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The Baronet's Bride by May Agnes Fleming

M >> May Agnes Fleming >> The Baronet\'s Bride




A servant entered with a card, "G. W. Parmalee." The lawyer rose with
a cry.

"Good Heaven above! It can't be! It's too good to be true! He never
would rush into the lion's den in this way. John Thomas, who gave you
this?"

"Which the gentleman is in the droring-room, sir," responded John
Thomas, "as likewise the lady."

Mr. Bryson rushed for the drawing-room, flung wide the door, and
confronted Mr. Parmalee.

"Good-evening, squire," said the American.

"You here!" gasped the Sawyer--"the man for whom we have been scouring
the kingdom!"

"You'd oughter scoured the Atlantic," replied the artist, with infinite
calm. "I've been home to see my folks. I suppose you wanted me to
throw a little light on that 'ere horrid murder?"

"I suspect you know more of that murder than any other man alive!" said
the lawyer.

"Do tell! Well, now, I ain't a-going to deny it--I do know all about
it, squire."

"What?"

"Precisely! Yes, sir. I saw the deed done."

"You did? Good heavens!"

"Don't swear, squire. Yes, I saw the stab given, with that 'ere long
knife; and it wasn't the baronet did it, either, though you're going to
hang him for it to-morrow."

"In Heaven's name, man, who did the deed?"

"Sybilla Silver!"

"I knew it--I thought it--I said it! The she-devil! Poor, poor Lady
Kingsland!"

"Ma'am," said the American, turning to his veiled companion, "perhaps
it will relieve Mr. Bryson's gushing bosom to behold your face. Jest
lift that 'ere veil."

"All-merciful Heaven! the dead alive! Lady Kingsland!"




CHAPTER XXXV.

HIGHLY SENSATIONAL.

Sybilla Silver went straight from the prison cell of Sir Everard to the
sick-room of his mother. It was almost eleven when she reached the
Court, but they watched the night through in that house of mourning.

Leaving the fly before the front entrance, Sybilla stole round to that
side door she had used the memorable night of March tenth. She
admitted herself without difficulty, and proceeded at once to Lady
Kingsland's sick-room.

She tapped lightly at the door. It was opened instantly, and the pale
face of Mildred looked out.

"You here! How dare you, you cruel, wicked, merciless woman!" she
indignantly cried.

"Hard words, Miss Kingsland. Let me in, if you please--I wish to see
your mother."

"You shall not come in! The sight of you will kill her! Was it not
enough to swear away the life of her only son? Do you want to blast
her dying hours with the sight of your base, treacherous face?"

With a look of scornful contempt, Sybilla took her by the shoulder and
drew her out of the room.

"Don't be an idiot, Mildred Kingsland! I gave my evidence--how could I
help it? It wasn't my fault that your brother murdered his wife. I
must see your mother for ten minutes. I bring a last message from her
son."

"You have been to prison!" she cried. "You dare look my brother in the
face!"

"Just as easily as I do his sister. Am I to see Lady Kingsland, or
shall I go as I came, with Sir Everard's message undelivered?"

"The sight of you will kill her."

"We must risk that."

She passed into the room as she spoke.

"Wait here," she said. "I must see her quite alone, but it will only
be for a few minutes."

She closed the door and stood alone in the sick lady's room.

"Is it you, Mildred? The light is too strong."

"It is not Mildred, my lady. It is I."

"Sybilla Silver!"

No words can describe the look of agony, of terror, of repulsion, that
crossed my lady's face. She held up both hands with a gesture of
loathing and horror.

"Keep off!" she cried. "You murderess!"

"Yes," she cried, "that is the word--murderess!--for I murdered your
daughter-in-law. You never liked her, you know, Lady Kingsland.
Surely, then, when I stabbed her and threw her into the sea, I did you
a good turn. Lie still, and listen to me. I have a long story to tell
you, beginning with the astrologer's prediction."

With fiendish composure Sybilla repeated the story she had told Sir
Everard, while Lady Kingsland lay paralyzed and listened.

The atrocious revelation ended, she looked at her prostrate foe with a
diabolical smile.

