CHAPTER XXIII.

"JENNIE KISSED ME."

It is a bright but chilly May day. In the luxurious sitting-room of Mrs.

Liston-Darcy a coal fire is burning, and in a purple arm-chair before

this genial fire Mrs. Darcy sits.

She is looking very handsome as she sits here, the brilliant morning

sunshine streaming across her dusk beauty and loosely-rippling

hair--very handsome in her rose-pink wrapper, with a soft drift of lace

about the slim throat and wrists. Very handsome, and yet a trifle out of

sorts, too; for the dark, slender brows are contracted, and the brown,

luminous eyes gaze sombrely enough into the depths of the fire. She sits

looping and unlooping in a nervous sort of restlessness the cord and

tassels that bind her slender waist, one slippered foot beating an

impatient tattoo on the hassock, her lips compressed in deep and

unpleasant thought. About the room, great trunks half-packed stand; in

the wardrobe adjoining, her maid is busily folding away dresses.

Evidently an exodus is at hand.

"I cannot go--I shall not go until I see him," she is thinking; "it is

only what I have richly earned, what my treachery of the past deserves,

but it is none the less hard to bear. I cast off his love once, trampled

his heart under my feet; he would be less than man to offer it again to

one so treacherous and unworthy. And Nellie is an angel--who can wonder

that he loves her? It is my just punishment when I have learned how

good, how tender, how noble he is, to see her win him from me--when I

have learned to love him with my whole heart, to see him give his to

her--to lose him in my turn."

She rises with an impatient sigh and walks up and down the room, trying

to crush out the bitter pain of loss--the envy and rebellion that _will_

arise within her as she thinks of Helen Thorndyke the wife of Richard

Gilbert.

For it has come to this--that society begins to whisper Helen will

speedily doff the weeds of widowhood for the pale flowing robes of the

bride.

It is the second May following Laurence Thorndyke's tragic death, one

year and seven months have passed, and the most despairing of widows

will not despair forever. For the last half-year, in a quiet way, Helen

has been going out a good deal, and is very much admired. And yet no

wife had ever grieved more deeply, passionately and truly than Helen

Thorndyke in the first dark months following her husband's death.

Remorse had added poignancy to her natural grief and horror of his

dreadful end, and she had suffered how greatly, only Helen herself will

ever know. But that is nearly two years ago, and Helen is but

four-and-twenty, and

"Time, that blunts the edge of things,

Dries our tears and spoils our bliss."

Time had brought its balm to her, and she could eat, drink and be merry

once more. A great peace has followed that tragic time, friends surround

her, and foremost and warmest among them, Richard Gilbert.

In the little cottage, presented her by Norine, where Helen and her

little ones dwelt, the lawyer was a very frequent visitor. When Mrs.

Thorndyke's doors closed to all others they opened to him. And there

Mrs. Darcy, a daily comer, met him at least two or three times each

week. It had been her wish, after Laurence Thorndyke's death, that the

stricken young widow should still make her home in her house, but this

Helen had refused. She wanted to be alone, to hide herself somewhere

away from all eyes, and Norine had understood the feeling, and gifted

her with the pretty, vine-covered cottage outside the city's noise and

turmoil. There, with her babies, Helen dragged through those first

miserable months, and lived down her first bitter agony of remorseful

despair.

When the summer, with its fierce, beating sunshine came they left the

city's scorched streets and sun-bleached parks, for the cool breezes and

country sweetness of Kent Hill. Thither Richard Gilbert, by invitation,

followed. The close intimacy between him and Helen never waned. The

children clung to him, and crowed with delight at his coming. He seemed

never to weary of their small society. Was it altogether for all their

own, or a little for their mother's sake, Norine wondered, feeling her

first sharp, jealous pangs. He spent a month with them, then went back.

And when September, cool and delicious, came refreshingly to New York,

the two handsome young widows, with the two little children, followed.

In society that winter, Mrs. Liston-Darcy, the millionaire's heiress,

was admired enormously. Not alone, for her bank stock; for her own

bonnie black eyes and rare piquant loveliness. Many men bowed down

before her, younger, handsomer, more famous men than Richard Gilbert,

but her answer was to one and all the same. None of these men touched

her heart, to none of them was she inclined to tell the story of her own

dark past. It was a bond between herself, and Helen, and Mr. Gilbert. In

spite of herself she had learned to love him, to know him, to value him.

She turned her wistful eyes to his face, but those dark, lustrous looks

had fooled him once--he was not the man to make himself any woman's

puppet, and dance as she pulled the strings. He saw nothing but that she

was rich, far beyond all riches of his, more beautiful with every

passing year, surrounded by young and handsome men, ready to marry her

at any moment. She had flung him off, unable to love him years ago. Was

it likely that old, and gray, and grim, she could care for him now? He

laughed, in a dreary sort of mockery, at the bare thought. Love and

marriage had gone out of his life forever; he must be content with

Helen's trust and friendship, until some more favored man bore her off,

too, with her children; until they also outgrew childish loves. That the

world coupled his name with hers, in _that_ way, he absolutely never

dreamed.

Another May had come, and Norine, wearied of it all, and full of

nameless restlessness, took a sudden resolution. She would go abroad. In

travel she would find change and peace, and when Helen became his wife

she, at least, would not be here to see it.

As she walked up and down, deep in her own somber thoughts, the boudoir

door opened, and Helen herself came in--she was passing these last days

with her friend--came in looking tall and stately, and very fair in her

trailing black dress, and most becoming widow's cap.

"Mr. Gilbert has come, Nory," she says. "Will you go down or shall he

come up?"

A lovely rose pink flushes into Norine's face. She keeps it averted from

Helen as she replies:

"It doesn't matter, does it?" with elaborate carelessness; "he may as

well come up. I wish to speak to him on legal business. Susan, you may

go for the present."

So Susan goes, and Mrs. Thorndyke returns to the drawing-room and tells

Mr. Gilbert, Norine will see him up-stairs. He goes up stairs, and

appears presently before the mistress of the house, rather paler than

usual if she did but notice it.

"Good-morning, Mr. Gilbert," she says, coming forward with outstretched

hand and a smile. "I heard from Liston you had returned to town, and

sent for you at once. I hope you enjoyed your trip to Baltimore?"

"As much as one usually enjoys a flying visit, forced upon one at a most

inopportune time. I went to make a will. What is this Nellie tells me?

You are going to Europe?"

"Going to Europe. I am a restless, dissatisfied sort of mortal, I begin

to think--never so happy as when on the wing. Mr. Darcy's death cut

short my continental tour before; I shall make a prolonged one this

time."

He was very grave and pale; even she noted the pallor now.

"You are looking ill," she said, drawing closer to him; "there is

nothing the matter, I hope?"

"Nothing, thank you. How long do you propose remaining away?"

"Three years at the least."

There was a moment's silence. Norine broke it.

"You said just now your trip to Baltimore was to make a will. I sent for

you this morning on that same errand; I am going to make my will."

He lifted his eyes and looked at her.

"Your will!" he repeated.

"My will. No, don't look anxious, dear friend; I don't think I am going

to die. Only, when one intends to spend three years upon steamers and

express trains, one may as well be on the safe side. If anything should

happen, it is well to be able to give an account of one's stewardship. I

want to provide for Helen and the children. Helen may not need any help

of mine"--the steady, sweet tones shook a little--"but it belongs of

right to the children. Once it was to have been all their father's. I

shall only be giving them back what is rightly theirs. I wish to leave

all I have to them. To-morrow, Mr. Gilbert, if you are not busy, I will

go to your office and make my will."

Then there was a long, strange pause. In her own room adjoining, Helen

Thorndyke sang softly as she moved about. The sweet, soft words came

clearly to them as they stood there:

"Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in.

Time, you thief! who loved to get

Sweets into your list, put that in.

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me.

Say I'm growing old, but add--

Jenny kissed me!"

Mr. Gilbert was the first to break the spell of silence.

"You are quite right," he said. "It can do no harm, only--it will be

trouble taken for nothing. You will pass unscathed the fiery ordeal of

steamers and express trains, and," with a smile, "one day you will marry

again and make to-morrow's legal work null and void."

"I will never marry."

She said it gravely, and a little coldly. He was watching her--her eyes

were steadfastly fixed upon the fire.

"Never marry?" he echoed, still smiling. "What will the honorable member

from Ohio say to that?"

"You allude to Mr. More, I suppose," she said, still coldly. "I am aware

gossip has coupled our names, and gossip is about as correct in this

instance as it usually is."

"You are not engaged to him, then!"

"I am engaged to no one. I care nothing for Mr. More, in the way you

mean. Even if I did, I still would not dream of marrying him."

"And why not?"

"Why not? You ask me that--you who know the cruel, shameful story of my

past, the story I should have to tell."

"You were far more sinned against than sinning, and you have atoned."

She looked up suddenly--a swift flash of light in her eyes.

"Mr. Gilbert! _You_ say that! If I could only think so, only hope I had

atoned!"

"You have indeed. I say it with all my heart. Your revenge has been a

noble one. You have blest and brightened the life of Helen and her

children. For him--he wrought his doom with his own hand! You have

atoned."

"To Helen and her children--perhaps yes," she said, her voice broken and

low; "but the greatest wrong of all was not done to them. Years ago I

sinned against you, beyond all forgiveness. The remorse of my life is

for that. You did me so much honor, you trusted me so entirely, and

I--ah! what a wretch I must have been in your eyes, what a wretch I must

be still."

He arose to his feet, moved beyond all power of silence now.

"Must be still," he repeated. "Norine! _why_ do you make me say this? I

love and honor you beyond all women."

She gave a low cry, and stood with her hands clasped together.

"I never thought to say it--you force it from me in self-defence. I

loved you then--I love you now. You have never ceased for one instant to

hold your place in my heart. It is folly, I know, but folly you will not

laugh at. If you wronged me, Norine--and you have--I forgive you freely,

utterly, and I pray Heaven to make you happy in the love of some happier

man."

She stood spell-bound--the shock of surprise was so utter, but over her

face a great joy was breaking.

"And Helen?" she gasped.

"Helen?" he looked at her in wonder.

"Did you not know--can it be possible that--Mr. Gilbert, the world says

Helen is to be your wife!"

His look of amaze and consternation was so great that she laughed

outright--Norine's own sweet, soft laugh.

