The Baronet's Bride Part 24

She sadly needs the help of a finis.h.i.+ng school, my poor little girl!

My will is made. The little I leave will suffice for her wants. Mr.

Green is her guardian--he understands my wishes. Oh, my lad! you will be very good to my friendless little Harrie! She will have but you in the wide world."

"I swear it, Captain Hunsden! It will be my bliss and my honor to make her my happy wife."

"I believe you. And now go--go both, and leave me alone, for I am very tired."

Sir Everard arose, but Harrie grasped her father's cold hand in terror.

"No, no, papa! I will not leave you. Let me stay. I will be very quiet--I shall not disturb you."

"As you like, my dear. She will call you, Kingsland, by and by."

The young man left the room. Then Harriet lifted a pale, reproachful face to her father.

"Papa, how could you?"

"My dear, you are not sorry? You will love this young man very dearly, and he loves you."

"But his mother, Lady Kingsland, detests me. And, I want to enter no man's house unwelcome."

"My dear, don't be hasty. How do you know Lady Kingsland detests you?

That is impossible, I think. She will be a kind mother to my little motherless girl. Ah, pitiful Heaven! that agony is to come yet!"

A spasm of pain convulsed his features, his brows knit, his eyes gleamed.

"Harrie," he said, hoa.r.s.ely, grasping her hands, "I have a secret to tell you--a horrible secret of guilt and disgrace! It has blighted my life, blasted every hope, turned the whole world into a black and festering ma.s.s of corruption! And, oh! worst of all, you must bear it--your life must be darkened, too. But not until the grave has closed over me. My child, look here."

He drew out, with a painful effort, something from beneath his pillow and handed it to her. It was a letter, addressed to herself, and tightly sealed.

"My secret is there," he whispered--"the secret it would blister my lips to tell you. When you are safe with Madame Beaufort, in Paris, open and read this--not before. You promise, Harrie?"

"Anything, papa--everything!" She hid it away in her bosom. "And now try to sleep; you are talking a great deal too much."

"Sing for me, then."

She obeyed the strange request--he had always loved to hear her sing.

She commenced a plaintive little song, and before it was finished he was asleep.

All night long she watched by his bedside. Now he slept, now he woke up fitfully, now he fell into a lethargic repose. The doctor and Sir Everard kept watch in an adjoining chamber, within sight of that girlish form.

Once, in the small hours, the sick man looked at her clearly, and spoke aloud:

"Wake me at day-dawn, Harrie."

"Yes, papa."

And then he slept again. The slow hours dragged away--morning was near. She walked to the window, drew the curtain and looked out.

Dimly the pearly light was creeping over the sky, lighting the purple, sleeping sea, brightening and brightening with every pa.s.sing second.

She would not disobey him. She left the window and bent over the bed.

How still he lay!

"Papa," she said, kissing him softly, "day is dawning."

But the captain never moved nor spoke. And then Harriet Hunsden knew the everlasting day had dawned for him.

CHAPTER XV.

THE DEAD MAN'S SECRET.

It was a very stately ceremonial that which pa.s.sed through the gates of Hunsden Hall, to lay Harold G.o.dfrey Hunsden's ashes with those of many scores of Hunsdens who had gone before.

The heir at law---an impoverished London swell--was there in sables and sweeping hat-band, exulting inwardly that the old chap had gone at last, and "the king had got his own again."

Sir Everard Kingsland was there, conspicuous and interesting in his new capacity of betrothed to the dead man's daughter.

And the dead man's daughter herself, in trailing c.r.a.pe and sables, deathly pale and still, was likewise there, cold and rigid almost as the corpse itself.

For she had never shed a tear since that awful moment when, with a wild, wailing cry of orphanage, she had flung herself down on the dead breast as the new day dawned.

The day of the funeral was one of ghostly gloom. The November wind swept icily over the sea with a dreary wail of winter; the cold rain beat its melancholy drip, drip; sky and earth and sea were all blurred in a clammy mist.

White and wild, Harriet Hunsden hung on her lover's arm while the Reverend Cyrus Green solemnly read the touching burial service, and Harold Hunsden was laid to sleep the everlasting sleep.

And then she was going back to the desolate old home--oh, so horribly desolate now! She looked at his empty chamber, at his vacant chair, at his forsaken bed. Her face worked; with a long, anguished cry she flung herself on her lover's breast and wept the rus.h.i.+ng, pa.s.sionate tears of seventeen that keep youthful hearts from breaking.

He held her there as reverently, as tenderly as that dead father might have done, letting her cry her fill, smoothing the glossy hair, kissing the slender hands, calling her by names never to be forgotten.

"My darling--my darling! my bride--my wife!"

She lifted her face at last and looked at him as she never had looked at mortal man before. In that moment he had his infinite reward. She loved him as only these strong-hearted, pa.s.sionate women can love--once and forever.

"Love me, Everard," she whispered, holding him close. "I have no one in the world now but you."

That night Harrie Hunsden left the old home forever. The Reverend Cyrus drove her to the rectory in the rainy twilight, and still her lover sat by her side, as it was his blissful privilege to sit. She clung to him now, in her new desolation, as she might never have learned to cling in happier times.

The rector's wife received the young girl with open arms, and embraced her with motherly heartiness.

"My poor, pale darling!" she said, kissing the cold cheeks. "You must stay with us until your lost roses come back."

But Harriet shook her head.

"I will go to France at once, please," she said, mournfully. "Madame Beaufort was always good to me, and it was his last wish."