CAPT. EVERARD.
It was a very grand and stately ceremonial, that funeral procession from
Thetford Towers. A week after that stormy December night they laid Sir
Noel Thetford in the family vault, where generation after generation of
his race slept their last long sleep. The gentry for miles and miles
around were there, and among them came the heir-at-law, the Rev. Horace
Thetford, only an obscure country curate now, but failing male heirs to
Sir Noel, successor to the Thetford estate and fifteen thousand a year.
In a bedchamber, luxurious as wealth can make a room, lay Lady Thetford,
dangerously ill. It was not a brain fever exactly, but something very
like it into which she had fallen, coming out of the death-like swoon.
It was all very sad and shocking--the sudden death of the gay and
handsome young baronet, and the serious illness of his poor wife. The
funeral oration of the Rev. Mr. Knight, rector of St. Gosport, from the
text, "In the midst of life we are in death," was most eloquent and
impressive, and women with tender hearts shed tears, and men listened
with grave, sad faces. It was such a little while--only five short
months--since the wedding-bells had rung, and there had been bonfires
and feasting throughout the village; and Sir Noel, looking so proud and
so happy, had driven up to the illuminated hall with his handsome bride.
Only five months; and now--and now.
The funeral was over and everybody had gone back home--everybody but the
Rev. Horace Thetford, who lingered to see the result of my lady's
illness, and if she died, to take possession of his estate. It was
unutterably dismal in the dark, hushed old house, with Sir Noel's ghost
seeming to haunt every room--very dismal and ghastly this waiting to
step into dead people's shoes. But then there was fifteen thousand a
year, and the finest place in Devonshire; and the Rev. Horace would have
faced a whole regiment of ghosts and lived in a vault for that.
But Lady Thetford did not die. Slowly but surely, the fever that had
worn her to a shadow left her; and by-and-bye, when the early primroses
peeped through the first blackened earth, she was able to come
down-stairs--to come down feeble and frail and weak, colorless as death
and as silent and cold.
The Rev. Horace went back to Yorkshire, yet not entirely in despair.
Female heirs could not inherit Thetford--he stood a chance yet; and the
widow, not yet twenty, was left alone in the dreary old mansion. People
were very sorry for her, and came to see her, and begged her to be
resigned to her great loss; and Mr. Knight preached endless homilies on
patience, and hope, and submission, and Lady Thetford listened to them
just as if they had been talking Greek. She never spoke of her dead
husband--she shivered at the mention of his name; but that night at his
dying bed had changed her as never woman changed before. From a bright,
ambitious, pleasure-loving girl, she had grown into a silent, haggard,
hopeless woman. All the sunny spring days she sat by the window of her
boudoir, gazing at the misty, boundless sea, pale and mute--dead in
life.
The friends who came to see her, and Mr. Knight, the rector, were a
little puzzled by this abnormal case, but very sorry for the pale young
widow, and disposed to think better of her than ever before. It must
surely have been the vilest slander that she had not cared for her
husband, that she had married him only for his wealth and title; and
that young soldier--that captain of dragoons--must have been a myth. She
might have been engaged to him, of course, before Sir Noel came, that
seemed to be an undisputed fact; and she might have jilted him for a
wealthier lover, that was all a common case. But she must have loved her
husband very dearly, or she never would have been broken-hearted like
this at his loss.
Spring deepened into summer. The June roses in the flower-gardens of the
Thetford were in rosy bloom, and my lady was ill again--very, very ill.
There was an eminent physician down from London, and there was a frail
little mite of babyhood lying among lace and flannel; and the eminent
physician shook his head, and looked portentously grave as he glanced
from the crib to the bed. Whiter than the pillows, whiter than snow,
Ada, Lady Thetford, lay, hovering in the Valley of the Shadow of Death;
that other feeble little life seemed flickering, too--it was so even a
toss up between the great rival powers, Life and Death, that a straw
might have turned the scale either way. So slight being that baby-hold
of gasping breath, that Mr. Knight, in the absence of any higher
authority, and in the unconsciousness of the mother, took it upon
himself to baptize it. So a china bowl was brought, and Mrs. Hilliard
held the bundle of flannel and long white robes, and the child was
named--the name which the mother had said weeks ago it was to be called,
if a boy--Rupert Noel Vandeleur Thetford; for it was a male heir, and
the Rev. Horace's cake was dough.
