Love Works Wonders: A Novel
by Charlotte M. Brame · English · Gutenberg #33989 · 445,470 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Love Works Wonders: A Novel
Author: Charlotte M. Brame
Release date: September 24, 2010 [eBook #33989]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33989
Credits: E-text prepared by Emmy, Darleen Dove, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries (http://www.archive.org/details/americana)
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LOVE WORKS WONDERS.
A Novel.
by
BERTHA M. CLAY,
Author of
"Thrown on the World," Etc.
"O you, that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the Fields of Bliss above
He sits with flowerets fetter'd round;
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For even an hour, a minute's flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light."
MOORE.
New York:
G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers,
Street & Smith, New York Weekly.
MDCCCLXXVIII.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877,
By Street & Smith,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
Francis S. Street,} _Proprietors and Publishers_
Francis S. Smith, }
Of the
New York Weekly,
The Leading Story and Sketch Paper of the Age.
TO
THE READERS OF THE
NEW YORK WEEKLY,
WHO FOR NEARLY TWENTY YEARS, HAVE
STOOD FAITHFULLY BY US, CHEERING
US IN OUR LABORS,
AND BIDDING US
GOD-SPEED;
TO WHOM OUR
PET JOURNAL HAS BECOME
A HOUSEHOLD WORD, AND WITHOUT
WHOSE AID WE COULD HAVE ACCOMPLISHED
NOTHING, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY
DEDICATED
BY THE PUBLISHERS,
STREET & SMITH.
CONTENTS:
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I.--A GIRL WITH A CHARACTER 9
II.--"DARRELL COURT IS A PRISON TO ME!" 16
III.--"YOUR GOOD SOCIETY IS ALL DECEIT" 28
IV.--"YOU ARE GOING TO SPOIL MY LIFE" 35
V.--PAULINE'S GOOD POINTS 42
VI.--THE PROGRESS MADE BY THE PUPIL 47
VII.--CAPTAIN LANGTON 54
VIII.--THE INTRODUCTION 61
IX.--THE BROKEN LILY 67
X.--PAULINE STILL INCORRIGIBLE 74
XI.--HOW WILL IT END? 81
XII.--ELINOR ROCHEFORD 87
XIII.--SIR OSWALD THINKS OF MARRIAGE 94
XIV.--PAULINE'S LOVE FOR DARRELL COURT 103
XV.--BREACH BETWEEN UNCLE AND NIECE 108
XVI.--THE QUEEN OF THE BALL 115
XVII.--PAULINE'S BRIGHT FANCIES 122
XVIII.--REJECTED 128
XIX.--PAULINE THREATENS VENGEANCE 142
XX.--CAPTAIN LANGTON DESPERATE 148
XXI.--MYSTERIOUS ROBBERY 156
XXII.--FULFILLING THE CONTRACT 163
XXIII.--NO COMPROMISE WITH PAULINE 169
XXIV.--A RICH GIFT DECLINED 176
XXV.--A TRUE DARRELL 183
XXVI.--A PUZZLING QUESTION 189
XXVII.--SIR OSWALD'S DOUBTS 196
XXVIII.--READING OF THE WILL 203
XXIX.--WAITING FOR REVENGE 209
XXX.--WILL FATE AID PAULINE? 217
XXXI.--FATE FAVORS PAULINE 225
XXXII.--CAPTAIN LANGTON ACCEPTED 231
XXXIII.--"I HAVE HAD MY REVENGE!" 239
XXXIV.--THE STRANGER ON THE SANDS 247
XXXV.--THE STORY OF ELAINE 253
XXXVI.--REDEEMED BY LOVE 260
XXXVII.--PRIDE BROUGHT LOW 267
XXXVIII.--PAULINE AND LADY DARRELL 287
XXXIX.--FACE TO FACE 294
XL.--DYING IN SIN 303
XLI.--THE WORK OF ATONEMENT 308
XLII.--LOVE AND SORROW 314
XLIII.--LADY DARRELL'S WILL 321
XLIV.--SHADOW OF ABSENT LOVE 328
LOVE WORKS WONDERS.
CHAPTER I.
A GIRL WITH A CHARACTER.
It was a strange place for an intelligence office, yet Madame Selini
evidently knew what she was doing when she established her office in an
aristocratic neighborhood, and actually next door to the family mansion
of the Countess Dowager of Barewood. The worthy countess was shocked,
and, taking counsel of her hopes, predicted that Madame Selini's
institution would soon prove a failure. Notwithstanding this prediction,
the agency prospered, and among its patrons were many of the nobility.
One fine morning in May a carriage stopped before Madame Selini's door,
and from it descended a handsome, aristocratic gentleman, evidently of
the old school. There was some little commotion in the interior of the
building, and then a foot-page appeared to whom Sir Oswald Darrell--for
that was the gentleman's name--gave his card.
"I am here by appointment," he said, "to see Madame Selini."
He was ushered into a handsomely furnished room, where, in a few
minutes, he was joined by Madame Selini herself--a quick, bright
Frenchwoman, whose dark eyes seemed to embrace everything in their
comprehensive glance. Sir Oswald bowed with stately courtesy and quaint,
old-fashioned grace.
"Have you been so fortunate, madame, as to find that which I am in
search of?" he inquired.
"I think you will be pleased, Sir Oswald--nay, I am sure you will,"
answered the lady. "I have a lady waiting to see you now, who will
prove, I should say, a treasure."
Sir Oswald bowed, and madame continued:
"Miss Hastings--Miss Agnes Hastings--has been for the last six years
finishing governess at Lady Castledine's, and her two pupils make their
debut this year; so that there is no longer any occasion for her
services."
"And you think she would be fitted, madame, to occupy the position for
which I require a lady of talent and refinement?"
"I am quite sure of it," replied madame. "Miss Hastings is thirty years
of age. She is highly accomplished, and her manners are exceedingly
lady-like. She is a person of great refinement; moreover, she has had
great experience with young girls. I do not think, Sir Oswald, that you
could do better."
"Is the lady here? Can I see her?"
Madame Selini rang, and desired the little page to ask Miss Hastings to
come to her. In a few minutes an elegant, well-dressed lady entered the
room. She advanced with a quiet grace and dignity that seemed natural to
her; there was not the slightest trace of awkwardness or _mauvaise
honte_ in her manner.
Madame Selini introduced her to Sir Oswald Darrell.
"I will leave you," she said, "to discuss your private arrangements."
Madame quitted the room with gliding, subtle grace, and then Sir Oswald,
in his courtly fashion, placed a chair for Miss Hastings. He looked at
the pale, clear-cut face for a few minutes in silence, as though he were
at a loss what to say, and then he commenced suddenly:
"I suppose Madame Selini has told you what I want, Miss Hastings?"
"Yes," was the quiet reply; "your niece has been neglected--you want
some one to take the entire superintendence of her."
"Neglected!" exclaimed Sir Oswald. "My dear madame, that is a mild word,
which does not express the dreadful reality. I wish to disguise nothing
from you, I assure you--she literally horrifies me."
Miss Hastings smiled.
"Neglected!" he repeated--"the girl is a savage--a splendid
savage--nothing more nor less."
"Has she not received any kind of training, then, Sir Oswald?"
"Training! My dear madame, can you imagine what a wild vine is--a vine
that has never been cultivated or pruned, but allowed to grow wild in
all its natural beauty and strength, to cling where it would, to trail
on the ground and to twine round forest trees? Such a vine is a fit type
of my niece."
Miss Hastings looked slightly bewildered. Here was a very different
pupil from the elegant, graceful daughters of Lady Castledine.
"I should, perhaps," continued Sir Oswald, "explain to you the peculiar
position that my niece, Miss Pauline Darrell, has occupied."
His grand old face flushed, and his stately head was bowed, as though
some of the memories that swept over him were not free from shame; and
then, with a little gesture of his white hand, on which shone a large
diamond ring, he said:
"There is no need for me to tell you, Miss Hastings, that the Darrells
are one of the oldest families in England--ancient, honorable, and, I
must confess, proud--very proud. My father, the late Sir Hildebert
Darrell, was, I should say, one of the proudest and most reserved of
men. He had but two children, myself and a daughter twelve years
younger--my sister Felicia. I was educated abroad. It was one of my
father's fancies that I should see many lands, that I should study men
and women before settling down to my right position in the world; so
that I knew but little of my sister Felicia. She was a child when I left
home--the tragedy of her life had happened before I returned."
Again a great rush of color came over the pale, aristocratic face.
"I must apologize, Miss Hastings, for troubling you with these details,
but unless you understand them you will not understand my niece. I
cannot tell you how it happened, but it did so happen that while I was
away my sister disgraced herself; she left home with a French artist,
whom Sir Hildebert had engaged to renovate some choice and costly
pictures at Darrell Court. How it came about I cannot say--perhaps there
were excuses for her. She may have found home very dull--my father was
harsh and cold, and her mother was dead. It may be that when the young
artist told her of warm love in sunny lands she was tempted, poor child,
to leave the paternal roof.
"My father's wrath was terrible; he pursued Julian L'Estrange with
unrelenting fury. I believe the man would have been a successful artist
but for my father, who had vowed to ruin him, and who never rested until
he had done so--until he had reduced him to direst poverty--and then my
sister appealed for help, and my father refused to grant it. He would
not allow her name to be mentioned among us; her portrait was destroyed;
everything belonging to her was sent away from Darrell Court.
"When I returned--in an interview that I shall never forget--my father
threatened me not only with disinheritance, but with his curse, if I
made any attempt to hold the least communication with my sister. I do
not know that I should have obeyed him if I could have found her, but I
did not even know what part of the world she was in. She died, poor
girl, and I have no doubt that her death was greatly hastened by
privation. My father told me of her death, also that she had left one
daughter; he did more--he wrote to Julian L'Estrange, and offered to
adopt his daughter on the one condition that he would consent never to
see her or hold the least communication with her.
"The reply was, as you may imagine, a firm refusal and a fierce
denunciation. In the same letter came a note, written in a large,
childish hand:
"'I love my papa, and I do not love you. I will not come to live with
you. You are a cruel man, and you helped to kill my dear mamma.'
"It was a characteristic little note, and was signed 'Pauline
L'Estrange.' My father's anger on receiving it was very great. I confess
that I was more amused than angry.
"My father, Miss Hastings, lived to a good old age. I was not a young
man when I succeeded him. He left me all his property. You must
understand the Darrell and Audleigh Royal estates are not entailed. He
made no mention in his will of the only grandchild he had; but, after I
had arranged all my affairs, I resolved to find her. For ten years I
have been doing all I could--sending to France, Italy, Spain, and every
country where I thought it possible the artist might have sought refuge.
"Three months since I received a letter from him, written on his
death-bed, asking me to do something for Pauline, who had grown up into
a beautiful girl of seventeen. I found then that he had been living for
some years in the Rue d'Orme, Paris. I buried him, brought his daughter
to England, and made arrangements whereby she should assume the name of
Darrell. But I little knew what a task I had undertaken. Pauline ought
to be my heiress, Miss Hastings. She ought to succeed me at Darrell
Court. I have no other relatives. But--well, I will not despair; you
will see what can be done with her."
"What are her deficiencies?" asked Miss Hastings.
Sir Oswald raised his white hands with a gesture of despair.
"I will tell you briefly. She has lived among artists. She does not seem
to have ever known any of her own sex. She is--I am sorry to use the
word--a perfect Bohemian. Whether she can be transformed into anything
faintly resembling a lady, I cannot tell. Will you undertake the task,
Miss Hastings?"
She looked very thoughtful for some minutes, and then answered:
"I will do my best, Sir Oswald."
"I thank you very much. You must permit me to name liberal terms, for
your task will be no light one."
And the interview ended, to their mutual satisfaction.
CHAPTER II.
"DARRELL COURT IS A PRISON TO ME!"
It was a beautiful May day, bright with fresh spring loveliness. The
leaves were springing fresh and green from the trees; the hedges were
all abloom with pink hawthorn; the chestnut trees were all in flower;
the gold of the laburnum, the purple of the lilac, the white of the fair
acacia trees, and the delicate green of the stately elms and limes gave
a beautiful variety of color. The grass was dotted with a hundred
wild-flowers; great clusters of yellow buttercups looked in the distance
like the upspreading of a sea of gold; the violets perfumed the air, the
bluebells stirred in the sweet spring breeze, and the birds sang out
loudly and jubilantly.
If one spot looked more lovely than another on this bright May day, it
was Darrell Court, for it stood where the sun shone brightest, in one of
the most romantic and picturesque nooks of England--the part of
Woodshire bordering on the sea.
The mansion and estates stood on gently rising ground; a chain of purple
hills stretched away into the far distance; then came the pretty town of
Audleigh Royal, the Audleigh Woods, and the broad, deep river Darte.
The bank of the river formed the boundary of the Darrell estates, a rich
and magnificent heritage, wherein every beauty of meadow and wood seemed
to meet. The park was rich in its stately trees and herds of deer; and
not far from the house was a fir-wood--an aromatic, odorous fir-wood,
which led to the very shores of the smiling southern sea.
By night and by day the grand music of nature was heard in perfection at
Darrell Court. Sometimes it was the roll of the wind across the hills,
or the beat of angry waves on the shore, or the wild melody of the storm
among the pine trees, or the full chorus of a thousand feathered
songsters. The court itself was one of the most picturesque of mansions.
It did not belong to any one order or style of architecture--there was
nothing stiff or formal about it--but it looked in that bright May
sunshine a noble edifice, with its square towers covered with clinging
ivy, gray turrets, and large arched windows.
Did the sun ever shine upon such a combination of colors? The spray of
the fountains glittered in the air, the numerous balconies were filled
with flowers; wherever it was possible for a flower to take root, one
had been placed to grow--purple wistarias, sad, solemn passion-flowers,
roses of every hue. The star-like jessamine and scarlet creepers gave to
the walls of the old mansion a vivid glow of color; gold and purple
enriched the gardens, heavy white lilies breathed faintest perfume. The
spot looked a very Eden.
The grand front entrance consisted of a large gothic porch, which was
reached by a broad flight of steps, adorned with white marble vases
filled with flowers; the first terrace was immediately below, and
terrace led from terrace down to the grand old gardens, where sweetest
blossoms grew.
There was an old-world air about the place--something patrician, quiet,
reserved. It was no vulgar haunt for vulgar crowds; it was not a show
place; and the master of it, Sir Oswald Darrell, as he stood upon the
terrace, looked in keeping with the surroundings.
There was a _distingue_ air about Sir Oswald, an old-fashioned courtly
dignity, which never for one moment left him. He was thoroughly well
bred; he had not two sets of manners--one for the world, and one for
private life; he was always the same, measured in speech, noble in his
grave condescension. No man ever more thoroughly deserved the name of
aristocrat; he was delicate and fastidious, with profound and
deeply-rooted dislike for all that was ill-bred, vulgar, or mean.
Even in his dress Sir Oswald was remarkable; the superfine white linen,
the diamond studs and sleeve links, the rare jewels that gleamed on his
fingers--all struck the attention; and, as he took from his pocket a
richly engraved golden snuff-box and tapped it with the ends of his
delicate white fingers, there stood revealed a thorough aristocrat--the
ideal of an English patrician gentleman.
Sir Oswald walked round the stately terraces and gardens.
"I do not see her," he said to himself; "yet most certainly Frampton
told me she was here."
Then, with his gold-headed cane in hand, Sir Oswald descended to the
gardens. He was evidently in search of some one. Meeting one of the
gardeners, who stood, hat in hand, as he passed by, Sir Oswald asked:
"Have you seen Miss Darrell in the gardens?"
"I saw Miss Darrell in the fernery some five minutes since, Sir Oswald,"
was the reply.
Sir Oswald drew from his pocket a very fine white handkerchief and
diffused an agreeable odor of millefleurs around him; the gardener had
been near the stables, and Sir Oswald was fastidious.
A short walk brought him to the fernery, an exquisite combination of
rock and rustic work, arched by a dainty green roof, and made musical by
the ripple of a little waterfall. Sir Oswald looked in cautiously,
evidently rather in dread of what he might find there; then his eyes
fell upon something, and he said:
"Pauline, are you there?"
A rich, clear, musical voice answered:
"Yes, I am here, uncle."
"My dear," continued Sir Oswald, half timidly, not advancing a step
farther into the grotto, "may I ask what you are doing?"
"Certainly, uncle," was the cheerful reply; "you may ask by all means.
The difficulty is to answer; for I am really doing nothing, and I do not
know how to describe 'nothing.'"
"Why did you come hither?" he asked.
"To dream," replied the musical voice. "I think the sound of falling
water is the sweetest music in the world. I came here to enjoy it, and
to dream over it."
Sir Oswald looked very uncomfortable.
"Considering, Pauline, how much you have been neglected, do you not
think you might spend your time more profitably--in educating yourself,
for example?"
"This is educating myself. I am teaching myself beautiful thoughts, and
nature just now is my singing mistress." And then the speaker's voice
suddenly changed, and a ring of passion came into it. "Who says that I
have been neglected? When you say that, you speak ill of my dear dead
father, and no one shall do that in my presence. You speak slander, and
slander ill becomes an English gentleman. If I was neglected when my
father was alive, I wish to goodness such neglect were my portion now!"
Sir Oswald shrugged his shoulders.
"Each one to his or her taste, Pauline. With very little more of such
neglect you would have been a----"
He paused; perhaps some instinct of prudence warned him.
"A what?" she demanded, scornfully. "Pray finish the sentence, Sir
Oswald."
"My dear, you are too impulsive, too hasty. You want more quietness of
manner, more dignity."
Her voice deepened in its tones as she asked:
"I should have been a what, Sir Oswald? I never begin a sentence and
leave it half finished. You surely are not afraid to finish it?"
"No, my dear," was the calm reply; "there never yet was a Darrell afraid
of anything on earth. If you particularly wish me to do so, I will
finish what I was about to say. You would have been a confirmed
Bohemian, and nothing could have made you a lady."
"I love what you call Bohemians, and I detest what you call ladies, Sir
Oswald," was the angry retort.
"Most probably; but then, you see, Pauline, the ladies of the house of
Darrell have always been ladies--high-bred, elegant women. I doubt if
any of them ever knew what the word 'Bohemian' meant."
She laughed a little scornful laugh, which yet was sweet and clear as
the sound of silver bells.
"I had almost forgotten," said Sir Oswald. "I came to speak to you about
something, Pauline; will you come into the house with me?"
They walked on together in silence for some minutes, and then Sir Oswald
began:
"I went to London, as you know, last week, Pauline, and my errand was on
your behalf."
She raised her eyebrows, but did not deign to ask any questions.
"I have engaged a lady to live with us here at Darrell Court, whose
duties will be to finish your education, or, rather, I may truthfully
say, to begin it, to train you in the habits of refined society,
to--to--make you presentable, in fact, Pauline, which I am sorry, really
sorry to say, you are not at present."
She made him a low bow--a bow full of defiance and rebellion.
"I am indeed indebted to you, Sir Oswald."
"No trifling," said the stately baronet, "no sarcasm, Pauline, but
listen to me! You are not without sense or reason--pray attend. Look
around you," he continued; "remember that the broad fair lands of
Darrell Court form one of the grandest domains in England. It is an
inheritance almost royal in its extent and magnificence. Whoso reigns
here is king or queen of half a county, is looked up to, respected,
honored, admired, and imitated. The owner of Darrell Court is a power
even in this powerful land of ours; men and women look up to such a one
for guidance and example. Judge then what the owner of the inheritance
should be."
The baronet's grand old face was flushed with emotion.
"He must be pure, or he would make immorality the fashion; honorable,
because men will take their notions of honor from him; just, that
justice may abound; upright, stainless. You see all that, Pauline?"
"Yes," she assented, quickly.
"No men have so much to answer for," continued Sir Oswald, "as the great
ones of the land--men in whose hands power is vested--men to whom others
look for example, on whose lives other lives are modeled--men who, as it
were, carry the minds, if not the souls, of their fellow men in the
hollows of their hands."
Pauline looked more impressed, and insensibly drew nearer to him.
"Such men, I thank Heaven," he said, standing bareheaded as he uttered
the words, "have the Darrells been--loyal, upright, honest, honorable,
of stainless repute, of stainless life, fitted to rule their fellow
men--grand men, sprung from a grand old race. And at times women have
reigned here--women whose names have lived in the annals of the
land--who have been as shining lights from the purity, the refinement,
the grandeur of their lives."
He spoke with a passion of eloquence not lost on the girl by his side.
"I," he continued, humbly, "am one of the least worthy of my race. I
have done nothing for its advancement; but at the same time I have done
nothing to disgrace it. I have carried on the honors passively. The time
is coming when Darrell Court must pass into other hands. Now, Pauline,
you have heard, you know what the ruler of Darrell Court should be. Tell
me, are you fitted to take your place here?"
"I am very young," she murmured.
"It is not a question of youth. Dame Sibella Darrell reigned here when
she was only eighteen; and the sons she trained to succeed her were
among the greatest statesmen England has ever known. She improved and
enlarged the property; she died, after living here sixty years, beloved,
honored, and revered. It is not a question of age."
