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Li 4- 5 ST If, j^t.^ ' -f^^ SIR NCEUS HEIR. CHAPTER I em NOEL'S DEATH-BED. The December night had dosed in wet and w?ld aronnO Thetford Towers. It stood down in the low ground, amothared in trees, a tall, gaunt, hoary pile of gray stone, all peaks, and gables and stacks of chimneys, and rook-in- fest^u turrets. A queer, massive, old house, built in the days of James the First, by Sir Hugo Thetford, the first baronet oi' 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 cf the sobbing bar.shee 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 nigat and a desolate scene without ; more desolate still within, for on his bed, this tempestuous win- ter night, the last of the Thetford baronets lay dying. Through the driving wind and lashing rain a groom gal- loped 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 tiieet, " come with me at once 1 Sir Noel's killed I " 6IJk A'OEL*s HEIR, Dr. Gaie, albeit phkgiuatic, sUggcred back, and tttrsd ftt the speaker aghast- "What? Sir Noel killed?" ♦' Vve're afraid sO; doctor ; none of t» knows for certain sure, but he lies there like a ^^tixA man. Conit quirk, foi the love of goodness, it" you want to do any service I '* " lii be with you in live Tninutes," said the doctor, leav* ing the room to order liis horse and don his hat and great coat. Dr. Gale wss as good as his word. In less than ten min- tites he and the gioom were flying recklessly along to llict- lord Tuwer. "How did it hapfjenj*' asked the doctor, hardly able to speak for the furious pace at which they were going. '* X thought he was at Lady Stckestone's ball." "He did go," replied the groom; " leastways he took my lady there ; but he said he had a friend to meet from Loudon at the Royal (leorge 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 gal- loping in by iiert>eif about half au hour ago all blown ; and me and three more set off to lock for Sir Noel We found him atwut twenty yaids from the gates, lying on his face in the mud, and as stirf 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 beft see him first, sir, so's we'd know what danger he was really in be- fore alarming her ladyship." " Quite right, William. Let ns tnist it n«ay not be sen- Otis. Had Sir Noel been— I mean, I suppose he had been dining?" ^ •" Well, doctor," said vr'illiiua, " Arneaua, tnat't hii •d Sm NOEL'S HElti. tfoiey de thambre, 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." **AhI that accounts," said the doctor, thoughtfully; "and now Williantj, 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 v/oman 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 Jiks and chestnuts. Five minutes more and Dr. Gale was running up a polished staircase of black, slip- pery oak, down an equally wide and black and slippery passage, and into the chamber where Sir i\oel lay. A grand and stately chamber, lofty, dark and wainscoted, where the wax candles made luminous clouds in the dark- ness, 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 ttood the bed, tall, broad, quaintly carved, curtained in green ▼elvet, and on it, cold and lifeless, lay the wounded maii. Mrs. Hilliard, the housekeeper, sat beside him, and Ar- neaud, 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 Ibere like that." 81ie moved away, leaving the doctor to his examination. SIJi NOEVS HEIR. Ten ttinntes, fifteen, ^ve!lty passed , then Dr. Gale tcraed to her with a ver> pale, grave lace. *' li IS too lace, Mrs. Hiiiiard. Sir Noel ts a dead man I •• «* Dead I " rei)eated Mis. liilliard, tiembling and hold* ing by a chair. *' Oh, my lady ! my ludy I '* " I am going to bleed him," said the doctor, "to restore consciousness. He mny last until morning. Send foi Lady 'rheifovd at once." Arneaud staiteU up. Mra. Hiiiiard lookexl at him, wring* ing her hands. '« Break it gently, Arneaud- Oh, my lady I my deaf lady ! So young and so pieUy — and only married five months!" The Swiss valet left the roont. Dr. Gale got out hii lancet, and desired Mrs. Hiiiiard to hold tlie basin. At first the blood refused to (low — but presently it came in a little, feeble stream. Tlie closed eyelids fluttered ; there was a restless movement, and Sir Koei Tlietford opened his eyes in this mortal hie once more. He looked first at the doctor, grave arid 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 Thetfcrds to be. ** What is it ? " he faintly aijlced. " "What is the mat- ter?" " You are hurt, Sir Noel," the doctr/ answered, sadly ; *' you have been thrown from your horse. Don't attempt to move— you are rot able." ** I rememher — I rcrii;etnber,** said the young man, a gleam of recollection lighting np his gh&srly face. " Diana dipped, and I was thrown. How long ago is that? " *' About an hour." ** And I am hurt? Badly?" Ee fixed his eyes with a powerful lock on the dactar^l SIX NOEL *S HE in, f ftce, and that good loau shiuuk away from the Dews he musi- tel!. " Badly ? " reiterated the young bare _v, 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 stalling up in bed. Still the doctor did not speak: ; still Mrs. Hilliard's suppiessed sobs echoed in the stillness of the vast room. Sir Noel Thetford fell buck on his pillow, a shadow ai ghastly and awful as death itself lying on his face. But ho was a brave man and the descendant of a fearless race ; and except for one convulsivfi throe that shcx)k him from head to foot, nothing told his horror of his sudden fate. There was a weird pause. Sir Nool lay staring straight at the oaken wall> his bloodless face awful in its intensity of hidden feeling. Rnin and wind outside rose higher and higher, and beat clamorously at the windows j and stiU above thera, 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 8 SIR h^OEL 'S HETk. here very soon. But the clergyman, Sir Noel— the clc»g]^ man. Shall we not send for him ? " •' No ! ■ said Sir Noel, sharply. «• What do I want of • 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. 