The Baronets Bride | Page 2

green shrouded the tall, narrow windows. The massive chairs and tables, fifty years old at least, were spindle-legged and rich in carving, upholstered in green velvet and quaintly embroidered, by hands moldered to dust long ago. Everything was old and grand, and full of storied interest. And there, on the wall, was the crest of the house--the uplifted hand grasping a dagger--and the motto, in old Norman French, "Strike once, and strike well."
It is a very fine thing to be a baronet--a Kingsland of Kingsland, with fifteen thousand a year, and the finest old house in the county; but if Death will stalk grimly over your threshold and snatch away the life you love more than your own, then even that glory is not omniscient. For this wintery midnight, while Sir Jasper Kingsland walks moodily up and down--up and down--Lady Kingsland, in the chamber above, lies ill unto death.
An hour passes--the clock in the turret and the buhl toy on the stone mantel toll solemnly one. The embers drop monotonously through the grate--a dog bays deeply somewhere in the quadrangle below--the wailing wind of coming morning sighs lamentingly through the tossing copper-beeches, and the roar of the surf afar off comes ever and anon like distant thunder. The house is silent as the tomb--so horribly silent that the cold drops start out on the face of the tortured man. Who knows? Death has been on the threshold of that upper chamber all night, waiting for his prey. This awful hush may be the paean that proclaims that he is master!
A tap at the door. The baronet paused in his stride and turned his bloodshot eyes that way. His very voice was hollow and unnatural as he said:
"Come in."
A servant entered--the same who had gone his errand.
"The Reverend Cyrus Green is here, sir. Shall I show him up?"
"Yes--no--I cannot see him. Show him into the drawing-room until he is needed."
"He will not be needed," said a voice at his elbow, and Doctor Parker Godroy came briskly forward. "My dear Sir Jasper, allow me to congratulate you! All is well, thank Heaven, and--it is a son!"
Sir Jasper Kingsland sunk into a seat, thrilling from head to foot, turning sick and faint in the sudden revulsion from despair to hope.
"Saved?" he said, in a gasping whisper. "_Both_?"
"Both, my dear Sir Jasper!" the doctor responded, cordially. "Your good lady is very much prostrated--exhausted--but that was to be looked for, you know; and the baby--ah! the finest boy I have had the pleasure of presenting to an admiring world within ten years. Come and see them!"
"May I?" the baronet cried, starting to his feet.
"Certainly, my dear Sir Jasper--most certainly. There is nothing in the world to hinder--only be a little cautious, you know. Our good lady must be kept composed and quiet, and left to sleep; and you will just take one peep and go. We won't need the Reverend Cyrus."
He led the way from the library, rubbing his hands as your brisk little physicians do, up a grand stair-way where you might have driven a coach and four, and into a lofty and most magnificently furnished bed-chamber.
"Quiet, now--quiet," the doctor whispered, warningly. "Excite her, and I won't be answerable for the result."
Sir Jasper Kingsland replied with a rapid gesture, and walked forward to the bed. His own face was perfectly colorless, and his lips were twitching with intense suppressed feeling. He bent above the still form.
"Olivia," he said, "my darling, my darling!"
The heavy eyelids fluttered and lifted, and a pair of haggard, dark eyes gazed up at him. A wan smile parted those pallid lips.
"Dear Jasper! I knew you would come. Have you seen the baby? It is a boy."
"My own, I have thought only of you. My poor pale wife, how awfully death-like you look!"
"But I am not going to die--Doctor Godroy says so," smiling gently. "And now you must go, for I cannot talk. Only kiss me first, and look at the baby."
Her voice was the merest whisper. He pressed his lips passionately to the white face and rose up. Nurse and baby sat in state by the fire, and a slender girl of fifteen years knelt beside them, and gazed in a sort of rapture at the infant prodigy.
"Look, papa--look? The loveliest little thing, and nurse says the very picture of you!"
Not very lovely, certainly; but Sir Jasper Kingsland's eyes lighted with pride and joy as he looked. For was it not a boy? Had he not at last, after weary, weary waiting, the desire of his heart--a son to inherit the estate and perpetuate the ancient name?
"It is so sweet, papa!" Miss Mildred whispered, her small, rather sickly face quite radiant; "and its eyes are the image of yours. He's asleep now, you know, and you can't see them. And