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 frank, 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 brown 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 had 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 afterward?" 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 hers."
"Have you never 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! Lady Thetford, 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, ghastly and trembling,
and, supported by her son's arm, walked 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--stand 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 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 his fate?
The name--the place. Sir Rupert Thetford wrenched his thoughts, by a
violent effort, away, shocked 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
affected 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 in a violent tremor and faintness.
"My dear, I beg your pardon. I--it seems strange, Oh, 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!" with a spasmodic cry; and then Mrs. Weymore 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 upon the 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 you."
Mrs. Weymore looked up, her very lips white.
"The veiled lady? What lady? May, tell me all you know of Mr. Vyking."
"Not Vyking now--Legard," answered May; and there-upon 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, and you know it,
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 is 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 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--Col. 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 of 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 a
monomania with her.
"I feel that my days are numbered," she said, with 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 hung 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 my 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 look 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 and fell at his
feet, 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 raised her up, 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 rose up to go, so haggard and deploring-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 a
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's 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 Col. Jocyln, with a flush on her cheek and
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 of a wedding-breakfast; and then the happy
pair were to start at once on their 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.