CHAPTER XIII.
LYING IN BRITHLOW WOOD.
A thunderbolt falling at your feet from a cloudless summer sky must be rather astounding in its unexpectedness, but no thunderbolt ever created half the consternation Sir Everard's fierce announcement did.
"Going away!" his mother murmured—"going to Constantinople. My dear
Everard, you don't mean it?"
"Don't I?" he said, fiercely. "Don't I look as if I meant it?"
"But what has happened? Oh, Everard, what does all this mean?"
"It means, mother, that I am a mad, desperate and reckless man; that I don't care whether I ever return to England again or not."
Lady Kingsland's own imperious spirit began to rise. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed.
"It means you are a headstrong, selfish, cruel boy! You don't care an iota what pain you inflict on others, if you are thwarted ever so slightly yourself. I have indulged you from your childhood. You have never known one unsatisfied wish it was in my power to gratify, and this is my reward!"
He sat in sullen silence. He felt the reproach keenly in its simple truth; but his heart was too sore, the pain too bitter, to let him yield.
"You promise me obedience in the dearest wish of my heart," her ladyship went on, heedless of the presence of Mildred and Sybilla, "and you break that promise at the first sight of a wild young hoiden in a hunting-field. It is on her account you frighten me to death in this heartless manner, because I refuse my consent to your consummating your own disgrace."
"My disgrace? Take care, mother!"
"Do you dare speak in that tone to me?" She rose up from the table, livid with passion. "I repeat it, Sir Everard Kingsland—your disgrace! Mystery shrouds this girl's birth and her father's marriage—if he ever was married—and where there is mystery there is guilt."
"A sweeping assertion!" the baronet said, with concentrated scorn; "but in the present instance, my good mother, a little out of place. The mystery is of your own making. The late Mrs. Harold Hunsden was a native of New York. There she was married—there she died at her daughter's birth. Captain Hunsden cherishes her memory all too deeply to make it the town talk, hence all the county is up agape inventing slander. I hope you are satisfied?"
Lady Kingsland stood still, gazing at him in surprise.
"Who told you all this?" she asked.
"She who had the best right to know—the slandered woman's daughter."
"Indeed—indeed!" slowly and searchingly. "You have been talking to her, then? And your whole heart is really set on this matter, Everard?"
She came a step nearer; her voice softened; she laid one slender hand, with infinite tenderness, on his shoulder.
"What does it matter?" he retorted, impatiently. "For Heaven's sake, let me alone, mother!"
"My boy, if you really love this wild girl so much, if your whole heart is set on her, I must withdraw my objections. I can refuse my darling nothing. Woo Harriet Hunsden, wed her, and bring her here. I will try and receive her kindly for your sake."
Sir Everard Kingsland shook off the fair, white, caressing hand, and rose to his feet, with a harsh, strident laugh. "You are very good, my mother, but it is a little too late. Miss Hunsden did me the honor to refuse me yesterday."
"Refuse you?"
"Even so—incredible as it sounds! You see this little barbarian is not so keenly alive to the magnificent honor of an alliance with the house of Kingsland as some others are, and she said No plumply when I asked her to be my wife."
Again that harsh, jarring laugh rang out, and with the last word he strode from the room, closing the door with an emphatic bang.
Lady Kingsland sunk down in the nearest chair, perfectly overcome.
Sybilla Silver raised her tea-cup, and hid a malicious smile there.
"Refused him!" my lady murmured, helplessly. "Mildred, did you hear what he said?"
"Yes, mamma," Mildred replied, in distress. "She is a very proud girl—Harriet Hunsden."
"Proud! Good heavens!" my lady sprung to her feet, goaded by the word. "The wretched little pauper! the uneducated, uncivilized, horrible little wretch! What business has she with pride—with nothing under the sun to be proud of? Refuse my son! Oh, she must be mad, or a fool, or both! I will never forgive her as long as I live; nor him, either, for asking her!"
With which my lady flung out of the apartment, in a towering rage, and went up to her room and fell into hysterics and the arms of her maid on the spot.
It was a day of distress at Kingsland Court—gloom and despair reigned. Lady Kingsland, shut up in her own apartments, would not be comforted—and Sir Everard, busied with his preparations, was doggedly determined to carry out his designs. Sybilla was the only one who enjoyed the situation.
As she stood in the front portico, early in the afternoon, humming an opera tune, a servant wearing the Hunsden livery rode up to her and delivered a twisted note.
"For Sir Everard," said the man, and rode away.
Miss Silver took it, looked at it with one of her curious little smiles, thought a moment, turned, and carried it straight to my lady. My lady examined it with angry eyes.
"From Miss Hunsden," she said, contemptuously. "She repents her hasty decision, no doubt, and sends to tell him so. Bold, designing creature! Find Sir Everard's valet, Miss Silver, and give it to him."
Sir Everard was in his dressing-room, and his pale face flushed deep red as he received the note. He tore it open and literally devoured the contents.
DEAR SIR EVERARD,—Please, please, please forgive me! Oh, I am so sorry I laughed and made you angry! But indeed I thought you only meant it as a joke. Two days is such a little while to be acquainted before proposing, you know. Won't you come to see us again? Papa has asked for you several times. Pray pardon me. You would if you knew how penitent I am.
Yours remorsefully,
HARRIE HUNSDEN.
Hunsden Hall, Nov. 15th, 18—.
He read the piteous, childish little letter over and over again until his face glowed. Hope planted her shining foot once more on the baronet's heart.
"I will go at once," he said, hiding the little note very near his heart. "Common courtesy requires me to say farewell before I start for Constantinople. And the captain likes me, and his influence is all-powerful with her, and who knows—"
He did not finish the mental sentence. He rapidly completed his toilet, ordered his horse, and set off hot foot.
Of course, all the short cuts came in requisition. The path through Brithlow Wood was the path he took, going at full gallop. Lost in a deliciously hopeful reverie, he was half-way through, when a hollow groan from the wayside smote his ear.
"For God's sake, help a dying man!"
The baronet stared around aghast. Right before him, under the trees, lay the prostrate figure of a fallen man. To leap off his horse, to bend over him, was but the work of an instant. Judge of his dismay when he beheld the livid, discolored face of Captain Hunsden.
"Great Heaven! Captain Hunsden! What horrible accident is this?"
