Hyacinth Vaughan turned round in startled fear and wonder, and then she
saw her lover's face, and knew by her womanly instinct what was coming.
She made no effort to escape; she had been like a frightened,
half-scared bird, but now a great calm came over her, a solemn and
beautiful gladness.
"Hyacinth, forgive me," he said--"I have been looking for you so long.
Oh, my darling, if ever the time should come that I should look for you
and not find you, what should I do?"
In this, one of the happiest moments of his life, there came to him a
presentiment of evil--one of those sharp, sudden, subtle instincts for
which he could never account--a sense of darkness, as though the time
were coming when he should look for that dear face and not find it,
listen for the beloved voice and not hear it--when he should call in
vain for his love and no response meet his ears. All this passed through
his mind in the few moments that he held her in his arms and looked in
her pure, faultless face.
"Have I startled you?" he asked, seeing how strangely pale and calm it
had grown. "Why have you been so cruel to me, Hyacinth? Did you not know
that I have been seeking for you all day, longing for five minutes with
you? For, Hyacinth, I want to ask you something. Now you are
trembling--see how unsteady these sweet hands are. I do not want to
frighten you, darling; sit down here and let us talk quietly."
They sat down, and for a few moments a deep silence fell over them,
broken only by the ripple of the water and the sound of distant music.
"Hyacinth," said Adrian, gently, "I little thought, when I came here
four short weeks since, thinking of nothing but reading three chapters
of Goethe before breakfast, that I should find my fate--the fairest and
sweetest fate that ever man found. I believe that I loved you then--at
that first moment--as dearly as I love you now. You seemed to creep into
my heart and nestle there. Until I die there will be no room in my heart
for any other."
She sat very still, listening to his passionate words, letting her hands
lie within his. It seemed to her like a king coming to take possession
of his own.
"I can offer you," he said, "the deepest, best, and purest, love. It has
not been frittered away on half a dozen worthless objects. You are my
only love. I shall know no other. Hyacinth, will you be my wife?"
It had fallen at last, this gleam of sunlight that had dazzled her so
long by its brightness; it had fallen at her feet, and it blinded her.
"Will you be my wife, Hyacinth? Do not say 'Yes' unless you love me; nor
because it is any one's wish; nor because Lady Vaughan may have said,
'It would be a suitable arrangement.' But say it if you love me--if you
are happy with me."
He remembered in after-years how what she said puzzled him. She clasped
her little white hands; she bent her head in sweetest humility.
"I am not worthy," she whispered.
He laughed aloud in the joy of his heart. "Not worthy? I know best about
that, Hyacinth. I know that from the whole world I choose you for my
wife, my queen, my love, because you are the fairest, the truest, the
purest woman in it. I know that, if a king were kneeling here in my
place, your love would crown him. It is I who am not worthy, sweet. What
man is worthy of love so pure as yours? Tell me, Hyacinth, will you be
my wife?"
The grave pallor left her face; a thousand little gleams and lights
seemed to play over it.
"My wife--to love me, to help me while we both live."
"I--I cannot think that you love me," she said, gently. "You are so
gifted, so noble, so clever--so brave and so strong."
"And what are you?" he asked, laughingly.
"I am nothing--nothing, that is, compared to you."
"A very sweet and fair nothing. Now that you have flattered me, listen
while I tell you what you are. To begin, you are, without exception,
the loveliest girl that ever smiled in the sunshine. You have a royal
dowry of purity, truth, innocence and simplicity, than which no queen
ever had greater. All the grace and music of the world, to my mind, are
concentrated in you. I can say no more, sweet. I find that words do not
express my meaning. All the unworthiness is on my side--not on yours."
"But," she remonstrated, "some day you will be a very rich, great man,
will you not?"
"I am what the world calls rich, now," he replied, gravely. "And--yes,
you are right, Hyacinth--it is most probable that I may be Baron Chandon
of Chandon some day. But what has that to do with it, sweet?"
"You should have a wife who knows more than I do--some one who
understands the great world."
"Heaven forbid!" he said, earnestly. "I would not marry a worldly woman,
Cynthy, if she brought me Golconda for a fortune. There is no one else
who could make such a fair and gentle Lady Chandon as you."
"I am afraid that you will be disappointed in me afterward," she
remarked, falteringly.
"I am very willing to run the risk, my darling. Now you have been quite
cruel enough, Cynthy. We will even go so far as to suppose you have
faults; I know that, being human, you cannot be without them. But that
does not make me love you less. Now, tell me, will you be my wife?"
She looked up at him with sweet, shy grace. "I am afraid you think too
highly of me," she opposed, apologetically; "in many things I am but a
child."
"Child, woman, fairy, spirit--no matter what you are--just as you are, I
love you, and I would not have you changed; nothing can improve you,
because, in my eyes, you are perfect. Will you be my wife, Hyacinth?"
"Yes," she replied; "and I pray that I may be worthy of my lot."
He bent down and kissed the fair flushed face, the sweet quivering lips,
the white drooping eyelids.
"You are my own now," he said--"my very own. Nothing but death shall
part us."
So they sat in silence more eloquent than words; the faint sound of the
music came over the trees, the wind stirred the vine leaves--there never
came such another hour in life for them. In the first rapture of her
great happiness Hyacinth did not remember Claude, or perhaps she would
have told her lover about him, but she did not even remember him. Over
the smiling heaven of her content no cloud, however light, sailed--she
remembered nothing in that hour but her love and her happiness.
Then he began to talk to her of the life that lay before them.
"We must live so that others may be the better for our living, Cynthy.
Should it happen that you become Lady Chandon, we will have a vast
responsibility on our hands."
She looked pleased and happy.
"We will build schools," she said, "almshouses for the poor people; we
will make every one glad and happy, Adrian."
"That will be a task beyond us, I fear," he rejoined, with a smile, "but
we will do our best."
"I must try to learn every thing needful for so exalted a position," she
observed, with a great sigh of content.
"You must be very quick about it, darling," he said. "I am going to
presume upon your kindness. It is not enough to know that I have won
you, but I want to know when you will be mine."
She made no reply, and he went on.
"I do not see why we need wait--do you, Cynthy?"
"I do not see why we need hurry," she replied.
"I can give you a reason for that--I want you; my life will be one long
sigh until I can say in very truth that you are my wife. Will you let me
tell Lady Vaughan this evening, that I have been successful?"
She clung to him, her hand clasping his arm. "Not to-night," she said,
softly. "Adrian, let me have this one night to myself to think it all
over."
"It shall be just as you like, my darling; I will tell her to-morrow.
Now, Cynthy, this is the 19th of July--why should we not be married in
two months from to-day?" Ah, why not? She said nothing. The wind, that
whispered so many secrets to the trees, did not tell them that.