CHAPTER VIII.
PAULINE’S TRIUMPH.
Mrs. O’Hara was about the last person Lady Gwendolyn would have cared to meet; moreover, she knew her to be a frivolous, pleasure-seeking woman, whose influence would be very bad for Lady Teignmouth.
Hitherto Pauline had professed to dislike the Irish widow, but finding themselves together in a country house, they were sure to do one of two things, either quarrel desperately, or strike up a violent friendship. And Gwendolyn, who had her brother’s honor and happiness so much at heart, knew that this latter would be fatal, indeed.
She stepped back and bowed coldly, but Mrs. O’Hara was not to be repressed. She held out her hand with great cordiality.
“I am so delighted to meet you again, dear Lady Gwendolyn. I hear you were quite the belle of last night’s ball. I meant to be here myself, but I provokingly missed the train at Carlisle, and had to wait there six hours, so that I am just a day after the fair. I find that Lady Teignmouth is staying here,” she added, without giving herself time to take breath, “and I am so delighted! George Belmont always praises her so much, I am quite anxious to improve our acquaintance.”
Lady Gwendolyn shivered convulsively.
“Mr. Belmont is a friend of yours, then?” she asked faintly.
“He is only my brother, but we are excellent friends, which is rather rare among near relatives. He has just come into a nice little property in Ireland, and I hope he will take a wife and settle down. I don’t mind telling you, he has knocked about the world a good deal in his time, and the money was very acceptable; and, what do you think?” she went on impulsively; “directly he heard of his uncle’s death, he promised to settle a little matter that he knew was bothering me a good deal.”
Lady Gwendolyn had not much sympathy, as a rule, with people who confided in the first comer; still, she could not help feeling for Mrs. O’Hara at this moment, and sympathizing with the tears of grateful feeling in her big black eyes.
Mr. Belmont might not be a very estimable man, but he had been kind to his sister, evidently; and she must needs grieve for him indeed when she learned the manner of his death, which would be worse to bear than the death itself.
She had half a mind to give her a hint that would prepare her for what was coming, and was trying to pick out words that would be a warning and not a revelation, when Mrs. O’Hara caught sight of a masculine figure at the end of the hall, and darted off precipitately. Her bold laugh followed Lady Gwendolyn into the garden and sharpened her mood. Somehow, she thought now that Mrs. O’Hara would get over her trouble very easily, and only hoped it would take her away from Bridgton Hall before she had had time to do any mischief.
She felt so weary and sick at heart she could have sat down in the hedge and let all the winds of heaven beat upon her, if she could only feel sure that they would beat this miserable life out of her, and give her rest.
“For the world is such a cruel, unsatisfactory place,” she said to herself, in the impatience of a first grief. “To live is to suffer, and, therefore, it were better to die.”
No doubt if she had felt the chill hand grasping her, she would have urged a very different prayer; but Gwendolyn had never known sorrow before, and the pressure of the wound irritated her. She would have given up all the promise of the future to be rid of her present pain.
Meanwhile, Lady Teignmouth rang for her maid.
“Do you know where the post-office at Bridgton is?” she asked.
Clémentine could not say that she did.
“Anyhow, it will be easy enough to find out,” continued her mistress. “Put on your bonnet as quickly as possible, Clémentine, and take this telegram there. You can write English well now, but must be careful that your letters are clear and distinct.”
“And am I to wait for an answer,” inquired the French woman naïvely.
“Certainly not. But read the message over to me, that I may be sure you understand it.”
Clémentine began in a singsong voice:
“You are wanted here on urgent business. Come directly you receive my telegram.”
“That will do. Mind your spelling,” was her ladyship’s comment. “Now you can go.”
Lord Teignmouth was breakfasting at his club in luxurious bachelor ease when his wife’s message reached him, and he uttered an exclamation of annoyance and surprise.
“How confoundedly unfortunate! And I dare say it is only some fad of Pauline’s, after all. She likes to have men running after her. I think I’ll telegraph back that I am particularly engaged, and can’t leave town.”
Then he suddenly recollected that with all Lady Teignmouth’s caprices, she had never sent for him in this way before, and he at once decided to go. He telegraphed back to this effect, then finished his breakfast as quickly as he could, and in less than an hour was on his way to Bridgton.
Pauline had calculated about the time he would reach the station, and had gone there to meet him, like a dutiful and affectionate wife.
