The Tree of Knowledge Part 68

Yet where was the comfort of right-doing? Nowhere. If this were right, she had rather a thousand times that she had done wrong. Oh, to have him there beside her, on any terms--recklessly to enjoy the delight of his presence, caring not what came after. So low does love degrade? she questioned.

After a few minutes, her wildness was a little calmed. An appeal had gone up to the G.o.d Who, in Lady Mabel's creed, was powerless to save, yet the thought of Whom seemed the only remedy for this misery; she felt anew that she was in reality neither reckless nor degraded, only worn out, mind and body.

The cause of her wild longing for Claud was as much the feminine desire to rest on the strength of a masculine nature as the weaker yearning to be loved. With Osmond she had been always the supporter, never the supported; to the girls she had been forced to stand in the light of father and mother, as well as sister; and it had come to be a family tradition that Wyn was indifferent to anything in the shape of a love-affair--impervious as far as she herself was concerned, though sympathetic enough in the vicissitudes of others.

It seemed, indeed, a hard dispensation both for brother and sister that, when at last their jealously-guarded and seldom-spent store of sentiment found an object, it should be in each case an object out of reach.

It seemed to Wynifred as if to-night a climax was reached. The point had come when she could bear no more; she could do nothing but sit and suffer, with a keenness of which a year ago she had not deemed herself capable.

Mansfield Road was reached at last.

Somewhat to her surprise, lights were in the dining-room window, and, as the wheels of her vehicle stopped, a hand drew aside the blind, and, some one looked eagerly out. Almost at once the hall door was flung open, and Wynifred painfully conscious of red and swollen eyelids, walked slowly in.

Osmond was holding back the door with such a pleasant, happy smile, as drove a fresh knife into her heart. Was she to be the messenger to dash his cup of joy from his lips, and tell him that his hopes lay in ruins all around him? She felt that it was impossible--at least, yet; and, before she had time to think more, Hilda's voice broke in from the dining-room:

"Is that you, Wyn? Do come in--there's some news--guess what has happened! Osmond and I waited up to tell you."

She walked in, feeling stiff, mazed, and as though the familiar room was strange to her. Sally, who was also standing by, partic.i.p.ating in the general excitement, burst out--

"Bless me, Miss Wyn, whatever is the matter? You look like a ghost!"

"I am tired, Sally--dead beat--that is the only expression that conveys my meaning. I told you I was done up before I started, did I not?... I shall be--well again to-morrow. What is the news?"

Hilda's eyes were soft and almost tearful.

"Can't you guess?" she said.

Wyn flashed a look round, noting Jac's absence.

"Jac!" she said, involuntarily.

"She would not stay up to tell you herself," smiled Hilda.

"Not--oh, Hilda, not--Mr. Haldane?"

"Yes; they are engaged," said Osmond, brightly. "It will be a wrench, at first, to lose Jacqueline out of the house; but think what a match it will be for her! Such a delightful fellow! Ah, Wyn, I am not too selfish to be able to rejoice in their happiness. They have nothing to wait for!

He can well afford to be married to-morrow, if it please him. She is a fortunate girl!"

"She deserves it!" cried Hilda, loyally. "Oh, Wyn, they are so deliciously in love with one another!"

In the midst of this family sensation, Wyn could not bear to launch her thunderbolt. To destroy, at a word, all Osmond's peace was more than she felt herself equal to. The little drop of balm seemed to blunt for a few minutes the keen edge of her own pain.

In Jac's little room, with her arms about the pliant young form, and the blooming head hidden in her neck, she could feel for the time almost happy in the hushed intensity of the girl's love.

It was what the others had longed for, but scarcely dared to hope. In fact, much as she liked young Haldane, Wynifred had never encouraged his visits much, for fear of breaking Jacqueline's heart. But now all was right. The young man had chosen for love, and not for gain. Jacqueline would be a member of one of the oldest county families in England. No wonder that the engagement shed a treacherous beam of unfounded hope over Osmond's path. If Ted Haldane could marry for love, other people equally exalted might do the same.

For a few hours he must go on in his fool's Paradise. Wynifred _could not_ speak the words which should wake him from his dream.

