Читать книгу: «The Shadow of a Sin», страница 7

CHAPTER XVII

Alone at last; and the ghastly fear, the terrible dread, overwhelmed Hyacinth. The paper dropped from her hands, and she fell, with a low, shuddering cry, on her knees. The news was too cruel, too dreadful, too horrible. She moaned rather than cried – "Oh, merciful Heaven, let me die! let me die!"

The fear that was upon her was far more trying than any physical anguish. Who could have recognized her crouching there with fever in her brain, with anguish in her heart, as the beautiful brilliant girl who quitted that same room a few hours since, radiant with love and hope?

Then she took up the paper, and with wild, distended eyes read this paragraph:

"Shocking Murder at Leybridge. – The whole of this district has been thrown into the greatest consternation by the discovery of a terrible murder that has been committed in the pleasant meadows near the railway station. On Thursday morning as John Dean, a laborer, was going to his work, his attention was attracted by something lying under the hedge in the field known as Lime Meadow. He found, on inspection, that it was the body of a woman who had been most cruelly murdered. He hastened to the police station and gave information to Inspector Henderson. The inspector went at once to the spot with two of his men. The woman had been dead, it was supposed, over two hours; there were signs of a violent struggle; and she had evidently tried hard to defend herself. At first no clew could be discovered as to her identity or that of her murderer; but it was seen that she held a handkerchief tightly clinched in her hands. With some difficulty it was taken away, and the name 'Claude Lennox' was found upon it. Further search brought to light a folded paper, on which the address of Mr. Lennox was written in full. The woman's clothes were marked, 'Anna Barratt.' She was quite a stranger to the neighborhood, and no one remembers to have seen her before. The police immediately began to make inquiries, the result of which was the apprehension of Claude Lennox on the charge of wilful murder. He has been brought before the magistrates at Ashton, and the evidence given is very strong against him. Mr. Lennox is the nephew of Colonel Lennox, of Ashton Park; and it appears that, much to the colonel's anger and annoyance, the young gentleman was absent all Wednesday night. A porter at Leybridge Station swears to having seen Mr. Lennox in company with some woman – whose features he did not see – quite early on Thursday morning. He noticed him particularly, because Mr. Lennox seemed anxious that his companion should escape all observation. He saw them walking toward the meadow, but not having seen the woman's face, could not identify her. Thomas Hannan, a signalman, also swore to the same facts. Robert Cliffe, a day-laborer, deposed that, as he was going to work early on Thursday morning, he saw the accused walking alone and hurriedly toward the park. He thought the gentleman looked agitated. The prisoner admitted at once that the handkerchief and folded paper containing the address were his, but refused to explain how they came into the possession of the deceased. He swore that he was not guilty of the murder, and that the woman was a stranger to him. When asked to state where he had been during the night, he declined. When asked to prove an alibi– if he could bring any witnesses to prove where he had been – he replied abruptly that it was impossible – he could not do it. The magistrates have committed him for trial at the Loadstone assizes, and unless he can give some satisfactory information as to where he passed the night of Wednesday, the weight of circumstantial evidence will tell strongly against him. The refusal of Mr. Lennox to make any exculpatory statement has created a great sensation in the neighborhood. The assizes commences on the twenty-third of July."

The paper fell from Hyacinth's trembling hands, and a terrible moan came from her lips. Clear as the daylight the incidents of that morning rose before her in their full horror.

Whatever happened, cost what it would, she must go – she must clear Claude. No one in the wide world knew that he was innocent, no one could clear him but herself. Dear Heaven, how plainly the whole scene rose before her! The dewy meadows lying so still and calm in the half light – the woman's pale face and bruised hand! How well she remembered wrapping Claude's handkerchief round it. How kind and compassionate Claude had been to her!

"He will kill me some day," the woman had said, speaking of her husband – Hyacinth could hear the voice even now. That was nearly a month ago, and kind, generous, reckless Claude had been lying in prison ever since, on a charge of wilful murder. He would not incriminate her; he might have rebutted the whole charge by telling the story of that night and calling her as a witness, but he would not do so. She had not thought there was such generosity, such chivalry in him. It was a noble thing of him to refuse to speak, but he must not lose his life for her.

The more she weighed the evidence, the more startled she was to find how strongly circumstances were against Claude. She must clear him. If he would not speak, she must.

