The Baronet's Bride Part 39

"She's told you, has she?" said the artist, rather surprised. "Now that's what I call mean. You don't think she'll peach to Sir Everard, do you?"

"I think it extremely likely that she will. She hates me, Mr.

Parmalee, and Miss Silver would do a good deal for a person she hates.

You should have waited until she became Mrs. Parmalee before making her the repository of your valuable secrets."

"It's no good talking about it now, however," said Mr. Parmalee, rather doggedly. "I've told her, and it can't be helped. And now, my lady, I don't want to be caught here, and it's getting late, and what are you going to give a fellow for all his trouble?"

"What will hardly repay you," said my lady, "for I have very little of my own, as you doubtless have informed yourself ere this. What I have you have earned and shall receive. At the most it will not exceed three hundred pounds. Of my husband's money not one farthing shall any one ever receive from me for keeping a secret of mine."

"I must have more than that," he said, resolutely. "Three hundred pounds is nothing to a lady like you."

"It is all I have--all I can give you, and to give you that I must sell the trinkets my dear dead father gave me. But it is for his sake I do it--to preserve his secret. My jewels, my diamonds, my husband's gifts I will not touch, nor one farthing of his money will you ever receive.

You entirely mistake me, Mr. Parmalee. My secret I will keep from him while I can; I swore a solemn oath by my father's death-bed to do so.

But to pay you with his money--to bribe you to deceive him with his gold--I never will. I would die first."

She stood before him erect, defiant, queenly.

Mr. Parmalee frowned darkly.

"Suppose I go to him then, my lady--suppose I pour this nice little story into his ear--what then?"

"Then," she exclaimed, in tones of ringing scorn, "you will receive nothing. His servants will thrust you from his gates. No, Mr.

Parmalee, if money be your object you will make a better bargain with me than with him. What is mine you shall have--every farthing I own, every trinket I possess--on condition that you depart and never trouble me more. That is all I can do--all I will do. Decide which you prefer."

"There is no choice," replied the American, sullenly; "half a loaf is better than nothing. I'll take the three hundred pounds. And now, my lady, what do you mean to do about her? She wants to see you."

"See me!" An expression of horror swept over my lady's face. "Not for ten thousand worlds!"

"Well, now, I call that hard," said Mr. Parmalee. "I don't care what she's done or what she's been, it's hard! She's sorry now, and no one can be more than that. I take an interest in that unfortunate party, my lady; and if you knew how she hankers after a sight of you--how poor and ill and heart-broken she is--how she longs to hear you say once, 'I forgive you,' before she dies--well, you wouldn't be so hard."

"Stop--stop!" Lady Kingsland exclaimed.

She turned away, leaning against a tree, her face more ghastly than the face of a dead woman.

Mr. Parmalee watched her. He could see the fierce struggle that shook her from head to foot.

"Don't be hard on her!" he pleaded. "She's very humble now, and fallen very low. She won't live long, and you'll be happier on your own death-bed, my lady, for forgiving her poor soul!"

She put out her hand blindly and took his.

"I will see her," she said, hoa.r.s.ely. "May G.o.d forgive her and pity me! Fetch her down here, Mr. Parmalee, and I will see her."

"Yes, my lady; but as I'm rather short of funds, perhaps--"

She drew out her purse and poured its glittering contents into his palm.

"It is all I have now; when you return I will have the three hundred pounds. You must take her back to New York. She and I must never meet again--for my husband's sake."

"I understand, my lady. I'll do what I can. I'll take her back, and I'll trouble you no more."

His last words were drowned in the gallop of Sir Galahad up the avenue.

"It is my husband," my lady exclaimed. "I must leave you. When will you--and she--return?"

"In two days we will be here. I'll give out she's a sister of mine at the inn, and I'll send you word and arrange a meeting."

Mr. Parmalee drew down his hat and strode away. Weak, trembling, my lady leaned for a few moments against a tree, trying to recover herself, then turned slowly and walked back to the house to meet her husband.

CHAPTER XXIV.

MISS SILVER BREAKS THE NEWS.

The Grange, the jointure house of the Dowager Lady Kingsland, stood, like all such places, isolated and alone, at the furthest extremity of the village. It was a dreary old building enough, weather-beaten and brown, with primly laid-out grounds, and row upon row of stiff poplars waving in the wintery wind. A lonely, forlorn old place--a vivid contrast to the beauty and brightness of Kingsland Court; and from the first day of her entrance, Lady Kingsland, senior, hated her daughter-in-law with double hatred and rancor.

"For the pauper half-pay officer's bold-faced daughter we must drag out our lives in this horrible place!" she burst out, bitterly. "While Harriet Hunsden reigns _en princesse_ amid the splendors of our ancestral home, we must vegetate in this rambling, dingy old barn.

I'll never forgive your brother, Mildred--I'll never forgive him as long as I live for marrying that creature!"

"Dear mamma," the gentle voice of Milly pleaded, "you must not blame Everard. He loves her, and she is as beautiful as an angel. It would have been all the same if he had married Lady Louise, you know. We would still have had to quit Kingsland Court."

"Kingsland Court would have had an earl's daughter for its mistress in that case. But to think that this odious, fox-hunting, steeple-chase-riding, baggage-cart-following _fille du regiment_ should rule there, while we--Oh, it sets me wild only to think of it!"

"Don't think of it, then, mamma," coaxed Mildred. "We will make this wilderness 'blossom as the rose' next summer. As for Harrie, you don't know her yet--you will like her better when you do!"

"I shall never like her!" Lady Kingsland replied, with bitterness. "I don't want to like her! She is a proud upstart, and I sincerely hope she may make Everard see his folly in throwing himself away before the honey-moon is ended."

It was quite useless for Mildred to try to combat her mother's fierce resentment. Day after day she wandered through the desolate, draughty rooms, bewailing her hard lot, regretting the lost glories of Kingsland, and nursing her resentment toward her odious daughter-in-law; and when the bridal pair returned, and Milly timidly suggested the propriety of calling, my lady flatly refused.

"I never will!" she said, spitefully. "I'll never call on Captain Hunsden's daughter. I never countenanced the match before he made it.

I shall not countenance it now when she has usurped my place. She should never have been received in society--a person whose mother was no better than she ought, to be."

"But, mamma--"

"Hold your tongue, Milly! You always were a little fool! I tell you I will not call on my son's wife, and no more shall you. Let her come here."

My lady adhered to her resolution with iron force, and received her son, when the day after his return he rode over, with freezing formality. But with all that, she was none the less deeply displeased when he called and came to dinner and left his bride at home.

"My humble house is not worthy my lady's presence, I dare say," she remarked. "After the magnificence of barrack life and the splendor of Hunsden Hall, I scarcely wonder she can not stoop to your mother's jointure house. A lady in her position must draw the line somewhere."

"You are unjust, mother," her son said, striving to speak calmly. "You always were unjust to Harriet. If you will permit us, we will both do ourselves the pleasure of dining with you to-morrow."

"It shall be precisely as the Prince and Princess of Kingsland please.

My poor board will be only too much honored."

"It is natural, I suppose," he thought, riding homeward. "The contrast between Kingsland Court and The Grange is striking. She is jealous and angry and hurt--poor mother! Harrie must come with me to-morrow, and try to please her."

But when to-morrow came Harrie had a headache, and the baronet was obliged to go alone.