Dawn

  CHAPTER VI

  It was some time before Philip could make up his mind whether or no hewould attend his tryst with Hilda. In the first place, he felt that itwas an unsafe proceeding generally, inasmuch as moonlight meetingswith so lovely a person might, should they come to the knowledge ofMiss Lee, be open to misconstruction; and particularly because, shouldshe show the least tenderness towards him, he knew in his heart thathe could not trust himself, however much he might be engaged inanother direction. At twenty-one the affections cannot be outragedwith impunity, but have an awkward way of asserting themselves, tiesof honour notwithstanding.

  But as a rule, when in our hearts we wish to do anything, that thingmust be bad indeed if we cannot find a satisfactory excuse for doingit; and so it was with Philip. Now, thought he to himself, would behis opportunity to inform Hilda of his relations with Maria Lee, andto put an end to his flirtation with her; for, ostensibly at any rate,it was nothing more than a very serious flirtation--that is to say,though there had been words of love, and even on her part a passionateavowal of affection, wrung in an unguarded moment from the depths ofher proud heart, there had been no formal engagement. It was a thingthat must be done, and now was the time to do it. And so he made uphis mind to go.

  But when, that night, he found himself sitting in the appointed place,and waiting for the coming of the woman he was about to discard, butwhom he loved with all the intensity of his fierce nature, he began toview the matter in other lights, and to feel his resolution oozingfrom him. Whether it was the silence of the place that told upon hisnerves, strained as they were with expectation--for silence, and moreespecially silence by night, is a great unveiler of realities,--or thedread of bitter words, or the prescience of the sharp pang of parting--for he knew enough of Hilda to know that, what he had to say oncesaid, she would trouble him no more--whether it was these things, orwhatever it was that affected him, he grew most unaccountably anxiousand depressed. Moreover, in this congenial condition of the atmosphereof his mind, all its darker and hidden characteristics sprang into avigorous growth. Superstitions and presentiments crowded in upon him.He peopled his surroundings with the shades of intangible deeds thatyet awaited doing, and grew afraid of his own thoughts. He would havefled from the spot, but he could not fly; he could only watch theflicker of the moonlight upon the peaceful pool beside him, and--wait.

  At last she came with quick and anxious steps, and, though but a fewminutes before he had dreaded her coming, he now welcomed it eagerly.For our feelings, of whatever sort, when directed towards each other,are so superficial as compared with the intensity of our fears when weare terrified by calamity, or the presence, real or fancied, of theunknown, that in any moment of emergency, more especially if it be ofa mental kind, we are apt to welcome our worst enemy as a drowning manwelcomes a spar.

  "At last," he said, with a sigh of relief. "How late you are!"

  "I could not get away. There were some people to dinner;" and then, ina softened voice, "How pale you look! Are you ill?"

  "No, only a little tired."

  After this there was silence, and the pair stood facing one another,each occupied with their own thoughts, and each dreading to put theminto words. Once Philip made a beginning of speech, but his voicefailed him; the beating of his heart seemed to choke his utterance.

  At length she leaned, as though for support, against the trunk of apine-tree, in the boughs of which the night breeze was whispering, andspoke in a cold clear voice.

  "You asked me to meet you here to-night. Have you anything to say tome? No, do not speak; perhaps I had better speak first. I havesomething to say to you, and what I have to say may influence whateveris in your mind. Listen; you remember what passed between us nearly amonth ago, when I was so weak as to let you see how much I loved you?"

  Philip bowed his head in assent.

  "Very good. I have come here to-night, not to give you any lover'smeeting, but to tell you that no such words must be spoken again, andthat I am about to make it impossible that they should be spokeneither by you or by me. I am going away from here, _never_, I hope, toreturn."

  "Going away!" he gasped. "When?"

  Here was the very thing he hoped for coming to pass, and yet the wordsthat should have been so full of comfort fell upon him cold as ice,and struck him into misery.

  "When! why, to-morrow morning. A relation of mine is ill in Germany,the only one I have. I never saw him, and care nothing for him, but itwill give me a pretext; and, once gone, I shall not return. I havetold Maria that I must go. She cried about it, poor girl."

  At these words, all recollection of his purpose passed out of Philip'smind; all he realized was that, unless he could alter herdetermination, he was about the lose the woman he so passionatelyadored, and whose haughty pride was to him in itself more charmingthan all poor Maria's gentle love.

  "Hilda, do not go," he said, seizing her hand, which she immediatelywithdrew; "do not leave me. You know how I love you."

