“How beautiful!”
“Wouldn’t you like to see it?”
“Oh, yes, indeed.”
“Come, and see it—with me,” said Richard Morton.
His voice dropped on the last words, and something in it made Adela catch her breath.
She had thought it all over—planned it—told herself it was inevitable. She must accept him, oh, yes, she must certainly accept him. She knew very well that unless her engagement were given out promptly, her little world would turn the cold shoulder upon pretty Miss Lauriston. Aunt Harriet had made that very clear. Well, if she went to India, she need never see Aunt Harriet again. That would be one comfort. Nor Hetty—that odious Hetty, in the diamonds that would have been so very, very becoming to Hetty’s cousin. It was balm to reflect that they accentuated every bad point which Hetty possessed. What a mess she had made of things—Sir Henry Lavington, and Francis Manners, and others.
Adela Lauriston had never lacked admirers, and yet Hetty, plain Hetty, stood there to-night in diamonds, and Adela must marry a soldier, and go to India.
Indian jewelry was beautiful. Visions of all the gems of Golconda floated before her, all in a glittering mist. She bent her head and as the delicate colour came and went in her cheeks, Richard Morton could have kissed the damp pavement under her feet.
“Oh, you dearest, will you—will you come?” he said; and Adela looked up, and looked down, and breathed a faint assent.
“Oh, how he is crushing my flowers,” was her next coherent thought. “They’ll be sure to stain the silk, and it will be ruined. Oh, I do wish he would let me go. I do wish he would.”
“Oh, please, please,” she whispered, and he slackened his embrace, and laughed down at her blushes.
“Did I frighten you? What a great clumsy bear I am! You’ll have to tame me. Only don’t make me love you less. Could you, I wonder? Did you hate the bear’s hug very much—did you, love?”
His eyes were radiant with a smiling tenderness. Under it there were depths. Any woman’s eyes must have fallen. Some would have been full of tears.
Adela looked down at the bosom of her gown, at the crushed, scarlet blooms. The red from the bruised petals had stained her breast, and stained the silk and lace below. “Such a stain! It will never come out,” ran her thought, and as the words went through her mind, Richard Morton kissed her soft flushed cheek, and she felt his hand tremble upon her arm.
“Adela,” he said, and his voice shook too, “Adela, I’ve not much to offer you now, but I swear I’ll make a name for you. I’m an ambitious man, but now it is all for you. Every bit of it is for you,—like my life—like my love. My God, Adela, how I love you!”
And he raised her head with a strong shaking hand, and kissed her on the lips.
CHAPTER IV
HOW ADELA DID NOT FORGET TO SAY HER PRAYERS
If you go shod with dreams,
Your feet shall be
On paths as soft as sleep
Where dreams are free.
These are the ways of the World;
Dear Heart, take heed,
If you go shod with dreams
Your feet shall bleed.
The bedroom which Helen Wilmot shared with her cousin had two large windows which looked away over the houses to the east. It was at the top of the high, narrow London house, so the windows caught the first of the moonlight, and the first of the sunrise. The moon was gone now. An hour ago she had slid into a bank of clouds that folded the west in gloom, but light was coming back with the sun, and little silvery streaks of it began to outline the heavy green Venetian blinds in the bedroom. Helen Wilmot, propped up in bed, with Adela’s two pillows as well as her own, glanced at the window, drew her dwindling candle a little nearer, and turned a page of the book which she was reading, wearily, but with determination.
As she did so, there was a step on the stair, and in a moment the door opened, and Adela came in, with a candle in her hand. She went straight to the dressing-table, and as she went the white crepe shawl slid from her shoulders, and left them bare.
Adela let it lie, tilted the glass, and for a long moment she stood and looked at her own reflection. Then she stretched out her hand, and pulling one of the green blinds sharply aside, let in the first grey light, that was scarcely daylight yet. It struck full upon her face, but glow and colour, warmth of hair and skin, were proof against its disillusioning touch, and Adela, smiling, let the blind swing back, and turned to pick up her shawl. She met Helen’s half-sarcastic look.
