COLONEL JOCYLN.

Five miles away from Thetford Towers, where the multitudinous waves

leaped and glistened all day in the sunlight, as if a glitter with

diamonds, stood Jocyln Hall. An imposing structure of red brick, not yet

one hundred years old, with sloping meadows spreading away into the blue

horizon, and densely wooded plantations down to the wide sea.

Colonel Jocyln, the lord of these swelling meadows and miles of

woodland, where the red deer disported in the green arcades, was absent

in India, and had been for the past nine years. They were an old family,

the Jocylns, as old as any in Devon, with a pride that bore no

proportion to their purse, until the present Jocyln had, all at once,

become a millionaire. A penniless young lieutenant in a cavalry

regiment, quartered somewhere in Ireland, with a handsome face and

dashing manners, he had captivated, at first sight, a wild, young Irish

heiress of fabulous wealth and beauty. It was a love match on her

side--nobody knew exactly what it was on his; but they made a moonlight

flitting of it, for the lady's friends were grievously wroth. Lieutenant

Jocyln liked his profession for its own sake, and took his Irish bride

to India, and there an heiress and only child was born to him. The

climate disagreed with the young wife--she sickened and died; but the

young officer and his baby-girl remained in India. In the fulness of

time he became Colonel Jocyln; and one day electrified his housekeeper

by a letter announcing his intention of returning to England with his

little daughter Aileen "for good."

That same month of December, which took Lady Thetford on that mysterious

London journey, brought this letter from Calcutta. Five months after,

when the May primroses and hyacinths were all abloom in the green

seaside woodlands, Colonel Joclyn and his little daughter came home.

Early on the day succeeding his arrival, Colonel Jocyln rode though the

bright spring sunshine, along the pleasant high road between Jocyln Hall

and Thetford Towers. He had met the late Sir Noel and his bride once or

twice previous to his departure for India; but there had been no

acquaintance sufficiently close to warrant this speedy call.

Lady Thetford, sitting alone in her boudoir, yawning the weary hours

away over a book, looked in surprise at the card the servant brought

her.

"Colonel Jocyln," she said, "I did not even know he had arrived. And to

call so soon--ah! perhaps he fetches me letters from India."

She rose at the thought, her pale cheeks flushing a little with

expectation. Mail after mail had arrived from that distant land,

bringing her no letter from Captain Everard.

Lady Thetford descended at once. She had few callers; but was always

exquisitely dressed, and ready to receive at a moment's notice. Colonel

Jocyln, tall and sallow, and soldierly, rose at her entrance.

"Lady Thetford? Ah, yes! Most happy to see your ladyship once more.

Permit me to apologize for this very early call--you will overlook my

haste when you hear my reason."

Lady Thetford held out her white hand.

"Allow me to welcome you back to England, Colonel Jocyln. You have come

to remain this time, I hope. And little Aileen is well, I trust?"

"Very well, and very glad to be released from shipboard. I need not ask

for young Sir Rupert--I saw him with his nurse in the park as I rode up.

A fine boy, and like you my lady."

"Yes, Rupert is like me. And now--how are our mutual friends in India?"

The momentous question she had been longing to ask from the first, but

her well-trained voice spoke it as steadily as though it had been a

question of the weather.

Colonel Jocyln's face darkened.

"I bring bad news from India, my lady, Captain Everard was a friend of

yours?"

"Yes; he left his little daughter in my charge."

"I know. You have not heard from him lately?"

"No; and I have been rather anxious. Nothing has befallen the captain, I

hope?"

The well-trained voice shook a little despite its admirable training,

and the slender fingers looped and unlooped nervously her watch-chain.

"Yes, Lady Thetford, the very worst that could befall him. George

Everard is dead."

There was a blank pause. Colonel Jocyln looked grave, and downcast, and

sad.

"He was my friend," he said, in a low voice, "my intimate friend for

many years--a fine fellow, and brave as a lion. Many, many nights we

have lain with the stars of India shining on our bivouac whilst he

talked to me of you, of England, of his daughter."

Lady Thetford never spoke, never stirred. She was sitting, gazing

steadfastly out of the window at the sparkling sunshine, and Colonel

Jocyln could not see her face.

"He was as glorious a soldier as ever I knew," the colonel went on; "and

he died a soldier's death--shot through the heart. They buried him out

there with military honors, and some of his men cried on his grave like

children."

There was another blank pause. Still Lady Thetford sat with that fixed

gaze on the brilliant May sunshine, moveless as stone.

"It is a sad thing for his poor little girl," the Indian officer said;

"she is fortunate in having such a guardian as you, Lady Thetford."

Lady Thetford awoke with a start. She had been in a trance; the years

had slipped backward, and she had been in her far-off girlhood's home

with George Everard, her handsome, impetuous lover, by her side. She had

loved him, then, even when she said no, and married another; she loved

him still, and now he was dead--dead! But she turned to her visitor with

a face that told nothing.

"I am so sorry--so very, very sorry. My poor little May! Did Captain

Everard speak of her, of me, before he died?"

"He died instantaneously, Lady Thetford. There was no time."

"Ah, no! poor fellow! It is the fortune of war--but it is very sad."

That was all; we may feel inexpressibly, but we can only utter

commonplaces. Lady Thetford was very, very pale, but her pallor told

nothing of the dreary pain at her heart.

"Would you not like to see little May? I will send for her."

Little May was sent for, and came. A brilliant little fairy as ever,

brightly dressed, with shimmering golden curls, and starry eyes. By her

side stood Sir Rupert--the nine-year-old baronet, growing tall very

fast, pale and slender still, and looking at the colonel with his

mother's dark, deep eyes.

Col. Jocyln held out his hand to the flaxen-haired fairy.

"Come here, little May, and kiss papa's friend. You remember papa, don't

you?"

"Yes," said May, sitting on his knee contentedly. "Oh, yes. When is papa

coming home? He said in mamma's letter he would fetch me lots and lots

of dolls, and picture-books. Is he coming home soon?"

"Not very soon," the colonel said, inexpressibly touched; "but little

May will go to papa some day. You are mamma, I suppose?" smiling at Lady

Thetford.

"Yes," nodded May, "that's mamma, and Rupert's mamma. Oh! I'm so sorry

papa isn't coming home soon. Do you know," looking up in his face with

big, shining, solemn eyes, "I've got a pony, and I can ride lovely; and

its name is Snow-drop, because it's all white, and Rupert's is black,

and _his_ name is Sultan? And I've got a watch; mamma gave it to me last

Christmas; and my doll's name--the big one, you know, that opens its

eyes and says, 'mamma' and 'papa,' is Sonora. Have you got any little

girls at home?"

"One, Miss Chatterbox."

"What's her name?"

"Aileen--Aileen Jocyln."

"Is she nice?"

"Very nice, I think."

"Will she come to see me?"

"If you wish it, and mamma wishes it."

"Oh, yes! you do, don't you, mamma? How big is your little girl--as big

as me?"

"Bigger, I fancy. She is nine years old."

"Then she's as big as Rupert--he's nine years old. May she fetch her

doll to see Sonora?"

"Certainly--a regiment of dolls, if she wishes."

"Can't she come to-morrow?" asked Rupert, "To-morrow's May's birthday;

May's seven years old to-morrow. Mayn't she come?"

"That must be as mamma says."

"Oh, fetch her," cried Lady Thetford, "it will be so nice for May and

Rupert. Only I hope little May won't quarrel with her; she does quarrel

with her playmates a good deal, I am sorry to say."

"I won't, if she's nice," said May; "it's all their fault. Oh, Rupert!

there's Mrs. Weymore on the lawn, and I want her to come and see the

rabbits. There's five little rabbits this morning, mamma--mayn't I go

and show them to Mrs. Weymore?"

Lady Thetford nodded smiling acquiescence; and away ran little May and

Rupert to show the rabbits to the governess.

Colonel Jocyln lingered for half an hour or upwards, conversing with his

hostess, and rose to take his leave at last, with the promise of

returning on the morrow with his little daughter, and dining at the

house. As he mounted his horse and rode homeward, "a haunting shape, an

image gay," followed him through the genial May sunshine--Lady Thetford,

fair, and stately, and graceful.

"Nine years a widow," he mused. "They say she took her husband's death

very hard--and no wonder, considering how he died; but nine years is a

tolerable time in which to forget. She received the news of Everard's

death very quietly. I don't suppose there ever was anything really in

that old story. How handsome she is, and how graceful. I wonder--"

He broke off in his musing fit to light a cigar, and see through the

curling smoke dark-eyed Ada, mamma to little Aileen as well as the other

two. He had never thought of wanting a wife before, in all the years of

his widowhood; but the want struck him forcibly now.

"And Aileen wants a mother, and the little baronet a father," he

thought, complacently; "my lady can't do better."

So next day, the earliest possible hour brought back the gallant

colonel, and with him a brown-haired, brown-eyed, quiet-looking little

girl, as tall, every inch, as Sir Rupert. A little embryo patrician,

with pride in her infantile lineaments already, an uplifted poise of the

graceful head, a light, elastic step, and a softly-modulated voice. A

little lady from top to toe, who opened her brown eyes in wide wonder at

the antics, and gambols, and obstreperousness, generally, of little May.

There were two or three children from the rectory, and half a dozen from

other families in the neighborhood--and the little birthday feast was

under the charge of Mrs. Weymore, the governess, pale and pretty, and

subdued, as of old. They raced through the leafy arcades of the park

and gambolled in the garden, and had tea in a fairy summer-house, to the

music of plashing fountains--and little May was captain of the band.

Even shy, still Aileen Jocyln forgot her youthful dignity, and raced and

laughed with the best.

"It was so nice, papa!" she cried, rapturously, riding home in the misty

moonlight. "I never enjoyed myself so well. I like Rupert so

much--better than May, you know; May's so rude, and laughs so loud. I've

asked them to come and see me, papa; and May said she would make her

mamma let them come next week. And then I'm going back--I shall always

like to go there."

Colonel Jocyln smiled as he listened to his little daughter's prattle.

Perhaps he agreed with her; perhaps he too, liked to go there. The

dinner-party, at which he and the rector of St. Gosport and the rector's

wife were the only guests, had been quite as pleasant as the birthday

fete. Very graceful, very fair and stately, had looked the lady of the

manor, presiding at her own dinner-table. How well she would look at the

head of his?

The Indian officer, after that became a very frequent guest at Thetford

Towers--the children were such a good excuse. Aileen was lonely at home,

and Rupert and May were always glad to have her. So papa drove her over

nearly every day, or else came to fetch the other two to Jocyln Hall.

Lady Thetford was ever most gracious, and the colonel's hopes ran high.

Summer waned. It was October, and Lady Thetford began talking of leaving

St. Gosport for a season; her health was not good, and change of air was

recommended.