"Sir Everard," he murmured, in a thick, choking tone, "go—tell
Harrie—poor Harrie—"
His voice died away.
"Were you thrown from your horse? Were you waylaid?" asked the young man, thinking of his own recent adventure.
"One of those apoplectic attacks. I was thrown. Tell Harrie—"
Again the thick, guttural accents failed.
Sir Everard raised his head, and knelt for a moment bewildered. How should he leave him here alone while he went in search of a conveyance?
Just then, as if sent by Providence, the Reverend Cyrus Green, in his chaise, drove into the woodland path.
"Heaven be praised!" cried the baronet. "I was wondering what I should do. A dreadful accident has happened, Mr. Green. Captain Hunsden has had a fall, and is very ill."
The rector got out, in consternation, and bent above the prostrate man. The captain's face had turned a dull, livid hue, his eyes had closed, his breathing came hoarse and thick.
"Very ill, indeed," said the clergyman,—"so ill that I fear he will never be better. Let us place him in the chaise, Sir Everard. I will drive slowly, and do you ride on to Hunsden Hall to prepare his daughter for the shock."
The Indian officer was a stalwart, powerful man. It was the utmost their united strength could do to lift him into the chaise.
"Ride—ride for your life!" the rector said, "and dispatch a servant for the family doctor. I fear the result of this fall will be fatal."
He needed no second bidding; he was off like the wind. Sir Galahad sprung over the ground, and reached Hunsden in an incredibly short time. A flying figure, in wild alarm, came down the avenue to meet him.
"Oh, Sir Everard!" Harrie panted, in affright, "where is papa? He left to go to Kingsland Court, and Starlight has come galloping back riderless. Something awful has happened, I know!"
His man's heart burned within him. He wanted to catch her in his arms, to hold her there forever—to shield her from all the world and all worldly sorrow.
Something of what he felt must have shone in his ardent eyes. Hers dropped, and a bright, virginal blush dyed for the first time cheek and brow. He vaulted off his horse and stood uncovered before her.
"Dear Miss Hunsden," he said, gently, "there has been an accident. I am sorry to be the bearer of ill news, but don't be alarmed—all may yet be well."
"Papa," she barely gasped.
"He has met with an accident—a second apoplectic fit. I found him lying in Brithlow Wood. He had fallen from his horse. Mr. Green is fetching him here in his chaise. They will arrive presently. You had better have his room prepared, and I—will I ride for your physician myself?"
She leaned against a tree, sick and faint. He made a step toward her, but she rallied and motioned him off.
"No," she said, "let me be! Don't go, Sir Everard—remain here. I will send a servant for the doctor. Oh, I dreaded this! I warned him when he left this afternoon, but he wanted to see you so much."
She left him and hurried into the house, dispatched a man for the doctor, and prepared her father's room.
In fifteen minutes the doctor's pony-chaise drove up. He and the baronet and the butler assisted the stricken and insensible man up to his room, and laid him upon the bed from which he was never more to rise.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CAPTAIN'S LAST NIGHT.
A young crescent moon rose in the bleak sky; on the shore the flood-tide beat its hoarse refrain, and in his chamber Harold Godfrey Hunsden lay dying.
They knew it—the silent watchers in that somber room—his daughter, and all. She knelt by the bedside, her face hidden, still, tearless, stunned. Sir Everard, the doctor, the rector, silent and sad, stood around.
The dying man had been aroused to full consciousness at last. One hand feebly rested on his daughter's stricken young head, the other lay motionless on the counterpane. His dulled eyes went aimlessly wandering.
"Doctor!"
The old physician bent over him.
"How long?" he paused—"how long can I last?"
"My dear friend—"
"How long? Quick! the truth! how long?"
"Until to-morrow."
"Ah!"
The hand lying on Harrie's dark curls lay more heavily perhaps—that was all.
"Is there anything you wish? anything you want done? any person you would like to see?"
"Yes," the dying man answered, "yes, Sir Everard Kingsland."
"Sir Everard Kingsland is here."
He motioned the baronet to approach.
Sir Everard bent over him.
"Send them away," said the sick man. "Both. I want to speak to you alone."
Ho delivered the message, and the rector and doctor went into the passage to wait.
"Come closer," the captain said, and the young baronet knelt by the bedside, opposite Harrie, "and tell the truth to a dying man. Harrie, my darling, are you listening?"
"Yes, papa."
She lifted her pale young face, rigid in tearless despair.
"My own dear girl, I am going to leave a little sooner than I thought. I knew my death would be soon and sudden, but I did not expect it so soon, so awfully sudden as this!" His lips twitched spasmodically, and there was a brief pause. "I had hoped not to leave you alone and friendless in the world, penniless and unprotected. I hoped to live to see you the wife of some good man, but it is not to be. God wills for the best, my darling, and to Him I leave you."
A dry, choking sob was the girl's answer. Her eyes were burning and bright. The captain turned to the impatient, expectant young baronet.
"Sir Everard Kingsland," he said, with a painful effort, "you are the son of my old and much-valued friend; therefore I speak. My near approach to eternity lifts me above the minor considerations of time. Yesterday morning, from yonder window, I saw you on the terrace with my daughter."
The baronet grasped his hand, his face flushed, his eyes aglow. Oh, surely, the hour of his reward had come!
"You made her an offer of your hand and heart?"
"Which she refused," the young man said, with a glance of unutterable reproach. "Yes, sir; and I love her with my whole heart!"
"I thought so," very faintly. "Why did you refuse, Harrie?"
"Oh, papa! Why are we talking of this now?"
"Because I am going to leave you, my daughter. Because I would not leave you alone. Why did you refuse Sir Everard?"
"Papa, I—I only knew him such a little while."
"And that is all? You don't dislike him, do you?"
"No-o, papa."
"And you don't like any one else better?"
"Papa, you know I don't."
"My own spotless darling! And you will let Sir Everard love you, and be your true and tender husband?"
"Oh, papa, don't!"
She flung herself down with a vehement cry. But Sir Everard turned his radiant, hopeful, impassioned face upon the Indian officer.
"For God's sake, plead my cause, sir! She will listen to you. I love her with all my heart and soul. I will be miserable for life without her."
"You hear, Harrie? This vehement young wooer—make him happy. Make me happy by saying 'Yes.'"
She looked up with the wild glance of a stag at bay. For one moment her frantic idea was flight.