"I am a Darrell!" said the girl, proudly.
"Yes, you have the face and figure of a Darrell; you bear the name, too;
but you have not the grace and manner of a Darrell."
"Those are mere outward matters of polish and veneer," she said,
impatiently.
"Nay, not so. You would not think it right to see an unformed,
untrained, uneducated, ignorant girl at the head of such a house as
this. What did you do yesterday? A maid displeased you. You boxed her
ears. Just imagine it. Such a proceeding on the part of the mistress of
Darrell Court would fill one with horror."
A slight smile rippled over the full crimson lips.
"Queen Elizabeth boxed her courtiers' ears," said the girl, "and it
seemed right to her."
"A queen, Pauline, is hedged in by her own royalty; she may do what she
will. The very fact that you are capable of defending an action so
violent, so unlady-like, so opposed to all one's ideas of feminine
delicacy, proves that you are unfit for the position you ought to
occupy."
"I am honest, at least. I make no pretensions to be what I am not."
"So is my butler honest, but that does not fit him to be master of
Darrell Court. Honesty is but one quality--a good one, sturdy and
strong; it requires not one, but many qualities to hold such a position
as I would fain have you occupy."
Miss Darrell's patience was evidently at an end.
"And the upshot of all this, Sir Oswald, is----"
"Exactly so--that I am anxious to give you every chance in my
power--that I have found an estimable, refined, elegant woman, who will
devote her time and talents to train you and fit you for society."
A low, musical laugh broke from the perfect lips.
"Have you any idea," she asked, "what I shall be like when I am
trained?"
"Like a lady, I trust--a well-bred lady. I can imagine nothing more
beautiful than that."
"When is she coming, this model of yours, Sir Oswald?"
"Nay, your model, niece, not mine. She is here now, and I wish to
introduce her to you. I should like you, if possible," he concluded,
meekly, "to make a favorable impression on her."
There was another impatient murmur.
"I wish you to understand, Pauline," he resumed, after a short pause,
"that I shall expect you to render the most implicit obedience to Miss
Hastings--to follow whatever rules she may lay down for you, to attend
to your studies as she directs them, to pay the greatest heed to all her
corrections, to copy her style, to imitate her manners, to----"
"I hate her!" was the impetuous outburst. "I would sooner be a beggar
all my life than submit to such restraint."
"Very well," returned Sir Oswald, calmly. "I know that arguing with you
is time lost. The choice lies with yourself. If you decide to do as I
wish--to study to become a lady in the truest sense of the word--if you
will fit yourself for the position, you shall be heiress of Darrell
Court; if not--if you persist in your present unlady-like, unrefined,
Bohemian manner, I shall leave the whole property to some one else. I
tell you the plain truth without any disguise."
"I do not want Darrell Court!" she cried, passionately; "it is a prison
to me!"
"I excuse you," rejoined Sir Oswald, coldly; "you are excited, and so
not answerable for what you say."
"Uncle," said the girl, "do you see that beautiful singing bird there,
giving voice to such glorious melody? Do you think you could catch it
and put it in a cage?"
"I have no doubt that I could," replied Sir Oswald.
"But, if you did," she persisted; "even suppose you could make it forget
its own wild melodies, could you teach it to sing formally by note and
at your will?"
"I have never supposed anything of the kind," said Sir Oswald. "You are
possessed of far too much of that kind of nonsense. The young ladies of
the present day--properly educated girls--do not talk in that way."
"I can easily believe it," she returned, bitterly.
"Miss Hastings is in the library," said Sir Oswald, as they entered the
house. "I hope to see you receive her kindly. Put away that frown,
Pauline, and smile if you can. Remember, it is characteristic of the
Darrells to be gracious to strangers."
With these words Sir Oswald opened the library door, and holding his
niece's hand, entered the room. Miss Hastings rose to receive them. He
led Pauline to her, and in the kindest manner possible introduced them
to each other.
"I will leave you together," he said. "Pauline will show you your rooms,
Miss Hastings; and I hope that you will soon feel happy, and quite at
home with us."
Sir Oswald quitted the library, leaving the two ladies looking in
silence at each other.
CHAPTER III.
"YOUR GOOD SOCIETY IS ALL DECEIT."
Miss Hastings had been prepared to see a hoiden, an awkward, unfledged
schoolgirl, one who, never having seen much of good society, had none of
the little graces and charms that distinguish young ladies. She had
expected to see a tall, gaunt girl, with red hands, and a general air of
not knowing what to do with herself--that was the idea she had formed.
She gazed in wonder at the reality--a magnificent figure--a girl whose
grand, pale, statuesque beauty was something that could never be
forgotten. There was nothing of the boarding-school young lady about
her; no acquired graces. She was simply magnificent--no other word could
describe her. Miss Hastings, as she looked at her, thought involuntarily
of the graceful lines, the beautiful curves, the grand, free grace of
the world-renowned Diana of the Louvre; there was the same arched,
graceful neck, the same royal symmetry, the same harmony of outline.
In one of the most celebrated art galleries of Rome Miss Hastings
remembered to have seen a superb bust of Juno; as she looked at her new
pupil, she could almost fancy that its head had been modeled from hers.
Pauline's head was royal in its queenly contour; the brow low, white,
and rounded at the temples; the hair, waving in lines of inexpressible
beauty, was loosely gathered together and fastened behind with a
gleaming silver arrow. The eyes were perhaps the most wonderful feature
in that wonderful face; they were dark as night itself, somewhat in hue
like a purple heartsease, rich, soft, dreamy, yet at times all fire, all
brightness, filled with passion more intense than any words, and shining
then with a strange half-golden light. The brows were straight, dark,
and beautiful; the lips crimson, full, and exquisitely shaped; the mouth
looked like one that could persuade or contemn--that could express
tenderness or scorn, love or pride, with the slightest play of the lips.
Every attitude the girl assumed was full of unconscious grace. She did
not appear to be in the least conscious of her wonderful beauty. She had
walked to the window, and stood leaning carelessly against the frame,
one beautiful arm thrown above her head, as though she were weary, and
would fain rest--an attitude that could not have been surpassed had she
studied it for years.
"You are not at all what I expected to see," said Miss Hastings, at
last. "You are, indeed, so different that I am taken by surprise."
"Am I better or worse than you had imagined me?" she asked, with
careless scorn.
"You are different--better, perhaps, in some things. You are taller.
You are so tall that it will be difficult to remember you are a pupil."
"The Darrells are a tall race," she said, quietly. "Miss Hastings, what
have you come here to teach me?"
The elder lady rose from her seat and looked lovingly into the face of
the girl; she placed her hand caressingly on the slender shoulders.
"I know what I should like to teach you, Miss Darrell, if you will let
me. I should like to teach you your duty to Heaven, your
fellow-creatures, and yourself."
"That would be dry learning, I fear," she returned. "What does my uncle
wish me to learn?"
"To be in all respects a perfectly refined, graceful lady."
Her face flushed with a great crimson wave that rose to the white brow
and the delicate shell-like ears.
"I shall never be that," she cried, passionately. "I may just as well
give up all hopes of Darrell Court. I have seen some ladies since I have
been here. I could not be like them. They seem to speak by rule; they
all say the same kind of things, with the same smiles, in the same tone
of voice; they follow each other like sheep; they seem frightened to
advance an opinion of their own, or even give utterance to an original
thought. They look upon me as something horrible, because I dare to say
what I think, and have read every book I could find."
"It is not always best to put our thoughts in speech; and the chances
are, Miss Darrell, that, if you have read every book you could find,
you have read many that would have been better left alone. You are
giving a very one-sided, prejudiced view after all."
She raised her beautiful head with a gesture of superb disdain.
"There is the same difference between them and myself as between a
mechanical singing bird made to sing three tunes and a wild, sweet bird
of the woods. I like my own self best."
"There is not the least doubt of that," observed Miss Hastings, with a
smile; "but the question is not so much what we like ourselves as what
others like in us. However, we will discuss that at another time, Miss
Darrell."
"Has my uncle told you that if I please him--if I can be molded into the
right form--I am to be heiress of Darrell Court?" she asked, quickly.
"Yes; and now that I have seen you I am persuaded that you can be
anything you wish."
"Do you think, then, that I am clever?" she asked, eagerly.
"I should imagine so," replied Miss Hastings. "Pauline--I need not call
you Miss Darrell--I hope we shall be friends; I trust we shall be happy
together."
"It is not very likely," she said, slowly, "that I can like you, Miss
Hastings."
"Why not?" asked the governess, astonished at her frankness.
"Because you are to correct me; continual correction will be a great
annoyance, and will prevent my really liking you."
Miss Hastings looked astounded.
"That may be, Pauline," she said; "but do you know that it is not
polite of you to say so? In good society one does not tell such
unpleasant truths."
"That is just it," was the eager retort; "that is why I do not like good
society, and shall never be fit for it. I am truthful by nature. In my
father's house and among his friends there was never any need to conceal
the truth; we always spoke it frankly. If we did not like each other, we
said so. But here, it seems to me, the first lesson learned to fit one
for society is to speak falsely."
"Not so, Pauline; but, when the truth is likely to hurt another's
feelings, to wound susceptibility or pride, why speak it, unless it is
called for?"
Pauline moved her white arms with a superb gesture of scorn.
"I would rather any day hear the truth and have my mind hurt," she said,
energetically, "than feel that people were smiling at me and deceiving
me. Lady Hampton visits Sir Oswald. I do not like her, and she does not
like me; but she always asks Sir Oswald how his 'dear niece' is, and she
calls me a 'sweet creature--original, but very sweet' You can see for
yourself, Miss Hastings, that I am not that."
"Indeed, you are not sweet," returned the governess, smiling; "but,
Pauline, you are a mimic, and mimicry is a dangerous gift."
She had imitated Lady Hampton's languid tones and affected accent to
perfection.
"Sir Oswald bows and smiles all the time Lady Hampton is talking to him;
he stands first upon one foot, and then upon the other. You would
think, to listen to him, that he was so charmed with her ladyship that
he could not exist out of her presence. Yet I have seen him quite
delighted at her departure, and twice I heard him say 'Thank Heaven'--it
was for the relief. Your good society is all deceit, Miss Hastings."
"I will not have you say that, Pauline. Amiability, and the desire
always to be kind and considerate, may carry one to extremes at times;
but I am inclined to prefer the amiability that spares to the truth that
wounds."
"I am not," was the blunt rejoinder. "Will you come to your rooms, Miss
Hastings? Sir Oswald has ordered a suite to be prepared entirely for our
use. I have three rooms, you have four; and there is a study that we can
use together."
They went through the broad stately corridors, where the warm sun shone
in at the windows, and the flowers breathed sweetest perfume. The rooms
that had been prepared for them were bright and pleasant with a
beautiful view from the windows, well furnished, and supplied with every
comfort. A sigh came from Miss Hastings as she gazed--it was all so
pleasant. But it seemed very doubtful to her whether she would remain or
not--very doubtful whether she would be able to make what Sir Oswald
desired out of that frank, free-spoken girl, who had not one
conventional idea.
"Sir Oswald is very kind," she said, at length, looking around her;
"these rooms are exceedingly nice."
"They are nice," said Pauline; "but I was happier with my father in the
Rue d'Orme. Ah me, what liberty we had there! In this stately life I
feel as though I were bound with cords, or shackled with chains--as
though I longed to stretch out my arms and fly away."
Again Miss Hastings sighed, for it seemed to her that the time of her
residence at Darrell Court would in all probability be very short.
CHAPTER IV.
"YOU ARE GOING TO SPOIL MY LIFE."
Two days had passed since Miss Hastings' arrival. On a beautiful
morning, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing in the
trees, she sat in the study, with an expression of deepest anxiety, of
deepest thought on her face. Pauline, with a smile on her lips, sat
opposite to her, and there was profound silence. Miss Darrell was the
first to break it.
"Well," she asked, laughingly, "what is your verdict, Miss Hastings?"
The elder lady looked up with a long, deep-drawn sigh.
"I have never been so completely puzzled in all my life," she replied.
"My dear Pauline, you are the strangest mixture of ignorance and
knowledge that I have ever met. You know a great deal, but it is all of
the wrong kind; you ought to unlearn all that you have learned."
"You admit then that I know something."
"Yes; but it would be almost better, perhaps, if you did not. I will
tell you how I feel, Pauline. I know nothing of building, but I feel as
though I had been placed before a heap of marble, porphyry, and
granite, of wood, glass, and iron, and then told from those materials to
shape a magnificent palace. I am at a loss what to do."
Miss Darrell laughed with the glee of a child. Her governess, repressing
her surprise, continued:
"You know more in some respects than most educated women; in other and
equally essential matters you know less than a child. You speak French
fluently, perfectly; you have read a large number of books in the French
language--good, bad, and indifferent, it appears to me; yet you have no
more idea of French grammar or of the idiom or construction of the
language than a child."
"That, indeed, I have not; I consider grammar the most stupid of all
human inventions."
Miss Hastings offered no comment.
"Again," she continued, "you speak good English, but your spelling is
bad, and your writing worse. You are better acquainted with English
literature than I am--that is, you have read more. You have read
indiscriminately; even the titles of some of the books you have read are
not admissible."
The dark eyes flashed, and the pale, grand face was stirred as though by
some sudden emotion.
"There was a large library in the house where we lived," she explained,
hurriedly, "and I read every book in it. I read from early morning until
late at night, and sometimes from night until morning; there was no one
to tell me what was right and what was wrong, Miss Hastings."
"Then," continued the governess, "you have written a spirited poem on
Anne Boleyn, but you know nothing of English history--neither the dates
nor the incidents of a single reign. You have written the half of a
story, the scene of which is laid in the tropics, yet of geography you
have not the faintest notion. Of matters such as every girl has some
idea of--of biography, of botany, of astronomy--you have not even a
glimmer. The chances are, that if you engaged in conversation with any
sensible person, you would equally astonish, first by the clever things
you would utter, and then by the utter ignorance you would display."
"I cannot be flattered, Miss Hastings," Pauline put in, "because you
humiliate me; nor can I be humiliated, because you flatter me."
But Miss Hastings pursued her criticisms steadily.
"You have not the slightest knowledge of arithmetic. As for knowledge of
a higher class, you have none. You are dreadfully deficient. You say
that you have read Auguste Comte, but you do not know the answer to the
first question in your church catechism. Your education requires
beginning all over again. You have never had any settled plan of study,
I should imagine."
"No. I learned drawing from Jules Lacroix. Talk of talent, Miss
Hastings. You should have known him--he was the handsomest artist I ever
saw. There was something so picturesque about him."
"Doubtless," was the dry response; "but I think 'picturesque' is not
the word to use in such a case. Music, I presume, you taught yourself?"
The girl's whole face brightened--her manner changed.
"Yes, I taught myself; poor papa could not afford to pay for my lessons.
Shall I play to you, Miss Hastings?"
There was a piano in the study, a beautiful and valuable instrument,
which Sir Oswald had ordered for his niece.
"I shall be much pleased to hear you," said Miss Hastings.
Pauline Darrell rose and went to the piano. Her face then was as the
face of one inspired. She sat down and played a few chords, full,
beautiful, and harmonious.
"I will sing to you," she said. "We often went to the opera--papa,
Jules, Louis, and myself. I used to sing everything I heard. This is
from 'Il Puritani.'"
And she sang one of the most beautiful solos in the opera.
Her voice was magnificent, full, ringing, vibrating with passion--a
voice that, like her face, could hardly be forgotten; but she played and
sang entirely after a fashion of her own.
"Now, Miss Hastings," she said, "I will imitate Adelina Patti."
Face, voice, manner, all changed; she began one of the far-famed
prima-donna's most admired songs, and Miss Hastings owned to herself
that if she had closed her eyes she might have believed Madame Patti
present.
"This is _a la_ Christine Nilsson," continued Pauline; and again the
imitation was brilliant and perfect.
The magnificent voice did not seem to tire, though she sang song after
song, and imitated in the most marvelous manner some of the grandest
singers of the day. Miss Hasting left her seat and went up to her.
"You have a splendid voice, my dear, and great musical genius. Now tell
me, do you know a single note of music?"
"Not one," was the quick reply.
"You know nothing of the keys, time, or anything else?"
"Why should I trouble myself when I could play without learning anything
of the kind?"
"But that kind of playing, Pauline, although it is very clever, would
not do for educated people."
"Is it not good enough for them?" she asked, serenely.
"No; one cannot help admiring it, but any educated person hearing you
would detect directly that you did not know your notes."
"Would they think much less of me on that account?" she asked, with the
same serenity.
"Yes; every one would think it sad to see so much talent wasted. You
must begin to study hard; you must learn to play by note, not by ear,
and then all will be well. You love music, Pauline?"
How the beautiful face glowed and the dark eyes shone.
"I love it," she said, "because I can put my whole soul into it--there
is room for one's soul in it. You will be shocked, I know, but that is
why I liked Comte's theories--because they filled my mind, and gave me
so much to think of."
"Were I in your place I should try to forget them, Pauline."
"You should have seen Sir Oswald's face when I told him I had read Comte
and Darwin. He positively groaned aloud."
And she laughed as she remembered his misery.
"I feel very much inclined to groan myself," said Miss Hastings. "You
shall have theories, or facts, higher, more beautiful, nobler, grander
far than any Comte ever dreamed. And now we must begin to work in real
earnest."
But Pauline Darrell did not move; her dark eyes were shadowed, her
beautiful face grew sullen and determined.
"You are going to spoil my life," she said. "Hitherto it has been a
glorious life--free, gladsome, and bright; now you are going to parcel
it out. There will be no more sunshiny hours; you are going to reduce me
to a kind of machine, to cut off all my beautiful dreams, my lofty
thoughts. You want to make me a formal, precise young lady, who will
laugh, speak, and think by rule."
"I want to make you a sensible woman, my dear Pauline," corrected Miss
Hastings, gravely.
"Who is the better or the happier for being so sensible?" demanded
Pauline.
She paused for a few minutes, and then she added, suddenly:
"Darrell Court and all the wealth of the Darrells are not worth it, Miss
Hastings."
"Not worth what, Pauline?"
"Not worth the price I must pay."
"What is the price?" asked Miss Hastings, calmly.
"My independence, my freedom of action and thought, my liberty of
speech."
"Do you seriously value these more highly than all that Sir Oswald could
leave you?"
"I do--a thousand times more highly," she replied.
Miss Hastings was silent for some few minutes, and then said:
"We must do our best; suppose we make a compromise? I will give you all
the liberty that I honestly can, in every way, and you shall give your
attention to the studies I propose. I will make your task as easy as I
can for you. Darrell Court is worth a struggle."
"Yes," was the half-reluctant reply, "it is worth a struggle, and I will
make it."
But there was not much hope in the heart of the governess when she
commenced her task.
CHAPTER V.
PAULINE'S GOOD POINTS.
How often Sir Oswald's simile of the untrained, unpruned, uncultivated
vine returned to the mind of Miss Hastings! Pauline Darrell was by
nature a genius, a girl of magnificent intellect, a grand, noble,
generous being all untrained. She had in her capabilities of the
greatest kind--she could be either the very empress of wickedness or
angelic. She was gloriously endowed, but it was impossible to tell how
she would develop; there was no moderation in her, she acted always from
impulse, and her impulses were quick, warm, and irresistible. If she had
been an actress, she would surely have been the very queen of the stage.
Her faults were like her virtues, all grand ones. There was nothing
trivial, nothing mean, nothing ungenerous about her. She was of a nature
likely to be led to the highest criminality or the highest virtue; there
could be no medium of mediocre virtue for her. She was full of
character, charming even in her willfulness, but utterly devoid of all
small affectations. There was in her the making of a magnificent woman,
a great heroine; but nothing could have brought her to the level of
commonplace people. Her character was almost a terrible one in view of
the responsibilities attached to it.
Grand, daring, original, Pauline was all force, all fire, all passion.
Whatever she loved, she loved with an intensity almost terrible to
witness. There was also no "middle way" in her dislikes--she hated with
a fury of hate. She had little patience, little toleration; one of her
greatest delights consisted in ruthlessly tearing away the social vail
which most people loved to wear. There were times when her grand, pale,
passionate beauty seemed to darken and to deepen, and one felt
instinctively that it was in her to be cruel even to fierceness; and
again, when her heart was touched and her face softened, one imagined
that she might be somewhat akin to the angels.
What was to become of such a nature? What was to develop it--what was to
train it? If from her infancy Pauline had been under wise and tender
guidance, if some mind that she felt to be superior to her own had
influenced her, the certainty is that she would have grown up into a
thoughtful, intellectual, talented woman, one whose influence would have
been paramount for good, one to whom men would have looked for guidance
almost unconsciously to themselves.