What would it cost her? Ah, Heaven, more than her life – her love! If she went into court to tell the truth, she could never hope to see Adrian again. He who had valued purity, delicacy, refinement and truth so highly – what would he say when he found that she had not only carried on a clandestine correspondence, deceived those with whom she lived, and stolen out to meet her lover, but had eloped with him – had left home, and travelled as far as Leybridge with him, and walked through the fields with him, and then, repenting, had gone back? What would he say when he knew all? She remembered how sternly he had spoken of Lady Wallace – what would he say of her? She was more unfortunate, more disgraced. Her name henceforward would be associated with a murder case. She, a Vaughan, one of the race, as Lady Vaughan had told her that morning, that had never experienced the shadow of disgrace or shame – she who had been, as they believed, so carefully kept from the world, so shielded from all its snares – she to bow those gray heads with sorrow, and slay her love with unmerited shame?

She was as one fastened to a stake; turn which way she would, her torture increased. Could she take advantage of Claude's honorable silence and saving herself, like a coward, let him die? Ah, no, she could not. "Loyal, even unto death," was the motto of her race; she could not do that. If she did – though her secret would be safe, her miserable weakness never be known – she would hate herself, loathe her life, so shamefully laden with secrecy and sin.

The temptation to take advantage of Claude's chivalrous silence lasted only a few moments. She would not have purchased life and love at such a price. She must save him.

What would it cost her? Her love – ah, yes, her love! She would never see Adrian again; he would never speak to one so disgraced. For she did not hide from herself the extent of that disgrace; she who had been reared as a lily in the seclusion of home would become, for a few days at least, the subject of scandal; the name of Hyacinth Vaughan would be lightly spoken by light lips; men would sneer at her, women turn away when her name was mentioned.

"Oh, how bitterly I am punished!" she cried. "What have I done that I must suffer so?"

She knew she must go into court when Claude was tried, and tell her shameful story before the hard-headed men of the world. She knew that her name and what she had to tell would be commented upon by every newspaper in England. After that, there could be no returning home, no love, no marriage, no safe rest in a haven of peace. It would be all at an end. She might lie down and die afterward; the world would all be closed to her.

Only a few hours ago she had lain on that little white bed scarcely able to bear the weight of her own happiness. How long was it since Adrian had asked her to be his wife? The misery, the pain, the anguish of a hundred years seemed to have passed over her head since then.

"Oh, if I had but refused to go when Claude asked me!" she cried in a voice of anguish. "If I had only been true to what I knew was right! I am bitterly punished."

Not more bitterly than he was. The thought seemed to strike her suddenly. He had been in prison for over three weeks; he had been charged with the most terrible crime – he whose only fault was that of loving her too well. She must save him.

Then with a sudden thrill of fear she remembered how near the assizes were – they were to be held on the twenty-third and this was the twentieth. She would have only just time to reach Loadstone. She must say good-by to those who loved her, and had watched over her; she must leave all her love, her hope, her happiness behind, and go forth to save him who was willing to give even his life to save her. She must go. She must find out how she could reach England. The great brooding anguish of despair seemed to have fallen over her; her heart ached until it could ache no more; she wept until she seemed to have no more tears; she appeared to grow insensible to the pain that was wearing her young life away.

"I must go to-morrow night," she said to herself. "I shall see Adrian just once again, and then I must bid him farewell forever. Oh, my love, my love!"

She flung herself upon the floor, and wept until the morning dawned and the summer sun peeped into the room.

CHAPTER XVIII

She was roused from her heavy trance of exhaustion and grief by a knock at her door. It was one of the housemaids bearing in her hand a bouquet of beautiful flowers – "From Mr. Darcy." The girl looked in wonder at her young lady's pale face and heavy eyes.

"You do not seem well this morning, miss," she said.

"I have not slept," returned Hyacinth.

But the few words put her on her guard. She bathed her face, rearranged her hair, and changed her dress, though the weight of misery lay like a weight of lead upon her. Then Lady Vaughan, thinking that she was tired from the emotion and shock of the previous evening, sent word that Miss Vaughan had better remain in her own room for a few hours. The hapless girl was thankful for the respite.

She looked so terribly ill, so ghastly pale, that, when Pincott brought her breakfast, she started in alarm.

