THE BARONET'S BRIDE.
The winter months wore by. Spring came, and still that most devoted of
lovers, Sir Everard Kingsland, lingered in Paris, near his gray-eyed
divinity. His life was no dull one in the gayest capital of Europe.
He had hosts of friends, the purse of Fortunatus, the youth and beauty
of a demi-god. Brilliant Parisian belles, flashing in ancestral
diamonds, with the blue blood of the old _régime_ in their delicate
veins, showered their brightest smiles, their most entrancing glances,
upon the handsome young Englishman in vain. His loyal heart never
swerved in its allegiance to his gray-eyed queen--the love-light that
lighted her dear face, the warm, welcoming kiss of her cherry lips,
were worth a hundred Parisian belles with their ducal coats of arms.
"Faithful and true" was the motto on his seal; faithful and true in
every word and thought--true as the needle to the North Star--was he to
the lady of his love.
The weeks went swiftly and pleasantly enough; but his red-letter day
was the Saturday afternoon that brought him to his darling. And she,
buried among her dry-as-dust school-books and classic lore--how she
looked forward to the weekly day of grace no words of mine can tell.
But with the first bright days of April came a change. He was going
back to England, he told her, one Saturday afternoon, as they sat,
lover-like, side by side, in the prim salon. She gave a low cry at the
words, and looked at him with wild, wide eyes.
"Going to England! Going to leave me!"
"My dearest, it is for your sake I go, and I will be gone but a little
while. The end of next October our long year of waiting ends, and
before the Christmas snow flies, my darling must be all my own. It is
to prepare for our marriage I go."
She hid her glowing face on his shoulder.
"I would make Kingsland Court a very Paradise, if I could, for my
bright little queen. As I can not make it quite Paradise, I will do
what I can."
"Any place is my Paradise so that you are there, Everard!"
"Landscape gardeners and upholsterers shall wave their magic wands and
work their nineteenth century miracles," he said, presently, reverting
to his project. "My dear girl's future home shall be a very bower of
delights. And, besides, I want to see my mother. She feels herself a
little slighted, I am afraid, after this winter's absence."
"Ah, your mother!" with a little sigh. "Will she ever like me, do yon
think, Everard? Her letter was so cold, so formal, so chilling!"
For this high-stepping young lady who had ridden at the fox-hunt with
reckless daring, who was so regally uplifted and imperious, had grown
very humble in her new love.
Harrie had written to my lady an humble, girlish, appealing little
letter, and had received the coldest of polite replies with the "bloody
hand" and the Kingsland crest emblazoned proudly, and the motto of the
house in good old Norman French, "Strike once, and strike well."
Since then there had been no correspondence. Miss Hunsden was too
proud to sue for her favor, and Sir Everard loved her too sensitively
to expose her to a possible rebuff.
My lady was unutterably offended by her son's desertion of a whole
winter. She was nothing to him now. This bold, masculine girl with
the horrible boy's name was his all in all now.
Sir Everard Kingsland met with a very cold reception from his lady
mother upon his return to Devonshire. She listened in still disdain to
his glowing accounts of the marvels the summer would work in the grand
old place.
"And all this for the penniless daughter of a half-pay captain; and
Lady Louise might have been his wife."
Sir Everard ran heedlessly on.
"You and Milly shall retain your old rooms, of course," he said, "and
have them altered or not, just as you choose. Harrie's room shall be
in the south wing--she likes a sunny, southern prospect--and the winter
and summer drawing-rooms must be completely refurnished; and the
conservatory has been sadly neglected of late, and the oak paneling in
the dining-room wants touching up. Hadn't you better give all the
orders for your own apartments yourself? The others I will attend to."
"My orders are already given," Lady Kingsland said, with frigid
hauteur. "My jointure house is to be fitted up. Before you return
from your honey-moon I will have quitted Kingsland Court with my
daughter. Permit Mildred and me to retain our present apartments
unaltered until that time; then the future Lady Kingsland can have the
old rooms disfigured with as much gilding and stucco and ormolu as she
pleases."
The young man's fair face blackened with an angry scowl as he listened
to the taunting, spiteful speech. But he restrained himself.
"There is no necessity for your withdrawal from your old home. If you
leave, it will be against my wish. Neither my wife nor I could ever
desire such a step."
"Your wife! Does she take state upon herself already? To you and your
wife, Sir Everard Kingsland, I return my humble thanks, but even
Kingsland Court is not large enough for two mistresses. I will never
stand aside and see the pauper daughter of the half-pay captain rule
where I ruled once."
She swept majestically out of the room as she launched her last
smarting shaft, leaving her son with face of suppressed rage, to
recover his temper as best he might.
"He will never ask me again," she thought. "I know his nature too
well."
And he did not. He went about his work with stern determination, never
consulting her, never asking advice, or informing her of any
project--always deferential, always studiously polite.
There was one person, however, at the Court who made up, by the warmth
of her greeting and the fervor of her sympathy, for any lack on his
mother's part. It was Miss Sybilla Silver who somehow had grown to be
as much a fixture there as the marble and bronze statues.
She had written to find her friends in Plymouth, or she said so, and
failed, and she had managed to make herself so useful to my lady that
my lady was very glad to keep her. She could make caps like a Parisian
milliner; she could dress her exquisitely; she could read for hours in
the sweetest and clearest of voices, without one yawn, the dullest of
dull High Church novels. She could answer notes and sing like a siren,
and she could embroider _prie-dieu_ chairs and table-covers, and
slippers and handkerchiefs, and darn point lace like Fairy Fingers
herself.
She was a treasure, this ex-lad in velveteen, and my lady counted it a
lucky day that brought her to Kingsland. But Miss Sybilla belonged to
my lady's son, and not to my lady. To the young lord of Kingsland her
allegiance was due, and at his bidding she was ready, at a moment's
notice, to desert the female standard.
