CHAPTER XXIX.

"Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around-- * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear Till death, like sleep, might steal on me."

SHELLEY.

"How late you have slept, Miss!" said Kitty, as she hurried up in answer to my bell. "I have been expecting you would ring for the last hour. Did you know, Miss, they are all at breakfast?"

"It will not take me many minutes," I said, sitting down for her to braid my hair. Kitty was in a desperate hurry this morning; her fingers trembled so she could hardly manage the heavy braids.

"The other young ladies are down some time ago," she said, with a sharp look at me in the glass. "I suppose if they were tired, they would get up this morning out of politeness to Mr. Viennet, as he goes away at ten, and he might think rather hard of it if they didn't take the trouble to come down in time to say good bye to him."

Encouraged, perhaps, by the color that suffused my face, she went on: "As for him, he's been up since daybreak, walking up and down the hall, and on the piazza, and starting and changing color every time a door opened or any one came on the stairs. I don't believe he wants to go away very much."

"Kitty, you are getting my hair too low; you're not thinking of what you are about."

Kitty blushed in her turn, and said nothing more, but hurried on my toilet. It was soon completed. I would thankfully have delayed it, but there was no longer anything to wait for, no longer the least excuse, and, to Kitty's inexpressible relief, I turned to leave the room. Kitty did not suspect with what a beating heart it was, though, and with what a blur before my eyes. I hardly saw the familiar objects in the hall, hardly distinguished a word in the hum of voices in the breakfast-room, as I paused an instant at the threshold. But there was no time for wavering now. I pushed open the door and entered.

There was a momentary hush on my entrance: Phil made a place for me beside him, saying:

"It is something new for you to be late. Aren't you well?"

"Dissipation doesn't agree with you, I fear," said Mrs. Churchill. "You look quite pale this morning."

"Mamma!" exclaimed Josephine, in a tone mock-confidential, just loud enough for every one to hear. "That is unkind! Surely, you remember what happens to-day!"

"Come, come, that's not fair," said Phil. "I thought you were more considerate, Joe. Let your cousin have her breakfast in peace."

"Don't let me keep everybody waiting," I said, faintly.

"Well, if you'll excuse us," exclaimed Josephine, starting up. "We have all finished." Then with a wicked look, "Mr. Viennet, you've been through your breakfast some time. Don't you want to take a farewell promenade on the piazza?"

Mr. Viennet bowed, and expressed his pleasure in rather a low voice.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, you're not going to forsake me, are you?" I asked, as the others rose.

"Of course not," said Phil. "I am always your very good friend when you'll allow me to be."

Josephine little knew how much I thanked her for her manoeuvre; though done from motives the least amiable, it was the kindest thing she could have thought of.

"Don't take that strong coffee," said Phil, noticing how my hand trembled, and substituting for it a cup of tea; then putting everything within my reach, he sent the servant away, and began reading the paper himself.

If Phil Arbuthnot should ever prove himself my worst enemy, I never could forget the considerateness of that morning. He was tender-hearted and kind as a woman, and great, strong man as he was, there was a delicacy of feeling and gentleness about him, that suffered with everything weak and suffering, and strove, at all costs, to give aid and comfort. And aid and comfort, prompted by such a heart, could not fail to soothe. In his eyes, women were sacred; their influence over him unbounded. If he only had been thrown with those who could have elevated and purified, instead of narrowing and lowering his nature, how noble and large-hearted a man he might have been. He had sacrificed his profession, his prospects in life, and all that elevates and nerves a man, to his love for Josephine. How far she accepted it, how she meant to requite it, there is no need to say. I think she liked him; I think that she felt for him a tenderness that no one else could ever awaken in her heart. He had been her lover ever since they were girl and boy together, and in those young days, perhaps, she had fancied that the happiest thing in the world, would be to marry Phil. But such sweet romance had been scorched and shrivelled by the first breath of the world. Josephine had renounced such folly early; she was wise and prudent beyond her years, and she had been trained in a good school. Some wondered that Mrs. Churchill could trust her daughter so constantly with a man of as pleasing an address as Phil; cousins were so apt to fancy each other. "I have perfect confidence in Josephine," said Mrs. Churchill, proudly. It was not misplaced; Josephine Churchill might have been trusted with Cupid in person, if he had not been a desirable _parti_.