"My oath is kept; the prediction is fulfilled. In a few hours the last
of the Kingslands dies by the hand of the common hangman. I have told
you all, and I dare you to injure one hair of my head. Within the hour
my journey from England commences. Search for last year's snow, for
last September's partridges, and when you find them you may hope to
find Sybilla Silver. Burn the prediction, destroy my grandmother's
portrait and lock of hair, so carefully hidden away for many years.
Their work is done, and my vengeance is complete. Lady Kingsland,
farewell!"

"Murderess!" spoke a deep and awful voice--"murderess! murderess!"

"Ah-h-h-h-h!"

With a shriek of wordless affright, Sybilla Silver leaped back, and
stood cowering against the wall. For the dead had risen and stood
before her. The phantom slowly advanced.

"Murderess, confess your guilt!"

"Mercy, mercy! mercy!" shrieked Sybilla Silver. "Spare me! Touch me
not! Oh, God! what is this?"

"Confess!"

"I confess--I murdered you--I stabbed you! Sir Everard is innocent!
Keep off! Mercy! mercy!"

With an unearthly scream, the horrified woman threw up both arms to
keep off the awful vision, and fell forward in strong convulsions.

"Very well done," said Mr. Bryson, entering briskly. "I don't think we
need any further proof of this lady's guilt. You have played ghost to
some purpose, my dear Lady Kingsland. Come in, gentlemen. We'll have
no trouble carrying off our prize."

He paused, and stepped back with a blanched face, for Lady Kingsland
lay writhing in the last agony.

With a wild cry, Mildred threw herself on her knees by her mother's
side.

"Mamma--dear mamma--don't look like that! Harriet is not dead. She is
here alive. It was that dreadful woman who tried to kill her. Everard
is innocent, as we knew he was. He will be here with us in a day or
two."

The dying woman was conscious. Her eyes turned and fixed on Harriet.
The white disguise had been thrown off. She came over to the bedside,
pale and beautiful.

"Mother," she said, sweetly, "it is indeed I. Dear mother, bless me
once."

"May God bless you and forgive me! Tell Everard--" She never finished
the sentence. With the name of the son she idolized upon her lips,
Lady Kingsland was dead.

Harriet's presence of mind did not forsake her. Reverently she kissed
the dead face, closed the eyes, and rose.

"The dead are free from suffering. Our first duty is to the living.
Take me to my husband!"

The constable lifted Sybilla unceremoniously.

The servants gathered outside the door gave way, and he placed her in
the carriage which had conveyed them to the house.

Mr. Parmalee went with him, and Lady Kingsland and the lawyer took
possession of the fly that stood waiting for Miss Silver.

A minute later and they were flying, swift as lash and shout could urge
them, toward Worrel Jail.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

"AFTER STORM, THE SUNSHINE."

Earlier in the evening, when Harriet had told her story to Mr. Bryson,
that gentleman had proceeded at once to the prison to inform the
prisoner and the officials that the murdered lady was alive.

There he found the warden of the prison and the clergyman, listening
with very perplexed faces to a story the prisoner was narrating.

"This is a most extraordinary revelation," the clergyman was saying.
"I really don't know what to think."

"What is it?" asked Mr. Bryson.

"A story which, wildly incredible as it seems, is yet true as Holy
Writ," answered the prisoner. "The real murderer is found. She has
been here, and admitted her guilt."

"What!" exclaimed the lawyer. "Sybilla Silver?"

"Why!" cried the warden, in wonder, "you, too?"

"Exactly," said Mr. Bryson, with a nod. "I know all about it. A most
important witness has turned up--no other than the missing man, Mr.
Parmalee. He saw the deed done--saw Sybilla Silver, dressed in Sir
Everard's clothes, do it, and has come all the way from America to
testify against her. Sir Everard, my dear friend, from the bottom of
my soul I congratulate you on your most blessed escape!"

"Thank you!" he said. "If my life is spared, it is for some good end,
no doubt. Thank God! A felon's death would have been very bitter, and
for my mother's sake I rejoice."

"Not for your own?"

"I have lost all that made life sweet. My wife is in heaven. For me
earth holds nothing but penitence and remorse."