"I can leave my children in charge of Mrs. Weymore," she said. "I have

every confidence in her; and she has been with me so long. I think I

shall depart next week, Dr. Gale says I have delayed too long."

Colonel Jocyln looked up uneasily. They were sitting alone together,

looking at the red October sunset blazing itself out behind the Devon

hills.

"We will miss you very much," he said, softly. "I will miss you."

Something in his tone struck Lady Thetford. She turned her dark eyes

upon him in surprise and sudden alarm. The look had to be answered;

rather embarrassed, and not at all so confident as he thought he would

have been, Colonel Jocyln asked Lady Thetford to be his wife.

There was a blank pause. Then,

"I am very sorry, Colonel Jocyln. I never thought of this."

He looked at her, pale--alarmed.

"Does that mean no, Lady Thetford?"

"It means no, Colonel Jocyln. I have never thought of you save as a

friend; as a friend I still wish to retain you. I will never marry. What

I am to-day, I will go to my grave. My boy has my whole heart--there is

no room in it for anyone else. Let us be friends, Colonel Jocyln,"

holding out her white, jeweled hand, "more, no mortal man can ever be to

me."

CHAPTER VIII.

LADY THETFORD'S BALL.

Years came, and years went, and thirteen passed away. In all these

years, with their countless changes, Thetford Towers had been a deserted

house. Comparatively speaking, of course; Mrs. Weymore, the governess,

Mrs. Hilliard, the housekeeper, Mr. Jarvis, the butler, and their minor

satellites, served there still, but its mistress and her youthful son

had been absent. Only little May had remained under Mrs. Weymore's

charge until within the last two years, and then she, too, had gone to

Paris to a finishing school.

Lady Thetford came herself to the Towers to fetch her--the only time in

these thirteen years. She had spent them pleasantly enough, rambling

about the Continent, and in her villa on the Arno, for her health was

frail, and growing daily frailer, and demanded a sunny, Southern

climate. The little baronet had gone to Eton, thence to Oxford, passing

his vacation abroad with his mamma--and St. Gosport had seen nothing of

them. Lady Thetford had thought it best, for many reasons, to leave

little May quietly in England during her wanderings. She missed the

child, but she had every confidence in Mrs. Weymore. The old aversion

had never entirely worn away, but time had taught her she could trust

her implicitly; and though May might miss "mamma" and Rupert, it was not

in that flighty-fairy's nature to take their absence very deeply to

heart.

Jocyln Hall was vacated, too. After that refusal of Lady Thetford,

Colonel Jocyln had left England, placed his daughter in a school abroad,

and made a tour of the East. Lady Thetford he had not met until within

the last year; then Lady Thetford and her son, spending the winter in

Rome, had encountered Colonel and Miss Jocyln, and they had scarcely

parted company since. The Thetfords were to return early in spring to

take up their abode once more in the old home, and Colonel Jocyln

announced his intention of following their example.

Lady Thetford wrote to Mrs. Weymore, her viceroy, and to her steward,

issuing her orders for the expected return. Thetford Towers was to be

completely rejuvenated--new furnished, painted, and decorated. Landscape

gardeners were set at work in the grounds; all things were to be ready

the following June.

Summer came and brought the absentees--Lady Thetford and her son,

Colonel Jocyln and his daughter; and there were bonfires and

illuminations, and feasting of tenantry, and ringing of bells, and

general jubilation, that the heir of Thetford Towers had come to reign

at last.

The week following the arrival, Lady Thetford issued invitations over

half the county for a grand ball. Thetford Towers, after over twenty

years of gloom and solitude, was coming out again in the old gayety and

brilliance that had been its normal state before the present heir was

born.

The night of the ball came, and with it nearly every one who had been

honored with an invitation, all curious to see the future lord of one of

the noblest domains in broad Devonshire.

Sir Rupert Thetford stood by his mother's side, and met his old friends

for the first time since his boyhood--a slender young man, pale, and

dark, and handsome of face, with dreamy, artist's eyes and quiet

manners, not at all like his father's fair-haired, bright-eyed, stalwart

Saxon race; the Thetford blood had run out, he was his own mother's son.

Lady Thetford, grown pallid and wan, and wasted in all those years, and

bearing within her the seeds of an incurable disease, looked yet fair

and gracious, and stately in her trailing robes and jewels, to-night,

receiving her guests like a queen. It was the triumph of her life, the

desire of her heart, this seeing her son, her idol, reigning in the home

of his fathers, ruler of the broad domain that had owned the Thetford's

lord for more years back than she could count.

"If I could but see her his wife," Lady Thetford thought, "I think I

should have nothing left on earth to desire."

She glanced across the wide room, along a vista of lights, and flitting

forms, and rich dresses, and sparkling jewels, to where a young lady

stood, the centre of an animated group--a tall and eminently handsome

girl, with a proud patrician face, and the courtly grace of a young

empress--Aileen Jocyln, heiress of fabulous wealth, possessor of

fabulous beauty, and descendant of a race as noble and as ancient as his

own.

"With her for his wife, come what might in the future, my Rupert would

be safe," the mother thought; "and who knows what a day may bring forth.

Ah! if I dared only speak, but I dare not; it would ruin all. I know my

son."

Yes, Lady Thetford knew her son, understood his character thoroughly,

and was a great deal too wary a conspirator to let him see her cards.

Fate, not she, had thrown the heiress and the baronet constantly

together of late, and Aileen's own beauty and grace were surely

sufficient for the rest. It was the one desire of Lady Thetford's heart;

but she never said so to her son, who loved her dearly, and would have

done a great deal to add to her happiness. She left it to fate, and

leaving it, was doing the wisest thing she could possibly do.

It seemed as if her hopes were likely to be realized. Sir Rupert had an

artist's and a Sybarite's love for all things beautiful, and could

appreciate the grand statuesque style of Miss Jocyln's beauty, even as

his mother could not appreciate it. She was like the Pallas Athene, she

was his ideal woman, fair and proud, uplifted and serene, smiling on

all, from the heights of high-and-mightydom, but shining upon them, a

brilliant far-off star, keeping her warmth and her sweetness all for

him. He was an indolent, dreamy Sybarite, this pale young baronet, who

liked his rose-leaves unruffled under him, full of artistic tastes and

inspirations, and a great deal too lazy ever to carry them into effect.

He was an artist, and he had his studio where he began fifty gigantic

deeds at once in the way of pictures, and seldom finished one. Nature

had intended him for an artist, not a country squire; he cared little

for riding, or hunting, or fishing, or farming, any of the things

wherein country squires delight; he liked better to lie on the warm

grass, with the summer wind stirring in the trees over his head, and

smoke his Turkish pipe, and dream the lazy hours away. If he had been

born a poor man, he might have been a clever painter; as it was, he was

only an idle, listless, elegant, languid dreamer, and so likely to

remain until the end of the chapter.

Lady Thetford's ball was a very brilliant affair, and a famous success.

Until far into the gray and dismal dawn, "flute, violin, bassoon," woke

sweet echoes in the once gloomy rooms, where so long silence had

reigned. Half the county had been invited, and half the county were

there; hosts of pretty, rosy girls, in laces and roses, and sparkling

jewelry, baited their dainty traps, and tried "becks and nods, and

wreathed smiles," for the special delectation of the handsome, courtly

heir of Thetford Towers.

But the heir of Thetford Towers, with gracious greetings for all, yet

walked through the rose-strewn pitfalls quite secure, while the starry

face of Aileen Jocyln shone on him in its pale, high-bred beauty. He had

not danced much; he had an antipathy to dancing as he had to exertion of

any kind, and presently he stood leaning against a slender white column,

watching her in a state of lazy admiration. He could see quite as

clearly as his mother how eminently proper a marriage with the heiress

of Col. Jocyln would be; he knew by instinct, too, how much she desired

it; and it was easy enough, looking at her in her girlish pride and

beauty, to fancy himself very much in love; and, though anything but a

coxcomb, Sir Rupert Thetford was perfectly aware of his own handsome

face and dreamy artist's eyes, and his fifteen thousand a year, and

lengthy pedigree, and had a hazy idea that the handsome Aileen would not

say no when he spoke.

"And I'll speak to-night, by Jove!" thought the young baronet, as near

being enthusiastic as was in his nature, while he watched her, the

brilliant centre of a brilliant group. "How exquisite she is in her

statuesque grace, my peerless Aileen, the ideal of my dreams. I'll ask

her to be my wife to-night, or that inconceivable idiot, Lord Gilbert

Penryhn will do it to-morrow."

He sauntered over to the group, not at all insensible to the quick,

bright smile and flitting flush with which Miss Jocyln welcomed him.

"I believe this waltz is mine, Miss Jocyln. Very sorry to break upon

your _tete-a-tete_, Penryhn, but necessity knows no law."

A moment and they were floating down the whirling tide of the dance,

with the wild, sweet waltz music swelling and sounding, and Miss

Jocyln's perfumed hair breathing fragrance around him, the starry face

and dark, dewy eyes, downcast a little, in a happy tremor. The cold,

still look of fixed pride seemed to melt out of her face, and an

exquisite rosy light came and went in its place, making her more lovely

than ever; and Sir Rupert saw and understood it all, with a little

complacent thrill of satisfaction.

They waltzed out of the ball-room into a conservatory of exquisite

blossom, where tropic plants of gorgeous hues, and plashing fountains,

under the white light of alabaster lamps, made a sort of garden of Eden.

There were orange and myrtle trees oppressing the warm air with their

sweetness, and through the open, French windows came the soft, misty

moonlight, and the saline wind. There they stopped, looking out at the

pale glory of the night, and there Sir Rupert, about to ask the supreme

question of his life, and with his heart beginning to plunge against

his side, opened conversation with the usual brilliancy in such cases.

"You look fatigued, Miss Jocyln. These great balls are great bores after

all."

Miss Jocyln laughed frankly. She was of a nature far more impassioned

than his, and she loved him; and she felt thrilling through every nerve

in her body the prescience of what he was going to say; but for all

that, being a woman, she had the best of it now.

"I am not at all fatigued," she said; "and I like it. I don't think

balls are bores--like this, I mean; but then, certainly, my experience

is very limited. How lovely the night is! Look at the moonlight, yonder,

on the water, a sheet of silvery glory. Does it not recall Sorrento, and

the exquisite Sorrentine landscape--that moonlight on the sea? Are you

not inspired, sir artist?"

She lifted a flitting, radiant glance, a luminous smile, and then the

star-like face drooped again--and the white hands took to reckless

breaking off sweet sprays of myrtle.

"My inspiration is nearer," looking down at the drooping face.

