WILL FATE AID PAULINE?
Six months had passed since Sir Oswald's death, and his widow had
already put away her cap and heavy weeds. Six months of retirement, she
considered, were a very handsome acknowledgment of all her husband's
love and kindness. She was in a state of serene and perfect
self-content--everything had gone well with her. People had expressed
their admiration of her devotion to his memory. She knew that in the
eyes of the world she was esteemed faultless. And now it seemed to Lady
Darrell that the time was come in which she might really enjoy herself,
and reap the reward of her sacrifice.
The "armed neutrality" between Pauline and herself still continued. Each
went her own way--their interests never clashed. Lady Darrell rather
preferred that Pauline should remain at the Court. She had a vague kind
of fear of her, a vague dread that made her feel safer where Pauline
was, and where she could know something of her. Whole days would pass
without their meeting; but, now that there was to be a little more
gayety at Darrell Court, the two must expect to be brought into daily
communication.
Lady Darrell was an amiable woman. It was true she had a small soul,
capable of maintaining small ideas only. She would have liked to be what
she called "comfortable" with Pauline--to live on sisterly terms with
her--to spend long hours in discussing dress, ornaments, fashionable
gossip--to feel that there was always some one at hand to listen to her
and to amuse her. She, in her turn, would have been most generous. She
would have made ample presents of dresses and jewels to such a friend;
she would have studied her comfort and interests. But to expect or to
hope for a companion of that kind in Pauline was as though some humble
little wood-blossom could hope to train itself round a grand, stately,
sad passion-flower.
Lady Darrell's worldly knowledge and tact were almost perfect; yet they
could never reveal to her the depths of a noble nature like Pauline's.
She could sooner have sounded the depths of the Atlantic than the grand
deep of that young girl's heart and soul; they would always be dead
letters to her--mysteries she could not solve. One morning the impulse
was strong upon her to seek Pauline, to hold a friendly conversation
with her as to half-mourning; but when she reached the door of the study
her courage gave way, and she turned abruptly, feeling rather than
knowing why the discussion of dress and mere personal appearance must
prove distasteful to Miss Darrell.
Little by little Lady Darrell began to take her place in the grand
world; she was too wise and wary to do it all at once. The degrees were
almost imperceptible; even Lady Hampton, one of the most fastidious of
critics, was obliged to own to herself that her niece's conduct was
highly creditable. The gradations in Lady Darrell's spirits were as
carefully regulated as the gradations of color in her dress; with deep
lavender and black ribbons she was mildly sorrowful, the lighter grew
the lavender the lighter grew her heart. On the first day she wore a
silver gray brocade she laughed outright, and the sound of that laugh
was the knell of all mourning.
Visitors began to arrive once more at Darrell Court, but Lady Darrell
still exercised great restraint over herself. Her invitations were at
first confined to matrons of mature age. "She did not feel equal to the
society of gentlemen yet."
There was a grand chorus of admiration for the nice feeling Lady Darrell
displayed. Then elderly gentlemen--husbands of the matrons--were
admitted; and, after a time, "braw wooers began to appear at the hall,"
and then Lady Darrell's reign began in real earnest.
From these admiring matrons, enthusiastic gentlemen, ardent lovers, and
flattering friends Pauline stood aloof. How she despised the whole of
them was to be gathered only from her face; she never expressed it in
words. She did not associate with them, and they repaid her behavior by
the most hearty dislike.
It was another proof of "dear Lady Darrell's sweet temper" that she
could live in peace with this haughty, abrupt, willful girl. No one
guessed that the bland, amiable, suave, graceful mistress of Darrell
Court stood in awe of the girl who had been disinherited to make way for
her.
"Pauline," said Miss Hastings, one day, "I want you to accustom yourself
to the idea of leaving Darrell Court; for I do not think there is any
doubt but that sooner or later Lady Darrell will marry again."
"I expect it," she returned. "Poor Sir Oswald! His home will go to
strangers, his name be extinct. How little he foresaw this when he
married!"
"Let it take place when it may, the Court can be no home for you then,"
continued Miss Hastings.
Pauline raised her hand with a warning gesture.
"Do not say another word, Miss Hastings; I cannot listen. Just as
criminals were fastened to the rack, bound to the wheel, tied to the
stake, I am bound here--awaiting my revenge!"
