Hyacinth Vaughan was soon to learn more of Mr. Darcy's sentiments. He
was dining with them one day, when the conversation turned upon some
English guests who had arrived at the hotel the evening before--Lord and
Lady Wallace.
"She looks quite young," said Lady Vaughan. "She would be a nice
companion for Hyacinth."
Mr. Darcy, to whom she was speaking, made no reply. Lady Vaughan noticed
how grave his face had grown.
"Do you not think so, Adrian?" she asked.
"Since you wish me to speak, my answer is, no; I do not think so."
"Do you mind telling me why?" pursued Lady Vaughan "I have been so long
out of the world I am ignorant of its proceedings."
"I would rather you would not ask me, Lady Vaughan," he said.
"And I would rather hear what you have to tell," she persisted, with a
smiling air of command that he was too courteous not to obey.
"I do not think Lady Wallace would be a good companion for Hyacinth,
because she is what people of the period call 'fast.' She created a
great sensation three years ago by eloping with Lord Wallace. She was
only seventeen at the time."
Lady Vaughan looked slightly disgusted; but Hyacinth, who perhaps felt
in some measure that she was on her trial, said: "Perhaps she loved
him."
Adrian turned to her eagerly. "That is what I was trying to explain to
you the other day--false romance--how the truest, the purest, the
brightest romance would have been, not eloping--which is the commonplace
instinct of commonplace minds--but waiting in patience. Think of the
untruths, the deceit, the false words, the underhand dealings that are
necessary for an elopement!"
"But surely," said Lady Vaughan, "there are exceptions?"
"There may be. I do not know. I am only saying what I think. A girl who
deceives all her friends, who leaves home in such a fashion, must be
devoid of refinement and delicacy--not to mention truth and honesty."
"You are very hard," murmured Hyacinth.
"Nay," he rejoined, turning to her with infinite tenderness of manner;
"there are some things in which one cannot be too hard. Anything that
touches the fair and pure name of a woman should be held sacred."
"You think highly of women," she said.
"I do--so highly that I cannot bear even a cloud to shadow the fairness
and brightness that belong to them. A woman's fair name is her
inheritance--her dower. I could not bear, had I a sister, to hear her
name lightly spoken by light lips. What the moss is to the rose, what
green leaves are to the lily, spotless repute is to a woman."
As he spoke the grave words, Hyacinth looked at him. How pure, how noble
the woman must be who could win his love!
"Ah me, ah me!" thought the girl, with a bitter sigh, "what would he say
to me if he knew all? Who was ever so near the scandal he hated as I
was? Oh, thank Heaven, that I drew back in time, and that mine was but
the shadow of a sin!"
There were times when she thought, with a beating heart, of what Lady
Vaughan had said to her--that it was her wish Adrian Darcy should marry
her. The lot that had once seemed so hard to her was now so bright, so
dazzling, that she dared not think of it--when she remembered it, her
face flushed crimson.
"I am not worthy," she said over and over again to herself--"I am not
worthy."
She thought of Adrian's love as she thought of the distant stars in
heaven--bright, beautiful, but far away. In her sweet humility, she did
not think there was anything in herself which could attract him. She
little dreamed, how much he admired the loveliness of her face, the
grace of her girlish figure, the purity, the innocence, the simplicity
that, despite the shadow of a sin, still lingered with her.
"She is innately noble," he said one day to Lady Vaughan. "She is sure
always to choose the nobler and better part; her ideas are naturally
noble, pure, and correct. She is the most beautiful combination of child
and woman that I have ever met. Imagination and common sense, poetry,
idealisms and reason, all seem to meet in her."
Years ago, Adrian Darcy had heard something of Lady Vaughan's
half-expressed wish that he should marry her granddaughter. He laughed
at it at the time; but he remembered it with a sense of acute pleasure.
His had been a busy life; he had studied hard--had carried off some of
the brightest honors of his college--and, after leaving Oxford, had
devoted himself to literary pursuits. He had written books which had
caused him to be pronounced one of the most learned scholars in England.
He cared little for the frivolities of fashion--they had not interested
him in the least--yet his name was a tower of strength in the great
world.
Between Adrian Darcy and the ancient Barony of Chandon there was but the
present Lord Chandon, an old infirm man, and his son, a sickly boy.
People all agreed that sooner or later Adrian must succeed to the
estate; great, therefore, was the welcome he received in Vanity Fair.
Mothers presented their fairest daughters to him; fair-faced girls
smiled their sweetest smiles when he was present; but all was in
vain--the world and the worldly did not please Adrian Darcy. He cared
more for his books than woman's looks; he had never felt the least
inclination to fall in love until he met Hyacinth Vaughan.
It was not her beauty that charmed him, although he admitted that it was
greater than he had ever seen. It was her youth, her simplicity, her
freedom from all affectation, the entire absence of all worldliness, the
charm of her fresh, sweet romance, that delighted him. She said what she
thought, and she expressed her thoughts in such beautiful, eloquent
words that he delighted to listen to them. He was quite unused to such
frank, sweet, candid simplicity--it had all the charms of novelty for
him. He had owned to himself, at last, that he loved her--that life
without her would be a dreary blank.
"If I had never met her," he said to himself, "I should never have loved
anyone. In all the wide world she is the only one for me." He wondered
whether he could speak to her yet of his love. "She is like some shy,
bright bird," he said to himself, "and I am afraid of startling her. She
is so simple, so child-like, in spite of her romance and poetry, that I
am half afraid."
His manner to her was so chivalrous that it was like the wooing of some
gracious king. She contrasted him over and over again with
Claude--Claude, who had respected her girlish ignorance and inexperience
so little. So the sunny days glided by in a dream of delight. Adrian
spent all his time with them; and one day Lady Vaughan asked him what
he thought of his chance of succeeding to the Barony of Chandon.
"I think," he replied slowly, "that sooner or later it must be mine."
"Do you care much for it?" she asked. "Old people are always
inquisitive, Adrian--you must forgive me."
"I care for it in one sense," he replied; "but I cannot say honestly
that title or rank give me any great pleasure. I would rather be Adrian
Darcy, than Baron Chandon of Chandon. But, Lady Vaughan, I will tell you
something that I long for, that I covet and desire."
"What is it?" she asked, looking at the handsome face, flushed, eager,
and excited.
"It is the love of Hyacinth Vaughan," he answered. "I love her--I have
never seen anyone so simple, so frank, so _spirituelle_. I love her as I
never thought to love any woman. If I do not marry her, I will never
marry anyone. I have your permission, I know; but she is so shy, so coy,
I am afraid to speak to her. Do you think I have any chance, Lady
Vaughan?"
She raised her fair old face to his.
"I do," she replied. "Thanks to our care, the girl's heart is like the
white leaf of a lily. No shadow has ever rested on her. She has not been
flirted with and talked about. I tell you honestly, Adrian, that the
lilies in the garden are not more pure, more fair, or fresh than she."
"I know it," he agreed; "and, heaven helping me, I will so guard and
shield her that no shadow shall ever fall over her."
"She has never had a lover," continued Lady Vaughan. "Her life has been
a most secluded one."
"Then I shall try to win her," he said; and when he had gone away Lady
Vaughan acknowledged to herself that the very desire of her heart was
near being gratified.