THE DEAD MAN'S SECRET.
It was a very stately ceremonial that which passed through the gates of
Hunsden Hall, to lay Harold Godfrey Hunsden's ashes with those of many
scores of Hunsdens who had gone before.
The heir at law---an impoverished London swell--was there in sables and
sweeping hat-band, exulting inwardly that the old chap had gone at last,
and "the king had got his own again."
Sir Everard Kingsland was there, conspicuous and interesting in his new
capacity of betrothed to the dead man's daughter.
And the dead man's daughter herself, in trailing crape and sables,
deathly pale and still, was likewise there, cold and rigid almost as the
corpse itself.
For she had never shed a tear since that awful moment when, with a wild,
wailing cry of orphanage, she had flung herself down on the dead breast
as the new day dawned.
The day of the funeral was one of ghostly gloom. The November wind
swept icily over the sea with a dreary wail of winter; the cold rain
beat its melancholy drip, drip; sky and earth and sea were all blurred
in a clammy mist.
White and wild, Harriet Hunsden hung on her lover's arm while the
Reverend Cyrus Green solemnly read the touching burial service, and
Harold Hunsden was laid to sleep the everlasting sleep.
And then she was going back to the desolate old home--oh, so horribly
desolate now! She looked at his empty chamber, at his vacant chair, at
his forsaken bed. Her face worked; with a long, anguished cry she flung
herself on her lover's breast and wept the rushing, passionate tears of
seventeen that keep youthful hearts from breaking.
He held her there as reverently, as tenderly as that dead father might
have done, letting her cry her fill, smoothing the glossy hair, kissing
the slender hands, calling her by names never to be forgotten.
"My darling--my darling! my bride--my wife!"
She lifted her face at last and looked at him as she never had looked at
mortal man before. In that moment he had his infinite reward. She
loved him as only these strong-hearted, passionate women can love--once
and forever.
"Love me, Everard," she whispered, holding him close. "I have no one in
the world now but you."
* * * * *
That night Harrie Hunsden left the old home forever. The Reverend Cyrus
drove her to the rectory in the rainy twilight, and still her lover sat
by her side, as it was his blissful privilege to sit. She clung to him
now, in her new desolation, as she might never have learned to cling in
happier times.
The rector's wife received the young girl with open arms, and embraced
her with motherly heartiness.
"My poor, pale darling!" she said, kissing the cold cheeks. "You must
stay with us until your lost roses come back."
But Harriet shook her head.
"I will go to France at once, please," she said, mournfully. "Madame
Beaufort was always good to me, and it was his last wish."
Her voice choked. She turned away her head.
"It shall be as you say, my dear. But who is to take you?"
"Mrs. Hilliard, and--I think--Sir Everard Kingsland."
Mrs. Hilliard had been housekeeper at Hunsden Hall, and was a distant
relative of the family. Under the new dynasty she was leaving, and had
proffered her services to escort her young mistress to Paris.
The Reverend Cyrus, who hated crossing the channel, had closed with the
offer at once, and Sir Everard was to play protector.
One week Miss Hunsden remained at the rectory, fortunately so busied by
her preparations for departure that no time was left for brooding over
her bereavement.
And then, in spite of that great trouble, there was a sweet, new-born
bliss flooding her heart.
How good he was to her--her handsome young lover--how solicitous, how
tender, how devoted! She could lay her hand shyly on his shoulder, in
these calm twilights, and nestle down in his arms, and feel that life
held something unutterably sweet and blissful for her still.
As for Everard, he lived at the rectory. He rode home every night, and
he mostly breakfasted at the Court; but to all intents and purposes he
dwelt at the parsonage.
"Where the treasure is, there will the heart be also"; and my lady, now
that things were settled, and the journey to Constantinople postponed
indefinitely, had sunk into a state of sulky displeasure, and was
satirical, and scornful, and contemptuous, and stately, and altogether
exquisitely disagreeable.
Lady Louise had left Devonshire, and gone back to shine brilliantly in
London society once more.
Miss Hunsden went to France with the portly old house-keeper and the
devoted young baronet. Mme. Beaufort received her ex-pupil with very
French effusion.
"Ah, my angel! so pale, so sad, so beautiful! I am distracted at the
appearance! But we will restore you. The change, the associations--all
will be well in time."
The lonely young creature clung to her lover with passionate abandon.
"Don't go back just yet, Everard," she implored. "Let me get used to
being alone. When you are with me I am content, but when you go, and I
am all alone among these strangers--"
But he needed no pleading--he loved her entirely, devotedly. He
promised anything--everything! He would remain in Paris the whole year
of probation, if she wished, that he might see her at least every week.
