"This is something like life," thought Hyacinth Vaughan, as the summer
sun came streaming into her room.
It was yet early in the morning, but there was a sound of music from the
gardens. She drew aside the blinds, and saw a lake in all its beauty,
the most cheerful, the brightest scene upon which she had ever gazed.
The Hotel du Roi is by far the most aristocratic resort in Bergheim.
"Kings, queens, and emperors" have lodged there; some of the leading men
and the fairest women in Europe have at times made their home there. The
hotel has a certain aristocratic character of its own. Second-rate
people never go there; its magnificence is of too quiet and dignified a
kind. The gorgeous suites of rooms are always inhabited by some of the
leading Continental families. Bergheim itself is a sleepy little town.
The lake is very beautiful; tall mountains slope down to the edge; the
water is deep, clear, and calm; green trees fringe the banks;
water-lilies sleep on its tranquil breast. The Lake of Bergheim has
figured in poetry, in song, and in pictures.
Hyacinth gazed at it with keen delight. Suddenly it struck her that the
house was not Lady Vaughan's, consequently not under her ladyship's
control, and that she could go out into those fairylike looking grounds
if she wished.
She took her hat and a black lace shawl and went down-stairs. She was
soon reassured. She was doing nothing unusual. One or two ladies were
already in the gardens, and in one of the broad open paths she saw an
English nursemaid with some little children around her. Hyacinth walked
on with a light, joyous heart. She never remembered to have seen the
world so fair; she had never seen sunshine so bright, or flowers so
fair; nor had she ever heard such musical songs from the birds.
Over the girl's whole soul, as she stood, there came a rapturous sense
of security and gratitude. She was safe; the folly, amounting almost to
sin, of her girlhood, was already fading into the obscurity of a dark, a
miserable dream. She was safe under heaven's blessed sunlight, life
growing fairer and more beautiful every hour. She was grateful for her
escape.
Then it struck her that she heard the sound of falling water, and she
went down a long, vine-covered path--surely the loveliest picture in the
world. The vines had been trained so as to form a perfect arch; the
grapes hung in rich, ripe bunches; flowers grew underfoot; and at the
end of the grove was a high white rock from which water fell with a
rippling, rushing, musical sound, into a small clear pool. Hyacinth
looked at the scene in wonder. She had never seen anything so pretty in
her life. She went up to the water; it was cool, so clear, so fresh and
sparkling. She threw off her hat and plunged her hands into it. She
laughed aloud as the water ran foaming over them. She little dreamed
what a lovely picture she herself made standing under the shade of the
vines, her fair, brilliant face almost dazzling in the dim light, her
fair hair shining like gold. The morning breeze had brought the most
dainty and exquisite bloom to her face, her eyes were as bright as
stars, her lips like newly-blown roses, and, as she stood with the foam
rushing over her little white hands, the world might have searched in
vain for one more lovely.
Then she thought how refreshing a draught of that sparkling water would
be. She gathered a large vine-leaf and filled it. She had just raised it
to her lips when a rich, deep, musical voice said:
"Do not drink that water; it is not considered good."
The vine-leaf fell from her hands, her face flushed crimson. She had
thought that she was quite alone. She looked around, but could see no
one.
"I beg pardon if I have alarmed you," said the same voice, "but the
water of the fall is not considered good; it is supposed to come from
the lake."
Then she looked in the direction whence the voice proceeded--a gentleman
was reclining on a rock by the waterfall. He had been reading, for an
open book lay by his side; but Hyacinth strongly suspected, from the
quiet smile on his lips and in his luminous eyes, that he had been
watching her.
"I am afraid I startled you," he continued; "but the water is not so
clear as it looks."
"Thank you," she returned, gently.
He took up his book again, and she turned to leave the grove. But in
those few moments, the world had all changed for her. She walked out of
the vine grove, and sat down by the edge of the lake, trying to live
every second of those few minutes over again.
