The Shadow of a Sin
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"I was in time, thank Heaven!" she said. "I was in time!" She remembered the crowded court – the hundreds of eyes that had been turned upon her – the thunder of applause that none of the officers could repress – the ringing cheers that followed Claude's release. But after that all was a blank. She remembered nothing that had passed since she stood in the assize court, blind and dizzy, until she opened her eyes in that pretty room.
White, fragile, worn almost to a shadow, helpless as a child, she lay there now with reason in full sway. Dead to her old life, to her friends, her hopes, her plans – dead to her lover and her love – she was painfully beginning a new life, in which none of these had any part – a new life into which she felt that hope, love, or happiness could never come.
A week later, and Hyacinth Vaughan, looking like a frail shadow of her former self, sat, propped up by pillows, in a large easy-chair that had been placed for her near the window; her nerveless hands were clasped, her large eyes, so sad and dreamy, lingered on the clouds that drifted rapidly over the sky.
She was alone and deeply engrossed in thought; the time had come when she must speak to these people who had been so kind to her – when she must tell something of herself. They had been so kind to her, so attentive, so considerate – they had not even asked her name. Mrs. Chalmers always called her "child." Her son had a variety of names for her, the principal of which was Queen Mab. Such kindness could spring only from noble and generous hearts. Both mother and son had refrained from asking her any questions. Said Dr. Chalmers to his mother:
"When she knows us, and feels that she can trust us she will speak."
They had both divined that there had been some terrible sorrow in the girl's life – some sorrow that had struck her down and brought her to the brink of the grave. They knew, too, that she must be a lady of good birth and refinement. But never by word or deed did they distress her by the least symptom of curiosity. They had gone still further – when she attempted to say anything, Mrs. Chalmers had laid kindly fingers on her trembling lips, and said:
"Hush! Wait till you are stronger and better, my dear and then you shall talk."
But now the time had come when she knew that she must speak to them – must thank them for such kindness as the world rarely shows – must tell them how she was dead, but had risen to this new, fresh life in which the past was to have neither share nor place. The task was terrible to her, but she must undergo it. It seemed a direct answer to her thoughts when the door opened, and Dr. Chalmers came in with his mother. The doctor carried with him a bunch of purple grapes, which he laid before her.
"How kind you are to me!" she said, with trembling lips. "I have been thinking all the morning. How can I thank you? How can I ever repay you?"
"Doctors never expect thanks," said Dr. Chalmers; "and we are repaid by your recovery."
But the beautiful eyes were filled with tears. She took the old lady's hand and raised it to her lips. The doctor held up his finger in warning, but Hyacinth said:
"Let me speak – do let me speak. I cannot live in this silence and constraint any longer."
"Let her speak, Robert," said his mother; "it is best."
Hyacinth kissed again the kindly hand she held in hers. She took the doctor's and clasped them both together.
"You have been so kind to me," she said. "I can never repay you. I have no money to pay even for the necessaries you have given me. I know you do not want it, but I cannot understand how it is that you have been so good to me."
"My dear child," cried Mrs. Chalmers, "we have done nothing but what every Christian should. You came by accident to us, sick unto death, unhappy, friendless, and homeless, as it seemed – what less could we do than to take you in and succor you? We could not send you sick and almost dying into the streets."
"No! but you might have sent me to some hospital. I am sure that few would have done to me as you have done."
"We have only done what we thought to be right – no more."
"What you have done to me," returned Hyacinth, "I pray Heaven to return to you a thousandfold. I can never sufficiently thank you, but I want to say something else to you."
Her face grew so white, and her lips trembled so, that the doctor was on the point of forbidding another word. She looked piteously at him.
"Let me speak," she said; "the weight on my heart is so great I can hardly bear it. Were I to do what I wish, I should tell you all my story; but think of me as mercifully as you can – I am dead in life."
They looked at her in utter wonder. In the same faint voice she continued:
"I am dead to my home – I shall never see it again, and to my friends – I shall never see them again. I am dead to all the hopes that once made earth like heaven for me."