"What time is it?" I asked of Phil, in a low tone, after I had exhausted every device for prolonging my breakfast.

"Five minutes to ten," he answered, looking at his watch. "Shall we take a turn on the piazza, if you have finished?"

I followed him to the piazza. "It is too sunny for you," he said, as I screened my aching eyes from the light. "The parlor is pleasanter."

Ella was at the piano, playing some light air (very light, indeed, for the piano was not her forte), and chatting with Capt. McGuffy, who hung over her. Mrs. Churchill, Josephine, Grace, Ellerton, Victor and Mr. Rutledge were at the other end of the room.

"We shall miss you so much, Mr. Viennet," Josephine was saying, in a very charming tone. "Your place cannot be filled. Mr. Rutledge, cannot you manage to have him arrive at the station a few minutes too late?"

"Why didn't you suggest it a little sooner, Miss Josephine?" said Mr. Rutledge, with a smile, as he looked at his watch. "I think I hear the horses at the door now. Thomas will attend to your baggage--don't trouble yourself, Mr. Viennet."

"It is all ready, sir; I have nothing to do but make my adieux, and such painful work had better be short. Mrs. Churchill, I have many pleasures to remember during my residence in America, but none so great as those for which I am indebted to you. Will you accept my sincere thanks?"

I had not dared before to look at him, but I stole a glance at his face now. It was deadly pale, and showed but too plainly the pain and disappointment that he was trying to conceal.

The whole party now gathered round him; his parting with Josephine was very courteous, on her part very gracious; with Grace the same; a little less warm with Miss Wynkar, perhaps; but no one cared to revive old quarrels now. When he approached me, I gave him my hand, but my eyes were fastened on the ground. He held it for one instant, then dropping it, turned hastily away.

"Mr. Rutledge," he said, in a voice that trembled audibly, despite his manly efforts to control it, "I have to thank you for your hospitality. I shall not soon forget my visit here."

Mr. Rutledge's manner had less coldness than usual in it, as he bade his young guest good bye; there was no lack of warmth in the adieux of the other gentlemen.

And I, cruel and cowardly, stood rooted to the floor; I was afraid to acknowledge what I had not been afraid to promise; I was letting him go without a word of kindness, when I might never see him again; when I was, in the sight of heaven, affianced to him, when nothing could absolve me from my vow, shrink and falter as I might. He had reached the hall, and stood for an instant in the doorway as I raised my eyes. They met his; I sprang forward from the circle where I stood.

"Victor, I am not afraid they should know it now," I whispered, putting my hand in his.

I only knew the misery I had caused him, when I saw the change that came into his face, the light that hope lit in his eyes. He had but short grace to tell his love--a few brief minutes before we parted, perhaps for many years, yet nothing could have made me more certain of the depth and ardor of it, than those few moments did.

We walked once down the hall, then slowly back again,

"You must go now," I whispered, as we reached the door. "Good bye!"

For a moment he stood as if it were an effort rending soul and body to leave me; he held my hands tightly in his own, then, bending forward, pressed a kiss on my forehead, and was gone.

It was the seal of our engagement, that first kiss; I stood in the sight of what was all the world to me, tacitly acknowledging what I had done. I was parting from the lover to whom they all fancied I was devoted, but it was shame, and not love, that brought the blood into my cheeks to meet his first caress. I did not move or raise my eyes till the sound of carriage-wheels died away down the avenue. Then the treacherous color receded slowly from my face, and left it white as marble. Conquering as best I might the giddy faintness that came over me, I walked steadily into the parlor, where the whispering and amazed group of ladies still stood. Not heeding Josephine's, "Well, my dear, we weren't quite prepared for this! We didn't know how far things had gone," I went up to Mrs. Churchill and said:

"I should have told you of this before, Aunt Edith. I have accepted Mr. Viennet."

"I should have been gratified by your confidence if you had chosen to bestow it. However, you have my congratulations," and she gave me her hand, and touched her lips lightly to my forehead.

"I suppose we must all congratulate you," said Grace, with a laugh. "But, really, it took _me_ so entirely by surprise, that I shan't be able to collect my wits for an appropriate speech under two hours."

