"A day to myself," said the young governess, as she heard the carriage
drive away. "I have not been alone for so long, and I have so much to
think of."
A great silence had fallen over the house; there was no sound of
laughing voices, no busy tread of feet, no murmur of conversation; the
silence seemed strange after the late gayety and noise. At first a great
temptation came over her to roam through the rooms and seek out the
traces of Adrian's presence. She might see the books he had been
reading, the papers he had touched. She remembered how precious at
Bergheim everything seemed to her that he had ever used. It was a great
temptation, but she resisted it. She would not disturb the calm that had
fallen on her.
"It is of no use," she said to herself, "to open my old wounds. I will
go out, and then, if the temptation comes to me again, I cannot yield to
it. I will go down to the shore and read; there is no one to interrupt
me to-day."
She found a volume that pleased her; and then, book in hand, she walked
through the woods and down to the shore, where the restless waves were
chanting their grand old anthem. It was only the middle of April, but
the day was warm and bright; the sun shone on the blue heaving sea. She
sat down under the shelter of a huge bowlder and opened her book, but
the beautiful eyes soon wandered from the printed pages; a fairer and
far more wonderful volume lay open before her. The place where she sat
was so retired and solitary that it seemed as though she were alone in
the world. She gave herself up entirely to thought. Past and present
were all mingled in one long dream.
It was too delightful to be alone, the luxury was so great. She gave a
sigh of unutterable relief. Presently the hat she wore incommoded her;
she took it off and laid it on the sands. In removing it she disarranged
the brown plaits which Mrs. Chalmers had thought such a success. With
impatient fingers she removed them, and the graceful head appeared in
all its beauty of clustering hair--golden waves of indescribable
loveliness. She laughed as the wind played among them.
"I am my own self again," she said; "and I may be myself for a few
minutes without any one seeing me."
The wind that stirred the clustering hair had brightened her eyes and
brought the most exquisite bloom to her face.
She began to think of Adrian, and forgot all about the brown plaits; she
was living over and over again those happy days at Bergheim. She was
recalling his looks and words, every one of which was impressed on her
heart. She had forgotten even where she was; the song of the sea had
lulled her into a half-waking dream; she forgot that she was sitting
there--forgot the whole world--all save Adrian--when she was suddenly
startled by a shadow falling between herself and the sunshine, while a
voice, half frightened, half wondering, cried out, in tones she never
forgot:
"Miss Vaughan!"
With a low cry she rose from her seat and stood with blanched lips; a
great dark mist came before her eyes; for one terrible moment it seemed
to her that the waters and the sky had met. Then she steadied herself
and looked into the face of the man who had uttered her name.
She recognized him; it was Gustave, the favorite valet and confidential
servant of Lord Chandon. She clasped her hands with a low moan, while he
cried again, in a wondering, frightened voice--"Miss Vaughan!" He looked
at her, a strange fear dilating his eyes.
"I am Hyacinth Vaughan," she said, in a low hoarse voice.
The next moment he had taken off his hat, and stood bareheaded before
her. "Miss Vaughan," he stammered, "we--we thought you dead."
"So I am," she cried passionately--"I am dead in life! You must not
betray me, Gustave. For Heaven's sake, promise not to tell that you have
seen me!"
The man looked anxious and agitated.
"I cannot, miss," he replied--"I dare not keep such a secret from my
lord."
She stepped back with a moaning cry and white lips. She wrung her hands
like one who has no hope, no help.
"What shall I do?" she cried. "Oh, Heaven take pity upon me, and tell me
what to do!"
"If you knew, miss," said the man, "what my lord has suffered you would
not ask me to keep such a secret from him. I do not think he has ever
smiled since you went away. He is worn to a shadow--he has spent a
fortune in trying to find you. I know that night and day he knows no
peace, no hope, no comfort, no happiness, because he has lost you. I
love my lord--I would lay down my life to serve him."
"You do not know all," she cried.
"I beg your pardon, miss," he returned, sturdily. "I do know all; and I
know that my lord would give all he has on earth to find you--he would
give the last drop of blood in his heart, the last shilling in his
purse. How could I be a faithful servant to him, and see him worn,
wretched, and miserable under my very eyes, while I kept from him that
which would make him happy?"
"You are wrong," she said, with dignity. "It would not add to your
master's happiness to know that I am living; rather the contrary.
Believing me dead, he will in time recover his spirits; he will forget
me and marry some one who will be far better suited to him than I could
ever be. Oh, believe me--believe I know best! You will only add to his
distress, not relieve it."
But the man shook his head doubtfully.
"You are mistaken, Miss Vaughan," he said. "If you had seen my master's
distress, you would know that life is no life to him without you."
A sudden passion of despair seemed to seize her.
"I have asked you not to betray me," she said. "Now I warn you that if
you do, I will never forgive you; and I tell you that you will cause
even greater misery than now exists. I am dead to Lord Chandon and to
all my past life. I tell you plainly that if you say one word to your
master, I will go away to the uttermost ends of the earth, where no one
shall recognize me. Be persuaded--do not--as you are a man yourself--do
not drive a helpless, suffering woman to despair. My fate is hard
enough--do not render it any harder. I have enough to bear--do not add
to my burden."
"Upon my word, Miss Vaughan," returned the man irresolutely, "I do not
know what to do."
"You can think the matter over," she said. "Meanwhile, Gustave, grant me
one favor--promise me that you will not tell Lord Chandon without first
warning me."
"I will promise that," he agreed.
"Thanks," said Hyacinth, gratefully, to whom even this concession was a
great deal. "I shall not, perhaps, be able to see you again, Gustave;
but you can write to me and tell me what you have decided on doing."
"I will, Miss Vaughan," he assented.
"And pray be careful that my name does not pass your lips. I am known as
Miss Holte here."
With a low bow the man walked away; and they were both unconscious that
the angry eyes of a jealous woman had been upon them.