Her voice died away in a faint, moaning sob, and there was silence – silence that was broken at last by the clear, deep voice of the doctor.
"Will you tell us why this is?" he asked.
"I cannot," she replied, "I can only trust to your mercy. I cannot tell you either my name or my station, or what has slain me, when life was most sweet."
"Did you do something very wrong?" asked Mrs. Chalmers, with a shadow on her kindly face.
Hyacinth raised her beautiful eyes to the drifting clouds, which she could see from the window.
"I did something," she replied – "but, no – I don't think it was so very wrong; hundreds do it, and never think it wrong at all. I only planned it; a fear that it might be wrong came over me, and I did not do it. But the consequences of even the little I did – the shadow as it were of a sin – fell over me, and my whole life is darkened."
"You can tell us no more?" said the doctor.
"No!" she replied; mournfully; "I throw myself on your mercy."
"She has never done anything wrong, Robert," interrupted Mrs. Chalmers, addressing her son; "take my word for it. Look at that innocent face, those clear, true eyes – no one could believe they were coupled with guilt. I trust you, my dear," she added, turning to Hyacinth. "Keep your secret – never mind it; I believe in you, and shall never ask what it is."
A grateful look came over the girl's face.
"Thank you," she said. "You are right; I am not wicked. In one action of my life I was imprudent and foolish; the consequences of that action, which could not have been foreseen by any one, have crushed me. I am not wicked. See, I ask you to let me kiss your face; if my lips were stained with false words, I would not – I could not do so. I clasp your hands – ah, such true, kind hands they have been to me! – in my own; but, if mine were stained with crime, I could not do it."
"I believe you, my dear child," said Mrs. Chalmers; "you need say no more."
"I may tell you this," continued the girl. "I had a name as old and honored as any in the land; but I have laid it down and shall never use it again. I had friends – kind, strict, noble, generous; I have looked my last upon them. I had – oh, dear Heaven, it is hard to say! – I had a lover, whom I loved dearly, and his face I have looked upon for the last time. I am dead to all – dead in life!"
Her voice faltered, she broke into a passionate fit of weeping. During this time the doctor had spoken never a word, but now he bent over her.
"Child," he said, "you are so young, so simple, that, if any wrong has been done, you have been sinned against, not the sinner. Like my mother, I trust you. We have neither daughter nor sister; you shall be both. Our home shall be your home – what we have you shall share with us as long as life lasts."
She kissed the strong hand clasped in her own; her warm tears fell on it.
"You are very good to me," she said, "and though I tell you that I come to you as one risen from the dead – though I have no name, no friends – you will trust me, you will believe in me?"
"Yes," replied Dr. Chalmers, calmly. "I have not studied the human face all these years to be mistaken at last. I trust you implicitly."
"You must have a name," cried Mrs. Chalmers; "all the world need not know what we know. People will think you are a ward or protégée of mine; but you must have a name."
"Let her take ours, mother," suggested her son. But Hyacinth's face flushed.
"That would hardly do," said Mrs. Chalmers. "I will give you mine, my dear – the name that was mine in my girlhood – people used to think it a pretty one – Millicent Holte."
CHAPTER XXV
"Millicent Holte – that is the name you must assume," said Mrs. Chalmers to Hyacinth; "and, though I never was so pretty or so sweet as you are, still I was a very happy girl – and I do not like to see a young life blighted. Kiss me, Millicent; you shall be like a daughter to me."
"I do not remember my own mother," observed the girl, simply, laying her fair head on the kindly breast, "and I thank Heaven for sending me to you."
"Before we finish this subject at once and forever," said the doctor, "let me ask you, Millicent, is there anything that I can do for you in connection with your secret? If so, speak to me just as freely as though I were your brother, and command me as you will."
"You can do nothing," she answered, mournfully. "I should not have given up but that I knew all hope was past, nothing can undo what has been done – nothing can remove, nothing lighten its shadow."
"Are you unjustly punished?" he asked.
"Sometimes I think so, but I cannot tell."
"We will not mention the matter again," said the doctor, kindly; "we will think only of the new life and getting well. As a preparatory step to the latter, let me tell you that you must eat all these grapes, and then lie down and sleep again."