"Good Heaven!" he said. "What preposterous nonsense! Why, only yesterday

Helen was urging me to speak to you--the very folly I am guilty of

to-day. She was absurd enough to imagine I had still a chance left. I

speedily convinced her of the contrary."

"Did you?" Norine said, a roguish smile dimpling the pretty mouth. "But

then Mr. Gilbert is famous as a special pleader, and poor Nellie is so

weakly credulous. I don't believe you would find it so easy to convince

_me_."

"Norine!" he stood still, his face pale, his eyes startled, "for pity's

sake what is it you mean? Don't let me hope only to fool me again! I--I

couldn't bear that!"

She came forward, both hands eloquently outstretched, a smile quivering

on her lips, tears in the dusk, lovely eyes.

"Richard, see! I love you with all my heart--I have loved you for years.

Let me atone for the past--let me keep the plight I broke so long

ago--let me be your wife. Life can hold no happiness half so great as

that for me!"

And then, as he folded her in his arms close to the heart that would

shelter her forever, Helen's happy voice came borne to them where they

stood.

"Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me;

Say I'm growing old, but add--

Jenny kissed me!"

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

CHAPTER I.

SIR NOEL'S DEATH BED.

The December night had closed in wet and wild around Thetford Towers. It

stood down in the low ground, smothered in trees, a tall gaunt, hoary

pile of gray stone, all peaks, and gables, and stacks of chimneys, and

rook-infested turrets. A queer, massive, old house, built in the days of

James the First, by Sir Hugo Thetford, the first baronet of the name,

and as staunch and strong now as then.

The December day had been overcast and gloomy, but the December night

was stormy and wild. The wind worried and wailed through the tossing

trees with whistling moans and shrieks that were desolately human, and

made one think of the sobbing banshee of Irish legends. Far away the

mighty voice of the stormy sea mingled its hoarse bass, and the rain

lashed the windows in long, slanting lines. A desolate night, and a

desolate scene without; more desolate still within, for on his bed, this

tempestuous winter night, the last of the Thetford baronets lay dying.

Through the driving wind and lashing rain, a groom galloped along the

high road to the village at break-neck speed. His errand was to Dr.

Gale, the village surgeon, which gentleman he found just preparing to go

to bed.

"For God's sake, doctor," cried the man, white as a sheet, "come with me

at once. Sir Noel's killed!"

Dr. Gale, albeit phlegmatic, staggered back, and stared at the speaker

aghast.

"What? Sir Noel killed?"

"We're afraid so, doctor; none of us know for certain sure, but he lies

there like a dead man. Come, quick, for the love of goodness, if you

want to do any service!"

"I'll be with you in five minutes," said the doctor, leaving the room to

order his horse, and don his hat and great coat.

Dr. Gale was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes he and the

groom were flying recklessly along to Thetford Towers.

"How did it happen?" asked the doctor, hardly able to speak for the

furious pace at which they were going. "I thought he was at Lady

Stokestone's ball."

"He did go," replied the groom; "leastways he took my lady there; but

said he had a friend to meet from London at the Royal George to-night,

and he rode back. We don't, none of us, know how it happened; for a

better or surer rider than Sir Noel there ain't in Devonshire; but Diana

must have slipped and threw him. She came galloping in by herself about

half an hour ago, all blown; and me and three more set off to look for

Sir Noel. We found him about twenty yards from the gates, lying on his

face in the mud, and as stiff and cold as if he was dead."

"And you brought him home and came for me?"

"Directly, sir. Some wanted to send word to my lady, but Mrs. Hilliard,

she thought how you had best see him first, sir, so's we'd know what

danger he was really in before alarming her ladyship."

"Quite right, William. Let us trust it may not be serious. Had Sir Noel

been--I mean, I suppose he had been dining.

"Well, doctor," said William, "Arneaud, that's his _valey de chambre_,

you know, said he thought he had taken more wine than prudent going to

Lady Stokestone's ball, which her ladyship is very particular about

such, you know, sir."

"Ah! that accounts," said the doctor, thoughtfully; "and now, William,

my man, don't let's talk any more, for I feel completely blown already."

Ten minutes' sharp riding brought them to the great entrance gates of

Thetford Towers. An old woman came out of a little lodge, built in the

huge masonry, to admit them, and they dashed up the long winding avenue

under the surging oaks and chestnuts. Five minutes more, and Dr. Gale

was running up a polished staircase of black, and slippery oak, down an

equally wide and black and slippery passage, and into the chamber where

Sir Noel lay.

A grand and stately chamber, lofty, dark, and wainscoted, where the

wax-candles made luminous clouds in the darkness, and the wood-fire on

the marble hearth failed to give heat. The oak floor was overlaid with

Persian rugs; the windows were draped in green velvet; and the chairs

were upholstered in the same. Near the centre of the apartment stood the

bed, tall, broad, quaintly carved, curtained in green damask, and on it,

cold and apparently lifeless, lay the wounded man. Mrs. Hilliard, the

housekeeper, sat beside him; and Arneaud, the Swiss valet, with a

frightened face, stood near the fire.

"Very shocking business this, Mrs. Hilliard," said the doctor, removing

his hat and gloves--"very shocking. How is he? Any signs of

consciousness yet?"

"None whatever, sir," replied the housekeeper, rising. "I am so thankful

you have come. We, none of us, knew what to do for him; and it is

dreadful to see him lying there like that."

She moved away, leaving the doctor to his examination. Ten minutes,

fifteen, twenty passed; then Dr. Gale turned to her with a very grave

face.

"It is too late, Mrs. Hilliard. Sir Noel is a dead man."

"Dead!" repeated Mrs. Hilliard, trembling, and holding by a chair. "Oh,

my lady! my lady!"

"I am going to bleed him," said the doctor, "to restore consciousness.

He may last until morning. Send for Lady Thetford at once."

Arneaud started up. Mrs. Hilliard looked at him, wringing her hands.

"Break it gently, Arneaud. Oh, my lady! my dear lady! so young, and so

pretty--and only married five months!"

The swiss valet left the room. Dr. Gale got out his lancet, and desired

Mrs. Hilliard to hold the basin. At first the blood refused to flow--but

presently it came in a little feeble stream. The closed eyelids

fluttered; there was a restless movement, and Sir Noel Thetford opened

his eyes on this mortal life once more. He looked first at the doctor,

grave and pale, then at the housekeeper, sobbing on her knees by the

bed. He was a young man of seven-and-twenty, fair and handsome, as it

was in the nature of the Thetfords to be.

"What is it?" he faintly asked. "What is the matter?"

"You are hurt, Sir Noel," the doctor answered, sadly; "you have been

thrown from your horse. Don't attempt to move--you are not able."

"I remember--I remember," said the young man, a gleam of recollection

lighting up his ghastly face. "Diana slipped, and I was thrown. How long

ago is that?"

"About an hour."

"And I am hurt? Badly?"

He fixed his eyes with a powerful look on the doctor's face, and that

good man shrunk away from the news he must tell.

"Badly?" reiterated the young baronet, in a peremptory tone, that told

all of his nature. "Ah! you won't speak, I see. I am, and I feel--I

feel-- Doctor, am I going to die?"

He asked the question with wildness--a sudden horror of death, half

starting up in bed. Still the doctor did not speak; still Mrs.

Hilliard's suppressed sobs echoed in the stillness of the vast room.

Sir Noel Thetford fell back on his pillow, a shadow as ghastly and awful

as death itself, lying on his face. But he was a brave man, and the

descendant of a fearless race, and except for one convulsive throe that

shook him from head to foot, nothing told his horror of his sudden fate.

There was a weird pause. Sir Noel lay staring straight at the oaken

wall, his bloodless face awful in its intensity of hidden feeling. Rain

and wind outside rose higher and higher, and beat clamorously at the

windows; and still above them, mighty and terrible, rose the far-off

voice of the ceaseless sea.

The doctor was the first to speak, in hushed and awe-struck tones.

"My dear Sir Noel, the time is short, and I can do little or nothing.

Shall I send for the Rev. Mr. Knight?"

The dying eyes turned upon him with a steady gaze.

"How long have I to live? I want the truth."

"Sir Noel, it is very hard, yet it must be Heaven's will. But a few

hours, I fear."

"So soon?" said the dying man. "I did not think--Send for Lady

Thetford," he cried, wildly, half raising himself again--"send for Lady

Thetford at once!"

"We have sent for her," said the doctor; "she will be here very soon.

But the clergyman, Sir Noel--the clergyman. Shall we not send for him?"

"No!" said Sir Noel, sharply. "What do I want of a clergyman? Leave me,

both of you. Stay, you can give me something, Gale, to keep up my

strength to the last? I shall need it. Now go. I want to see no one but

Lady Thetford."

"My lady has come," cried Mrs. Hilliard, starting to her feet; and at

the same moment the door was opened by Arneaud, and a lady in a

sparkling ball-dress swept in. She stood for a moment on the threshold,

looking from face to face with a bewildered air.

She was very young--scarcely twenty, and unmistakably beautiful. Taller

than common, willowy and slight, with great, dark eyes, flowing dark

curls, and a colorless olive skin. The darkly handsome face, with pride

in every feature, was blanched now almost to the hue of the dying man's;

but that glittering bride-like figure, with its misty point-lace and

blazing diamonds, seemed in strange contradiction to the idea of death.

"My lady! my lady!" cried Mrs. Hilliard, with a suppressed sob, moving

near her.

The deep, dark eyes turned upon her for an instant, then wandered back

to the bed; but she never moved.

"Ada," said Sir Noel, faintly, "come here. The rest of you go. I want no

one but my wife."

The graceful figure, in its shining robes and jewels moved over and

dropped on its knees by his side. The other three quitted the room and

closed the door. Husband and wife were alone with only death to

overhear.

"Ada, my poor girl, only five months a wife--it is very hard on you; but

it seems I must go. I have a great deal to say to you that I can't die

without saying. I have been a villain, Ada--the greatest villain on

earth to you."

She had not spoken--she did not speak. She knelt beside him, white and

still, looking and listening with strange calm. There was a sort of

white horror in her face, but very little of the despairing grief one

would naturally look for in the dying man's wife.

"I don't ask you to forgive me, Ada--I have wronged you too deeply for

that; but I loved you so dearly--so dearly! Oh, my God! what a lost and

cruel wretch I have been!"

