"Ah! that was nothing. I lay no claim on that. Serve me as you would serve any friendless girl in distress; and you are brave and generous and n.o.ble, I know."
"You "do me proud," mademoiselle. Suppose you cease complimenting, and begin at the beginning. Who are your friends, and why did you leave them, and where have you run away from?"
"From Yorkshire, Sir Everard--yes, all the way from Yorkshire in this disguise. Ah! it seems very bold and unwomanly, does it not? But my uncle was such a tyrant, and I had no appeal. I am an orphan, Sir Everard. My father and mother have been dead since my earliest recollection, and this uncle, my sole earthly relative, has been my guardian and tormentor. I can not tell you how cruelly he has treated me. I have been immured in a desolate old country-house, without friends or companions of my own age or s.e.x, and left to drag on a useless and aimless life. My poor father left me a scant inheritance; but, such as it is, my uncle set his greedy heart upon adding it to his own. To do this, he determined upon marrying me to his only son. My cousin William was his father over again--meaner, more cruel and crafty and cold-blooded, if possible--and utterly abhorred by me. I would sooner have died ten thousand deaths than marry such a sordid, hateful wretch! But marry him I surely must have done, if I remained in their power. So I fled. With inconceivable trouble and maneuvering. I obtained this suit of clothes. If I fled undisguised, I knew I would certainly be pursued, overtaken, and brought back. In the dead of night I opened my chamber window and made my escape. I took a loaded pistol of my uncle"s with me; I knew how to use it, and I felt safe with such a protector. My old nurse lived in Plymouth with her daughter, and to her I meant to go. I had a little money with me, and made good my escape. My disguise saved me from suspicion and insult.
Last night, on my way to Worrel, I heard your cry for help, and my pistol stood me in good stead, for the first time. There, Sir Everard, you know all. I hate and despise myself for the dress I wear, but surely there is some excuse to be made for me."
The Spanish eyes, swimming in tears, were raised imploringly to his, and Sir Everard was two-and-twenty, and very susceptible to a beautiful woman"s tears.
"Very much excuse, my poor girl," he said, warmly. "I am the last on earth to blame you for flying from a detested marriage. But there is no need to wear this disguise longer, surely?"
"No; no need. But I have had no opportunity of changing it; and if I do not succeed in finding my nurse at Plymouth, I don"t know what will become of me."
"Have you not her address?"
"No; neither have I heard from her in a long, long time. She lived in Plymouth years ago with her married daughter, but we never corresponded; and whether she is there now, or whether indeed she is living at all, I do not know. I caught at the hope as the drowning catch at straws."
Sir Everard looked at her in that thoughtful pause. How beautiful she was in her dark, glowing girlhood--how friendless, how desolate in the world.
"It would be the wildest of wild-goose chases, then," he said, "knowing as little of your nurse"s whereabouts as you do, to seek her in Plymouth now. Write first, or advertise in the local journals. If she is still resident there, that will fetch her."
"Write! advertise!" Sybilla Silver repeated, with unspeakable mournfulness; "from whence, Sir Everard?"
"From here," answered the baronet, decidedly. "You shall not leave here until you find your friends. And you shall not wear this odious disguise an hour longer. Go back to your chamber and wait."
"What an egregious m.u.f.f he is!" she said to herself, contemptuously.
"There is no cleverness in fooling such an imbecile as that. I am going on velvet so far; I only hope my lady may be as easily dealt with as my lady"s only son."
My lady"s only son went straight to a door down the corridor, quite at the other extremity, and opened it.
It was a lady"s dressing-room evidently. Laid out, all ready for wear, was a lady"s morning toilet complete, and without more ado Sir Everard confiscated the whole concern. At the white cashmere robe alone he caviled.
"This is too gay; I must find a more sober garment. All the maid-servants in the house would recognize this immediately."
He went to one of the closets, searched there, and presently reappeared with a black silk dress. Rolling all up in a heap, he started at once with his prize, laughing inwardly at the figure he cut.
"If Lady Louise saw me now, or my lady mother, either, for that matter!
What will Mildred and her maid say, I wonder, when they find burglars have been at work, and her matutinal toilet stolen?"
He bore the bundle straight to the chamber of his pretty runaway, and tapped at the door. It was discreetly opened an inch or two.
"Here are some clothes. When you are dressed, come out. I will wait in the pa.s.sage."
"Thank yon," Miss Silver"s soft voice said.