"There is nothing the matter," said Hyacinth, "but that I did not sleep well." Pincott went away only half satisfied.

Hyacinth managed to obtain a railway guide. A train would leave Bergheim at ten that night, and reach Ostend on the following morning before the boat started. She would have time to secure a passage and cross. She could take the mail train for Dover, and reach Loadstone so as to be in time for the trial.

At ten that night she must go. She had run away from home once before. Then she had been blinded, tempted and persuaded – then she had believed herself going straight into the fairyland of love and happiness; but now it was all changed. She was running away once more; but this time she was leaving all the hope, all the happiness of her life behind her.

It was well for her that the dull stupor of exhaustion fell over her, or the pain she was suffering must have killed her. She did not know how the time passed. It was like one long, cruel dream of anguish, until the summons came for luncheon. Then she went down stairs. Adrian was not there – that was some consolation. She looked quickly around the room.

"How could I look on his face and live, knowing that I shall see it no more?" she said to herself.

It was like a horrible travesty – the movements of the servants, the changing of the dishes, Lady Vaughan's anxiety about the cold chicken, Sir Arthur's complaint about the wine, while her heart was breaking, and Claude lay in the prison from which she must free him.

Lady Vaughan was very kind to her. She expressed great concern at seeing her look so ill – tried to induce her to eat some grapes – told her that Adrian was coming to dinner, and would bring some friends with him; then said a few words about Claude, pitied his mother, yet blamed her for not bringing him up better, and the ordeal was over.

Hyacinth went away from the dining-room with a faint, low moan.

"How shall I bear it?" she said – "how shall I live through it?"

It was two o'clock then. How were the long hours to be passed? How was she to bear the torture of her own thoughts? Whither could she go for refuge? Suddenly it occurred to her that she had no money. How was she to travel in England without some?

She did not give herself time for thought; if she had, her courage would have failed her. She went to Sir Arthur's room and tapped at the door. The tremulous, feeble voice bade her enter. Sir Arthur was writing some letters. She went up to him.

"Grandpa," she said, "I have no money – and I want some. Will you give me a little, please?"

He looked at her in surprise – she had never made such a request to him before.

"Money, child," he repeated – "of course you shall have some. You want to buy some trinkets – something for Adrian. What shall I give you – ten – twenty pounds?"

"Twenty, if you please."

He drew a small cash-box near to him, and counted twenty bright sovereigns into her hand.

"Five more, for luck!" he said with a smile. "Always come to me when you want money, Hyacinth."

She kissed him – he was so kind, and she had to leave him so soon.

"Good girl," he said. "You will be very happy, Hyacinth. Adrian Darcy is the noblest man in the wide world."

She turned aside with a groan. Alas! Adrian Darcy was to be nothing to her – in this terrible future that was coming he would have no place. Then she went to her own room, and sat there mute and still. Pincott came to dress her, and the girl went through her toilet mechanically. She never remembered what dress she wore. The maid asked something about it, and Hyacinth looked up with a vague, dreamy expression.

"It does not matter – anything will do," she said, almost wondering that people could think of such trifles when life and death were in the balance.

"There has been a lover's quarrel," thought Pincott, "and my young lady does not care how she looks."

When the bell rang Hyacinth went down. How she suffered when she looked in her lover's face and listened to his voice, knowing it was for the last time! She did not even hear the name of his friends, when they were introduced to her. She sat wondering whether any one living had ever gone through such torture before – wondering why it did not kill her; and then it seemed to her but two or three minutes before dinner was over. Mr. and Mrs. Vernon – two of the visitors – suggested that they should go out into the grounds; and Adrian, delighted at the chance of a tête-à-tête with Hyacinth, gladly consented. In after years she liked to recall this last interview.

"Let us walk to the waterfall," said Adrian. "I shall have a photograph taken of it, Cynthy, because it reminds me so much of you."

She said to herself he would not when he knew all – that he would hate it, and would not think of the place. They sat down in the old favorite resort. Suddenly she turned to him, and clasped his hand with one of hers.

"Adrian," she asked, "do you love me very much?"

The face bent over her afforded answer sufficient.

"Love you?" he replied. "I do not think, Hyacinth, that I could love you more; to me it does not seem possible."