For the sweet face had grown so white and worn, so pale and tired – he saw that the effort she had made had been a most painful one.
"We will leave her alone, mother," he said.
But before Mrs. Chalmers quitted the room she unlocked a drawer and took from it a small purse; this she placed in Millicent's hand.
"This is yours, my dear," she said; "it fell from your pocket the evening you came here."
The sight of the little purse almost unnerved her. She remembered how Adrian had laughed at it, and had promised to buy her one with golden clasps. She took it, and then looked wistfully in the lady's face.
"No, my dear," said Mrs. Chalmers, "it is not to be thought of for one moment. What my son and I have done has not been for gain. Keep it, my poor child; you will need it in this new life that lies before you."
Then they left her alone, and the thoughts that mastered her were very sad ones. This new life looked almost terrible now that she was brought face to face with it. She began to wonder what they were doing at home, whether she should hear their names again, whether Adrian was still with them, and what he now thought of her. How he must despise himself for having ever loved her – she who had been the subject of popular comment and gossip – she whose name had been upon every lip! He who admired delicacy and refinement, how he must dislike her! She checked herself.
"I must not think of it," she said, "or I shall go mad."
Meanwhile mother and son had gone down to the cozy dining-room, and stood looking at each other in silence.
"It is a strange story, mother," said Dr. Chalmers; "I cannot understand it. What should you think the poor girl has been doing?"
"I cannot even form an idea," replied Mrs. Chalmers; "she has done nothing wrong – I am quite sure of that."
"Yet it must have been something very grave and serious to drive a girl from her home and her friends – to cause her to give up her name, and to be, as she says, dead to life."
"Something unusually grave, no doubt, but without wrong on her part; I could no more doubt her than I could myself. However unhappy or unfortunate she may be, she is good, true, pure, innocent, and simple as a child."
"Yes, I believe so, but it puzzles me greatly to know what her story can be. Still, we have taken her to ourselves, poor child; so we must make her strong and well and happy."
"Robert," said Mrs. Chalmers, gently – and she looked anxiously at her son's handsome, clever face – "be as kind as you will to her, but, my dear, do not fall in love with her."
"You may depend upon it, mother," he returned – and his face flushed and he laughed uneasily – "that, even if I should do so, I will never say one word about it. I shall think of Millicent, poor child, as of some petted younger sister, and do my best for her." Then the doctor opened a ponderous volume, and his mother knew that all conversation was at an end.
They were not rich, those good Samaritans, although the doctor was making rapid strides in his profession. Theirs had been a hard struggle. The mother had been left a widow when quite young; she had only a small income, the son was desirous of a good education, and then he chose the profession he felt most inclination for. But it had been up-hill work – they had no friends and no influence. They had nothing but his skill and industry to rely upon. Both, however, soon made their way. His practice increased rapidly, and when Hyacinth found refuge with him he had begun to save money, and was altogether in what the people of the world call comfortable circumstances. It was most probably the remembrance of their early struggles that made both mother and son so kind and charitable to the unhappy girl who had fallen under their hands. Perhaps, had they always been prosperous, they might have had harder hearts. As it was, the memory of their past struggles softened them and made them kinder to the whole world.
Mrs. Chalmers, well-born and well-bred herself, was quick to recognize that Hyacinth was a gentlewoman – one who had been accustomed not only to a life of refinement, but of luxury. She was quick also to recognize the pure mind, the innocent, simple, gentle heart.
It was all settled, and Millicent – as Hyacinth Vaughan was now called – became one of the family. Mrs. Chalmers always treated her as though she was her own daughter. The doctor spoiled, indulged, teased, and worshipped her. They did all that was possible for her; still the girl was not happy. She regained her health and strength very slowly, but no color returned to that delicate, lovely face – the beautiful eyes were always shadowed – no one ever saw her smile. As she grew stronger, she busied herself in doing all kinds of little services for Mrs. Chalmers; but this life among the middle class was all new to her. She had never known anything but the sombre magnificence of Queen's Chase and the hotel life at Bergheim. She was lost, and hardly knew what to do. It was new to her to live in small rooms – to be waited on by one servant – to hear and know all that passed in the household – new, strange, and bewildering to her. But she busied herself in attending to Mrs. Chalmers. She did many little services, too, for the doctor; and at last he grew to love the beautiful, sad face and plaintive voice as he had never loved anything before. She grew stronger, but not happier, and they became anxious about her.
