The Shadow of a Sin

by Charlotte M. Brame

"He will kill me some day," the woman had said, speaking of her husband—Hyacinth could hear the voice even now. That was nearly a month ago, and kind, generous, reckless Claude had been lying in prison ever since, on a charge of wilful murder. He would not incriminate her; he might have rebutted the whole charge by telling the story of that night and calling her as a witness, but he would not do so. She had not thought there was such generosity, such chivalry in him. It was a noble thing of him to refuse to speak, but he must not lose his life for her.

The more she weighed the evidence, the more startled she was to find how strongly circumstances were against Claude. She must clear him. If he would not speak, she must.

What would it cost her? Ah, Heaven, more than her life—her love! If she went into court to tell the truth, she could never hope to see Adrian again. He who had valued purity, delicacy, refinement and truth so highly—what would he say when he found that she had not only carried on a clandestine correspondence, deceived those with whom she lived, and stolen out to meet her lover, but had eloped with him—had left home, and travelled as far as Leybridge with him, and walked through the fields with him, and then, repenting, had gone back? What would he say when he knew all? She remembered how sternly he had spoken of Lady Wallace—what would he say of her? She was more unfortunate, more disgraced. Her name henceforward would be associated with a murder case. She, a Vaughan, one of the race, as Lady Vaughan had told her that morning, that had never experienced the shadow of disgrace or shame—she who had been, as they believed, so carefully kept from the world, so shielded from all its snares—she to bow those gray heads with sorrow, and slay her love with unmerited shame?

She was as one fastened to a stake; turn which way she would, her torture increased. Could she take advantage of Claude's honorable silence and saving herself, like a coward, let him die? Ah, no, she could not. "Loyal, even unto death," was the motto of her race; she could not do that. If she did—though her secret would be safe, her miserable weakness never be known—she would hate herself, loathe her life, so shamefully laden with secrecy and sin.

The temptation to take advantage of Claude's chivalrous silence lasted only a few moments. She would not have purchased life and love at such a price. She must save him.

What would it cost her? Her love—ah, yes, her love! She would never see Adrian again; he would never speak to one so disgraced. For she did not hide from herself the extent of that disgrace; she who had been reared as a lily in the seclusion of home would become, for a few days at least, the subject of scandal; the name of Hyacinth Vaughan would be lightly spoken by light lips; men would sneer at her, women turn away when her name was mentioned.

"Oh, how bitterly I am punished!" she cried. "What have I done that I must suffer so?"

She knew she must go into court when Claude was tried, and tell her shameful story before the hard-headed men of the world. She knew that her name and what she had to tell would be commented upon by every newspaper in England. After that, there could be no returning home, no love, no marriage, no safe rest in a haven of peace. It would be all at an end. She might lie down and die afterward; the world would all be closed to her.

Only a few hours ago she had lain on that little white bed scarcely able to bear the weight of her own happiness. How long was it since Adrian had asked her to be his wife? The misery, the pain, the anguish of a hundred years seemed to have passed over her head since then.