"Aileen--" and there he stopped, and the sentence was never destined to

be finished, for a shadow darkened the moonlight, a figure flitted in

like a spirit, and stood before them--a fairy figure, in a cloud of rosy

drapery, with shimmering, golden curls, and dancing eyes of turquoise

blue.

Aileen Jocyln started back, and away from her companion, with a faint,

surprise cry. Sir Rupert, wondering and annoyed, stood staring; and

still the fairy figure in the rosy gauze stood like a nymph in a stage

tableau, smiling up in their faces, and never speaking. There was a

blank pause of a moment, then Miss Jocyln made one step forward, doubt,

recognition, delight, all in her face at once.

"It is--it is!" she cried, "May Everard!"

"May Everard!" Sir Rupert echoed--"little May!"

"At your service, monsieur. To think you should have forgotten me so

completely in a decade of years. For shame, Sir Rupert Thetford!"

And then she was in Aileen Jocyln's arms, and there was an hiatus filled

up with kisses.

"Oh! what a surprise." Miss Jocyln cried, breathlessly. "Have you

dropped from the skies? I thought you were in France."

May Everard laughed, the mischievous laugh of thirteen years ago, as she

held up her dimpled cheeks, first one and then the other, to Sir Rupert.

"Did you? So I was, but I ran away."

"Ran away! From school?"

"Something very like it. Oh! how stupid it was, and I couldn't endure it

any longer; and I am so filled with knowledge now, that if I held any

more, I should explode; and so when vacation began, and I was permitted

to spend a week with a friend I just took French leave and came home

instead. And so," folding the fairy hands, and nodding her little

ringleted head, "here I am."

"But, good heavens!" cried Sir Rupert, aghast, "you never mean to say,

May, you have come alone."

"All alone," said May, with another nod. "I'm used to it, you know; did

it last vacation. Came across and spent it with Mrs. Weymore. I don't

mind it the least; don't know what sea-sickness is; and oh! didn't some

of the poor wretches suffer! Isn't it fortunate I'm here for the ball?

And, Rupert, good gracious! how you've grown!"

"Thanks. I can't see that you have changed much, Miss Everard. You are

the same curly-haired, saucy fairy I knew thirteen years ago. What does

my lady say to this escapade?"

"Nothing. Eloquent silence best expresses her feelings; and then she

hadn't time to make a scene. Are you going to ask me to dance, Rupert?

because, if you are," said Miss Everard, adjusting her bracelet, "you

had better do it at once, as I am going back to the ball-room, and after

I once appear there, you will stand no chance amongst the crowd of

competitors. But, then, perhaps you belong to Miss Jocyln?"

"Not at all," Miss Jocyln interposed hastily, and reddening a little, "I

am engaged; and it is time I was back, or my unlucky cavalier will be at

his wit's end to find me."

She swept away with a quicker movement than usual, and Sir Rupert

laughingly gave his piquant little partner his arm. His notions of

propriety were a good deal shocked; but then it was only May Everard,

and May Everard was one of those exceptional people who can do pretty

much as they please, and not surprise any one. They went back to the

ball-room, the fairy in pink on the arm of the young baronet, chattering

like a magpie. Miss Jocyln's partner found her and led her off, but Miss

Jocyln was very silent and _distrait_ all the rest of the night, and

watched furtively, but incessantly, the fluttering pink fairy. She had

reigned belle hitherto, but sparkling little May, like an embodied

sunbeam, electrified the room, and took the crown and the sceptre by

royal right. Sir Rupert had that one dance, and no more--Miss Everard's

own prophecy was true--the demand for her was such that even the son of

the house stood not the shadow of chance.

Miss Jocyln held herself aloof from the young baronet for the remaining

hours of the ball. She had known as well as he the words that were on

his lips when May Everard interposed; and her eyes flashed, and her dark

cheeks flushed dusky red to see how easily he had been deterred from his

purpose. For him, he sought her once or twice in a desultory sort of

way, never observing that he was purposely avoided, wandering

contentedly back to devote himself to some one else, and in the pauses

to watch May Everard floating--a sunbeam in a sunny cloud--here and

there, and everywhere.

CHAPTER IX.

GUY LEGARD.

"He meant to have spoken that night; he would have spoken but for May

Everard. And yet that is two weeks ago, and we have been together since,

and"----Aileen Jocyln broke off abruptly, and looked out over the far

spreading gray sea.

The morning was dull; the leaden sky threatening rain; the wind sighing

fitfully, and the slow, gray sea creeping up the gray sands. Aileen

Jocyln sat as she had sat since breakfast, aimless and dreary, by her

dressing-room window, gazing blankly over the pale landscape, her hair

falling loose and damp over her shoulders, a novel lying listlessly in

her lap. The book had no interest--her thoughts would stray in spite of

her to Thetford Towers.

"She is very pretty," Miss Jocyln thought, "with that pink and white

wax-doll sort of prettiness that some people admire. I never thought

_he_ could, with his artistic nature; but I suppose I was mistaken. They

call her fascinating; I believe that rather hoydenish manner of hers,

all those dashing airs, and that 'loud' style of dress and doings, take

some men by storm. I presume I was mistaken in Sir Rupert; I dare say

pretty, penniless May will be Lady Thetford before long."

Miss Jocyln's short upper-lip curled rather scornfully, and she rose up

with a little air of petulance, and walked across the room to the

opposite window. It commanded a view of the lawn and a long wooded

drive, and cantering airily up under the waving trees, she saw the young

lady of whom she had been thinking. The pretty, fleet-footed pony and

his bright little mistress were by no means rare visitors at Jocyln

Hall; and Miss Jocyln was always elaborately civil to Miss Everard. Very

pretty little May looked, all her tinselled curls floating in the

breeze, like a golden banner, the blue eyes more starily radiant than

ever; the dark riding-habit and jaunty hat and plume the most becoming

things in the world. She saw Miss Jocyln at the window, kissed her hand,

and resigned Arab to the groom. A minute more, and she was saluting

Aileen with effusion.

"You solemn Aileen! to sit and mope here in the house instead of

improving your health and temper by a breezy canter over the downs.

Don't contradict, I know you were moping. I should be afraid to tell you

how many miles Arab and I have got over this morning. And you never came

to see me yesterday, either. Why was it?"

"I didn't feel inclined," Miss Jocyln answered truthfully.

"No, you never do feel inclined unless I come and drag you out by force;

you sit in the house and grow yellow and jaundiced over high-church

novels. I declare I never met so many lazy people in all my life as I

have done since I came home. One don't mind mamma, poor thing! shutting

herself up, and the sunshine and fresh air of heaven out--but for you

and Rupert, and speaking of Rupert," ran on Miss Everard, in a

breathless sort of way, "he wanted to commence his great picture of

'Fair Rosamond and Eleanor' yesterday--and how could he when Eleanor

never came. Why didn't you--you promised?"

"I changed my mind, I suppose."

"And broke your word--more shame for you, then! Come now."

"No; thanks. It's going to rain."

"Nothing of the sort; and Rupert is so anxious. He would have come

himself, only my lady is ill to-day with one of her bad headaches, and

asked him to read her to sleep; and like the good boy that he is in the

main, though shockingly lazy, he obeyed. Do come, Aileen, there's a

dear! Don't be selfish."

Miss Jocyln rose rather abruptly.

"I have no desire to be selfish, Miss Everard. If you will wait ten

minutes while I dress, I will accompany you to Thetford Towers."

She rang the bell, and swept from the room stately and uplifted. May

looked after her, fidgeting a little.

"Dear me! I suppose she is offended now at that word 'selfish.' I never

did get on very well with Aileen Jocyln, and I'm afraid I never shall. I

shouldn't wonder if she were jealous."

Miss Everard laughed a little silvery laugh all to herself, and slapped

her kid riding-boot with her pretty toy whip.

"I hope I didn't interrupt a tender declaration that night in the

conservatory; but it looked like it. If I did I am sure Rupert has had

fifty chances since, and I know he hasn't availed himself of them, or

Aileen would never wear that dissatisfied face. I know she's in love

with him, though, to be sure, she would see me impaled with the

greatest pleasure if she only thought I suspected it; but I'm not so

certain about him. He's a great deal too indolent, in the first place,

to get up a grand passion for anybody; and I think he's inclined to look

graciously on me--poor little me--in the second. You may spare yourself

the trouble, my dear Sir Rupert, for a gentleman whose chief aim in

existence is to smoke Turkish pipes, and lie on the grass, and write and

read poetry, is not at all the sort of man I mean to bless for life.

"Tell me not of your soft sighing lovers,

Such things may be had by the score;

I'd rather be bride to a rover,

And polish the rifle he bore."

Sang May Everard, in a gay little voice as Miss Jocyln, in a flowing

riding habit, entered the room.

The two girls descended to the court-yard, mounted, and rode off. Both

rode well and both looked their best on horseback, and made a

wonderfully pretty picture as they galloped through St. Gosport in

dashing style, bringing the admiring population in a rush to doors and

windows. Perhaps Sir Rupert Thetford thought so, too, as he stood at the

great front entrance to receive them with a kindling light in his

artist's eyes.

"May said she would fetch you, and May always keeps her word," he said,

as he walked slowly up the sweeping staircase; "besides, Aileen, I am to

have the first sitting for the 'Rosamond and Eleanor' to-day, am I not?

May calls me an idle dreamer, a useless drone in the busy human hive;

so, to vindicate my character, and cleave a niche in the temple of fame,

I am going to immortalize myself over this painting."

"You'll never finish it," said May; "it will be like all the rest.

You'll begin on a gigantic scale and with super-human efforts, and

you'll cool down and get sick of it before it is half finished; and it

will go to swell the pile of daubed canvas in your studio now. Don't

tell me! I know you."

"And have the poorest possible opinion of me, Miss Everard?"

"Yes, I have! I have no patience when I think of what you might do, what

you might become, and see what you are. If you were not Sir Rupert

Thetford, with a princely income, you might be a clever man. As it is--"

a shrug, and a lift of the eyebrows.

"As it is!" cried the young baronet, trying to laugh and reddening

violently, "I will still be a clever man--a modern Murillo. Are you not

a little severe, Miss Everard; Aileen, I believe this is your first

visit to my studio?"

"Yes," said Miss Jocyln, coldly and briefly. She did not like the

conversation, and May Everard's familiar home-truths stung her. To her

he was everything mortal man should be. She was proud, but she was not

ambitious; what right had this penniless little free-speaker to come

between them and talk like this?

May was flitting about like the fairy she was, her head a little on one

side, like a critical canary, her flowing skirt held up, inspecting the

pictures.