He lay panting and gasping for breath. There was a draught which Dr.

Gale had left standing near, and he made a motion for it. She held it to

his lips, and he drank; her hand was unsteady and spilled it, but still

she never spoke.

"I cannot speak loudly, Ada," he said, in a husky whisper, "my strength

seems to grow less every moment; but I want you to promise me before I

begin my story that you will do what I ask. Promise! promise!"

He grasped her wrist and glared at her almost fiercely.

"Promise!" he reiterated. "Promise! promise!"

"I promise," she said, with white lips.

"May Heaven deal with you, Ada Thetford, as you keep that promise.

Listen now."

The wild night wore on. The cries of the wind in the trees grew louder

and wilder and more desolate. The rain beat against the curtained glass;

the candles guttered and flared; the wood-fire flickered and died out.

And still, while hour after hour passed, Ada, Lady Thetford, in her lace

and silk and jewels, knelt beside her young husband, and listened to the

dark and shameful story he had to tell. She never once faltered, she

never spoke nor stirred; but her face was whiter than her dress, and her

great dark eyes dilated with a horror too intense for words.

The voice of the dying man sank lower and lower--it fell to a dull,

choking whisper at last.

"You have heard all," he said, huskily.

"All?"

The word dropped from her lips like ice--the frozen look of blank horror

never left her face.

"And you will keep your promise?"

"Yes."

"God bless you! I can die now. Oh, Ada! I cannot ask you to forgive me;

but I love you so much--so much! Kiss me once, Ada, before I go."

His voice failed even with the words. Lady Thetford bent down and kissed

him, but her lips were as cold and white as his own.

They were the last words Sir Noel Thetford ever spoke. The restless sea

was sullenly ebbing, and the soul of the man was floating away with it.

The gray, chill light of a new day was dawning over the Devonshire

fields, rainy and raw, and with its first pale ray the soul of Noel

Thetford, baronet, left the earth forever.

An hour later, Mrs. Hilliard and Dr. Gale ventured to enter. They had

rapped again and again; but there had been no response, and alarmed they

had come in. Stark and rigid already lay what was mortal of the Lord of

Thetford Towers; and still on her knees, with that frozen look on her

face, knelt his living wife.

"My lady! my lady!" cried Mrs. Hilliard, her tears falling like rain.

"Oh! my dear lady, come away!"

She looked up; then again at the marble form on the bed, and, without

word or cry, slipped back in the old housekeeper's arms in a dead

faint.

CHAPTER II.

CAPT. EVERARD.

It was a very grand and stately ceremonial, that funeral procession from

Thetford Towers. A week after that stormy December night they laid Sir

Noel Thetford in the family vault, where generation after generation of

his race slept their last long sleep. The gentry for miles around were

there; and among them came the heir-at-law, the Rev. Horace Thetford,

only an obscure country curate now, but failing male heirs to Sir Noel,

successor to the Thetford estate, and fifteen thousand a year.

In a bed-chamber, luxurious as wealth can make a room, lay Lady

Thetford, dangerously ill. It was not a brain fever exactly, but

something very like it into which she had fallen, coming out of that

death-like swoon. It was all very sad and shocking--the sudden death of

the gay and handsome young baronet, and the serious illness of his poor

wife. The funeral oration of the Rev. Mr. Knight, rector of St. Gosport,

from the words, "In the midst of life we are in death," was most

eloquent and impressive; and women with tender hearts shed tears, and

men listened with grave, sad faces. It was such a little while, only

five short months, since the wedding-bells had rung, and there had been

bonfires and feasting throughout the village; and Sir Noel, looking so

proud and so happy, had driven up to the illuminated hall with his

handsome bride. Only five months; and now--and now.

The funeral was over, and everybody had gone back home--everybody but

the Rev. Horace Thetford, who lingered to see the result of my lady's

illness, and if she died, to take possession of his estate. It was

unutterably dismal in the dark, hushed old house with Sir Noel's ghost

seeming to haunt every room--very dismal and ghastly this waiting to

step into dead people's shoes. But then there was fifteen thousand a

year, and the finest place in Devonshire; and the Rev. Horace would have

faced a whole regiment of ghosts, and lived in a vault for that.

But Lady Thetford did not die. Slowly but surely, the fever that had

worn her to a shadow left her; and, by and by, when the early primroses

peeped through the frost blackened earth, she was able to come down

stairs--to come down feeble and frail and weak, colorless as death,

almost as silent and cold.

The Rev. Horace went back to Yorkshire, yet not entirely in despair.

Female heirs could not inherit Thetford--he stood a chance yet; and the

pale young widow was left alone in the dreary old mansion. People were

very sorry for her, and came to see her, and begged her to be resigned

to her great loss; and Mr. Knight preached endless homilies on patience,

and hope, and submission, and Lady Thetford listened to them just as if

they had been talking Greek. She never spoke of her dead husband--she

shivered at the mention of his name; but that night at his dying bed had

changed her as never woman changed before. From a bright, ambitious,

pleasure-loving girl, she had grown into a silent, haggard, hopeless

woman. All the sunny spring days she sat by the window of her boudoir,

gazing at the misty, boundless sea, pale and mute--dead in life.

The friends who came to see her, and Mr. Knight, the rector, were a

little puzzled by this abnormal case, but very sorry for the mournful

young widow, and disposed to think better of her than ever before. It

must surely have been the vilest slander that she had not cared for her

husband, that she had married him only for his wealth and title; and

that young soldier--that captain of dragoons--must have been a myth. She

might have been engaged to him, of course, before Sir Noel came, that

seemed to be an undisputed fact; and she might have jilted him for a

wealthier lover, that was all a common case. But she must have loved her

husband very dearly, or she never would have been broken-hearted like

this at his loss.

Spring deepened into summer. The June roses in the flower-gardens of

Thetford were in rosy bloom, and my lady was ill again--very, very ill.

There was an eminent physician down from London, and there was a frail

little mite of babyhood lying amongst lace and flannel; and the eminent

physician shook his head, and looked portentously grave as he glanced

from the crib to the bed. Whiter than the pillows, whiter than snow,

Ada, Lady Thetford, lay, hovering in the Valley of the Shadow of Death;

that other feeble little life seemed flickering, too--it was so even a

toss-up between the great rival powers, Life and Death, that a straw

might have turned the scale either way. So slight being that baby-hold

of gasping breath, that Mr. Knight, in the absence of any higher

authority, and in the unconsciousness of the mother, took upon himself

to baptize it. So a china bowl was brought, and Mrs. Hilliard held the

bundle of flannel, and long, white robes, and the child was named--the

name which the mother had said weeks ago it was to be called, if a

boy--Rupert Noel Thetford; for it was a male heir, and the Rev. Horace's

cake was dough.

Days went by, weeks, months, and to the surprise of the eminent

physician neither mother nor child died. Summer waned, winter returned;

the anniversary of Sir Noel's death came round, and my lady was able to

walk down stairs, shivering in the warm air under all her wraps. She had

expressed no pleasure or thankfulness in her own safety, or that of her

child. She had asked eagerly if it were a boy or a girl; and hearing its

sex, had turned her face to the wall, and lay for hours and hours

speechless and motionless. Yet it was very dear to her, too, by fits and

starts. She would hold it in her arms half a day, sometimes covering it

with kisses, with jealous, passionate love, crying over it, and half

smothering it with caresses; and then, again, in a fit of sullen apathy,

would resign it to its nurse, and not ask to see it for hours. It was

very strange and inexplicable, her conduct, altogether; more especially,

as with her return to health came no return of cheerfulness or hope. The

dark gloom that overshadowed her life seemed to settle into a chronic

disease, rooted and incurable. She never went out; she returned no

visits; she gave no invitations to those who came to repeat theirs.

Gradually people fell off; they grew tired of that sullen coldness in

which Lady Thetford wrapped herself as in a mantle, until Mr. Knight and

Dr. Gale grew to be almost her only visitors. "Mariana, in the Moated

Grange," never led a more solitary and dreary existence than the

handsome young widow, who dwelt a recluse at Thetford Towers. For she

was very handsome still, of a pale moonlight sort of beauty, the great,

dark eyes and abundant dark hair, making her fixed and changeless pallor

all the more remarkable.

Months and seasons went by. Summers followed winters, and Lady Thetford

still buried herself alive in the gray old manor--and the little heir

was six years old. A delicate child still, puny and sickly, petted and

spoiled, indulged in every childish whim and caprice. His mother's image

and idol--no look of the fair-haired, sanguine, blue-eyed Thetford

sturdiness in his little, pinched, pale face, large, dark eyes, and

crisp, black ringlets. The years had gone by like a slow dream; life was

stagnant enough in St. Gosport, doubly stagnant at Thetford Towers,

whose mistress rarely went abroad beyond her own gates, save when she

took her little son out for an airing in the pony-phaeton.

She had taken him out for one of those airings on a July afternoon, when

he had nearly accomplished his seventh year. They had driven seaward

some miles from the manor-house, and Lady Thetford and her little boy

had got out, and were strolling leisurely up and down the hot, white

sands, whilst the groom waited with the pony-phaeton just within sight.

The long July afternoon wore on. The sun that had blazed all day like a

wheel of fire, dropped lower and lower into the crimson west. The wide

sea shone red with the reflections of the lurid glory in the heavens,

and the numberless waves glittered and flashed as if sown with stars. A

faint, far-off breeze swept over the sea, salt and cold; and the

fishermen's boats danced along with the red sunset glinting on their

sails.

Up and down, slowly and thoughtfully, the lady walked, her eyes fixed on

the wide sea. As the rising breeze met her, she drew the scarlet shawl

she wore over her black silk dress closer around her, and glanced at her

boy. The little fellow was running over the sands, tossing pebbles into

the surf, and hunting for shells; and her eyes left him and wandered

once more to the lurid splendor of that sunset on the sea. It was very

quiet here, with no living thing in sight but themselves; so the lady's

start of astonishment was natural when, turning an abrupt angle in the

path leading to the shore, she saw a man coming towards her over the

sands. A tall, powerful-looking man of thirty, bronzed and handsome, and

with an unmistakably military air, although in plain black clothes. The

lady took a second look, then stood stock still, and gazed like one in a

dream. The man approached, lifted his hat, and stood silent and grave

before her.

"Captain Everard!"