"I will excuse you from it altogether," I said, turning away to the door. I stopped involuntarily as I passed Josephine.

"If it is a matter of congratulation at all, I hope I have yours, Josephine," I said, holding out my hand.

"Of course," she returned, awkwardly, accepting my hand. "Of course you have."

I looked at her for a moment; it was so strange that I should be so miserable and she so blessed. We, "two daughters of one race"--the same blood flowing in our veins--the same woman's heart beating in our bosoms--why was it that I was forbidden every good, tempted of the devil, driven into evil, and she, unfeeling and light-hearted, smiled down at me from her secure height of happiness, wore carelessly the love that I would have died to win, played thoughtlessly with it in my jealous sight, and made a jest of what was life and death to me.

She did not understand my strange and wistful look, and, with a smothered sigh, I withdrew my gaze, and turned away. Perhaps her mother could have interpreted it better; perhaps, if she had chosen, she could have told her daughter I was not the happy fiancée I seemed; and perhaps, if she had chosen, she could have told her to whom I owed the greater part of what I suffered.

I mounted the stairs with a slow and heavy step; Mr. Rutledge passed me coming down. He did not raise his eyes nor look at me, but in the glance I had of his face it seemed to me darker and moodier than ever, and his step heavier and more decided. He went toward the stables, and in a few minutes I heard his horse's hoofs clattering down the avenue.

If my head had ached twice as madly as it did, I should not have dared to stay away from dinner. As I entered the dining-room, it was with rather a doubtful feeling of relief that I found only ladies there. The presence of the gentlemen always proved something of a restraint upon the vivacious tongue of Grace, and Josephine was never in a good humor when there was no one upon whom to exercise her charms. Indeed, the whole table presented a significant contrast to its usual animation. Toilettes had been deferred till evening, I found. Josephine and Ella took no pains to conceal their ennui, and Grace revelled in impertinence. The gentlemen--_i.e._ Phil, Captain McGuffy, and Ellerton--were shooting woodcock, and Mr. Rutledge had gone off on business, and it was possible, he had left word, that he might not return till late.

"Let's have a glorious nap," said Josephine, as we left the table. "It will be time enough to dress just before tea-time. They will none of them be back sooner than eight o'clock."

Ella had been asleep all the morning, but she never objected to a nap; indeed, I believe sleeping was, next to the pleasure of dressing herself, the principal _divertissement_ of her life. Josephine and Ella went to their rooms, Mrs. Churchill followed them upstairs, Grace ran off to find "old Roberts" and get the key of the locked-up bookcases in the library, and I was left to myself.

It was a hot and sultry afternoon; not a breath moved the motionless leaves in the park, not a ripple stirred the lake; the insects hummed drowsily in the hot, hazy air, the declining sun abated neither heat nor power as he neared the horizon, but glared steadily upon the still parched earth. Too languid and miserable to find a cooler place, I sat on the piazza hour after hour, and watched listlessly the slowly-declining sun, the inanimate and sultry landscape.

Even nightfall brought no relief. The sun withdrew his light, it is true; but the sultriness that his reign had bred continued to brood over the earth; no dew refreshed it, no moisture wet the thirsty flowers. The stars, faint and dim, hardly shed a ray of light through the thick air. It was a night that, superstition and presentiment whispered, would prompt dark deeds. Under cover of its weird-like gloom, treachery and murder would steal abroad, and black sins would stain the souls of some of the sons of men before the light of day renewed the face of the earth.

None of us could help feeling the influence of it; dispirited and languid, the whole party dragged through the evening with an unwonted lack of vivacity. Music and dancing failed; the gentlemen pleaded fatigue, and the ladies were very ready to accept the excuse, and at an early hour we separated to our rooms. But I dreaded mine; I dreaded the sleepless hours that I must count before the dawning.

Once that night I slept, but it was a short sleep, and worse than waking. The nightmare of my fate was less horrible than the nightmare of my fancy, and, shuddering with terror, I paced the floor to drive away the chance of its recurrence; I pressed my clenched fingers tightly on my breast to drive away the chill of that Phantom Hand, that had frozen my very soul.

Why had that long-forgotten terror come back to haunt me now?