CHAPTER XIII.
LYING IN BRITHLOW WOOD.
A thunderbolt falling at your feet from a cloudless summer sky must be rather astounding in its unexpectedness, but no thunderbolt ever created half the consternation Sir Everard's fierce announcement did.
"Going away!" his mother murmured—"going to Constantinople. My dear
Everard, you don't mean it?"
"Don't I?" he said, fiercely. "Don't I look as if I meant it?"
"But what has happened? Oh, Everard, what does all this mean?"
"It means, mother, that I am a mad, desperate and reckless man; that I don't care whether I ever return to England again or not."
Lady Kingsland's own imperious spirit began to rise. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed.
"It means you are a headstrong, selfish, cruel boy! You don't care an iota what pain you inflict on others, if you are thwarted ever so slightly yourself. I have indulged you from your childhood. You have never known one unsatisfied wish it was in my power to gratify, and this is my reward!"
He sat in sullen silence. He felt the reproach keenly in its simple truth; but his heart was too sore, the pain too bitter, to let him yield.
"You promise me obedience in the dearest wish of my heart," her ladyship went on, heedless of the presence of Mildred and Sybilla, "and you break that promise at the first sight of a wild young hoiden in a hunting-field. It is on her account you frighten me to death in this heartless manner, because I refuse my consent to your consummating your own disgrace."
"My disgrace? Take care, mother!"
"Do you dare speak in that tone to me?" She rose up from the table, livid with passion. "I repeat it, Sir Everard Kingsland—your disgrace! Mystery shrouds this girl's birth and her father's marriage—if he ever was married—and where there is mystery there is guilt."
"A sweeping assertion!" the baronet said, with concentrated scorn; "but in the present instance, my good mother, a little out of place. The mystery is of your own making. The late Mrs. Harold Hunsden was a native of New York. There she was married—there she died at her daughter's birth. Captain Hunsden cherishes her memory all too deeply to make it the town talk, hence all the county is up agape inventing slander. I hope you are satisfied?"
Lady Kingsland stood still, gazing at him in surprise.
"Who told you all this?" she asked.
"She who had the best right to know—the slandered woman's daughter."
"Indeed—indeed!" slowly and searchingly. "You have been talking to her, then? And your whole heart is really set on this matter, Everard?"
She came a step nearer; her voice softened; she laid one slender hand, with infinite tenderness, on his shoulder.
"What does it matter?" he retorted, impatiently. "For Heaven's sake, let me alone, mother!"
"My boy, if you really love this wild girl so much, if your whole heart is set on her, I must withdraw my objections. I can refuse my darling nothing. Woo Harriet Hunsden, wed her, and bring her here. I will try and receive her kindly for your sake."
Sir Everard Kingsland shook off the fair, white, caressing hand, and rose to his feet, with a harsh, strident laugh. "You are very good, my mother, but it is a little too late. Miss Hunsden did me the honor to refuse me yesterday."
"Refuse you?"
"Even so—incredible as it sounds! You see this little barbarian is not so keenly alive to the magnificent honor of an alliance with the house of Kingsland as some others are, and she said No plumply when I asked her to be my wife."
Again that harsh, jarring laugh rang out, and with the last word he strode from the room, closing the door with an emphatic bang.
Lady Kingsland sunk down in the nearest chair, perfectly overcome.
Sybilla Silver raised her tea-cup, and hid a malicious smile there.
"Refused him!" my lady murmured, helplessly. "Mildred, did you hear what he said?"
"Yes, mamma," Mildred replied, in distress. "She is a very proud girl—Harriet Hunsden."
"Proud! Good heavens!" my lady sprung to her feet, goaded by the word. "The wretched little pauper! the uneducated, uncivilized, horrible little wretch! What business has she with pride—with nothing under the sun to be proud of? Refuse my son! Oh, she must be mad, or a fool, or both! I will never forgive her as long as I live; nor him, either, for asking her!"
With which my lady flung out of the apartment, in a towering rage, and went up to her room and fell into hysterics and the arms of her maid on the spot.
It was a day of distress at Kingsland Court—gloom and despair reigned. Lady Kingsland, shut up in her own apartments, would not be comforted—and Sir Everard, busied with his preparations, was doggedly determined to carry out his designs. Sybilla was the only one who enjoyed the situation.
As she stood in the front portico, early in the afternoon, humming an opera tune, a servant wearing the Hunsden livery rode up to her and delivered a twisted note.
"For Sir Everard," said the man, and rode away.
Miss Silver took it, looked at it with one of her curious little smiles, thought a moment, turned, and carried it straight to my lady. My lady examined it with angry eyes.
"From Miss Hunsden," she said, contemptuously. "She repents her hasty decision, no doubt, and sends to tell him so. Bold, designing creature! Find Sir Everard's valet, Miss Silver, and give it to him."
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 God'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 hoarse 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 assisted the stricken and insensible man up to his room, and laid him upon the bed from which he was never more to rise.