"It is so unnatural in a girl of her age," said Mrs. Chalmers; "the trouble must have been a great one, since she cannot forget it. In my opinion, Robert, nothing will rouse her but change of scene and work. She seems to be always in a sorrowful dream."
What Mrs. Chalmers said the young girl often thought. After a time she wearied inexpressibly of the dull routine of her every-day life.
"I am dying," she would say to herself – "dying of inanition. I must begin to work."
One day, when the doctor sat alone in his surgery, she went to him and told him.
"If you will only be kind enough to let me work," she said. "I shall always love this my home; but it seems to me that in body and mind I should be much better if I could work."
"And work you shall," decided the doctor; "leave all to me."
CHAPTER XXVI
Dr. Chalmers was getting on in the world. His practice had at first been confined exclusively to the locality in which he lived; but of late noble ladies had sent for him, and his name was mentioned with great honor in the medical journals. He had been consulted in some very difficult cases, and people said he saved Lady Poldean's life when all the physicians had pronounced her case hopeless. Honors were falling thick and fast upon him.
Lady Dartelle, of Hulme Abbey, was one of those who placed implicit faith in him. Her ladyship was credited with passing through life with one eye firmly fixed on the "main chance." She never neglected an opportunity of saving a guinea; and she was wont to observe that she had much better advice from Dr. Chalmers for five guineas than she could procure from a fashionable physician for twenty. Her youngest daughter, Clara, had been ailing for some time, and Lady Dartelle decided on leaving Hulme Abbey and coming up to town for the benefit of the doctor's advice.
Lady Dartelle was a widow – "left," as she was accustomed to observe, emphatically, "with four dear children." The eldest, the son and heir, Sir Aubrey, was travelling on the Continent; her two daughters, Veronica and Mildred, were accomplished young ladies who had taken every worldly maxim to heart, and never bestowed a thought upon anything save of the most frivolous nature.
They had made their début some years before, but it had not been a very successful one. The young ladies were only moderately good looking, and they had not the most amiable of tempers. Perhaps this latter fact might account in some degree for several matrimonial failures. The young ladies had not accompanied Lady Dartelle to town – they objected to be seen there out of season – so that her ladyship had the whole of the mansion to herself.
Dr. Chalmers had one day been sitting for some time by the child, examining her, talking to her and asking her innumerable questions. She was a fair, fragile, pretty child, with great earnest eyes and sensitive lips. The doctor's heart warmed to her; and when Lady Dartelle sent to request his presence in her room, he looked very anxious.
"I want you to tell me the truth, doctor," she said. "The child has never been very well nor very ill. I want to know if you think she is in any danger."
"I cannot tell," he replied. "It seems to me that the child's chances are equal for life or death."
"I may not send her to school, then?" she said; and a shade of annoyance passed over the lady's face.
"Certainly not," was the prompt reply. "She will require the most constant and kindly home-care. She should have a kind and cheerful companion. I should not advise you entirely to forget her education, but it must not be forced."
"That is tantamount to saying that I must have a governess at home – and I do not see my way clear to that at all. Servants are bad enough; but the real plague of life are governesses. I have no idea where to find a suitable one. One's troubles seem to have no end."
To which remark the doctor wisely made no reply. Lady Dartelle looked up at him.
"You must see a great deal of the world, Dr. Chalmers. Can you tell me where I can find a trustworthy governess? I must have a gentlewoman, of course; yet she must not be one likely to thrust herself forward. That I could not endure. What is the matter, doctor?" she asked; for Dr. Chalmers' face had suddenly flushed scarlet, and his eyes intimated something which my Lady Dartelle did not quite understand.
