made
him resolve to win her.
He knew that if he were to go to Queen's Chase and ask permission to woo
her, it would be refused him--she would be kept away from him and
hurried away to Germany. That was the honest, honorable course, but he
felt sure it was hopeless to pursue it. Man of the world as he was, the
first idea of an elopement startled him; then he became accustomed to
it, and began at last to think an elopement would be quite a romance and
a sensation. So, by degrees he broke it to her. She was startled at
first, and then, after a time, became accustomed to it. It would be very
easy, soon over, and when they were once married his mother would say
nothing; if the Vaughans were wise, they too would be willing to forgive
and say nothing.
He found Hyacinth so simple, so innocent and credulous, that he had no
great difficulty in persuading her. If any thought of remorse came to
him--that, as the stronger of the two he was betraying his trust--he
quickly put the disagreeable reflection away--he intended to be very
kind to her after they were married, and to make her very happy.
So he waited in some anxiety for the signal. It was not a matter of life
or death with him; neither did he consider it as such; but he was very
anxious, and hoped she would consent. The library window could be seen
from the park; he had but to walk across it, and then he could see.
Claude Lennox was almost ashamed to find how his heart beat, and how
nervously his eyes sought the window.
"I did not think I could care about anything so much," he said to
himself; "I begin to respect myself for being capable of such devotion."
It was early on Wednesday morning, but he had not been able to sleep.
Would she go, or would she refuse? How many hours of suspense must he
pass before he knew? The sun was shining gayly, the dew lay on the
grass--it was useless to imagine that she would be thinking of her
flowers; yet he could not leave the place--he must know.
At one moment his hopes were raised to the highest point--it was not
likely that she would refuse. She would never be so foolish as to choose
a life of gloom and wretchedness instead of the golden future he had
offered her. Then again his heart sunk. An elopement! It was such a
desperate step; she would surely hesitate before taking it. He walked to
the end of the park, and then he returned. His heart beat so violently
when he raised his eyes that it seemed to him as if he could hear it--a
dull red flush rose to his face, his lips quivered. He had won--the
white flowers were there!
There was no one to see him, but he raised his Glengarry cap from his
head and waved it in the air.
"I have won," he said to himself; "now for my arrangements."
He went back to Oakton Park in a fever of anxiety; he telegraphed from
Oakton Station to the kind old aunt who had never refused him a favor,
asking her, for particular reasons which he would explain afterward, to
meet him at Euston Square at 6 A.M. on Thursday.
"There is some one coming with me whom I wish to put under your charge,"
he wrote; and he knew she would comply with his request.
He had resolved to be very careful--there should be no imprudence
besides the elopement; his aunt should meet them at the station,
Hyacinth should go home with her and remain with her until the hour
fixed for the wedding.
Hyacinth had taken her life into her own hands, and the balance had
fallen. She had decided to go; this gray, dull, gloomy life she could
bear no longer; and the thought of a long, dull residence in a sleepy
German town with a relative of Lady Vaughan's positively frightened her.
Claude had dazzled her imagination with glowing pictures of the future.
She did not think much of the right or wrong of her present behavior;
the romance with which she was filled enthralled her. If any one had in
plain words pointed out to her that she was acting badly, dishonorably,
deceitfully, she would have recoiled in dread and horror; but she did
not see things in their true colors.
All that day Lady Vaughan thought her granddaughter very strange and
restless. She seemed unable to attend to her work; she read as one who
does not understand. If she was asked a question, her vacant face
indicated absence of mind.
"Are you ill, Hyacinth?" asked Lady Vaughan at last. "You do not appear
to be paying the least attention to what you are doing."
The girl's beautiful face flushed crimson.
"I do not feel quite myself," she replied.
Lady Vaughan was not well pleased with the answer. Ill-health or
nervousness in young people was, as she said, quite unendurable--she had
no sympathy with either. She looked very sternly at the sweet crimsoned
face.
"You do not have enough to do, Hyacinth," she said gravely; "I must find
more employment for you. Miss Pinnock called the other day about the
clothing club; you had better write and offer your services."
"As though life was not dreary enough," thought the girl, "without
having to sew endless seams by the hour!"
Then, with a sudden thrill of joy, she remembered that her freedom was
coming. After this one day there would be no more gloom, no more tedious
hours, no more wearisome lectures, no more dull monotony; after this one
day all was to be sunshine, beauty, and warmth. How the day passed she
never knew--it was like a long dream to her. Yet something like fear
took possession of her when Lady Vaughan said:
"It is growing late, Hyacinth; it is past nine."
She went up to her and kissed the stern old face.
"Good-night," she said simply with her lips, and in her heart she added
"good-by."
She kissed Sir Arthur, who had never been quite so harsh with her and as
she closed the drawing-room door, she said to herself,
"So I leave my old life behind."