February came in mild and clear, with a pleasant foretaste of spring. In
the woods the early violets were peeping out and the snow-drops were
bowing their white heads; the buds were beginning to form on the hedges
and trees, there was a faint song from the birds and silence reigned in
the woods, as though the goddess of spring were hovering over them. It
was Valentine's Day--in after-years Hyacinth remembered every incident
of it--Clara had complained of not feeling well, and they had gone out
into the woods--the governess and child. They sat down near a brook on
some moss-covered stones. The child was unconsciously a poet in her way.
"Miss Holte," she said, suddenly, "do you never pity the flowers for
being obliged to hide so long in the dark cold earth? How they must be
longing for sunshine and for spring! It is just as though they were in
prison, and the sun is the good fairy that lets them out."
Hyacinth made a point of never checking the child's thoughts; she
always allowed her to tell them freely as they came.
"I think so much about the flowers," continued the little one; "it seems
to me that in some distant way they are related to the stars. I wonder
if they live as we do--if some are proud of their color, and some of
their fragrance--if they love and hate each other--if some are jealous,
and others contented; I should like to know."
"The world is full of secrets," returned Hyacinth, musingly--"I cannot
tell. But, if flowers could have souls, I can imagine the kind of soul
that would belong to each flower."
"So can I," cried the child, joyously. "Why is the world full of
secrets, Miss Holte? Men are so clever; why can they not find all the
secrets out?"
"Ah, my darling," sighed the young girl, "the skill of man does not go
very far. It has mastered none of the great problems of life."
They walked down to the shore and watched the waves rolling in; great
sheets of white foam spread over the sand, the chant of the sea seemed
on that day louder and more full of mystery than ever.
"The salt breeze has blown away all my headache," said the child; "shall
we go home, Miss Holte? Mildred says this is Valentine's Day. I wonder
if it will bring anything pleasant to us. I wonder if it is a day we
shall remember."
The young governess smiled sadly.
"One day is very much like another," she said, little dreaming that this
was to be one of the most eventful of her life.
"My lady wishes to see you, Miss Holte," said the footman to Hyacinth as
she entered the room; "she is in her own room."
The young girl went thither at once.
"I want to speak to you, Miss Holte," she said. "As I have already
mentioned, I always like sensible, straightforward dealings. My son, Sir
Aubrey Dartelle, comes home to-morrow and brings some visitors with
him."
My lady was seated at her writing-table, the room was shaded by
rose-colored curtains, half drawn, and the young governess fortunately
did not stand where her face could be seen.
"I have told you before that when we have visitors at the Abbey I shall
wish you and Miss Clara to keep to your own apartments; she is far too
young and too delicate to be brought forward in any way."
"I will be careful to comply with your wishes, Lady Dartelle," replied
Hyacinth.
"I am sure you will; I have always found you careful, Miss Holte. I wish
Clara to take her morning walk before the day's study begins; and, as we
do not breakfast until nearly ten, that will be more convenient. If she
requires to go out again, half an hour while we are at luncheon will
suffice. I do not know," continued the lady--"I am almost afraid that I
shall have to ask you to give up your room for a short time; if it
should be so, you can have the one next to Miss Clara--Lord Chandon,
Major Elton, and Sir Richard Hastings bring so many servants with them."
Fortunately she did not see the ghastly change that came over that
beautiful face as she uttered the name of Lord Chandon; it was as though
some one had struck the girl a mortal blow. Her lips opened as though
she would cry out, but all sound died on them; a look of fear and dread,
almost of horror, came into the violet eyes.
"If I see any necessity for the change," said her ladyship, "I will tell
King to attend to it."
No words came from those white, rigid lips. Lady Dartelle never turned
her head but concluded, blandly:
"That was what I wanted to speak to you about, Miss Holte."
She evidently expected the young girl to go. But all strength had
departed from the delicate frame. Hyacinth was as incapable of movement
as she was of speech. At last, in a voice which Lady Dartelle scarcely
recognized, it was so harsh and hoarse, Hyacinth said: "I did not hear
plainly; what name did you mention, Lady Dartelle?"