"I was thinking," he replied, "that I do know a young lady who would be all that you require."
"I am very glad," said Lady Dartelle, looking much relieved. "Who is she? What is her name?"
"She is a protégée of my mother's – her name is Millicent Holte. She is highly educated, and most sweet-tempered – in fact, I do not think, if all England were searched, that any one so exactly suited for the position could be found. She is of gentle birth, and has a quiet, graceful manner that is very charming. There is only one objection."
"What is that?" asked Lady Dartelle, anxiously.
"She has never been a governess, and might not, perhaps, like the position – I cannot tell."
"She has never taught – of course that would make some difference in the stipend. I do not know that the deficiency need cause concern in respect of anything else. Where is the young lady now?"
"She is staying with my mother," said the doctor, his honest face flushing at the need of concealment.
"That is recommendation sufficient," vouchsafed Lady Dartelle, graciously. "I shall require no other. When will it be convenient for me to see her?"
"I dare say mother could call upon you to-morrow and bring Miss Holte with her."
"That would be very nice. Three o'clock would be a convenient time for me. Suppose Miss Holte should accept the engagement, would she be able, do you think, to return to Hulme Abbey with me at the end of the week?"
"I should imagine so. I do not know of anything to prevent it."
Yet as he spoke, that fair, sweet, sad face seemed to rise before him, and he wondered how he should bear his home when she was there no longer.
Still, he had done what she wanted. She had asked him to find her some work to do, and he had complied with her request. Yet his heart smote him as he thought of her – so fair, so fragile, so sensitive. How would she like to be among strangers? Fortunately he had no conception of the true life of a governess in a fashionable family; if he had had, it would have been the last work of the kind he would have chosen for her in whom he was interested.
"The work will brace her nerves; it will do her good," he said to himself; "and if by chance she does not like it, she need not stay – there will always be a home for her with us."
When he reached home he told her. She appeared neither pleased nor regretful; it seemed to him that the common events of every-day life no longer possessed the least interest for her. She asked no questions about either Lady Dartelle or her place of residence, or how many children she would have to teach. The young girl agreed with him that she would do well to accept the offer.
"Are you pleased?" he asked. "Do you think you will like the duties?"
"I am very thankful to have some work to do," she replied; "and I am deeply grateful to you, Dr. Chalmers."
"You may well be that. I have never made such a sacrifice in my life as that of letting you go, Millicent. I should not have done so but that I think it will be for your good. Your home is still here, and if you do not like Hulme Abbey, I will fetch you away at once."
That night when the unhappy girl was alone in her room, she threw up her arms with a despairing cry. "How many years have I to live? How many years can I bear this, and live? Oh! Adrian, Adrian, if I could only look once upon your face and die! Oh, my love, my love, how am I to live and never see your face again?"
CHAPTER XXVII
"There is one thing we are quite forgetting," said Dr. Chalmers, "although we call ourselves such clever people."
He pointed as he spoke to the little rings of golden hair, soft, fine as silk, light as gold in color, like the small tendrils of a vine in shape. She raised her beautiful, blushing face to his.
"You did it," she said, half-reproachfully. "I look just like a boy. What shall I do?"
The doctor touched one of the soft golden rings with his finger. "This is anything but the conventional governess style; Millicent should have plain, Madonna-like braids of a dull gray tint – should she not, mother?"
"I do not like your plan at all, Robert," said Mrs. Chalmers, looking at her sweet, sad face. "I do not see why Millicent cannot be happy with us, nor why she can not recover her strength here. I suppose you know best. One thing is certain; she cannot leave us thus. Should you like, my dear, to wear hair that was not your own?"
"No, I should not like it at all," she replied, her face flushing.
The doctor laughed aloud.
"You will never make a woman of fashion, Millicent, as far as I understand such beings. A lady with a magnificent head of hair of her own carefully puts it out of sight and covers it with some one else's hair. I think the fashion most hateful, but my opinion of course matters little. Seriously speaking, Millicent, my mother must take you to a hair-dresser's, as something must be done; this beautiful, graceful, infantile head would never suit her ladyship."