Hyacinth and Claude stood together leaning against the stile. Something
in the calm beauty of the summer morning awoke the brightest and purest
emotions in him; something in the early song of the birds and in the
shining dewdrops made Hyacinth think more seriously than she had yet
done.
"I wonder," she said, turning suddenly to her lover, "if we shall ever
look back to this hour and repent what we have done?"
"I do not think so. It will rather afford subject for pleasant
reflection."
"Claude," she cried suddenly, "what is that lying over there by the
hedge? It--it looks so strange."
He glanced carelessly in the direction indicated. "I can see nothing,"
he replied. "My eyes are not so bright as yours."
"Look again, Claude. It is something living, moving--something human I
am sure! What can it be?"
He did look again, shading his eyes from the sun. "There is something,"
he said slowly, "but I cannot tell what it is."
"Let us see, Claude; it may be some one ill. Who could it be in the
fields at this time of the morning?"
"I would rather you did not go," said Claude; "you do not know who it
may be. Let me go alone."
But she would not agree to it; and as they stood there, they heard a
faint moan.
"Claude," cried the girl, in deep distress, "some one is ill or hurt;
let us go and render assistance."
He saw that she was bent upon it and held out his hand to help her over
the stile. Then when they were in the meadow, and under the hedge,
screened from sight by rich, trailing woodbines, they saw the figure of
a woman.
"It is a woman, Claude!" cried Hyacinth; and then a faint moan fell on
their ears.
Hastening to the spot, she pushed aside the trailing eglantines. There
lay a girl, apparently not much older than herself, fair of face, with a
profusion of beautiful fair hair lying tangled on the ground. Hyacinth
bent over her.
"Are you ill?" she asked. But no answer came from the white lips.
"Claude," cried Hyacinth, "she is dying! Make haste; get some help for
her!"
"Let us see what is the matter first," he said.
The sound of voices roused the prostrate girl. She sat up, looking
wildly around her, and flinging her hair from her face; then she turned
to the young girl, who was looking at her with such gentle, wistful
compassion.
"Are you ill?" repeated Hyacinth. "Can we do any thing to help you?"
The girl seemed to gather herself together with a convulsive shudder, as
though mortal cold had seized her.
"No, I thank you," she said. "I am not ill. I am only dying by
inches--dying of misery and bad treatment."
It was such a weary young face that was raised to them. It looked so
ghastly, so wretched, in the morning sunlight, that Hyacinth and Claude
were both inexpressibly touched. Though she was poorly clad, and her
thin, shabby clothes were wet with dew, and stained by the damp grass,
still there was something about the girl that spoke of gentle culture.
Claude bent down, looking kindly on the dreary young face.
"There is a remedy for every evil and every wrong," he said; "perhaps we
could find one for you."
"There is no remedy and no help for me," she replied; "my troubles will
end only when I die."
"Have you been sleeping under this hedge all night?" asked Hyacinth.
"Yes. I have no home, no money, no food. Something seemed to draw me
here. I had a notion that I should die here."
Hyacinth's face grew pale; there was something unutterably sad in the
contrast between the bright morning and the crouching figure underneath
the hedge.
"Are you married?" asked Claude, after a short pause.
"Yes, worse luck for me!" she replied, raising her eyes, with their
expression of guilt and misery, to his, "I am married."
"Is your husband ill, or away from you? or what is wrong?" he pursued.
"It is only the same tale thousands have to tell," she replied. "My
husband is not ill; he simply drinks all day and all night--drinks every
shilling he earns--and when he has drunk himself mad he beats me."
"What a fate!" said Claude. "But there is a remedy--the law interferes
to protect wives from such brutality."
"The law cannot do much; it cannot change a man's heart or his nature;
it can only imprison him. And then, when he comes out, he is worse than
before. Wise women leave the law alone."
"Why not go away from him and leave him?"
"Ah, why not? Only that I have chosen my lot and must abide by it.