But her training had been terribly defective. No one had ever controlled
her. She had been mistress of her father's house and queen of his little
coterie; with her quiet, unerring judgment, she had made her own
estimate of the strength, the mind, the intellect of each one with whom
she came in contact, and the result was always favorable to herself--she
saw no one superior to herself. Then the society in which her father
had delighted was the worst possible for her; she reigned supreme over
them all--clever, gifted artists, good-natured Bohemians, who admired
and applauded her, who praised every word that fell from her lips, who
honestly believed her to be one of the marvels of the world, who told
her continually that she was one of the most beautiful, most talented,
most charming of mortals, who applauded every daring sentiment instead
of telling her plainly that what was not orthodox was seldom
right--honest Bohemians, who looked upon the child as a wonder, and
puzzled themselves to think what destiny was high enough for her--men
whose artistic tastes were gratified by the sight of her magnificent
loveliness, who had for her the deepest, truest, and highest respect,
who never in her presence uttered a syllable that they would not have
uttered in the presence of a child--good-natured Bohemians, who
sometimes had money and sometimes had none, who were always willing to
share their last _sou_ with others more needy than themselves, who wore
shabby, threadbare coats, but who knew how to respect the pure presence
of a pure girl.
Pauline had received a kind of education. Her father's friends discussed
everything--art, science, politics, and literature--in her presence;
they discussed the wildest stories, they indulged in unbounded fun and
satire, they were of the wittiest even as they were of the cleverest of
men. They ridiculed unmercifully what they were pleased to call the
"regulations of polite society;" they enjoyed unvarnished truth--as a
rule, the more disagreeable the truth the more they delighted in
telling it. They scorned all etiquette, they pursued all dandies and
belles with terrible sarcasm; they believed in every wild or impossible
theory that had ever been started; in fact, though honest as the day,
honorable, and true, they were about the worst associates a young girl
could have had to fit her for the world. The life she led among them had
been one long romance, of which she had been queen.
The house in the Rue d'Orme had once been a grand mansion; it was filled
with quaint carvings, old tapestry, and the relics of a by-gone
generation. The rooms were large--most of them had been turned into
studios. Some of the finest of modern pictures came from the house in
the Rue d'Orme, although, as a rule, the students who worked there were
not wealthy.
It was almost amusing to see how this delicate young girl ruled over
such society. By one word she commanded these great, generous, unworldly
men--with one little white finger upraised she could beckon them at her
will; they had a hundred pet names for her--they thought no queen or
empress fit to be compared with their old comrade's daughter. She was to
be excused if constant flattery and homage had made her believe that she
was in some way superior to the rest of the world.
When the great change came--when she left the Rue d'Orme for Darrell
Court--it was a terrible blow to Pauline to find all this superiority
vanish into thin air. In place of admiration and flattery, she heard
nothing but reproach and correction. She was given to understand that
she was hardly presentable in polite society--she, who had ruled like a
queen over scholars and artists! Instead of laughter and applause, grim
silence followed her remarks. She read in the faces of those around her
that she was not as they were--not of their world. Her whole soul turned
longingly to the beautiful free Bohemian world she had left. The
crowning blow of all was when, after studying her carefully for some
time, Sir Oswald told her that he feared her manners were against
her--that neither in style nor in education was she fitted to be
mistress of Darrell Court. She had submitted passively to the change in
her name; she was proud of being a Darrell--she was proud of the grand
old race from which she had sprung. But, when Sir Oswald had uttered
that last speech, she flamed out in fierce, violent passion, which
showed him she had at least the true Darrell spirit.
There were points in her favor, he admitted. She was magnificently
handsome--she had more courage and a higher spirit than fall even to the
lot of most men. She was a fearless horse-woman; indeed it was only
necessary for any pursuit to be dangerous and to require unlimited
courage for her instantly to undertake it.
Would the balance at last turn in her favor? Would her beauty, her
spirits, her daring, her courage, outweigh defective education,
defective manner, and want of worldly knowledge?
CHAPTER VI.
THE PROGRESS MADE BY THE PUPIL.
It was a beautiful afternoon in June. May, with its lilac and hawthorn,
had passed away; the roses were in fairest bloom, lilies looked like
great white stars; the fullness and beauty, the warmth and fragrance of
summer were on the face of the land, and everything living rejoiced in
it.
Pauline had begged that the daily readings might take place under the
great cedar tree on the lawn.
"If I must be bored by dry historical facts," she said, "let me at least
have the lights and shadows on the lawn to look at. The shadow of the
trees on the grass is beautiful beyond everything else. Oh, Miss
Hastings, why will people write dull histories? I like to fancy all
kings heroes, and all queens heroines. History leaves us no illusions."
"Still," replied the governess, "it teaches us plenty of what you love
so much--truth."
The beautiful face grew very serious and thoughtful.
"Why are so many truths disagreeable and sad? If I could rule, I would
have the world so bright, so fair and glad, every one so happy. I
cannot understand all this under-current of sorrow."
"Comte did not explain it, then, to your satisfaction?" said Miss
Hastings.
"Comte!" cried the girl, impatiently. "I am not obliged to believe all I
read! Once and for all, Miss Hastings, I do not believe in Comte or his
fellows. I only read what he wrote because people seemed to think it
clever to have done so. You know--you must know--that I believe in our
great Father. Who could look round on this lovely world and not do so?"
Miss Hastings felt more hopeful of the girl then than she had ever felt
before. Such strange, wild theories had fallen at times from her lips
that it was some consolation to know she had still a child's faith.
Then came an interruption in the shape of a footman, with Sir Oswald's
compliments, and would the ladies go to the drawing-room? There were
visitors.
"Who are they?" asked Miss Darrell, abruptly.
The man replied:
"Sir George and Lady Hampton."
"I shall not go," said Pauline, decidedly; "that woman sickens me with
her false airs and silly, false graces. I have not patience to talk to
her."
"Sir Oswald will not be pleased," remonstrated Miss Hastings.
"That I cannot help--it is not my fault. I shall not make myself a
hypocrite to please Sir Oswald."
"Society has duties which must be discharged, and which do not depend
upon our liking; we must do our duty whether we like it or not."
"I detest society," was the abrupt reply--"it is all a sham!"
"Then why not do your best to improve it? That would surely be better
than to abuse it."
"There is something in that," confessed Miss Darrell, slowly.
"If we each do our little best toward making the world even ever so
little better than we found it," said Miss Hastings, "we shall not have
lived in vain."
There was a singular grandeur of generosity about the girl. If she saw
that she was wrong in an argument or an opinion, she admitted it with
the most charming candor. That admission she made now by rising at once
to accompany Miss Hastings.
The drawing-room at Darrell Court was a magnificent apartment; it had
been furnished under the superintendence of the late Lady Darrell, a
lady of exquisite taste. It was all white and gold, the white hangings
with bullion fringe and gold braids, the white damask with a delicate
border of gold; the pictures, the costly statues gleamed in the midst of
rich and rare flowers; graceful ornaments, tall, slender vases were
filled with choicest blossoms; the large mirrors, with their golden
frames, were each and all perfect in their way. There was nothing gaudy,
brilliant, or dazzling; all was subdued, in perfect good taste and
harmony.
In this superb room the beauty of Pauline Darrell always showed to
great advantage; she was in perfect keeping with its splendor. As she
entered now, with her usual half-haughty, half-listless grace, Sir
Oswald looked up with admiration plainly expressed on his face.
"What a queenly mistress she would make for the Court, if she would but
behave like other people!" he thought to himself, and then Lady Hampton
rose to greet the girl.
"My dear Miss Darrell, I was getting quite impatient; it seems an age
since I saw you--really an age."
"It is an exceedingly short one," returned Pauline; "I saw you on
Tuesday, Lady Hampton."
"Did you? Ah, yes; how could I forget? Ah, my dear child, when you reach
my age--when your mind is filled with a hundred different matters--you
will not have such a good memory as you have now."
Lady Hampton was a little, over-dressed woman. She looked all flowers
and furbelows--all ribbons and laces. She was, however, a perfect
mistress of all the arts of polite society; she knew exactly what to say
and how to say it; she knew when to smile, when to look sympathetic,
when to sigh. She was not sincere; she never made the least pretense of
being so. "Society" was her one idea--how to please it, how to win its
admiration, how to secure a high position in it.
The contrast between the two was remarkable--the young girl with her
noble face, her grand soul looking out of her clear dark eyes; Lady
Hampton with her artificial smiles, her shifting glances, and would-be
charming gestures. Sir Oswald stood by with a courtly smile on his face.
"I have some charming news for you," said Lady Hampton. "I am sure you
will be pleased to hear it, Miss Darrell."
"That will quite depend on what it is like," interposed Pauline,
honestly.
"You dear, droll child! You are so original; you have so much character.
I always tell Sir Oswald you are quite different from any one else."
And though her ladyship spoke smilingly, she gave a keen, quiet glance
at Sir Oswald's face, in all probability to watch the effect of her
words.
"Ah, well," she continued, "I suppose that in your position a little
singularity may be permitted," and then she paused, with a bland smile.
"To what position do you allude?" asked Miss Darrell.
Lady Hampton laughed again. She nodded with an air of great penetration.
"You are cautious, Miss Darrell. But I am forgetting my news. It is
this--that my niece, Miss Elinor Rocheford, is coming to visit me."
She waited evidently for Miss Darrell to make some complimentary reply.
Not a word came from the proud lips.
"And when she comes I hope, Miss Darrell, that you and she will be great
friends."
"It is rather probable, if I like her," was the frank reply.
Sir Oswald looked horrified. Lady Hampton smiled still more sweetly.
"You are sure to like her. Elinor is most dearly loved wherever she
goes."
"Is she a sweet creature?" asked Pauline, with such inimitable mimicry
that Miss Hastings shuddered, while Sir Oswald turned pale.
"She is indeed," replied Lady Hampton, who, if she understood the
sarcasm, made no sign. "With Sir Oswald's permission, I shall bring her
to spend a long day with you, Miss Darrell."
"I shall be charmed," said Sir Oswald--"really delighted, Lady Hampton.
You do me great honor indeed."
He looked at his niece for some little confirmation of his words, but
that young lady appeared too haughty for speech; the word "honor" seemed
to her strangely misapplied.
Lady Hampton relaxed none of her graciousness; her bland suavity
continued the same until the end of the visit; and then, in some way,
she contrived to make Miss Hastings understand that she wanted to speak
with her. She asked the governess if she would go with her to the
carriage, as she wished to consult her about some music. When they were
alone, her air and manner changed abruptly. She turned eagerly to her,
her eyes full of sharp, keen curiosity.
"Can you tell me one thing?" she asked. "Is Sir Oswald going to make
that proud, stupid, illiterate girl his heiress--mistress of Darrell
Court?"
"I do not know," replied Miss Hastings. "How should I be able to answer
such a question?"
"Of course I ask in confidence--only in strict confidence; you
understand that, Miss Hastings?"
"I understand," was the grave reply.
"All the county is crying shame on him," said her ladyship. "A French
painter's daughter. He must be mad to think of such a thing. A girl
brought up in the midst of Heaven knows what. He never can intend to
leave Darrell Court to her."
"He must leave it to some one," said Miss Hastings; "and who has a
better right to it than his own sister's child?"
"Let him marry," she suggested, hastily; "let him marry, and leave it to
children of his own. Do you think the county will tolerate such a
mistress for Darrell Court--so blunt, so ignorant? Miss Hastings, he
must marry."
"I can only suppose," replied the governess, "that he will please
himself, Lady Hampton, without any reference to the county."
CHAPTER VII.
CAPTAIN LANGTON.
June, with its roses and lilies, passed on, the laburnums had all
fallen, the lilies had vanished, and still the state of affairs at
Darrell Court remained doubtful. Pauline, in many of those respects in
which her uncle would fain have seen her changed, remained
unaltered--indeed it was not easy to unlearn the teachings of a
life-time.
Miss Hastings, more patient and hopeful than Sir Oswald, persevered,
with infinite tact and discretion. But there were certain peculiarities
of which Pauline could not be broken. One was a habit of calling
everything by its right name. She had no notion of using any of those
polite little fictions society delights in; no matter how harsh, how
ugly the word, she did not hesitate to use it. Another peculiarity was
that of telling the blunt, plain, abrupt truth, no matter what the cost,
no matter who was pained. She tore aside the flimsy vail of society with
zest; she spared no one in her almost ruthless denunciations. Her
intense scorn for all kinds of polite fiction was somewhat annoying.
"You need not say that I am engaged, James," she said, one day, when a
lady called whom she disliked. "I am not engaged, but I do not care to
see Mrs. Camden."
Even that bland functionary looked annoyed. Miss Hastings tried to make
some compromise.
"You cannot send such a message as that, Miss Darrell. Pray listen to
reason."
"Sir Oswald and yourself agreed that she was----"
"Never mind that," hastily interrupted Miss Hastings. "You must not hurt
any one's feelings by such a blunt message as that; it is neither polite
nor well-bred."
"I shall never cultivate either politeness or good breeding at the
expense of truth; therefore you had better send the message yourself,
Miss Hastings."
"I will do so," said the governess, quietly. "I will manage it in such a
way as to show Mrs. Camden that she is not expected to call again, yet
so as not to humiliate her before the servants; but, remember, not at
any sacrifice of truth."
Such contests were of daily, almost hourly, occurrence. Whether the
result would be such a degree of training as to fit the young lady for
taking the position she wished to occupy, remained doubtful.
"This is really very satisfactory," said Sir Oswald, abruptly, one
morning, as he entered the library, where Miss Hastings awaited him.
"But," he continued, "before I explain myself, let me ask you how are
you getting on--what progress are you making with your tiresome pupil?"
The gentle heart of the governess was grieved to think that she could
not give a more satisfactory reply. Little real progress had been made
in study; less in manner.
"There is a mass of splendid material, Sir Oswald," she said; "but the
difficulty lies in putting it into shape."
"I am afraid," he observed, "people will make remarks; and I have heard
more than one doubt expressed as to what kind of hands Darrell Court is
likely to fall into should I make Pauline my heiress. You see she is
capable of almost anything. She would turn the place into an asylum; she
would transform it into a college for philosophers, a home for needy
artists--in fact, anything that might occur to her--without the least
hesitation."
Miss Hastings could not deny it. They were not speaking of a manageable
nineteenth century young lady, but of one to whom no ordinary rules
applied, whom no customary measures fitted.
"I have a letter here," continued Sir Oswald, "from Captain Aubrey
Langton, the son of one of my oldest and dearest friends. He proposes to
pay me a visit, and--pray, Miss Hastings, pardon me for suggesting such
a thing, but I should be so glad if he would fall in love with Pauline.
I have an idea that love might educate and develop her more quickly than
anything else."
Miss Hastings had already thought the same thing; but she knew whoever
won the love of such a girl as Pauline Darrell would be one of the
cleverest of men.
"I am writing to him to tell him that I hope he will remain with us for
a month; and during that time I hope, I fervently hope, he may fall in
love with my niece. She is beautiful enough. Pardon me again, Miss
Hastings, but has she ever spoken to you of love or lovers?"
"No. She is in that respect, as in many others, quite unlike the
generality of girls. I have never heard an allusion to such matters from
her lips--never once."
This fact seemed to Sir Oswald stranger than any other; he had an idea
that girls devoted the greater part of their thoughts to such subjects.
"Do you think," he inquired, "that she cared for any one in Paris--any
of those men, for instance, whom she used to meet at her father's?"
"No," replied Miss Hastings; "I do not think so. She is strangely
backward in all such respects, although she was brought up entirely
among gentlemen."
"Among--pardon me, my dear madame, not gentlemen--members, we will say,
of a gentlemanly profession."
Sir Oswald took from his gold snuff-box a pinch of most
delicately-flavored snuff, and looked as though he thought the very
existence of such people a mistake.
"Any little influence that you may possess over my niece, Miss Hastings,
will you kindly use in Captain Langton's favor? Of course, if anything
should come of my plan--as I fervently hope there may--I shall stipulate
that the engagement lasts two years. During that time I shall trust to
the influence of love to change my niece's character."
It was only a fresh complication--one from which Miss Hastings did not
expect much.
That same day, during dinner, Sir Oswald told his niece of the expected
arrival of Captain Langton.
"I have seen so few English gentlemen," she remarked, "that he will be a
subject of some curiosity to me."
"You will find him--that is, if he resembles his father--a high-bred,
noble gentleman," said Sir Oswald, complacently.
"Is he clever?" she asked. "What does he do?"
"Do!" repeated Sir Oswald. "I do not understand you."
"Does he paint pictures or write books?"
"Heaven forbid!" cried Sir Oswald, proudly. "He is a gentleman."
Her face flushed hotly for some minutes, and then the flush died away,
leaving her paler than ever.
"I consider artists and writers gentlemen," she retorted--"gentlemen of
a far higher stamp than those to whom fortune has given money and nature
has denied brains."
Another time a sharp argument would have resulted from the throwing down
of such a gantlet. Sir Oswald had something else in view, so he allowed
the speech to pass.
"It will be a great pleasure for me to see my old friend's son again,"
he said. "I hope, Pauline, you will help me to make his visit a pleasant
one."
"What can I do?" she asked, brusquely.
"What a question!" laughed Sir Oswald. "Say, rather, what can you not
do? Talk to him, sing to him. Your voice is magnificent, and would give
any one the greatest pleasure. You can ride out with him."
"If he is a clever, sensible man, I can do all that you mention; if not,
I shall not trouble myself about him. I never could endure either
tiresome or stupid people."
"My young friend is not likely to prove either," said Sir Oswald,
angrily; and Miss Hastings wondered in her heart what the result of it
all would be.
That same evening Miss Darrell talked of Captain Langton, weaving many
bright fancies concerning him.
"I suppose," she said, "that it is not always the most favorable
specimens of the English who visit Paris. We used to see such droll
caricatures. I like a good caricature above all things--do you, Miss
Hastings?"
"When it is good, and pains no one," was the sensible reply.
The girl turned away with a little impatient sigh.
"Your ideas are all colorless," she said, sharply. "In England it seems
to me that everybody is alike. You have no individuality, no character."
"If character means, in your sense of the word, ill-nature, so much the
better," rejoined Miss Hastings. "All good-hearted people strive to save
each other from pain."
"I wonder," said Pauline, thoughtfully, "if I shall like Captain
Langton! We have been living here quietly enough; but I feel as though
some great change were coming. You have no doubt experienced that
peculiar sensation which comes over one just before a heavy
thunder-storm? I have that strange, half-nervous, half-restless
sensation now."
"You will try to be amiable, Pauline," put in the governess, quietly.
"You see that Sir Oswald evidently thinks a great deal of this young
friend of his. You will try not to shock your uncle in any way--not to
violate those little conventionalities that he respects so much."
"I will do my best; but I must be myself--always myself. I cannot assume
a false character."
"Then let it be your better self," said the governess, gently; and for
one minute Pauline Darrell was touched.
"That sweet creature, Lady Hampton's niece, will be here next week," she
remarked, after a short pause. "What changes will be brought into our
lives, I wonder?"
Of all the changes possible, least of all she expected the tragedy that
afterward happened.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE INTRODUCTION.
It was a never-to-be-forgotten evening when Captain Langton reached
Darrell Court--an evening fair, bright, and calm. The sweet southern
wind bore the perfume of flowers; the faint ripples of the fountains,
the musical song of the birds, seemed almost to die away on the evening
breeze; the sun appeared unwilling to leave the sapphire sky, the
flowers unwilling to close. Pauline had lingered over her books until
she could remain in-doors no longer; then, by Miss Hastings' desire, she
dressed for dinner--which was delayed for an hour--and afterward went
into the garden.
Most girls would have remembered, as they dressed, that a handsome young
officer was coming; Miss Darrell did not make the least change in her
usual toilet. The thin, fine dress of crape fell in statuesque folds
round the splendid figure; the dark hair was drawn back from the
beautiful brow, and negligently fastened with her favorite silver arrow;
the white neck and fair rounded arms gleamed like white marble through
the thin folds of crape. There was not the least attempt at ornament;
yet no queen arrayed in royal robes ever looked more lovely.
Pauline was a great lover of the picturesque. With a single flower, a
solitary knot of ribbon, she could produce an effect which many women
would give all their jewels to achieve. Whatever she wore took a kind of
royal grace from herself which no other person could impart. Though her
dress might be made of the same material as that of others, it never
looked the same. On her it appeared like the robes of a queen.
As Pauline was passing through the corridor, Miss Hastings met her. The
governess looked scrutinizingly at the plain evening dress; it was the
same that she had worn yesterday. Evidently there was no girlish desire
to attract.
"Pauline, we shall have a visitor this evening," said Miss Hastings;
"you might add a few flowers to your dress."
She passed on, with a smile of assent. Almost the first thing that
caught her attention out of doors was a large and handsome fuchsia. She
gathered a spray of the rich purple and crimson flowers, and placed it
negligently in her hair. Many women would have stood before their mirror
for an hour without producing the same superb effect. Then she placed
another spray of the same gorgeous flowers in the bodice of her dress.
It was all done without effort, and she would have been the last in the
world to suspect how beautiful she looked. Then she went on to the
fountain, for the beautiful, calm evening had awakened all the poet's
soul within her. The grand, sensitive nature thrilled--the beautiful,
poetic mind reveled in this hour of nature's most supreme loveliness. A
thousand bright fancies surged through her heart and brain; a thousand
poetical ideas shaped themselves into words, and rose to her lips.
So time passed, and she was unconscious of it, until a shadow falling
over the great white lilies warned her that some one was near.
