The Baronet's Bride Part 1

The Baronet's Bride.

by May Agnes Fleming.

ALL'S WELL.

The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake Our thirsty souls with rain; The blow most dreaded falls to break From off our limbs a chain; And wrongs of man to man but make The love of G.o.d more plain.

As through the shadowy lens of even The eye looks farthest into heaven On gleams of star and depths of blue The glaring sunshine never knew!

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

SHADOW.

It falls before, it follows behind, Darkest still when the day is bright; No light without the shadow we find, And never shadow without the light.

From our shadow we cannot flee away; It walks when we walk, it runs when we run; But it tells which way to look for the sun; We may turn our backs on it any day.

Ever mingle the sight and shade That make this human world so dear; Sorrow of joy is ever made, And what were a hope without a fear?

A morning shadow o'er youth is cast, Warning from pleasure's dazzling snare; A shadow lengthening across the past, Fixes our fondest memories there.

One shadow there is, so dark, so drear, So broad we see not the brightness round it; Yet 'tis but the dark side of the sphere Moving into the light unbounded.

ISA CRAIG-KNOX.

CHAPTER I.

THE BARONET'S BRIDE.

"And there is danger of death--for mother and child?"

"Well, no, Sir Jasper--no, sir; no certain danger, you know; but in these protracted cases it can do no harm, Sir Jasper, for the clergyman to be here. He may not be needed but your good lady is very weak, I am sorry to say, Sir Jasper Kingsland."

"I will send for the clergyman," Sir Jasper Kingsland said. "Do your best, Doctor G.o.droy, and for G.o.d's sake let me know the worst or best as soon as may be. This suspense is horrible."

Doctor Parker G.o.droy looked sympathetically at him through his gold-bowed spectacles.

"I will do my best, Sir Jasper," he said, gravely. "The result is in the hands of the Great Dispenser of life and death. Send for the clergyman, and wait and hope."

He quitted the library as he spoke. Sir Jasper Kingsland seized the bell and rang a shrill peal.

"Ride to the village--ride for your life!" he said, imperatively, to the servant who answered, "and fetch the Reverend Cyrus Green here at once."

The man bowed and departed, and Sir Jasper Kingsland, Baronet, of Kingsland Court, was alone--alone in the gloomy grandeur of the vast library; alone with his thoughts and the wailing midnight storm.

A little toy time-piece of buhl on the stone mantel chimed musically its story of the hour, and Sir Jasper Kingsland lifted his gloomy eyes for a moment at the sound. A tall, spare middle-aged man, handsome once--handsome still, some people said--with iron-gray hair and a proud, patrician face.

"Twelve," his dry lips whispered to themselves--"midnight, and for three hours I have endured this maddening agony of suspense! Another day is given to the world, and before its close all I love best may be cold and stark in death! Oh, my G.o.d! have mercy, and spare her!"

He lifted his clasped hands in pa.s.sionate appeal. There was a picture opposite--a gem of Raphael's--the Man of Sorrows fainting under the weight of the cross, and the fire's shine playing upon it seemed to light the pallid features with a derisive smile.

"The mercy you showed to others, the same shall be shown to you. Tiger heart, you were merciless in the days gone by. Let your black, bad heart break, as you have broken others!"

No voice had sounded, yet he was answered. Conscience had spoken in trumpet-tones, and with a hollow groan the baronet turned away and began pacing up and down.

It was a large and s.p.a.cious apartment, this library of Kingsland Court, dimly lighted now by the flickering wood-fire and the mellow glow of a branch of wax-lights. Huge book-cases filled to overflowing lined the four walls, and pictures precious as their weight in rubies looked duskily down from their heavy frames. Busts and bronzes stood on brackets and surmounted doors; a thick, rich carpet of moss-green, sprinkled with oak leaves and acorns, m.u.f.fled the tread; voluminous draperies of dark green shrouded the tall, narrow windows. The ma.s.sive chairs and tables, fifty years old at least, were spindle-legged and rich in carving, upholstered in green velvet and quaintly embroidered, by hands moldered to dust long ago. Everything was old and grand, and full of storied interest. And there, on the wall, was the crest of the house--the uplifted hand grasping a dagger--and the motto, in old Norman French, "Strike once, and strike well."

It is a very fine thing to be a baronet--a Kingsland of Kingsland, with fifteen thousand a year, and the finest old house in the county; but if Death will stalk grimly over your threshold and s.n.a.t.c.h away the life you love more than your own, then even that glory is not omniscient.

For this wintery midnight, while Sir Jasper Kingsland walks moodily up and down--up and down--Lady Kingsland, in the chamber above, lies ill unto death.

An hour pa.s.ses--the clock in the turret and the buhl toy on the stone mantel toll solemnly one. The embers drop monotonously through the grate--a dog bays deeply somewhere in the quadrangle below--the wailing wind of coming morning sighs lamentingly through the tossing copper-beeches, and the roar of the surf afar off comes ever and anon like distant thunder. The house is silent as the tomb--so horribly silent that the cold drops start out on the face of the tortured man.

Who knows? Death has been on the threshold of that upper chamber all night, waiting for his prey. This awful hush may be the paean that proclaims that he is master!

A tap at the door. The baronet paused in his stride and turned his bloodshot eyes that way. His very voice was hollow and unnatural as he said:

"Come in."

A servant entered--the same who had gone his errand.

"The Reverend Cyrus Green is here, sir. Shall I show him up?"

"Yes--no--I cannot see him. Show him into the drawing-room until he is needed."

"He will not be needed," said a voice at his elbow, and Doctor Parker G.o.droy came briskly forward. "My dear Sir Jasper, allow me to congratulate you! All is well, thank Heaven, and--it is a son!"

Sir Jasper Kingsland sunk into a seat, thrilling from head to foot, turning sick and faint in the sudden revulsion from despair to hope.

"Saved?" he said, in a gasping whisper. "_Both_?"

"Both, my dear Sir Jasper!" the doctor responded, cordially. "Your good lady is very much prostrated--exhausted--but that was to be looked for, you know; and the baby--ah! the finest boy I have had the pleasure of presenting to an admiring world within ten years. Come and see them!"

"May I?" the baronet cried, starting to his feet.

"Certainly, my dear Sir Jasper--most certainly. There is nothing in the world to hinder--only be a little cautious, you know. Our good lady must be kept composed and quiet, and left to sleep; and you will just take one peep and go. We won't need the Reverend Cyrus."

He led the way from the library, rubbing his hands as your brisk little physicians do, up a grand stair-way where you might have driven a coach and four, and into a lofty and most magnificently furnished bed-chamber.

"Quiet, now--quiet," the doctor whispered, warningly. "Excite her, and I won't be answerable for the result."

Sir Jasper Kingsland replied with a rapid gesture, and walked forward to the bed. His own face was perfectly colorless, and his lips were twitching with intense suppressed feeling. He bent above the still form.

"Olivia," he said, "my darling, my darling!"