What was that face like? Dark, beautiful, noble--the face of a king,
with royal brows, and firm, grave, yet sweet lips--a face that in her
girlish dreams she would have given to the heroes she loved--to King
Arthur--to the Chevalier Bayard--to Richard the Lion Heart--the face of
a man born to command, born to rule.
She had looked at it for perhaps only two minutes, but she could have
sketched it accurately from memory. The dark hair was thrown back in
masses--not in effeminate curls, but in the same waving lines that may
be seen on the heads of famous Grecian statues; the forehead was white,
broad, well-developed, rounded at the temples, full of ideality, of
genius, of poetry, of thought; the brows were dark and straight as those
of a Greek god; the eyes luminous and bright--she could not tell what
they were like--they had dazzled her. The dark mustache did not hide a
beautiful mouth that had nothing effeminate in it.
It was a face that filled her mind with thoughts of beauty. She mused
over it. There was nobility, power, genius, loyalty, truth, in every
feature. The voice had filled her ears with music.
"I wish," she thought, "he had given me some other command; I should
like to obey him; I would do anything he told me; he has the face and
the voice of a king. I have read of god-like men; now I have seen one.
Shall I ever see him again? I can imagine that face flashing with
indignation, eloquent with pleading, royal in command, softened in
tenderness, eloquent in speech."
Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a bell. "That must be for
breakfast," she thought, and she hurried back to the house. She did not
see the stranger follow her, with a smile still on his face.
Lady Vaughan was unusually gracious.
"You have been out in the gardens, my dear," she said to the young girl,
who evidently expected a reproof. "That is right. You are looking very
well this morning."
She spoke coldly; but in her heart she marvelled at the girl's wonderful
beauty. She had seen nothing so fair, so dainty, so brilliant as the
bloom that overspread her lovely face. "I have had a note from Mr.
Darcy," continued her ladyship, "and he will be with us before noon."
During breakfast Lady Vaughan was more gracious than ever Hyacinth
remembered to have seen her. When it was over, she said to the girl:
"I should like you to look your best, Cynthy, when Mr. Darcy comes. Make
a fresh toilet, and then amuse yourself as you like until I send for
you."
Over the glowing dream of the morning the name of Adrian Darcy seemed to
fall like the breath of a cold east wind over flowers. She had for the
time almost forgotten him, and at the sound of his name a whole host of
disagreeable memories arose.
"Never mind," she said to herself; "they cannot force me to marry him
against my will. I can tell him I do not like him." She went away, with
smiles on her lips and music in her heart, to change her dress, as Lady
Vaughan had desired. A surprise awaited her in her room; Pincott, Lady
Vaughan's maid, was standing before a large trunk.
"These are dresses, Miss Vaughan," she said, "that my lady has ordered
from Paris for you. She did not tell you, because she wished to keep it
as a surprise for you."
The girl's face flushed crimson.
"For me!" she cried. "How kind of her! Oh, Pincott, how beautiful they
are!"
The maid unfolded the glistening treasures of silk, lace, and velvet,
displaying them to Hyacinth's enraptured eyes.
"My lady ordered me to attend to your toilet, this morning, Miss
Vaughan," continued Pincott, who knew perfectly well why her mistress
desired the young girl to look her best. "I have brought these blush
roses; no ornaments look so well as natural flowers."
From the collection of dresses one of embroidered Indian muslin was
selected. It was daintily trimmed with pale pink ribbon and white lace,
and was exquisitely made. The girlish graceful figure, with its
beautiful curves and symmetrical lines, was shown to perfection; the
sleeves fell back, showing a fair, rounded arm. Pincott had great
natural taste; she dressed the fair hair after some simple girlish
fashion, and fastened a blush rose in it; she fastened another in the
high bodice of the white dress.
"You look lovely, Miss Vaughan," she said; and Hyacinth, looking at her
fair flower-like face, blushed for her own great beauty.