Looking up quickly, she saw a tall, fair, handsome young man gazing at
her with mingled admiration and surprise. Beside him stood Sir Oswald,
courtly, gracious, and evidently on the alert.
"Captain Langton," he said, "let me introduce you to my niece, Miss
Darrell."
Not one feature of the girl's proud, beautiful face moved, but there was
some little curiosity in her dark eyes. They rested for a minute on the
captain's face, and then, with a dreamy look, she glanced over the heads
of the white lilies behind him. He was not her ideal, not her hero,
evidently. In that one keen, quick glance, she read not only the face,
but the heart and soul of the man before her.
The captain felt as though he had been subjected to some wonderful
microscopic examination.
"She is one of those dreadfully shrewd girls that pretend to read
faces," he said to himself, while he bowed low before her, and replied
with enthusiasm to the introduction.
"My niece is quite a Darrell," said Sir Oswald, proudly. "You see she
has the Darrell face."
Again the gallant captain offered some flattering remark--a neatly
turned compliment, which he considered ought to have brought her down,
as a skillful shot does a bird--but the dark eyes saw only the lilies,
not him.
"She is proud, like all the Darrells," he thought; "my father always
said they were the proudest race in England."
"I hope," said Sir Oswald, courteously, "that you will enjoy your visit
here, Aubrey. Your father was my dearest friend, and it gives me great
delight to see you here."
"I am sure of it, Sir Oswald. I am equally happy; I cannot see how any
one could be dull for one minute in this grand old place."
Sir Oswald's face flushed with pleasure, and for the first time the dark
eyes slowly left the lilies and looked at the captain.
"I find not only one minute, but many hours in which to be dull," said
Pauline. "Do you like the country so well?"
"I like Darrell Court," he replied, with a bow that seemed to embrace
Sir Oswald, his niece, and all his possessions.
"You like it--in what way?" asked Pauline, in her terribly downright
manner. "It is your first visit, and you have been here only a few
minutes. How can you tell whether you like it?"
For a few moments Captain Langton looked slightly confused, and then he
rallied. Surely a man of the world was not to be defied by a mere girl.
"I have seen that at Darrell Court," he said, deferentially, "which will
make the place dear to me while I live."
She did not understand him. She was far too frank and haughty for a
compliment so broad. But Sir Oswald smiled.
"He is losing no time," thought the stately old baronet; "he is falling
in love with her, just as I guessed he would."
"I will leave you," said Sir Oswald, "to get better acquainted. Pauline,
you will show Captain Langton the aviary."
"Yes," she assented, carelessly. "But will you send Miss Hastings here?
She knows the various birds far better than I do."
Sir Oswald, with a pleased expression on his face, walked away.
"So you have an aviary at the Court, Miss Darrell. It seems to me there
is nothing wanting here. You do not seem interested; you do not like
birds?"
"Not caged ones," she replied. "I love birds almost as though they were
living friends, but not bright-plumaged birds in golden cages. They
should be free and wild in the woods and forests, filling the summer air
with joyous song. I love them well then."
"You like unrestricted freedom?" he observed.
"I do not merely like it, I deem it an absolute necessity. I should not
care for life without it."
The captain looked more attentively at her. It was the Darrell face,
surely enough--features of perfect beauty, with a soul of fire shining
through them.
"Yet," he said, musingly, cautiously feeling his way, "there is but
little freedom--true freedom--for women. They are bound down by a
thousand narrow laws and observances--caged by a thousand restraints."
"There is no power on earth," she returned, hastily, "that can control
thoughts or cage souls; while they are free, it is untrue to say that
there is no freedom."
A breath of fragrant wind came and stirred the great white lilies. The
gallant captain saw at once that he should only lose in arguments with
her.
"Shall we visit the aviary?" he asked.
And she walked slowly down the path, he following.
"She is like an empress," he thought. "It will be all the more glory for
me if I can win such a wife for my own."
CHAPTER IX.
THE BROKEN LILY.
Pauline Darrell was a keen, shrewd observer of character. She judged
more by small actions than by great ones; it was a characteristic of
hers. When women have that gift, it is more to be dreaded than the cool,
calm, matured judgment of men. Men err sometimes in their estimate of
character, but it is very seldom that a woman makes a similar mistake.
The garden path widened where the tall white lilies grew in rich
profusion, and there Pauline and Captain Langton walked side by side.
The rich, sweet perfume seemed to gather round them, and the dainty
flowers, with their shining leaves and golden bracts, looked like great
white stars.
Captain Langton carried a small cane in his hand. He had begun to talk
to Pauline with great animation. Her proud indifference piqued him. He
was accustomed to something more like rapture when he devoted himself to
any fair lady. He vowed to himself that he would vanquish her pride,
that he would make her care for him, that the proud, dark eyes should
soften and brighten for him; and he gave his whole mind to the
conquest. As he walked along, one of the tall, white lilies bent over
the path; with one touch of the cane he beat it down, and Pauline gave a
little cry, as though the blow had pained her. She stopped, and taking
the slender green stem in her hand, straightened it; but the blow had
broken one of the white leaves.
"Why did you do that?" she asked, in a pained voice.
"It is only a flower," he replied, with a laugh.
"Only a flower! You have killed it. You cannot make it live again. Why
need you have cut its sweet life short?"
"It will not be missed from among so many," he said.
"You might say the same thing of yourself," she retorted. "The world is
full of men, and you would hardly be missed from so many; yet you would
not like----"
"There is some little difference between a man and a flower, Miss
Darrell," he interrupted, stiffly.
"There is, indeed; and the flowers have the advantage," she retorted.
The captain solaced himself by twisting his mustache, and relieved his
feelings by some few muttered words, which Miss Darrell did not hear. In
her quick, impulsive way, she judged him at once.
"He is cruel and selfish," she thought; "he would not even stoop to save
the life of the sweetest flower that blows. He shall not forget killing
that lily," she continued, as she gathered the broken chalice, and
placed it in her belt. "Every time he looks at me," she said, "he shall
remember what he has done."
The captain evidently understood her amiable intention, and liked her
accordingly. They walked on for some minutes in perfect silence; then
Pauline turned to him suddenly.
"Have you been long in the army, Captain Langton?"
Flattered by a question that seemed to evince some personal interest, he
hastened to reply:
"More than eight years. I joined when I was twenty."
"Have you seen any service?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "My regiment had been for many years in active service
just before I joined, so that we have been at home since then."
"In inglorious ease," she said.
"We are ready for work," he returned, "when work comes."
"How do you employ your time?" she asked; and again he was flattered by
the interest that the question showed. His face flushed. Here was a
grand opportunity of showing this haughty girl, this "proudest Darrell
of them all," that he was eagerly sought after in society such as she
had not yet seen.
"You have no conception of the immense number of engagements that occupy
our time," he replied; "I am fond of horses--I take a great interest in
all races."
If he had added that he was one of the greatest gamblers on the turf, he
would have spoken truthfully.
"Horse racing," said Miss Darrell--"that is the favorite occupation of
English gentlemen, is it not?"
"I should imagine so. Then I am considered--you must pardon my
boasting--one of the best billiard players in London."
"That is not much of a boast," she remarked, with such quiet contempt
that the captain could only look at her in sheer wonder.
"There are balls, operas, parties, suppers--I cannot tell what; and the
ladies engross a great deal of our time. We soldiers never forget our
devotion and chivalry to the fair sex, Miss Darrell."
"The fair sex should be grateful that they share your attention with
horses and billiards," she returned. "But what else do you do, Captain
Langton? I was not thinking of such trifles as these."
"Trifles!" he repeated. "I do not call horse racing a trifle. I was
within an inch of winning the Derby--I mean to say a horse of mine was.
If you call that a trifle, Miss Darrell, you go near to upsetting
English society altogether."
"But what great things do you do?" she repeated, her dark eyes opening
wider. "You cannot mean seriously that this is all. Do you never write,
paint--have you no ambition at all?"
"I do not know what you call ambition," he replied, sullenly; "as for
writing and painting, in England we pay people to do that kind of thing
for us. You do not think that I would paint a picture, even if I could?"
"I should think you clever if you did that," she returned; "at present I
cannot see that you do anything requiring mind or intellect."
"Miss Darrell," he said, looking at her, "you are a radical, I believe."
"A radical?" she repeated, slowly. "I am not quite sure, Captain
Langton, that I know what that means."
"You believe in aristocracy of intellect, and all that kind of
nonsense," he continued. "Why should a man who paints a picture be any
better than the man who understands the good points of a horse?"
"Why, indeed?" she asked, satirically. "We will not argue the question,
for we should not agree."
"I had her there," thought the captain. "She could not answer me. Some
of these women require a high hand to keep them in order."
"I do not see Miss Hastings," she said at last, "and it is quite useless
going to the aviary without her. I do not remember the name of a single
bird; and I am sure you will not care for them."
"But," he returned, hesitatingly, "Sir Oswald seemed to wish it."
"There is the first dinner-bell," she said, with an air of great relief;
"there will only just be time to return. As you seem solicitous about
Sir Oswald's wishes we had better go in, for he dearly loves
punctuality."
"I believe," thought the captain, "that she is anxious to get away from
me. I must say that I am not accustomed to this kind of thing."
The aspect of the dining-room, with its display of fine old plate, the
brilliantly arranged tables, the mingled odor of rare wines and flowers,
restored him to good humor.
"It would be worth some little trouble," he thought, "to win all this."
He took Pauline in to dinner. The grand, pale, passionate beauty of the
girl had never shown to greater advantage than it did this evening, as
she sat with the purple and crimson fuchsias in her hair and the broken
lily in her belt. Sir Oswald did not notice the latter until dinner was
half over. Then he said:
"Why, Pauline, with gardens and hothouses full of flowers, have you
chosen a broken one?"
"To me it is exquisite," she replied.
The captain's face darkened for a moment, but he would not take offense.
The elegantly appointed table, the seductive dinner, the rare wines, all
made an impression on him. He said to himself that there was a good
thing offered to him, and that a girl's haughty temper should not stand
in his way. He made himself most agreeable, he was all animation,
vivacity, and high spirits with Sir Oswald. He was deferential and
attentive to Miss Hastings, and his manner to Pauline left no doubt in
the minds of the lookers on that he was completely fascinated by her.
She was too proudly indifferent, too haughtily careless, even to resent
it. Sir Oswald Darrell was too true a gentleman to offer his niece to
any one; but he had given the captain to understand that, if he could
woo her and win her, there would be no objection raised on his part.
For once in his life Captain Langton had spoken quite truthfully.
"I have nothing," he said; "my father left me but a very moderate
fortune, and I have lost the greater part of it. I have not been careful
or prudent, Sir Oswald."
"Care and prudence are not the virtues of youth," Sir Oswald returned.
"I may say, honestly, I should be glad if your father's son could win my
niece; as for fortune, she will be richly dowered if I make her my
heiress. Only yesterday I heard that coal had been found on my Scotch
estates, and, if that be true, it will raise my income many thousands
per annum."
"May you long live to enjoy your wealth, Sir Oswald!" said the young
man, so heartily that tears stood in the old baronet's eyes.
But there was one thing the gallant captain did not confess. He did not
tell Sir Oswald Darrell--what was really the truth--that he was over
head and ears in debt, and that this visit to Darrell Court was the last
hope left to him.
CHAPTER X.
PAULINE STILL INCORRIGIBLE.
Sir Oswald lingered over his wine. It was not every day that he found a
companion so entirely to his taste as Captain Langton. The captain had a
collection of anecdotes of the court, the aristocracy, and the
mess-room, that could not be surpassed. He kept his own interest well in
view the whole time, making some modest allusions to the frequency with
which his society was sought, and the number of ladies who were disposed
to regard him favorably. All was narrated with the greatest skill,
without the least boasting, and Sir Oswald, as he listened with delight,
owned to himself that, all things considered, he could not have chosen
more wisely for his niece.
A second bottle of fine old port was discussed, and then Sir Oswald
said:
"You will like to go to the drawing-room; the ladies will be there. I
always enjoy forty winks after dinner."
The prospect of a _tete-a-tete_ with Miss Darrell did not strike the
captain as being a very rapturous one.
"She is," he said to himself, "a magnificently handsome girl, but
almost too haughty to be bearable. I have never, in all my life, felt so
small as I do when she speaks to me or looks at me, and no man likes
that sort of thing."
But Darrell Court was a magnificent estate, the large annual income was
a sum he had never even dreamed of, and all might be his--Sir Oswald had
said so; his, if he could but win the proud heart of the proudest girl
it had ever been his fortune to meet. The stake was well worth going
through something disagreeable for.
"If she were only like other women," he thought, "I should know how to
manage her; but she seems to live in the clouds."
The plunge had to be made, so the captain summoned all his courage, and
went to the drawing-room. The picture there must have struck the least
imaginative of men.
Miss Hastings, calm, elegant, lady-like, in her quiet evening dress of
gray silk, was seated near a small stand on which stood a large lamp, by
the light of which she was reading. The part of the room near her was
brilliantly illuminated. It was a spacious apartment--unusually so even
for a large mansion. It contained four large windows, two of which were
closed, the gorgeous hangings of white and gold shielding them from
view; the other end of the room was in semi-darkness, the brilliant
light from the lamp not reaching it--the windows were thrown wide open,
and the soft, pale moonlight came in. The evening came in, too, bringing
with it the sweet breath of the lilies, the perfume of the roses, the
fragrance of rich clover, carnations, and purple heliotropes. Faint
shadows lay on the flowers, the white silvery light was very peaceful
and sweet; the dewdrops shone on the grass--it was the fairest hour of
nature's fair day.
Pauline had gone to the open window. Something had made her restless and
unquiet; but, standing there, the spell of that beautiful moonlit scene
calmed her, and held her fast. With one look at that wonderful sky and
its myriad stars, one at the soft moonlight and the white lilies, the
fever of life died from her, and a holy calm, sweet fancies, bright
thoughts, swept over her like an angel's wing.
Then she became conscious of a stir in the perfumed air; something less
agreeable mingled with the fragrance of the lilies scent of which she
did not know the name, but which--some she disliked ever afterward
because the captain used it. A low voice that would fain be tender
murmured something in her ear; the spell of the moonlight was gone, the
quickly thronging poetical fancies had all fled away, the beauty seemed
to have left even the sleeping flowers. Turning round to him, she said,
in a clear voice, every word sounding distinctly:
"Have the goodness, Captain Langton, not to startle me again. I do not
like any one to come upon me in that unexpected manner."
"I was so happy to find you alone," he whispered.
"I do not know why that should make you happy. I always behave much
better when I am with Miss Hastings than when I am alone."
"You are always charming," he said. "I want to ask you something, Miss
Darrell. Be kind, be patient, and listen to me."
"I am neither kind nor patient by nature," she returned; "what have you
to say?"
It was very difficult, he felt, to be sentimental with her. She had
turned to the window, and was looking out again at the flowers; one
little white hand played impatiently with a branch of guelder roses that
came peeping in.
"I am jealous of those flowers," said the captain; "will you look at me
instead of them?"
She raised her beautiful eyes, and looked at him so calmly, with so much
conscious superiority in her manner, that the captain felt "smaller"
than ever.
"You are talking nonsense to me," she said, loftily; "and as I do not
like nonsense, will you tell me what you have to say?"
The voice was calm and cold, the tones measured and slightly
contemptuous; it was very difficult under such circumstances to be an
eloquent wooer, but the recollection of Darrell Court and its large
rent-roll came to him and restored his fast expiring courage.
"I want to ask a favor of you," he said; and the pleading expression
that he managed to throw into his face was really creditable to him. "I
want to ask you if you will be a little kinder to me. I admire you so
much that I should be the happiest man in all the world if you would but
give me ever so little of your friendship."
She seemed to consider his words--to ponder them; and from her silence
he took hope.
"I am quite unworthy, I know; but, if you knew how all my life long I
have desired the friendship of a good and noble woman, you would be
kinder to me--you would indeed!"
"Do you think, then, that I am good and noble?" she asked.
"I am sure of it; your face----"
"I wish," she interrupted, "that Sir Oswald were of your opinion. You
have lived in what people call 'the world' all your life, Captain
Langton, I suppose?"
"Yes," he replied, wondering what would follow.
"You have been in society all that time, yet I am the first 'good and
noble woman' you have met! You are hardly complimentary to the sex,
after all."
The captain was slightly taken aback.
"I did not say those exact words, Miss Darrell."
"But you implied them. Tell me why you wish for my friendship more than
any other. Miss Hastings is ten thousand times more estimable than I
am--why not make her your friend?"
"I admire you--I like you. I could say more, but I dare not. You are
hard upon me, Miss Darrell."
"I have no wish to be hard," she returned. "Who am I that I should be
hard upon any one? But, you see, I am unfortunately what people call
very plain-spoken--very truthful."
"So much the better," said Captain Langton.
"Is it? Sir Oswald says not. If he does not make me his heiress, it
will be because I have such an abrupt manner of speaking; he often tells
me so."
"Truth in a beautiful woman," began the captain, sentimentally; but Miss
Darrell again interrupted him--she had little patience with his
platitudes.
"You say you wish for my friendship because you like me. Now, here is
the difficulty--I cannot give it to you, because I do not like you."
"You do not like me?" cried the captain, hardly able to believe the
evidence of his own senses. "You cannot mean it! You are the first
person who ever said such a thing!"
"Perhaps I am not the first who ever thought it; but then, as I tell
you, I am very apt to say what I think."
"Will you tell me why you do not like me?" asked the captain, quietly.
He began to see that nothing could be gained in any other fashion.
Her beautiful face was raised quite calmly to his, her dark eyes were as
proudly serene as ever, she was utterly unconscious that she was saying
anything extraordinary.
"I will tell you with pleasure," she replied. "You seem to me wanting in
truth and earnestness; you think people are to be pleased by flattery.
You flatter Sir Oswald, you flatter Miss Hastings, you flatter me. Being
agreeable is all very well, but an honest man does not need to
flatter--does not think of it, in fact. Then, you are either heedless or
cruel--I do not know which. Why should you kill that beautiful flower
that Heaven made to enjoy the sunshine, just for one idle moment's
wanton sport?"
Captain Langton's face grew perfectly white with anger.
"Upon my word of honor," he said, "I never heard anything like this!"
Miss Darrell turned carelessly away.
"You see," she said, "friendship between us would be rather difficult.
But I will not judge too hastily; I will wait a few days, and then
decide."
She had quitted the room before Captain Langton had sufficiently
recovered from his dismay to answer.
CHAPTER XI.
HOW WILL IT END?
It was some minutes before Captain Langton collected himself
sufficiently to cross the room and speak to Miss Hastings. She looked up
at him with a smile.
"I am afraid you have not had a very pleasant time of it at that end of
the room, Captain Langton," she said; "I was just on the point of
interfering."
"Your pupil is a most extraordinary young lady, Miss Hastings," he
returned; "I have never met with any one more so."
Miss Hastings laughed; there was an expression of great amusement on her
face.
"She is certainly very original, Captain Langton; quite different from
the pattern young lady of the present day."
"She is magnificently handsome," he continued; "but her manners are
simply startling."
"She has very grand qualities," said Miss Hastings; "she has a noble
disposition and a generous heart, but the want of early training, the
mixing entirely with one class of society, has made her very strange."
"Strange!" cried the captain. "I have never met with any one so blunt,
so outspoken, so abrupt, in all my life. She has no notion of repose or
polish; I have never been so surprised. I hear Sir Oswald coming, and
really, Miss Hastings, I feel that I cannot see him; I am not equal to
it--that extraordinary girl has quite unsettled me. You might mention
that I have gone out in the grounds to smoke my cigar; I cannot talk to
any one."
Miss Hastings laughed as he passed out through the open French window
into the grounds. Sir Oswald came in, smiling and contented; he talked
for a few minutes with Miss Hastings, and heard that the captain was
smoking his cigar. He expressed to Miss Hastings his very favorable
opinion of the young man, and then bade her good-night.
"How will it end?" said the governess to herself. "She will never marry
him, I am sure. Those proud, clear, dark eyes of hers look through all
his little airs and graces; her grand soul seems to understand all the
narrowness and selfishness of his. She will never marry him. Oh, if she
would but be civilized! Sir Oswald is quite capable of leaving all he
has to the captain, and then what would become of Pauline?"
By this time the gentle, graceful governess had become warmly attached
to the beautiful, wayward, willful girl who persisted so obstinately in
refusing what she chose to call "polish."
"How will it end?" said the governess. "I would give all I have to see
Pauline mistress of Darrell Court; but I fear the future."
Some of the scenes that took place between Miss Darrell and the captain
were very amusing. She had the utmost contempt for his somewhat
dandified airs, his graces, and affectations.
"I like a grand, rugged, noble man, with the head of a hero, and the
brow of a poet, the heart of a lion, and the smile of a child," she said
to him one day; "I cannot endure a coxcomb."
"I hope you may find such a man, Miss Darrell," he returned, quietly. "I
have been some time in the world, but I have never met with such a
character."
"I think your world has been a very limited one," she replied, and the
captain looked angry.
