The Shadow of a Sin Part 21

CHAPTER XXIII.

As Hyacinth Vaughan left the Loadstone a.s.size 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 ma.s.s, on the ground. Suddenly she came to the railway station; a porter was shouting--"Train for London! Pa.s.sengers 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-cla.s.s 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 bra.s.s 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, cl.u.s.tering 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."