The paper fell from Hyacinth's trembling hands, and a terrible moan came from her lips. Clear as the daylight the incidents of that morning rose before her in their full horror.
Whatever happened, cost what it would, she must go--she must clear Claude. No one in the wide world knew that he was innocent, no one could clear him but herself. Dear Heaven, how plainly the whole scene rose before her! The dewy meadows lying so still and calm in the half light--the woman's pale face and bruised hand! How well she remembered wrapping Claude's handkerchief round it. How kind and compassionate Claude had been to her!
"He will kill me some day," the woman had said, speaking of her husband--Hyacinth could hear the voice even now. That was nearly a month ago, and kind, generous, reckless Claude had been lying in prison ever since, on a charge of wilful murder. He would not incriminate her; he might have rebutted the whole charge by telling the story of that night and calling her as a witness, but he would not do so. She had not thought there was such generosity, such chivalry in him. It was a noble thing of him to refuse to speak, but he must not lose his life for her.
The more she weighed the evidence, the more startled she was to find how strongly circumstances were against Claude. She must clear him. If he would not speak, she must.
What would it cost her? Ah, Heaven, more than her life--her love! If she went into court to tell the truth, she could never hope to see Adrian again. He who had valued purity, delicacy, refinement and truth so highly--what would he say when he found that she had not only carried on a clandestine correspondence, deceived those with whom she lived, and stolen out to meet her lover, but had eloped with him--had left home, and travelled as far as Leybridge with him, and walked through the fields with him, and then, repenting, had gone back? What would he say when he knew all? She remembered how sternly he had spoken of Lady Wallace--what would he say of her? She was more unfortunate, more disgraced. Her name henceforward would be associated with a murder case. She, a Vaughan, one of the race, as Lady Vaughan had told her that morning, that had never experienced the shadow of disgrace or shame--she who had been, as they believed, so carefully kept from the world, so shielded from all its snares--she to bow those gray heads with sorrow, and slay her love with unmerited shame?