“Dear Reggie, how very kind of you!” she exclaimed, her face in a glitter of smiles. “I never expected you at all.”
“Then you did not come to meet me, Pauline?”
“Of course I did, you foolish fellow! The mere chance that you would come was enough to rouse my wifely zeal. Do you know why I wanted you?” she added, as she took his arm, and led him out of the station into the quiet lanes.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“No? Then I will tell you. I want you to take me away from Bridgton immediately.”
“But, my dear Pauline, you came here without me, and could, therefore, leave here without me, surely.”
“You don’t evidently know Lady Lenox. She has made up her party, and won’t hear of any one deserting, as she calls it. I talked till I was tired, and then it suddenly struck me to telegraph for you, and make believe you had come on purpose to fetch me.”
“But how is it you are tired of Bridgton already?”
“I don’t like to tell you, Reggie. You know how I hate to give anybody pain.”
“Pshaw!” he said, coloring a little. “Make a clean breast of it while you are about it. Have you and Lady Lenox quarreled?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then you have had disagreeables with one of the visitors.”
“No; everybody had been charming, and shown me so much kindness and sympathy in my trouble.”
“What trouble? I do wish you would not try to mystify me, Pauline. You know I was never good at riddles. I suppose your pug is dead, or you have found your first gray hair——”
“Oh, Reggie! don’t talk like that; you make me feel dreadfully,” she interrupted. “I may have seemed frivolous when all things went well; but I assure you I can suffer with you, and for you now.”
He dropped her arm, and turned, and stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Would you rather I told you the truth, Reggie?”
“That is what I have been begging you to do for the last half-hour,” he answered impatiently. “But you seem to enjoy piling up the agony. I suppose the long and short of it is that Gwen is dangerously ill.”
“She was perfectly well three or four hours ago. No; it is not that sort of trouble. Reggie. Gwen has disgraced us cruelly.”
Lord Teignmouth started violently, and his face grew white to the lips.
“I will not believe it,” he said. “You never liked her, Pauline, and are exaggerating a small imprudence into a crime. I am sure she would be able to clear herself at once, if she knew of what she was accused.”
“Then give her the chance,” answered his wife coldly.
And she told him the miserable story of Mr. Belmont’s death, unfalteringly asseverating that the unfortunate man had come to Turoy on Lady Gwendolyn’s account.
“They had a meeting in the wood the very night of his death, as some of the people hereabout can testify; and, of course, his sudden and mysterious fate has caused a great sensation. No one could suspect Gwendolyn of anything but an imprudence, as you say; but it’s the sort of imprudence that ruins a woman’s reputation, I am afraid. My own opinion is that Colonel Dacre followed Mr. Belmont to Turoy, and, finding him to be a successful rival, determined to get him out of the way. But this is pure conjecture, and nothing of the sort came out at the inquest.”
“Then there has been an inquest?” inquired Lord Teignmouth, who felt as if the ground were giving way beneath his feet.
“Oh, yes! and Gwendolyn gave her evidence with great dignity and propriety—she was sure to do that, you know. The inquest took place at four o’clock, having been delayed by the post-mortem examination, and it was proved that the unfortunate man died of poison, but by whom administered there was no evidence to show, and they gave an open verdict.”
Lord Teignmouth put his hand confusedly to his head. He was a man of sensitive honor, and the thought that his high-bred, beautiful sister had been mixed up in a painful story, that would soon be telegraphed from one end of England to the other, made him furious. Moreover, Mr. Belmont had always been looked upon as an adventurer, and careful people hardly cared to have him at their parties. Mrs. O’Hara herself had never acknowledged the relationship between them until her brother had come into a fortune, when he would have been useful, no doubt.
He turned to his wife, and spoke with angry decision:
“You did quite right to send for me. I would not have you remain in this neighborhood another day on any account. I shall go and see Gwendolyn, and tell her that my house is shut to her for the future, and she must make a home elsewhere. The only thing would be for her to marry, if she could find any idiot to take her. Anyhow, I am not going to have her name mixed up with yours. Thank Heaven she is my sister, and not my wife!”
“Thank Heaven, indeed!” she murmured, resting her dimpled chin on his shoulder, with a movement full of the most seductive grace. “But you know that, with all my faults, Reggie, I am not capable of that?”
