The woman laid her weary head down again as one who would fain rest, and
they walked away from her.
"We have done a good deed," said Claude thoughtfully; "saved that poor
woman from being murdered, perhaps. I hope she will do what I
advised--start for London. If my mother should take a fancy to her, she
could easily put her in the way of getting her living."
To his surprise, Hyacinth suddenly took her hand from his, and broke out
into a wild fit of weeping.
"My darling, what is it? Cynthy, what is the matter?"
She sat down upon a large moss-covered stone and wept as though her
heart would break. The sight of those raining tears, the sound of those
deep-drawn sobs and passionate cries filled him with grief and dismay.
He knelt down by the girl's side, and tried to draw her hands from her
face.
"Cynthy, you make me so wretched! Tell me what is wrong--I cannot bear
to see you so."
Then the violence of her weeping abated. She looked at him. "Claude,"
she said, "I am so sorry I left home--it is all so wicked and so wrong.
I must go back again."
He started from her. "Do you mean that you are sorry you have come with
me, Hyacinth?"
"Yes, very sorry," she sobbed. "I must go back. I did not think of
consequences. I can see them so plainly now. It is wicked to run away
from home. That poor woman did it, and see what has come to her. Claude,
I believe that Providence has placed that woman across my path, and that
the words she has spoken are a warning message."
"That is all nonsense, Cynthy; there can be no comparison between the
two cases. I am not a ruffian like that woman's husband."
"No you are not; but the step was wicked, Claude. I understand all now.
Be kind to me, and let me go back home."
"Of course," said Claude sullenly, "I cannot run away with you against
your will. If you insist upon it, I will do as you ask; but it is making
a terrible simpleton of me."
"You will forgive me," she returned. "You will say afterward that I
acted rightly. I shall be miserable, Claude--I shall never be happy
again--if I do not return home."
"If you persist in this, we shall be parted forever," he said angrily.
"It will be best," she replied. "Do not be angry with me, Claude. I do
not think--I--I love you enough to marry you and live with you always. I
have blinded myself with romance and nonsense. I do not love you--not
even so much as that poor woman loves her husband. Oh, Claude, let me
return home."
She looked up at him, her face wet with tears, and an agony of entreaty
in her eyes.
"You might have found this out before, Hyacinth. You have done me a
great wrong--you have trifled with me. If you had said before that you
did not love me, I should never have proposed this scheme."
"I did not know," she said, humbly. "I am very sorry if I have wronged
you. I did not mean to pain you. It is just as though I had woke up
suddenly from an ugly dream. Oh, for my dear mother's sake, take me
home!"
He looked down at her, for some few minutes in silence, vanity and
generosity doing hard battle together. The sight of her beautiful,
tearful face touched, yet angered him, he did not like to see it clouded
by sorrow; yet he could not bear to think that he must lose its
loveliness, and never call it his own.
"Do you not love me, Hyacinth?" he asked sadly.
"Oh, no--not as I should love you, to be your wife. I thought I did not,
but you said I did. I am quite sure of it, Claude; ever since we started
I have been thinking so."
"Well, I must bear my disappointment like a man, I suppose," he said;
"and since you wish to go back, I suppose you must. But remember all
that you are going back to, Cynthy."
"It is better to break one's heart at home than to run away from it,"
she rejoined.
"I see," he said quietly; "that woman has frightened you. I thought you
brave--you are a coward. I thought you capable of great sacrifice for my
sake--you are not so. You shall go home in safety and security, Miss
Vaughan."
"Heaven bless you, Claude!" she cried. "You are very good to me."
"I do not like it, mind," he said. "I think it is the shabbiest trick
that was ever played on any man. Still, your wishes shall be obeyed."
Without another word, they went back to the station.
"I will inquire at what time the train leaves here for Oakton," he said.
"Stay outside, Hyacinth--it will not do for you to be seen now."
She was very fortunate. A train went back to Oakton at six o'clock--a
quick train too--so that she would be there in little more than half an
hour.
"Then," she said breathlessly, "I can walk quickly back again. I can get
into the grounds--perhaps into the house--unnoticed. I pray Heaven that
I may do so! If I may but once get safely freed from this danger, never
will I run into any more. How much would I not give to be once more safe
at home!"
Claude looked as he felt--exceedingly angry. "I will accompany you," he
said, "as far as the Oakton station, and then I must walk back to the
park. I can only hope that I have not been missed. I will take care that
no woman ever makes such a simpleton of me again."
