ALL FOR LOVE.
Lady Gwendolyn was too much overcome at this sudden apparition.
She could not speak for a moment; and, taking her silence for
encouragement, Lawrence Dacre knelt down beside her, and lifted the
hand he still held to his lips.
“I have done with resistance,” he said; his eyes full of gloomy
passion. “Whether you take me, or leave me, Gwendolyn, I belong to
you--and you only now. These last few days I have done nothing but
fight and struggle, until all the flesh has worn off my bones,” he
added, with a grim laugh; “and I’ll make an end of it somehow. Do you
hear me, child?”
“Yes, yes; go on,” she answered, scarcely knowing what she said.
“What more can I tell you? I should scare you, perhaps, if I let you
see all the wild, burning passion in my heart, for your love compared
to mine is
‘As moonlight unto sunlight,
And as water unto wine.’
But I will teach you better when you belong to me. I could not be
satisfied with the lukewarm affections that most women are ready to
bestow on any man who has proper notions with regard to settlements.
I must find some expanse in my wife’s heart to the jealous, exclusive
passion in my own, otherwise there would be no use in living, that I
can see. I never cared much about the world, and am ready to relinquish
all its so-called pleasures if you bid me; but, then, I must have the
return my soul craves--something more precious to me than a crown and
kingdom--your undivided love.”
His mellow voice made such pleasant music at her ear, that Lady
Gwendolyn had made no effort to rouse herself so far; but when he
ceased to speak, she lifted her haggard, tear-stained face, and said,
with somber resignation:
“What is the use of picturing impossibilities? You know I could not
marry you if I would.”
“Why not?”
“You forget that I know your secret.”
“Now, you must explain what you mean by my secret, Gwendolyn,” he said,
with decision, as he lifted her on to the couch, and sat down beside
her. “Twice you have thrown it in my teeth, and though I have tried
hard to find out what you meant, I have been unable to do so. On my
honor as a gentleman, I know nothing that need prevent our marriage.”
His arm was stealing round her waist, but she pushed it away, and faced
him with a regal air.
“Listen to me, Colonel Dacre!” she said impressively. “It is true that
I was only twenty the other day, but I have seen a good deal of the
world, and am not easily deceived. From the first moment that you and I
met, I knew that you had something on your mind.”
“Few men reach my age without finding that they have a good deal to
remember and forget. In my hot youth I committed plenty of follies,
I dare say; but I can safely swear that I never really loved a woman
until I saw you.”
“And never deceived one, Colonel Dacre?”
“Never--as I hope for heaven!”
“Oh, hush!--hush!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “You are deceiving
me now.”
“Upon my word, Gwendolyn, I have not even prevaricated. Let me know
of what I am accused, that I may defend myself; it is not fair to
insinuate things of such moment to me without making it possible for me
to explain.”
“Very well,” she said; “you shall hear my story from the beginning. You
remember the day that I was frightened by Bates’ bull?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Well, I did not sprain my ankle.”
“I guessed as much,” he answered coolly.
“But I was anxious to find or make some excuse for getting into Borton
Hall.”
“May I ask why?”
“We were coming to that. The evening before we were speaking, if you
remember, of most people having a skeleton or two in their cupboard,
and you suddenly turned very grave. When I laughed, and said that you
looked as if you had a dozen, at least, in yours, you answered, with
deep meaning, that one might be as much as any one could bear. You were
very silent for the rest of the evening, and I was puzzled, stimulated,
pained, all together.”
“What, then?” he urged, as she came to an abrupt pause.
“I took care to sprain my ankle in flying from Bates’ bull.”
“Then you were not frightened by the animal?”
“I did not particularly like the look of him, but I should have passed
him valiantly enough if I had not seen you coming.”
“Well?”
“You carried me into your house, and laid me on a couch, while you went
for assistance. I had almost a mind to laugh in your face when you bent
over me so anxiously at parting, and made me promise to ring for your
housekeeper, supposing the pain should increase.”
“You played your part splendidly, I must own.”
“Of course! for I had a good deal at stake. It was necessary for my
peace of mind to discover the skeleton in your cupboard.”
“And you succeeded?” he inquired, with suppressed eagerness; his lips
whitening as the words passed through them.
“Yes, I did. With all my faults, I would never have searched your
place, of that you may be sure; but there was no need, the revelation I
sought was thrust upon me.”
“Ah!”
And though there was the gloom of an abiding sorrow in his eyes, there
was no shame nor shrinking--excepting so far as we all shrink when a
deep wound is probed.
“I suppose it was the intervention of Providence,” Lady Gwendolyn went
on. “If you had asked me to marry you an hour before I should have
accepted you without hesitation, whereas, it was not even right for us
to be friends.”