“I begin to suspect all women,” he said gloomily. “Gwen and I were everything to each other in the days gone by, and I thought her so innocent and upright. If any one had dared to tell me she was carrying on a secret intrigue I would have knocked him down if he had been a man, so sure should I have felt that he lied miserably. But I suppose there is no doubting the fact now.”
Lady Teignmouth shook her head.
“Lady Gwendolyn denied it, of course; she was almost justified in trying to save her reputation by a falsehood, it seems to me.”
“There should have been no need for the falsehood,” responded Lord Teignmouth sternly.
“Yes, but if we all did exactly what was right, dear, what a delightful world this would be,” said the countess, with the sweetest indulgence. “I always feel myself that having so many failings of my own I ought to make allowances for others. Gwen is but young yet, and was led away. I have heard of Mr. Belmont as a man of extraordinary fascination.”
“What, then? Gwendolyn was not a raw schoolgirl, to be subjugated by the first handsome mustache she saw.”
“Oh, no; but, no doubt, poor darling, she became attached to Mr. Belmont. Indeed, I have felt sure for the last year that she had something on her mind, and I have tried to persuade her to confide in me, but she always repelled me. I wish she had, now, for, as a sensible girl, she would have given up Mr. Belmont at once if she had known how thoroughly worthless he was.”
“I don’t see any sign of her sense in this miserable business,” replied Lord Teignmouth, who looked harassed and dejected. “But we had better get on, Pauline; there are your things to pack, and I know of old what a long process that is.”
“Everything is packed,” replied his wife. “I felt sure you would take me away, and so I made my preparations accordingly. And, do you know, if we miss the eight-o’clock train it will be impossible for us to get away to-night?”
“Then we will stay at an inn, Pauline. I am determined you shall not be exposed to any unpleasant remarks at Lady Lenox’s. Moreover, I want to get to the other side of the Channel as quickly as possible, and hide my diminished head.”
“Look here, Reggie, dear,” she said, as if the idea had only just occurred to her; “supposing you write to Gwendolyn.”
“I would rather tell her my mind.”
“Nonsense!” she answered coaxingly; “it would be so much better to do as I say. You are both quick-tempered, and will make a scene between you, and, surely, there will be nothing gained by that. Come, Reggie, do listen to reason. It would distress you, I am sure, to accuse Gwendolyn to her face, and yet, of course, she must know the truth. Write her a decided letter, and as you will be leaving England at once, she will not be able to answer it, and then you will be spared all annoyance.”
“I would rather see her,” persisted Lord Teignmouth.
“What could you say to her if you did? She is perfectly independent, and has a right to meet twenty men in Turoy wood, if she likes.”
“And kill them afterward, I suppose?”
“Oh! do hush, Reggie; it is dreadfully imprudent to talk in this way out of doors, where you might be overheard.”
“What does that matter? Do you suppose we shall be able to hide our troubles from the world?”
“Impossible, of course; but it is no use precipitating matters. We shall have a few hours’ start of scandal if we keep quiet, and I do want to be the other side of the Channel when the morning papers begin to circulate.”
“It will be of no use, Pauline,” he answered, more gently than he had yet spoken to her. “Wherever we go they will follow and dodge us, and we shall be sure to meet heaps of people who will think it kind to condole with us. I am afraid I shall behave like a bear if they do.”
“Then let us return to Teignmouth, dear.”
“It would be still worse there. We should have to receive our neighbors as usual if they called, and they all know Gwendolyn so well.”
“Only that friends would naturally be more considerate than mere acquaintances.”
“Surely, you would rather go abroad, Pauline,” he said, looking at her with some surprise.
“Infinitely, Reggie; but I wished to do what would comfort you most. Only that I want you, as a special favor, to promise that you will make no effort to see Gwendolyn.”
“Why?”
“Because you are both proud and passionate, and may speak words in the heat of argument that will make it impossible you should ever be friends again; and I do not see why you should not forgive Gwendolyn later, supposing she made a decent marriage, and showed by her conduct that she really regretted the past.”
“You forget, Pauline, that some people will always believe that she killed Belmont to hide her indiscretion.”
“Oh! no, dear, you torture yourself unnecessarily. I am sure nobody will ever believe that; it is so obviously the deed of a rival!”
“And Lawrence Dacre is here, you say?”
“Yes; he arrived the same night that Gwendolyn did, and put up at the village inn.”
“My sister, and my friend—two out of the three people I loved best in the world,” he murmured. “And my wife may be as false as they, for all I know! It is enough to make me wish I had never been born!”
