The Baronet's Bride Part 25

Her voice choked. She turned away her head.

"It shall be as you say, my dear. But who is to take you?"

"Mrs. Hilliard, and--I think--Sir Everard Kingsland."

Mrs. Hilliard had been housekeeper at Hunsden Hall, and was a distant relative of the family. Under the new dynasty she was leaving, and had proffered her services to escort her young mistress to Paris.

The Reverend Cyrus, who hated crossing the channel, had closed with the offer at once, and Sir Everard was to play protector.

One week Miss Hunsden remained at the rectory, fortunately so busied by her preparations for departure that no time was left for brooding over her bereavement.

And then, in spite of that great trouble, there was a sweet, new-born bliss flooding her heart.

How good he was to her--her handsome young lover--how solicitous, how tender, how devoted! She could lay her hand shyly on his shoulder, in these calm twilights, and nestle down in his arms, and feel that life held something unutterably sweet and blissful for her still.

As for Everard, he lived at the rectory. He rode home every night, and he mostly breakfasted at the Court; but to all intents and purposes he dwelt at the parsonage.

"Where the treasure is, there will the heart be also"; and my lady, now that things were settled, and the journey to Constantinople postponed indefinitely, had sunk into a state of sulky displeasure, and was satirical, and scornful, and contemptuous, and stately, and altogether exquisitely disagreeable.

Lady Louise had left Devonshire, and gone back to shine brilliantly in London society once more.

Miss Hunsden went to France with the portly old house-keeper and the devoted young baronet. Mme. Beaufort received her ex-pupil with very French effusion.

"Ah, my angel! so pale, so sad, so beautiful! I am distracted at the appearance! But we will restore you. The change, the a.s.sociations--all will be well in time."

The lonely young creature clung to her lover with pa.s.sionate abandon.

"Don't go back just yet, Everard," she implored. "Let me get used to being alone. When you are with me I am content, but when you go, and I am all alone among these strangers--"

But he needed no pleading--he loved her entirely, devotedly. He promised anything--everything! He would remain in Paris the whole year of probation, if she wished, that he might see her at least every week.

She let him go at last, and stole away in the dusky gloaming to her allotted little room. She locked the door, sat down by the table, laid her face on her folded arms, and wet them with her raining tears.

"I loved him so!" she thought--"my precious father! Oh, it was hard to let him go!"

She cried until she could literally cry no longer. Then she arose. It was quite dark now, and she lighted her lamp.

"I will read his letter," she said to herself--"the letter he left for me. I will learn this terrible secret that blighted his life."

There was her writing-case on the table. She opened it and took out the letter. She looked sadly at the superscription a moment, then opened it and began to read.

"It will be like his voice speaking to me from the grave," she thought.

"My own devoted father!"

Half an hour pa.s.sed. The letter was long and closely written, and the girl read it slowly from beginning to end.

It dropped in her lap. She sat there, staring straight before her, with a fixed, vacant stare. Then she arose slowly, placed it in the writing-case, put her hand to her head confusedly, and turned with a bewildered look.

Her face flushed dark red; the room was reeling, the walls rocking dizzily. She made a step forward with both hands blindly outstretched, and fell headlong to the floor.

Next morning Sir Everard Kingsland, descending to his hotel breakfast, found a sealed note beside his plate. He opened it, and saw it was from the directress of the _Pensionnat des Demoiselles_.

MONSIEUR,--It is with regret I inform you Mademoiselle Hunsden is very ill. When you left her last evening she ascended to her room at once.

An hour after, sitting in an apartment underneath, I heard a heavy fall.

I ran up at once. Mademoiselle lay on the floor in a dead swoon. I rang the bell; I raised her; I sent for the doctor. It was a very long swoon--it was very difficult to restore her. Mademoiselle was very ill all night--out of herself--delirious. The doctor fears for the brain.

Ah, _mon Dieu_! it is very sad--it is deplorable! We all weep for the poor Mademoiselle Hunsden. I am, monsieur, with profoundest sentiments of sorrow and pity, MARIE JUSTINE CELESTE BEAUFORT.

The young baronet waited for no breakfast. He seized his hat, tore out of the hotel, sprung into a fiacre, and was whirled at once to the _pension_.

Madame came to him to the parlor, her lace handkerchief to her eyes.

Mademoiselle was very ill. Monsieur could not see her, of course, but he must not despair.

Doctor Pillule had hopes. She was so young, so strong; but the shock of her father's death must have been preying on her mind. Madame's sympathy was inexpressible.

Harriet lay ill for many days--delirious often, murmuring things pitiably small, calling on her father, on her lover--sometimes on her horses and dogs. The physician was skillful, and life won the battle.

But it was a weary time before they let her descend to the parlor to see that impatient lover of hers.

It was very near Christmas, and there was snow on the ground, when she came slowly down one evening to see him. He sat alone in the prime salon, where the porcelain stove stood, with its handful of fire, looking gloomily out at the feathery flakes whirling through the leaden twilight. He turned round as she glided in, so unlike herself, so like a spirit, that his heart stood still.

"My love! my love!"

It was all he could say. He took her in his arms, so worn, so wasted, so sad; wan as the fluttering snow without. All his man's heart overflowed with infinite love and pity as he held that frail form in his strong clasp.

"Dear Everard, I have been so ill and so lonely; I wanted you so much!"

He drew her to him as if he would never let her go again.

"If I could only be with you always, my darling. It is cruel to keep us apart for a year."

"It was poor papa's wish, Everard."

Presently madame came in, and there were lights, and bustle, and separation. Mme. Hunsden must not remain too long, must not excite herself. Monsieur must go away, and come again to-morrow.

"I will let her see you every day, poor, homesick child, until she is well enough to go into the _cla.s.se_ and commence her studies. Then, not so often. But monsieur will be gone long before that!"

"No," Sir Everard said, distinctly. "I remain in Paris for the winter.

I trust to madame's kind heart to permit me to see Miss Hunsden often."

"Often! Ah, _mon Dieu_! how you English are impetuous! so--how do you call him?--unreasonable! Monsieur may see mademoiselle in the salon every Sat.u.r.day afternoon--not oftener."

"It is better so, Everard. I want to study--Heaven knows I need it! and your frequent visits would distract me. Let once a week suffice."

Sir Everard yielded to the inevitable with the best grace possible. He took his leave, raising Harriet's hand to his lips.

Harrie lingered by the window for a moment, looking wistfully after the slender figure, and slow, graceful walk.