Then Pincott left her, and the way in which she amused herself was by
sitting at the open window, dreaming of the face she had seen at the
waterfall. She was roused by the maid's return. "Lady Vaughan will be
glad to see you in her room, Miss Vaughan. Mr. Darcy is there."
Again the name fell like cold water over her, chilling her bright
dreams, her growing content and happiness: and again she consoled
herself by remembering that no one could force her to marry Mr. Darcy
against her will. She heard the sound of voices as she drew near the
room; she opened the door and entered, her beautiful face calm and
serene, looking as fair a picture of youth and loveliness as ever
greeted human eyes. "Hyacinth," said Lady Vaughan, "come here my dear. I
want to introduce you to Mr. Darcy."
She went up to her. A tall figure stood near Lady Vaughan's chair. Lady
Vaughan took her hand.
"This is my granddaughter. Hyacinth--Mr. Darcy."
Hyacinth raised her eyes. Was she blinded by a great golden sunbeam? Was
she dreaming? Was she haunted or bewitched? Adrian Darcy, whom she had
dreaded to see, whose name even she had detested, was the same gentleman
that she had seen by the waterfall.
When she remembered all she had been thinking and dreaming, it was no
wonder that the beautiful face grew crimson as a damask rose, and that
the bright eyes fell until he could see nothing of them. She was
spell-bound--this unknown hero of whom she had dreamed the whole summer
morning was Adrian Darcy! He held out his hand to her.
"We are old friends," he said frankly. "I saw this young lady about to
drink some clear, cold, sparkling poison this morning, and I interfered
to prevent her doing so."
Then he was obliged to explain to Lady Vaughan who smiled most
graciously; but Hyacinth said never a word. She could not realize the
truth, yet she sat like one blinded by a great flood of sunlight. If she
had known how this sweet shy confusion became her--how beautiful it
was--how Adrian Darcy admired it! Nothing could have charmed him half so
much.
"How beautiful she is!" he thought. "She is like a rosebud shrouded in
green leaves."
Hyacinth was almost in despair.
"How stupid he will think me!" she reflected. "But I cannot help it--I
cannot speak."
When she had collected her senses sufficiently to listen, Adrian was
saying--
"Yes; we have very good music here, indeed. I think the hotel gardens on
a bright summer day the most charming place I know. The fountains are
very beautiful; and the band is one of the best I have heard. Lady
Vaughan, I hear the music beginning now; will you allow me to escort
you? There are very comfortable seats in the gardens!"
He saw the sudden, startled flush of joy in the young face. Hyacinth
raised her head and looked eagerly at her grandmamma; but Lady Vaughan
excused herself.
"The journey has been delightful," she said, "but fatiguing. To-morrow I
will go out, but not to-day. Hyacinth will go, though, Adrian, if you
will be so kind as to give the child the pleasure."
The "child" rose, her cheeks aflame, her heart beating as it had never
beat before. To go out into those sunlit gardens and to listen to music
with him--well, she had not even guessed before what a beautiful, happy
world it was. She put on the prettiest of her hats--one with a white
plume--and a lace mantilla, and then stood, half smiling, but wholly
happy, waiting for him. He came up to her smiling.
"Hyacinth," he said, "we are--to use an old-fashioned term--of the same
kin; so I am not going to call you Miss Vaughan. And I want you not to
look so shy, but to feel quite at home with me."
At home with him, this hero, this king amongst men, whose presence
filled her whole soul with light! It could never be.
"I had no idea," he continued, "that I had such a fair young kinswoman.
Lady Vaughan had always written as though you were a child."
Her heart sank. Was this how he thought of her--was this what made him
so kind and gracious to her?
"I am not a child," she said, with some little attempt at dignity, "I am
more than eighteen."
"Quite a philosophic age," was the smiling reply. "Now, Hyacinth, tell
me, what do you like to look at best--flowers, trees, or water?"
"I like all three," she said truthfully.
"Do you? Then I will find you a seat where you can see all. Here is one
not too near the music."