Though he beats me and ill-treats me, I love him. I could not leave
him."
"It was an unfortunate marriage for you, I should suppose," said
Hyacinth soothingly. The careworn sufferer looked with her dull, wistful
eyes into the girl's beautiful face.
"I was a pretty girl years ago," she said, "fresh, and bright, and
pleasing. I lived alone with my mother, and this man who is now my
husband came to our town to work. He was tall, handsome, and strong--he
pleased my eyes; he was a good mechanic, and made plenty of money--but
he drank even then. When he came and asked me to be his wife, my mother
said I had better dig my grave with my own hands, and jump into it
alive, than marry a man who drank."
She caught her breath with a deep sob.
"I pleased myself," she continued, with a deep sigh; "I had my own way.
My mother was not willing for me to marry him, so I ran away with him."
Hyacinth Vaughan's face grew paler.
"You did what?" she asked gently.
"I ran away with him," repeated the woman; "and, if I could speak now
with a voice that all the world could hear, I would advise all girls to
take warning by me, and rather break their hearts at home than run away
from it."
Paler and paler grew the beautiful young face; and then Hyacinth
suddenly noticed that one of the woman's hands lay almost useless on
the grass. She raised it gently and saw that it was terribly wounded and
bruised. Her heart ached at the sight.
"Does it pain you much?" she inquired.
The woman laughed--a laugh more terrible by far than any words could
have been.
"I am used to pain," she said. "I put that hand on my husband's shoulder
last night to beg him to stay at home and not to drink any more. He took
a thick-knotted stick and beat it; and yet, poor hand, it was not
harming him." Hyacinth shuddered. The woman went on, "We had a terrible
quarrel last night. He vowed that he would come back in the morning and
murder me."
"Then why not go away? Why not seek a safe refuge?"
She laughed again--the terrible, dreary laugh. "He would find me; he
will kill me some day. I know it; but I do not care. I should not have
run away from him."
"Why not go home again?" asked Hyacinth.
"Ah, no--there is no returning--no undoing--no going back."
Hyacinth raised the poor bruised hand.
"I am afraid it is broken," she said gently. "Let me bind it for you."
She took out her handkerchief; it was a gossamer trifle--fine cambric
and lace--quite useless for the purpose required. She turned to Claude
and asked for his. The request was a small one, but the whole afterpart
of her life was affected by it. She did not notice that Claude's
handkerchief was marked with his name in full--"Claude Lennox." She
bound carefully the wounded hand.
"Now," she said, "be advised by us; go away--don't let your husband find
you."
"Go to London," cried Claude eagerly; "there is always work to be done
and money to be earned there. See--I will give you my address. You can
write to me; and I will ask my aunt or my mother to give you
employment."
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote on it; "Claude Lennox, 200
Belgrave Square, London."
He looked very handsome, very generous and noble, as he gave the folded
note to the woman, with two sovereigns inside it.
"Remember," he said, "that I promise my mother will find you some work
if you will apply to us."
She thanked him, but no ray of hope came to her poor face. She did not
seem to think it strange that they were there--that it was unusual at
that early hour to see such as they were out in the fields.
"Heaven bless you!" she said gratefully. "A dying woman's blessing will
not hurt you."
"You will not die," said Claude cheerily; "you will be all right in
time. Do you belong to this part?"
"No," she replied; "we are quite strangers here. I do not even know the
name of the place. We were going to walk to Liverpool; my husband
thought he should get better wages there."
"Take my advice," said Claude earnestly--"leave him; let him go his own
road. Travel to London, and get a decent living for yourself there."
"I will think of it," she said wearily; and then a vague unconsciousness
began to steal over her face.
"You are tired," said Hyacinth gently; "lie down and sleep again.
Good-by." The birds were singing gayly when they turned to leave her.
"Stay," said Claude; "what is your name?"
"Anna Barratt," she replied; and only Heaven knows whether those were
the last words she spoke.