"If you were to lose me, then, it would be a great sorrow?"

"Lose you!" he cried. "Why, Cynthy, I would rather ten thousand times over lose my own life."

She liked to remember afterward how he drew her head upon his breast – how he caressed her and murmured sweet words of tenderness to her – how he told her of his love in such ardent words that the fervor of them lasted with her until she died. It was for the last time. A great solemn calm of despair fell over her. To-morrow she would be far away; his arm would never enfold her, his eyes never linger on her, his lips never touch her more. It was for the last time, and she loved him better than her life; but for her sin and folly, she would now have been the happiest girl in the wide world.

"My darling," he murmured, "as though weak words could tell how dear you are to me."

He kissed her trembling lips and then she broke from him with a great cry. She could bear no more. She fled through the pine grove, crying to herself with bitter tears: "If I could but die! Oh, Heaven, be merciful to me, and let me die!"

CHAPTER XIX

"Good-night, Hyacinth," Lady Vaughan said, when, half an hour afterward, the girl went to her with a white face and cold rigid lips; "good-night. I hope to see you something like yourself to-morrow – you do not seem well."

And for the last time, Hyacinth Vaughan kissed the fair, stately old face. "To-morrow – ah, where would she be to-morrow?"

"You have been very kind to me," she murmured, "and I am not ungrateful."

Afterward Lady Vaughan understood why the girl lingered near her, why she kissed the withered, wrinkled hands with such passionate tenderness, why her lips opened as if she would fain speak, and then closed mutely. She thought of Hyacinth's strange manner for several minutes after the young girl had quitted the room.

"That terrible news shocked her. She is very sensitive and very tender-hearted – the Vaughans are all the same. I am heartily glad she is to marry Adrian: he is gentle enough to understand and firm enough to manage her. I shall have no more anxiety about the child."

Hyacinth had looked her last on them, and had spoken to them for the last time. She stood in her room now waiting until there should be a chance of leaving the hotel unnoticed, then it suddenly struck her how great would be the consternation on the morrow, when she was missed. What would Adrian do or say – he who loved her so dearly? She went to her little desk and wrote a note to him. She addressed it and left it on the toilet table of her room.

Then she went quietly down-stairs. No one was about. She opened the great hall-door and went out. Some few people still lingered in the grounds; she was not noticed. She walked down the long carriage-drive, and then stood in the street of the little town, alone. She found her way to the station. A great, despairing cry was rising from her heart to her lips, but she stifled it, a faint strange sensation, as though life were leaving her, came over her. She nerved herself.

"I must live until he is free," she said with stern determination – "then death will be welcome!"

They were no idle words that she spoke; all that life held brightest, dearest, and best, was past for her. Her only hope was that she might reach Loadstone in time to save Claude. She knew how soon she would be missed, and how easily she might be tracked. Suppose that they sent or went to her room and found it empty, and then made inquiries and learned that she had taken a ticket for Ostend? They could not overtake the train, but they could telegraph to Ostend and stop her. In that case she would be too late to save Claude. The station was full of people. She saw a lad among them – he seemed to be about fifteen – and she went up to him.

"Are you going to Ostend?" she asked.

He doffed his hat and bowed.

"I am going by this train," he replied. "Can I be of any service to the Fraulein?"

"I am always nervous in a crowd," she said – "will you buy my ticket?"

He took the money. He could not see her face, for it was veiled, but he could distinguish its white, rigid mystery, and, full of wonder, he complied with her request. In a short time he returned with the ticket.

"Can I do anything else for you, Fraulein?" he asked.

"No," she replied, thanking him; and all the way to Ostend, the lad mused over the half-hidden beauty of that face, and the dreary tones of the sad young voice.

"There is some mystery," he said; and afterward, when he had read the papers, he knew what the mystery was.

She was safely seated in the furthest corner of a second-class carriage at last, her heart beating so that each throb seemed to send a thrill of fiery pain through her. Would she be in time? The train was an express, and was considered an unusually fast one, but it seemed slow to her – so slow. Her heart beat fast and her pulse throbbed quickly. Her face burned as with a flaming fire.