He had certainly hoped and intended to dazzle her with his worldly
knowledge, if nothing else. Yet how she despised his knowledge, and with
what contempt she heard him speak of his various experiences!
Nothing seemed to jar upon her and to irritate her as did his
affectations. She was looking one morning at a very beautifully veined
leaf, which she passed over to Miss Hastings.
"Is it not wonderful?" she asked; and the captain, with his eye-glass,
came to look at it.
"Are you short-sighted?" she asked him, abruptly.
"Not in the least," he replied.
"Is your sight defective?" she continued.
"No, not in the least degree."
"Then why do you use that eye-glass, Captain Langton?"
"I-ah-why, because everybody uses one," he replied.
"I thought it was only women who did that kind of thing--followed a
fashion for fashion's sake," she said, with some little contempt.
The next morning the captain descended without his eye-glass, and Miss
Hastings smiled as she noticed it.
Another of his affectations was a pretended inability to pronounce his
"t's" and "r's."
"Can you really not speak plainly?" she said to him one day.
"Most decidedly I can," he replied, wondering what was coming next.
"Then, why do you call 'rove' 'wove' in that absurd fashion?"
The captain's face flushed.
"It is a habit I have fallen into, I suppose," he replied. "I must break
myself of it."
"It is about the most effeminate habit a man can fall into," said Miss
Darrell. "I think that, if I were a soldier, I should delight in clear,
plain speaking. I cannot understand why English gentlemen seem to think
it fashionable to mutilate their mother tongue."
There was no chance of their ever agreeing--they never did even for one
single hour.
"What are you thinking about, Pauline?" asked Miss Hastings one day.
Her young pupil had fallen into a reverie over "The History of the
Peninsular War."
"I am thinking," she replied, "that, although France boasts so much of
her military glory, England has a superior army; her soldiers are very
brave; her officers the truest gentlemen."
"I am glad to hear that you think so. I have often wondered if you would
take our guest as a sample."
Her beautiful lips curled with unutterable contempt.
"Certainly not. I often contrast him with a Captain Lafosse, who used to
visit us in the Rue d'Orme, a grand man with a brown, rugged face, and
great brown hands. Captain Langton is a coxcomb--neither more nor less,
Miss Hastings."
"But he is polished, refined, elegant in his manner and address, which,
perhaps, your friend with the brown, rugged face was not."
"We shall not agree, Miss Hastings, we shall not agree. I do not like
Captain Langton."
The governess, remembering all that Sir Oswald wished, tried in vain to
represent their visitor in a more favorable light. Miss Darrell simply
looked haughty and unconvinced.
"I am years younger than you," she said, at last, "and have seen nothing
of what you call 'life'; but the instinct of my own heart tells me that
he is false in heart, in mind, in soul; he has a false, flattering
tongue, false lips, false principles--we will not speak of him."
Miss Hastings looked at her sadly.
"Do you not think that in time, perhaps, you may like him better?"
"No," was the blunt reply, "I do not. I told him that I did not like
him, but that I would take some time to consider whether he was to be a
friend of mine or not; and the conclusion I have arrived at is, that I
could not endure his friendship."
"When did you tell him that you did not like him?" asked Miss Hastings,
gravely.
"I think it was the first night he came," she replied.
Miss Hastings looked relieved.
"Did he say anything else to you, Pauline?" she asked, gently.
"No; what should he say? He seemed very much surprised, I suppose, as he
says most people like him. But I do not, and never shall."
One thing was certain, the captain was falling most passionately in love
with Miss Darrell. Her grand beauty, her pride, her originality, all
seemed to have an irresistible charm for him.
CHAPTER XII.
ELINOR ROCHEFORD.
It was a morning in August, when a gray mist hung over the earth, a mist
that resulted from the intense heat, and through which trees, flowers,
and fountains loomed faintly like shadows. The sun showed his bright
face at intervals, but, though he withheld his gracious presence, the
heat and warmth were great; the air was laden with perfume, and the
birds were all singing as though they knew that the sun would soon
reappear.
One glance at her pupil's face showed Miss Hastings there was not much
to be done in the way of study. Pauline wanted to watch the mist rise
from the hills and trees. She wanted to see the sunbeams grow bright and
golden.
"Let us read under the lime trees, Miss Hastings," she said, and Captain
Langton smiled approval. For the time was come when he followed her like
her shadow; when he could not exist out of her presence; when his
passionate love mastered him, and brought him, a very slave, to her
feet; when the hope of winning her was dearer to him than life itself;
when he would have sacrificed even Darrell Court for the hope of
calling her his wife.
If she knew of his passion, she made no sign; she never relaxed from her
haughty, careless indifference; she never tried in the least to make
herself agreeable to him.
Sir Oswald watched her with keen eyes, and Miss Hastings trembled lest
misfortune should come upon the girl she was learning to love so dearly.
She saw and understood that the baronet was slowly but surely making up
his mind; if Pauline married the captain, he would make her his heiress;
if not, she would never inherit Darrell Court.
On this August morning they formed a pretty group under the shadowy,
graceful limes. Miss Hastings held in her hands some of the fine fancy
work which delights ladies; the captain reclined on a tiger-skin rug on
the grass, looking very handsome, for, whatever might be his faults of
mind, he was one of the handsomest men in England. Pauline, as usual,
was beautiful, graceful, and piquant, wearing a plain morning dress of
some gray material--a dress which on any one else would have looked
plain, but which she had made picturesque and artistic by a dash of
scarlet--and a pomegranate blossom in her hair. Her lovely face looked
more than usually noble under the influence of the words she was
reading.
"Tennyson again!" said the captain, as she opened the book. "It is to be
regretted that the poet cannot see you, Miss Darrell, and know how
highly you appreciate his works."
She never smiled nor blushed at his compliments, as she had seen other
girls do. She had a fashion of fixing her bright eyes on him, and after
one glance he generally was overcome with confusion before his
compliment was ended. .
"I should not imagine that anything I could say would flatter a poet,"
she replied, thoughtfully. "Indeed he is, I should say, as far above
blame as praise."
Then, without noticing him further, she went on reading. Captain
Langton's eyes never left her face; its pale, grand beauty glowed and
changed, the dark eyes grew radiant, the beautiful lips quivered with
emotion. He thought to himself that a man might lay down his life and
every hope in it to win such love as hers.
Suddenly she heard the sound of voices, and looking up saw Sir Oswald
escorting two ladies.
"What a tiresome thing!" grumbled the captain. "We can never be alone a
single hour."
"I thought you enjoyed society so much!" she said.
"I am beginning to care for no society on earth but yours," he
whispered, his face flushing, while she turned haughtily away.
"You are proud," murmured the captain to himself--"you are as haughty as
you are beautiful; but I will win you yet."
Then Sir Oswald, with his visitors, advanced. It was Pauline's aversion,
Lady Hampton, with her niece, Miss Rocheford.
Lady Hampton advanced in her usual grave, artificial manner.
"Sir Oswald wanted to send for you, but I said 'no.' What can be more
charming than such a group under the trees? I am so anxious to
introduce my niece to you, Miss Darrell--she arrived only yesterday.
Elinor, let me introduce you to Miss Darrell, Miss Hastings, and Captain
Langton."
Pauline's dark eyes glanced at the blushing, sweet face, and the
shrinking graceful figure. Miss Hastings made her welcome; and the
captain, stroking his mustache, thought himself in luck for knowing two
such pretty girls.
There could not have been a greater contrast than Pauline Darrell and
Elinor Rocheford. Pauline was dark, proud, beautiful, passionate,
haughty, and willful, yet with a poet's soul and a grand mind above all
worldliness, all meanness, all artifice. Elinor was timid, shrinking,
graceful, lovely, with a delicate, fairy-like beauty, yet withal keenly
alive to the main chance, and never forgetting her aunt's great
maxim--to make the best of everything for herself.
On this warm August morning Miss Rocheford wore a charming gossamer
costume of lilac and white, with the daintiest of Parisian hats on her
golden head. Her gloves, shoes, laces, parasol, were perfection--not a
fold was out of place, not a ribbon awry--contrasting most forcibly with
the grand, picturesque girl near her.
Lady Hampton seated herself, and Miss Rocheford did the same. Sir Oswald
suggesting how very refreshing grapes and peaches would be on so warm a
morning, Captain Langton volunteered to go and order some. Lady Hampton
watched him as he walked away.
"What a magnificent man, Sir Oswald! What a fine clever face! It is
easy to see that he is a military man--he is so upright, so easy; there
is nothing like a military training for giving a man an easy, dignified
carriage. I think I understood that he was the son of a very old friend
of yours?"
"The son of the dearest friend I ever had in the world," was the reply;
"and I love him as though he were my own--indeed I wish he were."
Lady Hampton sighed and looked sympathetic.
"Langton," she continued, in a musing tone--"is he one of the Langtons
of Orde?"
"No," replied Sir Oswald; "my dear old friend was of a good family, but
not greatly blessed by fortune."
It was wonderful to see how Lady Hampton's interest in the captain at
once died out; there was no more praise, no more admiration for him. If
she had discovered that he was heir to an earldom, how different it
would have been! Before long the captain returned, and then a rustic
table was spread under the lime trees, with purple grapes, peaches,
crimson and gold apricots, and ruby plums.
"It's quite picturesque," Lady Hampton declared, with a smile; "and
Elinor, dear child, enjoys fruit so much."
In spite of Lady Hampton's wish, there did not appear to be much
cordiality between the two girls. Occasionally Elinor would look at the
captain, who was not slow to return her glances with interest. His eyes
said plainly that he thought her very lovely.
Miss Rocheford was in every respect the model of a well brought up
young lady. She knew that the grand end and aim of her existence was to
marry well--she never forgot that. She was well-born, well-bred,
beautiful, accomplished, but without fortune. From her earliest girlhood
Lady Hampton had impressed upon her the duty of marrying money.
"You have everything else, Elinor," she was accustomed to say. "You must
marry for title and money."
Miss Rocheford knew it. She had no objection to her fate--she was quite
passive over it--but she did hope at times that the man who had the
title and money would be young, handsome, and agreeable. If he were not,
she could not help it, but she hoped he would be.
Lady Hampton had recently become a widow. In her youth she had felt some
little hope of being mistress of Darrell Court; but that hope had soon
died. Now, however, that a niece was thrown upon her hands, she took
heart of grace in another respect; for Sir Oswald was not an old man. It
was true his hair was white, but he was erect, dignified, and, in Lady
Hampton's opinion, more interesting than a handsome young man, who would
think of nothing but himself. If he would be but sensible, and, instead
of adopting that proud, unformed girl, marry, how much better it would
be!
She knew that her niece was precisely the style that he
admired--elegant, delicate, utterly incapable of any originality, ready
at any moment to yield her opinions and ideas, ready to do implicitly as
she was told, to believe in the superiority of her husband--a model
woman, in short, after Sir Oswald's own heart. She saw that the baronet
was much struck with Elinor; she knew that in his own mind he was
contrasting the two girls--the graceful timidity of the one, her perfect
polish of manner, with the brusque independence and terribly
plain-spoken fashion of the other.
"It would be ten thousand pities," said Lady Hampton to herself, "to see
that girl mistress of Darrell Court. She would make a good queen for the
Sandwich Islands. Before I go, I must open Sir Oswald's eyes, and give
him a few useful hints."
CHAPTER XIII.
SIR OSWALD THINKS OF MARRIAGE.
Fortune favored Lady Hampton. Sir Oswald was so delighted with his
visitors that he insisted upon their remaining for luncheon.
"The young ladies will have time to become friends," he said; but it was
well that he did not see how contemptuously Pauline turned away at the
words. "Pauline," he continued, "Miss Rocheford will like to see the
grounds. This is her first visit to Darrell Court. Show her the
fountains and the flower-gardens."
Elinor looked up with a well-assumed expression of rapture; Pauline's
look of annoyance indicated that she obeyed greatly against her will.
Sir Oswald saw the captain looking wistfully after the two girlish
figures.
"Go," he said, with a courtly smile. "Young people like to be together.
I will entertain Lady Hampton."
Greatly relieved, the captain followed. He was so deeply and so
desperately in love that he could not endure to see Pauline Darrell
talking even to the girl by her side. He would fain have engrossed every
word, every glance of hers himself; he was madly jealous when such were
bestowed upon others.
The three walked down the broad cedar path together, the captain all
gallant attention, Miss Rocheford all sweetness, Pauline haughty as a
young barbaric queen bound by a conqueror's chains. She did not like her
companions, and did not even make a feint of being civil to them.
Meanwhile the opportunity so longed for by Lady Hampton had arrived; and
the lady seized it with alacrity. She turned to Sir Oswald with a smile.
"You amuse me," she said, "by giving yourself such an air of age. Why do
you consider yourself so old, Sir Oswald? If it were not that I feared
to flatter you, I should say that there were few young men to compare
with you."
"My dear Lady Hampton," returned the baronet, in a voice that was not
without pathos, "look at this."
He placed his thin white hand upon his white hair. Lady Hampton laughed
again.
"What does that matter? Why, many men are gray even in their youth. I
have always wondered why you seek to appear so old, Sir Oswald. I feel
sure, judging from many indications, that you cannot be sixty."
"No; but I am over fifty--and my idea is that, at fifty, one is really
old."
"Nothing of the kind!" she said, with great energy. "Some of the finest
men I have known were only in the prime of life then. If you were
seventy, you might think of speaking as you do. Sir Oswald," she asked,
abruptly, looking keenly at his face, "why have you never married?"
He smiled, but a flush darkened the fine old face.
"I was in love once," he replied, simply, "and only once. The lady was
young and fair. She loved me in return. But a few weeks before our
marriage she was suddenly taken ill and died. I have never even thought
of replacing her."
"How sad! What sort of a lady was she, Sir Oswald--this fair young love
of yours?"
"Strange to say, in face, figure, and manner she somewhat resembled your
lovely young niece, Lady Hampton. She had the same quiet, graceful
manner, the same polished grace--so different from----"
"From Miss Darrell," supplied the lady, promptly. "How that unfortunate
girl must jar upon you!"
"She does; but there are times when I have hopes of her. We are talking
like old friends now, Lady Hampton. I may tell you that I think there is
one and only one thing that can redeem my niece, and that is love. Love
works wonders sometimes, and I have hopes that it may do so in her case.
A grand master-passion such as controls the Darrells when they love at
all--that would redeem her. It would soften that fierce pride and
hauteur, it would bring her to the ordinary level of womanhood; it would
cure her of many of the fantastic ideas that seem to have taken
possession of her; it would make her--what she certainly is not now--a
gentlewoman."
"Do you think so?" queried Lady Hampton, doubtfully.
"I am sure of it. When I look at that grand face of hers, often so
defiant, I think to myself that she may be redeemed by love."
"And if this grand master-passion does not come to her--if she cares for
some one only after the ordinary fashion of women--what then?"
He threw up his hands with a gesture indicative of despair.
"Or," continued Lady Hampton--"pray pardon me for suggesting such a
thing, Sir Oswald, but people of the world, like you and myself, know
what odd things are likely at any time to happen--supposing that she
should marry some commonplace lover, after a commonplace fashion, and
that then the master-passion should find her out, what would be the fate
of Darrell Court?"
"I cannot tell," replied Sir Oswald, despairingly.
"With a person, especially a young girl, of her self-willed, original,
independent nature, one is never safe. How thankful I am that my niece
is so sweet and so womanly!"
Sir Oswald sat for some little time in silence. He looked on this fair
ancestral home of his, with its noble woods and magnificent gardens.
What indeed would become of it if it fell into the ill-disciplined hands
of an ill-disciplined girl--unless, indeed, she were subject to the
control of a wise husband?
Would Pauline ever submit to such control? Her pale, grand face rose
before him, the haughty lips, the proud, calm eyes--the man who mastered
her, who brought her mind into subjection, would indeed be a superior
being. For the first time a doubt crossed Sir Oswald's mind as to
whether she would ever recognize that superior being in Captain Langton.
He knew that there were depths in the girl's nature beyond his own
reach. It was not all pride, all defiance--there were genius, poetry,
originality, grandeur of intellect, and greatness of heart before which
the baronet knew that he stood in hopeless, helpless awe.
Lady Hampton laid her hand on his arm.
"Do not despond, old friend," she said. "I understand you. I should feel
like you. I should dread to leave the inheritance of my fathers in such
dangerous hands. But, Sir Oswald, why despond? Why not marry?"
The baronet started.
"Marry!" he repeated. "Why, I have never thought of such a thing."
"Think of it now," counseled the lady, laughingly; "you will find the
advice most excellent. Instead of tormenting yourself about an
ill-conditioned girl, who delights in defying you, you can have an
amiable, accomplished, elegant, and gentle wife to rule your household
and attend to your comfort--you might have a son of your own to succeed
you, and Darrell Court might yet remain in the hands of the Darrells."
"But, my dear Lady Hampton, where should I find such a wife? I am no
longer young--who would marry me?"
"Any sensible girl in England. Take my advice, Sir Oswald. Let us have a
Lady Darrell, and not an ill-trained girl who will delight in setting
the world at defiance. Indeed, I consider that marriage is a duty which
you owe to society and to your race."
"I have never thought of it. I have always considered myself as having,
so to speak, finished with life."
"You have made a great mistake, but it is one that fortunately can be
remedied."
Lady Hampton rose from her seat, and walked a few steps forward.
"I have put his thoughts in the right groove," she mused; "but I ought
to say a word about Elinor."
She turned to him again.
"You ask me who would marry you. Why, Sir Oswald, in England there are
hundreds of girls, well-bred, elegant, graceful, gentle, like my niece,
who would ask nothing better from fortune than a husband like yourself."
She saw her words take effect. She had turned his thoughts and ideas in
the right direction at last.
"Shall we go and look after our truants?" she asked, suavely.
And they walked together down the path where Pauline had so indignantly
gathered the broken lily. As though unconsciously, Lady Hampton began to
speak of her niece.
"I have adopted Elinor entirely," she said--"indeed there was no other
course for me to pursue. Her mother was my youngest sister; she has
been dead many years. Elinor has been living with her father, but he has
just secured a government appointment abroad, and I asked him to give
his daughter to me."
"It was very kind of you," observed Sir Oswald.
"Nay, the kindness is on her part, not on mine. She is like a sunbeam in
my house. Fair, gentle, a perfect lady, she has not one idea that is not
in itself innately refined and delicate. I knew that if she went into
society at all she would soon marry."
"Is there any probability of that?" asked Sir Oswald.
"No, for by her own desire we shall live very quietly this year. She
wished to see Darrell Court and its owner--we have spoken so much of
you--but with that exception we shall go nowhere."
"I hope she is pleased with Darrell Court," said Sir Oswald.
"How could she fail to be, as well as delighted with its hospitable
master? I could read that much in her pretty face. Here they are, Sir
Oswald--Miss Darrell alone, looking very dignified--Elinor, with your
friend. Ah, she knows how to choose friends!"
They joined the group, but Miss Darrell was in one of her most dignified
moods. She had been forced to listen to a fashionable conversation
between Captain Langton and Miss Rocheford, and her indignation and
contempt had got the better of her politeness.
They all partook of luncheon together, and then the visitors departed;
not, however, until Lady Hampton had accepted from Sir Oswald an
invitation to spend a week at Darrell Court. Sir Francis and Lady Allroy
were coming--the party would be a very pleasant one; and Sir Oswald said
he would give a grand ball in the course of the week--a piece of
intelligence which delighted the captain and Miss Rocheford greatly.
Then Lady Hampton and her niece set out. Sir Oswald held Elinor's hand
rather longer than strict etiquette required.
"How like she is to my dead love!" he thought, and his adieu was more
than cordial.
As they drove home, Lady Hampton gazed at her niece with a look of
triumph.
"You have a splendid chance, Elinor," she said; "no girl ever had a
better. What do you think of Darrell Court?"
"It is a palace, aunt--a magnificent, stately palace. I have never seen
anything like it before."
"It may be yours if you play your cards well, my dear."
"How?" cried the girl. "I thought it was to be Miss Darrell's. Every one
says she is her uncle's heiress."
"People need not make too sure of it. I do not think so. With a little
management, Sir Oswald will propose to you, I am convinced."
The girl's face fell.
"But, aunt, he is so old."
"He is only just fifty, Elinor. No girl in her senses would ever call
that old. It is just the prime of life."
"I like Captain Langton so much the better," she murmured.
"I have no doubt that you do, my dear; but there must be no nonsense
about liking or disliking. Sir Oswald's income must be quite twenty
thousand per annum, and if you manage well, all that may be yours. But
you must place yourself under my directions, and do implicitly what I
tell you, if so desirable a result is to be achieved."
CHAPTER XIV.
PAULINE'S LOVE FOR DARRELL COURT.
Miss Darrell preserved a dignified silence during dinner; but when the
servants had withdrawn, Sir Oswald, who had been charmed with his
visitors, said:
"I am delighted, Pauline, that you have secured a young lady friend. You
will be pleased with Miss Rocheford."
Pauline made no reply; and Sir Oswald, never thinking that it was
possible for one so gentle and lovely as Miss Rocheford to meet with
anything but the warmest praise, continued:
"I consider that Lady Hampton has done us all a great favor in bringing
her charming niece with her. Were you not delighted with her, Pauline?"