"My lady" was too much taken by surprise to reflect whether it was
compromising her dignity to reply. A rush of hope had restored the
girl's strength. She said to herself that she could not have heard
aright.
"Lord Chandon, Major Elton, and Sir Richard Hastings," said Lady
Dartelle, stiffly.
"Great heavens," groaned the girl to herself, "what shall I do?"
"Did you speak, Miss Holte?" inquired the elder lady.
"No," replied Hyacinth, stretching out her hand as though she were
blinded.
Then Lady Dartelle took up her pen and began to write. This was a
signal of dismissal. Presently a sudden idea occurred to her.
"I had almost forgotten to say that I should wish the rules I have
mentioned to be conformed to to-day. It is possible my son may arrive
this evening or to-morrow morning. Good morning, Miss Holte."
One meeting Hyacinth would have thought she had been struck with sudden
blindness. She stumbled as she walked; with one hand outstretched she
touched the wall as she went along. It seemed to her that hours elapsed
before she reached her own room; but she found herself there at last.
Blind, dizzy, bewildered, unable to collect her thoughts, unable to cry
out, though her silence seemed to torture her, she fell on her knees
with a dull moan, and stretched out her hands as though asking help from
Heaven. How long she knelt there she never knew. Wave after wave of
anguish rolled over her soul--pain after pain, each bitter and keen as
death, pierced her heart. Then the great waves seemed to roll back, and
one thought stood clearly before her.
He from whom she had fled in sorrowful dismay--he whom she loved more
dearly than her own life--he whose contempt and just disdain she had
incurred--was coming to Hulme Abbey. She said the words over and over
again to herself. "Adrian is coming--Heaven help and pity me, Adrian is
coming!" Great drops stood on her white brow, her whole body trembled as
a leaf trembles in the wind.
A wild idea of escape came to her--she could run away--there was time
enough. Ah, now! they were coming perhaps to-night, and if Adrian heard
that some one had run away from the house, he would suspect who it was.
She wrung her hands like one helpless and hopeless.
"What shall I do?" she cried. "Dear Heaven, have pity on me, for I have
suffered enough. What shall I do?"
Another hope came to her. Perhaps, after all, her fears were groundless.
Lady Dartelle had said "Lord Chandon." It must be the old lord; she had
never heard or read of his death. Adrian was to be Lord Chandon some
day; but that day might be far distant yet. She would try to be patient
and see; she would try to control her quivering nerves. If it were
indeed Adrian, then she must be careful; all hope of escape was quite
useless; she must keep entirely to her room until he was gone. She tried
to quiet the trembling nerves, but the shock had been too great for
her. Her face was ghastly in its pallor and fear. Clara looked at her in
dismay. "I do not feel well," she said, in a trembling voice; "you shall
draw instead of read."
She would have given anything to escape the ordeal of reading to the
young ladies. But it must be gone through; they made no allowances for
headaches. She found them as little disposed to receive as she was to
give a lesson.
"Sit down, Miss Holte," said Veronica; "we will not attend to our French
just now; it's such nonsense of mamma to insist upon it! Would you mind
threading these beads? I want to make a purse."
She placed a quantity of small gold and silver beads in the young girl's
hands, and then eagerly resumed her conversation with her sister.
"I am the elder," she argued; "the first chance and the best chance
ought to be mine. I have set my heart on winning Lord Chandon, and I
shall think it very unkind of you to interfere."
"You do not know whether he will be willing to be won," said Mildred,
sneeringly.
"I can but try; you could do no more. I should like to be Lady Chandon,
Mildred. Of course I shall not be unsisterly. If I see that he prefers
you, I shall do all in my power to help you; but, if he shows no decided
preference, it will not be fair for you to interfere with me."
"He may not like either of us," said Mildred, who enjoyed nothing so
much as irritating her sister.