All night long she lay with eyes wide open to the winter moonlight, watching the pale stars hang motionless in the dark soft sky, bright things which every eye may gaze upon, but no man may approach. Their measureless distance weighed upon her as if to crush her. A leaden clamp seemed bound round her aching temples. To live was to suffer, yet the relief of sleep was unattainable. Faster and faster the thoughts whirled through her tortured brain. There was no power to stop them. Over and over again she lived through the events of last evening; over and over again she heard each word that Claud had uttered; again she saw the open doorway, the regal girl with her flowers, her lips curved with laughter, her lover attendant at her side. One after the other the pictures chased each other through her mind, in never-ending succession, till it seemed as if she must go mad. There was no respite, no moment of blissful unconsciousness till the laggard January dawn had come, and Sally was filling her bath with the customary morning splash.

It seemed a bitter irony. Was this morning, then, like any other morning, that the habits and customs of the house were to go on as usual?

"Am I to get up?" asked she, in a dazed way. "Why yes, of course. I must get up, I suppose."

"Ain't you well, Miss Wyn?" queried Sally, in a doubtful voice.

"Not quite, Sal. I have been working too hard, I think. But now I remember, I must get up, for my proofs are not corrected. When they are finished, I think--I think that I must take a little rest."

CHAPTER XLIV.

Unwise I loved and was lowly, loved and aspired, Loved, grieving or glad, till I made you mad, And you meant to have hated and despised, Whereas you deceived me, nor inquired.

_The Worst of It._

It was the second morning after Lady Mabel's dinner-party. Claud and his niece sat together in the morning-room, discussing the affairs of the nation. A large picture-book was spread out across the young lady's knees, and her most serious attention was being bestowed on a picture of Joseph in the pit, which subject her uncle elucidated by a commentary not exactly remarkable for Scriptural accuracy.

He was preoccupied and bothered, and did not find the child's chatter so engrossing as usual, for he had many things on his mind.

There came an imperative knocking at the street door. He heard it, but without any particular anxiety. No visitor would penetrate into Mab's sanctum. It was not until the steps of the butler sounded along the tiled pa.s.sage outside that he leaped to his feet with Kathleen in his arms, acutely conscious of the shabbiness of his brown velvet morning-coat.

There was a sharp rap on the door, then it was thrown broadly open, and in the aperture appeared the st.u.r.dy square figure, sun-browned face, and grizzled hair of Henry Fowler.

"Any admittance?" said his kind voice, cheerily. "I wouldn't let the good gentleman outside announce me. I think he took me for a country farmer, come to pay his respects--and he might have made a worse guess.

How are you, my lad, how are you?"

Claud had swooped upon him, dragged him in, shut the door, and now stood shaking the two firm hands in their tawny doe-skin gloves as though he would shake them off.

"If anything in the world could make me feel good-tempered at this moment, it's the sight of you!" he cried, joyously. "Where did you spring from? What brought you up? How long can you stay? Tell me everything. This is a surprise of the right sort, and no mistake!"

"Not so very surprising, is it?" asked Henry, as he drew a letter in Percivale's unmistakable hand from his breast-pocket. "I thought I must come and settle this in person. I am the Misses Willoughby's delegate."

"Capital! Don't care what brings you. I only know how glad I am to see you."

"Not more so than I to see you, my lad. You don't look as well, though, as you did when you left Lower House. You must come down again as soon as ever you can get free of dissipations. Your chair still looks vacant at table, and your horse is eating his head off in the stable. George took him for a gallop the other day, and managed to lame him slightly.

'Eh,' says he, 'there'll be the devil to pay when Mr. Cranmer comes down!' So you see you're expected any time."

"How good that sounds!" cried Claud, sitting on the table and swinging his legs boyishly. "Ah, I would like to be there at this minute! You have had some fine seas rolling up in Brent Bay, I'll go bail! I fancy I can still feel the salt sting of that sou'-wester we faced together. And the excitement in which the _Swan_ made her _debut_!"

"Ay! That storm had consequences we little recked of," said Henry, thoughtfully fingering the letter in his hand. "To think of little Elsa!

Well! Miss Ellen always said so. She was right, as usual. She is a woman of talent, is Miss Ellen, as well as being a saint on earth. But now, Claud, tell me, how have matters been arranged? I am an old stager, you see, and doubtless I don't march with the times; but this seems to me to be a very rapid business! 'Off with the old love and on with the new!'

What has become of young Allonby? Has he quitted the lists, or how has he been disposed of?"

Claud put his hands over his ears with a gesture of despair.