"Yes, Lady Thetford--after eight years--Captain Everard once more."

The deep, strong voice suited the bronzed, grave face, and both had a

peculiar power of their own. Lady Thetford, very, very pale, held out

one fair jewelled hand.

"Captain Everard, I am very glad to see you again."

He bent over the little hand a moment, then dropped it, and stood

looking at her silent.

"I thought you were in India," she said, trying to be at ease. "When did

you return?"

"A month ago. My wife is dead. I, too, am widowed, Lady Thetford."

"I am very sorry to hear it," she said, gravely. "Did she die in

India?"

"Yes; and I have come home with my little daughter."

"Your daughter! Then she left a child?"

"One. It is on her account I have come. The climate killed her mother. I

had mercy on her daughter, and have brought her home."

"I am sorry for your wife. Why did she remain in India?"

"Because she preferred death to leaving me. She loved me, Lady

Thetford."

His powerful eyes were on her face--that pale, beautiful face, into

which the blood came for an instant at his words. She looked at him,

then away over the darkening sea.

"And you, my lady--you gained the desire of your heart, wealth, and a

title? Let me hope they have made you a happy woman."

"I am not happy."

"No? But you have been--you were while Sir Noel lived?"

"My husband was very good to me, Captain Everard. His death was the

greatest misfortune that could have befallen me."

"But you are young, you are free, you are rich, you are beautiful. You

may wear a coronet next time."

His face and glance were so darkly grave, that the covert sneer was

almost hidden. But she felt it.

"I shall never marry again, Captain Everard."

"Never? You surprise me! Six years--nay, seven, a widow, and with

innumerable attractions. Oh! you cannot mean it."

She made a sudden, passionate gesture--looked at him, then away.

"It is useless--worse than useless, folly, madness, to lift the veil

from the irrevocable past. But don't you think, don't you, Lady

Thetford, that you might have been equally happy if you had married

_me_?"

She made no reply. She stood gazing seaward, cold and still.

"I was madly, insanely, absurdly in love with pretty Ada Vandeleur in

those days, and I think I would have made her a good husband; better,

Heaven forgive me, than I ever made my poor dead wife. But you were wise

and ambitious, my pretty Ada, and bartered your black eyes and raven

ringlets to a higher bidder. You jilted me in cold blood, poor love sick

devil that I was, and reigned resplendent as my Lady Thetford. Ah! you

knew how to choose the better part, my pretty Ada."

"Captain Everard, I am sorry for the past--I have atoned, if suffering

can atone. Have a little pity, and speak of it no more!"

He stood and looked at her silently, gravely. Then he said in a voice

deep and calm.

"We are both free. Will you marry me now, Ada?"

"I cannot."

"But I love you--I have always loved you. And you--I used to think you

loved me."

He was strangely calm and passionless, voice and glance, and face. But

Lady Thetford had covered her face, and was sobbing.

"I did--I do--I always have! But I cannot marry you. I will love you all

my life; but don't, _don't_ ask me to be your wife."

"As you please!" he said, in the same passionless voice. "I think it is

best myself; for the George Everard of to-day is not the George Everard

who loved you eight years ago. We would not be happy--I know that. Ada,

is that your son?"

"Yes."

"I should like to look at him. Here, my little baronet! I want to see

you."

The boy, who had been looking curiously at the stranger, ran up at a

sign from his mother. The tall captain lifted him in his arms and gazed

in his small, thin face, with which his bright tartan plaid contrasted

harshly.

"He hasn't a look of the Thetfords. He is your own son, Ada. My little

baronet, what is your name?"

"Sir Rupert Thetford," answered the child, struggling to get free. "Let

me go--I don't know you!"

The captain set him down with a grim smile; and the boy clung to his

mother's skirts, and eyed the tall stranger askance.

"I want to go home, mamma. I'm tired and hungry."

"Presently, dearest. Run to William, he has cakes for you. Captain

Everard, I shall be happy to have you at dinner."

"Thanks; but I must decline. I go back to London to-night. I sail for

India again in a week."

"So soon! I thought you meant to remain."

"Nothing is further from my intention. I merely brought my little girl

over to provide her a home; that is why I have troubled _you_. Will you

do me this kindness, Lady Thetford?"

"Take your little girl? Oh! most gladly--most willingly."

"Thanks. Her mother's people are French, and I know little about them;

and, save yourself, I can claim friendship with few in England. She will

be poor; I have settled on her all I am worth--some three hundred a

year; and you, Lady Thetford, you teach her, when she grows up, to catch

a rich husband."

She took no notice of the taunt; she looked only too happy to render him

this service.

"I am so pleased! She will be such a nice companion for Rupert. How old

is she?"

"Nearly four."

"Is she here?"

"No; she is in London. I will fetch her down in a day or two."

"What do you call her?"

"Mabel--after her mother. Then it is settled, Lady Thetford, I am to

fetch her?"

"I shall be delighted. But won't you dine with me?"

"No. I must catch the evening train. Farewell, Lady Thetford, and many

thanks. In three days I will be here again."

He lifted his hat, and walked away. Lady Thetford watched him out of

sight, and then turned slowly, as she heard her little boy calling to

her with shrill impatience. The red sunset had faded out; the sea lay

gray and cold under the twilight sky; and the evening breeze was chill.

Changes in sky, and sea, and land, told of coming night; and Lady

Thetford, shivering slightly in the rising wind, hurried away to be

driven home.

CHAPTER III.

"LITTLE MAY."

On the evening of the third day after this interview, a fly from the

railway drove up the long, winding avenue leading to the great front

entrance of the Thetford mansion. A bronzed military gentleman, a nurse,

and a little girl, occupied the fly, and the gentleman's keen, dark eyes

wandered searchingly around. Swelling meadows, velvety lawns, sloping

terraces, waving trees, bright flower-gardens, quaint old fish-ponds,

sparkling fountains, a wooded park, with sprightly deer--that was what

he saw, all bathed in the golden halo of the summer sunset. Massive and

grand, the old house reared its gray head, half overgrown with ivy and

climbing roses. Gaudy peacocks strutted on the terraces; a graceful

gazelle flitted out for an instant amongst the trees to look at them,

and then fled in affright; and the barking of half a dozen mastiffs

greeted their approach noisily.

"A fine place," thought Capt. Everard. "My pretty Ada might have done

worse. A grand old place for that puny child to inherit. The staunch old

warrior-blood of the Thetfords is sadly adulterated in his pale veins, I

fancy. Well, my little May, and how are you going to like all this?"

The child, a bright-faced little creature, with great, restless,

sparkling eyes, and rose-bloom cheeks, was looking in delight at a

distant terrace.

"See, papa! See all the pretty peacocks! Look, Ellen," to the nurse,

"three, four, five! Oh, how pretty!"

"Then little May will like to live here, where she can see pretty

peacocks every day?"

"And all the pretty flowers, and the water, and the little boy--where's

the little boy, papa?"

"In the house--you'll see him presently; but you must be very good,

little May, and not pull his hair, and scratch his face, and put your

fingers in his eyes, as you used to do with Willie Brandon. Little May

must learn to be good."

Little May put one rosy finger in her mouth, and set her head on one

side like a defiant canary. She was one of the prettiest little fairies

imaginable, with her pale flaxen curls, sparkling light-gray eyes, and

apple-blossom complexion; but she was evidently as much spoiled as small

Sir Rupert Thetford himself.

Lady Thetford sat in the long drawing-room, after her solitary dinner,

and little Sir Rupert played with his rocking-horse, and a pile of

picture-books in a remote corner. The young widow lay back in the

violet-velvet depths of a carved and gilded lounging-chair very simply

dressed in black and crimson, but looking very fair and stately withal.

She was watching her boy with a half smile on her face, when a footman

entered with Captain Everard's card. Lady Thetford looked up eagerly.

"Show Captain Everard up at once."

The footman bowed and disappeared. Five minutes later, and the tall

captain and his little daughter stood before her.

"At last!" said Lady Thetford, rising and holding out her hand to her

old lover, with a smile that reminded him of other days--"at last, when

I was growing tired waiting. And this is your little girl--_my_ little

girl from henceforth? Come here, my pet, and kiss your new mamma."

She bent over the little one, kissing the pink cheek and rosy lips.

"She is fair and tiny--a very fairy; but she resembles you,

nevertheless, Captain Everard."

"In temper--yes," said the captain. "You will find her spoiled, and

wilful, cross, and capricious, and no end of trouble. Won't she, May?"

"She will be the better match for Rupert on that account," Lady Thetford

said, smiling, and unfastening little Miss Everard's wraps with her own

fair fingers. "Come here, Rupert, and welcome your new sister."

The young baronet approached, and dutifully kissed little May, who put

up her rosebud mouth right willingly. Sir Rupert Thetford was not tall,

rather undersized, and delicate for his seven years; but he was head and

shoulders over the flaxen-haired fairy, with the bright gray eyes.

"I want a ride on your rocking-horse," cried little May, fraternizing

with him at once; "and oh! what nice picture-books, and what a lot!"

The children ran off together to their distant corner, and Captain

Everard sat down for the first time.

"You have not dined?" said Lady Thetford. "Allow me to--" her hand was

on the bell, but the captain interposed.

"Many thanks--nothing. We dined at the village; and I leave again by the

seven-fifty train. It is past seven now, so I have but little time to

spare. I fear I am putting you to a great deal of trouble; but May's

nurse insists on being taken back to London to-night."

"It will be of no consequence," replied Lady Thetford, "Rupert's nurse

will take charge of her. I intend to advertise for a nursery-governess

in a few days. Rupert's health has always been so extremely delicate,

that he has not even made a pretext of learning yet, and it is quite

time. He grows stronger, I fancy; but Dr. Gale tells me frankly his

constitution is dangerously weak."

She sighed as she spoke, and looked over to where he stood beside little

May who had mounted the rocking-horse boy-fashion. Sir Rupert was

expostulating.

"You oughtn't to sit that way--ask mamma. You ought to sit side-saddle.

Only boys sit like that."

"I don't care!" retorted Miss Everard, rocking more violently than ever.

"I'll sit whatever way I like! Let me alone!"

Lady Thetford looked at the captain with a smile.

"Her father's daughter, surely! bent on having her own way. What a fairy

it is! and yet such a perfect picture of health."

