A Terrible Secret, May Agnes Fleming [best book clubs .TXT] 📗

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 passion 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 goddess--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 fashion.

"_Fortes fortuna juvat_," she said, laughing. "I learned enough Latin, you see, to know that fortune assists 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."

"But you love no one else. Tell me that again, Edith!"

She grew pale suddenly. Again she looked away from him over the sunlit slopes before her.

"I am a very selfish and heartless sort of girl, I am afraid," she answered. "I don't know that it is in me to love any one as I ought--certainly not as you love me. If you take me, you shall take me at my true value. I am not an angel--ah, no; the farthest in the world from it--the most selfish of the selfish. I like you very much; it is not hard to do that. To be your wife would be my highest honor, but still I must have time. Come to me to-morrow, Sir Victor, any time, and you shall have your answer. Don't say one word more until then. Now let us go back."

He bowed and offered his arm. She took it, and in profound silence they walked back. The one topic that filled him, heart and soul, strength and mind, was forbidden--it was simply impossible for him to speak of any other. For Edith, she walked calmly beside him--her mind a serene blank.

They reached Powyss Place--they entered the drawing-room. All were there--Trixy lying on a sofa, pale and interesting, Lady Helena beside her, Charley lounging in the recess of a sunny window. All eyes turned upon the newcomers, Trix's with suspicious jealousy. If Sir Victor were in love with herself, was not his fitting place by her side in this trying hour, instead of meandering about with Dithy? And what business had Dithy monopolizing another girl's lover?

"I think I shall ride ever to Drexel Court between this and dinner," Sir Victor said. "I promised Hampton--"

Lady Helena laughed and interrupted:

"And Lady Gwendoline is there--I understand. Go by all means, Victor, and give Gwendoline my love. We shall expect you back to dinner."

The young man colored like a girl. He glanced uneasily at Edith, but Miss Darrell had taken up a photograph book of literary celebrities, and was immersed therein.

Would she understand him, he wondered--would she know it was because he could not endure the suspense at home? How should he drag through all the long, heavy hours between this and to-morrow? And when to-morrow came, if her answer were _no_? He set his teeth at the thought--it could not be no--it _should_ not! She loved no one else--she must learn to love him.

Captain Hammond and Charley betook themselves to the billiard room. Trixy turned her suspicious eyes upon her cousin.

"Where were you and Sir Victor all day, Edith?"

"I and Sir Victor have not been any where all day, Beatrix. During the last hour we have been walking in the grounds."

"What were you talking about?"

"Many things," Miss Darrell responded, promptly. "The beauty of the prospect--the comfort of English homes, and the weather, of course. If I understood short-hand, and had been aware of your anxiety on the subject, I might have taken notes of our conversation for your benefit."

"Did you talk of _me_?"

"I believe your name was mentioned."

"Dith!" in a whisper, and raising herself on her elbow, "did Sir Victor say any thing about--about--you know what"

"He did not say one word about being in love with you, or marrying you, if that is what you mean. Now please stop catechising, and let me look at the pictures."

Twilight fell--dinner hour came; with it Sir Victor. He looked pale, anxious, tired. He answered all his aunt's inquiries about the Drexel family in the briefest possible manner. His over-fond aunt looked at him a little uneasily--he was so unlike himself, and presently drew him aside, after dinner, and spoke.

"Victor what is the matter? Are you ill?"

"Ill? No. My dear aunt," smiling, "don't wear that alarmed face--there is nothing the matter with me."

"There is something the matter with you. You are pale, you are silent, you eat nothing. Victor, what is it?"

"I will tell you to-morrow," he answered. "Spare me until then. I am anxious, I admit, but not even to you can I tell why to-night. You shall know all about it to-morrow."

No glimmer of the truth dawned upon her as she left him. She wondered what it could be, but she would not press him further.

For Edith--she was in that mood of serene recklessness still. Of to-morrow she neither cared to think, nor tried to think. The tide of her life was at its flood; whither the stream might bear her after this night, just now, she neither knew nor cared. For the present she was free, to-morrow she might be a bondwoman. Her fetters would be of gold and roses; none the less though would they be fetters.

She played chess with Sir Victor--_his_ hand trembled--hers was steady. Captain Hammond asked her for a Scotch song. She went to the piano and sang, never more clearly and sweetly in her life.

"Sing 'Charley he's my darling,'" suggested Trix, maliciously; "it's one of your favorites, I know."

Charley was reposing on a sofa near--the waxlights streaming over his handsome, placid face.

"Yes, sing it, Dithy," he said; "it's ages since you sang it for me now."

"And I may never sing it for you again," she answered, with a careless laugh; "one so soon grows tired of these old songs."

She sang it, her eyes alight, her cheeks flushing, thrilling spirit and life in the merry words. Sir Victor stood beside her, drinking in until he was intoxicated by the spell of her subtle witchery.

"And Charley he's my darling—
My darling, my darling!"

Edith's contralto tones rang out. She had never looked so really beautiful, perhaps, before in her life--suppressed excitement lent her such sparkle and color. She finished her song and arose. And presently the evening was over, and it was half-past eleven, and one by one they were taking their candles, and straggling off to bed.

Edith Darrell did not go to bed. She put the lights away on the toilet-table in the dressing-room, wrapped something around her and sat down by the window to think it out.

Should she marry Sir Victor Catheron, or should she not?

She cared nothing for him--nothing whatever--very likely she never would. She loved Charley Stuart with all the power of her heart, and just at present it seemed to her she always must. That was how the problem stood.

If she married Sir Victor, rank and wealth beyond all her dreams would be hers, a life of luxury, all the joys and delights great wealth can bring. She liked pleasure, luxury, beauty, rank. For love--well, Sir Victor loved her, and for a woman it is always better, safer, to be loved than to love.

That was one phase of the case. Here was the other: She might go to Charley and say. "Look here--I care for you so much, that life without you, isn't worth the living. I will marry you, Charley, whenever you like." He would make her his wife. Alone in darkness, her heart thrilled as she thought of it--and the intensest joy of life would be hers for a while. For a while. They would be poor--his father would cast him off--he must, for the first time in his life, begin to work--the old story of pinching and poverty, of darning and mending, would commence over again for her, poor food, poor clothes, all the untold ugliness and misery of penury. Love is a very good and pleasant thing, but not when bought at the price of all the glory and pleasure of the world.

She turned from the life she pictured with a shudder of abhorrence. And Charley was not of the stuff the toilers of the earth are made. She would never spoil his life for him as well as her own--not if her heart broke in giving him up. But it would not break--who breaks her heart in these days? She would say "Yes" to-morrow to Sir Victor Catheron.

Then for a moment the thread of thought broke, and she sat looking blankly out at the soft spring night. On the day she pledged herself to Sir Victor she must say good-by forever to Charley--so it began again. One house must not contain them both; her word, her plight must be kept bright and untarnished--Charley must go.

She tried to think what her life would be like without him. It seemed to her, she could think of no time, in which he had not belonged to her; all the years before that night in the snow were blank and void. And now, for all time, she must give him up.

She rose, feeling cold and cramped--she undressed with stiffened fingers, and went to bed. She would think no more, her head