"My love—my life!" Sir Everard caught both her hands across the bed, and his voice was hoarse with its concentrated emotion. "You don't know how I love you. If you refuse I shall go mad. I will be the truest, the tenderest husband ever man was to woman."
"I am dying, Harrie," her father said, sadly, "and you will be all alone in this big, bad world. But if your heart says 'No,' my own best beloved, to my old friend's son, then never hesitate to refuse. In all my life I never thwarted you. On my death-bed I will not begin."
"What shall I do?" she cried. "What shall I do?"
"Consent!" her lover whispered.
"Consent!" Her father's anxious eyes spoke the word eloquently.
She looked from one to the other—the dying father, the handsome, hopeful, impetuous young lover. Some faint thrill in her heart answered his. Girls like daring lovers.
She drew her hands out of his clasp, hesitated a moment, while that lovely, sensitive blush came and went, then gave them suddenly back of her own accord.
He grasped them tight, with an inarticulate cry of ecstasy. For worlds he could not have spoken. The dying face looked unutterably relieved.
"That means 'Yes,' Harrie?"
"Yes, papa."
"Thank God!"
He joined their hands, looking earnestly at the young man.
"She is yours, Kingsland. May God deal with you, as you deal with my orphan child!"
"Amen!"
Solemnly Sir Everard Kingsland pronounced his own condemnation with the word. Awfully came back the memory of that adjuration in the terrible days to come.
"She is very young," said Captain Hunsden, after a pause—"too young to marry. You must wait a year."
"A year!"
Sir Everard repeated the word in consternation, as if it had been a century.
"Yes," said the captain, firmly. "A year is not too long, and she will only be eighteen then. Let her return to her old pension in Paris. She sadly needs the help of a finishing school, my poor little girl! My will is made. The little I leave will suffice for her wants. Mr. Green is her guardian—he understands my wishes. Oh, my lad! you will be very good to my friendless little Harrie! She will have but you in the wide world."
"I swear it, Captain Hunsden! It will be my bliss and my honor to make her my happy wife."
"I believe you. And now go—go both, and leave me alone, for I am very tired."
Sir Everard arose, but Harrie grasped her father's cold hand in terror.
"No, no, papa! I will not leave you. Let me stay. I will be very quiet—I shall not disturb you."
"As you like, my dear. She will call you, Kingsland, by and by."
The young man left the room. Then Harriet lifted a pale, reproachful face to her father.
"Papa, how could you?"
"My dear, you are not sorry? You will love this young man very dearly, and he loves you."
"But his mother, Lady Kingsland, detests me. And, I want to enter no man's house unwelcome."
"My dear, don't be hasty. How do you know Lady Kingsland detests you? That is impossible, I think. She will be a kind mother to my little motherless girl. Ah, pitiful Heaven! that agony is to come yet!"
A spasm of pain convulsed his features, his brows knit, his eyes gleamed.
"Harrie," he said, hoarsely, grasping her hands, "I have a secret to tell you—a horrible secret of guilt and disgrace! It has blighted my life, blasted every hope, turned the whole world into a black and festering mass of corruption! And, oh! worst of all, you must bear it—your life must be darkened, too. But not until the grave has closed over me. My child, look here."
He drew out, with a painful effort, something from beneath his pillow and handed it to her. It was a letter, addressed to herself, and tightly sealed.
"My secret is there," he whispered—"the secret it would blister my lips to tell you. When you are safe with Madame Beaufort, in Paris, open and read this—not before. You promise, Harrie?"
"Anything, papa—everything!" She hid it away in her bosom. "And now try to sleep; you are talking a great deal too much."
"Sing for me, then."
She obeyed the strange request—he had always loved to hear her sing. She commenced a plaintive little song, and before it was finished he was asleep.
All night long she watched by his bedside. Now he slept, now he woke up fitfully, now he fell into a lethargic repose. The doctor and Sir Everard kept watch in an adjoining chamber, within sight of that girlish form.
Once, in the small hours, the sick man looked at her clearly, and spoke aloud:
"Wake me at day-dawn, Harrie."
"Yes, papa."
And then he slept again. The slow hours dragged away—morning was near. She walked to the window, drew the curtain and looked out. Dimly the pearly light was creeping over the sky, lighting the purple, sleeping sea, brightening and brightening with every passing second.
She would not disobey him. She left the window and bent over the bed.
How still he lay!
"Papa," she said, kissing him softly, "day is dawning."
But the captain never moved nor spoke. And then Harriet Hunsden knew the everlasting day had dawned for him.
CHAPTER XV.
THE DEAD MAN'S SECRET.
It was a very stately ceremonial that which passed through the gates of Hunsden Hall, to lay Harold Godfrey Hunsden's ashes with those of many scores of Hunsdens who had gone before.
The heir at law—-an impoverished London swell—was there in sables and sweeping hat-band, exulting inwardly that the old chap had gone at last, and "the king had got his own again."
Sir Everard Kingsland was there, conspicuous and interesting in his new capacity of betrothed to the dead man's daughter.
And the dead man's daughter herself, in trailing crape and sables, deathly pale and still, was likewise there, cold and rigid almost as the corpse itself.
For she had never shed a tear since that awful moment when, with a wild, wailing cry of orphanage, she had flung herself down on the dead breast as the new day dawned.
The day of the funeral was one of ghostly gloom. The November wind swept icily over the sea with a dreary wail of winter; the cold rain beat its melancholy drip, drip; sky and earth and sea were all blurred in a clammy mist.
White and wild, Harriet Hunsden hung on her lover's arm while the
Reverend Cyrus Green solemnly read the touching burial service, and
Harold Hunsden was laid to sleep the everlasting sleep.
And then she was going back to the desolate old home—oh, so horribly desolate now! She looked at his empty chamber, at his vacant chair, at his forsaken bed. Her face worked; with a long, anguished cry she flung herself on her lover's breast and wept the rushing, passionate tears of seventeen that keep youthful hearts from breaking.
He held her there as reverently, as tenderly as that dead father might have done, letting her cry her fill, smoothing the glossy hair, kissing the slender hands, calling her by names never to be forgotten.
"My darling—my darling! my bride—my wife!"
She lifted her face at last and looked at him as she never had looked at mortal man before. In that moment he had his infinite reward. She loved him as only these strong-hearted, passionate women can love—once and forever.