Days went by, weeks, months, and to the surprise of the eminent
physician neither mother nor child died. Summer waned, winter returned;
and the anniversary of Sir Noel's death came round, and my lady was able
to walk down-stairs, shivering in the warm air under all her wraps. She
had expressed no pleasure or thankfulness in her own safety, or that of
her child. She had asked eagerly if it were a boy or a girl; and hearing
its sex, had turned her face to the wall, and lay for hours and hours
speechless and motionless. Yet it was very dear to her, too, by fits and
starts as it were. She would hold it in her arms half a day, sometimes
covering it with kisses, with jealous, passionate love, crying over it,
and half smothering it with caresses; and then, again, in a fit of
sullen apathy, would resign it to its nurse, and not ask to see it for
hours. It was very strange and inexplicable, her conduct, altogether;
more especially, as with her return to health came no return of
cheerfulness and hope. The dark gloom that overshadowed her life seemed
to settle into a chronic disease, rooted and incurable. She never went
out; she returned no visits; she gave no invitations to those who came
to repeat theirs. Gradually people fell off; they grew tired of that
sullen coldness in which Lady Thetford wrapped herself as in a mantle,
until Mr. Knight and Dr. Gale grew to be almost her only visitors.
"Mariana, in the Moated Grange," never led a more solitary and dreary
existence than the handsome young widow, who dwelt a recluse at Thetford
Towers; for she was very handsome still, of a pale moonlit sort of
beauty, the great, dark eyes, and abundant dark hair, making her fixed
and changeless pallor all the more remarkable.
Months and seasons went by. Summers followed winters, and Lady Thetford
still buried herself alive in the gray old manor--and the little heir
was six years old. A delicate child still, puny and sickly, and petted
and spoiled, and indulged in every childish whim and caprice. His
mother's image and idol--no look of the fair-haired, sanguine, blue-eyed
Thetford sturdiness in his little, pinched, pale face, large, dark eyes,
and crisp, black ringlets. The years had gone by like a slow dream; life
was stagnant enough in St. Gosport, doubly stagnant at Thetford Towers,
whose mistress rarely went abroad beyond her own gates, save when she
took her little son out for an airing in the pony phaeton.
She had taken him out for one of those airings on a July afternoon, when
he had nearly accomplished his seventh year. They had driven seaward
some miles from the manor-house, and Lady Thetford and her little boy
had got out, and were strolling leisurely up and down the hot, white
stands, while the groom waited with the pony-phaeton just within sight.
The long July afternoon wore on. The sun that had blazed all day like a
wheel of fire, dropped lower and lower into the crimson west. The wide
sea shone red with the reflections of the lurid glory in the heavens,
and the numberless waves glittered and flashed as if sown with stars. A
faint, far-off breeze swept over the sea, salt and cold; and the
fishermen's boats danced along with the red sunset glinting on their
sails.
Up and down, slowly and thoughtfully, the lady walked, her eyes fixed on
the wide sea. As the rising breeze met her, she drew the scarlet shawl
she wore over her black silk dress closer around her, and glanced at her
boy. The little fellow was running over the sands, tossing pebbles into
the surf, and hunting for shells; and her eyes left him and wandered
once more to the lurid splendor of that sunset on the sea. It was very
quiet here, with no living thing in sight but themselves; so the lady's
start of astonishment was natural when, turning an abrupt angle in the
path leading to the shore, she saw a man coming toward her over the
sands. A tall, powerful-looking man of thirty, bronzed and handsome, and
with an unmistakably military air, although in plain black clothes. The
lady took a second look, then stood stock still, and gazed like one in a
dream. The man approached, lifted his hat, and stood silent and grave
before her.
"Captain Everard!"
"Yes, Lady Thetford--after eight years--Captain Everard again."
The deep, strong voice suited the bronzed, grave face, and both had a
peculiar power of their own. Lady Thetford, very, very pale, held out
one fair jeweled hand.
"Captain Everard, I am very glad to see you again."
He bent over the little hand a moment, then dropped it, and stood
looking at her silent.
"I thought you were in India," she said, trying to be at ease. "When did
you return?"
"A month ago. My wife is dead. I, too, am widowed, Lady Thetford."
"I am very sorry to hear it," she said, gravely. "Did she die in India?"
"Yes; and I have come home with my little daughter."
"Your daughter! Then she left a child?"
"One. It is on her account I have come. The climate killed her mother. I
had mercy on her daughter, and have brought her home."
"I am sorry for your wife. Why did she remain in India?"
"Because she preferred death to leaving me. She loved me, Lady
Thetford!"