Miss Darrell made no haste to reply; but Sir Oswald evidently awaited an
answer.
"I do not like Miss Rocheford," she said at length; "it would be quite
useless to pretend that I do."
Miss Hastings looked up in alarm. Captain Langton leaned back in his
chair, with a smile on his lips--he always enjoyed Pauline's "scenes"
when her anger was directed against any one but himself; Sir Oswald's
brow darkened.
"Pray, Miss Darrell, may I ask why you do not like her?"
"Certainly. I do not like her for the same reason that I should not like
a diet of sugar. Miss Rocheford is very elegant and gentle, but she has
no opinions of her own; every wind sways her; she has no ideas, no force
of character. It is not possible for me to really like such a person."
"But, my dear Pauline," interposed Miss Hastings, "you should not
express such very decided opinions; you should be more reticent, more
tolerant."
"If I am not to give my opinion," said Pauline, serenely, "I should not
be asked for it."
"Pray, Miss Hastings, do not check such delightful frankness," cried Sir
Oswald, angrily, his hands trembling, his face darkening with an angry
frown.
He said no more; but the captain, who thought he saw a chance of
recommending himself to Miss Darrell's favor, observed, later on in the
evening:
"I knew you would not like our visitor, Miss Darrell. She was not of the
kind to attract you."
"Sir Oswald forced my opinion from me," she said; "but I shall not
listen to one word of disparagement of Miss Rocheford from you, Captain
Langton. You gave her great attention, you flattered her, you paid her
many compliments; and now, if you say that you dislike her, it will
simply be deceitful, and I abominate deceit."
It was plain that Pauline had greatly annoyed Sir Oswald. He liked Miss
Rocheford very much; the sweet, yielding, gentle disposition, which
Pauline had thought so monotonous, delighted him. Miss Rocheford was so
like that lost, dead love of his--so like! And for this girl, who tried
his patience every hour of the day, to find fault with her! It was too
irritating; he could not endure it. He was very cold and distant to
Pauline for some time, but the young girl was serenely unconscious of
it.
In one respect she was changing rapidly. The time had been when she had
been indifferent to Darrell Court, when she had thought with regret of
the free, happy life in the Rue d'Orme, where she could speak lightly of
the antiquity and grandeurs of the race from which she had sprung; but
all that was altered now. It could not be otherwise, considering how
romantic, how poetical, how impressionable she was, how keenly alive to
everything beautiful and noble. She was living here in the very cradle
of the race, where every tree had its legend, every stone its story; how
could she be indifferent while the annals of her house were filled with
noble retrospects? The Darrells had numbered great warriors and
statesmen among their number. Some of the noblest women in England had
been Darrells; and Pauline had learned to glory in the old stories, and
to feel her heart beat with pride as she remembered that she, too, was a
Darrell.
So, likewise, she had grown to love the Court for its picturesque
beauty, its stately magnificence, and the time came soon when almost
every tree and shrub was dear to her.
It was Pauline's nature to love deeply and passionately if she loved at
all; there was no lukewarmness about her. She was incapable of those
gentle, womanly likings that save all wear and tear of passion. She
could not love in moderation; and very soon the love of Darrell Court
became a passion with her. She sketched the mansion from twenty
different points of view, she wrote verses about it; she lavished upon
it the love which some girls lavish upon parents, brothers, sisters, and
friends.
She stood one day looking at it as the western sunbeams lighted it up
until it looked as though it were bathed in gold. The stately towers and
turrets, the flower-wreathed balconies, the grand arched windows, the
Gothic porch, all made up a magnificent picture; the fountains were
playing in the sunlit air, the birds singing in the stately trees. She
turned to Miss Hastings, and the governess saw tears standing warm and
bright in the girl's eyes.
"How beautiful it is!" she said. "I cannot tell you--I have no words to
tell you--how I love my home."
The heart of the gentle lady contracted with sudden fear.
"It is very beautiful," she said; "but, Pauline, do not love it too
much; remember how very uncertain everything is."
"There can be nothing uncertain about my inheritance," returned the
girl. "I am a Darrell--the only Darrell left to inherit it. And, oh!
Miss Hastings, how I love it! But it is not for its wealth that I love
it; it is my heart that is bound to it. I love it as I can fancy a
husband loves his wife, a mother her child. It is everything to me."
"Still," said Miss Hastings, "I would not love it too well; everything
is so uncertain."
"But not that," replied Pauline, quickly. "My uncle would never dare to
be so unjust as to leave Darrell Court to any one but a Darrell. I am
not in the least afraid--not in the least."
CHAPTER XV.
BREACH BETWEEN UNCLE AND NIECE.
A few days later the tranquillity of Darrell Court was at an end. The
invited guests were expected, and Sir Oswald had determined to do them
all honor. The state-apartments, which had not been used during his
tenure, were all thrown open; the superb ball-room, once the pride of
the county, was redecorated; the long, empty corridors and suites of
apartments reserved for visitors, were once more full of life. Miss
Hastings was the presiding genius; Pauline Darrell took far less
interest in the preparations.
"I am glad," she said, one morning, "that I am to see your 'world,' Sir
Oswald. You despise mine; I shall be anxious to see what yours is like."
The baronet answered her testily:
"I do not quite understand your remarks about 'worlds.' Surely we live
under the same conditions."
"Not in the same world of people," she opposed; "and I am anxious to see
what yours is like."
"What do you expect to find in what you are pleased to call my world,
Pauline?" he asked, angrily.
"Little truth, and plenty of affectation; little honor, and plenty of
polish; little honesty, and very high-sounding words; little sincerity,
and plenty of deceit."
"By what right do you sit in judgment?" he demanded.
"None at all," replied Pauline; "but as people are always speaking ill
of the dear, honest world in which I have lived, I may surely be
permitted to criticise the world that is outside it."
Sir Oswald turned away angrily; and Miss Hastings sighed over the girl's
willfulness.
"Why do you talk to Sir Oswald in a fashion that always irritates him?"
she remonstrated.
"We live in a free country, and have each of us freedom of speech."
"I am afraid the day will come when you will pay a sad price for yours."
But Pauline Darrell only laughed. Such fears never affected her; she
would sooner have expected to see the heavens fall at her feet than that
Sir Oswald should not leave Darrell Court to her--his niece, a Darrell,
with the Darrell face and the Darrell figure, the true, proud features
of the race. He would never dare to do otherwise, she thought, and she
would not condescend to change either her thought or speech to please
him.
"The Darrells do not know fear," she would say; "there never yet was an
example of a Darrell being frightened into anything."
So the breach between the uncle and the niece grew wider every day. He
could not understand her; the grand, untrained, undisciplined, poetical
nature was beyond him--he could neither reach its heights nor fathom its
depths. There were times when he thought that, despite her outward
coldness and pride, there was within a soul of fire, when he dimly
understood the magnificence of the character he could not read, when he
suspected there might be some souls that could not be narrowed or forced
into a common groove. Nevertheless he feared her; he was afraid to
trust, not the honor, but the fame of his race to her.
"She is capable of anything," he would repeat to himself again and
again. "She would fling the Darrell revenues to the wind; she would
transform Darrell Court into one huge observatory, if astronomy pleased
her--into one huge laboratory, if she gave herself to chemistry. One
thing is perfectly clear to me--she can never be my heiress until she is
safely married."
And, after great deliberation--after listening to all his heart's
pleading in favor of her grace, her beauty, her royal generosity of
character, the claim of her name and her truth--he came to the decision
that if she would marry Captain Langton, whom he loved perhaps better
than any one else in the world, he would at once make his will, adopt
her, and leave her heiress of all that he had in the world.
One morning the captain confided in him, telling him how dearly he loved
his beautiful niece, and then Sir Oswald revealed his intentions.
"You understand, Aubrey," he said--"the girl is magnificently
beautiful--she is a true Darrell; but I am frightened about her. She is
not like other girls; she is wanting in tact, in knowledge of the world,
and both are essential. I hope you will win her. I shall die content if
I leave Darrell Court in your hands, and if you are her husband. I could
not pass her over to make you my heir; but if you can persuade her to
marry you, you can take the name of Darrell, and you can guide and
direct her. What do you say, Aubrey?"
"What do I say?" stammered the captain. "I say this--that I love her so
dearly that I would marry her if she had not a farthing. I love her so
that language cannot express the depth of my affection for her."
The captain was for a few minutes quite overcome--he had been so long
dunned for money, so hardly pressed, so desperate, that the chance of
twenty thousand a year and Darrell Court was almost too much for him.
His brow grew damp, and his lips pale. All this might be his own if he
could but win the consent of this girl. Yet he feared her; the proud,
noble face, the grand, dark eyes rose before him, and seemed to rebuke
him for his presumptuous hope. How was he to win her? Flattery, sweet,
soft words would never do it. One scornful look from her sent his ideas
"flying right and left."
"If she were only like other girls," he thought, "I could make her my
wife in a few weeks."
Then he took heart of grace. Had he not been celebrated for his good
fortune among the fair sex? Had he not always found his handsome
person, his low, tender voice, his pleasing manner irresistible? Who was
this proud, dark-eyed girl that she should measure the depths of his
heart and soul, and find them wanting? Surely he must be superior to the
artists in shabby coats by whom she had been surrounded. And yet he
feared as much as he hoped.
"She has such a way of making me feel small," he said to himself; "and
if that kind of feeling comes over me when I am making her an offer, it
will be of no use to plead my suit."
But what a prospect--master of Darrell Court and twenty thousand per
annum! He would endure almost any humiliation to obtain that position.
"She must have me," he said to himself--"she shall have me! I will force
her to be my wife!"
Why, if he could but announce his engagement to Miss Darrell, he could
borrow as much money as would clear off all his liabilities! And how
much he needed money no one knew better than himself. He had paid this
visit to the Court because there were two writs out against him in
London, and, unless he could come to some settlement of them, he knew
what awaited him.
And all--fortune, happiness, wealth, freedom, prosperity--depended on
one word from the proud lips that had hardly ever spoken kindly to him.
He loved her, too--loved her with a fierce, desperate love that at times
frightened himself.
"I should like you," said Sir Oswald, at the conclusion of their
interview, "to have the matter settled as soon as you can; because, I
tell you, frankly, if my niece does not consent to marry you, I shall
marry myself. All my friends are eagerly solicitous for me to do so;
they do not like the prospect of seeing a grand old inheritance like
this fall into the hands of a willful, capricious girl. But I tell you
in confidence, Aubrey, I do not wish to marry. I am a confirmed old
bachelor now, and it would be a sad trouble to me to have my life
changed by marriage. Still I would rather marry than that harm should
come to Darrell Court."
"Certainly," agreed the captain.
"I do not mind telling you still further that I have seen a lady whom,
if I marry at all, I should like to make my wife--in fact, she resembles
some one I used to know long years ago. I have every reason to believe
she is much admired and sought after; so that I want you to settle your
affairs as speedily as possible. Mind, Aubrey, they must be
settled--there must be no deferring, no putting off; you must have an
answer--yes or no--very shortly; and you must not lose an hour in
communicating that answer to me."
"I hope it will be a favorable one," said Aubrey Langton; but his mind
misgave him. He had an idea that the girl had found him wanting; he
could not forget her first frank declaration that she did not like him.
"If she refuses me, have I your permission to tell Miss Darrell the
alternative?" he asked of Sir Oswald.
The baronet thought deeply for some minutes, and then said:
"Yes; it is only fair and just that she should know it--that she should
learn that if she refuses you she loses all chance of being my heiress.
But do not say anything of the lady I have mentioned."
The visitors were coming on Tuesday, and Thursday was the day settled
for the ball.
"All girls like balls," thought Captain Langton. "Pauline is sure to be
in a good temper then, and I will ask her on Thursday night."
But he owned to himself that he would rather a thousand times have faced
a whole battalion of enemies than ask Pauline Darrell to be his wife.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE QUEEN OF THE BALL.
It was many years since Darrell Court had been so gay. Sir Oswald had
resolved that the ball should be one that should reflect credit on the
giver and the guests. He had ordered a fine band of music and a
magnificent banquet. The grounds were to be illuminated, colored lamps
being placed among the trees; the ball-room was a gorgeous mass of
brilliant bloom--tier after tier of magnificent flowers was ranged along
the walls, white statues gleaming from the bright foliage, and little
fountains here and there sending up their fragrant spray.
Sir Oswald had sent to London for some one to superintend the
decorations; but they were not perfected until Miss Darrell, passing
through, suggested first one alteration, and then another, until the
originators, recognizing her superior artistic judgment and picturesque
taste, deferred to her, and then the decorations became a magnificent
work of art.
Sir Oswald declared himself delighted, and the captain's praises were
unmeasured. Then, and then only, Miss Darrell began to feel some
interest in the ball; her love of beauty was awakened and
pleased--there was something more in the event than the mere
gratification of seeing people dance.
The expected visitors had arrived on the Tuesday--Lady Hampton, radiant
with expected victory; Elinor, silent, thoughtful, and more gentle than
ever, and consequently more pleasing.
Lady Hampton was delighted with the idea of the ball.
"You must make a bold stroke for a husband on that evening, Elinor," she
said. "You shall have a superb dress, and I shall quite expect you to
receive and accept an offer from Sir Oswald."
Elinor Rocheford raised her eyes. There was something wistful in their
expression.
"Oh, aunt," she said, "I like the captain so much better!"
Lady Hampton did not lose her good humor--Elinor was not the first
refractory girl she had brought to her senses.
"Never mind about liking the captain, my dear; that is only natural. He
is not in love with you. I can see through the whole business. If
Darrell Court goes to Miss Darrell, he will marry her. He can marry no
girl without money, because he is, I know, over head and ears in debt.
Major Penryn was speaking of him to-day. The only way to prevent his
marriage with Miss Darrell is for you to take Sir Oswald yourself."
Elinor's face flushed.
Lady Hampton certainly understood the art of evoking the worst feelings.
Jealousy, envy, and dislike stirred faintly in the gentle heart of her
niece.
"I hope you will do your very best to win Sir Oswald's affections,"
continued Lady Hampton, "for I should not like to see Darrell Court fall
into the hands of that proud girl."
"Nor should I," assented Miss Rocheford.
The evening of the ball arrived at last, and Lady Hampton stood like a
fairy godmother in Elinor's dressing-room, superintending the toilet
that was to work such wonders. Lady Hampton herself looked very imposing
in her handsome dress of black velvet and point lace, with diamond
ornaments. Elinor's dress was a triumph of art. Her fresh, fair, gentle
loveliness shone to perfection, aided by her elaborate costume of white
silk and white lace, trimmed with green and silver leaves. The ornaments
were all of silver--both fringe and leaves; the headdress was a green
wreath with silver flowers. Nothing could have been more elegant and
effective. There was a gentle flush on the fair face and a light in the
blue eyes.
"That will do, Elinor," said Lady Hampton, complacently. "Your dress is
perfection. I have no fear now--you will have no rival."
Perhaps Lady Hampton had never disliked Pauline Darrell more than on
that night, for the magnificent beauty of the girl had never been so
apparent. Sir Oswald had given his niece _carte blanche_ in respect to
preparation for the ball, but she had not at first taken sufficient
interest in the matter to send to London, as he wished, for a dress.
Later on she had gone to the large wardrobe, where the treasures
accumulated by the Ladies Darrell lay. Such shining treasures of satin,
velvet, silk, cashmere, and such profusion of laces and ornaments were
there! She selected a superb costume--a magnificent amber brocade,
embroidered with white flowers, gorgeous, beautiful, artistic. It was a
dress that had been made for some former Lady Darrell.
How well it became her! The amber set off her dark beauty as a golden
frame does a rich picture. The dress required but little alteration; it
was cut square, showing the white, stately, graceful neck, and the
sleeves hung after the Grecian fashion, leaving the round, white arms
bare. The light shining upon the dress changed with every movement; it
was as though the girl was enveloped in sunbeams. Every lady present
envied that dress, and pronounced it to be gorgeous beyond comparison.
Pauline's rich curls of dark hair were studded with diamond stars, and a
diamond necklace clasped her white throat--this was Sir Oswald's
present. Her artistic taste had found yet further scope; for she had
enhanced the beauty of her dress by the addition of white daphnes
shrouded in green leaves.
Sir Oswald looked at her in admiration--her magnificent beauty, her
queenly figure, her royal grace and ease of movement, her splendid
costume, all impressed him. From every fold of her shining dress came a
rich, sweet, subtle perfume; her usually pale face had on it an unwonted
flush of delicate rose-leaf color.
"If she would but be like that sweet Elinor!" thought Sir Oswald. "I
could not wish for a more beautiful mistress for Darrell Court."
She stood by his side while he received his guests, and her dignified
ease delighted him.
"Had she been some Eastern queen," he thought, "her eccentricities would
have hurt no one. As it is----" and Sir Oswald concluded his sentence by
a grave shake of the head.
The captain, pleased with Miss Rocheford's graceful loveliness, had been
amusing himself by paying her some very choice compliments, and she was
delighted with them.
"If Sir Oswald were only like him!" she thought; and Aubrey Langton,
meeting the timid, gentle glance, said to himself that he must be
careful--he had no wish to win the girl's heart--he should be quite at a
loss to know what to do with it.
When he saw Pauline his courage almost failed him.
"How am I to ask that magnificent girl to marry me?" he said.
Sir Oswald had expressed a wish that Aubrey and Pauline would open the
ball; it would give people an idea of what he wished, he thought, and
prevent other gentlemen from "turning her head" by paying her any marked
attention. Yet he knew how difficult it would be for any one to win
Pauline's regard. She made no objection when he expressed his wish to
her, but she did not look particularly pleased.
Captain Langton understood the art of dancing better perhaps than the
art of war; he was perfect in it--even Pauline avowed it. With him
dancing was the very poetry of motion. The flowers, the lights, the
sweet, soft music, the fragrance, the silvery sound of laughter, the
fair faces and shining jewels of the ladies, all stirred and warmed
Pauline's imagination; they brought bright and vivid fancies to her, and
touched the poetical beauty-loving soul. A glow came over her face, a
light into her proud, dark eyes, her lips were wreathed in smiles--no
one had ever seen Pauline so beautiful before.
"You enjoy this, do you not?" said Aubrey Langton, as he watched her
beautiful face.
"I shall do so," she replied, "very much indeed;" and at what those
words implied the captain's courage fell to zero.
He saw how many admiring eyes followed her; he knew that all the
gentlemen in the room were envying him his position with Miss Darrell.
He knew that, pretty as some of the girls were, Pauline outshone them as
the sun outshines the stars; and he knew that she was queen of the
_fete_--queen of the ball.
"This is the first time you have met many of the county people, is it
not?" he asked.
She looked round indifferently.
"Yes, it is the first time," she replied.
"Do you admire any of the men? I know how different your taste is from
that of most girls. Is there any one here who has pleased you?"
She laughed.
"I cannot tell," she answered; "you forget this is the first dance. I
have had no opportunity of judging."
"I believe that I am jealous already," he observed.
She looked at him; her dark eyes made his heart beat, they seemed to
look through him.
"You are what?" she asked. "Captain Langton, I do not understand."
He dared not repeat the words.
"I wish," he said, with a deep sigh, "that I had all the talent and all
the wealth in the world."
"For what reason?" she inquired.
"Because you would care for me then."
"Because of your talent and wealth!" she exclaimed. "No, that I should
not."
"But I thought you admired talent so much," he said, in surprise.
"So I do; but mere talent would never command my respect, nor mere
wealth."
"The two together might," he suggested.
"No. You would not understand me, Captain Langton, were I to explain.
Now this dance is over, and I heard you engage Miss Rocheford for the
next."
"And you," he said, gloomily--"what are you going to do?"
"To enjoy myself," she replied; and, from the manner in which her face
brightened when he left her, the captain feared she was pleased to be
quit of him.
CHAPTER XVII.
PAULINE'S BRIGHT FANCIES.
The ball at Darrell Court was a brilliant success. Sir Oswald was
delighted, Lady Hampton complimented him so highly.
"This is just as it ought to be, Sir Oswald," she said. "One who can
give such entertainments as this should not think of retiring from a
world he is so well qualified to adorn. Confess, now, that under the
influence of that music you could dance yourself."
Sir Oswald laughed.
"I must plead guilty," he said. "How beautiful Miss Rocheford looks
to-night!"
"It is well for you, Sir Oswald, that you have not heard all the
compliments that the dear child has lavished on you; they would have
made you vain."
Sir Oswald's face brightened with pleasure.
"Is your niece pleased? I am very glad indeed. It was more to give her
pleasure than from any other motive that I gave the ball."
"Then you have succeeded perfectly. Now, Sir Oswald, do you not see
that what I said was true--that an establishment like this requires a
mistress? Darrell Court always led the hospitalities of the county. It
is only since no lady has lived here that it has fallen into the
background."
"It shall be in the background no longer," said Sir Oswald. "I think my
first ball is a very successful one. How happy everybody looks!"
But of all that brilliant company, Pauline Darrell was queen. There were
men present who would have given anything for one smile from her lips.
