A Terrible Secret Part 34

They emerge from the chill darkness of dawning day into a blaze of light--into a vast and stately entrance-hall. A long file of servants are drawn up to receive them. And "Welcome to Powyss Place," Lady Helena says with kind courtesy "I can only wish your visit may be as pleasant to you as you made mine in New York."

Without changing their dresses, they are ushered into a lofty and handsome dining-room. More brilliant lights, more silent, respectful servants, a round table luxuriously spread. They sit down; forget they are tired and sleepy; eat, drink, and are merry; and it is five, and quite day, before they were shown up to their rooms. Then, hasty disrobing, hasty lying down, and all are at peace in the land of dreams.

Next day, somewhere about noon, Miss Stuart, clicking along in her narrow-soled, preposterously high-heeled boots, over a polished oaken corridor, as black as ebony, and several degrees more slippery than ice, lost her footing, as might be imagined, and came down, with an unearthly screech, on one ankle. Of course the ankle was sprained; of course every one flew to the rescue. Sir Victor was first on the field, and in Sir Victor's arms Miss Stuart was lifted, and borne back to her room. Luckily it was near, or even Sir Victor's chivalry and muscular development would not have been equal to it, for Trix was a "fine woman." The ankle was bathed and bandaged, the invalid's breakfast brought up--everything done for her comfort that it was possible to do; and in the midst of their fussing, having cried a great deal, Miss Stuart suddenly dropped off asleep. Edith came out of the room looking pale and tired. In the slippery pa.s.sage she encountered Sir Victor waiting.

"I have waylaid you on purpose, Miss Darrell," he said, smiling, "lest you should meet with a mishap too. A carpet shall be placed here immediately. You look pale--are you ill?"

There was a solicitude in his face, a tremulous, suppressed tenderness in the commonplace question, a look in his eyes that had no business in the eyes of another young lady's betrothed. But Edith felt too f.a.gged and spiritless just at present to notice.

"I feel well enough; nothing is ever the matter with me; but I _am_ rather stupid. Stupidity," she said, with her old laugh, "is fast becoming my normal state."

"You will come with me for a walk, will you not?" he asked. "The park is very well worth seeing. To-morrow, Miss Stuart's sprain permitting, we will all visit Catheron Royals. Do come, Miss Darrell; it will do you a world of good."

She hesitated a moment, then went. What difference did it make? Trix wouldn't be jealous now. What difference did anything make, for that matter? She was dull and low-spirited; she needed a walk in the fine fresh air. So they went on that fateful walk, that walk that was to be like no other in all Edith Darrell's life.

It was a perfect May day, an English May day; the gra.s.s, green beyond all ordinary greenness, the fragrant hawthorn hedges scenting the air, the thrush and the linnet singing in the trees, cowslips and daisies dotting the sward. A fresh, cool breeze swept over the uplands, and brought a faint trace of life and color into Edith's dark pale cheeks.

"This is the Lime Walk--the prettiest at Powyss Place, to my mind."

This was the young baronet's first commonplace remark. "If you will ascend the eminence yonder, Miss Darrell, I think I can point out Catheron Royals; that is, if you think it worth the trouble."

It was all the same to Edith--the Lime Walk, the eminence, or any other quarter of the park. She took Sir Victor's arm, as he seemed to expect it, and went with him slowly up the elevation. Pale, weary, listless, she might be, but how charmingly pretty she looked in the sparkling suns.h.i.+ne, the soft wind blowing back her loose brown hair, kindling into deeper light her velvety-brown eyes, bringing a sea-sh.e.l.l pink into each creamy cheek. Beautiful beyond all ordinary beauty of womanhood, it seemed to Sir Victor Catheron.

"It is a wonderfully pretty place," she said. "I should think you English people, whose ancestors, time out of mind, have lived and died here, would grow to love every ivy-clad stone, every brave old tree.

If I were not Alexander I would be Diogenes--if I were not an American girl, I would be an English miss."

She laughed and looked up at him, her spirits rising in the suns.h.i.+ne and the free, fresh air. His eyes were fixed upon her face--pa.s.sionate admiration, pa.s.sionate love, written in them far too plainly for any girl on earth not to read. And yet--he had proposed to Trix.

"You would?" he eagerly exclaimed. "Miss Darrell, do I understand you to say you could live in England all your life--give up America and your friends, and pa.s.s your life here?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It would be no great sacrifice. Apart from my father, there isn't a soul in all wide America I care a farthing for, and your English homes are very charming."

The last barrier broke down. He had not meant to speak--he had meant to be very prudent and formal--to tell Lady Helena first, to refer the matter to Mr. Stuart next. Now all prudence and formality were swept away. Her hands were in his--he was speaking with his whole heart in every word.

"Then stay and share an English home--share _mine_ Edith, I love you--I have loved you, I think, since I saw you first. Will you be my wife?"