"Mabel never was ill an hour in her life, I believe," said her father;

"she is not at all too good for this world. I only hope she may not grow

up the torment of your life--she is thoroughly spoiled."

"And I fear if she were not, I should do it. Ah! I expect she will be a

great comfort to me, and a world of good to Rupert. He has never had a

playmate of his own years, and children need children as much as they

need sunshine."

They sat for ten minutes conversing gravely, chiefly on business

matters connected with little May's annuity--not at all as they had

conversed three days before by the seaside. Then, as half-past seven

drew near, the captain arose.

"I must go. I will hardly be in time as it is. Come here, little May,

and bid papa good-by."

"Let papa come to May," responded his daughter, still rocking. "I can't

get off."

Captain Everard laughed; went over, bent down and kissed her.

"Good-by, May; don't forget papa, and learn to be a good girl. Good-by,

baronet; try and grow strong and tall. Farewell, Lady Thetford, with my

best thanks."

She held his hand, looking up in his sunburned face with tears in her

dark eyes.

"We may never meet again, Captain Everard," she said, hurriedly. "Tell

me before we part that you forgive me the past."

"Truly, Ada, and for the first time. The service you have rendered me

fully atones. You should have been my child's mother--be a mother to her

now. Good-by, and God bless you and your boy."

He stooped over, touched her cheek with his lips reverentially, and then

was gone. Gone forever--never to meet those he left behind this side of

eternity.

Little May bore the loss of her papa and nurse with philosophical

indifference; her new playmate sufficed for both. The children took to

one another with the readiness of childhood--Rupert all the more readily

that he had never before had a playmate of his own years. He was

naturally a quiet child, caring more for his picture-books, and his

nurse's stories, than for tops, or balls, or marbles. But little May

Everard seemed from the first to inspire him with some of her own

superabundant vitality and life. The child was never, for a single

instant, quiet; she was the most restless, the most impetuous, the most

vigorous little creature that can be conceived. Feet, and tongue, and

hands, never were still from morning till night; and the life of Sir

Rupert's nurse, hitherto one of idle ease, became all at once a misery

to her. The little girl was everywhere--everywhere; especially where she

had no business to be; and nurse never knew an easy moment for trotting

after her, and rescuing her from all sorts of perils. She could climb

like a cat, or a goat; and risked her neck about twenty times per diem;

she sailed her shoes in her soup, and washed her hands in her

milk-and-water. She became the intimate friend of the pretty peacocks,

and the big, good-tempered dogs, with whom, in utter fearlessness, she

rolled about in the grass half the day. She broke young Rupert's toys,

tore his picture-books, slapped his face, pulled his hair, and made

herself master of the situation before she had been twenty-four hours in

the house. She was thoroughly and completely spoiled. What India nurses

had left undone, injudicious petting and flattery, on the homeward

passage, had completed, and her temper was something appalling. Her

shrieks of passion at the slightest contradiction of her imperial will

rang through the house, and rent the tortured tympanums of all who

heard. The little Xantippe would fling herself flat on the carpet, and

literally scream herself black in the face, until, in dread of apoplexy

and sudden death, her frightened hearers hastened to yield. Of course,

one such victory insured all the rest. As for Sir Rupert, before she

had been a week at Thetford Towers, he dared not call his soul his own.

She had partially scalped him on several occasions, and left the mark of

her cat-like nails in his tender visage; but her venomous power of

screeching for hours at will, had more to do with the little baronet's

dread of her than anything else. He fled ingloriously in every

battle--running in tears to mamma, and leaving the field and the

trophies of victory triumphantly to Miss Everard. With all this, when

not thwarted--when allowed to smash toys, and dirty her clothes, and

smear her infantile face, and tear pictures, and torment inoffensive

lapdogs; when allowed, in short, to follow "her own sweet will," little

May was as charming a fairy as ever the sun shone on. Her gleeful laugh

made music in the dreary old rooms, such as had never been heard there

for many a day, and her mischievous antics were the delight of all who

did not suffer thereby. The servants petted and indulged her, and fed

her on unwholesome cakes and sweetmeats, and made her worse and worse

every day of her life.

Lady Thetford saw all this with inward apprehension. If her ward was

completely beyond her power of control at four, what would she be a

dozen years hence.

"Her father was right," thought the lady. "I am afraid she _will_ give

me a great deal of trouble. I never saw so headstrong, so utterly

unmanageable a child."

But Lady Thetford was very fond of the fairy despot withal. When her son

came running to her for succor, drowned in tears, and bearing the marks

of little May's claws, his mother took him in her arms and kissed him

and soothed him--but she never punished the offender. As for Sir Rupert,

he might fly ignominiously, but he never fought back. Little May had

the hair-pulling and face-scratching all to herself.

"I must get a governess," mused Lady Thetford. "I may find one who can

control this little vixen; and it is really time that Rupert began his

studies. I will speak to Mr. Knight about it."

Lady Thetford sent that very day to the rector her ladyship's

compliments, the servant said, and would Mr. Knight call at his earliest

convenience. Mr. Knight sent in answer to expect him that same evening;

and on his way he fell in with Dr. Gale, going to the manor-house on a

professional visit.

"Little Sir Rupert keeps weakly," he said; "no constitution to speak of.

Not at all like the Thetfords--splendid old stock, the Thetfords, but

run out--run out. Sir Rupert is a Vandeleur, inherits his mother's

constitution--delicate child, very."

"Have you seen Lady Thetford's ward?" inquired the clergyman, smiling:

"no hereditary weakness there, I fancy. I'll answer for the strength of

her lungs at any rate. The other day she wanted Lady Thetford's watch

for a plaything; she couldn't have it, and down she fell flat on the

floor in what her nurse calls 'one of her tantrums.' You should have

heard her, her shrieks were appalling."

"I have," said the doctor with emphasis; "she has the temper of the old

demon. If I had anything to do with that child, I should whip her within

an inch of her life--that's all she wants, lots of whipping. The Lord

only knows the future, but I pity her prospective husband."

"The taming of the shrew," laughed Mr. Knight. "Katharine and Petruchio

over again. For my part, I think Lady Thetford was unwise to undertake

such a charge. With her delicate health it is altogether too much for

her."

The two gentlemen were shown into the library, while the servant went to

inform his lady of their arrival. The library had a French window

opening upon a sloping lawn, and here, chasing butterflies in high glee,

were the two children--the pale, dark-eyed baronet, and the

flaxen-tressed little East Indian.

"Look," said Dr. Gale. "Is Sir Rupert going to be your Petruchio? Who

knows what the future may bring forth--who knows that we do not behold

the future Lady Thetford?"

"She is very pretty," said the rector, thoughtfully, "and she may change

with years. Your prophecy may be fulfilled."

The present Lady Thetford entered as he spoke. She had heard the remarks

of both, and there was an unusual pallor and gravity in her face as she

advanced to receive them.

Little Sir Rupert was called in, May followed, with a butterfly crushed

to death in each fat little hand.

"She kills them as fast as she catches them," said Sir Rupert, ruefully.

"It's cruel, isn't it, mamma?"

Little May, quite abashed, displayed her dead prizes, and cut short the

doctor's conference by impatiently pulling her play-fellow away.

"Come, Rupert, come," she cried. "I want to catch the black one with the

yellow wings. Stick your tongue out and come."

Sir Rupert displayed his tongue, and submitted his pulse to the doctor,

and let himself be pulled away by May.

"The gray mare in that team is decidedly the better horse," laughed the

doctor. "What a little despot in pinafores it is."

When her visitors had left, Lady Thetford walked to the window and stood

watching the two children racing in the sunshine. It was a pretty sight,

but the lady's face was contracted with a look of pain.

"No, no," she thought. "I hope not--I pray not. Strange! but I never

thought of the possibility before. She will be poor, and Rupert must

marry a rich wife, so that if--"

She paused with a sort of shudder; then added:

"What will he think, my darling boy, of his father and mother, if that

day ever comes!"

CHAPTER IV.

MRS. WEYMORE.

Lady Thetford had settled her business satisfactorily with the rector of

St. Gosport.

"Nothing could be more opportune," he said. "I am going to London next

week on business, which will detain me upwards of a fortnight. I will

immediately advertise for such a person as you want."

"You must understand," said her ladyship, "I do not require a young

girl. I wish a middle-aged person--a widow, for instance, who has had

children of her own. Both Rupert and May are spoiled--May particularly

is perfectly unmanageable. A young girl as governess for her would never

do."

Mr. Knight departed with these instructions, and the following week

started for the great metropolis. An advertisement was at once inserted

in the _Times_ newspaper, stating all Lady Thetford's requirements, and

desiring immediate application. Another week later, and Lady Thetford

received the following communication:

"DEAR LADY THETFORD--I have been fairly besieged with applications for

the past week--all widows, and all professing to be thoroughly

competent. Clergymen's widows, doctor's widows, officer's widows--all

sorts of widows. I never before thought so many could apply for one

situation. I have chosen one in sheer desperation--the widow of a

country gentleman in distressed circumstances, whom I think will suit.

She is eminently respectable in appearance, quiet and lady-like in

manner, with five years' experience in the nursery-governess line, and

the highest recommendation from her late employers. She has lost a

child, she tells me; and from her looks and manner altogether, I should

judge she was a person conversant with misfortune. She will return with

me early next week--her name is Mrs. Weymore."

* * * * *

Lady Thetford read this letter with a little sigh of relief--some one

else would have the temper and outbreaks of little May to contend with

now. She wrote to Captain Everard that same day, to announce his

daughter's well being, and inform him that she had found a suitable

governess to take charge of her.

The second day of the ensuing week the rector and the new governess

arrived. A fly from the railway brought her and her luggage to Thetford

Towers late in the afternoon, and she was taken at once to the room that

had been prepared for her, whilst the servant went to inform Lady

Thetford of her arrival.

"Fetch her here at once," said her ladyship, who was alone, as usual, in

the long drawing-room, with the children, "I wish to see her."

Ten minutes after, the drawing-room door was flung open, and "Mrs.

Weymore, my lady," announced the footman.