They admired her, they thought her beautiful beyond comparison, but they
did not feel quite at ease with her. She was somewhat beyond them; they
did not understand her. She did not blush, and glow, and smile when they
said pretty things to her. When they gave her their most brilliant
small-talk, she had nothing to give them in return. A soul quite
different from theirs looked at them out of her dark, proud eyes. They
said to themselves that she was very beautiful, but that she required
softening, and that something lovable and tender was wanting in her. She
was a queen to be worshiped, an empress to receive all homage, but not a
woman to be loved. So they thought who were not even capable of judging
such capacity for love as hers.
She was also not popular with the ladies. They thought her very superb;
they admired her magnificent dress; but they pronounced her proud and
reserved. They said she gave herself airs, that she took no pains to
make friends; and they did not anticipate any very great rejoicings when
Darrell Court should belong to her. The elder ladies pronounced that
judgment on her; the younger ones shrank abashed, and were slightly
timid in her presence.
Sir Oswald, it was noticed, led Miss Rocheford in to supper, and seemed
to pay her very great attention. Some of the ladies made observations,
but others said it was all nonsense; if Sir Oswald had ever intended to
marry, he would have married years ago, and his choice would have fallen
on a lady of mature age, not on a slight, slender girl. Besides--and who
could find an answer to such an argument?--was it not settled that Miss
Darrell was to be his heiress? There was no doubt about that.
The baronet's great affection for Aubrey Langton was also known. More
than one of the guests present guessed at the arrangement made, and said
that in all probability Miss Darrell would marry the captain, and that
they would have the Court after Sir Oswald's death.
The banquet was certainly a magnificent one. The guests did full justice
to the costly wines, the rare and beautiful fruits, the _recherche_
dishes prepared with so much skill and labor. When supper was ended, the
dancers returned to the ball-room, but Miss Darrell was already rather
weary of it all.
She stole away during the first dance after supper. The lamps were
lighted in the conservatory, and shed a soft, pearly light over the
fragrant flowers; the great glass doors at the end were open, and beyond
lay the moonlight, soft, sweet, and silvery, steeping the flowers, the
trees, and the long grass in its mild light. Without, all was so calm,
so still; there was the evening sky with its myriad stars, so calm and
so serene; close to the doors stood great sheaves of white lilies, and
just inside was a nest of fragrant daphnes and jessamines.
Pauline stood lost in delight; the perfume seemed to float in from the
moonlight and infold her. This quiet, holy, tranquil beauty touched her
heart as the splendor of the ball-room could not; her soul grew calm and
still; she seemed nearer happiness than she had ever been before.
"How beautiful the world is!" she thought. She raised her face, so
serenely placid and fair in the moonlight; the silver radiance fell upon
it, adding all that was needed to make it perfect, a blended softness
and tenderness. The gorgeous, golden-hued dress falling around her,
glistened, gleamed, and glowed; her diamonds shone like flames. No
artist ever dreamed of a fairer picture than this girl in the midst of
the moonlight and the flowers.
Bright fancies thronged her mind. She thought of the time when she
should be mistress of that rich domain. No mercenary delight made her
heart thrill; it was not the prospect of being rich that delighted her;
it was a nobler pride--delight in the grand old home where heroes had
lived and died, earnest thoughts of how she would care for it, how she
would love it as some living thing when it should be her own.
Her own! Verily her lines were cast in pleasant places! She dreamed
great things--of the worthy deeds she would do, of the noble charities
she would carry out, the magnificent designs she would bring to
maturity when Darrell Court should be hers.
It was not that she wished for it at once. She did not love Sir
Oswald--their natures were too antagonistic for that; but she did not
wish--indeed, she was incapable of wishing--that his life should be
shortened even for one hour. She only remembered that in the course of
time this grand inheritance must be hers. How she would help those
artist-friends of her father's! What orders she would give them, what
pictures she would buy, what encouragement she would give to art and
literature! How she would foster genius! How she would befriend the
clever and gifted poor ones of the earth!
The beautiful moonlight seemed to grow fairer, the blue, starry heavens
nearer, as the grand and gracious possibilities of her life revealed
themselves to her. Her heart grew warm, her soul trembled with delight.
And then--then there would be something dearer and fairer than all
this--something that comes to every woman--her birthright--something
that would complete her life, that would change it, that would make
music of every word, and harmony of every action. The time would come
when love would find her out, when the fairy prince would wake her from
her magic sleep. She was pure and spotless as the white lilies standing
near her; the breath of love had never passed over her. There had been
no long, idle conversations with young girls on the subject of love and
lovers; her heart was a blank page. But there came to her that night, as
she stood dreaming her maiden dreams among the flowers, an idea of how
she could love, and of what manner of man he would be who should win her
love.
Was she like Undine? Were there depths in her heart and soul which could
not be reached until love had brought them to light? She felt in herself
great capabilities that had never yet been exercised or called into
action. Love would complete her life; it would be the sun endowing the
flowers with life, warmth, and fragrance.
What manner of man must he be who would wake this soul of hers to
perfect life? She had seen no one yet capable of doing so. The mind that
mastered hers must be a master-mind; the soul that could bring her soul
into subjection must be a grand soul, a just soul, noble and generous.
Ah, well, the moonlight was fair, and the flowers were fair. Soon,
perhaps, this fair dream of hers might be realized, and then----
CHAPTER XVIII.
REJECTED.
A shadow came between Pauline and the moonlight, and a quiet voice said:
"Miss Darrell, I am so glad to find you here, and alone!"
Looking up, she saw Aubrey Langton standing by her side. Aubrey's fair,
handsome face was flushed, and there was the fragrance of the wine-cup
about him, for the gallant captain's courage had failed him, and he had
to fortify himself.
He had seen Miss Darrell go into the conservatory, and he understood her
well enough to be sure that she had gone thither in search of quiet.
Here was his opportunity. He had been saying to himself all day that he
must watch for his opportunity. Here it was; yet his courage failed him,
and his heart sank; he would have given anything to any one who would
have undertaken the task that lay before him. There was so much at
stake--not only love, but wealth, fortune, even freedom--there was so
much to be won or lost, that he was frightened.
However, as he said to himself, it had to be done. He went back to the
dining-room and poured out for himself a tumbler of the baronet's
generous old wine, which made his heart glow, and diffused warmth
through his whole frame, and then he went on his difficult errand. He
walked quietly through the conservatory, and saw Pauline standing at the
doors.
He was not an artist, he had nothing of the poet about him, but the
solemn beauty of that picture did touch him--the soft, sweet moonlight,
the sheaves of white lilies, the nest of daphnes, and that most
beautiful face raised to the starry sky.
He stood for some minutes in silence; a dim perception of his own
unworthiness came over him. Pauline looked as though she stood in a
charmed circle, which he almost feared to enter.
Then he went up to her and spoke. She was startled; she had been so
completely absorbed in her dreams, and he was the last person on earth
with whom she could identify them.
"I hope I have not startled you," he said. "I am so glad to find you
here, Miss Darrell. There is something I wish to say to you."
Perhaps that beautiful, calm night-scene had softened her; she turned to
him with a smile more gentle than he had ever seen on her face before.
"You want to tell me something--I am ready to listen, Captain Langton.
What is it?"
He came nearer to her. The sweet, subtle perfume from the flowers at her
breast reached him, the proud face that had always looked proudly on
him, was near his own.
He came one step nearer still, and then Pauline drew back with a haughty
gesture that seemed to scatter the light in her jewels.
"I can hear perfectly well," she said, coldly. "What is it you have to
tell me?"
"Pauline, do not be unkind to me. Let me come nearer, where I may kneel
at your feet and pray my prayer."
His face flushed, his heart warmed with his words; all the passionate
love that he really felt for her woke within him. There was no feigning,
no pretense--it was all reality. It was not Darrell Court he was
thinking of, but Pauline, peerless, queenly Pauline; and in that moment
he felt that he could give his whole life to win her.
"Let me pray my prayer," he repeated; "let me tell you how dearly I love
you, Pauline--so dearly and so well that if you send me from you my life
will be a burden to me, and I shall be the most wretched of men."
She did not look proud of angry, but merely sorry. Her dark eyes
drooped, her lips even quivered.
"You love me," she rejoined--"really love me, Captain Langton?"
He interrupted her.
"I loved you the first moment that I saw you. I have admired others, but
I have seen none like you. All the deep, passionate love of my heart has
gone out to you; and, if you throw it from you, Pauline, I shall die."
"I am very sorry," she murmured, gently.
"Nay, not sorry. Why should you be sorry? You would not take a man's
life, and hold it in the hollow of your hand, only to fling it away. You
may have richer lovers, you may have titles and wealth offered to you,
but you will never have a love truer or deeper than mine."
There was a ring of truth about his words, and they haunted her.
"I know I am unworthy of you. If I were a crowned king, and you, my
peerless Pauline, the humblest peasant, I should choose you from the
whole world to be my wife. But I am only a soldier--a poor soldier. I
have but one treasure, and that I offer to you--the deepest, truest love
of my heart. I would that I were a king, and could woo you more
worthily."
She looked up quickly--his eyes were drinking in the beauty of her face;
but there was something in them from which she shrank without knowing
why. She would have spoken, but he went on, quickly:
"Only grant my prayer, Pauline--promise to be my wife--promise to love
me--and I will live only for you. I will give you my heart, my thoughts,
my life. I will take you to bright sunny lands, and will show you all
that the earth holds beautiful and fair. You shall be my queen, and I
will be your humblest slave."
His voice died away in a great tearless sob--he loved her so dearly, and
there was so much at stake. She looked at him with infinite pity in her
dark eyes. He had said all that he could think of; he had wooed her as
eloquently as he was able; he had done his best, and now he waited for
some word from her.
There were tenderness, pity, and surprise in her musical voice as she
spoke to him.
"I am so sorry, Captain Langton. I never thought you loved me so well. I
never dreamed that you had placed all your heart in your love."
"I have," he affirmed. "I have been reckless; I have thrown heart, love,
manhood, life, all at your feet together. If you trample ruthlessly on
them, Pauline, you will drive me to desperation and despair."
"I do not trample on them," she said, gently; "I would not wrong you so.
I take them up in my hands and restore them to you, thanking you for the
gift."
"What do you mean, Pauline?" he asked, while the flush died from his
face.
"I mean," she replied, softly, "that I thank you for the gift you have
offered me, but that I cannot accept it. I cannot be your wife, for I do
not love you."
He stood for some minutes dazed by the heavy blow; he had taken hope
from her gentle manner, and the disappointment was almost greater than
he could bear.
"It gives me as much pain to say this," she continued, "as it gives you
to hear it; pray believe that."
"I cannot bear it!" he cried. "I will not bear it! I will not believe
it! It is my life I ask from you, Pauline--my life! You cannot send me
from you to die in despair!"
His anguish was real, not feigned. Love, life, liberty, all were at
stake. He knelt at her feet; he covered her white, jeweled hands with
kisses and with hot, passionate tears. Her keen womanly instinct told
her there was no feigning in the deep, broken sob that rose to his lips.
"It is my life!" he repeated. "If you send me from you, Pauline, I shall
be a desperate, wicked man."
"You should not be so," she remarked, gently; "a great love, even if it
be unfortunate, should ennoble a man, not make him wicked."
"Pauline," he entreated, "you must unsay those words. Think that you
might learn to love me in time. I will be patient--I will wait long
years for you--I will do anything to win you; only give me some hope
that in time to come you will be mine."
"I cannot," she said; "it would be so false. I could never love you,
Captain Langton."
He raised his face to hers.
"Will you tell me why? You do not reject me because I am poor--you are
too noble to care for wealth. It is not because I am a soldier, with
nothing to offer you but a loving heart. It is not for these things. Why
do you reject me, Pauline?"
"No, you are right; it is not for any of those reasons; they would never
prevent my being your wife if I loved you."
"Then why can you not love me?" he persisted.
"For many reasons. You are not at all the style of man I could love.
How can you doubt me? Here you are wooing me, asking me to be your wife,
offering me your love, and my hand does not tremble, my heart does not
beat; your words give me no pleasure, only pain; I am conscious of
nothing but a wish to end the interview. This is not love, is it,
Captain Langton?"
"But in time," he pleaded--"could you not learn to care for me in time?"
"No, I am quite sure. You must not think I speak to pain you, but indeed
you are the last man living with whom I could fall in love, or whom I
could marry. If you were, as you say, a king, and came to me with a
crown to offer, it would make no difference. It is better, as I am sure
you will agree, to speak plainly."
Even in the moonlight she saw how white his face had grown, and what a
sudden shadow of despair had come into his eyes. He stood silent for
some minutes.
"You have unmanned me," he said, slowly, "but, Pauline, there is
something else for you to hear. You must listen to me for your own
sake," he added; and then Aubrey Langton's face flushed, his lips grew
dry and hot, his breath came in short quick gasps--he had played a manly
part, but now he felt that what he had to say would sound like a threat.
He did not know how to begin, and she was looking at him with those
dark, calm eyes of hers, with that new light of pity on her face.
"Pauline," he said, hoarsely, "Sir Oswald wishes for this marriage. Oh,
spare me--love me--be mine, because of the great love I bear you!"
"I cannot," she returned; "in my eyes it is a crime to marry without
love. What you have to say of Sir Oswald say quickly."
"But you will hate me for it," he said.
"No, I will not be so unjust as to blame you for Sir Oswald's fault."
"He wishes us to marry; he is not only willing, but it would give him
more pleasure than anything else on earth; and he says--do not blame me,
Pauline--that if you consent he will make you mistress of Darrell Court
and all his rich revenues."
She laughed--the pity died from her face, the proud, hard expression
came back.
"He must do that in any case," she said, haughtily. "I am a Darrell; he
would not dare to pass me by."
"Let me speak frankly to you, Pauline, for your own sake--your own sake,
dear, as well as mine. You err--he is not so bound. Although the Darrell
property has always descended from father to son, the entail was
destroyed fifty years ago, and Sir Oswald is free to leave his property
to whom he likes. There is only one imperative condition--whoever takes
it must take with it the name of Darrell. Sir Oswald told me that much
himself."
"But he would not dare to pass me--a Darrell--by, and leave it to a
stranger."
"Perhaps not; but, honestly, Pauline, he told me that you were
eccentric--I know that you are adorable--and that he would not dare to
leave Darrell Court to you unless you were married to some one in whom
he felt confidence--and that some one, Pauline, is your humble slave
here, who adores you. Listen, dear--I have not finished. He said nothing
about leaving the Court to a stranger; but he did say that unless we
were married he himself should marry."
She laughed mockingly.
"I do not believe it," she said. "If he had intended to marry, he would
have done so years ago. That is merely a threat to frighten me; but I am
not to be frightened. No Darrell was ever a coward--I will not be
coerced. Even if I liked you, Captain Langton, I would not marry you
after that threat."
He was growing desperate now. Great drops stood on his brow--his lips
were so hot and tremulous that he could hardly move them.
"Be reasonable, Pauline. Sir Oswald meant what he said. He will most
certainly marry, and, when you see yourself deprived of this rich
inheritance, you will hate your folly--hate and detest it."
"I would not purchase twenty Darrell Courts at the price of marrying a
man I do not like," she said, proudly.
"You think it an idle threat--it is not so. Sir Oswald meant it in all
truth. Oh, Pauline, love, riches, position, wealth, honor--all lie
before you; will you willfully reject them?"
"I should consider it dishonor to marry you for the sake of winning
Darrell Court, and I will not do it. It will be mine without that; and,
if not, I would rather a thousand times go without it than pay the price
named, and you may tell Sir Oswald so."
There was no more pity--no more tenderness in the beautiful face. It was
all aglow with scorn, lighted with pride, flushed with contempt. The
spell of the sweet moonlight was broken--the Darrell spirit was
aroused--the fiery Darrell pride was all ablaze.
He felt angry enough to leave her at that moment and never look upon her
again; but his position was so terrible, and he had so much at stake. He
humbled himself again and again--he entreated her in such wild,
passionate tones as must have touched one less proud.
"I am a desperate man, Pauline," he cried, at last; "and I pray you, for
Heaven's sake, do not drive me to despair."
But no words of his had power to move her; there was nothing but scorn
in the beautiful face, nothing but scorn in the willful, passionate
heart.
"Sir Oswald should have known better than to use threats to a Darrell!"
she said, with a flash of her dark eyes; and not the least impression
could Aubrey Langton make upon her.
He was silent at last in sheer despair. It was all over; he had no more
hope. Life had never held such a brilliant chance for any man, and now
it was utterly lost. Instead of wealth, luxury, happiness, there was
nothing before him but disgrace. He could almost have cursed her as she
stood there in the moonlight before him. A deep groan, one of utter,
uncontrollable anguish escaped his lips. She went nearer to him and
started back in wonder at the white, settled despair on his face.
"Captain Langton," she said, quietly, "I am sorry--I am sorry--I am
indeed sorry--that you feel this so keenly. Let me comfort you."
He appealed to her again more passionately than ever, but she
interrupted him.
"You mistake me," she said; "I am grieved to see you suffer, but I have
no thought of altering my mind. Let me tell you, once and for all, I
would rather die than marry you, because I have neither liking nor
respect for you; but your sorrow I cannot but feel for."
"You have ruined me," he said, bitterly, "and the curse of a
broken-hearted man will rest upon you!"
"I do not think the Darrells are much frightened at curses," she
retorted; and then, in all the magnificence of her shining gems and
golden-hued dress, she swept from the spot.
Yes, he was ruined, desperate. Half an hour since, entering that
conservatory, he had wondered whether he should leave it a happy,
prosperous man. He knew now that there was nothing but blank, awful
despair, ruin and shame, before him. He had lost her, too, and love and
hate fought fiercely in his heart. He buried his face in his hands and
sobbed aloud.
A ruined man! Was ever so splendid a chance lost? It drove him mad to
think of it! All was due to the willful caprice of a willful girl.
Then he remembered that time was passing, and that he must tell Sir
Oswald that he had failed--utterly, ignominiously failed. He went back
to the ball-room and saw the baronet standing in the center of a group
of gentlemen. He looked anxiously at the captain, and at his approach
the little group fell back, leaving them alone.
"What news, Aubrey?" asked Sir Oswald.
"The worst that I can possibly bring. She would not even hear of it."
"And you think there is no hope either now or at any future time?"
"I am, unfortunately, sure of it. She told me in plain words that she
would rather die than marry me, and she laughed at your threats."
Sir Oswald's face flushed; he turned away haughtily.
"The consequence be on her own head!" he said, as he moved away. "I
shall make Elinor Rocheford an offer to-night," he added to himself.
The captain was in no mood for dancing; the music and light had lost all
their charms. The strains of a beautiful German waltz filled the
ball-room. Looking round, he saw Pauline Darrell, in all the sheen of
her jewels and the splendor of her golden-hued dress, waltzing with Lord
Lorrimer. Her beautiful face was radiant; she had evidently forgotten
all about him and the threat that was to disinherit her.
Sir Oswald saw her too as he was searching for Elinor--saw her radiant,
triumphant, and queenly--and almost hated her for the grand dower of
loveliness that would never now enhance the grandeur of the Darrells. He
found Elinor Rocheford with Lady Hampton. She had been hoping that the
captain would ask her to dance again. She looked toward him with a feint
smile, but was recalled to order by a gesture from Lady Hampton.
Sir Oswald, with a low bow, asked if Miss Rocheford would like a
promenade through the rooms. She would fain have said "No," but one look
from her aunt was sufficient. She rose in her quiet, graceful way, and
accompanied him.
They walked to what was called the white drawing-room, and there,
standing before a magnificent Murillo, the gem of the Darrell
collection, Sir Oswald Darrell made Elinor Rocheford a quiet offer of
his hand and fortune.
Just as quietly she accepted it; there was no blushing, no trembling, no
shrinking. He asked her to be Lady Darrell, and she consented. There was
very little said of love, although his wooing was chivalrous and
deferential. He had secured his object--won a fair young wife for
himself, and punished the proud, defiant, willful girl who had laughed
at his threats. After some little time he led his fair companion back to
Lady Hampton.
"Miss Rocheford has done me very great honor," he said; "she has
consented to be my wife. I will give myself the pleasure of waiting upon
you to-morrow, Lady Hampton, when I shall venture to ask for a happy and
speedy conclusion to my suit."
Lady Hampton, with a gentle movement of her fan, intended to express
emotion, murmured a few words, and the interview was ended.
"I congratulate you, Elinor," she said. "You have secured a splendid
position; no girl in England could have done better."
"Yes," returned Elinor Rocheford, "I ought to be ticketed, 'Sold to
advantage;'" and that was the only bitter thing the young girl ever said
of her brilliant marriage.
Of course Lady Hampton told the delightful news to a few of her dearest
friends; and these, watching Pauline Darrell that night in the splendor
of her grand young beauty, the sheen of her jewels, and the glitter of
her rich amber dress, knew that her reign was ended, her chance of the
inheritance gone.
CHAPTER XIX.
PAULINE THREATENS VENGEANCE.