“I wanted to see if I looked as dreadful as all the other women did, when they came out into this odious light,” she said, and gave a little yawn. “You should have seen Bella Wilson. She looked forty!”
“Perhaps she is forty,” said Helen lazily.
“If she could hear you! But I don’t look bad, do I?”
“My dear Adela, do you imagine I am going to pay you compliments at four in the morning. That, my child, is not what I kept awake for.”
“Well, I’m sure no one asked you to keep awake,” retorted Adela.
She unclasped the string of pearls which was her only ornament, and said coaxingly, “You might say I look nice. Really you might, Nellie.”
“Don’t call me ‘Nellie’ then,” said Helen, laughing. Her heart was full of something like worship for her beautiful cousin; some of it came into her eyes, but her voice was cool and teasing as she added,
“You look quite—nice—Adie.”
Adela turned away pettishly, and laid her necklet down on the dressing-table.
“These wretched pearls seem to get smaller and smaller,” she said, and Helen laughed again.
“That is because you have been looking at Hetty’s jewels. You weren’t here when Aunt Harriet gave us the whole list of them. Aunt Lucy and I took turns to say ‘How lovely,’ till I felt as if I were repeating the responses in church. Some day, if I am very good, Hetty will ask me to tea, and show me some of them. Do you think I can live up to it? What did she wear to-night? And how did she look?”
“How does Hetty always look?” said Adela scornfully.
She came across to the bedside, and knelt down.
“Undo me, will you? And it’s all pins, so be careful, or the blonde will tear. Oh, Helen!” she pursued with energy, “do you remember a dress I had last year? No, I don’t believe you ever saw it, for that idiot Emma hung it too close to the fire, and it caught, and was ruined. I had only worn it twice, and I was so angry. Emma had no thought for any one but herself. She said her mother was ill, or something. She was a stupid creature. Well, it was a very pretty dress, white illusion and forget-me-nots, you know the sort of thing. Would you believe it—Hetty must have copied it! Hetty!”
“Adela, do keep still.”
“She had it on to-night. Imagine my fury. I must say Aunt Harriet or some one might tell Hetty how perfectly hideous she looks in white. And she had got forget-me-nots all the wrong colour—like cornflowers, and nearly as big. Oh, Helen, you are pricking me! There’s another pin on the shoulder.”
“All right, I’ve got it. Yes, Hetty is lumpy.”
“And her nose,” said Adela in an animated tone. “It always was flat, but I never knew how flat a snub nose could look, till I saw Hetty with a tiara.”
Helen burst out laughing.
“Did Hetty wear her tiara on her nose? Is that the latest fashion? And how did she keep it on? Now, Adela, if anything tore then, it was your fault, and not mine. There, that’s done, and don’t let us talk about Hetty any more. It is really too dull. Whom did you see?”
Adela got up, and hung her bodice over the back of a chair. Then she slipped out of the full skirt, and stood up small and slim in a much beflounced white petticoat.
“I saw Frank Manners,” she said, and turned to lay her skirt full length upon the ottoman at the foot of her b
ed.
“Oh,” said Helen. Her voice was cold. “I thought Aunt Harriet gave him a hint to stay away; and Aunt Harriet’s hints!” she broke off with an exclamation—“Oh, Adela, how did you tear that flounce? I never noticed it before, but the light is right on it now.”
Adela turned her head away, to hide a curious little smile. In retrospect there was something rather agreeable and flattering about that scene with young Manners.
“Frank Manners tore it,” she said, and went on with her undressing, folding each garment carefully and neatly.
“Did he step on it? No, it’s too high up. How did he tear it?”
“He clutched at it,” said Adela, still with that satisfied little smile.
“My dear Adela!”
“Men are so silly,” said Miss Lauriston, lifting her chin. “He behaved like a great baby. I declare, Helen, he cried—actually cried!”
