The Shadow of a Sin

by Charlotte M. Brame

"So you see, Miss Holte," continued Miss Dartelle, blandly, "that, as I should like to please his lordship, I shall wear his favorite flowers."

Yes, she saw plainly enough. She remembered one of those happy days at Bergheim when she too had worn some fresh, fragrant hyacinths to please him; and she remembered how he had caressed her, and what loving words he had murmured to her—how he had told her that she was fairer in his eyes than any flower that had ever bloomed—how he had taken one of the hyacinths from her, and, looking at it, had said: "You were rightly named, my love. You are a stately, fair, fragrant hyacinth indeed."

Now—oh, bitter irony of fate!—now she was to make another beautiful with these same flowers, in order to charm him.

She was dead to him and to all the bright past; yet at the very thought of his loving another she grew faint with anguish that had no name. She went to the window and opened it to admit the fresh, cool air; and then the opportunity she had waited and longed for came. It was a bright, clear morning, the sun was shining, and the promise of spring filled the air. She did not think of seeing Adrian then; but the window overlooked the grove of chestnut trees, and he was walking serenely underneath them.

She sunk on her knees, her eyes were riveted on his face with deepest intensity. It was he—Heaven bless him!—looking graver, older, and more careworn, but still the same brave, handsome, noble man. Those were the true, clear eyes that had looked so lovingly into her own; those were the lips, so firm, so grave, so kind, that had kissed hers and told her how dear she was to him; those were the hands that had clasped her own.

Shine on him, blessed sun; whisper round him, sweet wind; for there is none like him—none. She envied the sun that shone on him, the breeze that kissed his face. She stretched out her hands to him. "My love," she cried—"my dear lost love!" Her wistful longing eyes followed him.

This was the one glance that was to cool the fever preying upon her; this was to be her last look on earth at him—and the chestnut grove was not long—he had passed half through it already. Soon—oh, so soon—he would pass out of her sight forever. Suddenly he stood still and looked down the long forest glade; he passed his hand over his brow, as though to drive away some saddening thought, and her longing eyes never left him. She thanked Heaven for that minute's respite, and drank in the grave manly beauty of his face with eyes that were pitiful to see.

"My love," she murmured, in a low hoarse voice, "if I might but die looking at you."

Slowly the large burning tears gathered in the sorrowful eyes, and sob after sob rose to the quivering lips: it seemed to her that, kneeling there with outstretched hands, she was weeping her life away; and then he began to walk again, and had almost passed out of her sight.