“You forget that you have explained nothing yet,” he said hoarsely.
“And yet, this suspense is very cruel.”
“I do not mean to be cruel,” she said. “I can assure you I have
suffered too much myself to take pleasure in another person’s pain;
but I am reluctant to recall that most miserable half-hour I passed
at Borton Hall. I entered it so full of hope; I left it feeling as if
I had nothing to look forward to in the world, since you, whom I had
trusted and loved, were false.”
“Or, rather, you fancied so.”
“It was no fancy, unfortunately. I saw and spoke to your wife.”
“Saw and spoke to my wife?” he repeated. “My dear Gwendolyn, you are
certainly dreaming. I have no wife.”
“She told me that her husband refused to acknowledge her, and that,
having no one to befriend her, she could not assert her rights,”
pursued Lady Gwendolyn, without heeding his denial. “And, poor thing!
she quite wrung my heart, she looked so dejected and hopeless.”
“But not through any fault of mine.”
“Why do you try to deceive me, Colonel Dacre? When a man has committed
such a wrong as you have done, the only atonement he can make is a full
confession. Treat me frankly now, and I will forgive you everything.”
“Forgive everything! What do you mean, Gwendolyn? I want your love, not
your forgiveness. I do not deserve the former, I am aware; but I have
certainly done nothing to make it necessary for me to claim the latter.”
“Perhaps you look upon bigamy as a very small offense.”
“But I have never committed bigamy, Gwendolyn. Indeed, until I saw you
I never wanted even to commit matrimony.”
“Then who was it I saw in your house?”
“I have a crazy protégée in the village, whom I allow to wander about
the park, as she is perfectly harmless. She has very strange delusions,
and may have taken it into her head that she is married to me, and
I am trying to keep her out of her rights. Who shall answer for the
hallucinations of a disordered brain?”
“The person I saw was a lady,” said Lady Gwendolyn. “That is a point
upon which it was impossible for me to be deceived, of course. She was
unusually delicate and refined looking, and her accent was perfect.
Your protégée in the village could never have managed to play the lady
so well.”
“I don’t know about that. Mad people are very cunning and imitative.”
“Still, they cannot perform impossibilities. Let her imitation have
been ever so good, she must have betrayed herself in some way.”
“If you had suspected her, you would have perceived certain
deficiencies that passed unnoticed under the circumstances.”
“Impossible. I knew nothing whatever about her, and was ready to
believe anything. The impression she made on me was, as I said before,
of an extremely refined, lady-like person, and I have no doubt in my
own mind that she was a gentlewoman, and your wife.”
“She may have been a gentlewoman, but she was certainly not my wife,”
replied the colonel.
“Will you swear that?”
“I will swear by my mother’s memory--which I love and revere--that I
never had a wife.”
“Will you swear also that you do not know the lady I have been
describing?”
“No; for I did not see her.”
“But you know whom I mean?” persisted Lady Gwendolyn.
“I know nothing,” was the evasive reply. “I was not present at your
interview, and had no reason to suppose there was any one in the house
who would dare to make such a charge against me. As I said before, I
do not pretend to be a saint, but I have never wronged or deceived a
living woman.”
“I wish I could believe you,” she said, almost convinced in spite of
herself, there was something so trustworthy about him. “I want a friend
and protector badly enough, for my brother has deserted me.”
“What, Teignmouth!” exclaimed her companion incredulously.
“Yes; he thinks I have disgraced him, and the name I bear, and does not
care for me to be associated any longer with his innocent, pure-minded
wife, lest I should contaminate her.”
Lady Gwendolyn would have been less than a woman if she had not
allowed her sneer to be perceptible--for she owed all her misery and
humiliation to Pauline; and to know that she had managed to exalt
herself in Lord Teignmouth’s eyes at the expense of his sister, did
not give her a very Christianlike feeling toward the clever countess,
assuredly. But, having relieved herself by this little piece of spite,
Gwendolyn melted into tears again, and was so agitated she did not
notice the arm that was stealing round her waist so gently.
Nor did she resist when presently, grown bold by impunity, Colonel
Dacre drew her head down on to his breast and murmured:
“If you must weep, darling, you shall weep here. I hold you fast now,
and will not be denied. Cannot you trust me a little?”
She shook her head drearily.
“I am afraid I could not. I should always feel as if there were some
mystery between us--and that would spoil all my happiness. Besides, you
do not respect me, Lawrence; you told me so frankly two years ago. What
kind of marriage could ours be, distrusting each other mutually, as we
should do?”
“I should never mistrust my wife.”