Helen shut her book with a snap and pushed it under the pillow. “He proposed to you then. I rather admire his courage—after seeing Aunt Harriet.”
“If you call it proposing to ask me to go to India and live with a lot of heathen natives.”
“Don’t!” said Helen sharply.
Adela stared. She was brushing out her hair now, and the loose curls were very becoming.
“I haven’t the least intention—” she began, but Helen stopped her.
“Of course not—I didn’t mean that, and quite well you know it.”
“It’s what you said,” observed Miss Lauriston innocently.
Helen’s head went up.
“I think you are dreadful, Adela!” she said. “I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
“Thank you, my dear. It was he who was dreadful. Such a scene! I can’t think how men can be so foolish. If they only knew how much more attractive and agreeable they are when they don’t make scenes—why, he didn’t even look handsome to-night.”
“Why did you lead the wretched boy on?” she said.
Adela came and sat on the foot of the bed.
“I didn’t lead him on,” she said. “Really, Helen, you do say things. I wouldn’t stand it from any one else. And you who always hated Frank Manners! How can I marry him when he hasn’t got anything to marry me on? It’s not my fault. He is—well, you know—I couldn’t possibly marry any one who hadn’t even got a right to the name he was called by”; and Adela blushed deeply.
Helen looked at her.
“I don’t want you to marry Mr. Manners,” she said.
“Well,” said Adela, looking down. “I shouldn’t have minded if things had turned out differently. But then they haven’t, and what is the use of fighting against Providence? I think it is very irreligious not to—to accept things. If I had been meant to marry Francis—”
“Providence would have arranged for his father and mother to have been properly married,” interrupted Miss Wilmot.
Adela blushed again.
“Helen, you are odd,” she said.
“And you are—no, I sha’n’t tell you what you are. Go on, Adie.”
“Go on— with what?”
“Tell me the rest.”
“Helen, what do you mean? The rest?”
“Yes, my child. Exit Francis Manners, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and all the rest of it, and enter—who?”
Adela looked first blank, and then shocked.
“Helen, you shouldn’t. That’s in the Prayer Book,” she exclaimed.
“So is the Marriage Service, Adie. How does it go?—I, Adela Frances, take thee—Richard, isn’t it?—do you know his second name?”
“Helen, don’t—what an odd way you have of putting things!”
“Have I?” Her voice softened. “Well, Adie, aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Why, Helen, how do you know?”
“Because I am very clever,” said Miss Wilmot. “You don’t imagine that I burn the midnight candle-end for nothing?”
“You’ll never get married if you are so clever,” said Adela seriously.
“No, but you will. Are you engaged, Adie?”
Adela gave a little conscious laugh.
“Yes, I am.”
“To?”
“To Captain Morton, of course.”
“Adie—”
Helen put out her arms, and the girls kissed. Helen’s lips were soft and a little tremulous. It was she who kissed, and Adela who turned her smooth cool cheek to the caress.
“Oh, Adie,” Helen whispered. “What does it feel like? Are you happy?”
And Adela shivered a little, her triumph grown suddenly cold. India was so far away. From the stretches of land and sea that lay between her and the country she must go to, there rose as it were a faint, chilly mist. It made the future look grey—nebulous—uncertain.
Adela caught at herself, and drew away from Helen. She spoke, and the sound of her own voice reassured her.
“I think it will do very well,” she said, “and really you know, Helen, he is rather distinguished. Don’t you think so?—though of course he isn’t handsome. Now Francis Manners is handsome. I do admire a man with dark eyes, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” said Miss Wilmot shortly.
Adela made herself comfortable on the floor. She leaned against the bed, close to Helen, and went on talking, chin in hand.
“Of course,” she said thoughtfully, “Henry Lavington would really have suited me best of all. He would have been comfortable to live with. He wouldn’t have made scenes like Frank Manners, and he wouldn’t have been jealous. Now Captain Morton is jealous, I am sure. Henry Lavington would have let me do just as I liked, and I might have married him, you know.”