"'Jeannie D'Arc before her Judges,' half finished, as usual, and never

to be completed; and weak--very, if it ever is completed. 'Battle of

Bosworth Field,' in flaming colors, all confusion and smoke, and red

ochre and rubbish, you did well not to trouble yourself any more with

that. 'Swiss Peasant,' ah! that is pretty. 'Storm at Sea,' just

tolerable. 'Trial of Marie Antoinette.' My dear Rupert, why will you

persist in these figure paintings when you know your forte is landscape?

'An Evening in the Eternal City.' Now that is what I call an exquisite

little thing? Look at the moon, Aileen, rising over these hill tops; and

see those trees--you can almost feel the wind blow! And that prostrate

figure--why, that looks like yourself, Rupert!"

"It is myself."

"And the other stooping--who is he?"

"The painter of that picture, Miss Everard; yes, the only thing in my

poor studio you see fit to eulogize, is not mine. It was done by an

artist friend--an unknown Englishman, who saved my life in Rome three

years ago. Come in, mother mine, and defend your son from the two-edged

sword of May Everard's tongue."

For Lady Thetford, pale and languid, appeared on the threshold, wrapped

in a shawl.

"It's all for his good, mamma. Come here and look at this 'Evening in

the Eternal City.' Rupert has nothing like it in all his collection,

though there are the beginning of many better things. He saved your

life? How was it?"

"Oh! a little affair with brigands; nothing very thrilling, but I should

have been killed or captured all the same if this Legard had not come to

the rescue. May is right about the picture; he painted well, had come to

Rome to perfect himself in his art. Very fine fellow, Legard--a thorough

Bohemian."

"Legard!"

It was Lady Thetford who had spoken sharply and suddenly. She had put up

her glass to look at the Italian picture, but dropped it, and faced

abruptly round.

"Yes, Legard. Guy Legard, a young Englishman, about my own age.

By-the-by, if you saw him, you would be surprised by his singular

resemblance to some of those dead and gone Thetfords hanging over there

in the picture-gallery--fair hair, blue eyes, and the same peculiar cast

of features to a shade. I was taken rather aback, I confess, when I saw

it first. My dear mother--"

It was not a cry Lady Thetford had uttered--it was a kind of wordless

sob. He soon caught her in his arms, and held her there, her face the

color of death.

"Get a glass of water, May--she is subject to these attacks. Quick!"

Lady Thetford drank the water, and sunk back in the chair Aileen wheeled

up, her face looking awfully corpse-like in contrast with her dark

garments and dead black hair.

"You should not have left your room," said Sir Rupert, "after your

attack this morning. Perhaps you had better return and lie down. You

look perfectly ghastly."

"No," his mother sat up as she spoke and pushed away the glass, "there

is no necessity for lying down. Don't wear that scared face, May--it was

nothing, I assure you. Go on with what you were saying, Rupert."

"What I was saying? what was it?"

"About this young artist's resemblance to the Thetfords."

"Oh! well, there's no more to say, that is all. He saved my life, he

painted that picture, and we were Damon and Pythias over again during my

stay in Rome. I always do fraternize with these sort of fellows, you

know. I left him in Rome, and he promised, if he ever returned to

England, which he wasn't so sure of, he would run down to Devonshire to

see me and my painted ancestors, whom he resembles so strongly. That is

all; and now young ladies if you will take your places, we will commence

the Rosamond and Eleanor. Mother, sit here by this window, if you want

to play propriety, and don't talk."

But Lady Thetford chose to go to her own room; and her son gave her his

arm thither, and left her lying back amongst her cushions in front of

the fire. It was always chilly in those great and somewhat gloomy rooms,

and her ladyship was always cold of late. She lay there looking with

gloomy eyes into the ruddy blaze, and holding her hands over her

painfully beating heart.

"It is destiny, I suppose," she thought, bitterly; "let me banish him to

the farthest end of the earth; let me keep him in poverty and obscurity

all his life, and when the day comes that it is written, Guy Legard will

be here. Sooner or later, the vow I have broken to Sir Noel Thetford

must be kept; sooner or later, Sir Noel's heir will have his own."

CHAPTER X.

ASKING IN MARRIAGE.

The fire burned in Lady Thetford's room, and among piles of silken

pillows my lady, languid and pale, lay, looking into the leaping flame.

It was a warm summer morning, the sun blazed like a wheel of fire in a

sky without a cloud, but Lady Thetford was always chilly of late. She

drew the crimson shawl she wore closer around her, and glanced

impatiently now and then at the pretty toy clock on the decorated

chimney-piece. The house was very still; its one disturbing element,

Miss Everard, was absent with Sir Rupert for a morning canter over the

sunny Devon hills.

The toy clock struck up a gay little waltz preparatory to striking

eleven, and my lady turned with a restless, impatient sigh among her

pillows.

"How long they stay, and these solitary rides are so dangerous! Oh! what

will become of me if it is too late, after all! What shall I do if he

says no?"

There was a quick man's step without--a moment, and the door opened, and

Sir Rupert, "booted and spurred" from his ride, was bending over his

mother.

"Louise says you sent for me after I left. What is it, mother--you are

not worse?"

He knelt beside her. Lady Thetford put back the fair, brown hair with

tender touch, and gazed in the handsome face, so like her own, with eyes

full of unspeakable love.

"My boy! my boy!" she murmured, "my darling Rupert! Oh! it is hard, it

is bitter to have to leave you."

"Mother!" with a quick look of alarm, "what is it? Are you worse?"

"No worse, Rupert; but no better. My boy, I shall never be better again

in this world."

"Mother--"

"Hush, my Rupert--wait; you know it is true; and but for leaving you I

should be glad to go. My life has not been so happy since your father

died, Heaven knows, that I should greatly cling to it."

"But, mother, this won't do; these morbid fancies are worst of all.

Keeping up one's spirits is half the battle."

"I am not morbid; I merely state a fact--a fact which must preface what

is to come. Rupert, I know I am dying, and before we part I want to see

my successor at Thetford Towers."

"My dear mother!" amazedly.

"Rupert, I want to see Aileen Jocyln your wife. No, no; don't interrupt

me, and believe me, I dislike match-making quite as cordially as you do;

but my days on earth are numbered, and I must speak before it is too

late. When we were abroad I thought there never would be occasion; when

we returned home I thought so, too, Rupert I have ceased to think so

since May Everard's return."

The young man's face flushed suddenly and hotly, but he made no reply.

"How any man in his senses could possibly prefer May to Aileen is a

mystery I cannot solve; but then these things puzzle the wisest of us at

times. Mind, my boy, I don't really say you do prefer May--I should be

very unhappy if I thought so. I know--I am certain you love Aileen best;

and I am equally certain she is a thousand times better suited to you.

Then, as a man of honor, you owe it to her. You have paid Miss Jocyln

such attention as no honorable gentleman should pay any lady, except the

one he means to make his wife."

Lady Thetford's son rose abruptly, and stood leaning against the mantel,

looking steadfastly into the fire.

"Rupert, tell me truly, if May Everard had not come here would you not

before this have asked Aileen to be your wife?"

"Yes--no--I don't know. Mother!" the young man cried, impatiently, "what

has May Everard done that you should treat her like this?"

"Nothing; I love her dearly, and you know it. But she is not suited to

you--she is not the woman you should marry."

Sir Rupert laughed--a hard strident laugh.

"I think Miss Everard is much of your opinion, my lady. You might have

spared yourself all these fears and perplexities, for the simple reason

that I should have been refused had I asked."

"Rupert!"

"Nay, mother mine, no need to wear that frightened face. I haven't asked

Miss Everard in so many words to marry me, and she hasn't declined with

thanks; but she would if I did. I saw enough to-day for that."

"Then you don't care for Aileen?" with a look of blank consternation.

"I care for her very much, mother; and I haven't owned to being

absolutely in love with our pretty little May. Perhaps I care for one

as much as the other; perhaps I know in my inmost heart she is the one I

should marry. That is, if she will marry me."

"You owe it to her to ask her."

"Do I? Very likely; and it would make you happy, my mother?"

He came and bent over her again, smiling down in her wan, anxious face.

"More happy than anything else in this world, Rupert."

"Then consider it an accomplished fact. Before the sun sets to-day

Aileen Jocyln shall say yes or no to your son."

He bent and kissed her; then, without waiting for her to speak, wheeled

round and strode out of the apartment.

"There is nothing like striking while the iron is hot," said the young

man to himself with a grim sort of smile as he ran down stairs; "for

good or for evil, there is no time like the present, my stately Aileen."

Loitering on the lawn, he encountered May Everard, still in her

riding-habit, surrounded by three or four poodle dogs.

"On the wing again, Rupert? Is it for mamma? She is not worse?"

"No; I am going to Jocyln Hall. Perhaps I shall fetch Aileen back."

May's turquoise blue eyes were lifted with a sudden luminous,

intelligent flash to his face.

"God speed you! You will certainly fetch Aileen back!"

She held out her hand with a smile that told him she knew all as plainly

as he knew it himself.

"You have my best wishes, Rupert, and don't linger; I want to

congratulate Aileen."

Sir Rupert's response to these good wishes was very brief and curt. Miss

Everard watched him mount and ride off, with a mischievous little smile

rippling round her rosy lips.

"My lady has been giving her idol of her existence a caudle

lecture--subject, matrimony," mused Miss Everard, sauntering lazily

along in the midst of her little dogs, "and really it is high time, if

she means to have Aileen for a daughter-in-law; for the heir of Thetford

Towers is rather doubtful that he is not falling in love with me; and

Aileen is dreadfully jealous and disagreeable; and my lady is anxious,

and fidgeted to death about it; and Sir Rupert doesn't want to himself

if he can help it. I must be a fascinating little thing, to be sure, and

I feel for him, beyond everything; at the same time Beauty," said the

young lady, addressing the ugliest of the poodles with a confidential

little nod, "they might all spare themselves the trouble of being

tormented on the subject; because, you see, my dear little doggy, I

wouldn't marry Sir Rupert Thetford if he were heir to the throne of

England, much less Thetford Towers. He's a very nice young man, and a

very amiable young man, and a very good-looking young man, I have no

doubt; but I'm not in love with him, and never shall be; and I'm going

to marry for love, or die an old maid. It seems to me a Levantine

pirate, or an Italian brigand, or a knight of the road, would suit my

ideas; but I suppose there is no use hoping for such fortune as that;

but as for Sir Rupert--oh-h-h! good gracious!"

Miss Everard stopped with a shrill, feminine shriek. She had loitered

down to the gates, where a young man stood talking to the lodge-keeper,

with a big Newfoundland dog gambolling ponderously about him. The big

Newfoundland made an instant dash into Miss Everard's guard of honor,

with one deep, bass bark, like distant thunder, and which effectually

drowned the yelps of the poodles. May flew to the rescue, seizing the

Newfoundland's collar, and pulling him back with all the might of two

little white hands.

