The Shadow of a Sin Part 7

Paler and paler grew the beautiful young face; and then Hyacinth suddenly noticed that one of the woman's hands lay almost useless on the gra.s.s. She raised it gently and saw that it was terribly wounded and bruised. Her heart ached at the sight.

"Does it pain you much?" she inquired.

The woman laughed--a laugh more terrible by far than any words could have been.

"I am used to pain," she said. "I put that hand on my husband's shoulder last night to beg him to stay at home and not to drink any more. He took a thick-knotted stick and beat it; and yet, poor hand, it was not harming him." Hyacinth shuddered. The woman went on, "We had a terrible quarrel last night. He vowed that he would come back in the morning and murder me."

"Then why not go away? Why not seek a safe refuge?"

She laughed again--the terrible, dreary laugh. "He would find me; he will kill me some day. I know it; but I do not care. I should not have run away from him."

"Why not go home again?" asked Hyacinth.

"Ah, no--there is no returning--no undoing--no going back."

Hyacinth raised the poor bruised hand.

"I am afraid it is broken," she said gently. "Let me bind it for you."

She took out her handkerchief; it was a gossamer trifle--fine cambric and lace--quite useless for the purpose required. She turned to Claude and asked for his. The request was a small one, but the whole afterpart of her life was affected by it. She did not notice that Claude's handkerchief was marked with his name in full--"Claude Lennox." She bound carefully the wounded hand.

"Now," she said, "be advised by us; go away--don't let your husband find you."

"Go to London," cried Claude eagerly; "there is always work to be done and money to be earned there. See--I will give you my address. You can write to me; and I will ask my aunt or my mother to give you employment."

He tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote on it; "Claude Lennox, 200 Belgrave Square, London."

He looked very handsome, very generous and n.o.ble, as he gave the folded note to the woman, with two sovereigns inside it.

"Remember," he said, "that I promise my mother will find you some work if you will apply to us."

She thanked him, but no ray of hope came to her poor face. She did not seem to think it strange that they were there--that it was unusual at that early hour to see such as they were out in the fields.

"Heaven bless you!" she said gratefully. "A dying woman's blessing will not hurt you."

"You will not die," said Claude cheerily; "you will be all right in time. Do you belong to this part?"

"No," she replied; "we are quite strangers here. I do not even know the name of the place. We were going to walk to Liverpool; my husband thought he should get better wages there."

"Take my advice," said Claude earnestly--"leave him; let him go his own road. Travel to London, and get a decent living for yourself there."

"I will think of it," she said wearily; and then a vague unconsciousness began to steal over her face.

"You are tired," said Hyacinth gently; "lie down and sleep again.

Good-by." The birds were singing gayly when they turned to leave her.

"Stay," said Claude; "what is your name?"

"Anna Barratt," she replied; and only Heaven knows whether those were the last words she spoke.

CHAPTER VIII.

The woman laid her weary head down again as one who would fain rest, and they walked away from her.

"We have done a good deed," said Claude thoughtfully; "saved that poor woman from being murdered, perhaps. I hope she will do what I advised--start for London. If my mother should take a fancy to her, she could easily put her in the way of getting her living."

To his surprise, Hyacinth suddenly took her hand from his, and broke out into a wild fit of weeping.

"My darling, what is it? Cynthy, what is the matter?"

She sat down upon a large moss-covered stone and wept as though her heart would break. The sight of those raining tears, the sound of those deep-drawn sobs and pa.s.sionate cries filled him with grief and dismay.

He knelt down by the girl's side, and tried to draw her hands from her face.

"Cynthy, you make me so wretched! Tell me what is wrong--I cannot bear to see you so."

Then the violence of her weeping abated. She looked at him. "Claude,"

she said, "I am so sorry I left home--it is all so wicked and so wrong.

I must go back again."

He started from her. "Do you mean that you are sorry you have come with me, Hyacinth?"

"Yes, very sorry," she sobbed. "I must go back. I did not think of consequences. I can see them so plainly now. It is wicked to run away from home. That poor woman did it, and see what has come to her. Claude, I believe that Providence has placed that woman across my path, and that the words she has spoken are a warning message."

"That is all nonsense, Cynthy; there can be no comparison between the two cases. I am not a ruffian like that woman's husband."

"No you are not; but the step was wicked, Claude. I understand all now.

Be kind to me, and let me go back home."

"Of course," said Claude sullenly, "I cannot run away with you against your will. If you insist upon it, I will do as you ask; but it is making a terrible simpleton of me."

"You will forgive me," she returned. "You will say afterward that I acted rightly. I shall be miserable, Claude--I shall never be happy again--if I do not return home."

"If you persist in this, we shall be parted forever," he said angrily.

"It will be best," she replied. "Do not be angry with me, Claude. I do not think--I--I love you enough to marry you and live with you always. I have blinded myself with romance and nonsense. I do not love you--not even so much as that poor woman loves her husband. Oh, Claude, let me return home."

She looked up at him, her face wet with tears, and an agony of entreaty in her eyes.

"You might have found this out before, Hyacinth. You have done me a great wrong--you have trifled with me. If you had said before that you did not love me, I should never have proposed this scheme."

"I did not know," she said, humbly. "I am very sorry if I have wronged you. I did not mean to pain you. It is just as though I had woke up suddenly from an ugly dream. Oh, for my dear mother's sake, take me home!"

He looked down at her, for some few minutes in silence, vanity and generosity doing hard battle together. The sight of her beautiful, tearful face touched, yet angered him, he did not like to see it clouded by sorrow; yet he could not bear to think that he must lose its loveliness, and never call it his own.

"Do you not love me, Hyacinth?" he asked sadly.