He had found a quaint, pretty garden seat, under the shade of a tall
spreading tree. In front of them were beds of lilies and roses, and the
blue waters of the lake. The band began to play the sad, passionate
music of Verdi's "Miserere;" and to Hyacinth Vaughan it seemed as though
the earth had changed into heaven.
"Do you like music?" he said watching the changes on the beautiful young
face.
"Yes," she replied, "but I have heard so little."
"You have had a very quiet life at Queen's Chase, I should imagine," he
said.
"Yes, as quiet as life could well be."
"You should not regret it. I am quite of the old _régime_. I think young
girls should be so reared."
"For what reason?" she asked.
"For a hundred reasons. If there is one character I detest more than
another, it is that of a worldly woman. Delicacy, purity, refinement,
are all so essential--and no girl can possess them brought up under the
glare and glitter of the world. You have been singularly fortunate in
living at Queen's Chase."
"Thank Heaven," she thought to herself, "that he does not know the
shameful escape I tried to make--that he does not know how I loathed and
hated the place."
"But," she said aloud, "it is not pleasant to be always dull."
"Dull! No. Youth is the very time for enjoyment; every thing rejoices in
youth. You, for instance, have been happy with your books and flowers at
Queen's Chase: the world now is all new to you. You are not what
fashionable jargon calls 'used up.' You have not been playing at being a
woman while you were yet a child; your heart has not been hardened by
flirtations; your soul has not been soiled by contact with worldlings;
you are fresh, and pure, and beautiful as the flowers themselves. If you
had been living all these years in the hot-bed of society, this would
not have been the case. There is nothing so detestable, so unnatural, as
a worldly young girl."
He liked her as she was! For the first time in her life Hyacinth blessed
Lady Vaughan and Queen's Chase.
"I do not want to tire you with argument," he continued, "but tell me
Hyacinth, what becomes of a flower, the growth of which has been
forced?"
"It soon dies," she replied.
"Yes; and girls brought up in the artificial atmosphere of modern
society, and its worship of Mammon, its false estimates, its love of
sensation and excitement, soon die to all that is fairest and best in
life. You," he continued, "enjoy--see, your face tells tales,
Hyacinth--you enjoy the sunshine, the flowers, the music, the lake."
"Yes, indeed I do," she confessed.
"If you had danced and flirted through one or two London seasons, you
would not enjoy nature as you do; it would pall upon you--you would be
apt to look at it through an eye-glass, and criticise the color of the
water and the tints of the flowers--you would detect motes in the
sunbeam and false notes in music."
She laughed. "I should not be so keen a critic, Mr. Darcy."
"One who can criticise is not always one who enjoys most," he said. "I
like to see people honestly enjoying themselves, and leaving criticism
alone."
The gardens were not crowded; there were seldom visitors enough at the
hotel to form a crowd; but Hyacinth was struck by the pleasant,
high-bred faces and elegant dresses.
"Do you see that lady there in the gray dress," said Mr. Darcy--"the one
with two children by her side?" Hyacinth looked in the direction
indicated.
"That is the Princess Von Arten, the daughter of a queen. How simple and
unassuming she is! She is staying here with her children. The gentleman
now saluting her is the eminent Weilmath."
Her face lighted up.
"I am glad to have seen him," she said; "I have read of him so often. Do
you admire him?"
"I admire bravery," he replied, "but not unscrupulous daring. Do you
see that lady sitting under the ilex tree?"
"The one with the sad, thoughtful face?" asked Hyacinth.
"Yes. Twelve months ago she was the leading star of the most brilliant
court in Europe; now she has no home that she can call her own."
Hyacinth turned her face to his.
"Mr. Darcy," she said, "is the world then so full of reverses? I thought
that, when one was happy and prosperous, sorrow and trouble did not
approach. What is stable if money, and friendship, and happiness fail?"
"Just one thing," he replied, with the beautiful luminous smile she had
never seen on any other face--"Heaven!"