"You great, horrid brute!" cried May, with flashing eyes, "how dare you!

Call-off your dog, sir, this instant! Don't you see how he is

frightening mine!"

She turned imperiously to the Newfoundland's master, the bright eyes

flashing, the pink cheeks aflame--very pretty, indeed, in her wrath.

"Down, Hector!" called the young man, authoritatively; and Hector, like

the well-trained animal he was, subsided instantly. "I beg your pardon,

young lady! Hector, you stir at your peril, sir! I am very sorry he has

alarmed you."

He doffed his cap with careless grace, and made the angry little lady a

courtly bow.

"He didn't alarm me," replied May, testily; "he only alarmed my dogs.

Why, dear me! how very odd!"

Miss Everard, looking full at the young man, had started back with this

exclamation, and stared broadly. A tall, powerful looking young fellow,

rather dusty and travel-stained, but eminently gentlemanly, with frank,

blue eyes, and profuse fair hair, and a handsome, candid face.

"Yes, Miss May," struck in the lodge-keeper, "it is odd! I see it, too!

He looks enough like Sir Noel, dead and gone, to be his own son!"

"I beg your pardon," said May, becoming conscious of her wide stare,

"but is your name Legard; and are you a friend of Sir Rupert Thetford?"

"Yes, to both questions," with a smile that May liked. "You see the

resemblance too, then. Sir Rupert used to speak of it. Is he at home?"

"Not just now; but he will be very soon, and I know will be glad to see

Mr. Legard. You had better come and wait."

"And Hector," said Mr. Legard. "I think I had better leave him behind,

as I see him eyeing your guard of honor with anything but a friendly

eye. I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Everard? Oh!"

laughing frankly at her surprised face, "Sir Rupert showed me a

photograph of yours as a child. I have a good memory for faces, and knew

you at once."

Miss Everard and Mr. Legard fell easily into conversation at once, as if

they had been old friends. Lady Thetford's ward was one of those people

who form their likes and dislikes at first sight; and Mr. Legard's face

would have been a pretty sure letter of recommendation to him the wide

world over. May liked his looks; and then he was Sir Rupert's friend,

and she was never particular about social forms and customs; and so they

dawdled about the grounds, and through the leafy arcades, in the genial

morning sunshine, talking about Sir Rupert and Rome, and art and

artists, and the thousand and one things that turn up in conversation;

and the moments slipped by, half hour followed half hour, until May

jerked out her watch at last in a sudden fit of recollection, and found,

to her consternation, it was past two.

"What will mamma say!" cried the young lady, aghast. "And Rupert; I dare

say he's home to luncheon before this. Let us go back to the house, Mr.

Legard. I had no idea it was half so late."

Mr. Legard laughed frankly.

"The honesty of that speech is the highest flattery my conversational

powers ever received, Miss Everard. I am very much obliged to you. Ah!

by Jove! Sir Rupert himself."

For riding slowly up under the sunlit trees, came the young baronet. As

Mr. Legard spoke, his glance fell upon them, the young lady and

gentleman advancing so confidentially, with half a dozen curly poodles

frisking around them. To say Sir Rupert stared, would be a mild way of

putting it--his eyes opened in wide wonder.

"Guy Legard!"

"Thetford! My dear Sir Rupert!"

The baronet leaped off his horse, his eyes lighting, and shook hands

with the artist, in a burst of heartiness very rare with him.

"Where in the world did you drop from, and how under the sun do you come

to be on such uncommonly friendly footing with Miss Everard?"

"I leave the explanation to Mr. Legard," said May, blushing a little

under Sir Rupert's glance, "while I go and see mamma, only premising

that luncheon-hour is past, and you had better not linger."

She tripped away, and the two young men followed more slowly into the

house. Sir Rupert led his friend to his studio, and left him to inspect

the pictures.

"Whilst I speak a word to my mother," he said; "it will detain me hardly

an instant."

"All right!" said Mr. Legard, boyishly. "Don't hurry yourself on my

account, you know."

Lady Thetford lay where her son had left her; lay as if she had hardly

stirred since. She looked up, and half rose as he came in, her eyes

painfully, intensely anxious. But his face, grave and quiet, told

nothing.

"Well," she panted, her eyes glittering.

"It is well, mother. Aileen Jocyln has promised to become my wife."

"Thank God!"

Lady Thetford sunk back, her hands clasped tightly over her heart, its

loud beating plainly audible. Her son looked down at her, his face

keeping its steady gravity--none of the rapture of an accepted lover

there.

"You are content, mother?"

"More than content, Rupert. And you?"

He smiled, and stooping, kissed the worn, pallid face. "I would do a

great deal to make you happy, mother; but I would _not_ ask a woman I

did not love to be my wife. Be at rest; all is well with me. And now I

must leave you, if you will not go down to luncheon."

"I think not; I am not strong to-day. Is May waiting?"

"More than May. A friend of mine has arrived, and will stay with us for

a few weeks."

Lady Thetford's face had been flushed and eager, but at the last words

it suddenly blanched.

"A friend, Rupert! Who?"

"You have heard me speak of him before," he said, carelessly; "his name

is Guy Legard."

CHAPTER XI.

ON THE WEDDING EVE.

The family at Thetford Towers were a good deal surprised, a few hours

later that day, by the unexpected appearance of Lady Thetford at dinner.

Wan as some spirit of the moonlight, she came softly in, just as they

entered the dining-room; and her son presented his friend, Mr. Legard,

at once.

"His resemblance to the family will be the surest passport to your

favor, mother mine," Sir Rupert said, gayly. "Mrs. Weymore met him just

now, and recoiled with a shriek, as though she had seen a ghost.

Extraordinary, isn't it--this chance resemblance?"

"Extraordinary," Lady Thetford said, "but not at all unusual. Of course,

Mr. Legard is not even remotely connected with the Thetford family?"

She asked the question without looking at him. She kept her eyes fixed

on her plate, for that fair face before her was terrible to her almost

as a ghost. It was the days of her youth over again, and Sir Noel, her

husband, once more by her side.

"Not that I am aware of," Mr. Legard said, running his fingers through

his abundant blonde hair. "But I may be, for all that. I am like the

hero of a novel--a mysterious orphan--only, unfortunately, with no

identifying strawberry-mark on my arm. Who my parents were, or what my

real name is, I know no more than I do of the biography of the man in

the moon."

There was a murmur of astonishment--May and Rupert vividly interested,

Lady Thetford white as a dead woman, her eyes averted, her hand

trembling as if palsied.

"No," said Mr. Legard, gravely, and a little sadly, "I stand as totally

alone in this world as a human being can stand--father, mother, brother,

sister, I never have known; a nameless penniless waif, I was cast upon

the world four-and-twenty years ago. Until the age of twelve I was

called Guy Vyking; then the friends with whom I had lived left England

for America, and a man, a painter, named Legard, took me, and gave me

his name. And there the romance comes in; a lady, a tall, elegant lady,

too closely veiled for us to see her face, came to the poor home that

was mine, paid those who kept me from my infancy, and paid Legard for

his future care of me. I have never seen her since; and I sometimes

think," his voice failing, "that she may have been my mother."

There was a sudden clash, and a momentary confusion. My lady, lifting

her glass with that shaking hand, had let it fall, and it was shivered

to atoms on the floor.

"And you never saw the lady after?" May asked.

"Never. Legard received regular remittances, mailed, oddly enough, from

your town here--Plymouth. The lady told him, if he ever had occasion to

address her, which he never did have, that I know of, to address Madam

Ada, Plymouth! He brought me up, educated me, taught me his art, and

died. I was old enough then to comprehend my position; and the first use

I made of that knowledge, was to return 'Madam Ada' her remittances,

with a few sharp lines, that effectually put an end to them."

"Have you ever tried to ferret out the mystery of your birth, and this

Madam Ada?" inquired Sir Rupert.

Mr. Legard shook his head.

"No, why should I? I dare say I should have no reason to be proud of my

parents if I did find them; and they evidently were not very proud of

me. 'Where ignorance is bliss,' etc. If destiny has decreed it, I shall

know, sooner or later; if destiny has not, then my puny efforts will be

of no avail. But if presentiments mean anything, I shall one day know;

and I have no doubt, if I searched Devonshire, I should find Madam Ada."

May Everard started up with a cry, for Lady Thetford had fallen back in

one of those sudden spasms to which she had lately become subject. In

the universal consternation, Guy Legard and his story were forgotten.

"I hope what _I_ said had nothing to do with this," he cried aghast; and

the one following so suddenly upon the other made the remark natural

enough. But Sir Rupert turned upon him in haughty surprise.

"What you said! My mother, unfortunately, has been subject to these

attacks for the past two years, Mr. Legard. That will do, May; let me

assist my mother to her room."

May drew back. Lady Thetford was able to rise, pallid and trembling,

and, supported by her son's arm, to walk from the room.

"Lady Thetford's health is very delicate, I fear," Mr. Legard murmured,

sympathetically. "I really thought for a moment my story-telling had

occasioned her sudden illness."

Miss Everard fixed a pair of big, shining eyes in solemn scrutiny on his

face--that face so like the pictured one of Sir Noel Thetford.

"A very natural supposition," thought the young lady; "so did _I_."

"You never knew Sir Noel?" Guy Legard said, musingly; "but, of course,

you did not. Sir Rupert has told me he died before he was born."

"I never saw him," said May; "but those who have seen him in this house,

our housekeeper, for instance, stands perfectly petrified at your

extraordinary likeness to him. Mrs. Hilliard says you have given her a

'turn' she never expects to get over."

Mr. Legard smiled, but was very grave again directly.

"It is odd--odd--very odd!"

"Yes," said May Everard, with a sagacious nod; "a great deal, too, to be

a chance resemblance. Hush! here comes Rupert. Well, how have you left

mamma?"

"Better; Louise is with her. And now to finish dinner; I have an

engagement for the evening."

Sir Rupert was strangely silent and _distrait_ all through dinner, a

darkly thoughtful shadow glooming his ever pale face. A supposition had

flashed across his mind that turned him hot and cold by turns--a

supposition that was almost a certainty. This striking resemblance of

the painter, Legard, to his dead father was no freak of nature, but a

retributive Providence revealing the truth of his birth. It came back to

his memory with painfully acute clearness, that his mother had sunk down

once before in a violent tremor and faintness at the mere sound of his

name. Legard had spoken of a veiled lady--Madam Ada, Plymouth, her

address. Could his mother--his--be that mysterious arbiter of Legard's

fate? The name--the place. Sir Rupert Thetford wrenched his thoughts by

a violent effort away, shocked and horrified at himself.

"It cannot be--it cannot?" he said to himself passionately; "I am mad to

harbor such thoughts. It is a desecration of the memory of the dead, a

treason to the living. But I wish Guy Legard had never come here."