Lady Thetford arose to receive her new dependent, who bowed and stood

before her with a somewhat fluttered and embarrassed air. She was quite

young, not older than my lady herself, and eminently good-looking. The

tall, slender figure, clad in widow's weeds, was as symmetrical as Lady

Thetford's own, and the dull black dress set off the pearly fairness of

the blonde skin, and the rich abundance of fair hair. Lady Thetford's

brows contracted a little; this fair, subdued, gentle-looking, girlish

young woman, was hardly the strong-minded, middle-aged matron she had

expected to take the nonsense out of obstreperous May Everard.

"Mrs. Weymore, I believe," said Lady Thetford, resuming her

_fauteuil_, "pray be seated. I wished to see you at once, because I am

going out this evening. You have had five years' experience as a

nursery-governess, Mr. Knight tells me?"

"Yes, Lady Thetford."

There was a little tremor in Mrs. Weymore's low voice, and her blue eyes

shifted and fell under Lady Thetford's steady, and somewhat haughty

gaze.

"Yet you look young--much younger than I imagined, or wished."

"I am twenty-seven years old, my lady."

That was my lady's own age precisely, but she looked half a dozen years

the elder of the two.

"Are you a native of London?"

"No, my lady--of Berkshire."

"And you have been a widow how long?"

What ailed Mrs. Weymore? She was all white and trembling--even her

hands, folded and pressed together in her lap, shook in spite of her.

"Eight years and more."

She said it with a sort of sob, hysterically choked. Lady Thetford

looked on surprised, and a trifle displeased. She was a very proud

woman, and certainly wished for no scene with her hired dependents.

"Eight years is a tolerable time," she said, coolly. "You have lost

children?"

"One, my lady."

Again that choked, hysterical sob. My lady went on pitilessly.

"Is it long ago?"

"When--when I lost its father."

"Ah! both together? That was rather hard. Well, I hope you understand

the management of children--spoiled ones particularly. Here are the two

you are to take charge of. Rupert--May, come here."

The children came over from their corner. Mrs. Weymore drew May towards

her, but Sir Rupert held aloof.

"That is my ward--this is my son. I presume Mr. Knight has told you. If

you can subdue the temper of that child, you will prove yourself,

indeed, a treasure. The east parlor has been fitted up for your use; the

children will take their meals there with you; the room adjoining is to

be the school-room. I have appointed one of the maids to wait on you. I

trust you find your chamber comfortable."

"Exceedingly so, my lady."

"And the terms proposed by Mr. Knight suit you?"

Mrs. Weymore bowed. Lady Thetford rose to close the interview.

"You must need refreshment and rest after your journey. I will not

detain you longer. To-morrow your duties commence."

She rang the bell--directed the servant who came to show the governess

to the east parlor and to see to her wants, and then to send nurse for

the children. Fifteen minutes after she drove away in the pony-phaeton;

whilst the new governess stood by the window of the east parlor and

watched her vanish in the amber haze of the August sunset.

Lady Thetford's business in St. Gosport detained her a couple of hours.

The big, white, August moon was rising as she drove slowly homeward, and

the nightingales sang their vesper lay in the scented hedge-rows. As she

passed the rectory, she saw Mr. Knight leaning over his own gate,

enjoying the placid beauty of the summer evening; and Lady Thetford

reined in her ponies to speak to him.

"So happy to see your ladyship. Won't you alight and come in? Mrs.

Knight will be delighted."

"Not this evening, I think. Had you much trouble about my business?"

"I had applications enough, certainly," laughed the rector. "I had

reason to remember Mr. Weller's immortal advice, 'Beware of widders.'

How do you like your governess?"

"I have hardly had time to form an opinion. She is younger than I should

desire."

"She looks much younger than the age she gives, I know; but that is a

common case. I trust my choice will prove satisfactory--her references

are excellent. Your ladyship has had an interview with her?"

"A very brief one. Her manner struck me unpleasantly--so odd, and shy,

and nervous. I hardly know how to characterize it; but she may be a

paragon of governesses, for all that. Good-evening; best regards to Mrs.

Knight. Call soon and see how your _protege_ gets on."

Lady Thetford drove away. As she alighted from the pony-carriage and

ascended the great front steps of the house, she saw the pale governess

still seated at the window of the east parlor, gazing dejectedly out at

the silvery moonlight.

"A most woeful countenance," thought my lady. "There is some deeper

grief than the loss of a husband and child eight years ago, the matter

with that woman. I don't like her."

No, Lady Thetford did not like the meek and submissive-looking

governess, but the children and the rest of the household did. Sir

Rupert and little May took to her at once--her gentle voice, her tender

smile seemed to win its way to their capricious favor; and before the

end of the first week, she had more influence over them than mother and

nurse together. The subdued and gentle governess soon had the love of

all at Thetford Towers, except its mistress, from Mrs. Hilliard, the

stately housekeeper, down. She was so courteous and considerate, so

anxious to avoid giving trouble. Above all, that fixed expression of

settled sadness on her pale face, made its way to every heart. She had

full charge of the children now: they took their meals with her, and she

had them in her keeping the best part of the day--an office that was no

sinecure. When they were with their nurse, or my lady, the governess sat

alone in the east parlor, looking out dreamily at the summer landscape,

with her own brooding thoughts.

One evening, when she had been at Thetford Towers over a fortnight, Mrs.

Hilliard, coming in, found her sitting dreamily by herself, neither

reading nor working. The children were in the drawing-room, and her

duties were over for the day.

"I am afraid you don't make yourself at home here," said the

good-natured housekeeper; "you stay too much alone, and it isn't good

for young people like you."

"I am used to solitude," replied the governess, with a smile that ended

in a sigh, "and I have grown to like it. Will you take a seat?"

"No," said Mrs. Hilliard. "I heard you say the other day you would like

to go over the house; so, as I have a couple of hours' leisure, I will

show it to you now."

The governess rose eagerly.

"I have been wanting to see it so much," she said, "but I feared to give

trouble by asking. It is very good of you to think of me, dear Mrs.

Hilliard."

"She isn't much used to people thinking of her," reflected the

housekeeper, "or she wouldn't be so grateful for trifles. Let me see,"

aloud, "you have seen the drawing-room, and the library, and that is

all, except your own apartments. Well come this way, I'll show you the

old south-wing."

Through long corridors, up wide, black, slippery staircases, into vast,

unused rooms, where ghostly echoes and darkness had it all to

themselves, Mrs. Hilliard led the governess.

"These apartments have been unused since before the late Sir Noel's

time," said Mrs. Hilliard; "his father kept them full in the hunting

season, and at Christmas time. Since Sir Noel's death, my lady has shut

herself up and received no company, and gone nowhere. She is beginning

to go out more of late than she has done ever since his death."

Mrs. Hilliard was not looking at the governess, or she might have been

surprised at the nervous restlessness and agitation of her manner, as

she listened to these very commonplace remarks.

"Lady Thetford was very much attached to her husband, then?" Mrs.

Weymore said, her voice tremulous.

"Ah! that she was! She must have been, for his death nearly killed her.

It was sudden enough, and shocking enough, goodness knows! I shall never

forget that dreadful night. This is the old banqueting-hall, Mrs.

Weymore, the largest and dreariest room in the house."

Mrs. Weymore, trembling very much, either with cold or that

unaccountable nervousness of hers, hardly looked round at the vast

wilderness of a room.

"You were with the late Sir Noel then, when he died?"

"Yes, until my lady came. Ah! it was a dreadful thing. He had taken her

to a ball, and riding home his horse threw him. We sent for the doctor

and my lady at once; and when she came, all white and scared-like, he

sent us out of the room. He was as calm and sensible as you or me, but

he seemed to have something on his mind. My lady was shut up with him

for about three hours, and then we went in--Dr. Gale and me. I shall

never forget that sad sight. Poor Sir Noel was dead, and she was

kneeling beside him in her ball-dress, like somebody turned to stone. I

spoke to her, and she looked up at me, and then fell back in my arms in

a fainting fit. Are you cold, Mrs. Weymore, that you shake so?"

"No--yes--it is this desolate room, I think," the governess answered,

hardly able to speak.

"It _is_ desolate. Come, I'll show you the billiard-room, and then we'll

go up stairs to the room Sir Noel died in. Everything remains just as it

was--no one has ever slept there since. If you only knew, Mrs. Weymore,

what a sad time it was; but you do know, poor dear, you have lost a

husband yourself."

The governess flung up her hands before her face with a suppressed sob,

so full of anguish that the housekeeper stared at her aghast. Almost as

quickly she recovered herself again.

"Don't mind me," she said, in a choking voice, "I can't help it. You

don't know what I suffered--what I still suffer. Oh, pray, don't mind

me."

"Certainly not, my dear," said Mrs. Hilliard, thinking inwardly the

governess was a very odd person indeed.

They looked at the billiard-room, where the tables stood, dusty and

disused, and the balls lay idly by.

"I don't know when it will be used again," said Mrs. Hilliard, "perhaps

not until Sir Rupert grows up. There was a time," lowering her voice,

"when I thought he would never live to be as old and strong as he is

now. He was the punyist baby, Mrs. Weymore, you ever looked at--nobody

thought he would live. And that would have been a pity, you know, for

the Thetford estate would have gone to a distant branch of the family.

As it would, too, if Sir Rupert had been a girl."

She went up stairs to the inhabited part of the building, followed by

Mrs. Weymore, who seemed to grow more and more agitated with every word

the old housekeeper said.

"This is Sir Noel's room," said Mrs. Hilliard, in an awe-struck whisper,

as if the dead man still lay there; "no one ever enters here but me."

She unlocked it, as she spoke, and went in. Mrs. Weymore followed with a

face of frightened pallor that struck even the housekeeper.

"Good gracious me! Mrs. Weymore, what is the matter? You are as pale as

a ghost. Are you afraid to enter a room where a person has died?"

Mrs. Weymore's reply was almost inaudible; she stood on the threshold,

pallid, trembling, unaccountably moved. The housekeeper glanced at her

suspiciously.

"Very odd," she thought, "very! The new governess is either the most

nervous person I ever met, or else--no, she can't have known Sir Noel in

his lifetime. Of course not."

They left the chamber after a cursory glance around--Mrs. Weymore never

advancing beyond the threshold. She had not spoken, and that white

pallor made her face ghastly still.

"I'll show you the picture-gallery," said Mrs. Hilliard, "and then, I

believe, you will have seen all that is worth seeing at Thetford

Towers."

