Love Works Wonders Part 24

"Miss Hastings," she said, "I would not have sold myself as that girl has done for all the money and the highest rank in England."

"My dear Pauline, you must not, really, speak in that fas.h.i.+on. Lady Darrell undoubtedly loves her husband."

The look of scorn deepened.

"You know she does not. She is just twenty, and he is nearly sixty. What love--what sympathy can there be between them?"

"It is not really our business, my dear; we will not discuss it."

"Certainly not; but as you are always so hard upon what you call my world--the Bohemian world, where men and women speak the truth--it amuses me to find flaws in yours."

Miss Hastings looked troubled; but she knew it was better for the pa.s.sionate torrent of words to be poured out to her. Pauline looked at her with that straight, clear, open, honest look before which all affectation fell.

"You tell me, Miss Hastings, that I am deficient in good-breeding--that I cannot take my proper place in your world because I do not conform to its ways and its maxims. You have proposed this lady to me as a model, and you would fain see me regulate all my thoughts and words by her. I would rather die than be like her! She may be thoroughly lady-like--I grant that she is so--but she has sold her youth, her beauty, her love, her life, for an old man's money and t.i.tle. I, with all my _brusquerie_, as you call it, would have scorned such sale and barter."

"But, Pauline----" remonstrated Miss Hastings.

"It is an unpleasant truth," interrupted Pauline, "and you do not like to hear it. Sir Oswald is Baron of Audleigh Royal and master of Darrell Court; but if a duke, thirty years older, had made this girl an offer, she would have accepted him, and have given up Sir Oswald. What a world, where woman's truth is so bidden for?"

"My dear Pauline, you must not, indeed, say these things; they are most unlady-like."

"I begin to think that all truth is unlady-like," returned the girl, with a laugh. "My favorite virtue does not wear court dress very becomingly."

"I have never heard that it affects russet gowns either," said Miss Hastings. "Oh, Pauline, if you would but understand social politeness, social duties! If you would but keep your terrible ideas to yourself! If you would but remember that the outward bearing of life must be as a bright, s.h.i.+ning, undisturbed surface! Do try to be more amiable to Lady Darrell!"

"No!" exclaimed the girl, proudly. "I have warned her, and she has chosen to disregard my warning. I shall never a.s.sume any false appearance of amiability or friends.h.i.+p for her; it will be war to the knife! I told her so, and she chose to disbelieve me. I am a Darrell, and the Darrells never break their word."

Looking at her, the unstudied grace of her att.i.tude, the perfect pose, the grand face with its royal look of scorn, Miss Hastings felt that she would rather have the girl for a friend than an enemy.

"I do hope, for your own sake, Pauline," she said, "that you will show every respect to Lady Darrell. All your comfort will depend upon it. You must really compromise matters."

"Compromise matters!" cried Pauline. "You had better tell the sea to compromise with the winds which have lashed it into fury. There can be no compromise with me."

The words had scarcely issued from her lips when the dinner-bell sounded, and Lady Darrell entered in a beautiful evening dress of white and silver. Certainly Sir Oswald's choice did him great credit. She was one of the most delicate, the most graceful of women, fair, caressing, insinuating--one of those women who would never dream of uttering barbarous truth when elegant fiction so much better served their purpose--who loved fine clothes, sweet perfumes, costly jewels--who preferred their own comfort in a graceful, languid way to anything else on earth--who expected to be waited upon and to receive all homage--who deferred to men with a graceful, sweet submission that made them feel the deference a compliment--who placed entire reliance upon others--whom men felt a secret delight in ministering to, because they appeared so weak--one of those who moved cautiously and graciously with subtle harmonious action, whose hands were always soft and jeweled, whose touch was light and gentle--a woman born to find her place in the lap of luxury, who shuddered at poverty or care.

Such was Elinor Darrell; and she entered the drawing-room now with that soft, gliding movement that seemed always to irritate Pauline. She drew a costly white lace shawl over her fair shoulders--the rich dress of silver and white was studded with pearls. She looked like a fairy vision.

"I think," she said to Miss Hastings, in her quiet, calm way, "that the evening is cold."

"You have just left a warm country, Lady Darrell," was the gentle reply.

"The South of France is blessed with one of the most beautiful climates in the world."

"It was very pleasant," said Lady Darrell, with a dreamy little sigh.