There was one other person at Thetford Towers strangely and strongly

effected by Mr. Guy Legard; and that person, oddly enough, was Mrs.

Weymore, the governess. Mrs. Weymore had never even seen the late Sir

Noel that any one knew of, and yet she had recoiled with a shrill,

feminine cry of utter consternation at sight of the young man.

"I don't see why you should get the fidgets about it, Mrs. Weymore,"

Miss Everard remarked, with her great, bright eyes suspiciously keen,

"you never knew Sir Noel."

Mrs. Weymore sunk down on a lounge quite white and startled.

"My dear, I beg your pardon. I--it seems strange. O May!" with a sudden

sharp cry, losing self-control, "who is that young man?"

"Why, Mr. Guy Legard, artist," answered May, composedly, the bright eyes

still on the alert; "formerly in 'boyhood's sunny hours,' you know,

Master Guy--let me see! Yes, Vyking."

"Vyking!" repeated Mrs. Weymore with a spasmodic cry; and then dropped

her white face in her hands, trembling from head to foot.

"Well, upon my word," Miss Everard said, addressing empty space, "this

does cap the globe! The Mysteries of Udolpho were plain reading compared

to Mr. Guy Vyking, and the effect he produces on people. He's a very

handsome young man, and a very agreeable young man; but I should never

have suspected he possessed the power of throwing all the elderly ladies

he meets into gasping fits. There's Lady Thetford, he was too much for

her, and she had to be helped out of the dining-room; and here's Mrs.

Weymore going into hysterics because he used to be called Guy Vyking. I

thought my lady might be the veiled lady of his story; but now I think

it must have been Mrs. Weymore."

Mrs. Weymore looked up, her very lips white as ashes.

"The veiled lady? What lady? May, tell me all you know of Mr. Vyking."

"Not Vyking now--Legard," answered May; and thereupon the young lady

detailed the scanty _resume_ the artist had given them of his history.

"And I'm very sure it isn't chance at all," concluded May Everard,

transfixing the governess with an unwinking stare; "and Mr. Legard is as

much a Thetford as Sir Rupert himself. I don't pretend to divination, of

course, and I don't clearly see how it is; but it is, Mrs. Weymore; and

you could enlighten the young man, and so could my lady, if either of

you chose."

Mrs. Weymore turned suddenly and caught May's two hands in hers.

"May, if you care for me, if you have any pity, don't speak of this, I

do know--but I must have time. My head is in a whirl. Wait, wait, and

don't tell Mr. Legard."

"I won't," said May; "but it's all very strange and very mysterious,

delightfully like a three-volume novel, or a sensation play. I'm getting

very much interested in the hero of the performance; and I'm afraid I

shall be deplorably in love with him shortly, if this sort of thing

keeps on."

Mr. Legard, himself, took the matter much more coolly than any one else;

smoked cigars philosophically; criticised Sir Rupert's pictures--did a

little that way himself; played billiards with his host; and chess with

Miss Everard, rode with that young lady, walked with her, sang duets

with her, in a deep melodious bass; made himself fascinating, and took

the world easy.

"It is no use getting into a gale about these things," he said to Miss

Everard, when she wondered aloud at his constitutional phlegm; "the

crooked things will straighten of themselves if we give them time. What

is written is written. I know that I shall find out all about myself one

day--like little Paul Dombey, 'I feel it in my bones.'"

Mr. Legard was thrown a good deal upon Miss Everard's resources for

amusement; for, of course, Sir Rupert's time was chiefly spent at Jocyln

Hall, and Mr. Legard bore this with even greater serenity than the

other. Miss Everard was a very charming little girl, with a laugh that

was sweeter than the music of the spheres, and hundreds of bewitching

little ways; and Mr. Legard undertook to paint her portrait, and found

it the most absorbing work of art he had ever undertaken. As for the

young baronet, spending his time at Jocyln Hall, they never missed him.

His wooing sped on smoothest wings--Colonel Jocyln almost as much

pleased as my lady herself; and the course of true love in this case ran

as smooth as heart could wish.

Miss Jocyln, as a matter or course, was a great deal at Thetford Towers,

and saw with evident gratification the growing intimacy of Mr. Legard

and May. It would be an eminently suitable match, Miss Jocyln thought,

only it was a pity so much mystery shrouded the gentleman's birth.

Still he was a gentleman, and with his talents, no doubt, would become

an eminent artist; and it would be highly satisfactory to see May fix

her erratic affections on somebody and thus be doubly out of her (Miss

Jocyln's) way.

The wedding preparations were going briskly forward. There was no need

of delay, all were anxious for the marriage--Lady Thetford more than

anxious, on account of her declining health. The hurry to have the

ceremony irrevocably over had grown to be something very like monomania

with her.

"I feel that my days are numbered," she said, with feverish impatience,

to her son, "and I cannot rest in my grave, Rupert, until I see Aileen

your wife."

So Sir Rupert, more than anxious to please his mother, hastened on the

wedding. An eminent physician, summoned down from London, confirmed my

lady's own fears.

"Her life hangs by a thread," this gentleman said, confidentially, to

Sir Rupert; "the slightest excitement may snap it at any moment. Don't

contradict her--let everything be as she wishes. Nothing can save her,

but perfect quiet and repose may prolong her existence."

The last week of September the wedding was to take place; and all was

bustle and haste at Jocyln Hall. Mr. Legard was to stay for the wedding,

at the express desire of Lady Thetford herself. She had seen him but

very rarely since that first day; illness had compelled her to keep her

room; but her interest in him was unabated, and she had sent for him to

her apartment, and invited him to remain. And Mr. Legard, a good deal

surprised, and a little flattered, consented at once.

"Very kind of Lady Thetford, you know, Miss Everard," Mr. Legard said,

sauntering into the room where she sat with her ex-governess--Mr. Legard

and Miss Everard were growing highly confidential of late--"to take such

an interest in an utter stranger as she does in me."

May stole a glance from under her eyelashes at Mrs. Weymore; that lady

sat nervous and scared-looking, and altogether uncomfortable, as she had

a habit of doing in the young artist's presence.

"Very," Miss Everard said, dryly. "You ought to feel highly

complimented, Mr. Legard, for it's a sort of kindness her ladyship is

extremely chary of to utter strangers. Rather odd, isn't it, Mrs.

Weymore?"

Mrs. Weymore's reply was a distressed, beseeching look. Mr. Legard saw

it, and opened very wide his handsome, Saxon eyes.

"Eh?" he said, "it doesn't mean anything does it? Mrs. Weymore looks

mysterious, and I'm so stupid about these things. Lady Thetford doesn't

know anything about me, does she?"

"Not that _I_ know of," May said, with significant emphasis on the

personal pronoun.

"Then Mrs. Weymore does! By Jove! I always thought Mrs. Weymore had an

odd way of looking at me! And now, what is it?"

He turned his fair, resolute face to that lady with a smile hard to

resist.

"I don't make much of a howling about my affairs, you know, Mrs

Weymore," he said; "but, for all that, I am none the less interested in

myself and history. If you can open the mysteries a little you will be

conferring a favor on me I can never repay. And I am positive from your

looks you can."

Mrs. Weymore turned away, and covered her face, with a sort of sob. The

young lady and gentleman exchanged startled glances.

"You can then?" Mr. Legard said, gravely, but growing very pale. "You

know who I am?"

To his boundless consternation Mrs. Weymore rose up, seizing his hands

and covering them with kisses.

"I do! I do! I know who you are, and so shall you before this wedding

takes place. But before I tell you I must speak to Lady Thetford."

Mr. Legard withdrew his hands, his face as colorless as her own.

"To Lady Thetford! What has Lady Thetford to do with me?"

"Everything! She knows who you are as well as I do. I must speak to her

first."

"Answer me one thing--is my name Vyking?"

"No. Pray, pray don't ask me any more questions. As soon as her ladyship

is a little stronger, I will go to her and obtain her permission to

speak. Keep what I have said a secret from Sir Rupert, and wait until

then."

She turned to go, so haggard and wild-looking, that neither strove to

detain her. The young man stared blankly after her as she left the room.

"At last!" he said, drawing a deep breath, "at last I shall know!"

There was a pause; then May spoke in a fluttering little voice.

"How very strange that Mrs. Weymore should know, of all persons in the

world!"

"Who is Mrs. Weymore? How long has she been here? Tell me all you know

of her, Miss Everard."

"And that 'all' will be almost nothing. She came down from London as

nursery-governess to Rupert and me, a week or two after my arrival here,

selected by the rector of St. Gosport. She was then what you see her

now, a pale, subdued creature in widow weeds, with the look of one who

had seen trouble. I have known her so long, and always as such a white,

still shadow, I suppose that is why it seems so odd."

Mrs. Weymore kept altogether out of Mr. Legard's way for the next week

or two. She avoided May also, as much as possible, and shrunk so

palpably from any allusion to the past scene, that May good-naturedly

bided her time in silence, though almost as impatient as Mr. Legard

himself.

And whilst they waited the bridal-eve came round, and Lady Thetford was

much better, not able to quit her room, but strong enough to lie on a

sofa and talk to her son and Colonel Jocyln, with a flush on her cheek,

and a sparkle in her eye--all unusual there.

The marriage was to take place in the village church, and there was to

follow a grand ceremonial wedding-breakfast; and then the happy pair

were to start at once on their blissful bridal-tour.

"And I hope to see my boy return," Lady Thetford said, kissing him

fondly. "I can hardly ask for more than that."

Late in the afternoon of that eventful wedding-eve, the ex-governess

sought out Guy Legard, for the first time of her own accord. She found

him in the young baronet's studio, with May, putting the finishing

touches to that young lady's portrait. He started up at sight of his

visitor, vividly interested. Mrs. Weymore was paler even than usual,

but with a look of deep, quiet determination on her face no one had ever

seen there before.

"You have come to keep your promise," the young man cried--"to tell me

who I am?"

"I have come to keep my promise," Mrs. Weymore answered; "but I must

speak to my lady first. I wanted to tell you that, before you sleep

to-night, you shall know."

She left the studio, and the two sat there, breathless, expectant. Sir

Rupert was dining at Jocyln Hall, Lady Thetford was alone, in high

spirits, and Mrs. Weymore was admitted at once.

"I wonder how long you must wait?" said May Everard.

"Heaven knows! Not long, I hope, or I shall go mad with impatience."

An hour passed--two--three, and still Mrs. Weymore was closeted with my

lady, and still the pair in the studio waited.

CHAPTER XII.

MRS. WEYMORE'S STORY.

Lady Thetford sat up among her pillows and looked at her hired dependent

with wide open eyes of astonishment. The pale, timid face of Mrs.