"What shall I do," she thought, with a terrified face, "if I fall ill, and cannot save him? Suppose – my brain is on fire now – suppose it becomes worse, and when the train stops I have no sense left to speak? They will try him – they will sentence him to death before I arrive. He will perhaps be dead when I am able to speak. What shall I do?" And the dread so overpowered her that she cried aloud in her anguish.

"Are you ill?" asked a fellow-traveller, kindly.

"No, I was dreaming," she replied, hurriedly.

She pressed her hand on her hot brow – she tried to still the quick nervous beating of her heart; but all was in vain. The night was hot; the atmosphere seemed overcharged with electricity; there was not a breath of air stirring; the noisy clang of the wheels seemed to pierce her brain; a sound as of rushing torrents filled her ears. She tried to calm herself – to steady those quivering nerves – to remember what she would have to say in a short time, when she would be standing before a tribunal of justice to save Claude's life. She tried and failed in the effort; she broke down and laughed a strange, unnatural laugh. The noise of the train drowned it, the monotonous clangor of the wheels dulled all other sounds. The next minute the overstrained nerves – the over-taxed brain – had given away, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The train drew near to Ostend, and those who loved her had not discovered Hyacinth's flight. Lady Vaughan wondered she did not come down as usual to breakfast. Pincott went to see if she was up. She tapped at the door; there was no answer, and the maid went to tell her lady. "I am almost glad," said Lady Vaughan; "she looked very ill last night. She is sleeping; do not awaken her, Pincott."

But when noon came, and Hyacinth had not rung, Pincott went to her room again. She opened the door this time and walked in. The room was empty, the bed had not been slept in, and there was no trace of Miss Vaughan. The woman turned quite white and sunk, half-fainting, on a chair. She was frightened. Presently, recovering herself a little, she looked round. "How foolish I am!" she thought. "Miss Vaughan must have gone down unknown to me and her room has been arranged." Still she trembled with a strange presentiment of dread. Suddenly her eyes fell upon the note addressed to Mr. Darcy – it was sealed. "There can be no harm in my giving him this," she said.

She went down-stairs and made inquiries about Miss Vaughan. No one had seen her – she could hear nothing of her. Then Pincott went to her lady. It so happened that Mr. Darcy was chatting with her.

"What do you say?" interrupted Lady Vaughan, sharply. "You cannot find Miss Vaughan? Pray use your common sense, Pincott; do not say such absurd things."

But Adrian had caught sight of the note in the maid's hand. "What is this?" he asked.

"I found it in Miss Vaughan's room, sir," said Pincott; "it is addressed to you."

He took it from her and opened it. As he read a deadly pallor came over his face.

"Great Heaven!" he cried. "What can this mean?"

Lady Vaughan asked what had happened. He passed the note to her and she read:

"I have looked at you and have spoken to you for the last time, Adrian. I am going away and I shall never see any of you again. You will try to comfort Lady Vaughan. Pray Heaven my sin and my disgrace may not kill her.

"You will find out from the newspapers what I have gone to do; and oh, my lost dear love, when you read this, be merciful to me! I was so young, and I longed so for some of the brightness of life. I never loved him; and, as you will see, I repented – ah, me, so sorely! – before half the journey was accomplished. I have never loved any one but you – and that I have lost you is more bitter than death.

"Many people have died from less suffering than that which I am undergoing now. Oh, Adrian, I do not think I deserved this terrible punishment! I did not mean to do anything wrong. I do not ask you to forgive me! I know you never can. You will fling off all thought of me as of one unworthy. I told you I was unworthy, but I – oh, Adrian – I shall love you till I die! All my thoughts will be of you; and I pray to Heaven that I may die when I have achieved what I am going to do. Living, you must loathe me; dead, you will pity me.

"Adrian, I have written your name here. I have wept hot, bitter tears over it; I have kissed it; and now I must part from you, my heart's own love! Farewell for ever and ever!

"Hyacinth."

"What does it all mean?" he cried, great drops of anguish gathering on his brow. "Where is the child? What has she done?"

"I do not know," said Lady Vaughan – "I cannot understand it, Adrian. She has done nothing. What can she have done? All her life has been passed with me."

"I shall see in the newspapers what she has done, she says. What can she mean?"

A sudden light seemed to break in upon him: he turned to Lady Vaughan. "Rely upon it," he said, "it is some fancy of hers about that murder. I shall not lose a moment. I shall go in search of her."