Alas for Trix!--that was Edith's first thought. To burst out laughing--that was Edith's first impulse. Not in triumph or exultation--just at this moment she felt neither--but at the awful blunder Trix had made; for Trix had made a blunder, that was clear as day, else Sir Victor Catheron had never said those words.

"I meant to have spoken to Lady Helena and Mr. Stuart first," Sir Victor went on; "but that is all over now. I can't wait longer; I must take my sentence from your lips. I love you! What more can I say? You are the first my lips have ever said it to--the first my heart has ever felt it for. Edith, tell me, may I hope?"

She stood silent. They were on the summit of the hill. Away, far off, she could see the waving trees and tall chimneys of a stately mansion--Catheron Royals, no doubt. It looked a very grand and n.o.ble place; it might be her home for life--she who, in one sense, was homeless. A baronet stood beside her, offering her rank and wealth--she, penniless, pedigreeless Edith Darrell! All the dreams of life were being realized, and in this hour she felt neither triumph nor elation. She stood and listened, the sunlight on her gravely beautiful face, with vague wonder at herself for her apathy.

"Edith!" he cried out, "don't tell me I am too late--that some one has been before me and won your heart. I _couldn't_ bear it! Your cousin a.s.sured me that when I spoke the answer would be favorable. I spoke to her that night in Killarney--I did not mention your name, but she understood me immediately. I told her I meant to speak as soon as we reached England. I asked her if she thought there was hope for me, and she--"

The pa.s.sionate eagerness, the pa.s.sionate love and fear within him checked his words suddenly. He stopped for a moment, and turned away.

"O Trixy! Trixy!" was Edith's thought; and ridiculous and out of place as the emotion was, her only desire still was an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh outright. What a horrible--what an unheard-of blunder the child had made!

She stood tracing figures on the gra.s.s with the point of her parasol, feeling strangely apathetic still. If her life had depended on it, she could hardly have accepted Sir Victor then. By and by she might feel half wild with exultation--not now.

He waited for the answer that did not come. Then he turned from her, pale with despair.

"I see how it is," he said, trying, not quite successfully, to steady his voice; "I am too late. You love your cousin, and are engaged to him. I feared it all along."

The brown starry eyes, lifted slowly from the gra.s.s and looked at him.

"My cousin? You mistake, Sir Victor; I am engaged to no one. I"--she set her lips suddenly and looked away at the trees and the turrets of Catheron Royals, s.h.i.+ning in the brilliant sun--"I love no one."

"No one, Edith! Not even me?"

"Not even you, Sir Victor. How could I? Why should I? I never dreamed of this."

"Never dreamed of this!" he repeated, in amaze; "when you must have seen--must have known--"

She interrupted him, a faint smile curling her lips.

"I thought it was Trixy," she said.

"Miss Stuart! Then she has told you nothing of that night at Killarney--I really imagined she had. Miss Stuart has been my kind friend, my one confidante and sympathizer. No sister could be kinder in her encouragement and comfort than she."

"O poor Trix--a sister!" Edith thought, and in spite of every effort, the laugh she strove so hard to suppress dimpled the corners of her mouth. "_Won't_ there be a scene when you hear all this!"

"For pity's sake, Edith, speak to me!" the young man exclaimed. "I love you--my life will be miserable without you. If you are free, why may I not hope? See! I don't even ask you to love me now. I will wait; I will be patient. My love is so great that it will win yours in return. O darling! say you will be my wife."

Her hands were in his. The fervor, the pa.s.sion within him almost frightened her.

"Sir Victor, I--I hardly know what to say. I wonder that you care for me. I wonder you want to marry me. I am not your equal; I have neither rank, nor wealth, nor descent."

"You have the beauty and the grace of a G.o.ddess--the goodness of an angel; I ask nothing more. You are the mate of a prince; and I love you. Everything is said in that."

"Lady Helena will never consent"

"Lady Helena will consent to anything that will make me happy. The whole happiness or misery of my life lies in your hands. _Don't_ say no, Edith--don't, for Heaven's sake. I could not bear it--I cannot lose you; I _will_ not!" he cried, almost fiercely.

She smiled faintly again, and that lovely rose-pink blush of hers deepened in her cheeks. It was very nice indeed to be wooed in this fiery fas.h.i.+on.

"_Fortes fortuna juvat_," she said, laughing. "I learned enough Latin, you see, to know that fortune a.s.sists the brave. People who won't have 'no' for an answer must have 'yes,' of course."

"And it is 'yes!' Edith--"

"Be quiet, Sir Victor; it is not 'yes' just yet, neither is it 'no.'

You must let me think all this over; my head is giddy with your vehemence. Give me--let me see--until to-morrow. I can't answer now."

"But, Edith--"

"That much is due to me," she interposed, proudly; "remember, I have not expected this. You have surprised me this morning more than I can say. I am proud and grateful for your preference and the honor you have done me, but--I am honest with you--I don't love you."