"Millicent Holte--that is the name you must assume," said Mrs. Chalmers
to Hyacinth; "and, though I never was so pretty or so sweet as you are,
still I was a very happy girl--and I do not like to see a young life
blighted. Kiss me, Millicent; you shall be like a daughter to me."
"I do not remember my own mother," observed the girl, simply, laying her
fair head on the kindly breast, "and I thank Heaven for sending me to
you."
"Before we finish this subject at once and forever," said the doctor,
"let me ask you, Millicent, is there anything that I can do for you in
connection with your secret? If so, speak to me just as freely as though
I were your brother, and command me as you will."
"You can do nothing," she answered, mournfully. "I should not have given
up but that I knew all hope was past, nothing can undo what has been
done--nothing can remove, nothing lighten its shadow."
"Are you unjustly punished?" he asked.
"Sometimes I think so, but I cannot tell."
"We will not mention the matter again," said the doctor, kindly; "we
will think only of the new life and getting well. As a preparatory step
to the latter, let me tell you that you must eat all these grapes, and
then lie down and sleep again."
For the sweet face had grown so white and worn, so pale and tired--he
saw that the effort she had made had been a most painful one.
"We will leave her alone, mother," he said.
But before Mrs. Chalmers quitted the room she unlocked a drawer and took
from it a small purse; this she placed in Millicent's hand.
"This is yours, my dear," she said; "it fell from your pocket the
evening you came here."
The sight of the little purse almost unnerved her. She remembered how
Adrian had laughed at it, and had promised to buy her one with golden
clasps. She took it, and then looked wistfully in the lady's face.
"No, my dear," said Mrs. Chalmers, "it is not to be thought of for one
moment. What my son and I have done has not been for gain. Keep it, my
poor child; you will need it in this new life that lies before you."
Then they left her alone, and the thoughts that mastered her were very
sad ones. This new life looked almost terrible now that she was brought
face to face with it. She began to wonder what they were doing at home,
whether she should hear their names again, whether Adrian was still with
them, and what he now thought of her. How he must despise himself for
having ever loved her--she who had been the subject of popular comment
and gossip--she whose name had been upon every lip! He who admired
delicacy and refinement, how he must dislike her! She checked herself.
"I must not think of it," she said, "or I shall go mad."
Meanwhile mother and son had gone down to the cozy dining-room, and
stood looking at each other in silence.
"It is a strange story, mother," said Dr. Chalmers; "I cannot understand
it. What should you think the poor girl has been doing?"
"I cannot even form an idea," replied Mrs. Chalmers; "she has done
nothing wrong--I am quite sure of that."
"Yet it must have been something very grave and serious to drive a girl
from her home and her friends--to cause her to give up her name, and to
be, as she says, dead to life."
"Something unusually grave, no doubt, but without wrong on her part; I
could no more doubt her than I could myself. However unhappy or
unfortunate she may be, she is good, true, pure, innocent, and simple as
a child."
"Yes, I believe so, but it puzzles me greatly to know what her story can
be. Still, we have taken her to ourselves, poor child; so we must make
her strong and well and happy."
"Robert," said Mrs. Chalmers, gently--and she looked anxiously at her
son's handsome, clever face--"be as kind as you will to her, but, my
dear, do not fall in love with her."
"You may depend upon it, mother," he returned--and his face flushed and
he laughed uneasily--"that, even if I should do so, I will never say
one word about it. I shall think of Millicent, poor child, as of some
petted younger sister, and do my best for her." Then the doctor opened a
ponderous volume, and his mother knew that all conversation was at an
end.
They were not rich, those good Samaritans, although the doctor was
making rapid strides in his profession. Theirs had been a hard struggle.
The mother had been left a widow when quite young; she had only a small
income, the son was desirous of a good education, and then he chose the
profession he felt most inclination for. But it had been up-hill
work--they had no friends and no influence. They had nothing but his
skill and industry to rely upon. Both, however, soon made their way. His
practice increased rapidly, and when Hyacinth found refuge with him he
had begun to save money, and was altogether in what the people of the
world call comfortable circumstances. It was most probably the
remembrance of their early struggles that made both mother and son so
kind and charitable to the unhappy girl who had fallen under their
hands. Perhaps, had they always been prosperous, they might have had
harder hearts. As it was, the memory of their past struggles softened
them and made them kinder to the whole world.
Mrs. Chalmers, well-born and well-bred herself, was quick to recognize
that Hyacinth was a gentlewoman--one who had been accustomed not only to
a life of refinement, but of luxury. She was quick also to recognize the
pure mind, the innocent, simple, gentle heart.
It was all settled, and Millicent--as Hyacinth Vaughan was now
called--became one of the family. Mrs. Chalmers always treated her as
though she was her own daughter. The doctor spoiled, indulged, teased,
and worshipped her. They did all that was possible for her; still the
girl was not happy. She regained her health and strength very slowly,
but no color returned to that delicate, lovely face--the beautiful eyes
were always shadowed--no one ever saw her smile. As she grew stronger,
she busied herself in doing all kinds of little services for Mrs.
Chalmers; but this life among the middle class was all new to her. She
had never known anything but the sombre magnificence of Queen's Chase
and the hotel life at Bergheim. She was lost, and hardly knew what to
do. It was new to her to live in small rooms--to be waited on by one
servant--to hear and know all that passed in the household--new,
strange, and bewildering to her. But she busied herself in attending to
Mrs. Chalmers. She did many little services, too, for the doctor; and at
last he grew to love the beautiful, sad face and plaintive voice as he
had never loved anything before. She grew stronger, but not happier, and
they became anxious about her.
"It is so unnatural in a girl of her age," said Mrs. Chalmers; "the
trouble must have been a great one, since she cannot forget it. In my
opinion, Robert, nothing will rouse her but change of scene and work.
She seems to be always in a sorrowful dream."
What Mrs. Chalmers said the young girl often thought. After a time she
wearied inexpressibly of the dull routine of her every-day life.
"I am dying," she would say to herself--"dying of inanition. I must
begin to work."
One day, when the doctor sat alone in his surgery, she went to him and
told him.
"If you will only be kind enough to let me work," she said. "I shall
always love this my home; but it seems to me that in body and mind I
should be much better if I could work."
"And work you shall," decided the doctor; "leave all to me."