The Shadow of a Sin

CHAPTER XXII

The search that Adrian Darcy made proved as unsatisfactory as that which had been conducted by Colonel Lennox. Do what he would, Adrian could find no trace of Hyacinth. He was not long in procuring a copy of the Loadstone Journal, and there, in simple, truthful words, he read her story. His first feeling was one of intense indignation against Claude Lennox.

"She is so young," he said to himself – "so young and so easily led. Her very simplicity ought to have been her shield. How could he betray the trust she placed in him?"

Then he saw what was said of Claude. He was young, handsome, gifted, eagerly sought after, greatly admired. It was not to be wondered at that a girl who had led the retired, dull, monotonous life of Hyacinth Vaughan should have been dazzled by him and have placed implicit faith in him. But, after all, she did not love him. If she had she would not have repented of her elopement before it was concluded – she would not have returned home. It had been but a temporary charm after all. She had, doubtless, been captivated by his handsome face. Youth invariably loves youth. It must have been a novelty to her, living as she did in the midst of old people, who, though kind, were cold and formal, to meet someone lively, gay, and fascinating. It was not wonderful that she should let her calmer, better judgment sleep, and act under his influence.

It was such a simple story, and she had told it so clearly, with such humble acknowledgment of her own fault in every word – with such an entire conviction that in coming forward to save Claude Lennox she had lost every hope in life – that his heart ached as he read. He could picture that fair sweet face, with its sorrowful eyes and quivering lips, the centre of all observation in that crowded court. He could almost feel the shock and the horror that had mastered her when she found that she must appear in public and tell the story that she had never dared to tell even him.

"My poor Hyacinth!" he said. "Oh, if she had but trusted me – if she had but trusted me – if she had but told me herself of this error, and not left me to hear it from others! I can forgive that half-elopement; it was but the shadow of a sin, after all, repented of before it was half committed, and atoned for by bitter suffering. But I find it hard to forgive her for not having trusted me." Then, again he remembered how young, how shy, how timid she was. "I must not be hard on her, even in my thoughts," he said; "perhaps she intended to tell me when she was more at her ease with me."

Then, as the simple story of her heroism told upon him, he ceased to think of her fault, and was lost in admiration of her courage.

"How many there are," he thought, "who would have let the prisoner take his chance, and would have thought more of saving their reputation than of preserving his life! How simple and brave, how true and loyal she is! Oh, Cynthy, my lost love, if you had but trusted me!"

He took up the Times, and there he found the story told again. All notice of her fault was quite hidden by the admiration expressed for her courage, her unselfish heroism, her undaunted bravery. "If I could but find her," he said – "find her and tell her the world admires instead of condemning her!"

He understood better than anyone her sensitive disposition; he knew that she would deem herself all unworthy – that she would look upon herself as lost to home, to friends, to hope, to happiness, to love; he knew how her tender conscience magnified even trifling faults, and his heart grew heavy for her. Where was she? What was she doing? What would become of her? He redoubled his efforts, but they were all in vain. After days and weeks fruitlessly spent, he returned to Bergheim, having no good news to tell. By the stately baronet and his wife Adrian's story was heard without one comment. Lady Vaughan's fair old face grew cold and sad.

"Did she – the child I trusted – deceive me so far as to leave my roof with a stranger? Tell me no more, Adrian; my heart is heavy and sore. This is the first taint that has ever fallen on the Vaughans."

"You must not call it a taint," cried Adrian. "Do not forget how young she was, how full of poetry and romance, how easily persuaded – a girl like Hyacinth would be but as a reed in the hands of Claude Lennox."

"The Vaughans are never weak, Adrian; they have ever been a brave and noble race."

"Not one of them has been braver or more noble than Hyacinth," cried Adrian, hotly. "I do not say that she is without fault, or that she is not to blame; but I do say the atonement made far exceeds the fault; think of the courage required of a young girl like her to stand up in a public court and tell the story of an error like hers, even though it was so quickly repented of."

"Think of the shame," said Lady Vaughan, with a shudder. But Adrian would not have it so. He told Lady Vaughan what the newspapers said of her granddaughter.

"To me," remarked the lady, "it is almost immaterial whether the papers praise her or blame her; the disgrace lies in such a name as hers being in the newspapers at all."