She let him go at last, and stole away in the dusky gloaming to her
allotted little room. She locked the door, sat down by the table, laid
her face on her folded arms, and wet them with her raining tears.
"I loved him so!" she thought--"my precious father! Oh, it was hard to
let him go!"
She cried until she could literally cry no longer. Then she arose. It
was quite dark now, and she lighted her lamp.
"I will read his letter," she said to herself--"the letter he left for
me. I will learn this terrible secret that blighted his life."
There was her writing-case on the table. She opened it and took out the
letter. She looked sadly at the superscription a moment, then opened it
and began to read.
"It will be like his voice speaking to me from the grave," she thought.
"My own devoted father!"
Half an hour passed. The letter was long and closely written, and the
girl read it slowly from beginning to end.
It dropped in her lap. She sat there, staring straight before her, with
a fixed, vacant stare. Then she arose slowly, placed it in the
writing-case, put her hand to her head confusedly, and turned with a
bewildered look.
Her face flushed dark red; the room was reeling, the walls rocking
dizzily. She made a step forward with both hands blindly outstretched,
and fell headlong to the floor.
Next morning Sir Everard Kingsland, descending to his hotel breakfast,
found a sealed note beside his plate. He opened it, and saw it was from
the directress of the _Pensionnat des Demoiselles_.
MONSIEUR,--It is with regret I inform you Mademoiselle Hunsden is very
ill. When you left her last evening she ascended to her room at once.
An hour after, sitting in an apartment underneath, I heard a heavy fall.
I ran up at once. Mademoiselle lay on the floor in a dead swoon. I
rang the bell; I raised her; I sent for the doctor. It was a very long
swoon--it was very difficult to restore her. Mademoiselle was very ill
all night--out of herself--delirious. The doctor fears for the brain.
Ah, _mon Dieu_! it is very sad--it is deplorable! We all weep for the
poor Mademoiselle Hunsden. I am, monsieur, with profoundest sentiments
of sorrow and pity, MARIE JUSTINE CELESTE BEAUFORT.
The young baronet waited for no breakfast. He seized his hat, tore out
of the hotel, sprung into a fiacre, and was whirled at once to the
_pension_.
Madame came to him to the parlor, her lace handkerchief to her eyes.
Mademoiselle was very ill. Monsieur could not see her, of course, but
he must not despair.
Doctor Pillule had hopes. She was so young, so strong; but the shock of
her father's death must have been preying on her mind. Madame's
sympathy was inexpressible.
Harriet lay ill for many days--delirious often, murmuring things
pitiably small, calling on her father, on her lover--sometimes on her
horses and dogs. The physician was skillful, and life won the battle.
But it was a weary time before they let her descend to the parlor to see
that impatient lover of hers.
It was very near Christmas, and there was snow on the ground, when she
came slowly down one evening to see him. He sat alone in the prime
salon, where the porcelain stove stood, with its handful of fire,
looking gloomily out at the feathery flakes whirling through the leaden
twilight. He turned round as she glided in, so unlike herself, so like
a spirit, that his heart stood still.
"My love! my love!"
It was all he could say. He took her in his arms, so worn, so wasted,
so sad; wan as the fluttering snow without. All his man's heart
overflowed with infinite love and pity as he held that frail form in his
strong clasp.
"Dear Everard, I have been so ill and so lonely; I wanted you so much!"
He drew her to him as if he would never let her go again.
"If I could only be with you always, my darling. It is cruel to keep us
apart for a year."
"It was poor papa's wish, Everard."
Presently madame came in, and there were lights, and bustle, and
separation. Mme. Hunsden must not remain too long, must not excite
herself. Monsieur must go away, and come again to-morrow.
"I will let her see you every day, poor, homesick child, until she is
well enough to go into the _classe_ and commence her studies. Then, not
so often. But monsieur will be gone long before that!"
"No," Sir Everard said, distinctly. "I remain in Paris for the winter.
I trust to madame's kind heart to permit me to see Miss Hunsden often."
"Often! Ah, _mon Dieu_! how you English are impetuous! so--how do you
call him?--unreasonable! Monsieur may see mademoiselle in the salon
every Saturday afternoon--not oftener."
"It is better so, Everard. I want to study--Heaven knows I need it! and
your frequent visits would distract me. Let once a week suffice."
Sir Everard yielded to the inevitable with the best grace possible. He
took his leave, raising Harriet's hand to his lips.
Harrie lingered by the window for a moment, looking wistfully after the
slender figure, and slow, graceful walk.
"If he only knew!" she murmured. "If he only knew the terrible secret
that struck me down that night! But I dare not tell--I dare not, even
if that voice from the dead had not forbidden me. I love him so
dearly--so dearly! Ah, pitiful Lord! let him never know!"