The Shadow of a Sin Part 9

Then Lady Vaughan bade her go to rest early, for she must be up by sunrise. She went, tears of grat.i.tude filling her eyes. She was at home, and so safe!

She thought very kindly of Claude. She was sorry for his discomfiture, and for the pain he suffered; but a sudden sense of womanly dignity had come over her.

"He should not have persuaded me," she said to herself over and over again. "He knows the world better than I do; he is older than I am. He should have been the one to teach me, and not to lead me astray."

Still she felt kindly toward him, and she knew that, as time went on, and the gloom of her home enclosed her again, she should miss him. She was too grateful for her escape, however, too remorseful for what she had done, to feel any great grief at losing him now.

On the Thursday morning, when great events of which she knew nothing were pa.s.sing around her, Hyacinth rose early, and the bustle of preparation began. They did not go to Oakton station. Sir Arthur had his own particular way of doing every thing, and he chose to post to London.

He did not quite approve of railway travelling--it was levelling--all cla.s.ses were mixed up too much for his taste. So they drove in the grand old family carriage to London, whence they travelled instate to Dover, thence to Bergheim.

As far as it was possible to make travelling dull, this journey was rendered dull. Sir Arthur and Lady Vaughan seemed to have only one dread, and that was of seeing and being seen. The blinds of the carriage windows were all drawn. "They had not come abroad for scenery, but for change of air," her ladyship observed several times each day. When it was necessary to stay at a hotel, they had a separate suite of rooms.

There was no _table d'hote_, no mixing with other travellers; they were completely exclusive.

As they drew near Bergheim, Hyacinth's beautiful face grew calm and serene. She even wondered what he would be like, this Adrian Darcy. He was a scholar and a gentleman--but what else? Would he despise her as a child, or admire her as a woman? Would he fall in love with her, or would he remain profoundly indifferent to her charms? She was startled from her reverie by Lady Vaughan's voice.

"We will drive straight to the hotel," she said; "Mr. Darcy has taken rooms for us there."

"Shall we see him to-night?" asked Sir Arthur.

"No, I should imagine not. Adrian is always considerate. He will know we are tired, and consequently not in the best of moods for visitors," she replied. "He will be with us to-morrow morning."

And, strange to say, Hyacinth Vaughan, who had once put from her even the thought of Adrian Darcy, felt some slight disappointment that she was not to see him until the morrow.

CHAPTER X.

"This is something like life," thought Hyacinth Vaughan, as the summer sun came streaming into her room.

It was yet early in the morning, but there was a sound of music from the gardens. She drew aside the blinds, and saw a lake in all its beauty, the most cheerful, the brightest scene upon which she had ever gazed.

The Hotel du Roi is by far the most aristocratic resort in Bergheim.

"Kings, queens, and emperors" have lodged there; some of the leading men and the fairest women in Europe have at times made their home there. The hotel has a certain aristocratic character of its own. Second-rate people never go there; its magnificence is of too quiet and dignified a kind. The gorgeous suites of rooms are always inhabited by some of the leading Continental families. Bergheim itself is a sleepy little town.

The lake is very beautiful; tall mountains slope down to the edge; the water is deep, clear, and calm; green trees fringe the banks; water-lilies sleep on its tranquil breast. The Lake of Bergheim has figured in poetry, in song, and in pictures.

Hyacinth gazed at it with keen delight. Suddenly it struck her that the house was not Lady Vaughan's, consequently not under her ladyship's control, and that she could go out into those fairylike looking grounds if she wished.

She took her hat and a black lace shawl and went down-stairs. She was soon rea.s.sured. She was doing nothing unusual. One or two ladies were already in the gardens, and in one of the broad open paths she saw an English nursemaid with some little children around her. Hyacinth walked on with a light, joyous heart. She never remembered to have seen the world so fair; she had never seen sunshine so bright, or flowers so fair; nor had she ever heard such musical songs from the birds.

Over the girl's whole soul, as she stood, there came a rapturous sense of security and grat.i.tude. She was safe; the folly, amounting almost to sin, of her girlhood, was already fading into the obscurity of a dark, a miserable dream. She was safe under heaven's blessed sunlight, life growing fairer and more beautiful every hour. She was grateful for her escape.

Then it struck her that she heard the sound of falling water, and she went down a long, vine-covered path--surely the loveliest picture in the world. The vines had been trained so as to form a perfect arch; the grapes hung in rich, ripe bunches; flowers grew underfoot; and at the end of the grove was a high white rock from which water fell with a rippling, rushing, musical sound, into a small clear pool. Hyacinth looked at the scene in wonder. She had never seen anything so pretty in her life. She went up to the water; it was cool, so clear, so fresh and sparkling. She threw off her hat and plunged her hands into it. She laughed aloud as the water ran foaming over them. She little dreamed what a lovely picture she herself made standing under the shade of the vines, her fair, brilliant face almost dazzling in the dim light, her fair hair shining like gold. The morning breeze had brought the most dainty and exquisite bloom to her face, her eyes were as bright as stars, her lips like newly-blown roses, and, as she stood with the foam rushing over her little white hands, the world might have searched in vain for one more lovely.

