The Baronet's Bride Part 36

The gracious speech met with but an ungracious return. My lady s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away, as though from a snake, and gazed at her with flas.h.i.+ng eyes of scorn and distrust.

"What are you to this man, Miss Silver?" she asked. "Why should he tell you?"

"I am his plighted wife," replied Sybilla, trying to call up a conscious blush.

"Ah, I see!" my lady said, scornfully. "Permit me to congratulate you on the excellent execution your black eyes have wrought. You are a very clever girl, Miss Silver, and I think I understand you thoroughly.

I am only surprised you did not carry your discovery straight to Sir Everard Kingsland."

"Your ladys.h.i.+p is most unjust," Sybilla said, turning away, "unkind and cruel. I have delivered my message, and I will go."

"Wait one moment," my lady said, in her clear sweet voice, her proud face gleaming with a cynical smile. "Tomorrow evening it will be impossible for me to see Mr. Parmalee--there is to be a dinner-party at the house--during the day still more impossible. Since he commands me to see him, I will do so to-night, and throw over my other engagements.

At eight this evening I will be in the Beech Walk, and alone. Let Mr.

Parmalee come to me there."

A gleam of diabolical triumph lighted up the great black eyes of Sybilla, but the profound bow she made concealed it.

"I will tell him, my lady," she said, "and he will be there without fail."

She quitted the room, closed the door, and looked back at it as Satan may have looked back at Eden after vanquis.h.i.+ng Eve.

"My triumph begins," she said to herself. "I have caught you nicely this time, my lady. You and Mr. Parmalee will not be alone in the Beech Walk to-night."

Left to herself, Harriet stood for a moment motionless.

"She, too," she murmured, "my arch-enemy! Oh, my G.o.d, help me to bear it--help me to keep the horrible truth from the husband I love! She will not tell him. She knows he would never endure her from the hour she would make the revelation; and that thought alone restrains her.

It will kill me--this agonizing fear and horror! And better so--better to die now, while he loves me, than live to be loathed when he discovers the truth!"

Sir Everard Kingsland, riding home in the yellow, wintery sunset, found my lady lying on a lounge in her boudoir, her maid beside her, bathing her forehead with eau-de-Cologne.

"Headache again, Harrie?" he said. "You are growing a complete martyr to that feminine malady of late. I had hoped to find you dressed and ready to accompany me to The Grange."

"I am sorry, Everard, but this evening it is impossible. Make my excuses to her ladys.h.i.+p, and tell her I hope to see her soon."

She did not look up as she said it, and her husband, stooping, imprinted a kiss on the colorless cheek.

"My poor, pale girl! I will send Edwards with an apology to The Grange, and remain at home with you."

"No!" Harriet cried, hastily; "not on any account. You must not disappoint your mother, Everard; you must go. There, good-bye! It is time you were dressing. Don't mind me; I will be better when you return."

"I feel as though I ought not to leave you to-night," he said. "It seems heartless, and you ill. I had better send Edwards and the apology."

"You foolish boy!" She looked up at him and smiled, with eyes full of tears. "I will be better alone and quiet. Sleep and solitude will quite restore me. Go! Go! You will be late, and my lady dislikes being kept waiting."

He kissed her and went, casting one long, lingering backward look at the wife he loved. And with a pang bitterer than death came the remembrance afterward of how she had urged him to leave her that night.

Thus they parted--to look into each other's eyes no more, in love and trust for a dark and tragic time.

Sybilla Silver, standing at the house door, was gazing out, at the yellow February sun sinking pale and watery into the livid horizon tine, as the baronet ran down-stairs, drawing on his gloves. He paused, with his usual courtesy, to speak to his dependent as he went by.

"The sky yonder looks ominous," he said, "and this wailing, icy blast is the very desolation of desolation. There is a storm brewing."

Miss Silver's black eyes gleamed, and her white teeth showed in a sinister smile.

"A storm?" she repeated. "Yes, I think there is, and you will be caught in it, Sir Everard, if you stay late."

CHAPTER XXII.

