CHAPTER IX.
ALL FOR LOVE.
Lady Gwendolyn was too much overcome at this sudden apparition. She could not speak for a moment; and, taking her silence for encouragement, Lawrence Dacre knelt down beside her, and lifted the hand he still held to his lips.
“I have done with resistance,” he said; his eyes full of gloomy passion. “Whether you take me, or leave me, Gwendolyn, I belong to you—and you only now. These last few days I have done nothing but fight and struggle, until all the flesh has worn off my bones,” he added, with a grim laugh; “and I’ll make an end of it somehow. Do you hear me, child?”
“Yes, yes; go on,” she answered, scarcely knowing what she said.
“What more can I tell you? I should scare you, perhaps, if I let you see all the wild, burning passion in my heart, for your love compared to mine is
‘As moonlight unto sunlight,
And as water unto wine.’
But I will teach you better when you belong to me. I could not be satisfied with the lukewarm affections that most women are ready to bestow on any man who has proper notions with regard to settlements. I must find some expanse in my wife’s heart to the jealous, exclusive passion in my own, otherwise there would be no use in living, that I can see. I never cared much about the world, and am ready to relinquish all its so-called pleasures if you bid me; but, then, I must have the return my soul craves—something more precious to me than a crown and kingdom—your undivided love.”
His mellow voice made such pleasant music at her ear, that Lady Gwendolyn had made no effort to rouse herself so far; but when he ceased to speak, she lifted her haggard, tear-stained face, and said, with somber resignation:
“What is the use of picturing impossibilities? You know I could not marry you if I would.”
“Why not?”
“You forget that I know your secret.”
“Now, you must explain what you mean by my secret, Gwendolyn,” he said, with decision, as he lifted her on to the couch, and sat down beside her. “Twice you have thrown it in my teeth, and though I have tried hard to find out what you meant, I have been unable to do so. On my honor as a gentleman, I know nothing that need prevent our marriage.”
His arm was stealing round her waist, but she pushed it away, and faced him with a regal air.
“Listen to me, Colonel Dacre!” she said impressively. “It is true that I was only twenty the other day, but I have seen a good deal of the world, and am not easily deceived. From the first moment that you and I met, I knew that you had something on your mind.”
“Few men reach my age without finding that they have a good deal to remember and forget. In my hot youth I committed plenty of follies, I dare say; but I can safely swear that I never really loved a woman until I saw you.”
“And never deceived one, Colonel Dacre?”
“Never—as I hope for heaven!”
“Oh, hush!—hush!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “You are deceiving me now.”
“Upon my word, Gwendolyn, I have not even prevaricated. Let me know of what I am accused, that I may defend myself; it is not fair to insinuate things of such moment to me without making it possible for me to explain.”
“Very well,” she said; “you shall hear my story from the beginning. You remember the day that I was frightened by Bates’ bull?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Well, I did not sprain my ankle.”
“I guessed as much,” he answered coolly.
“But I was anxious to find or make some excuse for getting into Borton Hall.”
“May I ask why?”
“We were coming to that. The evening before we were speaking, if you remember, of most people having a skeleton or two in their cupboard, and you suddenly turned very grave. When I laughed, and said that you looked as if you had a dozen, at least, in yours, you answered, with deep meaning, that one might be as much as any one could bear. You were very silent for the rest of the evening, and I was puzzled, stimulated, pained, all together.”
“What, then?” he urged, as she came to an abrupt pause.
“I took care to sprain my ankle in flying from Bates’ bull.”
“Then you were not frightened by the animal?”
“I did not particularly like the look of him, but I should have passed him valiantly enough if I had not seen you coming.”
“Well?”
“You carried me into your house, and laid me on a couch, while you went for assistance. I had almost a mind to laugh in your face when you bent over me so anxiously at parting, and made me promise to ring for your housekeeper, supposing the pain should increase.”
“You played your part splendidly, I must own.”
“Of course! for I had a good deal at stake. It was necessary for my peace of mind to discover the skeleton in your cupboard.”
“And you succeeded?” he inquired, with suppressed eagerness; his lips whitening as the words passed through them.
“Yes, I did. With all my faults, I would never have searched your place, of that you may be sure; but there was no need, the revelation I sought was thrust upon me.”
“Ah!”
And though there was the gloom of an abiding sorrow in his eyes, there was no shame nor shrinking—excepting so far as we all shrink when a deep wound is probed.
“I suppose it was the intervention of Providence,” Lady Gwendolyn went on. “If you had asked me to marry you an hour before I should have accepted you without hesitation, whereas, it was not even right for us to be friends.”