The young person whose adventures were so highly sensational doffed her velveteens and donned the dainty garments of Miss Mildred Kingsland.
All the things were beautifully made and embroidered, marked with the initials "M. K.," and adorned with the Kingsland crest.
"Miss Mildred Kingsland must be tall and slender, since her dress fits me so well. Ah, what a change even a black silk dress makes in one"s appearance! He admired me--I saw he did, in jacket and pantiloons--what will be do, then, in this? Will he fall in love with me, I wonder?"
One parting peep in the gla.s.s, and she opened the door and stepped out before Sir Everard Kingsland, a dazzling vision of beauty.
He stood and gazed. Could he believe his eyes? Was this superb-looking woman with the flowing curls, the dark, bright beauty and imperial mien, the lad in velveteen who had shot the poacher last night? Why, Cleopatra might have looked like that, in the height of her regal splendor, or Queen Semiramis, in the glorious days that were gone.
"This is indeed a transformation," he said, coming forward. "Your disguise was perfect. I should never have known you for the youth I parted from ten minutes ago."
"I can never thank you sufficiently, Sir Everard. Ah, if you knew how I abhorred myself in that hateful disguise! Nothing earthly will ever induce me to put it on again."
"I trust not," he said, gravely; "let us hope it may never be necessary. You are safe here, Miss Silver, from the tyranny of your uncle and cousin. The friendless and unprotected shall never be turned from Kingsland Court."
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips, and once more the luminous eyes were swimming in tears.
"I would thank you if I could, Sir Everard," the sweet voice murmured: "but you overpower me! Your goodness is beyond thanks."
A footstep on the marble stair made itself unpleasantly audible at this interesting crisis. Miss Silver dropped the baronet"s hand with a wild instinct of flight in her great black eyes.
"Return to your room," Sir Everard whispered. "Lock the door, and remain there until I apprise my mother of your presence here and prepare her to receive you. Quick! I don"t want these prying prigs of servants to find you here."
She vanished like a flash.
Sir Everard walked down-stairs, and pa.s.sed his own valet sleepily ascending.
"I beg your parding, Sir Heverard," said the valet; "but we was all very anxious about you. Sir Galahad came galloping home riderless, and--"
"That will do, Edward. You did not disturb Lady Kingsland?"
"No, Sir Heverard."
Sir Everard pa.s.sed abruptly on and sought the stables at once. Sir Galahad was there, undergoing his morning toilet, and greeted his master with a loud neigh of delight.
The young baronet dawdled away the lagging morning hours, smoking endless cigars under the waving trees, and waiting for the time when my lady should be visible. She rarely rose before noon, but to-day she deigned to get up at nine. Sir Everard flung away his last cigar, and went bounding up the grand stairs three at a time.
Lady Kingsland sat breakfasting in her boudoir with her daughter--a charming little bijou of a room, all filigree work, and fluted walls, delicious little Greuze paintings, and flowers and perfume--and Lady Kingsland, in an exquisitely becoming robe de matin, at five-and-fifty looked fair and handsome, and scarce middle-aged yet. Time, that deals so gallantly with these blonde beauties, had just thinned the fair hair at the parting, and planted dainty crow"s-feet about the patrician mouth, but left no thread of silver under the pretty Parisian lace cap.
Mildred Kingsland, opposite her mother, scarcely bore her thirty years so gracefully. She had had her little romance, and it had been incontinently nipped in the bud by imperious mamma, and she had dutifully yielded, with the pain sharp in her heart all the same. But he was poor, and Mildred was weak, and so Lady Kingsland"s only daughter glided uncomplainingly into old-maidenhood.
My lady glanced over her shoulder, and greeted her son with a bright, loving smile. He was her darling and her pride--her earthly idol--the last of the Kingslands.
"Good-morning, Everard! I thought you would have done Mildred and myself the honor of breakfasting with us. Perhaps it is not too late yet. May I offer you a cup of chocolate?"
"Not at all too late, mother mine. I accept your offer and your chocolate on the spot. Milly, good-morning! You are white as your dress! What is the matter?"
"Mildred is fading away to a shadow of late," his mother said. "I must take her to the sea-sh.o.r.e for change."
"When?" asked Sir Everard.
"Let me see. Ah! when you are married, I think. What time did you come home last night, and how is Lady Louise?"
"Lady Louise is very well. My good mother"--half laughing--"are you very anxious for a daughter-in-law at Kingsland to quarrel with?"