She led the way to a half-lighted room, wainscoted and antique, like all

the rest, where long rows of dead and gone Thetfords looked down from

the carved walls. There were knights in armor; countesses in ruffles,

and powder, and lace; bishops, mitre on head and crozier in hand; and

judges in gown and wig. There were ladies in pointed stomachers and

jewelled fans, with the waists of their dresses under their arms, but

all fair and handsome, and unmistakably alike. Last of all the long

array, there was Sir Noel, a fair-haired, handsome youth of twenty, with

a smile on his face, and a happy radiance in his blue eyes. And by his

side, dark, and haughty, and beautiful, was my lady in her bridal-robes.

"There is not a handsomer face amongst them all than my lady's," said

Mrs. Hilliard, with pride. "You ought to have seen her when Sir Noel

first brought her home, she was the most beautiful creature I ever

looked at. Ah, it was such a pity he was killed. I suppose they'll be

having Sir Rupert's taken next and hung beside her. He don't look much

like the Thetfords; he's his mother over again--a Vandeleur, dark and

still."

If Mrs. Weymore made any reply, the housekeeper did not catch it; she

was standing with her face averted, hardly looking at the portraits, and

was the first to leave the picture-gallery.

There were a few more rooms to be seen--a drawing-room suite, now closed

and disused; an ancient library, with a wonderful stained window, and a

vast echoing reception-room. But it was all over at last, and Mrs.

Hilliard, with her keys, trotted cheerfully off; and Mrs. Weymore was

left to solitude and her own thoughts once more.

A strange person, certainly. She locked the door and fell down on her

knees by the bedside, sobbing until her whole form was convulsed.

"Oh! why did I come here? Why did I come here?" came passionately with

the wild storm of sobs. "I might have known how it would be! Nearly nine

years--nine long, long years, and not to have forgotten yet!"

CHAPTER V.

A JOURNEY TO LONDON.

Very slowly, very monotonously went life at Thetford Towers. The only

noticeable change was that my lady went rather more into society, and a

greater number of visitors came to the manor. There had been a

children's party on the occasion of Sir Rupert's eighth birthday, and

Mrs. Weymore had played for the little people to dance; and my lady had

cast off her chronic gloom, and been handsome and happy as of old. There

had been a dinner-party later--an unprecedented event now at Thetford

Towers; and the weeds, worn so long, had been discarded, and in diamonds

and black velvet Lady Thetford had been beautiful, and stately, and

gracious, as a young queen. No one knew the reason of the sudden change,

but they accepted the fact just as they found it, and set it down,

perhaps, to woman's caprice.

So, slowly the summer passed; autumn came and went, and it was December,

and the ninth anniversary of Sir Noel's sudden death.

A gloomy, day--wet, and bleakly cold. The wind, sweeping over the angry

sea, surged and roared through the skeleton trees; the rain lashed the

windows in rattling gusts; and the leaden sky hung low and frowning over

the drenched and dreary earth. A dismal day--very like that other, nine

years ago, that had been Sir Noel's last.

In Lady Thetford's boudoir a bright-red coal-fire blazed. Pale-blue

curtains of satin damask shut out the winter prospect, and the softest

and richest of bright carpets hushed every footfall. Before the fire, on

a little table, my lady's breakfast temptingly stood; the silver, old

and quaint; the rare antique porcelain sparkling in the ruddy firelight.

An easy-chair, carved and gilded, and cushioned in azure velvet, stood

by the table; and near my lady's plate lay the letters and papers the

morning's mail had brought.

A toy of a clock on the low marble mantel chimed musically ten as my

lady entered. In her dainty morning _negligee_, with her dark hair

rippling and falling low on her neck, she looked very young, and fair,

and graceful. Behind her came her maid, a blooming English girl, who

took off the covers, and poured out my lady's chocolate.

Lady Thetford sank languidly into the azure velvet depths of her chair

and took up her letters. There were three--one, a note from her man of

business; one, an invitation to a dinner-party; and the third, a big

official-looking document, with a huge seal, and no end of postmarks.

The languid eyes suddenly lighted; the pale cheeks flushed as she took

it eagerly up. It was a letter from India from Captain Everard.

Lady Thetford sipped her chocolate, and read her letter leisurely, with

her slippered feet on the shining fender. It was a long letter, and she

read it over, slowly, twice, three times before she laid it down. She

finished her breakfast, motioned her maid to remove the service, and

lying back in her chair, with her deep, dark eyes fixed dreamily on the

fire, she fell into a reverie of other days far gone. The lover of her

girlhood came back to her from over the sea. He was lying at her feet

once more in the long summer days, under the waving trees of her

girlhood's home. Ah! how happy, how happy she had been in those by-gone

days, before Sir Noel Thetford had come, with his wealth and his title,

to tempt her from her love and truth.

Eleven struck, twelve, from the musical clock on the mantel, and still

my lady sat, living in the past. Outside the wintry storm raged on; the

rain clamored against the curtained glass, and the wind sighed among the

trees. With a long sigh my lady awoke from her dream, and mechanically

took up the _Times_ newspaper--the first of the little heap.

"Vain, vain," she thought, dreamily; "worse than vain those dreams now.

With my own hand I threw back the heart that loved me; of my own free

will I resigned the man I loved. And now the old love, that I thought

would die in the splendor of my new life, is stronger than ever--and it

is nine years too late."

She tried to wrench her thoughts away and fix them on her newspaper. In

vain! her eyes wandered aimlessly over the closely-printed columns--her

mind was in India with Captain Everard. All at once she started, uttered

a sudden, sharp cry, and grasped the paper with dilated eyes and

whitening cheeks. At the top of a column of "personal" advertisements

was one which her strained eyes literally devoured.

"If Mr. Vyking, who ten years ago left a male infant in charge of Mrs.

Martha Brand, wishes to keep that child out of the work-house, he will

call, within the next five days, at No. 17 Waddington Street, Lambeth."

Again and again, and again Lady Thetford read this apparently

uninteresting advertisement. Slowly the paper dropped into her lap, and

she sat staring blankly into the fire.

"At last!" she thought, "at last it has come. I fancied all danger was

over--that death, perhaps, had forestalled me; and now, after all these

years, I am summoned to keep my broken promise!"

The hue of death had settled on her face; she sat cold and rigid,

staring with that blank, fixed gaze into the fire. Ceaselessly beat the

rain; wilder grew the December day; steadily the moments wore on, and

still she sat in that fixed trance. The ormolu clock struck two--the

sound aroused her at last.

"I must!" she said, setting her teeth. "I will! My boy shall not lose

his birthright, come what may."

She rose and rang the bell--very pale, but quite calm. Her maid answered

the summons.

"Eliza," my lady asked, "at what hour does the afternoon train leave St.

Gosport for London?"

Eliza stared--did not know; but would ascertain. In five minutes she was

back.

"At half-past three, my lady; and another at seven."

Lady Thetford glanced at the clock--it was a quarter past two.

"Tell William to have the carriage at the door at a quarter-past three;

and do you pack my dressing-case, and the few things I shall need for

two or three days' absence. I am going to London."

Eliza stood for a moment quite petrified. In all the nine years of her

service under my lady, no such order as this had ever been received. To

go to London at a moment's notice--my lady, who rarely went beyond her

own park gates! Turning away, not quite certain that her ears had not

deceived her, my lady's voice arrested her.

"Send Mrs. Weymore to me; and do you lose no time in packing up."

Eliza departed. Mrs. Weymore appeared. My lady had some instructions to

give concerning the children during her absence. Then the governess was

dismissed, and she was again alone.

Through the wind and rain of the wintry storm, Lady Thetford was driven

to the station in time to catch the three-fifty train to the metropolis.

She went unattended; with no message to any one, only saying she would

be back in three days at the farthest.

In that dull household, where so few events ever disturbed the stagnant

quiet, this sudden journey produced an indescribable sensation. What

could have taken my lady to London at a moment's notice? Some urgent

reason it must have been to force her out of the gloomy seclusion in

which she had buried herself since her husband's death. But, discuss it

as they might, they could come no nearer the heart of the mystery.

CHAPTER VI.

GUY.

The rainy December day closed in a rainier night. Another day dawned on

the world, sunless, and chilly, and overcast still.

It dawned on London in murky, yellow fog, on sloppy, muddy streets--in

gloom and dreariness, and a raw, easterly wind. In the densely populated

streets of the district of Lambeth, where poverty huddled in tall, gaunt

buildings, the dismal light stole murkily and slowly over the crowded,

filthy streets, and swarming purlieus.

In a small upper room of a large dilapidated house, this bad December

morning, a painter stood at his easel. The room was bare, and cold, and

comfortless in the extreme; the painter was middle-aged, small, brown,

and shrivelled, and very much out at elbows. The dull, gray light fell

full on his work--no inspiration of genius by any means--only the

portrait, coarsely colored, of a fat, well-to-do butcher's daughter

round the corner. The man was Joseph Legard, scene-painter to one of the

minor city theatres, who eked out his slender income by painting

portraits when he could get them to paint. He was as fond of his art as

any of the great old masters; but he had only one attribute in common

with those immortals--extreme poverty; for his family was large, and Mr.

Legard found it a tight fit, indeed, to "make both ends meet."

He stood over his work this dull morning, however, in his fireless room,

with a cheerful, brown face, whistling a tune. In the adjoining room, he

could hear his wife's voice raised shrilly, and the cries of half a

dozen Legards. He was used to it, and it did not disturb him; and he

painted and whistled cheerily, touching up the butcher's daughter's snub

nose and fat cheeks, and double chin, until light footsteps came running

up stairs, and the door was flung wide by an impetuous hand. A boy of

ten, or thereabouts, came in--a bright-eyed, fair-haired lad, with a

handsome, resolute face, and eyes of cloudless, Saxon blue.

"Ah, Guy!" said the scene-painter, turning round and nodding

good-humoredly. "I've been expecting you. What do you think of Miss

Jenkins?"

The boy looked at the picture with the glance of an embryo connoisseur.

"It's as like her as two peas, Joe; or would be, if her hair was a

little redder, and her nose a little thicker, and the freckles were

plainer. But it looks like her as it is."

"Well, you see Guy," said the painter, going on with Miss Jenkins' left

eyebrow, "it don't do to make 'em too true--people don't like it; they

pay their money, and they expect to take it out in good looks. And now,

any news this morning, Guy?"

The boy leaned against the window and looked out into the dingy street,

his bright young face growing gloomy and overcast.