“You forget that you have explained nothing yet,” he said hoarsely. “And yet, this suspense is very cruel.”
“I do not mean to be cruel,” she said. “I can assure you I have suffered too much myself to take pleasure in another person’s pain; but I am reluctant to recall that most miserable half-hour I passed at Borton Hall. I entered it so full of hope; I left it feeling as if I had nothing to look forward to in the world, since you, whom I had trusted and loved, were false.”
“Or, rather, you fancied so.”
“It was no fancy, unfortunately. I saw and spoke to your wife.”
“Saw and spoke to my wife?” he repeated. “My dear Gwendolyn, you are certainly dreaming. I have no wife.”
“She told me that her husband refused to acknowledge her, and that, having no one to befriend her, she could not assert her rights,” pursued Lady Gwendolyn, without heeding his denial. “And, poor thing! she quite wrung my heart, she looked so dejected and hopeless.”
“But not through any fault of mine.”
“Why do you try to deceive me, Colonel Dacre? When a man has committed such a wrong as you have done, the only atonement he can make is a full confession. Treat me frankly now, and I will forgive you everything.”
“Forgive everything! What do you mean, Gwendolyn? I want your love, not your forgiveness. I do not deserve the former, I am aware; but I have certainly done nothing to make it necessary for me to claim the latter.”
“Perhaps you look upon bigamy as a very small offense.”
“But I have never committed bigamy, Gwendolyn. Indeed, until I saw you I never wanted even to commit matrimony.”
“Then who was it I saw in your house?”
“I have a crazy protégée in the village, whom I allow to wander about the park, as she is perfectly harmless. She has very strange delusions, and may have taken it into her head that she is married to me, and I am trying to keep her out of her rights. Who shall answer for the hallucinations of a disordered brain?”
“The person I saw was a lady,” said Lady Gwendolyn. “That is a point upon which it was impossible for me to be deceived, of course. She was unusually delicate and refined looking, and her accent was perfect. Your protégée in the village could never have managed to play the lady so well.”
“I don’t know about that. Mad people are very cunning and imitative.”
“Still, they cannot perform impossibilities. Let her imitation have been ever so good, she must have betrayed herself in some way.”
“If you had suspected her, you would have perceived certain deficiencies that passed unnoticed under the circumstances.”
“Impossible. I knew nothing whatever about her, and was ready to believe anything. The impression she made on me was, as I said before, of an extremely refined, lady-like person, and I have no doubt in my own mind that she was a gentlewoman, and your wife.”
“She may have been a gentlewoman, but she was certainly not my wife,” replied the colonel.
“Will you swear that?”
“I will swear by my mother’s memory—which I love and revere—that I never had a wife.”
“Will you swear also that you do not know the lady I have been describing?”
“No; for I did not see her.”
“But you know whom I mean?” persisted Lady Gwendolyn.
“I know nothing,” was the evasive reply. “I was not present at your interview, and had no reason to suppose there was any one in the house who would dare to make such a charge against me. As I said before, I do not pretend to be a saint, but I have never wronged or deceived a living woman.”
“I wish I could believe you,” she said, almost convinced in spite of herself, there was something so trustworthy about him. “I want a friend and protector badly enough, for my brother has deserted me.”
“What, Teignmouth!” exclaimed her companion incredulously.
“Yes; he thinks I have disgraced him, and the name I bear, and does not care for me to be associated any longer with his innocent, pure-minded wife, lest I should contaminate her.”
Lady Gwendolyn would have been less than a woman if she had not allowed her sneer to be perceptible—for she owed all her misery and humiliation to Pauline; and to know that she had managed to exalt herself in Lord Teignmouth’s eyes at the expense of his sister, did not give her a very Christianlike feeling toward the clever countess, assuredly. But, having relieved herself by this little piece of spite, Gwendolyn melted into tears again, and was so agitated she did not notice the arm that was stealing round her waist so gently.
Nor did she resist when presently, grown bold by impunity, Colonel Dacre drew her head down on to his breast and murmured:
“If you must weep, darling, you shall weep here. I hold you fast now, and will not be denied. Cannot you trust me a little?”
She shook her head drearily.
“I am afraid I could not. I should always feel as if there were some mystery between us—and that would spoil all my happiness. Besides, you do not respect me, Lawrence; you told me so frankly two years ago. What kind of marriage could ours be, distrusting each other mutually, as we should do?”
“I should never mistrust my wife.”
