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SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

A Novel.

by

Mrs. MAY AGNES FLEMING

Author of "Guy Earlscourt's Wife," "A Terrible Secret," "A Wonderful
Woman," Etc.







New York:
The Federal Book Company,
Publishers.




CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. SIR NOEL'S DEATH-BED.
CHAPTER II. CAPT. EVERARD.
CHAPTER III. "LITTLE MAY."
CHAPTER IV. MRS. WEYMORE.
CHAPTER V. A JOURNEY TO LONDON.
CHAPTER VI. GUY.
CHAPTER VII. COLONEL JOCYLN.
CHAPTER VIII. LADY THETFORD'S BALL.
CHAPTER IX. GUY LEGARD.
CHAPTER X. ASKING IN MARRIAGE.
CHAPTER XI. ON THE WEDDING EVE.
CHAPTER XII. MRS. WEYMORE'S STORY.
CHAPTER XIII. "THERE IS MANY A SLIP."
CHAPTER XIV. PARTED.
CHAPTER XV. AFTER FIVE YEARS.
CHAPTER XVI. AT SORRENTO.
CHAPTER XVII. AT HOME.




SIR NOEL'S HEIR.




CHAPTER I.

SIR NOEL'S DEATH-BED.


The December night had closed in wet and wild around Thetford Towers. It
stood down in the low ground, smothered in trees, a tall, gaunt, hoary
pile of gray stone, all peaks, and gables and stacks of chimneys, and
rook-infested turrets. A queer, massive, old house, built in the days of
James the First, by Sir Hugo Thetford, the first baronet of the name,
and as staunch and strong now as then.

The December day had been overcast and gloomy, but the December night
was stormy and wild. The wind worried and wailed through the tossing
trees with whistling moans and shrieks that were desolately human, and
made me think of the sobbing banshee of Irish legends. Far away the
mighty voice of the stormy sea mingled its hoarse-bass, and the rain
lashed the windows in long, slanting lines. A desolate night and a
desolate scene without; more desolate still within, for on his bed, this
tempestuous winter night, the last of the Thetford baronets lay dying.

Through the driving wind and lashing rain a groom galloped along the
high road to the village at break-neck speed. His errand was to Dr.
Gale, the village surgeon, which gentleman he found just preparing to go
to bed.

"For God's sake, doctor!" cried the man, white as a sheet, "come with me
at once! Sir Noel's killed!"

Dr. Gale, albeit phlegmatic, staggered back, and stared at the speaker
aghast.

"What? Sir Noel killed?"

"We're afraid so, doctor; none of us knows for certain sure, but he lies
there like a dead man. Come quick, for the love of goodness, if you want
to do any service!"

"I'll be with you in five minutes," said the doctor, leaving the room to
order his horse and don his hat and great coat.

Dr. Gale was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes he and the
groom were flying recklessly along to Thetford Tower.

"How did it happen?" asked the doctor, hardly able to speak for the
furious pace at which they were going. "I thought he was at Lady
Stokestone's ball."

"He did go," replied the groom; "leastways he took my lady there; but he
said he had a friend to meet from London at the Royal George to-night,
and he rode back. We don't, none of us, know how it happened; for a
better or surer rider than Sir Noel there ain't in Devonshire; but Diana
must have slipped and threw him. She came galloping in by herself about
half an hour ago all blown; and me and three more set off to look for
Sir Noel. We found him about twenty yards from the gates, lying on his
face in the mud, and as stiff and cold as if he was dead."

"And you brought him home and came for me?"

"Directly, sir. Some wanted to send word to my lady; but Mrs. Hilliard,
she thought how you had best see him first, sir, so's we'd know what
danger he was really in before alarming her ladyship."

"Quite right, William. Let us trust it may not be serious. Had Sir Noel
been - I mean, I suppose he had been dining?"

"Well, doctor," said William, "Arneaud, that's his _valet de chambre_,
you know, said he thought he had taken more wine than was prudent going
to Lady Stokestone's ball, which her ladyship is very particular about
such, you know, sir."

"Ah! that accounts," said the doctor, thoughtfully; "and now William, my
man, don't let's talk any more, for I feel completely blown already."

Ten minutes' sharp riding brought them to the great entrance gates of
Thetford Towers. An old woman came out of a little lodge, built in the
huge masonry, to admit them, and they dashed up the long winding avenue
under the surging oaks and chestnuts. Five minutes more and Dr. Gale was
running up a polished staircase of black, slippery oak, down an equally
wide and black and slippery passage, and into the chamber where Sir Noel
lay.