Helen exclaimed, and Adela nodded.
“Yes, I might. I should have been Lady Lavington now, if I hadn’t been so foolish as to let him go and stay with Aunt Harriet without me, just when we had had a quarrel. I made up an excuse and wouldn’t go, and the next thing I heard, he was engaged to Hetty. It was such a silly quarrel too—all about nothing—and when I saw Hetty in those diamonds to-night, I could have pinched her.”
“I see,” said Helen Wilmot. “Henry Lavington first, Francis Manners second, and Richard Morton— third. Is that it?”
Adela took no notice.
“We sha’n’t be so badly off,” she said. “I really couldn’t marry a poor man, but mamma was right about the uncle. He left quite a nice little sum, and I dare say if I didn’t like India, that Richard would sell out and settle down at home. Yes, I think I shall make him do that.”
“I thought he was ambitious,” said Helen. “They say he has a career before him.”
“Oh, yes, he told me how ambitious he was. And then he spoke so oddly about his ambition, and about me—I thought he was quite profane. It was quite like swearing. I couldn’t repeat it”; and Adela’s colour deepened.
“Swearing that he loved you?” said Helen Wilmot in a curious voice.
“Of course, my dear.” Adela’s tone was a little superior. “I expect we shall be married pretty soon,” she went on. “He has to go back to India in September. Why, Helen, you will be able to come out with us; I never thought of that.”
“So I shall.”
Adela got up, yawning.
“Well, I must get into bed. Give me my pillows. No, that one isn’t mine. You can put out the candle.”
Helen dropped her book on the floor, blew out the light—and lay down, with her face to the windows, where a little tinge of gold was warming the streaks of light, which half an hour ago had been cold and grey enough. The day would be fine. She closed her eyes and called up a picture of the sunrise, the air very clear, and the colours in it faint yellow, ethereal green and grey, with just one little rosy cloud, high up where the grey was changing into blue. With the unconscious plagiarism of youth she made serious
comparison in her own mind between this dawn of day, and the dawn of Adela’s new life.
First the frail exquisite colours, then the rhythmic mystery of flowing light, the glow, the mounting glory, and afterwards full day, blue sky, the happy work-a-day world and love’s companionship. Helen did not blush, but a warmth ran through her. She had a passionately romantic nature, which she shielded under a somewhat sarcastic mode of speech, and this contrast between what she felt, and what she expressed, often caused her to give Adela credit for feelings which matched her own. She saw her cousin’s faults, but above them, transfiguring where it did not hide, hovered the rainbow breath of Adela’s beauty, and the weakness of Adela’s character made strong appeal to her own strength. All her romantic imaginings were for Adela, none for herself. Her own path in life was clear. Poor papa had his weaknesses,—so much her grandmother had hinted,—and Helen’s imagination had immediately supplied her with a picture of herself as the devoted daughter, soothing, helping, companioning. As long as poor papa lived, Helen would never leave him. There would be a devoted lover, of course, but she would dismiss him in a scene of the purest poetry, and pursue a path brightened only by such light as may be supposed to radiate from ideals of the loftiest, the most fervent character.
Adela was different. For Adela she desired all the blessings which she herself renounced. She loved her cousin with the whole-heartedness of an ardent young woman, who had had no one younger than a grandmother upon whom to expend her affection. And then again and always, there was Adela’s beauty, and Helen responded to beauty as a sunflower turns to the sun. Il y a toujours l’un qui baise et l’autre qui tend la joue, and Adela, nothing loath, submitted with a good grace to being adored. She herself was perhaps fonder of Helen than of any one else in the world.
Helen lay looking into the daylight and watching it brighten until she grew drowsy, and slid into a dream.
Suddenly there was a little rustle in the quiet room, and she raised a sleepy head; dreamland was pleasant, and she was tired.
“What are you doing, Adela?”
“I forgot to say my prayers,” said Miss Lauriston’s soft voice with a shocked note in it.
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