But Sir Arthur was not quite so hard.

"She must have been very dull at Queen's Chase," he said. "I have often thought so. There was not a young face about the place but hers. That young Lennox is very handsome – just the man to take a girl's fancy."

"You have used the right word, Sir Arthur," observed Adrian. "He did stir her fancy, but not her heart; he stirred her imagination. I have no doubt that in his eloquent way he made her believe that in leaving home she was doing something grand and heroic. See how quickly her better judgment came to her aid, and how quickly she repented of her error."

"It is very noble of you to defend her," said Lady Vaughan, "but – but I cannot hold with you. She was the dearly loved child of my old age – all my hopes rested on her. I thought I had preserved her like a lily in the shade, and the result of all my care was an elopement and a public appearance in a court of justice. Oh, Adrian, say no more to me – say no more!"

He found it was useless to defend Hyacinth; the proud and stately old lady could not brook the idea.

"No lady – mind, I mean no true lady – ever makes a public sensation. The child has ruined, blighted her whole life, and no one can help her."

But even Lady Vaughan, after her first resentment had died away, began to share Adrian's uneasiness. "It would have been better," she said, "if the child had returned to us and lived it down!"

It dawned upon her at last, as it did upon all of them, that Hyacinth believed herself cut off from them forever. "It shows at least," said Lady Vaughan, "how keenly she felt the enormity of the wrong done."

As the long months passed on and no news came of Hyacinth, the hot, proud anger died from Lady Vaughan, the fair old face grew wistful and sad; her grandchild's offence grew less in her eyes, and the great atonement made grew greater; and then other events happened: Lord Chandon died, and then Adrian was obliged to return to England. Sir Arthur absolutely refused to remain at Bergheim without him.

"We must go home some time, my lady," he said; "why not now? After all, I think you exaggerate what you call the disgrace: let us go! People, I am sure, will not distress us by even mentioning the matter."

And Sir Arthur was right: whatever opinions might have been expressed among the inhabitants at Oakton, they had, one and all, too much respect for the stately mistress of Queen's Chase to speak their minds before her. It was understood that Miss Vaughan preferred remaining abroad, so there was nothing more to be said. No one knew how sorely the sweet face was missed from the old mansion, or what long hours Lady Vaughan spent in wondering what had become of Hyacinth. Sir Arthur and his wife settled down to the old life again, but they found out then how much brightness had vanished with the fair face they missed so sorely.

The new Lord Chandon took possession of his estate; there was no difficulty about it; he was the direct heir, and the old lord had always spoken of him as his successor. He took possession of Chandon Court, with its magnificent rent-roll, and its thousand treasures of art; but despite his wealth, his position, and his grandeur, Lord Adrian was the most unhappy of men. He would have given all he had, and all he ever hoped to enjoy, to find Hyacinth Vaughan; he would have poured out his wealth like water, so that he might find her. But long months had passed now since the day on which she disappeared, and no news had been heard of her yet.

CHAPTER XXIII

As Hyacinth Vaughan left the Loadstone Assize Court she drew her veil tightly over her face, and, looking neither to the right nor left, made her way through the dense crowd of people. No one noticed her; they were all too busily engaged in discussing the events of the trial. She had not the least idea whither she was going, or what she was about to do; all she remembered was that she had broken every tie that bound her to her past life, that it was all dead to her, and that she had saved Claude. How vividly, as she walked through the long street, there came back to her a remembrance of one day when she had driven over with Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan to Loadstone. What a deep gulf lay between that time and this! Then people had bowed to her as though she had been some great lady, and honor and respect had been shown to her. Now, homeless, friendless, she was a fugitive in that same town, and knew not where to lay her head.

She walked until her limbs ached, and then she stopped suddenly, for the first time asking herself where she was going – what she was to do. "For I am dead," she said to herself, with a low moan, "to all who know me – dead to my beautiful past. There is no Hyacinth Vaughan. And what is to become of the wretched girl who once bore the name? I do not know."

She must go somewhere – she could not pace the long street and the silent road all night; she must rest or she should fall, a helpless inert mass, on the ground. Suddenly she came to the railway station; a porter was shouting – "Train for London! Passengers for London, take your seats!"