A grand and stately chamber, lofty, dark and wainscoted, where the wax
candles made luminous clouds in the darkness, and the wood-fire on the
marble hearth failed to give heat. The oak floor was overlaid with
Persian rugs; the windows were draped in green velvet and the chairs
were upholstered in the same. Near the center of the apartment stood the
bed, tall, broad, quaintly carved, curtained in green velvet, and on it,
cold and lifeless, lay the wounded man. Mrs. Hilliard, the housekeeper,
sat beside him, and Arneaud, the Swiss valet, with a frightened face,
stood near the fire.

"Very shocking business this, Mrs. Hilliard," said the doctor, removing
his hat and gloves - "very shocking. How is he? Any signs of
consciousness yet?"

"None whatever, sir," replied the housekeeper, rising. "I am so thankful
you have come. We, none of us, know what to do for him, and it is
dreadful to see him lying there like that."

She moved away, leaving the doctor to his examination. Ten minutes,
fifteen, twenty passed, then Dr. Gale turned to her with a very pale,
grave face.

"It is too late, Mrs. Hilliard. Sir Noel is a dead man!"

"Dead?" repeated Mrs. Hilliard, trembling and holding by a chair. "Oh,
my lady! my lady!"

"I am going to bleed him," said the doctor, "to restore consciousness.
He may last until morning. Send for Lady Thetford at once."

Arneaud started up. Mrs. Hilliard looked at him, wringing her hands.

"Break it gently, Arneaud. Oh, my lady! my dear lady! So young and so
pretty - and only married five months!"

The Swiss valet left the room. Dr. Gale got out his lancet, and desired
Mrs. Hilliard to hold the basin. At first the blood refused to flow - but
presently it came in a little, feeble stream. The closed eyelids
fluttered; there was a restless movement and Sir Noel Thetford opened
his eyes in this mortal life once more. He looked first at the doctor,
grave and pale, then at the housekeeper, sobbing on her knees by the
bed. He was a young man of seven-and-twenty, fair and handsome, as it
was in the nature of the Thetfords to be.

"What is it?" he faintly asked. "What is the matter?"

"You are hurt, Sir Noel," the doctor answered, sadly; "you have been
thrown from your horse. Don't attempt to move - you are not able."

"I remember - I remember," said the young man, a gleam of recollection
lighting up his ghastly face. "Diana slipped, and I was thrown. How long
ago is that?"

"About an hour."

"And I am hurt? Badly."

He fixed his eyes with a powerful lock on the doctor's face, and that
good man shrunk away from the news he must tell.

"Badly?" reiterated the young baronet, in a peremptory tone, that told
all of his nature. "Ah! you won't speak, I see! I am, and I feel - I
feel. Doctor, am I going to die?"

He asked the question with a sudden wildness - a sudden horror of death,
half starting up in bed. Still the doctor did not speak; still Mrs.
Hilliard's suppressed sobs echoed in the stillness of the vast room.

Sir Noel Thetford fell back on his pillow, a shadow as ghastly and awful
as death itself lying on his face. But he was a brave man and the
descendant of a fearless race; and except for one convulsive throe that
shook him from head to foot, nothing told his horror of his sudden fate.
There was a weird pause. Sir Noel lay staring straight at the oaken
wall, his bloodless face awful in its intensity of hidden feeling. Rain
and wind outside rose higher and higher, and beat clamorously at the
windows; and still above them, mighty and terrible, rose the far-off
voice of the ceaseless sea.

The doctor was the first to speak, in hushed and awe-struck tones.

"My dear Sir Noel, the time is short, and I can do little or nothing.
Shall I send for the Rev. Mr. Knight?"

The dying eyes turned upon him with a steady gaze.

"How long have I to live? I want the truth."

"Sir Noel, it is very hard, yet it must be Heaven's will. But a few
hours, I fear."

"So soon?" said the dying man. "I did not think - - Send for Lady
Thetford," he cried, wildly, half raising himself again - "send for Lady
Thetford at once!"

"We have sent for her," said the doctor; "she will be here very soon.
But the clergyman, Sir Noel - the clergyman. Shall we not send for him?"

"No!" said Sir Noel, sharply. "What do I want of a clergyman? Leave me,
both of you. Stay, you can give me something, Gale, to keep up my
strength to the last? I shall need it. Now go. I want to see no one but
Lady Thetford."