Sir Everard, who took a kindly interest in the dashing damsel with the
coal-black hair and eyes, who had shot the poacher, put the question
plump one day:
"My mother and sister leave before the end of the year, Sybilla. Will
you desert me, too?"
"Never, Sir Everard! I will never desert you while you wish me to
stay."
"I should like it, I confess. It will be horribly dreary for my bride
to come home to a house where there is no one to welcome her but the
servants. If my mother can spare you, Sybilla, I wish you would stay."
As once before, she lifted his hand to her lips.
"Sybilla belongs to you, Sir Everard! Command, and she will obey."
He laughed, but he also reddened as he drew his hand hastily away.
"Oh, pooh! don't be melodramatic! There is no question of commanding
and obeying about it. You are free to do as you please. If you choose
to remain, give Lady Kingsland proper notice. If you prefer to go,
why, I must look out for some one to take your place. Don't be in a
hurry--there's plenty of time to decide."
He swung on and left her.
"Plenty of time to decide," she repeated, with a smile curling her thin
lips. "My good Sir Everard, I decided long ago! Marry your
fox-hunting bride--bring her home. Sybilla Silver will be here to
welcome her, never fear!"
The baronet stayed three weeks in England--then returned impatiently to
Paris. Of course the rapture of the meeting more than repaid the pain
of parting.
She was growing more beautiful every day, the infatuated young man
thought, over her books; and the sun of France shone on nothing half so
lovely as this tall, slender damsel, in her gray school uniform and
prim, black silk apron.
The summer went. Sir Everard was back and forth across the Channel,
like an insane human pendulum, and the work went bravely on! Kingsland
was being transformed--the landscape gardeners and the London
upholsterers had _carte blanche_, and it was the story of Aladdin's
Palace over again. Sir Everard rubbed his golden lamp, and, lo! mighty
genii rose up and worked wonders.
September came--the miracles ceased. Even money and men could do no
more. October came.
Sir Everard's year of probation was expired. The Reverend Cyrus Green
overcame heroically his horror of seasickness and steamers, and went to
Paris in person for his ward. As plain Miss Hunsden, without a
shilling to bless herself with, the Reverend Cyrus would not by any
means have thought this extreme step necessary; but for the future Lady
Kingsland to travel alone was not for an instant to be thought of. So
he went, and the first week of November he brought her home.
Miss Hunsden--taller, more stately, more beautiful than ever--was very
still and sad, this first anniversary of her father's death. Lady
Kingsland, when she and Mildred called--for they did, of course--was
rather impressed by the stately girl in mourning, whose fair, proud
face and calm, gray eyes met hers so unflinchingly. It was "Greek
meets Greek" here; neither would yield an inch.
The wedding was to take place early in December--Sir Everard would not
wait, and Harrie seemed to have no will left but his. Once she had
feebly uttered some remonstrances, but he had imperatively cut her
short.
So this young tyrant had everything his own way. The preparations were
hurried on with amazing haste; the day was named, the bride-maids and
guests bidden.
Miss Hunsden's young lady friends were few and far between, and Mildred
Kingsland and the rector's sister and twelve-year-old daughter were to
comprise the whole list.
The wedding-day dawned--a sullen, overcast, threatening December day.
A watery sun looked out of a lowering sky, and then retreated
altogether, and a leaden dullness overspread the whole firmament. An
icy wind curdled your blood and tweaked your nose, and feathery
snowflakes whirled drearily through the opaque gloom.
The church was full, and silks rustled and bright eyes flashed
inquisitively, and people wondered who that tall, foreign-looking
person beside my lady might be.
It was Sybilla Silver, gorgeous in golden silk, with her black eyes
lighted with cruel, inward exultation, and who glared almost fiercely
upon the beautiful bride.
My lady, magnificent in her superb disdain of all these childish
proceedings, stood by and acknowledged in her heart of hearts that if
beauty and grace be any excuse for folly, her son had those excuses.
Lovely as a vision, with her pure, pale, passionless face, her clear,
sweet eyes, Harriet Hunsden swept up the aisle in her rich bridal
robes, her floating lace, and virginal orange-blossoms.
The bridegroom's eyes kindled with admiration and pride as he took his
place by her side, he looking as noble and gallant a gentleman as
England could boast.
It was over--she was his wife! They had registered their names, they
drove back to the rectory, the congratulations offered, the breakfast
eaten, the toast drunk. She was upstairs dressing for her journey; the
carriage and the bridegroom were waiting impatiently below.
Mrs. Green hovered about her with matronly solicitude, and at the last
moment Harriet flung herself impetuously upon her neck and broke out
into hysterical crying.
"Forgive me!" she sobbed. "Oh, Mrs. Green, I never had a mother!"
Then she drew down her veil and ran out of the room before the good
woman could speak. Sir Everard was waiting in the hall. He drew her
hand under his arm and hurried her away. Mrs. Green got down-stairs
only in time to see her in the carriage.
Then the bridegroom sprung lightly in beside her, the carriage door
closed, the horses started, and the happy pair were off.
* * * * *
Sybilla Silver went back to the Court alone. My lady, in sullen
dignity, took her daughter and went straight to her jointure house at
the other extremity of the village.
She stood in the confer of a lengthy suite of apartments--the new Lady
Kingsland's--opening one into the other in a long vista of splendor.
She took a portrait out of her breast and gazed at it with brightly
glittering eyes.
"A whole year has passed, my mother," she said, slowly, "and nothing
has been done. But Sybilla will keep her oath. Sir Jasper Kingsland's
only son shall meet his doom. It is through her I will strike; that
blow will be doubly bitter. Before this day twelvemonth these two
shall part more horribly than man and wife ever parted before!"