She could not account for the impulse which led her to purchase a ticket and take her place in a second-class carriage for London. She had no idea what she should do when she reached her destination.

It was a rest to sit alone in the carriage – a luxury to close the tired eyes, and say to herself that she had no more to do, for Claude was saved; yet, when her eyes were closed, so many strange scenes flashed before them, that she opened them with a terrified cry. It seemed to her that she was too tired even to rest, and that the aching pains in her limbs grew worse, her eyes burned, and her head throbbed with pain.

Yet through it all – through fatigue and pain – there was the great relief that Claude was saved. Of Adrian she dared not think. She knew that this "fiery sorrow" was waiting for her when she should regain strength and calmness, when she could look it in the face; as it was, she shrunk, sick and shuddering, from it. She put it from her. She would have none of it. If she had then remembered all about Adrian Darcy, she would have gone mad and nothing would have saved her.

The train sped on. When she dared not keep her eyes closed any longer, she watched the fields and trees as the train whirled by. It was strange how mingled were her thoughts; at one time she was at Queen's Chase, sitting with Lady Vaughan in the silent rooms; at another she was with Claude in the faint rosy morning dawn, and the murdered woman was lying under the hedge; then she was with Adrian by the waterfall, and he was telling her, that he should love her for evermore; then she stood beside a green grave in a country churchyard, over which the foliage of a large tree drooped – beneath was a stone with the inscription, "Hyacinth Vaughan – aged eighteen."

From all these mingled dreams and visions she woke with a terrible scream.

"If I cannot sleep," she thought to herself, "I shall go mad."

Then everything went black before her eyes, her head fell back, and she knew no more until loud, strange voices shouted "Euston Square."

She was in the great Babylon at last. So young, so lovely, so simple in her child-like innocence; alone, unprotected, unknown in the streets of that great city: having neither home nor friends – having neither brain nor mind clear – what was to save her? She left the carriage and sat for some time on one of the seats on the platform; the same heaviness, the same strange mixture of past and present confused her.

"I must sleep," she said to herself – "I must sleep or I shall go mad." She rose and walked out of the station. What a labyrinth of streets, squares, and houses! Where could she find rest? Suddenly across the bewildered mind came one clear thought.

"I have money, and I must take lodgings – I can pay for them; and, in a room of my own, I can sleep until my brain is clear."

She walked slowly down one street, and up another, but saw no announcement of "Lodgings to Let." Then she fancied all the houses were reeling, and the sky closing in upon her. The next moment they were steady again, and she was standing, looking wildly around. Again she walked on a little farther, and then became sick, faint and giddy.

"This is something more than the want of sleep," she said to herself. "I am ill. I cannot walk – I cannot stand. Everything is reeling around me."

Suddenly her eyes fell on a brass plate on the door of a house quite near – "Dr. Chalmers."

"I will consult him," she thought. "Perhaps he can prescribe something that will take this dreadful feeling away."

She went up the little flight of steps and knocked. Then it seemed as though the door were falling on her, and she seized one of the iron railings to save herself from falling. A neat maid-servant opened the door.

"Is Dr. Chalmers at home?" asked Hyacinth; and the sound of her voice struck her as being so strange that she hardly knew it.

"Yes, miss," was the smiling reply.

"I wish to see him," said Hyacinth.

"What name shall I give?" asked the maid.

"None – I am quite a stranger."

She was shown into the surgery, and sat down on a large low lounge. A strange drowsy calm came over her. She pulled off her hat and veil, and laid back her tired head on the cushion.

Some few minutes elapsed before Dr. Chalmers entered the surgery; and when he did so, he started back in wonder that was half alarm. There on the lounge sat a girl, quite young, and lovely as a vision. The whole face, so white and rigid, was peacefully beautiful – he had never seen anything like it before. A profusion of golden hair had fallen over the cushions, and two little white hands were clasped convulsively together. Dr. Chalmers went a few steps nearer, and then his professional instinct told him that this was no sleep. The girl seemed perfectly unconscious.

He spoke to her, and she seemed to arouse partially, and sat up, gazing before her in a dazed, vacant way. Her little hands fell helplessly upon her lap, and she seemed wholly unconscious of the presence of another in the room. The good doctor looked at her in anxious alarm. He spoke to her once, twice, thrice. She did not hear him. The doctor was wondering what he should do, when she started up with a loud cry.