"My lady has come!" cried Mrs. Hilliard, starting to her feet; and at
the same moment the door was opened by Arneaud, and a lady in a
sparkling ball-dress swept in. She stood for a moment on the threshold,
looking from face to face with a bewildered air.

She was very young - scarcely twenty, and unmistakably beautiful. Taller
than common, willowy and slight, with great, dark eyes, flowing dark
curls, and a colorless olive skin. The darkly handsome face, with pride
in every feature, was blanched now almost to the hue of the dying man's;
but that glittering, bride-like figure, with its misty point-lace and
blazing diamonds, seemed in strange contradiction to the idea of death.

"My lady! my lady!" cried Mrs. Hilliard, with a suppressed sob, moving
near her.

The deep, dark eyes turned upon her for an instant, then wandered back
to the bed; but she never moved.

"Ada," said Sir Noel, faintly, "come here. The rest of you go. I want no
one but my wife."

The graceful figure in its shining robes and jewels, flitted over and
dropped on its knees by his side. The other three quitted the room and
closed the door. Husband and wife were alone with only death to
overhear.

"Ada, my poor girl, only five months a wife - it is very hard on you; but
it seems I must go. I have a great deal to say to you, Ada - that I can't
die without saying. I have been a villain, Ada - the greatest villain on
earth to you."

She had not spoken. She did not speak. She knelt beside him, white and
still, looking and listening with strange calm. There was a sort of
white horror in her face, but very little of the despairing grief one
would naturally look for in the dying man's wife.

"I don't ask you to forgive me, Ada - I have wronged you too deeply for
that; but I loved you so dearly - so dearly! Oh, my God! what a lost and
cruel wretch I have been."

He lay panting and gasping for breath. There was a draught which Dr.
Gale had left standing near, and he made a motion for it. She held it to
his lips, and he drank; her hand was unsteady and spilled it, but still
she never spoke.

"I cannot speak loudly, Ada," he said, in a husky whisper, "my strength
seems to grow less every moment; but I want you to promise me before I
begin my story that you will do what I ask. Promise! promise!"

He grasped her wrist and glared at her almost fiercely.

"Promise!" he reiterated. "Promise! promise!"

"I promise," she said, with white lips.

"May Heaven deal with you, Ada Thetford, as you keep that promise.
Listen now."

The wild night wore on. The cries of the wind in the trees grew louder
and wilder and more desolate. The rain beat and beat against the
curtained glass; the candles grettered and flared; and the wood-fire
flickered and died out.

And still, long after the midnight hour had tolled, Ada, Lady Thetford,
in her lace and silk and jewels, knelt beside her young husband, and
listened to the dark and shameful story he had to tell. She never once
faltered, she never spoke or stirred; but her face was whiter than her
dress, and her great dark eyes dilated with a horror too intense for
words.

The voice of the dying man sank lower and lower - it fell to a dull,
choking whisper at last.

"You have heard all," he said huskily.

"All?"

The word dropped from her lips like ice - the frozen look of blank horror
never left her face.

"And you will keep your promise?"

"Yes."

"God bless you! I can die now! Oh, Ada! I cannot ask you to forgive me;
but I love you so much - so much! Kiss me once, Ada, before I go."

His voice failed even with the words. Lady Thetford bent down and
kissed him, but her lips were as cold and white as his own.

They were the last words Sir Noel Thetford ever spoke. The restless sea
was sullenly ebbing, and the soul of the man was floating away with it.
The gray, chill light of a new day was dawning over the Devonshire
fields, rainy and raw, and with its first pale ray the soul of Noel
Thetford, baronet, left the earth forever.

An hour later, Mrs. Hilliard and Dr. Gale ventured to enter. They had
rapped again and again; but there had been no response, and alarmed they
had come in. Stark and rigid already lay what was mortal of the Lord of
Thetford Towers; and still on her knees, with that frozen look on her
face, knelt his living wife.

"My lady! my lady!" cried Mrs. Hilliard, her tears falling like rain.
"Oh! my dear lady, come away!"

She looked up; then again at the marble form on the bed, and without a
word or cry, slipped back in the old housekeeper's arms in a dead faint.




CHAPTER II.

CAPT. EVERARD.


It was a very grand and stately ceremonial, that funeral procession from
Thetford Towers. A week after that stormy December night they laid Sir
Noel Thetford in the family vault, where generation after generation of
his race slept their last long sleep. The gentry for miles and miles
around were there, and among them came the heir-at-law, the Rev. Horace
Thetford, only an obscure country curate now, but failing male heirs to
Sir Noel, successor to the Thetford estate and fifteen thousand a year.

