SIR OSWALD'S DOUBTS.
It was the close of a spring day. Lady Hampton had been spending it at
Darrell Court, and General Deering, an old friend of Sir Oswald's, who
was visiting in the neighborhood, had joined the party at dinner. When
dinner was over, and the golden sunbeams were still brightening the
beautiful rooms, he asked Sir Oswald to show him the picture-gallery.
"You have a fine collection," he said--"every one tells me that; but it
is not only the pictures I want to see, but the Darrell faces. I heard
the other day that the Darrells were generally acknowledged to be the
handsomest race in England."
The baronet's clear-cut, stately face flushed a little.
"I hope England values us for something more useful than merely handsome
faces," he rejoined, with a touch of _hauteur_ that made the general
smile.
"Certainly," he hastened to say; "but in this age, when personal beauty
is said to be on the decrease, it is something to own a handsome face."
The picture-gallery was a very extensive one; it was wide and well
lighted, the floor was covered with rich crimson cloth, white statues
gleamed from amid crimson velvet hangings, the walls were covered with
rare and valuable pictures. But General Deering saw a picture that day
in the gallery which he was never to forget.
Lady Hampton was not enthusiastic about art unless there was something
to be gained by it. There was nothing to excite her cupidity now, her
last niece being married, so her ladyship could afford to take matters
calmly; she reclined at her ease on one of the crimson lounges, and
enjoyed the luxury of a quiet nap.
The general paused for a while before some of Horace Vernet's
battle-pieces; they delighted him. Pauline had walked on to the end of
the gallery, and Lady Darrell, always anxious to conciliate her, had
followed. The picture that struck the general most were the two ladies
as they stood side by side--Lady Darrell with the sheen of gold in her
hair, the soft luster of gleaming pearls on her white neck, the fairness
of her face heightened by its dainty rose-leaf bloom, her evening dress
of sweeping white silk setting off the graceful, supple lines of her
figure, all thrown into such vivid light by the crimson carpet on which
she stood and the background of crimson velvet; Pauline like some royal
lady in her trailing black robes, with the massive coils of her dark
hair wound round the graceful, haughty head, and her grand face with its
dark, glorious eyes and rich ruby lips. The one looked fair, radiant,
and charming as a Parisian coquette; the other like a Grecian goddess,
superb, magnificent, queenly, simple in her exquisite beauty--art or
ornaments could do nothing for her.
"Look," said the general to Sir Oswald, "that picture surpasses anything
you have on your walls."
Sir Oswald bowed.
"What a beautiful girl your niece is!" the old soldier continued. "See
how her face resembles this of Lady Edelgitha Darrell. Pray do not think
me impertinent, but I cannot imagine, old friend, why you married, so
devoted to bachelor life as you were, when you had a niece so beautiful,
so true a Darrell, for your heiress. I am puzzled now that I see her."
"She lacked training," said Sir Oswald.
"Training?" repeated the general, contemptuously. "What do you call
training? Do you mean that she was not experienced in all the little
trifling details of a dinner-table--that she could not smile as she told
graceful little untruths? Training! Why, that girl is a queen among
women; a noble soul shines in her grand face, there is a royal grandeur
of nature about her that training could never give. I have lived long,
but I have never seen such a woman."
"She had such strange, out-of-the-way, unreal notions, I dared not--that
is the truth--I dared not leave Darrell Court to her."
"I hope you have acted wisely," said the general; "but, as an old friend
and a true one, I must say that I doubt it."
"My wife, I am happy to say, has plenty of common sense," observed Sir
Oswald.
"Your wife," returned the general, looking at the sheen of the golden
hair and the shining dress, "is pretty, graceful, and amiable, but that
girl has all the soul; there is as much difference between them as
between a golden buttercup and a dark, stately, queenly rose. The rose
should have been ruler at Darrell Court, old friend."
Then he asked, abruptly:
"What are you going to do for her, Sir Oswald?"
"I have provided for her," he replied.
"Darrell Court, then, and all its rich revenues go to your wife, I
presume?"
"Yes, to my wife," said Sir Oswald.
"Unconditionally?" asked the general.
"Most certainly," was the impatient reply.