"He is innocent – he is quite innocent. Oh, shall I be in time to save him?"

She sprung toward the door, but never reached it, for, with a low moaning cry, she fell senseless on the floor. He raised her and laid her on the couch, and then opened the door hastily and went to the foot of the stairs.

"Mother," he called, "will you come down? I want you at once!"

A kindly-looking lady with a pleasant, comely face entered the room.

"Look here," said Dr. Robert Chalmers, pointing to the white figure. "What are we to do, mother?"

Mrs. Chalmers went up to Hyacinth; with a soft womanly touch she put back the rich, clustering hair, with keen womanly eyes she noted the loveliness of the white face.

"Has she fainted? Who is she?" she asked of her son.

"I do not know – I had no time to speak to her. She is some lady who has called for medical advice, no doubt. It seems to me more like a case of incipient brain fever than of mere fainting; by the strange way in which she cried out I should imagine her to be quite delirious."

Then they both stood for some minutes gazing in silence on that exquisite face.

"She does not look more than eighteen," said the doctor – "she is very young. What shall we do with her, mother?"

The lady laid her hand on her son's arm.

"We must do as the good Samaritan did when he found his fellow-man wounded and helpless by the wayside," was the gentle reply.

CHAPTER XXIV

It was in September that the poor distraught girl went in the madness of her grief and pain to the doctor's house, and if she had been a child of the house, she could not have been more kindly treated. It was October when she opened her eyes with a faint gleam of reason in their troubled depths. She looked around in wonder; she had not the least idea where she was. The room she was in was exquisitely neat and clean, there were some fine engravings on the walls, the furniture was of quaint design, and there were a few vases and ornaments; yet it was neither the almost royal grandeur of Queen's Chase nor the simple luxury of the hotel at Bergheim. Where was she? Why was she lying in this strange place with this feeling of weakness and weariness upon her?

Presently a kind, motherly, comely face bent over her, and a quiet, soothing voice said: "I am so glad to find you a little better, my dear."

"Have I been very ill?" she asked; and the sound of her voice was so faint, so unlike her own that it seemed as though it came from a great distance.

"Yes, you have been very ill, dear child."

"Where am I?" she asked; and the kind face smiled again.

"I will tell you all about it when you are a little better. You are quite safe and with good friends. Try to drink this and go to sleep again."

Hyacinth drank something that was warm and nice, and then looked up in the kindly face.

"Do you know," she said, "it is very strange, but I have really forgotten my own name!" She laughed a little hysterical laugh, and Mrs. Chalmers looked anxious.

"I must forbid you to speak again," she said; "my son is the doctor, and, if you disobey me, I shall summon him."

Hyacinth closed her eyes; a quiet sense of rest fell over her, and she was asleep again.

"Poor child," said Mrs. Chalmers, looking at her. "Who is she? I wonder what is her name?"

She slept so long that the kind-hearted woman began to feel uneasy. She went down and told her son.

"Sleeping, is she? Then do not wake her; sleep is the best medicine for her. Mind she has plenty of port wine and beef-tea."

"She says she has forgotten her own name," said Mrs. Chalmers, anxiously.

"She will be all right by and by, mother. I only hope the return of memory will not bring her pain."

The next time Hyacinth opened her eyes, she saw a keen, kind, shrewd face looking at her own, and a pair of dark eyes that smiled as she smiled.

"You are getting better," said Dr. Chalmers.

She raised her hand to her head, and then a slight look of alarm crossed her face. "Where is my hair?" she asked, wonderingly.

"We sacrificed your hair to save your brain," he replied; "it was all cut off."

Then he heard her give a profound sigh, and he guessed that memory was returning. He took one of the thin worn hands in his.

"I do not want you to think of painful things just now," he said. "Will you bear in mind that nothing but absolute rest will restore you to health, and compose yourself accordingly?"

Hyacinth did as she was advised: she discarded all painful thoughts from her mind, and consequently slept as she had not slept for many long weeks. She awoke one morning calm and composed, with reason and memory fully restored. She knew that she was Hyacinth Vaughan. Slowly and by degrees the terrible past returned to her.