In a bedchamber, luxurious as wealth can make a room, lay Lady Thetford,
dangerously ill. It was not a brain fever exactly, but something very
like it into which she had fallen, coming out of the death-like swoon.
It was all very sad and shocking - the sudden death of the gay and
handsome young baronet, and the serious illness of his poor wife. The
funeral oration of the Rev. Mr. Knight, rector of St. Gosport, from the
text, "In the midst of life we are in death," was most eloquent and
impressive, and women with tender hearts shed tears, and men listened
with grave, sad faces. It was such a little while - only five short
months - since the wedding-bells had rung, and there had been bonfires
and feasting throughout the village; and Sir Noel, looking so proud and
so happy, had driven up to the illuminated hall with his handsome bride.
Only five months; and now - and now.

The funeral was over and everybody had gone back home - everybody but the
Rev. Horace Thetford, who lingered to see the result of my lady's
illness, and if she died, to take possession of his estate. It was
unutterably dismal in the dark, hushed old house, with Sir Noel's ghost
seeming to haunt every room - very dismal and ghastly this waiting to
step into dead people's shoes. But then there was fifteen thousand a
year, and the finest place in Devonshire; and the Rev. Horace would have
faced a whole regiment of ghosts and lived in a vault for that.

But Lady Thetford did not die. Slowly but surely, the fever that had
worn her to a shadow left her; and by-and-bye, when the early primroses
peeped through the first blackened earth, she was able to come
down-stairs - to come down feeble and frail and weak, colorless as death
and as silent and cold.

The Rev. Horace went back to Yorkshire, yet not entirely in despair.
Female heirs could not inherit Thetford - he stood a chance yet; and the
widow, not yet twenty, was left alone in the dreary old mansion. People
were very sorry for her, and came to see her, and begged her to be
resigned to her great loss; and Mr. Knight preached endless homilies on
patience, and hope, and submission, and Lady Thetford listened to them
just as if they had been talking Greek. She never spoke of her dead
husband - she shivered at the mention of his name; but that night at his
dying bed had changed her as never woman changed before. From a bright,
ambitious, pleasure-loving girl, she had grown into a silent, haggard,
hopeless woman. All the sunny spring days she sat by the window of her
boudoir, gazing at the misty, boundless sea, pale and mute - dead in
life.

The friends who came to see her, and Mr. Knight, the rector, were a
little puzzled by this abnormal case, but very sorry for the pale young
widow, and disposed to think better of her than ever before. It must
surely have been the vilest slander that she had not cared for her
husband, that she had married him only for his wealth and title; and
that young soldier - that captain of dragoons - must have been a myth. She
might have been engaged to him, of course, before Sir Noel came, that
seemed to be an undisputed fact; and she might have jilted him for a
wealthier lover, that was all a common case. But she must have loved her
husband very dearly, or she never would have been broken-hearted like
this at his loss.

Spring deepened into summer. The June roses in the flower-gardens of the
Thetford were in rosy bloom, and my lady was ill again - very, very ill.
There was an eminent physician down from London, and there was a frail
little mite of babyhood lying among lace and flannel; and the eminent
physician shook his head, and looked portentously grave as he glanced
from the crib to the bed. Whiter than the pillows, whiter than snow,
Ada, Lady Thetford, lay, hovering in the Valley of the Shadow of Death;
that other feeble little life seemed flickering, too - it was so even a
toss up between the great rival powers, Life and Death, that a straw
might have turned the scale either way. So slight being that baby-hold
of gasping breath, that Mr. Knight, in the absence of any higher
authority, and in the unconsciousness of the mother, took it upon
himself to baptize it. So a china bowl was brought, and Mrs. Hilliard
held the bundle of flannel and long white robes, and the child was
named - the name which the mother had said weeks ago it was to be called,
if a boy - Rupert Noel Vandeleur Thetford; for it was a male heir, and
the Rev. Horace's cake was dough.