"You have been very quiet, I suppose? We must try to create a little more gayety for you."

She looked anxiously across the room at Pauline; but that young lady's attention was entirely engrossed by the crimson flowers of the beautiful plant. Not one line of the superb figure, not one expression of the proud face, was lost upon Lady Darrell.

"I have been saying to Sir Oswald," she continued, looking intently at the costly rings s.h.i.+ning on her fingers, "that youth likes gayety--we must have a series of parties and b.a.l.l.s."

"Is she beginning to patronize me?" thought Pauline.

She smiled to herself--a peculiar smile which Lady Darrell happened to catch, and which made her feel very uncomfortable; and then an awkward silence fell over them, only broken by the entrance of Sir Oswald, and the announcement that dinner was served.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A RICH GIFT DECLINED.

The bride's first dinner at home was over, and had been a great success.

Lady Darrell had not evinced the least emotion; she had married for her present social position--for a fine house, troops of servants, beautiful, warm, fragrant rooms, choice wines, and luxurious living; it was only part and parcel of what she expected, and intended to have. She took the chair of state provided for her, and by the perfect ease and grace of her manner proved that she was well fitted for it.

Sir Oswald watched her with keen delight, only regretting that years ago he had not taken unto himself a wife. He was most courtly, most deferential, most attractive. If Lady Darrell did occasionally feel weary, and the memory of Aubrey Langton's face rose between her and her husband, she made no sign.

When the three ladies withdrew, she made no further efforts to conciliate Pauline. She looked at her, but seemed almost afraid to speak. Then she opened a conversation with Miss Hastings, and the two persevered in their amiable small talk until Pauline rose and went to the piano, the scornful glance on her face deepening.

"This is making one's self amiable!" she thought. "What a blessing it would be if people would speak only when they had something sensible to say!"

She sat down before the piano, but suddenly remembered that she had not been asked to do so, and that she was no longer mistress of the house--a reflection sufficiently galling to make her rise quickly, and go to the other end of the room.

"Pauline," said Lady Darrell, "pray sing for us. Miss Hastings tells me you have a magnificent voice."

"Have I? Miss Hastings is not so complimentary when she speaks to me alone."

Then a sudden resolution came to Lady Darrell. She rose from her seat, and, with the rich robe of silver and white sweeping around her, she went to the end of the room where Pauline was standing, tall, stately, and statuesque, turning over the leaves of a book. The contrast between the two girls--the delicate beauty of the one, and the grand loveliness of the other--was never more strongly marked.

Lady Darrell laid her white hand, s.h.i.+ning with jewels, on Pauline's arm.

She looked up into her proud face.

"Pauline," she said, gently, "will you not be friends? We have to live together--will you be friends?"

"No!" replied Miss Darrell, in her clear, frank voice. "I gave you warning. You paid no heed to it. We shall never be friends."

A faint smile played round Lady Darrell's lips.

"But, Pauline, do you not see how useless all your resentment against me is now? My marriage with Sir Oswald has taken place, and you and I shall have to live together perhaps for many years--it would be so much better for us to live in peace."

The proud face wore its haughtiest look.

"It would be better for you, perhaps, Lady Darrell, but it can make no difference to me."

"It can, indeed. Now listen to reason--listen to me!" and in her eagerness Lady Darrell once more laid her hand on the girl's arm. Her face flushed as Pauline drew back, with a look of aversion, letting the jeweled hand fall. "Listen, Pauline!" persevered Lady Darrell. "You know all this is nonsense--sheer nonsense. My position now is established.

You can do nothing to hurt me--Sir Oswald will take good care of that.

Any attempt that you may make to injure me will fall upon yourself; besides, you know you can do nothing." In spite of her words, Lady Darrell looked half-fearfully at the girl's proud, defiant face. "You may have all kinds of tragic plans for vengeance in your mind, but there are no secrets in my life that you can find out to my discredit--indeed, you cannot injure me in any possible way." She seemed so sure of it, yet her eyes sought Pauline's with an anxious, questioning fear. "Now, I, on the contrary," she went on, "can do much for you--and I will. You are young, and naturally wish to enjoy your life. You shall. You shall have b.a.l.l.s and parties, dresses--everything that you can wish for, if you will only be friends with me."

She might as well have thrown drops of oil on an angry ocean to moderate its wrath.