The Baronet's Bride Part 22

Sir Everard was in his dressing-room, and his pale face flushed deep red as he received the note. He tore it open and literally devoured the contents.

DEAR SIR EVERARD,--Please, please, please forgive me! Oh, I am so sorry I laughed and made you angry! But indeed I thought you only meant it as a joke. Two days is such a little while to be acquainted before proposing, you know. Won't you come to see us again? Papa has asked for you several times. Pray pardon me. You would if you knew how penitent I am.

Yours remorsefully, HARRIE HUNSDEN.

Hunsden Hall, Nov. 15th, 18--.

He read the piteous, childish little letter over and over again until his face glowed. Hope planted her shining foot once more on the baronet's heart.

"I will go at once," he said, hiding the little note very near his heart. "Common courtesy requires me to say farewell before I start for Constantinople. And the captain likes me, and his influence is all-powerful with her, and who knows--"

He did not finish the mental sentence. He rapidly completed his toilet, ordered his horse, and set off hot foot.

Of course, all the short cuts came in requisition. The path through Brithlow Wood was the path he took, going at full gallop. Lost in a deliciously hopeful reverie, he was half-way through, when a hollow groan from the wayside smote his ear.

"For G.o.d's sake, help a dying man!"

The baronet stared around aghast. Right before him, under the trees, lay the prostrate figure of a fallen man. To leap off his horse, to bend over him, was but the work of an instant. Judge of his dismay when he beheld the livid, discolored face of Captain Hunsden.

"Great Heaven! Captain Hunsden! What horrible accident is this?"

"Sir Everard," he murmured, in a thick, choking tone, "go--tell Harrie--poor Harrie--"

His voice died away.

"Were you thrown from your horse? Were you waylaid?" asked the young man, thinking of his own recent adventure.

"One of those apoplectic attacks. I was thrown. Tell Harrie--"

Again the thick, guttural accents failed.

Sir Everard raised his head, and knelt for a moment bewildered. How should he leave him here alone while he went in search of a conveyance?

Just then, as if sent by Providence, the Reverend Cyrus Green, in his chaise, drove into the woodland path.

"Heaven be praised!" cried the baronet. "I was wondering what I should do. A dreadful accident has happened, Mr. Green. Captain Hunsden has had a fall, and is very ill."

The rector got out, in consternation, and bent above the prostrate man.

The captain's face had turned a dull, livid hue, his eyes had closed, his breathing came hoa.r.s.e and thick.

"Very ill, indeed," said the clergyman,--"so ill that I fear he will never be better. Let us place him in the chaise, Sir Everard. I will drive slowly, and do you ride on to Hunsden Hall to prepare his daughter for the shock."

The Indian officer was a stalwart, powerful man. It was the utmost their united strength could do to lift him into the chaise.

"Ride--ride for your life!" the rector said, "and dispatch a servant for the family doctor. I fear the result of this fall will be fatal."

He needed no second bidding; he was off like the wind. Sir Galahad sprung over the ground, and reached Hunsden in an incredibly short time. A flying figure, in wild alarm, came down the avenue to meet him.

"Oh, Sir Everard!" Harrie panted, in affright, "where is papa? He left to go to Kingsland Court, and Starlight has come galloping back riderless. Something awful has happened, I know!"

His man's heart burned within him. He wanted to catch her in his arms, to hold her there forever--to shield her from all the world and all worldly sorrow.

Something of what he felt must have shone in his ardent eyes. Hers dropped, and a bright, virginal blush dyed for the first time cheek and brow. He vaulted off his horse and stood uncovered before her.

"Dear Miss Hunsden," he said, gently, "there has been an accident. I am sorry to be the bearer of ill news, but don't be alarmed--all may yet be well."

"Papa," she barely gasped.

"He has met with an accident--a second apoplectic fit. I found him lying in Brithlow Wood. He had fallen from his horse. Mr. Green is fetching him here in his chaise. They will arrive presently. You had better have his room prepared, and I--will I ride for your physician myself?"

She leaned against a tree, sick and faint. He made a step toward her, but she rallied and motioned him off.

"No," she said, "let me be! Don't go, Sir Everard--remain here. I will send a servant for the doctor. Oh, I dreaded this! I warned him when he left this afternoon, but he wanted to see you so much."

She left him and hurried into the house, dispatched a man for the doctor, and prepared her father's room.

In fifteen minutes the doctor's pony-chaise drove up. He and the baronet and the butler a.s.sisted the stricken and insensible man up to his room, and laid him upon the bed from which he was never more to rise.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE CAPTAIN'S LAST NIGHT.

A young crescent moon rose in the bleak sky; on the sh.o.r.e the flood-tide beat its hoa.r.s.e refrain, and in his chamber Harold G.o.dfrey Hunsden lay dying.

They knew it--the silent watchers in that somber room--his daughter, and all. She knelt by the bedside, her face hidden, still, tearless, stunned. Sir Everard, the doctor, the rector, silent and sad, stood around.

The dying man had been aroused to full consciousness at last. One hand feebly rested on his daughter's stricken young head, the other lay motionless on the counterpane. His dulled eyes went aimlessly wandering.

"Doctor!"

The old physician bent over him.

"How long?" he paused--"how long can I last?"

"My dear friend--"

"How long? Quick! the truth! how long?"

"Until to-morrow."

"Ah!"

The hand lying on Harrie's dark curls lay more heavily perhaps--that was all.