  "And why should I not leave you, even supposing it to be true that youdo love me? To my cost I love you, and am I any longer to endure thedaily humiliation of seeing myself, the poor German companion, who hasnothing but her beauty, put aside in favour of another whom I alsolove. You say you love me, and bid me stay; now, tell me what is yourpurpose towards me? Do you intend to try to take advantage of myinfatuation to make me your mistress? It is, I am told, a common thingfor such proposals to be made to women in my position, whom it wouldbe folly for wealthy gentlemen to marry. If so, abandon that idea; forI tell you, Philip, that I would rather die than so disgrace myancient name to gratify myself. I know you money-loving English do notthink very much of race unless the bearers of the name are rich; butwe do; and, although you would think it a _mesalliance_ to marry me,I, on the other hand, should not be proud of an alliance with you.Why, Philip, my ancestors were princes of royal blood when yours stillherded the swine in these woods. I can show more than thirtyquarterings upon my shield, each the mark of a noble house, and I willnot be the first to put a bar sinister across them. Now, I have spokenplainly, indelicately perhaps, and there is only one more word to besaid between us, and that word is _good-bye_," and she held out herhand.

  He did not seem to see it; indeed, he had scarcely heard the latterpart of what she said. Presently he lifted his face, and it boretraces of a dreadful inward struggle. It was deadly pale, and greatblack rings had painted themselves beneath the troubled eyes.

  "Hilda," he said, hoarsely, "don't go; I cannot bear to let you go. Iwill marry you."

  "Think of what you are saying, Philip, and do not be rash. I do notwish to entrap you into marriage. You love money. Remember that Maria,with all her possessions, asks nothing better than to become yourwife, and that I have absolutely nothing but my name and my goodlooks. Look at me," and she stepped out into a patch of moonlight thatfound its way between the trees, and, drawing the filmy shawl she worefrom her head and bare neck and bosom, stood before him in all thebrightness of her beauty, shaded as it was, and made more lovely bythe shadows of the night.

  "Examine me very carefully," she went on, with bitter sarcasm, "lookinto my features and study my form and carriage, or you may bedisappointed with your bargain, and complain that you have not gotyour money's worth. Remember, too, that an accident, an illness, andat the best the passage of a few years, may quite spoil my value as abeautiful woman, and reflect, before I take you at your word."

  Philip had sat or rather crouched himself down upon the log of a treethat lay outside the summer-house, and covered his face with his hand,as though her loveliness was more than he could bear to look upon.Now, however, he raised his eyes and let them dwell upon her scornfulfeatures.

  "I had rather," he said slowly--"I had rather lose my life than loseyou; I love you so that I would buy you at the price even of myhonour. When will you marry me?"

  "What, have you made up your mind so quickly? Are you sure? Then,"--and here she changed her whole tone and b
earing, and passionatelystretched out her arms towards him,--"my dearest Philip, my life, mylove, I will marry you when you will."

  "To-morrow?"

  "To-morrow, if you like!"

  "You must promise me something first."

  "What is it?"

  "That you will keep the marriage a complete secret, and bear anothername until my father's death. If you do not, he will most probablydisinherit me."

  "I do not like your terms, Philip. I do not like secret marriages; butyou are giving up much to marry me, so I suppose I must give upsomething to marry you."

  "You solemnly promise that nothing shall induce you to reveal that youare my wife until I give you permission to do so?"

  "I promise--that is, provided you do not force me to in self-defence."

  Philip laughed.

  "You need not fear that," he said. "But how shall we arrange aboutgetting married?"

  "I can meet you in London."

  "Very well. I will go up early to-morrow, and get a licence, and thenon Wednesday I can meet you, and we can be married."

  "As you will, Philip; where shall I meet you?"

  He gave her an address which she carefully noted down.

  "Now," she said, "you must go, it is late. Yes, you may kiss me now.There, that will do, now go." In another minute he was gone.

  "I have won the game," she mused; "poor Maria. I am sorry for her, butperhaps hers is the better part. She will get over it, but mine is asad fate; I love passionately, madly, but I do not trust the man Ilove. Why should our marriage be so secret? He cannot be entangledwith Maria, or she would have told me." And she stretched out her armstowards the path by which he had left her, and cried aloud, in thenative tongue that sounded so soft upon her lips, "Oh, my heart'sdarling! if I could only trust you as well as I love you, it is ahappy woman that I should be to-night."