“Not during the honeymoon, perhaps; but afterward, when you could reason coolly again, would you not remember the past, and be inclined to throw it in my teeth?”
“You do not give me credit for much generosity, Gwendolyn.”
“I think you are a man,” she said.
“And all men are scoundrels, I suppose?”
“No; but they are sensitive on certain points. You may not be a Cæsar, but I fancy you would not care to have your wife suspected, for all that?”
“I do not see why you should be suspected.”
“It is a cruel world, remember. When people saw me pass on your arm, the women would say: ‘Poor fellow! he married Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur out of pity, because nobody would have anything to say to her after that wretched affair at Turoy. I wonder if she really did poison Mr. Belmont? She looks like that sort of person, does she not?’ A few men would make excuses for me, perhaps—men do judge more mercifully than my sex; but their voices would soon be drowned by their wives’ shrill chorus of dispraise. You see, Colonel Dacre, it is better I should live and die alone.”
“On the contrary, it is better you should belong to me, as you need a defender.”
“Who excuses himself accuses himself,” she answered sadly.
“And that was why you were silent yesterday?”
“No; I had a far different reason.”
“Will you not confide in me a little?” he pleaded.
“Why should I? In the first place, you do not treat me with confidence; in the second, all I could say would never persuade you that it was not I who had meetings in Turoy Wood with Mr. Belmont.”
“I do not see who else it could have been.”
“And the lady I met at Borton Hall—who else could she have been but your wife?”
“She might have been any one.”
“So might Mr. Belmont’s friend.”
“I don’t know about that. You are the only lady in Turoy.”
“Now!” she said, with a significance that made Colonel Dacre ponder, and wonder if he had been confused like the rest of the world.
After all, he could not prove that Lady Gwendolyn had been the only person in the Grange that evening; and though the lady he had seen in the wood with Mr. Belmont resembled the other in figure and style, he remembered now that he had not seen her face, and had, therefore, no right to judge her.
How could he have been so cruel as not even to have given her the benefit of the doubt? And, after all, she might be innocent, poor darling!
He pressed her to his bosom with a passion of tenderness, as he murmured:
“Oh, my darling! You can never forgive me for having misjudged you so, and yet I loved you like a madman all the while.”
There was such a blessed rest in the love he proffered; and she yearned beyond words to gather it up to her heart. But believing him to be the husband of another woman, it was her duty to put this comfort away from her, and she dared not hesitate for conscience sake.
She withdrew one of his arms resolutely.
“You must try and get over your love,” she said, with evident effort; and the utter desolation of her face would have touched a heart of stone. “I will not take another woman’s just place.”
“Heaven forbid that I should be base enough to ask such a thing of you!”
“You are asking it now.”
“You would trust a madwoman rather than me?” he said reproachfully.
“I am afraid I must. The madwoman had nothing to gain by deceiving me, and you have.”
“You forget that what I had gained by fraud I should not be able to keep. If I were a married man there are people in the world who must know about it. It is rare that a woman is entirely without family and protectors, and can be kept out of sight without somebody requiring to know what has become of her.”
“True,” Lady Gwendolyn replied; “but one has heard of such things.”
“In novels.”
“In real life, too. One rarely takes up a newspaper without hearing of some mysterious disappearance.”
“That argument is rather in my favor than otherwise, Gwendolyn. If my wife had disappeared suddenly you would have seen something about it in the newspapers, according to your own showing, and there would have been every effort made to discover her whereabouts, or the manner of her death, if she were dead. Besides, it is only natural to suppose that in the early days I should have taken my wife to Borton, and introduced her to my neighbors. You do not marry a woman on purpose to shut her up; that would be an afterthought.”
“You could have gone abroad, and from there announced her death.”
“Possibly; but you may depend it is better to have a skeleton in your cupboard, rather than a living creature. One tells no tales, and the other might get one into some very unpleasant scrapes. Come, Gwen, do not be so unbelieving. I swear by all that is most sacred I have no wife. Even if I had wished to conceal this fact from the world in general I should certainly have confided in your brother, and you may be sure he would not have allowed me to visit at his house under false pretenses.”
“But, of course, you would not have confided in him if you had wished to keep your marriage a secret.”
“Gwendolyn,” he said passionately, “you will wear me out. If you would only trust me as I trust you. I love you so dearly, my sweetest.”
The strong arms enfolded her lovingly, the tawny mustache swept her cheek. For one brief moment she yielded to his caress, her lips thrilling under his, then she wrenched herself away from him, and fled.