"Pray do not leave us, Miss Hastings; I wish you to hear what I have to
say to my niece, if you will consent to remain;" and Sir Oswald placed a
chair for the gentle, amiable lady, who was so fearful of coming harm to
her willful pupil.
Miss Hastings took it, and looked apprehensively at the baronet. It was
the morning after the ball, and Sir Oswald had sent to request the
presence of both ladies in the library.
Pauline looked fresh and brilliant; fatigue had not affected her. She
had taken more pains than usual with her toilet; her dress was a plain
yet handsome morning costume. There was no trace of fear on her
countenance; the threats of the previous night had made no impression
upon her. She looked calmly at Sir Oswald's flushed, agitated face.
"Pray be seated, Miss Darrell," he said; "it is you especially whom I
wish to see."
Pauline took a chair and looked at him with an air of great attention.
Sir Oswald turned the diamond ring on his finger.
"Am I to understand, Miss Darrell," he asked, "that you refused Captain
Langton last evening?"
"Yes," she replied, distinctly.
"Will you permit me to ask why?" he continued.
"Because I do not love him, Sir Oswald. I may even go further, and say I
do not respect him."
"Yet he is a gentleman by birth and education, handsome, most agreeable
in manner, devoted to you, and my friend."
"I do not love him," she said again; "and the Darrells are too true a
race to marry without love."
The allusion to his race pleased the baronet, in spite of his anger.
"Did Captain Langton give you to understand the alternative?" asked Sir
Oswald. "Did he tell you my resolve in case you should refuse him?"
She laughed a clear, ringing laugh, in which there was a slight tinge of
mockery. Slight though it was, Sir Oswald's face flushed hotly as he
heard it.
"He told me that you would disinherit me if I did not marry him; but I
told him you would never ignore the claim of the last living
Darrell--you would not pass me over and make a stranger your heir."
"But did he tell you my intentions if you refused him?"
Again came the musical laugh that seemed to irritate Sir Oswald so
greatly.
"He talked some nonsense about your marrying," said Pauline: "but that
of course I did not believe."
"And why did you not believe it, Miss Darrell?"
"Because I thought if you had wished to marry you would have married
before this," she replied.
"And you think," he said, his face pale with passion, "that you may do
as you like--that your contempt for all proper laws, your willful
caprice, your unendurable pride, are to rule every one? You are
mistaken, Miss Darrell. If you had consented to marry Aubrey Langton, I
would have made you my heiress, because I should have known that you
were in safe hands, under proper guidance; as it is--as you have refused
in every instance to obey me, as you have persisted in ignoring every
wish of mine--it is time we came to a proper understanding. I beg to
announce to you the fact that I am engaged to be married--that I have
offered my hand and heart to a lady who is as gentle as you are the
reverse."
A dread silence followed the words; Pauline bore the blow like a true
Darrell, never flinching, never showing the least dismay. After a time
she raised her dark, proud eyes to his face.
"If your marriage is for your happiness, I wish you joy," she said,
simply.
"There is no doubt but that it will add greatly to my happiness," he put
in, shortly.
"At the same time," resumed Pauline, "I must tell you frankly that I do
not think you have used me well. You told me when I came here that I was
to be heiress of Darrell Court. I have grown to love it, I have shaped
my life in accordance with what you said to me, and I do not think it
fair that you should change your intentions."
"You have persistently defied me," returned the baronet; "you have
preferred your least caprice to my wish; and now you must reap your
reward. Had you been dutiful, obedient, submissive, you might have made
yourself very dear to me. Pray, listen." He raised his fine white hand
with a gesture that demanded silence. "My marriage need not make any
difference as regards your residence here. As you say, you are a
Darrell, and my niece, so your home is here; and, unless you make
yourself intolerable, you shall always have a home suitable to your
position. But, as I can never hope that you will prove an agreeable
companion to the lady who honors me by becoming my wife, I should be
grateful to Miss Hastings if she would remain with you."
Miss Hastings bowed her head; she was too deeply grieved for words.
"It is my wish that you retain your present suite of rooms," continued
Sir Oswald; "and Lady Darrell, when she comes, will, I am sure, try to
make everything pleasant for you. I have no more to say. As for
expressing any regret for the part you have acted toward my young
friend, Aubrey Langton, it is useless--we will let the matter drop."
All the Darrell pride and passion had been slowly gathering in Pauline's
heart; a torrent of burning words rose to her lips.
"If you wish to marry, Sir Oswald," she said, "you have a perfect right
to do so--no one can gainsay that; but I say you have acted neither
justly nor fairly to me. As for the stranger you would bring to rule
over me, I shall hate her, and I will be revenged on her. I shall tell
her that she is taking my place; I shall speak my mind openly to her;
and, if she chooses to marry you, to help you to punish me, she shall
take the consequences."
Sir Oswald laughed.
"I might be alarmed by such a melodramatic outburst," he said, "but that
I know you are quite powerless;" and with a profound bow to Miss
Hastings, Sir Oswald quitted the library.
Then Pauline's anger burst forth; she grew white with rage.
"I have not been fairly used," she cried. "He told me Darrell Court was
to be mine. My heart has grown to love it; I love it better than I love
anything living."
Miss Hastings, like a sensible woman, refrained from saying anything on
the subject--from reminding her that she had been warned time after
time, and had only laughed at the warning. She tried to offer some
soothing words, but the girl would not listen to them. Her heart and
soul were in angry revolt.
"I might have been a useful woman," she said, suddenly, "if I had had
this chance in life; I might have been happy myself, and have made
others happy. As it is, I swear that I will live only for vengeance."
She raised her beautiful white arm and jeweled hand.
"Listen to me," she said; "I will live for vengeance--not on Sir
Oswald--if he chooses to marry, let him--but I will first warn the woman
he marries, and then, if she likes to come here as Lady Darrell,
despite my warning, let her. I will take such vengeance on her as suits
a Darrell--nothing commonplace--nothing in the way of poisoning--but
such revenge as shall satisfy even me."
In vain Miss Hastings tried to soothe her, to calm her, the torrent of
angry words had their way.
Then she came over to Miss Hastings, and, placing her hand on her
shoulder, asked:
"Tell me, whom do you think Sir Oswald is going to marry?"
"I cannot imagine--unless it is Miss Rocheford."
"Elinor Rocheford--that mere child! Let her beware!"
CHAPTER XX.
CAPTAIN LANGTON DESPERATE.
A short period of calm fell upon Darrell Court. Miss Darrell's passion
seemed to have exhausted itself.
"I will never believe," she said one day to Miss Hastings, "that Sir
Oswald meant what he said. I am beginning to think it was merely a
threat--the Darrells are all hot-tempered."
But Miss Hastings had heard more than she liked to tell her pupil, and
she knew that what the baronet had said was not only quite true, but
that preparations for the marriage had actually commenced.
"I am afraid it was no threat, Pauline," she said, sadly.
"Then let the new-comer beware," said the girl, her face darkening.
"Whoever she may be, let her beware. I might have been a good woman, but
this will make me a wicked one. I shall live only for revenge."
A change came over her. The improvement that Miss Hastings had so fondly
noticed, and of which she had been so proud, died away. Pauline seemed
no longer to take any interest in reading or study. She would sit for
hours in gloomy, sullen silence, with an abstracted look on her face.
What was passing in her mind no one knew. Miss Hastings would go to her,
and try to rouse her; but Pauline grew impatient.
"Do leave me in peace," she would say. "Leave me to my own thoughts. I
am framing my plans."
And the smile that came with the words filled poor Miss Hastings with
terrible apprehensions as to the future of her strange, willful pupil.
The captain was still at the Court. He had had some vague idea of
rushing off to London; but a letter from one of his most intimate
friends warned him to keep out of the way until some arrangement could
be made about his affairs. More than one angry creditor was waiting for
him; indeed, the gallant captain had brought his affairs to such a pass
that his appearance in London without either money or the hope of it
would have been highly dangerous.
He was desperate. Sir Oswald had hinted to him, since the failure of
their plan, that he should not be forgotten in his will. He would have
borrowed money from him but for that hint; but he did not care to risk
the loss of many thousand pounds for the sake of fifteen hundred.
Fifteen hundred--that was all he wanted. If he could have gone back to
London the betrothed husband of Pauline Darrell, he could have borrowed
as many thousands; but that chance was gone; and he could have cursed
the girlish caprice that deprived him of so splendid a fortune. In his
heart fierce love and fierce hate warred together; there were times when
he felt that he loved Pauline with a passion words could not describe;
and at other times he hated her with something passing common hate. They
spoke but little; Miss Darrell spent as much time as possible in her own
rooms. Altogether the domestic atmosphere at Darrell Court had in it no
sunshine; it was rather the brooding, sullen calm that comes before a
storm.
The day came when the Court was invaded by an army of workmen, when a
suit of rooms was fitted up in the most superb style, and people began
to talk of the coming change. Pauline Darrell kept so entirely aloof
from all gossip, from all friends and visitors, that she was the last to
hear on whom Sir Oswald's choice had fallen. But one day the baronet
gave a dinner-party at which the ladies of the house were present, and
there was no mistaking the allusions made.
Pauline Darrell's face grew dark as she listened. So, then, the threat
was to be carried out, and the grand old place that she had learned to
love with the deepest love of her heart was never to be hers! She gave
no sign; the proud face was very pale, and the dark eyes had in them a
scornful gleam, but no word passed her lips.
Sir Oswald was radiant, he had never been seen in such high spirits; his
friends had congratulated him, every one seemed to approve so highly of
his resolution; a fair and gentle wife was ready for him--one so fair
and gentle that it seemed to the old man as though the lost love of his
youth had returned to him. Who remembered the bitter, gnawing
disappointment of the girl who had cared so little about making herself
friends?
The baronet was so delighted, and everything seemed so bright and
smiling, that he resolved upon an act of unusual generosity. His guests
went away early, and he retired to the library for a few minutes. The
captain followed the ladies to the drawing-room, and, while pretending
to read, sat watching Pauline's face, and wondering how he was to pay
his debts.
To ask for the loan of fifteen hundred pounds would be to expose his
affairs to Sir Oswald. He must confess then that he had gambled on the
turf and at play. If once the stately old baronet even suspected such a
thing, there was no further hope of a legacy--the captain was quite sure
of that. His anxiety was terrible, and it was all occasioned by that
proud, willful girl whose beautiful face was turned resolutely from him.
Sir Oswald entered the room with a smile on his face, and, going up to
Aubrey Langton, slipped a folded paper into his hands.
"Not a word of thanks," he said; "if you thank me, I shall be offended."
And Aubrey, opening the paper, found that it was a check for five
hundred pounds.
"I know what life in London costs," said Sir Oswald; "and you are my old
friend's son."
Five hundred pounds! He was compelled to look exceedingly grateful, but
it was difficult. The gift was very welcome, but there was this great
drawback attending it--it was not half sufficient to relieve him from
his embarrassments, and it would quite prevent his asking Sir Oswald for
a loan. He sighed deeply in his dire perplexity.
Still smiling, the baronet went to the table where Pauline and Miss
Hastings sat. He stood for some minutes looking at them.
"I must not let you hear the news of my good fortune from strangers," he
said; "it is only due to you that I should inform you that in one month
from to-day I hope to have the honor and happiness of making Miss Elinor
Rocheford my wife."
Miss Hastings in a few cautious words wished him joy; Pauline's white
lips opened, but no sound escaped them. Sir Oswald remained for some
minutes talking to Miss Hastings, and then he crossed the room and rang
the bell.
"Pauline, my dearest child!" whispered the anxious governess.
Miss Darrell looked at her with a terrible smile.
"It would have been better for her," she said, slowly, "that she had
never been born."
"Pauline!" cried the governess. But she said no more.
A footman entered the room, to whom Sir Oswald spoke.
"Go to my study," he said, "and bring me a black ebony box that you will
find locked in my writing-table. Here are the keys."
The man returned in a few minutes, bearing the box in his hands. Sir
Oswald took it to the table where the lamps shone brightly.
"Aubrey," he said, "will you come here? I have a commission for you."
Captain Langton followed him to the table, and some remark about the
fashion of the box drew the attention of all present to it. Sir Oswald
raised the lid, and produced a diamond ring.
"You are going over to Audleigh Royal to-morrow, Aubrey," he said; "will
you leave this with Stamford, the jeweler? I have chosen a new setting
for the stone. I wish to present it to Miss Hastings as a mark of my
deep gratitude to her."
Miss Hastings looked up in grateful wonder. Sir Oswald went on talking
about the contents of the ebony box. He showed them many quaint
treasures that it contained; among other things he took out a roll of
bank-notes.
"That is not a very safe method of keeping money, Sir Oswald," said Miss
Hastings.
"No, you are right," he agreed. "Simpson's clerk paid it to me the other
day; I was busy, and I put it there until I had time to take the numbers
of the notes."
"Do you keep notes without preserving a memorandum of their numbers, Sir
Oswald?" inquired Aubrey Langton. "That seems to me a great risk."
"I know it is not prudent; but there is no fear. I have none but honest
and faithful servants about me. I will take the numbers and send the
notes to the bank to-morrow."
"Yes," said Miss Hastings, quietly, "it is better to keep temptation
from servants."
"There is no fear," he returned. "I always put the box away, and I sleep
with my keys under my pillow."
Sir Oswald gave Captain Langton a few directions about the diamond, and
then the ladies withdrew.
"Sir Oswald," said Captain Langton, "let me have a cigar with you
to-night. I must not thank you, but if you knew how grateful I feel----"
"I will put away the box first, and then we will have a glass of wine,
Aubrey."
The baronet went to his study, and the captain to his room; but in a few
minutes they met again, and Sir Oswald ordered a bottle of his choicest
Madeira. They sat talking for some time, and Sir Oswald told Aubrey all
his plans--all that he intended to do. The young man listened, with envy
and dissatisfaction burning in his heart. All these plans, these hopes,
these prospects, might have been his but for that girl's cruel caprice.
They talked for more than an hour; and then Sir Oswald complained of
feeling sleepy.
"The wine does not seem to have its usual flavor to-night," he said;
"there is _something wrong_ with this bottle."
"I thought the same thing," observed Aubrey Langton; "but I did not like
to say so. I will bid you good-night, as you are tired. I shall ride
over to Audleigh Royal early in the morning, so I may not be here for
breakfast."
They shook hands and parted, Sir Oswald murmuring something about his
Madeira, and the captain feeling more desperate than ever.
CHAPTER XXI.
MYSTERIOUS ROBBERY.
The sun shone on Darrell Court; the warmth and brightness of the day
were more than pleasant. The sunbeams fell on the stately trees, the
brilliant flowers. There was deep silence in the mansion. Captain
Langton had been gone some hours. Sir Oswald was in his study. Pauline
sat with Miss Hastings under the shade of the cedar on the lawn. She had
a book in her hands, but she had not turned a page. Miss Hastings would
fain have said something to her about inattention, but there was a look
in the girl's face that frightened her--a proud, hard, cold look that
she had never seen there before.
Pauline Darrell was not herself that morning. Miss Hastings had told her
so several times. She had asked her again and again if she was ill--if
she was tired--and she had answered drearily, "No." Partly to cheer her,
the governess had suggested that they should take their books under the
shade of the cedar tree. She had assented wearily, without one gleam of
animation.
Out there in the sunlight Miss Hastings noticed how cold and white
Pauline's face was, with its hard, set look--there was a shadow in the
dark eyes, and, unlike herself, she started at every sound. Miss
Hastings watched her keenly. She evinced no displeasure at being so
watched; but when the elder lady went up to her and said, gently:
"Pauline, you are surely either ill or unhappy?"
"I am neither--I am only thinking," she returned, impatiently.
"Then your thoughts must be very unpleasant ones--tell them to me.
Nothing sends away unpleasant ideas so soon as communicating them to
others."
But Miss Darrell had evidently not heard the words; she had relapsed
into deep meditation, and Miss Hastings thought it better to leave her
alone. Suddenly Pauline looked up.
"Miss Hastings," she said, "I suppose a solemn promise, solemnly given,
can never be broken?"
"It never should be broken," replied the governess. "Instances have been
known where people have preferred death to breaking such a promise."
"Yes, such deaths have been known. I should imagine," commented Pauline,
with a gleam of light on her face, "that no Darrell ever broke his or
her word when it had been solemnly given."
"I should imagine not," said Miss Hastings.
But she had no clew to her pupil's musings or to the reason of her
question.
So the noon-day shadows crept on. Purple-winged butterflies coquetted
with the flowers, resting on the golden breasts of the white lilies, and
on the crimson leaves of the rose; busy bees murmured over the rich
clove carnations; the birds sang sweet, jubilant songs, and a gentle
breeze stirred faintly the leaves on the trees. For once Pauline Darrell
seemed blind to the warm, sweet summer beauty; it lay unheeded before
her.
Miss Hastings saw Sir Oswald coming toward them; a murmur of surprise
came from her lips.
"Pauline," she said, "look at Sir Oswald--how ill he seems. I am afraid
something is wrong."
He drew near to them, evidently deeply agitated.
"I am glad to find you here, Miss Hastings," he said; "I am in trouble.
Nay, Pauline, do not go; my troubles should be yours."
For the girl had risen with an air of proud weariness, intending to
leave them together. At his words--the kindest he had spoken to her for
some time--she took her seat again; but the haughty, listless manner did
not change.
"I am nearly sixty years of age," said Sir Oswald, "and this is the
first time such a trouble has come to me. Miss Hastings, do you remember
that conversation of ours last night, over that roll of notes in the
ebony box?"
"I remember it perfectly, Sir Oswald."
"I went this morning to take them from the box, to take their numbers
and send them to the bank, and I could not find them--they were gone."
"Gone!" repeated Miss Hastings. "It is impossible! You must be mistaken;
you must have overlooked them. What did they amount to?"
"Exactly one thousand pounds," he replied. "I cannot understand it. You
saw me replace the notes in the box?"
"I did; I watched you. You placed them in one corner. I could put my
finger on the place," said Miss Hastings.
"I locked the box and carried it with my own hands to my study. I placed
it in the drawer of my writing-table, and locked that. I never parted
with my keys to any one; as is my invariable rule, I placed them under
my pillow. I slept soundly all night, and when I woke I found them
there. As I tell you I have been to the box, and the notes are gone. I
cannot understand it, for I do not see any indication of a theft, and
yet I have been robbed."
Miss Hastings looked very thoughtful.
"You have certainly been robbed," she said. "Are you sure the keys have
never left your possession?"
"Never for one single moment," he replied.
"Has any one in the house duplicate keys?" she asked.
"No. I bought the box years ago in Venice; it has a peculiar lock--there
is not one in England like it."
"It is very strange," said Miss Hastings. "A thousand pounds is no
trifle to lose."
Pauline Darrell, her face turned to the flowers, uttered no word.
"You might show some little interest, Pauline," said her uncle, sharply;
"you might have the grace to affect it, even if you do not feel it."
"I am very sorry indeed," she returned, coldly. "I am grieved that you
have had such a loss."
Sir Oswald looked pacified.
"It is not so much the actual loss of the money that has grieved me," he
said; "I shall not feel it. But I am distressed to think that there
should be a thief among the people I have loved and trusted."
"What a solemn council!" interrupted the cheery voice of Aubrey Langton.
"What gloomy conspirators!"
Sir Oswald looked up with an air of great relief.
"I am so glad you are come, Aubrey; you can advise me what to do."
And the baronet told the story of his loss.
Captain Langton was shocked, amazed; he asked a hundred questions, and
then suggested that they should drive over to Audleigh Royal and place
the affair in the hands of the chief inspector of police.
"You said you had not taken the numbers of the notes; I fear it will be
difficult to trace them," he said, regretfully. "What a strange,
mysterious robbery. Is there any one you suspect, Sir Oswald?"
No; in all the wide world there was not one that the loyal old man
suspected of robbing him.
"My servants have always been to me like faithful old friends," he said,
sadly; "there is not one among them who would hold out his hand to steal
from me."
Captain Langton suggested that, before going to Audleigh Royal, they
should search the library.
"You may have made some mistake, sir," he said. "You were tired last
night, and it is just possible that you may have put the money somewhere
else, and do not remember it."
"We will go at once," decided Sir Oswald.
Miss Hastings wished them success; but the proud face directed toward
the flowers was never turned to them. The pale lips were never unclosed
to utter one word.
After the gentlemen had left them, when Miss Hastings began to speak
eagerly of the loss, Pauline raised her hand with a proud gesture.
"I have heard enough," she said. "I do not wish to hear one word more."
The robbery created a great sensation; inspectors came from Audleigh
Royal, and a detective from Scotland Yard, but no one could throw the
least light upon the subject. The notes could not be traced; they had
been paid in from different sources, and no one had kept a list of the
numbers.
Even the detective seemed puzzled. Sir Oswald had locked up the notes in
the box at night, he had kept the keys in his own possession, and he had
found in the morning that the box was still locked and the notes were
gone. It was a nine days' wonder. Captain Langton gave all the help he
could, but as all search seemed useless and hopeless, it was abandoned
after a time, and at the end of the week Captain Langton was summoned to
London, and all hope of solving the mystery was relinquished.
CHAPTER XXII.
FULFILLING THE CONTRACT.
The prepara
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