to put it in a narrow cage, and to place the cage in a dark, dull room, where never a gleam of sunshine could cheer it—but it is a thousand times more cruel to shut me up in that gloomy house like a prison, with people who are too old to understand what youth is like."
"It is cruel," he assented; and then a silence fell over them, broken only by the whispering of the wind.
"Do you know," she went on, after a time, "I have been so unhappy that I have wished I were like Undine and had no soul?"
Yet, even as she uttered the words, from the books she disliked and found so dreary there came to her floating memories of grand sentences telling of "hearts held in patience," "of endurance that maketh life divine," of aspirations that do not begin and end in earthly happiness. She drove such memories from her.
"Lady Vaughan says 'life is made for duty.' Is that all, Claude? One could do one's duty without the light of the sunshine and the fragrance of flowers. Why need the birds sing so sweetly and the blossoms wear a thousand different colors? If life is meant for nothing but plain, dull duty, we do not need starlit nights and dewy evenings, the calm of green woods and the music of the waves. It seems to me that life is meant as much for beauty as for duty."
Claude looked eagerly into the lovely face.
"You are right," he said, "and yet wrong. Cynthy, life was made for love—nothing else. You are young and beautiful; you ought to enjoy life—and you shall, if you will promise to be my wife."
"I do promise," she returned. "I am tired to death of that gloomy house and those gloomy people. I am weary of quiet and dull monotony."
His face darkened.
"You must not marry me to escape these evils, Hyacinth, but because you love me."
"Of course. Well, I have told you all my perplexities, Claude, and you have decided that I love you."
He smiled at the childlike simplicity of the words.
"Now, Hyacinth, listen to me. You must be my wife, because I love you so dearly that I cannot live without you and because you have promised. Listen, and I will tell you how it must be."
Hyacinth Vaughan looked up in her lover's face; there was nothing but the simple wonder of a child in hers—nothing but awakened interest—there was not even the shadow of love.
"You say that Lady Vaughan intends starting for Bergheim on Thursday, and that Adrian Darcy is to meet you there; consequently, after Thursday, you have not the least chance of escape. I should imagine the future that lies before you to be more terrible even than the past. Rely upon it, Adrian Darcy will come to live at the Chase if he marries you; and then you will only sleep through life. You will never know its possibilities, its grand realities."
An expression of terror came over her face.
"Claude," she cried, "I would rather die than live as I have been living!"
"So would I, in your place. Cynthy, your life is in our own hands. If you choose to be foolish and frightened, you will say good-by to me, go to Bergheim, marry Darcy, and drag out the rest of a weary life at the Chase, seeing nothing of brightness, nothing of beauty, and growing in time as stiff and formal as Lady Vaughan is now."
The girl shuddered; the warm young life in her rebelled; the longing for love and pleasure, for life and brightness, was suddenly chilled.
"Now here is another picture for you," resumed Claude. "Do what I wish, and you shall never have another hour's dulness or weariness while you live. Your life shall be all love, warmth, fragrance and song."
"What do you wish?" she asked, her lovely young face growing brighter at each word.
"I want you to meet me to-morrow night at Oakton station; we will take the train for London, and on Thursday, instead of going to Bergheim, we will be married, and then you shall lead an enchanted life."
An expression of doubt appeared on her face; but she was very young and easy to persuade.
"It will be the grandest sensation in all the world," he said. "Imagine an elopement from the Chase—where the goddess of dulness has reigned for years—an elopement, Cynthy, followed by a marriage, a grand reconciliation tableau, and happiness that will last for life afterward."
She repeated the words half-doubtfully.
"An elopement, Claude—would not that be very wrong—wicked almost?"
"Not at all. Lady Helmsdale eloped with her husband, and they are the happiest people in the world; elopements are not so uncommon—they are full of romance, Cynthia."
"But are they right?" she asked, half timidly.
"Well in some cases an elopement is not right, perhaps; in ours it is. Do you think that, hoping as I do to make you my wife, I would ask you to do anything which would afterward be injurious to you? Though you are so young, Cynthia, you must know better than that. To elope is right enough in our case. You are like a captive princess; I am the knight come to deliver you from the dreariest of prisons—come to open for you the gates of an enchanted land. It will be just like a romance, Cynthy; only instead of reading, we shall act it." And then in his rich cheery-voice, he sung,
"'But neither bolts nor bars shall keep
My own true love from me.'"
"I do not see how I can manage it," said Hyacinth, as the notes of her lover's song died over the flowers. "Lady Vaughan always has the house locked and the keys taken to her at nine."
"It will be very easy," returned Claude. "I know the library at the Chase has long windows that open on to the ground. You can leave one of them unfastened, and close the shutters yourself."
"But I have never been out at night alone," she said, hesitatingly.
"You will not be alone long, if you will only have courage to leave the house. I will meet you at the end of the grounds, and we will walk to the station together. We shall catch a train leaving Oakton soon after midnight, and shall reach London about six in the morning. I have an old aunt living there who will do anything for us. We will drive at once to her house; and then I will get a special license, and we will be married before noon."
"How well you have arranged everything!" she said. "You must have been thinking of this for a long time past."
"I have thought of nothing else, Cynthy. Then, when we are married, we will write at once to Lady Vaughan, telling her of our union; and instead of starting for that dreary Bergheim, we will go at once to sunny France, or fair and fruitful Italy, where the world will be at our feet, my darling. You are so beautiful, you will win all hearts."
"Am I so beautiful?" she asked simply. "Lady Vaughan says good looks are sinful."
"Lady Vaughan is—" The young man paused in time, for those clear, innocent eyes seemed to be penetrating to the very depths of his heart. "Lady Vaughan has forgotten that she was ever young and pretty herself," he said. "Now, Cynthy, tell me—will you do what I wish?"
"Is it not a very serious thing to do?" she asked. "Would not people think ill of me?"
His conscience reproached him a little when he answered "No"—the lovely, trusting face was so like the face of a child.
"I do not expect you to say 'Yes' at once, Hyacinth—think it over. There lies before you happiness with me, or misery without me."
"But, Claude," she inquired eagerly, "why need we elope? Why not ask Lady Vaughan if we can be married? She might say 'Yes.'"
"She would not; I know better than you. She would refuse, and you would be carried off on Thursday, whether you liked it or not. If we are to be married at all we must elope—there is no help for it."
The young girl did not at once consent, although the novelty, the romance, the promised happiness, tempted her as a promised journey pleases a child.
"Think it over to-night," he said, "and let me know to-morrow."