Days went by, weeks, months, and to the surprise of the eminent
physician neither mother nor child died. Summer waned, winter returned;
and the anniversary of Sir Noel's death came round, and my lady was able
to walk down-stairs, shivering in the warm air under all her wraps. She
had expressed no pleasure or thankfulness in her own safety, or that of
her child. She had asked eagerly if it were a boy or a girl; and hearing
its sex, had turned her face to the wall, and lay for hours and hours
speechless and motionless. Yet it was very dear to her, too, by fits and
starts as it were. She would hold it in her arms half a day, sometimes
covering it with kisses, with jealous, passionate love, crying over it,
and half smothering it with caresses; and then, again, in a fit of
sullen apathy, would resign it to its nurse, and not ask to see it for
hours. It was very strange and inexplicable, her conduct, altogether;
more especially, as with her return to health came no return of
cheerfulness and hope. The dark gloom that overshadowed her life seemed
to settle into a chronic disease, rooted and incurable. She never went
out; she returned no visits; she gave no invitations to those who came
to repeat theirs. Gradually people fell off; they grew tired of that
sullen coldness in which Lady Thetford wrapped herself as in a mantle,
until Mr. Knight and Dr. Gale grew to be almost her only visitors.
"Mariana, in the Moated Grange," never led a more solitary and dreary
existence than the handsome young widow, who dwelt a recluse at Thetford
Towers; for she was very handsome still, of a pale moonlit sort of
beauty, the great, dark eyes, and abundant dark hair, making her fixed
and changeless pallor all the more remarkable.

Months and seasons went by. Summers followed winters, and Lady Thetford
still buried herself alive in the gray old manor - and the little heir
was six years old. A delicate child still, puny and sickly, and petted
and spoiled, and indulged in every childish whim and caprice. His
mother's image and idol - no look of the fair-haired, sanguine, blue-eyed
Thetford sturdiness in his little, pinched, pale face, large, dark eyes,
and crisp, black ringlets. The years had gone by like a slow dream; life
was stagnant enough in St. Gosport, doubly stagnant at Thetford Towers,
whose mistress rarely went abroad beyond her own gates, save when she
took her little son out for an airing in the pony phaeton.

She had taken him out for one of those airings on a July afternoon, when
he had nearly accomplished his seventh year. They had driven seaward
some miles from the manor-house, and Lady Thetford and her little boy
had got out, and were strolling leisurely up and down the hot, white
stands, while the groom waited with the pony-phaeton just within sight.

The long July afternoon wore on. The sun that had blazed all day like a
wheel of fire, dropped lower and lower into the crimson west. The wide
sea shone red with the reflections of the lurid glory in the heavens,
and the numberless waves glittered and flashed as if sown with stars. A
faint, far-off breeze swept over the sea, salt and cold; and the
fishermen's boats danced along with the red sunset glinting on their
sails.

Up and down, slowly and thoughtfully, the lady walked, her eyes fixed on
the wide sea. As the rising breeze met her, she drew the scarlet shawl
she wore over her black silk dress closer around her, and glanced at her
boy. The little fellow was running over the sands, tossing pebbles into
the surf, and hunting for shells; and her eyes left him and wandered
once more to the lurid splendor of that sunset on the sea. It was very
quiet here, with no living thing in sight but themselves; so the lady's
start of astonishment was natural when, turning an abrupt angle in the
path leading to the shore, she saw a man coming toward her over the
sands. A tall, powerful-looking man of thirty, bronzed and handsome, and
with an unmistakably military air, although in plain black clothes. The
lady took a second look, then stood stock still, and gazed like one in a
dream. The man approached, lifted his hat, and stood silent and grave
before her.

"Captain Everard!"

"Yes, Lady Thetford - after eight years - Captain Everard again."

The deep, strong voice suited the bronzed, grave face, and both had a
peculiar power of their own. Lady Thetford, very, very pale, held out
one fair jeweled hand.

"Captain Everard, I am very glad to see you again."

He bent over the little hand a moment, then dropped it, and stood
looking at her silent.

"I thought you were in India," she said, trying to be at ease. "When did
you return?"

"A month ago. My wife is dead. I, too, am widowed, Lady Thetford."

"I am very sorry to hear it," she said, gravely. "Did she die in India?"

"Yes; and I have come home with my little daughter."

"Your daughter! Then she left a child?"

"One. It is on her account I have come. The climate killed her mother. I
had mercy on her daughter, and have brought her home."

"I am sorry for your wife. Why did she remain in India?"

"Because she preferred death to leaving me. She loved me, Lady
Thetford!"

His powerful eyes were on her face - that pale, beautiful face, into
which the blood came for an instant at his words. She looked at him,
then away over the darkening sea.

"And you, my lady - you gained the desire to your heart, wealth, and a
title? Let me hope they have made you a happy woman."

"I am not happy!"

"No? But you have been - you were while Sir Noel lived?"

"My husband was very good to me, Captain Everard. His death was the


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