THE WORK OF ATONEMENT.
The little town of Audleigh Royal had never been so excited. It was such
a terrible accident. Captain Langton, the guest of Sir Peter Glynn, so
soon to be master of Darrell Court--a man so handsome, so accomplished,
and so universal a favorite--to be killed in the gloom of an autumn
night, on the high-road! Society was grieved and shocked.
"That beautiful young lady at the Hall, who loved him so dearly, was,"
people whispered to each other, "at death's door--so deep was her
grief."
An inquest was held at the "Darrell Arms;" and all the revelations ever
made as to the cause of Captain Langton's death were made then. The
butler and the groom at Darrell Court swore to having felt some little
alarm at seeing the deceased drink more than half a tumblerful of
brandy. The butler's prophecy that he would never reach home in safety
was repeated. One of the men said that the captain looked pale and
scared, as though he had seen a ghost; another told how madly he had
galloped away; so that no other conclusion could be come to but
this--that he had ridden recklessly, lost all control over the horse,
and had been thrown. There was proof that the animal had dragged him
along the road for some little distance; and it was supposed the fatal
wound had been inflicted when his head was dashed against the mile-stone
close to which he had been found.
It was very shocking, very terrible. Society was distressed. The body
lay at the "Darrell Arms" until all arrangements had been made for the
funeral. Such a funeral had never been seen in Audleigh Royal. Rich and
poor, every one attended.
Captain Langton was buried in the pretty little cemetery at Audleigh;
and people, as they stood round the grave, whispered to each other that,
although the horse that killed him had cost over a hundred pounds, Sir
Peter Glynn had ordered it to be shot.
Then, when the autumn had faded into winter, the accident was forgotten.
Something else happened which drove it from people's minds, and the
tragedy of Audleigh Royal became a thing of the past.
Pauline did not return to Omberleigh. Miss Hastings was dreadfully
shocked when she received a letter telling her of Captain Langton's
death and of Lady Darrell's serious illness. No persuasions could induce
her to remain longer away. She returned that same day to the Court, and
insisted upon taking her share in the nursing of Lady Darrell.
Lady Hampton looked upon the captain's accident as the direct
interposition of Providence. Of course such a death was very shocking,
very terrible; but certainly it had never been a match she approved;
and, after all, say what one would, everything had happened for the
best.
Lady Hampton went over to Darrell Court, and assisted in attending to
the invalid; but her thoughts ran more on Lord Aynsley, and the chances
of his renewing his offer, than on anything else. Elinor would soon
recover, there was no fear; the shock to her nerves had been great, but
people never died of nervousness; and, when she did get well, Lady
Hampton intended to propose a season in London.
But Lady Darrell did not get well as soon as Lady Hampton had
anticipated. Indeed, more than one clever doctor, on leaving her
presence, shook his head gravely, and said it was doubtful whether Lady
Darrell would ever recover at all; the shock to her nerves had been
terrible.
But there was something to be said also of a blighted life and a broken
heart.
Autumn had drifted into winter; and one morning Lady Darrell, who had
been sleeping more soundly than usual, suddenly turned to Pauline, who
seldom left her.
"Pauline," she whispered, "you have not told any one, have you?"
"Told what?" she inquired.
"About poor Aubrey's faults. I know now that he was guilty. Strange,
solemn thoughts, strange revelations, come to us, are made to us in
sickness, when we lie, where I have been lying, in the valley of the
shadow of death. I know that he was guilty, and that he died in his
sin. I know it now, Pauline."
Miss Darrell bent over her and kissed the white brow.
"Listen to me, dear," continued the weak voice. "Let this secret die
with us--let there be a bond between us never to reveal it. You will
never tell any one about it, will you, Pauline?"
"No," she replied, "never. I should never have told you but that I hoped
to save you from a dreadful fate--and it would have been a dreadful fate
for you to have married him; he would have broken your heart."
"It is broken now," she said, gently. "Yet it comforts me to know that
no reproach will be heaped on Aubrey's memory."
"You will get better," observed Pauline, hopefully, "and then there will
be happier days in store for you."
"There will be no happy days for me," returned Lady Darrell,
sorrowfully. "You see, Pauline, I loved him very dearly--more dearly
than I knew. I had never loved any one very much until I saw him. I
could more easily have checked a raging fire than have restrained my
love after I had once given it. My life had in some way passed into his,
and now I do not care to live."
"But you have so much to live for," said Pauline.
"Not now. I do not care for aught about me. I have tried to remember
Darrell Court and all my wealth and grandeur, but they give me no
pleasure--the shadow of death lies over all."
And it was all in vain that Pauline tried to rouse her; Lady Darrell,
after her unhappy love, never cared to be roused again. Lady Hampton
would not think seriously of her illness--it would pass away in time,
she said; but Miss Hastings shook her head gravely, and feared the
worst.
The time came when Pauline told some part of her story to the governess.
She did not mention Aubrey's crime--that secret she kept until
death--but she gave a sketch of what had passed between her and Lady
Darrell.
"Did I do right?" she asked, with that sweet humility which had
vanquished all pride in her.
"You acted worthily," replied Miss Hastings, while she marveled at the
transformation which love had wrought in that once proud, willful girl.
Time passed on, and by the wish of Miss Hastings a celebrated physician
was sent for from London, for Lady Darrell grew no better. His opinion
sounded somewhat like a death-warrant.
"She may recover sufficiently to quit her room and to linger on in
life--how long is uncertain; but the shock to her nerves she will never
fully recover from--while she lives she will be a victim to nervousness.
But I do not think she will live long. Let her have as much cheerful
society as possible, without fatigue; nothing more can be done for her."
And with that they were obliged to be content. Lady Hampton would not
admit that the London physician was correct.
"Nerves are all nonsense," she said, brusquely. "How many nervous
shocks have I been through, with husband dead and children dead?
Elinor's only danger is her mother's complaint. She died of consumption
quite young."
It was found, however, despite Lady Hampton's disbelief, that the London
physician had spoken truthfully. Lady Darrell rose from her sick bed,
but she was but the shadow of herself, and a victim to a terrible
nervous disorder.
Miss Hastings watched over her with great anxiety, but Pauline was like
a second self to the unhappy lady. They were speaking of her one day,
and Miss Hastings said:
"An illness like Lady Darrell's is so uncertain, Pauline; you must not
occupy yourself with her so entirely, or you will lose your own health."
But Pauline looked up with a smile--perhaps the gravest, the sweetest
and most tender her face had ever worn.
"I shall never leave her," she returned.
"Never leave her?" questioned Miss Hastings.
"No. I shall stay with her to comfort her while life lasts, and that
will be my atonement."