"Oh, Pauline, if you would but forego such strange speech! This longing
for vengeance is in your heart like a deadly canker in a fair flower. It
will end badly."
The beautiful face with its defiant light was turned toward her.
"Do not attempt to dissuade me," she said. "Your warning is useless, and
I do not like to grieve you. I acquainted Lady Darrell with my
determination before she married my uncle for his money. She persisted
in doing it. Let her take the consequences--bear the penalty. If she had
acted a true womanly part--if she had refused him, as she ought to have
done--he would have had time for reflection, he would not have
disinherited me in his anger, and Darrell Court would have descended to
a Darrell, as it ought to have done."
"If you could but forget the past, Pauline!"
"I cannot--it is part of my life now. I saw two lives before me
once--the one made noble, grand, and gracious by this inheritance, which
I should have known so well how to hold; the other darkened by
disappointment and shadowed by revenge. You know how some men wait for
the fair fruition of a fair hope--for the dawn of success--for the
sunshine of perfect prosperity; so do I wait for my revenge. We Darrells
never do things by halves; we are not even moderate. My heart, my soul,
my life--which might have been, I grant, filled with high impulses--are
concentrated on revenge."
Though the words she spoke were so terrible, so bitter, there was no
mean, vindictive, or malign expression on that beautiful face; rather
was it bright with a strange light. Mistaken though the idea might be,
Pauline evidently deemed herself one chosen to administer justice.
Miss Hastings looked at her.
"But, Pauline," she said, gravely, "who made you Lady Darrell's judge?"
"Myself," she replied. "Miss Hastings, you often speak of justice; let
me ask, was this matter fair? My uncle was irritated against me because
I would not marry a man I detested and loathed; in his anger he formed
the project of marriage to punish me. He proposed to Elinor Rocheford,
and, without any love for him, she agreed to marry him. I went to her,
and warned her not to come between me and my rightful inheritance. I
told her that if she did I would be revenged. She laughed at my threat,
married my uncle, and so disinherited me. Now, was it fair that I should
have nothing, she all--that I, a Darrell, should see the home of my race
go to strangers? It is not just, and I mean to take justice into my
hands."
"But, Pauline," opposed Miss Hastings, "if Lady Darrell had not accepted
Sir Oswald, some one else would."
"Are such women common, then?" she demanded, passionately. "I knew evil
enough of your world, but I did not know this. This woman is
sweet-voiced, her face is fair, her hair is golden, her hands are white
and soft, her manners caressing and gentle; but you see her soul is
sordid--it was not large enough to prevent her marrying an old man for
his money. Something tells me that the vengeance I have promised myself
is not far off."
Miss Hastings wrung her hands in silent dismay.
"Oh, for something to redeem you, Pauline--something to soften your
heart, which is hardening into sin!"
"I do not know of any earthly influence that could, as you say, redeem
me. I know that I am doing wrong. Do not think that I have transformed
vice into virtue and have blinded myself. I know that some people can
rise to a far grander height; they would, instead of seeking vengeance,
pardon injuries. I cannot--I never will. There is no earthly influence
that can redeem me, because there is none stronger than my own will."
The elder lady looked almost hopelessly at the younger one. How was she
to cope with this strong nature--a nature that could own a fault, yet by
strength of will persevere in it? She felt that she might as well try to
check the angry waves of the rising tide as try to control this willful,
undisciplined disposition.
How often in after years these words returned to her mind: "I know of no
earthly influence stronger than my own will."
Miss Hastings sat in silence for some minutes, and then she looked at
the young girl.
"What shape will your vengeance take, Pauline?" she asked, calmly.
"I do not know. Fate will shape it for me; my opportunity will come in
time."
"Vengeance is a very high-sounding word," observed Miss Hastings, "but
the thing itself generally assumes very prosaic forms. You would not
descend to such a vulgar deed as murder, for instance; nor would you
avail yourself of anything so commonplace as poison."
"No," replied Pauline, with contempt; "those are mean revenges. I will
hurt her where she has hurt me--where all the love of her heart is
garnered; there will I wound her as she has wounded me. Where she can
feel most there I mean to strike, and strike home."
"Then you have no definite plan arranged?" questioned Miss Hastings.
"Fate will play into my hands when the time comes," replied Pauline. Nor
could the governess extract aught further from her.