“Not during the honeymoon, perhaps; but afterward, when you could
reason coolly again, would you not remember the past, and be inclined
to throw it in my teeth?”
“You do not give me credit for much generosity, Gwendolyn.”
“I think you are a man,” she said.
“And all men are scoundrels, I suppose?”
“No; but they are sensitive on certain points. You may not be a Cæsar,
but I fancy you would not care to have your wife suspected, for all
that?”
“I do not see why you should be suspected.”
“It is a cruel world, remember. When people saw me pass on your arm,
the women would say: ‘Poor fellow! he married Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur
out of pity, because nobody would have anything to say to her after
that wretched affair at Turoy. I wonder if she really did poison Mr.
Belmont? She looks like that sort of person, does she not?’ A few men
would make excuses for me, perhaps--men do judge more mercifully than
my sex; but their voices would soon be drowned by their wives’ shrill
chorus of dispraise. You see, Colonel Dacre, it is better I should live
and die alone.”
“On the contrary, it is better you should belong to me, as you need a
defender.”
“Who excuses himself accuses himself,” she answered sadly.
“And that was why you were silent yesterday?”
“No; I had a far different reason.”
“Will you not confide in me a little?” he pleaded.
“Why should I? In the first place, you do not treat me with confidence;
in the second, all I could say would never persuade you that it was not
I who had meetings in Turoy Wood with Mr. Belmont.”
“I do not see who else it could have been.”
“And the lady I met at Borton Hall--who else could she have been but
your wife?”
“She might have been any one.”
“So might Mr. Belmont’s friend.”
“I don’t know about that. You are the only lady in Turoy.”
“Now!” she said, with a significance that made Colonel Dacre ponder,
and wonder if he had been confused like the rest of the world.
After all, he could not prove that Lady Gwendolyn had been the only
person in the Grange that evening; and though the lady he had seen in
the wood with Mr. Belmont resembled the other in figure and style, he
remembered now that he had not seen her face, and had, therefore, no
right to judge her.
How could he have been so cruel as not even to have given her the
benefit of the doubt? And, after all, she might be innocent, poor
darling!
He pressed her to his bosom with a passion of tenderness, as he
murmured:
“Oh, my darling! You can never forgive me for having misjudged you so,
and yet I loved you like a madman all the while.”
There was such a blessed rest in the love he proffered; and she yearned
beyond words to gather it up to her heart. But believing him to be the
husband of another woman, it was her duty to put this comfort away from
her, and she dared not hesitate for conscience sake.
She withdrew one of his arms resolutely.
“You must try and get over your love,” she said, with evident effort;
and the utter desolation of her face would have touched a heart of
stone. “I will not take another woman’s just place.”
“Heaven forbid that I should be base enough to ask such a thing of you!”
“You are asking it now.”
“You would trust a madwoman rather than me?” he said reproachfully.
“I am afraid I must. The madwoman had nothing to gain by deceiving me,
and you have.”
“You forget that what I had gained by fraud I should not be able to
keep. If I were a married man there are people in the world who must
know about it. It is rare that a woman is entirely without family and
protectors, and can be kept out of sight without somebody requiring to
know what has become of her.”
“True,” Lady Gwendolyn replied; “but one has heard of such things.”
“In novels.”
“In real life, too. One rarely takes up a newspaper without hearing of
some mysterious disappearance.”
“That argument is rather in my favor than otherwise, Gwendolyn. If my
wife had disappeared suddenly you would have seen something about it
in the newspapers, according to your own showing, and there would have
been every effort made to discover her whereabouts, or the manner of
her death, if she were dead. Besides, it is only natural to suppose
that in the early days I should have taken my wife to Borton, and
introduced her to my neighbors. You do not marry a woman on purpose to
shut her up; that would be an afterthought.”
“You could have gone abroad, and from there announced her death.”
“Possibly; but you may depend it is better to have a skeleton in your
cupboard, rather than a living creature. One tells no tales, and the
other might get one into some very unpleasant scrapes. Come, Gwen,
do not be so unbelieving. I swear by all that is most sacred I have
no wife. Even if I had wished to conceal this fact from the world in
general I should certainly have confided in your brother, and you may
be sure he would not have allowed me to visit at his house under false
pretenses.”
“But, of course, you would not have confided in him if you had wished
to keep your marriage a secret.”
“Gwendolyn,” he said passionately, “you will wear me out. If you would
only trust me as I trust you. I love you so dearly, my sweetest.”
The strong arms enfolded her lovingly, the tawny mustache swept her
cheek. For one brief moment she yielded to his caress, her lips
thrilling under his, then she wrenched herself away from him, and fled.