"Love me, Everard," she whispered, holding him close. "I have no one in the world now but you."
* * * * *
That night Harrie Hunsden left the old home forever. The Reverend Cyrus drove her to the rectory in the rainy twilight, and still her lover sat by her side, as it was his blissful privilege to sit. She clung to him now, in her new desolation, as she might never have learned to cling in happier times.
The rector's wife received the young girl with open arms, and embraced her with motherly heartiness.
"My poor, pale darling!" she said, kissing the cold cheeks. "You must stay with us until your lost roses come back."
But Harriet shook her head.
"I will go to France at once, please," she said, mournfully. "Madame
Beaufort was always good to me, and it was his last wish."
Her voice choked. She turned away her head.
"It shall be as you say, my dear. But who is to take you?"
"Mrs. Hilliard, and—I think—Sir Everard Kingsland."
Mrs. Hilliard had been housekeeper at Hunsden Hall, and was a distant relative of the family. Under the new dynasty she was leaving, and had proffered her services to escort her young mistress to Paris.
The Reverend Cyrus, who hated crossing the channel, had closed with the offer at once, and Sir Everard was to play protector.
One week Miss Hunsden remained at the rectory, fortunately so busied by her preparations for departure that no time was left for brooding over her bereavement.
And then, in spite of that great trouble, there was a sweet, new-born bliss flooding her heart.
How good he was to her—her handsome young lover—how solicitous, how tender, how devoted! She could lay her hand shyly on his shoulder, in these calm twilights, and nestle down in his arms, and feel that life held something unutterably sweet and blissful for her still.
As for Everard, he lived at the rectory. He rode home every night, and he mostly breakfasted at the Court; but to all intents and purposes he dwelt at the parsonage.
"Where the treasure is, there will the heart be also"; and my lady, now that things were settled, and the journey to Constantinople postponed indefinitely, had sunk into a state of sulky displeasure, and was satirical, and scornful, and contemptuous, and stately, and altogether exquisitely disagreeable.
Lady Louise had left Devonshire, and gone back to shine brilliantly in
London society once more.
Miss Hunsden went to France with the portly old house-keeper and the devoted young baronet. Mme. Beaufort received her ex-pupil with very French effusion.
"Ah, my angel! so pale, so sad, so beautiful! I am distracted at the appearance! But we will restore you. The change, the associations—all will be well in time."
The lonely young creature clung to her lover with passionate abandon.
"Don't go back just yet, Everard," she implored. "Let me get used to being alone. When you are with me I am content, but when you go, and I am all alone among these strangers—"
But he needed no pleading—he loved her entirely, devotedly. He promised anything—everything! He would remain in Paris the whole year of probation, if she wished, that he might see her at least every week.
She let him go at last, and stole away in the dusky gloaming to her allotted little room. She locked the door, sat down by the table, laid her face on her folded arms, and wet them with her raining tears.
"I loved him so!" she thought—"my precious father! Oh, it was hard to let him go!"
She cried until she could literally cry no longer. Then she arose. It was quite dark now, and she lighted her lamp.
"I will read his letter," she said to herself—"the letter he left for me. I will learn this terrible secret that blighted his life."
There was her writing-case on the table. She opened it and took out the letter. She looked sadly at the superscription a moment, then opened it and began to read.
"It will be like his voice speaking to me from the grave," she thought.
"My own devoted father!"
Half an hour passed. The letter was long and closely written, and the girl read it slowly from beginning to end.
It dropped in her lap. She sat there, staring straight before her, with a fixed, vacant stare. Then she arose slowly, placed it in the writing-case, put her hand to her head confusedly, and turned with a bewildered look.
Her face flushed dark red; the room was reeling, the walls rocking dizzily. She made a step forward with both hands blindly outstretched, and fell headlong to the floor.
Next morning Sir Everard Kingsland, descending to his hotel breakfast, found a sealed note beside his plate. He opened it, and saw it was from the directress of the Pensionnat des Demoiselles.
MONSIEUR,—It is with regret I inform you Mademoiselle Hunsden is very ill. When you left her last evening she ascended to her room at once. An hour after, sitting in an apartment underneath, I heard a heavy fall. I ran up at once. Mademoiselle lay on the floor in a dead swoon. I rang the bell; I raised her; I sent for the doctor. It was a very long swoon—it was very difficult to restore her. Mademoiselle was very ill all night—out of herself—delirious. The doctor fears for the brain. Ah, mon Dieu! it is very sad—it is deplorable! We all weep for the poor Mademoiselle Hunsden. I am, monsieur, with profoundest sentiments of sorrow and pity, MARIE JUSTINE CELESTE BEAUFORT.
The young baronet waited for no breakfast. He seized his hat, tore out of the hotel, sprung into a fiacre, and was whirled at once to the pension.
Madame came to him to the parlor, her lace handkerchief to her eyes. Mademoiselle was very ill. Monsieur could not see her, of course, but he must not despair.
Doctor Pillule had hopes. She was so young, so strong; but the shock of her father's death must have been preying on her mind. Madame's sympathy was inexpressible.
Harriet lay ill for many days—delirious often, murmuring things pitiably small, calling on her father, on her lover—sometimes on her horses and dogs. The physician was skillful, and life won the battle. But it was a weary time before they let her descend to the parlor to see that impatient lover of hers.
It was very near Christmas, and there was snow on the ground, when she came slowly down one evening to see him. He sat alone in the prime salon, where the porcelain stove stood, with its handful of fire, looking gloomily out at the feathery flakes whirling through the leaden twilight. He turned round as she glided in, so unlike herself, so like a spirit, that his heart stood still.
"My love! my love!"
It was all he could say. He took her in his arms, so worn, so wasted, so sad; wan as the fluttering snow without. All his man's heart overflowed with infinite love and pity as he held that frail form in his strong clasp.
"Dear Everard, I have been so ill and so lonely; I wanted you so much!"
He drew her to him as if he would never let her go again.
"If I could only be with you always, my darling. It is cruel to keep us apart for a year."
"It was poor papa's wish, Everard."
Presently madame came in, and there were lights, and bustle, and separation. Mme. Hunsden must not remain too long, must not excite herself. Monsieur must go away, and come again to-morrow.
"I will let her see you every day, poor, homesick child, until she is well enough to go into the classe and commence her studies. Then, not so often. But monsieur will be gone long before that!"