AT NIGHT IN THE BEECH WALK.

The instant Sir Everard was out of sight Sybilla ran up to her chamber, and presently reappeared, dressed for a walk.

Even the long, shrouding mantle she wore could not disguise the exquisite symmetry of her graceful form, and the thick brown veil could not dim the l.u.s.ter of her flas.h.i.+ng a.s.syrian eyes. She smiled back, before flitting away, at the dark, bright, sparkling face her mirror showed her.

"You are a very pretty person, my dear Miss Silver," she said--"prettier even than my lady herself, though I say it. Worlds have been lost for less handsome faces than this in the days gone by, and Mr. Parmalee will have every reason to be proud of his wife--when he gets her."

She ran lightly down-stairs, a sarcastic smile still on her lips. In the lower hall stood Mr. Edwards, the valet, disconsolately gazing at the threatening prospect. He turned around, and his dull eyes lighted up at sight of this darkling vision of beauty--for Mr. Parmalee was by no means the only gentleman with the good taste to admire handsome Sybilla.

"Going hout, Miss Silver!" Mr. Edwards asked. "Huncommon urgent your business must be to take you from 'ome such a hevening as this. 'Ow's my lady?"

"My lady is not at all well, Mr. Edwards," answered Sybilla. "Sir Everard was obliged to go alone to his mother's, my lady's headache is so intense. Claudine is with her, I believe. We are going to have a storm, are we not? I shall be obliged to hurry back."

She flitted away as she spoke, drawing down her veil, and disappearing while yet Mr. Edwards was trying to make a languid proffer of his services as escort. He lounged easily up against the window, gazing with calm admiration after her.

"An huncommon 'andsome and lady-looking young pusson that," reflected Sir Everard's gentleman. "I shouldn't mind hasking her to be my missus one of these days. That face of hers and them das.h.i.+ng ways would take helegantly behind the bar of a public."

Sybilla sped on her way down the village to the Blue Bell. Just before she reached the inn she encountered Mr. Parmalee himself, taking a const.i.tutional, a cigar in his mouth, and his hands deep in his trousers pockets. He met and greeted his fair betrothed with natural phlegm.

"How do, Sybilla?" nodding. "I kind of thought you'd be after me, and so I stepped out. You've been and delivered that there little message of mine, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Sybilla; "and she will meet you to-night in the Beech Walk, and hear what you have got to say."

"The deuce she will!" said the artist; "and have her fire-eating husband catch us and set the flunkies at me. Not if I know myself. If my lady wants to hear what I've got to say, let my lady come to me."

"She never will," responded Sybilla. "You don't know her. Don't be an idiot, George--do as she requests. Meet her to-night in the Beech Walk."

"And have the baronet come upon us in the middle of our confab! Look here, Sybilla, I ain't a cowardly feller, you know, in the main; but, by George! it ain't pleasant to be horsewhipped by an outrageous young baronet or kicked from the gates by his under-strappers."

"There is no danger. Sir Everard is not at home, and will not be before ten o'clock at least. He is gone to dine at The Grange with his mother; and my lady was to have gone, too, but your message frightened her, and she told him little white lies, and insisted on his going by himself. And, you silly old stupid, if you had two ideas in your head, you would see that this opportunity of braving his express command, and entering the lion's den to meet his wife by night and by stealth, is the most glorious opportunity of revenge you could have. Sir Everard is nearly mad with jealousy and suspicion already. What will he be when he finds his wife of a month has lied to him to meet you alone and in secret at the Beech Walk? I tell you, Mr. Parmalee, you will be gloriously revenged!"

"By thunder!" cried the artist, "I never thought of that. I'll do it, Sybilla--I'll do it, so help me! Tell my lady I'll be there right on the minute; and do you take care that confounded baronet finds it out.

I said I'd pay him off for every blow, and I'll do it, by the Eternal!"

"And strike through her!" hissed Sybilla, with glittering black eyes, "and every blow will go straight through the core of his proud heart.

We'll torture him, George Parmalee, as man never was tortured before."