"No," he said, moodily; "there is no news, except that Phil Darking was

drunk last night, and savage as a mad dog this morning--and that's no

news, I'm sure."

"And nobody's come about the advertisement in the _Times_?"

"No, and never will. It's all humbug what granny says about my belonging

to anybody rich; if I did, they'd have seen after me long ago. Phil says

my mother was a housemaid, and my father a valet--and they were only too

glad to get me off their hands. Vyking was a valet, granny says she

knows; and it's not likely he'll turn up after all these years. I don't

care, I'd rather go to the work-house; I'd rather starve in the streets,

than live another week with Phil Darking."

The blue eyes filled with tears, and he dashed them passionately away.

The painter looked up with a distressed face.

"Has he been beating you again, Guy?"

"It's no matter--he's a brute. Granny and Ellen are sorry, and do what

they can; but that's nothing. I wish I had never been born."

"It is hard," said the painter, compassionately, "but keep up heart,

Guy; if the worst comes, why you can stop here and take pot-luck with

the rest--not that that's much better than starvation. You can take to

my business shortly now; and you'll make a better scene-painter than

ever I could. You've got it in you."

"Do you really think so, Joe?" cried the boy, with sparkling eyes. "Do

you? I'd rather be an artist than at king--Halloo!"

He stopped short in surprise, staring out of the window. Legard looked.

Up the dirty street came a Hansom cab, and stopped at their own door.

The driver alighted, made some inquiry, then opened the cab-door, and a

lady stepped lightly out on the curb-stone--a lady tall and stately,

dressed in black, and closely veiled.

"Now who can this visitor be for?" said Legard. "People in this

neighborhood ain't in the habit of having morning-calls made on them in

cabs. She's coming up stairs."

He held the door open, listening. The lady ascended the first flight of

stairs, stopped on the landing, and inquired of some one for "Mrs.

Martha Brand."

"For granny!" exclaimed the boy. "Joe, I shouldn't wonder if it was some

one about that advertisement, after all."

"Neither should I," said Legard. "There! she's gone in. You'll be sent

for directly, Guy."

Yes, the lady had gone in. She had encountered on the landing a sickly

young woman, with a baby in her arms, who had stared at the name she

inquired for.

"Mrs. Martha Brand? Why, that's mother. Walk in this way, if you please,

ma'am."

She opened a door, and ushered the veiled lady into a small, close room,

poorly furnished. Over a smouldering fire, mending stockings, sat an old

woman, who, notwithstanding the extreme shabbiness and poverty of her

dress, lifted a pleasant, intelligent old face.

"A lady to see you, mother," said the young woman hushing her fretful

baby, and looking curiously at the veiled face.

But the lady made no attempt to raise the envious screen, not even when

Mrs. Martha Brand got up, dropping a respectful little servant's

courtesy, and placing a chair. It was a very thick veil--an impenetrable

shield, and nothing could be discovered of the face behind it but that

it was fixedly pale. She sank into the seat, her face turned to the old

woman behind that sable screen.

"You are Mrs. Brand?"

The voice was refined and patrician. It would have told she was a lady,

even if the rich garments she wore did not.

"Yes, ma'am--your ladyship; Martha Brand."

"And you inserted that advertisement in the _Times_ regarding a child

left in your care, ten years ago?"

Mother and daughter started, and stared at the speaker.

"It was addressed to Mr. Vyking, who left the child in your charge; by

which, I infer, you are not aware that he has left England."

"Left England, has he?" said Mrs. Brand. "More shame for him, then,

never to let me know, or leave a farthing to support the boy."

"I am inclined to believe it was not his fault," said the clear,

patrician voice. "He left England suddenly, and against his will; and I

have reason to think will never return. But there are others

interested--more interested than he could possibly be in the child, who

remain, and who are willing to take him off your hands. But first, why

is it you are so anxious, after keeping him all these years, to get rid

of him?"

"Well, you see, your ladyship," replied Martha Brand "it is not me, nor

likewise Ellen there, who is my daughter. We'd keep the lad and welcome,

and share the last crust, we had with him, as we often have--for we're

very poor people; but you see, Ellen, she's married now, and her husband

never could bear Guy--that's what we call him, your ladyship--Guy, which

it was Mr. Vyking's own orders. Phil Darking, her husband, never did

like him somehow, and when he gets drunk, saving your ladyship's

presence, he beats him most unmerciful. And now we're going to

America--to New York, where Phil's got a brother, and work is better;

and he won't fetch Guy. So your ladyship, I thought I'd try once more

before we deserted him, and put that advertisement in the _Times_, which

I'm very glad I did, if it will fetch the poor lad any friends."

There was a moment's pause; then the lady asked thoughtfully.

"And when do you leave for New York?"

"The day after to-morrow, ma'am--and a long journey it is for a poor old

body like me."

"Did you live here when Mr. Vyking left the child with you--in this

neighborhood?"

"Not in this neighborhood, nor in London at all, your ladyship. It was

Lowdean, in Berkshire, and my husband was alive at the time. I had just

lost my baby, and the landlady of the inn recommended me. So he brought

it, and paid me thirty sovereigns, and promised me thirty more every

twelvemonth, and told me to call it Guy Vyking--and that was the last as

I ever saw of him."

"And the infant's mother?" said the lady, her voice changing

perceptibly--"do you know anything of her?"

"But very little," said Martha Brand, shaking her head.

"I never set eyes on her, although she was sick at the inn for upwards

of three weeks. But Mrs. Vine, the landlady, she saw her twice; and she

told me what a pretty young creeter she was--and a lady, if there ever

was a lady yet."

"Then the child was born in Berkshire--how was it?"

"Well, your ladyship, it was an accident, seeing as how the carriage

broke down with Mr. Vyking and the lady, a driving furious to catch the

last London train. The lady was so much hurted that she had to be

carried to the inn, and went quite out of her head, raving and dangerous

like. Mr. Vyking had the landlady to wait upon her until he could

telegraph to London for a nurse, which one came down next day and took

charge of her. The baby wasn't two days old when he brought it to me;

and the poor young mother was dreadful low, and out of her head all the

time. Mr. Vyking and the nurse were all that saw her, and the doctor, of

course; but she didn't die, as the doctor thought she would, but got

well; and before she came right to her senses, Mr. Vyking paid the

doctor, and told him he needn't come back. And then, a little more than

a fortnight after, they took her away, all sly and secret-like--and what

they told her about her poor baby I don't know. I always thought there

was something dreadful wrong about the whole thing."

"And this Mr. Vyking--was he the child's father--the woman's husband?"

Martha Brand looked sharply at the speaker, as if she suspected _she_

could answer that question best.

"Nobody knew, but everybody thought so. I've always been of opinion,

myself, that Guy's father and mother were gentlefolks, and I always

shall be."

"Does the boy know his own story?"

"Yes, your ladyship--all I've told you."

"Where is he? I should like to see him."

Mrs. Brand's daughter, all this time hushing her baby, started up.

"I'll fetch him. He's up stairs in Legard's, I know."

She left the room and ran up stairs. The painter, Legard, still was

touching up Miss Jenkins, and the bright haired boy stood watching the

progress of that work of art.

"Guy! Guy!" she cried, breathlessly, "come down stairs at once. You're

wanted."

"Who wants me, Ellen?"

"A lady, dressed in the most elegant and expensive manner--a real lady,

Guy; and she has come about that advertisement, and she wants to see

you."

"What is she like, Mrs. Darking?" inquired the painter--"young or old?"

"Young, I should think; but she hides her face behind a thick veil, as

if she didn't want to be known. Come, Guy."

She hurried the lad down stairs, and into their little room. The veiled

lady still sat talking to the old woman, her back to the dim daylight,

and that disguising veil still down. She turned slightly at their

entrance, and looked at the boy through it. Guy stood in the middle of

the floor, his fearless blue eyes fixed on the hidden face. Could he

have seen it, he might have started at the grayish pallor which

overspread it at sight of him.

"So like! So like!" the lady was murmuring between her set teeth. "It is

terrible--it is marvellous."

"This is Guy, your ladyship," said Martha Brand. "I've done what I could

for him the last ten years, and, I'm almost as sorry to part with him as

if he were my own. Is your ladyship going to take him away with you

now?"

"No," said her ladyship sharply, "I have no such intention. Have you no

neighbor or friend who would be willing to take and bring him up, if

well paid for the trouble? This time the money will be paid without

fail."

"There's Legard," cried the boy, eagerly. "I'll go to Legard's, granny.

I'd rather be with Joe than anywhere else."

"It's a neighbor that lives up stairs," murmured Martha in explanation.

"He always took to Guy, and Guy to him, in a way that's quite wonderful.

He's a very decent man, your ladyship--a painter for a theatre; and Guy

takes kindly to the business, and would like to be one himself. If you

don't want to take away the boy, you couldn't leave him in better

hands."

"I am glad to hear it. Can I see the man?"

"I'll fetch him," cried Guy, and ran out of the room. Two minutes later

came Mr. Legard, in paper cap and shirt-sleeves, bowing very low to the

grand, black-robed lady, and only too delighted to strike a bargain. The

lady offered liberally--Mr. Legard closed with the offer at once.

"You will clothe him better, and you will educate him, and give him your

name. I wish him to drop that of Vyking. The same amount I give you now

will be sent you this time every year. If you change your residence in

the meantime, or wish to communicate with me in any occurrence of

consequence, you can address Madam Ada, post-office, Plymouth."

She rose as she spoke, stately and tall, and motioned Mr. Legard to

withdraw. The painter gathered up the money she laid on the table, and

bowed himself, with a radiant face, out of the room.

"As for you," turning to old Martha, and taking out of her purse a roll

of crisp, Bank of England notes, "I think this will pay you for the

trouble you have had with the boy during the last ten years. No

thanks--you have earned the money."

She moved to the door, made a slight, proud gesture with her gloved

hand, in farewell; took a last look at the golden-haired, blue-eyed,

handsome boy, and was gone. A moment later, and her cab rattled out of

the murky street, and the trio were alone staring at one another, and at

the bulky roll of notes.

"I should think it was a dream only for this," murmured old Martha,

looking at the roll with glistening eyes.

"A great lady--a great lady, surely. Guy, I shouldn't wander if that was

your mother."

CHAPTER VII.