"No," Sir Everard said, distinctly. "I remain in Paris for the winter.
I trust to madame's kind heart to permit me to see Miss Hunsden often."
"Often! Ah, mon Dieu! how you English are impetuous! so—how do you call him?—unreasonable! Monsieur may see mademoiselle in the salon every Saturday afternoon—not oftener."
"It is better so, Everard. I want to study—Heaven knows I need it! and your frequent visits would distract me. Let once a week suffice."
Sir Everard yielded to the inevitable with the best grace possible. He took his leave, raising Harriet's hand to his lips.
Harrie lingered by the window for a moment, looking wistfully after the slender figure, and slow, graceful walk.
"If he only knew!" she murmured. "If he only knew the terrible secret that struck me down that night! But I dare not tell—I dare not, even if that voice from the dead had not forbidden me. I love him so dearly—so dearly! Ah, pitiful Lord! let him never know!"
CHAPTER XVI.
THE BARONET'S BRIDE.
The winter months wore by. Spring came, and still that most devoted of lovers, Sir Everard Kingsland, lingered in Paris, near his gray-eyed divinity. His life was no dull one in the gayest capital of Europe. He had hosts of friends, the purse of Fortunatus, the youth and beauty of a demi-god. Brilliant Parisian belles, flashing in ancestral diamonds, with the blue blood of the old régime in their delicate veins, showered their brightest smiles, their most entrancing glances, upon the handsome young Englishman in vain. His loyal heart never swerved in its allegiance to his gray-eyed queen—the love-light that lighted her dear face, the warm, welcoming kiss of her cherry lips, were worth a hundred Parisian belles with their ducal coats of arms. "Faithful and true" was the motto on his seal; faithful and true in every word and thought—true as the needle to the North Star—was he to the lady of his love.
The weeks went swiftly and pleasantly enough; but his red-letter day was the Saturday afternoon that brought him to his darling. And she, buried among her dry-as-dust school-books and classic lore—how she looked forward to the weekly day of grace no words of mine can tell.
But with the first bright days of April came a change. He was going back to England, he told her, one Saturday afternoon, as they sat, lover-like, side by side, in the prim salon. She gave a low cry at the words, and looked at him with wild, wide eyes.
"Going to England! Going to leave me!"
"My dearest, it is for your sake I go, and I will be gone but a little while. The end of next October our long year of waiting ends, and before the Christmas snow flies, my darling must be all my own. It is to prepare for our marriage I go."
She hid her glowing face on his shoulder.
"I would make Kingsland Court a very Paradise, if I could, for my bright little queen. As I can not make it quite Paradise, I will do what I can."
"Any place is my Paradise so that you are there, Everard!"
"Landscape gardeners and upholsterers shall wave their magic wands and work their nineteenth century miracles," he said, presently, reverting to his project. "My dear girl's future home shall be a very bower of delights. And, besides, I want to see my mother. She feels herself a little slighted, I am afraid, after this winter's absence."
"Ah, your mother!" with a little sigh. "Will she ever like me, do yon think, Everard? Her letter was so cold, so formal, so chilling!"
For this high-stepping young lady who had ridden at the fox-hunt with reckless daring, who was so regally uplifted and imperious, had grown very humble in her new love.
Harrie had written to my lady an humble, girlish, appealing little letter, and had received the coldest of polite replies with the "bloody hand" and the Kingsland crest emblazoned proudly, and the motto of the house in good old Norman French, "Strike once, and strike well."
Since then there had been no correspondence. Miss Hunsden was too proud to sue for her favor, and Sir Everard loved her too sensitively to expose her to a possible rebuff.
My lady was unutterably offended by her son's desertion of a whole winter. She was nothing to him now. This bold, masculine girl with the horrible boy's name was his all in all now.
Sir Everard Kingsland met with a very cold reception from his lady mother upon his return to Devonshire. She listened in still disdain to his glowing accounts of the marvels the summer would work in the grand old place.
"And all this for the penniless daughter of a half-pay captain; and
Lady Louise might have been his wife."
Sir Everard ran heedlessly on.
"You and Milly shall retain your old rooms, of course," he said, "and have them altered or not, just as you choose. Harrie's room shall be in the south wing—she likes a sunny, southern prospect—and the winter and summer drawing-rooms must be completely refurnished; and the conservatory has been sadly neglected of late, and the oak paneling in the dining-room wants touching up. Hadn't you better give all the orders for your own apartments yourself? The others I will attend to."
"My orders are already given," Lady Kingsland said, with frigid hauteur. "My jointure house is to be fitted up. Before you return from your honey-moon I will have quitted Kingsland Court with my daughter. Permit Mildred and me to retain our present apartments unaltered until that time; then the future Lady Kingsland can have the old rooms disfigured with as much gilding and stucco and ormolu as she pleases."
The young man's fair face blackened with an angry scowl as he listened to the taunting, spiteful speech. But he restrained himself.
"There is no necessity for your withdrawal from your old home. If you leave, it will be against my wish. Neither my wife nor I could ever desire such a step."
"Your wife! Does she take state upon herself already? To you and your wife, Sir Everard Kingsland, I return my humble thanks, but even Kingsland Court is not large enough for two mistresses. I will never stand aside and see the pauper daughter of the half-pay captain rule where I ruled once."
She swept majestically out of the room as she launched her last smarting shaft, leaving her son with face of suppressed rage, to recover his temper as best he might.
"He will never ask me again," she thought. "I know his nature too well."
And he did not. He went about his work with stern determination, never consulting her, never asking advice, or informing her of any project—always deferential, always studiously polite.
There was one person, however, at the Court who made up, by the warmth of her greeting and the fervor of her sympathy, for any lack on his mother's part. It was Miss Sybilla Silver who somehow had grown to be as much a fixture there as the marble and bronze statues.
She had written to find her friends in Plymouth, or she said so, and failed, and she had managed to make herself so useful to my lady that my lady was very glad to keep her. She could make caps like a Parisian milliner; she could dress her exquisitely; she could read for hours in the sweetest and clearest of voices, without one yawn, the dullest of dull High Church novels. She could answer notes and sing like a siren, and she could embroider prie-dieu chairs and table-covers, and slippers and handkerchiefs, and darn point lace like Fairy Fingers herself.