"I am not so sure about that. I have better news for you even than the
news I have told. My dear friend, can you bear a great shock--a shock
of joy?"

He sprung up in bed, electrified.

"Speak!" he gasped. "Oh, for God's sake----"

"Your wife is alive!"

There was a simultaneous cry.

Mr. Bryson hurried on rapidly:

"Sybilla Silver stabbed her, and threw her over upon the shore. Mr.
Parmalee picked her up--not dead, but badly wounded--took her on board
a vessel--took her finally to America. Sybilla Silver deceived your
poor wife as she deceived us all. Lady Kingsland thought it was you,
Sir Everard. But she is alive and well, and in Worrel at this very
moment. Our first business is to cage our bird before she flies. Can
you aid us any, Sir Everard? Where are we most likely to find her?"

"At the Court," the baronet answered. "She left here to go there--to
kill my mother with her horrible news, if she could."

"We will leave you now," Mr. Bryson said, rising. "Come, gentlemen;
Sir Everard wants to be alone. I am off to secure my prisoner."

It was on his way back to his own house that Mr. Bryson lighted on his
ghostly plan for frightening Sybilla. How well it succeeded you know.

She was still insensible when they reached the prison, and was handed
over to the proper authorities. Harriet turned her imploring face
toward the lawyer.

"Let me go to my husband! Oh, dear Mr. Bryson, let me go at once!"

They led her to the door. The jailer admitted her and closed it again.
She was in her husband's prison-cell. Her arms were around his neck,
her tears, her kisses raining on his face.

"Oh, my darling, my darling! my life, my love, my husband!"

"Harriet!"

With a great cry he rose and held her to his heart.

"My wife, my wife!"

And then, weak with long illness and repeated shocks--this last,
greatest shock of all--he sat down, faint unto death.

"Oh, my love, my wife! to think that I should hold you once more in my
arms, look once more into your living face! My wife, my wife! How
cruel, how merciless I have been to you! May God forgive me! I will
forgive myself--never!"

"Not one word! Between us there can be no such thing as forgiveness.
We could neither of us have acted other than as we did. My oath bound
me--your honor was at stake. We have both suffered--Heaven only knows
how deeply. But it is past now. Nothing in this lower world shall
ever come between us again, my beloved!"

"Not even death," he said, folding her close to his heart.

One month after and Sir Everard Kingsland, his wife, and sister quitted
England for the Continent, not to make the grand tour and return, but
to reside for years. England was too full of painful memories; under
the sunlit skies of beautiful Italy they were going to forget.

Sybilla Silver was dead. All her plans had failed--her oath of
vengeance was broken. Sir Everard and his bride were triumphant. She
had failed--miserably failed; she thought of it until she went
mad--stark, staring mad. Her piercing shrieks rang through the stony
prison all day and all night long, until one night, in a paroxysm of
frenzy, she had dashed her head against the wall. They found her, in
the morning, dead.

* * * * *

Out into the lazy June sunshine the steamer glided. With his handsome
wife on his arm, the young baronet stood looking his last at his native
land, his face infinitely happy.

"For years," he said, with a smile--"for life, perhaps, Harriet. I
feel as if I never wished to return."

"But we shall," she said. "England is home. A few happy years in fair
foreign lands, and then, Everard, back to the old land. But first, I
confess, I should like again to see America, and Uncle Denover,
and"--with a little laugh--"George Washington Parmalee."

For Mr. Parmalee had gone back to Dobbsville, at peace with all the
world, Sir Everard Kingsland included.

"You're a brick, baronet," his parting speech had been, as he wrung
that young man's hand; "you air, I swan! And your wife's another!
Long may you wave!"

Sir Everard laughed aloud now at the recollection.

"Money can never repay our obligation to that worthy artist. May his
shadow never be less! We shall go over to Dobbsville and see him, and
have our pictures taken, next year. Look, Harriet! how the chalky
cliffs are melting into the blue above! One parting peep at England,
and so a long good-by to the old land!" he said, taking off his hat,
and standing, radiant and happy, with the June sunlight on his handsome
head.

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