Weymore wore a look altogether new.

"Listen to your story! My dear Mrs. Weymore, what possible interest can

your story have for me?"

"More than you think, my lady. You are so much stronger to-day than

usual, and Sir Rupert's marriage is so very near, that I must speak now

or never."

"Sir Rupert," my lady said. "What has your story to do with Sir Rupert?"

"You will hear," Mrs. Weymore said, very sadly. "Heaven knows I should

have told you long ago; but it is a story few would care to tell. A

cruel and shameful story of wrong and misery; for, my lady, I have been

cruelly wronged by one who was once very near to you."

Lady Thetford turned ashen white.

"Very near to me! do you mean--"

"My lady listen, and you shall hear. All those years that I have been

with you, I have not been what I seemed. My name is not Weymore. My name

is Thetford--as yours is."

A quick terror had settled down on my lady's face. Her lips moved, but

she did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the sad, set face before her,

with a terrified, expectant stare.

"I was a widow when I came to you," Mrs. Weymore went on to say, "but,

long before, I had known that worst widowhood, desertion. I ran away

from my happy home, from the kindest father and mother that ever lived;

I ran away, and was married and deserted before I was eighteen years

old.

"He came to our village, a remote place, my lady, with a local celebrity

for its trout-streams, and for nothing else. He came, the man whom I

married, on a visit to the great house of the place. We had not the

remotest connection with the house, or I might have known his real name.

When I did know him, it was as Mr. Noel--he told me himself, and I never

thought of doubting it. I was as simple and confiding as it is possible

for the simplest village girl to be, and all the handsome stranger told

me was gospel truth; and my life only began, I thought, from the hour I

saw him first.

"I met him at the trout-streams fishing, and alone. I had come to while

away the long, lazy hours under the trees. He spoke to me--the handsome

stranger, whom I had seen riding through the village, beside the squire,

like a young prince; and I was only too pleased and flattered by his

notice. It is many years ago, Lady Thetford, and Mr. Noel took a fancy

to my pink-and-white face and fair curls, as fine gentlemen will. It was

only fancy--never at its best, love; or he would not have deserted me

pitilessly as he did. I know it now; but then I took the tinsel for the

pure gold, and would as soon have doubted the Scripture as his lightest

word.

"My lady, it is a very old story, and very often told. We met by

stealth and in secret; and weeks passed, and I never learned he was

other than what I knew him. I loved with my whole foolish trusting

heart, strongly and selfishly; and I was ready to give up home, and

friends and parents--all the world for him. But not my good name, and he

knew that; and my lady, we were married really and truly, and honestly

married in a little church in Berkshire, and the marriage is recorded in

the register in the church, and I have the marriage certificate here in

my possession."

Mrs. Weymore touched her bosom as she spoke, and looked with earnest,

truthful eyes at Lady Thetford. But Lady Thetford's face was averted,

and not to be seen.

"His fancy for me was as fleeting as all his fancies; but it was strong

enough and reckless enough, whilst it lasted, to make him forget all

consequences. For it was surely a reckless act for a gentleman, such as

he was, to marry the daughter of a village schoolmaster.

"There was but one witness to our marriage--my husband's servant--George

Vyking. I never liked the man; he was crafty, and cunning, and

treacherous, and ready for any deed of evil; but he was in his master's

confidence and took a house for us at Windsor, and lived with us and

kept his master's secrets well."

Mrs. Weymore paused, her hands fluttering in painful unrest. The averted

face of Lady Thetford never turned, but a smothered voice bade her go

on.

"A year passed, my lady, and I still lived in the house at Windsor, but

quite alone now. My punishment had begun very early; two or three months

sufficed to weary my husband of his childish village girl, and make him

thoroughly repent his folly. I saw it from the first--he never tried to

hide it from me; his absences grew longer and longer, more and more

frequent, until at last he ceased coming altogether. Vyking, the valet,

came and went; and Vyking told me the truth--the hard, cruel, bitter

truth, that I was never to see my husband more.

"'It was the maddest act of a mad young man's life,' Vyking said to me,

coolly, 'and he's repented of it, as I knew he would repent. You'll

never see him again, mistress, and you needn't search for him, either.

When you find last winter's snow, last autumn's partridges, then you may

hope to find him.'

"'But I am his wife,' I said; 'nothing can undo that--his lawful, wedded

wife.'

"'Yes,' said Vyking, 'his wife fast enough; but there's the law of

divorce, and there's no witness but me alive. You can do your best; and

the best you can do is to take it easy and submit. He'll provide for you

handsomely; and when he gets the divorce, if you like, I'll marry you

myself.'

"I had grown to expect some such revelation, I had been neglected so

long. My lady, I don't speak of my feelings, my anguish and shame, and

remorse and despair.--I only tell you here simple facts. But in the days

and weeks which followed, I suffered as I never can suffer again in this

world.

"I was held little better than a prisoner in the house at Windsor after

that; and I think Vyking never gave up the hope that I would one day

consent to marry him. More than once I tried to run away, to get on the

track of my betrayer, but always to be met and foiled. I have gone down

on my knees to that man Vyking, but I might as well have knelt to a

statue of stone.

"'I'll tell you what we'll do,' he said, 'we'll go to London. People are

beginning to look and talk about here; there they know how to mind their

own business.'

"I consented readily enough. My one hope now was to find the man who had

wronged me, and in London I thought I stood a better chance than at

Windsor. We started, Vyking and I; but driving to the station we met

with an accident, our horse ran away and I was thrown out; after that I

hardly remember anything for a long time.

"Weeks passed before I recovered. Then I was told my baby had been born

and died. I listened in a sort of dull apathy; I had suffered so much

that the sense of suffering was dulled and blunted. I knew Vyking well

enough not to trust him or believe him; but I was powerless to act, and

could only turn my face to the wall and pray to die.

"But I grew strong, and Vyking took me to London, and left me in

respectably-furnished lodgings. I might have escaped easily enough here,

but the energy even to wish for freedom was gone; I sat all day long in

a state of miserable, listless languor, heart-weary, heart-sick,

worn-out.

"One day Vyking came to my rooms in a furious state of passion. He and

his master had quarrelled. I never knew about what; and Vyking had been

ignominiously dismissed. The valet tore up and down my little parlor in

a towering passion.

"'I'll make Sir Noel pay for it, or my name's not Vyking,' he cried. 'He

thinks because he's married an heiress he can defy me now. But there's

law in this land to punish bigamy; and I'll have him up for bigamy the

moment he's back from his wedding-tour.'

"I turned, and looked at him, but very quietly. 'Sir Noel?' I said. 'Do

you mean my husband?'

"'I mean Miss Vandeleur's husband now,' said Vyking. '_You'll_ never see

him again, my girl. Yes, he's Sir Noel Thetford, of Thetford Towers,

Devonshire; and you can go and call on his pretty new wife as soon as

she comes home.'

"I turned away and looked out of the window without a word. Vyking

looked at me curiously.

"'Oh! we've got over it, have we; and we're going to take it easy, and

not make a scene. Now that's what I call sensible. And you'll come

forward and swear Sir Noel guilty of bigamy?'

"'No,' I said, 'I never will!'

"'You won't--and why not?'

"'Never mind why. I don't think you would understand if I told you--only

I won't.'

"'Couldn't you be coaxed?'

"'No.'

"'Don't be too sure. Perhaps I could tell you something might move you,

quiet as you are. What if I told you your baby did not die that time,

but was alive and well?'

"I knew a scene was worse than useless with this man, tears and

entreaties thrown away. I heard his last words, and started to my feet

with outstretched hands.

"'Vyking, for the dear Lord's sake, have pity on a desolate woman, and

tell me the truth.'

"'I am telling you the truth. Your boy is alive and well, and I've

christened him Guy--Guy Vyking. Don't you be scared--he's all safe; and

the day you appear in court against Sir Noel, that day he shall be

restored to you. Now don't you go and get excited; think it over, and

let me know your decision when I come back.'

"He left the room before I could answer, and I never saw Vyking again.

The next day, reading the morning paper, I saw the arrest of a pair of

housebreakers, and the name of the chief was George Vyking, late valet

to Sir Noel Thetford. I tried to get to see him in prison, but failed.

His trial came on, his sentence was transportation for ten years; and

Vyking left England, carrying my secret with him.

"I had something left to live for now--the thought of my child. But

where was I to find him, where to look? I, who had not a penny in the

wide world. If I had had the means, I would have come to Devonshire to

seek out the man who had so basely wronged me; but as I was, I could as

soon have gone to the antipodes. Oh! it was a bitter, bitter time, that

long, hard struggle with starvation--a time it chills my blood even now

to look back upon.

"I was still in London, battling with grim poverty, when, six months

later, I read in the _Times_ the awfully sudden death of Sir Noel

Thetford, Baronet.

"My lady, I am not speaking of the effect of that blow--I dare not to

you, as deeply wronged as myself. You were with him in his dying

moments, and surely he told you the truth then; surely he acknowledged

the great wrong he had done you?"

Mrs. Weymore paused, and Lady Thetford turned her face, her ghastly,

white face, for the first time, to answer.

"He did--he told me all; I know your story to be true."

"Thank God! Oh, thank God! And he acknowledged his first marriage?"

"Yes; the wrong he did you was venial to that which he did me--I, who

never was his wife, never for one poor moment had a right to his name."

Mrs. Weymore sunk down on her knees by the couch and passionately kissed

the lady's hand.

"My lady! my lady! And you will forgive me for coming here? I did not

know, when I answered Mr. Knight's advertisement, where I was coming;

and when I did I could not resist the temptation of looking on his son.

Oh, my lady! you will forgive me, and bear witness to the truth of my

story."

"I will; I always meant to before I died. And that young man--that Guy

Legard--you know he is your son?"

"I knew it from the first. My lady, you will let me tell him at once,

will you not? And Sir Rupert? Oh, my lady! he ought to know."

Lady Thetford covered her face with a groan. "I promised his father on

his death-bed to tell him long ago, to seek for his rightful heir--and

see how I have kept my word. But I could not--I could not! It was not in

human nature--not in such a nature as mine, wronged as I have been."

"But now--oh, my dear lady! now you will?"

"Yes, now, on the verge of the grave, I may surely speak. I dare not die

with my promise unkept. This very night," Lady Thetford cried, sitting

up, flushed and excited, "my boy shall know all--he shall not marry in

ignorance of whom he really is. Aileen has the fortune of a princess;

and Aileen will not love him less for the title he must lose. When he

comes home, Mrs. Weymore, send him to me, and send your son with him,

and I will tell them all."

CHAPTER XIII.

"THERE IS MANY A SLIP."