She was a treasure, this ex-lad in velveteen, and my lady counted it a lucky day that brought her to Kingsland. But Miss Sybilla belonged to my lady's son, and not to my lady. To the young lord of Kingsland her allegiance was due, and at his bidding she was ready, at a moment's notice, to desert the female standard.
Sir Everard, who took a kindly interest in the dashing damsel with the coal-black hair and eyes, who had shot the poacher, put the question plump one day:
"My mother and sister leave before the end of the year, Sybilla. Will you desert me, too?"
"Never, Sir Everard! I will never desert you while you wish me to stay."
"I should like it, I confess. It will be horribly dreary for my bride to come home to a house where there is no one to welcome her but the servants. If my mother can spare you, Sybilla, I wish you would stay."
As once before, she lifted his hand to her lips.
"Sybilla belongs to you, Sir Everard! Command, and she will obey."
He laughed, but he also reddened as he drew his hand hastily away.
"Oh, pooh! don't be melodramatic! There is no question of commanding and obeying about it. You are free to do as you please. If you choose to remain, give Lady Kingsland proper notice. If you prefer to go, why, I must look out for some one to take your place. Don't be in a hurry—there's plenty of time to decide."
He swung on and left her.
"Plenty of time to decide," she repeated, with a smile curling her thin lips. "My good Sir Everard, I decided long ago! Marry your fox-hunting bride—bring her home. Sybilla Silver will be here to welcome her, never fear!"
The baronet stayed three weeks in England—then returned impatiently to Paris. Of course the rapture of the meeting more than repaid the pain of parting.
She was growing more beautiful every day, the infatuated young man thought, over her books; and the sun of France shone on nothing half so lovely as this tall, slender damsel, in her gray school uniform and prim, black silk apron.
The summer went. Sir Everard was back and forth across the Channel, like an insane human pendulum, and the work went bravely on! Kingsland was being transformed—the landscape gardeners and the London upholsterers had carte blanche, and it was the story of Aladdin's Palace over again. Sir Everard rubbed his golden lamp, and, lo! mighty genii rose up and worked wonders.
September came—the miracles ceased. Even money and men could do no more. October came.
Sir Everard's year of probation was expired. The Reverend Cyrus Green overcame heroically his horror of seasickness and steamers, and went to Paris in person for his ward. As plain Miss Hunsden, without a shilling to bless herself with, the Reverend Cyrus would not by any means have thought this extreme step necessary; but for the future Lady Kingsland to travel alone was not for an instant to be thought of. So he went, and the first week of November he brought her home.
Miss Hunsden—taller, more stately, more beautiful than ever—was very still and sad, this first anniversary of her father's death. Lady Kingsland, when she and Mildred called—for they did, of course—was rather impressed by the stately girl in mourning, whose fair, proud face and calm, gray eyes met hers so unflinchingly. It was "Greek meets Greek" here; neither would yield an inch.
The wedding was to take place early in December—Sir Everard would not wait, and Harrie seemed to have no will left but his. Once she had feebly uttered some remonstrances, but he had imperatively cut her short.
So this young tyrant had everything his own way. The preparations were hurried on with amazing haste; the day was named, the bride-maids and guests bidden.
Miss Hunsden's young lady friends were few and far between, and Mildred Kingsland and the rector's sister and twelve-year-old daughter were to comprise the whole list.
The wedding-day dawned—a sullen, overcast, threatening December day. A watery sun looked out of a lowering sky, and then retreated altogether, and a leaden dullness overspread the whole firmament. An icy wind curdled your blood and tweaked your nose, and feathery snowflakes whirled drearily through the opaque gloom.
The church was full, and silks rustled and bright eyes flashed inquisitively, and people wondered who that tall, foreign-looking person beside my lady might be.
It was Sybilla Silver, gorgeous in golden silk, with her black eyes lighted with cruel, inward exultation, and who glared almost fiercely upon the beautiful bride.
My lady, magnificent in her superb disdain of all these childish proceedings, stood by and acknowledged in her heart of hearts that if beauty and grace be any excuse for folly, her son had those excuses.
Lovely as a vision, with her pure, pale, passionless face, her clear, sweet eyes, Harriet Hunsden swept up the aisle in her rich bridal robes, her floating lace, and virginal orange-blossoms.
The bridegroom's eyes kindled with admiration and pride as he took his place by her side, he looking as noble and gallant a gentleman as England could boast.
It was over—she was his wife! They had registered their names, they drove back to the rectory, the congratulations offered, the breakfast eaten, the toast drunk. She was upstairs dressing for her journey; the carriage and the bridegroom were waiting impatiently below.
Mrs. Green hovered about her with matronly solicitude, and at the last moment Harriet flung herself impetuously upon her neck and broke out into hysterical crying.
"Forgive me!" she sobbed. "Oh, Mrs. Green, I never had a mother!"
Then she drew down her veil and ran out of the room before the good woman could speak. Sir Everard was waiting in the hall. He drew her hand under his arm and hurried her away. Mrs. Green got down-stairs only in time to see her in the carriage.
Then the bridegroom sprung lightly in beside her, the carriage door closed, the horses started, and the happy pair were off.
* * * * *
Sybilla Silver went back to the Court alone. My lady, in sullen dignity, took her daughter and went straight to her jointure house at the other extremity of the village.
She stood in the confer of a lengthy suite of apartments—the new Lady
Kingsland's—opening one into the other in a long vista of splendor.
She took a portrait out of her breast and gazed at it with brightly
glittering eyes.
"A whole year has passed, my mother," she said, slowly, "and nothing has been done. But Sybilla will keep her oath. Sir Jasper Kingsland's only son shall meet his doom. It is through her I will strike; that blow will be doubly bitter. Before this day twelvemonth these two shall part more horribly than man and wife ever parted before!"
CHAPTER XVII.
MR. PARMALEE'S LITTLE MYSTERY.
Kingsland Court had from time immemorial been one of the show-places of the county, Thursday being always set apart as the visitors' day.
The portly old housekeeper used to play cicerone, but the portly old housekeeper, growing portlier and older every day, got in time quite unable to waddle up and down and pant out gasping explanations to the strangers.
So Miss Sybilla Silver, with her usual good nature, came to the rescue, got the history of the old house, and the old pictures, and cabinets, and curiosities, and suits of armor and things by heart, and took Mrs. Comfit's place.
