The Baronet's Bride Part 30

"You certainly lose no time, Mr. Parmalee," Miss Silver said. "I was remarking to Sir Everard at breakfast that you were a perfect devotee of art."

"How does the baronet find himself this morning?" he asked.

"As usual--well."

"And her ladys.h.i.+p?" very carelessly.

"Her ladys.h.i.+p is not well. I'm afraid your pretty pictures disagreed with her, Mr. Parmalee."

"Hey?" said the artist, with a sharp, suspicious stare.

"She was perfectly well until you showed them to her. She has been ill ever since. One must draw one's own inference."

Mr. Parmalee busied himself some five minutes in profound silence.

Then--

"Where is she to-day? Ain't she about?"

"No. I told you she was ill. She complained of headache after you left yesterday, and went up to her own room. I have not seen her since."

Mr. Parmalee began to whistle a negro melody, and still went industriously on with his work.

"I don't think nothing of that," he remarked, after a prolonged pause.

"Fine ladies all have headaches. Knowed heaps of 'em to home--all had it. You have yourself sometimes, I guess."

"No," said Sybilla; "I'm not a fine lady. I have no time to sham headaches, and I have no secrets to let loose. I am only a fine lady's companion, and all the world is free to know my history."

And then Miss Silver looked at Mr. Parmalee, and Mr. Parmalee looked at Miss Silver, with the air of two accomplished duelists waiting for the word.

"He's as sharp as a razor," thought the lady, "and as shy as a partridge. Half measures won't do with him. I must fight him on his own ground."

"By jingo! she's as keen as a catamount!" thought the gentleman, in a burst of admiration. "She'll be a credit to the man that marries her.

What a pity she don't belong down to Maine. She's a sight too cute for a born Britisher."

There was a long pause. Miss Silver and Mr. Parmalee looked each other full in the eye without winking. All at once the gentleman burst out laughing.

"Get out!" said Mr. Parmalee. "Go 'long--do! You're too smart for this world--you are, by gos.h.!.+ Miss Sybilla Silver."

"Almost smart enough for a Yankee, Mr. Parmalee, and wonderfully good at guessing."

"Yes? And what have you guessed this time?"

"That you have Lady Kingsland's secret; that that portrait--the last of the five--is the clew. That you hold the baronet's bride in the hollow of your hand!"

She spoke the last words close to his ear, in a fierce, sibilant whisper. The American actually recoiled.

"Go 'long!" repeated Mr. Parmalee. "Don't you go whistling in a fellow's ear like that, Miss S.; it tickles. Got any more to say?"

"Only this: that you had better make a friend of me, Mr. Parmalee."

"And if I don't, Miss S.? If I prefer to do as we do in euchre, 'go it alone'--what then?"

"Then!" cried Sybilla, with a blaze of her black eyes, "I'll take the game out of your hands. I'll foil you with your own weapons. I never failed yet. I'll not fail now. I'm a match for a dozen such as you!"

"I believe, in my soul, you are!" exclaimed the artist, in a burst of admiring enthusiasm. "You're the real grit, and no mistake. I do admire s.p.u.n.ky girls--I do, by jingo! I always thought if I married and fetched a Mrs. George Was.h.i.+ngton Parmalee down to Maine, she'd have to be something more than common. And you're not common, Miss S.--not by a long chalk! I never met your match in my life."

"No?" said Sybilla, "not even 'down to Maine?'"

"No, by George! and we raise the smartest kind of girls there. Now, Miss Silver, supposing we go partners in this here concern, would you be willing to go partners with a fellow for life? I never thought to marry an English woman, but I'll marry you to-morrow, if you'll have me. What d'ye say? Is it a go?"

"You don't mean it, Mr. Parmalee?" as soon as she could speak.

"I do!" said Mr. Parmalee, with emphasis. "Laugh, if you like. It's kind of sudden, I suppose, but I've had a hankering after you this some time. You're a right smart kind of girl, and jest my style, and I like you tip-top. The way you can roll up them black eyes of yours at a fellow is a caution to rattlesnakes. Say, is it a go?"

Sybilla turned away. Her dark cheeks reddened. There was a moment's hesitation, then she turned back and extended her hand.

"You are not very romantic, Mr. Parmalee. You don't ask me for my love, or any of that sentimental nonsense," with a laugh. "And you really mean it--you really mean to make Lady Kingsland's poor companion your wife?"

"Never meant anything more in my life. It is a go, then?"

"I will marry you, Mr. Parmalee, if you desire it."

"And you won't go back on a fellow?" asked Mr. Parmalee, suspiciously.

"You're not fooling me just to get at this secret, are you?"

Sybilla drew away her hand with an offended air.

"Think better of me, Mr. Parmalee! I may be shrewd enough to guess at your secret without being base enough to tell a deliberate lie to know it. I could find it out by easier means."

"I don't know about that," said the artist, coolly. "It ain't likely Lady Kingsland would tell you, and you couldn't get it out of me, you know, if you was twice as clever, unless I chose. But I want you to help me. A man always gets along better in these little underhand matters when he's got a woman going partners with him. I want to see my lady. I want to send her a note all unbeknown to the baronet."

"I'll deliver it," said Sybilla, "and if she chooses to see you, I will manage that Sir Everard will not intrude."

"She'll see me fast enough. I thought she'd want to see me herself before this, but it appears she's inclined to hold out; so I'll drop her a hint in writing. If the mountain won't come to what's-his-name--you know what I mean, Miss Silver. I suppose I may call you Sybilla now?"

"Oh, undoubtedly, Mr. Parmalee! But for the present don't you think--just to keep people's tongues quiet, you know--had we not better keep this little private compact to ourselves? I don't want the gossiping servants of the house to gossip in the kitchen about you and me."

"Just as you please. I don't care a darn for their gossiping, though.

And now about that little note. I want to see my lady before I explain things to you, you know."

"And why? You don't intend to tell her I am to be taken into your confidence, I suppose?"

"Not much!" said Mr. Parmalee, emphatically. "Never you mind, Sybilla.

Before you become Mrs. P., you'll know it all safe enough. I'll write it at once."

He took a stumpy lead-pencil from his pocket, tore a leaf out of his pocket-book, and wrote these words:

MY LADY,--You knew the picture, and I know your secret. Should like to see you, if convenient, soon. That person is in London waiting to hear from me.