"Well, my friend," said the general, "in this world every one does as he
or she likes; but to disinherit that girl, with the face and spirit of a
true Darrell, and to put a fair, amiable blonde stranger in her place,
was, to say the least, eccentric--the world will deem it so, at any
rate. If I were forty years younger I would win Pauline Darrell, and
make her love me. But we must join the ladies--they will think us very
remiss."
"Sweet smiles, no mind, an amiable manner, no intellect, prettiness
after the fashion of a Parisian doll, to be preferred to that noble,
truthful, queenly girl! Verily tastes differ," thought the general, as
he watched the two, contrasted them, and lost himself in wonder over his
friend's folly.
He took his leave soon afterward, gravely musing on what he could not
understand--why his old friend had done what seemed to him a rash,
ill-judged deed.
He left Sir Oswald in a state of great discomfort. Of course he loved
his wife--loved her with a blind infatuation that did more honor to his
heart than his head--but he had always relied so implicitly on the
general's judgment. He found himself half wishing that in this, the
crowning action of his life, he had consulted his old friend.
He never knew how that clever woman of the world, Lady Hampton, had
secretly influenced him. He believed that he had acted entirely on his
own clear judgment; and now, for the first time, he doubted that.
"You look anxious, Oswald," said Lady Darrell, as she bent down and with
her fresh, sweet young lips touched his brow. "Has anything troubled
you?"
"No, my darling," he replied; "I do not feel quite well, though. I have
had a dull, nervous heaviness about me all day--a strange sensation of
pain too. I shall be better to-morrow."
"If not," she said, sweetly, "I shall insist on your seeing Doctor
Helmstone. I am quite uneasy about you."
"You are very kind to me," he responded, gratefully.
But all her uneasiness did not prevent her drawing the white lace round
her graceful shoulders and taking up the third volume of a novel in
which she was deeply interested, while Sir Oswald, looking older and
grayer than he had looked before, went into the garden for a stroll.
The sunbeams were so loth to go; they lingered even now on the tips of
the trees and the flowers; they lingered on the lake and in the rippling
spray of the fountains. Sir Oswald sat down by the lake-side.
Had he done wrong? Was it a foolish mistake--one that he could not undo?
Was Pauline indeed the grand, noble, queenly girl his friend thought
her? Would she have made a mistress suitable for Darrell Court, or had
he done right to bring this fair, blonde stranger into his home--this
dearly-loved young wife? What would she do with Darrell Court if he left
it to her? The great wish of his heart for a son to succeed him had not
been granted to him; but he had made his will, and in it he had left
Darrell Court to his wife.
He looked at the home he had loved so well. Ah, cruel death! If he could
but have taken it with him, or have watched over it from another world!
But when death came he must leave it, and a dull, uneasy foreboding came
over him as to what he should do in favor of this idolized home.
As he looked at it, tears rose to his eyes; and then he saw Pauline
standing a little way from him, the proud, beautiful face softened into
tenderness, the dark eyes full of kindness. She went up to him more
affectionately than she had ever done in her life; she knelt on the
grass by his side.
"Uncle," she said, quietly, "you look very ill; are you in trouble?"
He held out his hands to her; at the sound of her voice all his heart
seemed to go out to this glorious daughter of his race.
"Pauline," he said, in a low, broken voice, "I am thinking about you--I
am wondering about you. Have I done--I wonder, have I done wrong?"
A clear light flashed into her noble face.
"Do you refer to Darrell Court?" she asked. "If you do, you have done
wrong. I think you might have trusted me. I have many faults, but I am a
true Darrell. I would have done full justice to the trust."
"I never thought so," he returned, feebly; "and I did it all for the
best, as I imagined, Pauline."
"I know you did--I am sure you did," she agreed, eagerly; "I never
thought otherwise. It was not you, uncle. I understand all that was
brought to bear upon you. You are a Darrell, honorable, loyal, true; you
do not understand anything that is not straightforward. I do, because my
life has been so different from yours."
He was looking at her with a strange, wavering expression in his face;
the girl's eyes, full of sympathy, were turned on him.
"Pauline," he said, feebly, "if I have done wrong--and, oh, I am so loth
to believe it--you will forgive me, my dear, will you not?"
For the first time he held out his arms to her; for the first time she
went close to him and kissed his face. It was well that Lady Hampton was
not there to see. Pauline heard him murmur something about "a true
Darrell--the last of the Darrells," and when she raised her head she
found that Sir Oswald had fallen into a deep, deadly swoon.