Then she thought how refreshing a draught of that sparkling water would be. She gathered a large vine-leaf and filled it. She had just raised it to her lips when a rich, deep, musical voice said:

"Do not drink that water; it is not considered good."

The vine-leaf fell from her hands, her face flushed crimson. She had thought that she was quite alone. She looked around, but could see no one.

"I beg pardon if I have alarmed you," said the same voice, "but the water of the fall is not considered good; it is supposed to come from the lake."

Then she looked in the direction whence the voice proceeded--a gentleman was reclining on a rock by the waterfall. He had been reading, for an open book lay by his side; but Hyacinth strongly suspected, from the quiet smile on his lips and in his luminous eyes, that he had been watching her.

"I am afraid I startled you," he continued; "but the water is not so clear as it looks."

"Thank you," she returned, gently.

He took up his book again, and she turned to leave the grove. But in those few moments, the world had all changed for her. She walked out of the vine grove, and sat down by the edge of the lake, trying to live every second of those few minutes over again.

What was that face like? Dark, beautiful, n.o.ble--the face of a king, with royal brows, and firm, grave, yet sweet lips--a face that in her girlish dreams she would have given to the heroes she loved--to King Arthur--to the Chevalier Bayard--to Richard the Lion Heart--the face of a man born to command, born to rule.

She had looked at it for perhaps only two minutes, but she could have sketched it accurately from memory. The dark hair was thrown back in ma.s.ses--not in effeminate curls, but in the same waving lines that may be seen on the heads of famous Grecian statues; the forehead was white, broad, well-developed, rounded at the temples, full of ideality, of genius, of poetry, of thought; the brows were dark and straight as those of a Greek G.o.d; the eyes luminous and bright--she could not tell what they were like--they had dazzled her. The dark mustache did not hide a beautiful mouth that had nothing effeminate in it.

It was a face that filled her mind with thoughts of beauty. She mused over it. There was n.o.bility, power, genius, loyalty, truth, in every feature. The voice had filled her ears with music.

"I wish," she thought, "he had given me some other command; I should like to obey him; I would do anything he told me; he has the face and the voice of a king. I have read of G.o.d-like men; now I have seen one.

Shall I ever see him again? I can imagine that face flashing with indignation, eloquent with pleading, royal in command, softened in tenderness, eloquent in speech."

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a bell. "That must be for breakfast," she thought, and she hurried back to the house. She did not see the stranger follow her, with a smile still on his face.

Lady Vaughan was unusually gracious.

"You have been out in the gardens, my dear," she said to the young girl, who evidently expected a reproof. "That is right. You are looking very well this morning."

She spoke coldly; but in her heart she marvelled at the girl's wonderful beauty. She had seen nothing so fair, so dainty, so brilliant as the bloom that overspread her lovely face. "I have had a note from Mr.

Darcy," continued her ladyship, "and he will be with us before noon."

During breakfast Lady Vaughan was more gracious than ever Hyacinth remembered to have seen her. When it was over, she said to the girl:

"I should like you to look your best, Cynthy, when Mr. Darcy comes. Make a fresh toilet, and then amuse yourself as you like until I send for you."

Over the glowing dream of the morning the name of Adrian Darcy seemed to fall like the breath of a cold east wind over flowers. She had for the time almost forgotten him, and at the sound of his name a whole host of disagreeable memories arose.

"Never mind," she said to herself; "they cannot force me to marry him against my will. I can tell him I do not like him." She went away, with smiles on her lips and music in her heart, to change her dress, as Lady Vaughan had desired. A surprise awaited her in her room; Pincott, Lady Vaughan's maid, was standing before a large trunk.

"These are dresses, Miss Vaughan," she said, "that my lady has ordered from Paris for you. She did not tell you, because she wished to keep it as a surprise for you."

The girl's face flushed crimson.

"For me!" she cried. "How kind of her! Oh, Pincott, how beautiful they are!"

The maid unfolded the glistening treasures of silk, lace, and velvet, displaying them to Hyacinth's enraptured eyes.

"My lady ordered me to attend to your toilet, this morning, Miss Vaughan," continued Pincott, who knew perfectly well why her mistress desired the young girl to look her best. "I have brought these blush roses; no ornaments look so well as natural flowers."

From the collection of dresses one of embroidered Indian muslin was selected. It was daintily trimmed with pale pink ribbon and white lace, and was exquisitely made. The girlish graceful figure, with its beautiful curves and symmetrical lines, was shown to perfection; the sleeves fell back, showing a fair, rounded arm. Pincott had great natural taste; she dressed the fair hair after some simple girlish fashion, and fastened a blush rose in it; she fastened another in the high bodice of the white dress.