A room that was like a picture--a carpet of rose-buds gleaming through

rich-green moss, lounges piled with downy-silk pillows, a bed curtained

in lace, foamy white, plump, and tempting, fluted panels, and delicious

little medallion pictures of celebrated beauties smiling down from the

pink-tinted back-ground; a pretty room--Aileen Jocyln's

_chambre-a-coucher_, and looking like a picture herself, in a loose,

flowing morning-robe, all ungirdled, the rich, dark hair falling heavy

and unbound to her waist, Aileen Jocyln lay among piles of cushions,

like some young Eastern Sultana.

Lay and mused with, oh! such an infinitely happy smile upon her

exquisite face; mused, as happy youth, loving and beloved, upon its

bridal-eve does muse. Nay, on her bridal-day, for the dainty little

French clock on the bracket, was pointing its golden hands to three.

The house was very still; all had retired late, busy with preparations

for the morrow, and Miss Jocyln had just dismissed her maid. Every one,

probably, but herself, was asleep; and she, in her unutterable bliss,

was too happy for slumber. She arose, presently, walked to the window

and looked out. The late-setting moon still swung in the sky; the stars

still spangled the cloudless blue, and shone serene on the purple bosom

of the far-spreading sea; but in the East the first pale glimmer of the

new day shone--her happy wedding-day. The girl slid down on her knees,

her hands clasped, her radiant face, glorified with love and bliss,

turned ecstatically, as some faithful follower of the Prophet might, to

that rising glory of the East.

"Oh!" Aileen thought, gazing around over the dark, deep sea, the

star-gemmed sky, and the green radiance and sweetness of the earth,

"what a beautiful, blissful world it is, and I the happiest creature in

it!"

She returned to her cushions, and fell asleep; slept and dreamed dreams

as joyful as her waking thoughts, and no shadow of that gathering cloud

that was to blacken all her world so soon, fell upon her.

Hours passed, and still Aileen slept. Then came an imperative knock at

her door--again and again, louder each time; and then Aileen started up,

fully awake. Her room was flooded with sunshine, countless birds sang in

the swaying green gloom of the branches, and the ceaseless sea was all

aglitter with sparkling sunlight.

"Come in," Miss Jocyln said. It was her maid, she thought--and she

walked over to an arm-chair, and composedly sat down.

The door opened, and Colonel Jocyln, not Fanchon, appeared, an open note

in his hand, his face full of trouble.

"Papa!" Aileen cried, starting up in alarm.

"Bad news, my daughter--very bad! very sorrowful! Read that."

The note was very brief, in a spidery, female hand.

"DEAR COLONEL JOCYLN--We are in the greatest trouble. Poor Lady Thetford

died with awful suddenness this morning, in one of those dreadful

spasms. We are all nearly distracted. Rupert bears it better than any of

us. Pray come over as soon as you can.

"MAY EVERARD."

Aileen Jocyln sunk back in her seat, pale and trembling.

"Dead! O papa! papa!"

"It is very sad, my dear, and very shocking; and terribly unfortunate

that it should have occurred just at this time. A postponed wedding is

ever ominous of evil."

"Oh! pray, papa, don't think of that. Don't think of me! Poor Lady

Thetford! Poor Rupert! You will go over at once, papa, will you not?"

"Certainly, my dear. And I will tell the servants, so that when our

guests arrive, you may not be disturbed. Since it was to be," muttered

the Indian officer under his mustache, "I would give half my fortune

that it had been one day later. A postponed marriage is the most ominous

thing under the sun."

He left the room, and Aileen sat with her hands clasped, and an

unutterable awe overpowering every other feeling. She forgot her own

disappointment in the awful mystery of sudden death. Her share of the

trial was light--a year of waiting, more or less; what did it matter,

since Rupert loved her unchangeably; but, poor Lady Thetford, called

away in one instant from earth, and all she held most dear, on her son's

wedding-day. And then Aileen, remembering how much the dead woman had

loved her, and how fondly she had welcomed her as a daughter, covered

her face with her hands, and wept as she might have wept for her own

mother.

"I never knew a mother's love or care," Aileen thought; "and I was

doubly happy in knowing I was to have one at last. And now--and now--"

It was a drearily long morning to the poor bride elect, sitting alone in

her chamber, or pacing restlessly up and down. She heard the roll of

carriages up the drive, the pause that ensued, and then their departure.

She wondered how _he_ bore it; best of all, May had said; but then he

was ever still, and strong, and self-restrained. She knew how dear that

poor, ailing mother had ever been to him, and she knew how bitterly he

would feel her loss.

"They talk of presentiments," mused Miss Jocyln, walking wearily to and

fro; "and see how happy and hopeful I was this morning, while she lay

dead and he mourned. If I only dared go to him--my own Rupert."

It was late in the afternoon before Col. Jocyln returned. He strode

straight to his daughter's presence, wearing a pale, fagged face.

"Well, papa?" she asked, faintly.

"My pale Aileen!" he said, kissing her fondly, "my poor, patient girl. I

am sorry you must undergo this trial, and," knitting his brows, "such

talk as it will make."

"Don't think of me, papa--my share is surely the lightest. But

Rupert,--" wistfully faltering.

"There's something odd about Rupert; he was very fond of his mother, and

he takes this a great deal too quietly. He looks like a man slowly

turning to stone, with a face white and stern, and inscrutable; and he

never asked for you. He sat there with folded arms, and that petrified

face, gazing on his dead, until it chilled my blood to look at him.

There's something odd and unnatural in this frozen calm. And, oh!

by-the-by? I forgot to tell you the strangest thing--May Everard it was

who told me; that painter fellow--what's his name--"

"Legard, papa?"

"Yes, Legard. He turns out to be the son of Mrs. Weymore--they

discovered it last night. He was there in the room with the most dazed

and mystified, and altogether bewildered expression of countenance I

ever saw a man wear; and May and Mrs. Weymore sat crying incessantly. I

couldn't see what occasion there was for the governess and the painter

there in that room of death--and I said so to Miss Everard. There's

something mysterious in the matter, for her face flushed, and she

stammered something about startling family secrets that had come to

light, the over-excitement of which had hastened Lady Thetford's end. I

don't like the look of things, and I'm altogether in the dark. That

painter resembles the Thetfords a great deal too closely for the mere

work of chance; and yet, if Mrs. Weymore is his mother, I don't see how

there can be anything in _that_. It's odd--confoundedly odd!"

Col. Jocyln rambled on as he walked the floor, his brows knitted into a

swarthy frown. His daughter sat and eyed him wistfully.

"Did no one ask for me, papa? Am I not to go over?"

"Sir Rupert didn't ask for you. May Everard did, and I promised to fetch

you to-morrow. Aileen, things at Thetford Towers have a suspicious look

to-day; I can't see the light yet, but I suspect something wrong. It may

be the very best thing that could possibly happen, this postponed

marriage. I shall make Sir Rupert clear matters up completely before my

daughter becomes his wife."

Col. Jocyln, according to promise, took his daughter to Thetford Towers

next morning. With bated breath, and beating heart, and noiseless tread,

Aileen Jocyln entered the house of mourning, which yesterday she had

thought to enter a bride. Dark and still, and desolate it lay, the

brilliant morning light shut out, unbroken silence everywhere.

"And this is the end of earth, its glory and its bliss," Aileen thought,

as she followed her father slowly up stairs, "the solemn wonder of the

winding-sheet and the grave."

There were two watchers in the dark room when they entered, May Everard,

pale and quiet, and the young artist, Guy Legard. Even in that moment,

Col. Jocyln could not repress a supercilious stare of wonder to behold

the housekeeper's son in the death-chamber of Lady Thetford. And yet it

seemed strangely his place, for it might have been one of those lusty

old Thetfords, framed up stairs, stepped out of the canvas, and dressed

in the fashion of the day.

"Very bad taste all the same," the proud old colonel thought, with a

frown; "very bad taste on the part of Sir Rupert. I shall speak to him

on the subject presently."

He stood in silence beside his daughter, looking down at the marble

face. May, shivering drearily in a large shawl, and looking like a wan

little spirit, was speaking in whispers to Aileen.

"We persuaded Rupert--Mr. Legard and I--to go and lie down; he has

neither eaten nor slept since his mother died. O, Aileen! I am so sorry

for you!"

"Hush!" raising one tremulous hand and turning away; "she was as dear

to me as my own mother could have been. Don't think of me."

"Shall we not see Sir Rupert?" the colonel asked. "I should like to,

particularly."

"I think not--unless you remain for some hours. He is completely worn

out, poor fellow."

"How comes that young man here, Miss Everard?" nodding in the direction

of Mr. Legard, who had withdrawn to a remote corner. "He may be a very

especial friend of Sir Rupert, but don't you think he presumes on that

friendship?"

Miss Everard's eyes flashed angrily.

"No, sir! I think nothing of the sort. Mr. Legard has a perfect right to

be in this room, or any other room at Thetford Towers. It is by Rupert's

particular request he remains."

The colonel frowned again, and turned his back upon the speaker.

"Aileen," he said, haughtily, "as Sir Rupert is not visible, nor likely

to be for some time, perhaps you had better not linger. To-morrow, after

the funeral, I shall speak to him very seriously."

Miss Jocyln arose. She would rather have lingered, but she saw her

father's annoyed face, and obeyed him immediately. She bent and kissed

the cold, white face, awful with the dread majesty of death.

"For the last time, my friend, my mother," she murmured, "until we meet

in heaven."

She drew her veil over her face to hide her falling tears, and silently

followed the stern and displeased Indian officer down stairs, and out of

the house. She looked back wistfully once at the gray, old ivy-grown

facade; but who was to tell her of the weary, weary months and years

that would pass before she crossed that stately threshold again.

It was a very grand and imposing ceremonial that burial of Lady

Thetford; and side by side with the heir, clad in deepest mourning,

walked the unknown painter, Guy Legard. Colonel Jocyln was not the only

friend of the family shocked and scandalized on this occasion. What

could Sir Rupert mean? And what did Mr. Legard mean by looking ten times

more like the old Thetford race than Sir Noel's own son and heir?

It was a miserable day, this day of the funeral, with a low complaining

wind sighing through the yew-trees, and a dark, slanting rain lashing

the sodden earth. There was a sky of lead hanging low like a pall; and

it was almost dark, in the rainy gloaming, when Colonel Jocyln and Sir

Rupert Thetford stood alone before the village church. Lady Thetford

slept with the rest of the name in the stony vaults; the fair-haired

artist stood in the porch looking at the slanting lines of rain, and Sir

Rupert, with a face wan, and stern, in the dying daylight, stood face to

face with the colonel.

"A private interview," the colonel was repeating; "most certainly, Sir

Rupert. Will you come with me to Jocyln Hall? My daughter will wish to

see you."