"I have an idea that he is to be won; I feel almost certain of it. Sir
Richard Hastings would be a good match, too; he is very wealthy and
handsome--and so, for that matter, is Major Elton."
"What has that to do with it?" asked Mildred. "You have such confused
ideas, Veronica. What was that story mamma was telling you about Lord
Chandon?"
"Some doleful romance--I did not listen attentively. I think she said he
was engaged, before his uncle's death, to marry some girl he was much
attached to, and she ran away. She did something or other horrible, and
then fled; I think that was it."
"And does he wear the willow for her still?" asked Mildred.
"I should say he has more sense. When girls do anything horrible, they
ought to die. Men never mourn long, you know."
"But what did the girl do?" pursued Mildred. "Did she deceive him and
marry some one else--or what?"
"I did not feel interested enough to listen," replied Veronica. "Mamma
seemed to imply everything most terrible; you must consult her if you
want to know the particulars. Aubrey says that a man's heart is often
caught at a rebound; and he seems to think that if we are kind and
sympathizing to Lord Chandon--smoothing his ruffled plumes, you
know--one of us cannot fail to win him."
"How long will our visitors remain?" asked Mildred.
"A month; and much may be done in a month, you know. What is that?"
Well might she ask. First the gold and silver beads fell upon the floor;
and then the unhappy girl who held them, white and senseless, fell from
the seat, and lay like a crushed and broken lily on the ground.
"Ring the bell," said Veronica; "she has fainted, I suppose. How
tiresome! I wonder how it is that governesses have such a propensity to
faint."
"She looks like a beautiful statue; but if she takes to this kind of
thing, mamma will not find her so very useful after all. Here, King," to
the servant who entered, "Miss Holte has fainted; tend to her."
And the two sisters swept from the room with the air of two very
superior beings indeed. They never dreamed of helping the unconscious
girl; such condescension would have been far too great. Mary King and a
fellow-servant carried Hyacinth to her room, and laid her on her bed.
Kindly hands ministered to her; she was respected and beloved by the
servants, who, quick to judge, pronounced her "a real lady"--much more
of a lady than the Misses Dartelle. So now in her distress they
ministered unto her.
"If I might but die," she said, with a great tearless sob--"if I might
but die!"
That she should be looked upon as so utterly lost--as having done
something so terrible--seemed worse to her than all.
"I did right to leave them," she said, "and now I shall never look upon
them again. I did right to hide myself from the faces of all who knew
me. Adrian despises me. I cannot bear it."
Her face burned and her heart beat wildly as she thought of Veronica's
insulting words and sneering tones. What she had done was too terrible
even for Lady Dartelle to speak of. How rightly she had judged that her
proper position was past for ever! How rightly she had decided that her
own deed had banished her forever from those whom she loved best!
Lady Dartelle, with unusual consideration, had sent word that Miss Holte
was not to rise; so Hyacinth lay through the day in a stupor of fear and
dread, one longing in her heart, one prayer on her lips, and that was to
die. She lay trying to form feeble plans of escape, and breaking down
every now and then with a terrible cry. Dr. Chalmers had told her if she
wanted a friend to send for him; but if he came now, exposure must
follow. She was hopeless, helpless, bewildered.
Then she began to think how heavily she had been punished for her sin.
Some girls ran away from their home, were married, and lived happily.
Why had so cruel a fate befallen her? She lay until evening, her brain
burning, her head aching, her whole body one throb of pain. A new fear
came to her: what if that terrible fever came back, robbing her of her
senses and reason? They would find out then that she was here in some
kind of disguise. It was night when she heard the sound of carriage
wheels; this was followed by a noise as of many arrivals. Her heart gave
one great bound, and then seemed to stand still. She did not know how
time passed until Mary King entered with a basin of soup.
"They are all gone to dinner, miss," she said, "and cook has sent you
this."
"Have the visitors arrived?" she asked.
"Yes, miss; there seems to be quite a crowd of them. Try to take
this--it will do you good."
She tried, but failed. Adrian was there under the same roof, and the
wonder was that her sorrow did not kill her.