He went to the booking-office and obtained two tickets. When the train
was ready for starting, and not before, he went to summon Hyacinth, and
by a little dexterous management, she got into a carriage unseen.
They did not exchange words on that return journey; he was too
angry--too indignant; she was praying that she might reach home
safely--that she might not be too heavily punished for her sin.
At last the train reached Oakton. There were few people at the station.
She gave up the ticket to the official, who little guessed who she was.
"Thank Heaven," she said, with quivering lips. The next minute she was
on the road that led to the woods. Claude followed her.
"We will say good-by here, Claude," she said, holding out her hand to
him.
"And you were to have been my wife before noon!" he cried. "How cold,
how heartless women are!"
"You should not have persuaded me," she said, with gentle dignity. "You
blinded me by talking of the romance. I forgot to think of the right and
wrong. But I will not reproach you. Good-by."
He held her hand one minute; all the love he had felt for her seemed to
rise and overwhelm him--his face grew white with the pain of parting
from her.
"You know that this good-by is forever," he said sadly; "you know that
we who were to have been all in all to each other, who were to have been
married by noon, will now in all probability never meet again."
"Better that than an elopement," she returned "Good-by, Claude."
He bent down and kissed her white brow; and then, without another word,
she broke from him, and hastened away, while he, strong man as he was,
lay sobbing on the grass.
Fortune favored her. No one saw her hurrying back through the woods and
the pleasure-grounds. She waited until the back gates were all
unfastened, and the maid whose office it was to feed the bantams Lady
Vaughan was so proud of, came out. She spoke to her, and the maid
thought Miss Vaughan had come, as she had often done before, to watch
the feeding of the poultry. She wondered a little that the young lady
was dressed in a gray travelling cloak, and wore a thick veil.
"Just for all the world," said the maid to herself, "as though she were
going on a long journey." She was struck, too, by the sound of Miss
Vaughan's voice; it was so weak, so exhausted; it had none of its usual
clear, musical tones.
"Mary," said Hyacinth, at last, "do you think you could get me a cup of
tea from the kitchen? Breakfast will not be ready for some time yet."
The good-natured maid hastened down into the kitchen, and soon returned
with a cup of hot, strong tea. Hyacinth drank it eagerly; her lips were
parched and dry. The tea revived her wonderfully. Suddenly Mary
exclaimed,
"Oh, Miss Vaughan where have you been? Your cloak is covered with dust."
"Hush, Mary," she said, with a forced smile. "Do not tell tales of me."
And then she hastened into the house. She met no one; her little room
was just as she had left it. No one had entered, nothing was disturbed.
She locked the door and fell on her knees. Rarely has maiden prayed as
Hyacinth Vaughan prayed then. How she thanked Providence--how her heart,
full of gratitude, was raised to Heaven! How she promised that for all
the remainder of her life she would be resigned and submissive.
How safe and secure was this haven of home after all! She shuddered as
she thought of that dreadful night passed in the confusion of railway
travelling; of the woman whose pitiful story still rang in her ears.
"Thank Heaven, I have escaped!" she cried. "With all my heart I offer
thanks!"
Then she changed her dress and did her best to remove all traces of
fatigue, and when the breakfast bell rang she went down-stairs with a
prayer on her lips--she was so thankful, so grateful, for her escape.
Claude Lennox did not fare so well; he had been missed and the colonel
was very angry about it.
"You have been dining with the officers again, I suppose," he said, "and
have spent the night over cards and wine. It is bad, sir--bad. I do not
like it. It is well Mrs. Lennox does not know it."
He made no excuses; he said nothing to defend himself; all the servants
in the house knew there was a dispute between the colonel, their master,
and Mr. Lennox.
"If my conduct does not please you, uncle," said the young man, "I can
go, you know."
This threat somewhat mollified the colonel, who had no great wish to
quarrel with his handsome young nephew.
"I have no wish to be harsh," he said, "but a whole night at cards is
too much."
"I am sorry I have not pleased you," rejoined Claude. "I shall go back
to London on Saturday; my engagements will not permit me to remain here
after then."
He was angry and annoyed; he had been baffled, irritated, placed in a
false and most absurd position; he did not care to remain at Oakton. He
could not endure to look at Hyacinth Vaughan's face again. But he did
not know what terrible events were to happen before Saturday. The
future, with its horrible shame and disgrace, was hidden from him.