The first Thursday after the marriage of Sir Everard there came sauntering up to the Court, in the course of the afternoon, a tall young gentleman, smoking a cigar, and with his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets.
He was not only tall, but uncommonly tall, uncommonly lanky and loose-boned, and his clothes had the general air of being thrown on with a pitchfork.
He wore a redundance of jewelry, in the shape of a couple of yards of watch-chain, a huge seal ring on each little finger, and a flaring diamond breastpin of doubtful quality.
His clothes were light, his hair was light, his eyes were light. He was utterly devoid of hirsute appendages, and withal he was tolerably good-looking and unmistakably wide awake.
He threw away his cigar as he reached the house, and astonished the understrapper who admitted him by presenting his card with a flourishing bow.
"Jest give that to the boss, my man," said this personage, coolly. "I understand you allow strangers to explore this old castle of your'n, and I've come quite a piece for that express purpose."
The footman gazed at him, then at the card, and then sought out Miss
Silver.
"Blessed if it isn't that 'Merican that's stopping at the Vine, and that asked so many questions about Sir Everard and my lady, of Dawson, last night," he said.
Sybilla took the card curiously. It was a bonâ-fide piece of pasteboard, printed all over in little, stumpy capitals:
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARMALEE,
PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST,
No. 1060 BROADWAY,
UPSTAIRS.
Miss Silver laughed.
"The gentleman wants to see the house, does he? Of course he must see it, then, Higgins. And he was asking questions of Dawson last night at the inn?"
"'Eaps of questions, Miss Silver, as bold as brass, all about Sir
Everard and my lady—our young lady, you know. Shall I fetch him up?"
"Certainly."
There chanced to be no other visitor at the Court, and Sybilla received
Mr. Parmalee with infinite smiles and condescension.
"Beg your pardon, miss," he said, politely; "sorry to put you to so much trouble, but I calculated on seeing this old pile before I left these parts, and as they told me down at the tavern this was the day—"
"It is not the slightest trouble, I assure you," Miss Silver interposed. "I am only too happy to have a stranger come and break the quiet monotony of our life here. And, besides, it affords me double pleasure to make the acquaintance of an American—a people I intensely admire. You are the first I ever had the happiness of meeting."
"Want to know!" said Mr. Parmalee, in a tone betokening no earthly emotion whatever. "It's odd, too. Plenty folks round our section come across; but I suppose they didn't happen along down here. Splendid place this; fine growing land all round; but I see most of it is let run wild. If all that there timber was cut down and the stumps burned out and the ground turned into pasture, you hain't no idea what an improvement it would be. But you Britishers don't go in for progress and that sort of thing. This old castle, now—it's two hundred years old, I'll be bound!"
"More than that—twice as old. Will you come and look at the pictures now? Being an artist, of course you will like to see the pictures first."
Mr. Parmalee followed the young lady to the long picture-gallery, his hands still in his pockets, whistling softly to himself, and eying everything.
"Must have cost a sight of money, all these fixings," he remarked. "I know how them statues and busts reckons up. This here baronet must be a powerful rich man?"
"He is," said Miss Silver, quietly.
"Beg your pardon, miss, but air you one of the family?"
"No, sir. I am lady Kingsland's companion."
"Oh, a domestic!" said Mr. Parmalee, as if to himself. "Who'd a' thought it? Lady Kingsland's companion? Which of 'em? There's two, ain't there?"
"Sir Everard's mother has left Kingsland Court. I am companion to Sir
Everard's wife."
"Ah! jest so! Got married lately, didn't he! Might I ask your name, miss?"
"I am Sybilla Silver."
"Thanky," said Mr. Parmalee, with a satisfied nod. "So much easier getting along when you know a person's name. Married a Miss Hunsden, didn't he—the baronet?"
"Yes. Miss Harriet Hunsden."
"That's her. Lived with her pa, an old officer in the army, didn't she? Used to be over there in America?"
"Yes. Did you know her?"
"Wa-al, no," replied Mr. Parmalee, with a queer sidelong look at the lady; "I can't say I did. They told me down to the tavern all about it. Handsome young lady, wasn't she? One of your tall-stepping, high-mettled sort?"
"Yes."
"And her pa's dead, and he left her nothing? Was poor as a church-mouse, that old officer, wasn't he?"
"Captain Hunsden had only his pay."
"And they've gone off on a bridal tower? Now when do you expect them back?"
"In a month. Are you particularly desirous of seeing Sir Everard or
Lady Kingsland?" asked Sybilla, suddenly and sharply.
"Well, yes," he said, slowly, "I am. I'm collecting photographic views of all your principal buildings over here, and I'm going to ask Sir Everard to let me take this place, inside and out. These rooms are the most scrumptious concerns I've seen lately, and the Fifth Avenue Hotel is some pumpkins, too. Oh, these are the pictures, are they? What a jolly lot!"
Mr. Parmalee became immediately absorbed by the hosts of dead-and-gone Kingslands looking down from the oak-paneled walls. Miss Silver fluently gave him names, and dates, and histories.
"Seems to me," said Mr. Parmalee, "those old fellows didn't die in their beds—many of 'em. What with battles, and duels, and high treason, and sich, they all came to unpleasant ends. Where's the present Kingsland's?"
"Sir Everard's portrait is in the library."
"And her ladyship—his wife?"
"We have no picture of Lady Kingsland as yet."
Mr. Parmalee's inscrutable face told nothing—whether he was disappointed or not. He followed Miss Silver all over the house, saw everything worth seeing, and took the "hull concern," as he expressed it, as a matter of course.
"Should like to come again," said Mr. Parmalee. "A fellow couldn't see all that's worth seeing round here in less than a month. Might I step up again to-morrow, Miss Silver?"
Miss Silver shook her head.
"I'm afraid not. Thursday is visitors' day, and I dare not infringe the rules. You may come every Thursday while you stay, and meantime the gardeners will show you over the grounds whenever you desire. How long do you remain, Mr. Parmalee?"
"That's oncertain," replied the artist, cautiously. "Perhaps not long, perhaps longer. I'm much obliged to you, miss, for all the bother I've made you."
"Not at all," said Sybilla, politely. "I shall be happy at any time to give you any information in my power."
"Thanky. Good-evening."
The tall American swung off with long strides. The young lady watched him out of sight.