Pauline caught the muttered words, and pressed closer against his arm, her face uplifted to his.
“You must not suspect me, Reggie; I will not have it! I have been a careless wife, I am afraid, because—because,” very softly, “I thought you cared for Gwendolyn more than you cared for me, and that discouraged me; but she cannot come between us now, and I mean to make you so happy! Will you try and forget all these miseries, for my sake?”
All men are weak when they get into the hands of a clever, unscrupulous woman; and Reginald St. Maur was so loyal, that his wife must needs have a very tender hold upon his affections, if only because she was his wife, and he had wooed and won her in his youth. It is true that a coldness had grown up between them of late years; but he had always been ready to welcome her back into his heart, and now that Gwendolyn had failed him so cruelly, Pauline was his one last hope.
He drew her to him, and kissed her thrice on the lips.
“Try and make me forget,” he said, “and I will bless you all my life.”
“Will you leave everything to me?” she asked, as she rested her still beautiful face on his shoulder and smiled up into his eyes.
“Gladly—thankfully, my love.”
“Very well, then, come into my room and write to Gwendolyn, while I bid Lady Lenox adieu, and make the last arrangements for our journey. I only want to save you pain, my dearest; and, indeed—indeed, it is best.”
He followed her passively into the house, and up-stairs. Gently coercing him into a chair, she brought writing materials, placed a pen between his fingers, and then, stooping forward, whispered between two kisses:
“Do your duty, but do it gently; for whatever her blame may be, you are the children of one mother, and were all in all to each other once.”
“Thank you for the reminder,” he answered gravely; and then she rustled away, and left him to his painful task.
When she returned, half an hour later, the letter lay on the desk ready to go, and, as if she feared he might draw back even yet, she caught it up and rang at once for Clémentine.
“Put that carefully in the letter-bag,” she said, when the woman answered the summons; “and then come and put on my cloak.”
“Must I see Lady Lenox?” her husband asked, when they were alone once more.
“You need not; she quite understands and sympathizes with you. They are just going to sit down to dinner, and we shall go away quietly and comfortably, and catch the eight-o’clock train. You see, dearest, I am not altogether incapable if I am left to myself.”
“I never thought you were, my love,” he answered; and paid her such a pretty conjugal compliment that Pauline began to think husbands were not such disagreeable creatures, after all, if properly managed.
Lady Gwendolyn had passed a miserable night, only to close her eyes to dream of the inquest, and suffer over again the humiliation of feeling herself suspected, not of actual murder, perhaps, but of having contributed in some way to the wretched man’s doom. Through Colonel Dacre’s stern gravity she had read the same cruel misconstruction, and yet he was so reticent, so careful not to compromise her in any way, she almost felt, too, as if he were a friend.
Anyhow, the reminiscent torture made her start up in her bed, again and again calling out that she could not bear it; and she was glad when old Hannah came in to prepare her bath. She was so perfectly unsuspecting that when she found a letter on her breakfast-table later, and recognized Lord Teignmouth’s handwriting, she opened it eagerly, feeling as if it were a bright spot in her gloom.
But as she read, the color faded out of her face, and a startled, anguished look came into her eyes.
“Even he forsakes me,” she murmured, in a stifled voice; and, sinking down beside the couch, she buried her face in her hands and wept violently, passionately, until the very strength of her emotion exhausted her, and she lay still, wondering in her infinite desolation what she had ever done that fate should be so hard upon her.
The answer came at last:
“You set up an idol and worshiped it; and in fleeing from temptation a worse chance has overtaken you. Pray, unhappy woman; it is your only hope. The whole world has forsaken you, even your own kin; and, above all, the woman whom you served yesterday by your silence, and whose blame you bore for your brother’s sake. You have no kindred, or friends; you stand alone; and, therefore, need to stand firm, with your head well raised; but how will you bear this terrible solitude for all your pride?”
There was no answer to this question, unless she heard it in the storm—voices that went moaning round the house. A sudden peal of thunder shook the roof; the rain came plashing down; and Gwendolyn, poor coward! hid her face again, and stopped her ears.
She did not, therefore, either see or hear any one approach, until a warm, strong hand touched hers diffidently; and she lifted her head to let these tender words thrill through and through her:
“My darling! love has become my master; and I cannot live without you, as I told you before, so I have come to claim you for my very own!”