His powerful eyes were on her face--that pale, beautiful face, into
which the blood came for an instant at his words. She looked at him,
then away over the darkening sea.
"And you, my lady--you gained the desire to your heart, wealth, and a
title? Let me hope they have made you a happy woman."
"I am not happy!"
"No? But you have been--you were while Sir Noel lived?"
"My husband was very good to me, Captain Everard. His death was the
greatest misfortune that could have befallen me."
"But you are young, you are free, you are rich, you are beautiful. You
may wear a coronet next time."
His face and glance were so darkly grave, that the covert sneer was
almost hidden. But she felt it.
"I shall never marry again, Captain Everard."
"Never? You surprise me! Six years--nay, seven, a widow, and with
innumerable attractions. Oh, you cannot mean it!"
She made a sudden, passionate gesture--looked at him, then away.
"It is useless--worse than useless, folly, madness, to lift the veil
from the irrevocable past. But don't you think, don't you, Lady
Thetford, that you might have been equally happy if you had married
_me_?"
She made no reply. She stood gazing seaward, cold and still.
"I was madly, insanely, absurdly in love with pretty Ada Vandeleur in
those days, and I think I would have made her a good husband; better,
however--forgive me--than I ever made my poor dead wife. But you were
wise and ambitious, my pretty Ada, and bartered your black eyes and
raven ringlets to a higher bidder. You jilted me in cold blood, poor
love-sick devil that I was, and reigned resplendent as my Lady Thetford.
Ah! you knew how to choose the better part, my pretty Ada!"
"Captain Everard, I am sorry for the past--I have atoned, if suffering
can atone. Have a little pity, and let me alone!"
He stood and looked at her silently, gravely. Then said, in a voice deep
and calm:
"We are both free! Will you marry me now, Ada!"
"I cannot!"
"But I love you--I have always loved you. And you--I used to think you
loved me!"
He was strangely calm and passionless, voice and glance and face. But
Lady Thetford had covered _her_ face, and was sobbing.
"I did--I do--I always have! But I cannot marry you. I will love you all
my life; but don't, _don't_ ask me to be your wife!"
"As you please!" he said, in the same passionless voice. "I think it is
best myself; for the George Everard of to-day is not the George Everard
who loved you eight years ago. We would not be happy--I know that. Ada,
is that your son?"
"Yes."
"I should like to look at him. Here, my little baronet! I want to see
you."
The boy, who had been looking curiously at the stranger, ran up at a
sign from his mother. The tall captain lifted him in his arms and gazed
in his small, thin face, with which his bright tartan plaid contrasted
harshly.
"He hasn't a look of the Thetfords. He is your own son, Ada. My little
baronet, what is your name?"
"Sir Rupert Thetford," answered the child, struggling to get free. "Let
me go--I don't know you!"
The captain set him down with a grim smile; and the boy clung to his
mother's skirts, and eyed the tall stranger askance.
"I want to go home, mamma! I'm tired and hungry."
"Presently, dearest. Run to William, he has cake for you. Captain
Everard, I shall be happy to have you at dinner."
"Thanks; but I must decline. I go back to London to-night. I sail for
India again in a week."
"So soon! I thought you meant to remain."
"Nothing is further from my intentions. I merely brought my little girl
over to provide her a home; that is why I have troubled _you_. Will you
do me this kindness, Lady Thetford?"
"Take your little girl? Oh, most gladly--most willingly!"
"Thanks! Her mother's people are French, and I know little about them;
and, save yourself, I can claim friendship with few in England. She will
be poor; I have settled on her all I am worth--some three hundred a
year; and you, Lady Thetford, you can teach her, when she grows up, to
catch a rich husband."
She took no notice of the taunt; she looked only too happy to render him
this service.
"I am so pleased! She will be such a nice companion for Rupert. How old
is she?"
"Nearly four."
"Is she here?"
"No; she is in London. I will fetch her down in a day or two."
"What do you call her?"
"Mabel--after her mother. Then it is settled, Lady Thetford, I am to
fetch her?"
"I shall be delighted! But won't you dine with me?"
"No. I must catch the evening train. Farewell, Lady Thetford, and many
thanks! In three days I will be here again."
He lifted his hat and walked away. Lady Thetford watched him out of
sight, and then turned slowly, as she heard her little boy calling her
with shrill impatience. The red sunset had faded out; the sea lay gray
and cold under the twilight sky, and the evening breeze was chill.
Changes in sky and sea and land told of coming night; and Lady Thetford,
shivering slightly in the rising wind, hurried away to be driven home.