"There is more in this than meets the eye," she thought. "That man knows something of Harriet—Lady Kingsland. I'll cultivate him for my lady's sake."
After that Mr. Parmalee and Miss Silver met frequently. In her walks to the village it got to be the regular thing for the American to become her escort.
He was rather clever at pencil-drawing, and made numerous sketches of the house, and took the likenesses of all the servants. He even set up a photographic place down in the village, and announced himself ready to "take" the whole population at "half a dollar" a head.
"There's nothing like making hay while the sun shines," remarked Mr. Parmalee to himself. "I may as well do a little stroke of business, to keep my hand in, while I wait for my lady. There ain't no telling how this little speculation of mine may turn out, after all."
So the weeks went by, and every Thursday found the American exploring the house. He was a curious study to Sybilla as he went along, his hands invariably in his pockets, his hat pushed to the back of his head, whistling softly and meditatively.
Every day she became more convinced he knew something of Harrie
Hunsden's American antecedents, and every day she grew more gracious.
But if Mr. Parmalee had his secrets, he knew how to keep them.
"Can he ever have been a lover of hers in New York?" Sybilla asked herself. "I know she was there two years at school."
But it seemed improbable. Harrie could not have been over thirteen or fourteen at the time.
The honey-moon month passed—the January day that was to bring the happy pair home arrived. In the golden sunset of a glorious winter day the carriage rolled up the avenue, and Sir Everard handed Lady Kingsland out.
The long line of servants were drawn up in the hall, with Mrs. Comfit and Miss Silver at their head. High and happy as a young prince, Sir Everard strode in among them, with his bride on his arm. And she—Sybilla Silver—set her teeth as she looked at her, so gloriously radiant in her wedded bliss.
Mr. Parmalee, lounging among the trees, caught one glimpse of that exquisite face as it flashed by.
"By George! ain't she a stunner? Not a bit like t'other one, with her black eyes and tarry hair. I've seen quadroon girls, down South, whiter than Miss Silver. And, what's more, she isn't a bit like—like the lady in London, that she'd ought to look like."
Sybilla saw very little of Sir Everard or his bride that evening. But the next morning, at breakfast, she broached the subject of Mr. Parmalee.
"Wants to take photographic views of the place, does he?" said Sir
Everard, carelessly. "Is he too timid to speak for himself, Sybilla?"
"Mr. Parmalee is not in the least bashful. He merely labors under the delusion that a petition proffered by me can not fail."
"Oh, the fellow is welcome!" the baronet said, indifferently. "Let him amuse himself, by all means. If the views are good, I will have some myself."
Mr. Parmalee presented himself in the course of the day.
Sir Everard received him politely in the library.
"Most assuredly, Mr.—oh, Parmalee. Take the views, of course. I am glad you admire Kingsland. You have been making some sketches already, Miss Silver tells me."
Miss Silver herself had ushered the gentleman in, and now stood lingeringly by the door-way. My lady sat watching the ceaseless rain with indolent eyes, holding a novel in her lap, and looking very serene and handsome.
"Well, yes," Mr. Parmalee admitted, glancing modestly at the plethoric portfolio he carried under his arm. "Would your lordship mind taking a look at them? I've got some uncommon neat views of our American scenery, too—Mammoth Cave, Niagry Falls, White Mountains, and so on. Might help to pass a rainy afternoon."
"Very true, Mr. Parmalee; it might. Let us see your American views, then. Taken by yourself, I presume?"
"Yes, sir!" responded the artist, with emphasis. "Every one of 'em; and done justice to. Look a-here!"
He opened his portfolio and spread his "views" out.
Lady Kingsland arose with languid grace and crossed over. Her husband seated her beside him with a loving smile. Her back was partly turned to the American, whom she had met without the faintest shade of recognition.
Sybilla Silver, eager and expectant of she knew not what, lingered and looked likewise.
The "views" were really very good, and there was an abundance of them—White Mountain and Hudson River scenery, Niagara, Nahant, Southern and Western scenes. Then he produced photographic portraits of all the American celebrities—presidents, statesmen, authors, actors, and artists.
Mr. Parmalee watched her from under intent brows as she took them daintily up in her slender, jeweled fingers one by one.
"I have a few portraits here," he said, after a pause, "painted on ivory, of American ladies remarkable for their beauty. Here they are."
He took out five, presenting them one by one to Sir Everard. He had not presumed to address Lady Kingsland directly. The first was a little Southern quadroon; the second a bright-looking young squaw.
"These are your American ladies, are they? Pretty enough to be ladies, certainly. Look, Harrie! Isn't that Indian face exquisite?"
He passed them to his wife. The third was an actress, the fourth a danseuse. All were beautiful. With the last in his hand, Mr. Parmalee paused, and the first change Sybilla had ever seen cross his face crossed it then.
"This one I prize most of all," he said, speaking slowly and distinctly, and looking furtively at my lady. "This lady's story was the saddest story I ever beard."
Sybilla looked eagerly across the baronet's shoulder for a second. It was a lovely face, pure and child-like, with great, innocent blue eyes and wavy brown hair—the face of a girl of sixteen.
"It is very pretty," the baronet said, carelessly, and passed it to his wife.
Lady Kingsland took it quite carelessly. The next instant she had turned sharply around and looked Mr. Parmalee full in the face.
The American had evidently expected it, for he had glanced away abruptly, and begun hustling his pictures back into his portfolio. Sybilla could see he was flushed dark red. She turned to my lady. She was deathly pale.
"Did you paint those portraits, too?" she asked, speaking for the first time.
"No, marm—my lady, I mean. I collected these as curiosities. One of 'em—the one you're looking at—was given me by the original herself."
The picture dropped from my lady's hand as if it had been red-hot. Mr. Parmalee bounded forward and picked it up with imperturbable sang froid.
"I value this most of all my collection. I know the lady well. I wouldn't lose it for any amount of money."
My lady arose abruptly and walked to the window, and the hue of her face was the hue of death. Sybilla Silver's glittering eyes went from face to face.
"I reckon I'll be going now," Mr. Parmalee remarked. "The rain seems to hold up a little. I'll be along to-morrow, Sir Everard, to take those views. Much obliged to you for your kindness. Good-day."
He glanced furtively at the stately woman by the window, standing still as if turning to stone. But she neither looked nor moved nor spoke.