1 want to see no one but Lady Thetford." "My lady has come!" cried Mrs. Hilliard, starting to her ,^t ; 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 gieat, dark eyes, flowing dark curls, and a colorless olive skm. The darkly handsome face, with pride in every fea- ture, 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 con- tradiction to the idea of death. •'My lady ! my lady ! " ciyed Mrs. Hilliard, with a 8up» pressed sob, moving near her. The dt ep, 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 • me but my wife." The graceful figuu i 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 laying. I S/Jf NOEL'S nE.R, 9 lunre been a villain, Ada— the greatest villain on earth to you." She had no*' spoken. She did not si)eak. She knelt be- side nun, white and still, looking and listening with strange calm. There was a sort of white horror in her tiite, but very little of tne despauw.^, ; lips, and he drank; her hand was unsteady and spilled it, out still she nevei •poke. '• I cannot speak loudly, Ada," he said, in a husky lehisper, " my strength seetns 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 fieicely. " Promise ! " he reiterated. " Promise ! promise I " ** I promise," slie said, with white lips. " May Heaven deal with you, Ada Tlietford, as yoij keep that promise. Listen now." The wild night wore on. TViC cries of the wind in the tre^ grew louder and wilder and more desolate. The rain beat and beat against the curtained glass; the candlea grettered and flared ; and the wood-fire flickered and died out. And still, long afcei* the midnight hour had tolled, Ada, Lady Thetford, in her lace and silk and jewels, knelt be^ side her young husband, and listened to the dark and shameful story he had to tell. She never once faltered, to SIX NOEL'S HEIR. fhe 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. Tojt 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 1 I can die now I Oh, Ada I I cannot osk you to forgive me ; but I love you so much — so much I 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 Thet- ford 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 I " 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. 1 : STR A^£L'S JI£n^, St CHAPTER n. CAPT. EVERARD, It was a very grand and stately ceremonial, that funeraH 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 malce 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 pool wife. The Aineral cration of the Rev. Mr. Knight, rector -i 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 homt— everybody but the Rev. Horace Thetford, who lui> ' 12 SIR NOEL *S HEIR, It geted 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 seem- ing 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 Devon- shire; and the Rev. Horace would have faced a whole regi- ment 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 en- tirely 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 end- less 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 be- fore. 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 bet- ter of her than ever before. It must surely have been th« .-*«*» mmmm SrX NOEL'S HEIR, ta vflest slander that she had not cared for her husband, that ■he 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 undis- puted fact ; and she might have jilted him for a wealthier lover, that was all a common c^e. 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 i'i. 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 uncon- sciousness 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, arid 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- 14 SIR NOEL *S HEIR» Btairs, shivering in the warm air under all her wraps. She had expressed no pleasure or thankfulness in her owi. safet/i 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 mo- tionless. 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 es- pecially, 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 »nd 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 moon- lit sort of beauty, the great, dark eyes, and abunc , dark hair, making her fixed and changeless pallor all the more remarkable. Months and seasons went by. Summers followed win- ters, 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, san- guiue, blue-eyed Thetford sturdiness in bis little, pinched. SIR NOEL'S SrZTR, IS psfle face, large, dark eyes, and criiip, 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 a,ccomplished 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-phae- ton 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 v; *■. The wide sea shone red with the reflections of the lurid glory in the heavens, and the num- berless waves glittered and flashed as if sown with stars. A faint, far-oflf 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 I 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 sun- set 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 lead- ing to the shore, she saw a man coming toward her over the sands. A tall, powerful-looking man ot thirty, bronzed and handsome, and with an unmistakably military aiif immm i jm x: x6 STR NOEL'S HETR, 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 1 " " Yes, Lady Thetford— after eight years— Captain Ever- ard again." The deep, strong voice suited the bronzed, grave face, and both had a peculiar power of their own. Lady Thet- ford, 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 xX ease. " When did you retitrn? " " A month ago. My wife is dead. I, too, am widowed, Lady Thetford." " I am very sorry fo 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 mc. She loved me, Lady Thetford ! " His powerful eyes were on her face — that pale, beautiful face, into which the blood came for an iiistant 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 madt you a happy woman.' >t y. '■-sTtntftatv^^ . le^itensau^ It re n id ful !a. rat ydt 'i'lzm not happy !•• «*Nc? But you have been — ^you were whUe Sir Nod Uved?" " My husband was very good to rae, Captain Everard. His death was the greatest misfortune that could have be« fallen me." *' But )'ou are young, you are free, you are rich, you ai» beautiful. You may weai' a coronet next time." His face and glance were so darkly grave, that the covert sneer was s.lmost hidden. But she felt it. *• I shall never marry again. Captain Everardo" *' Never? You surprise me ! Six years — nay, seven, & widow, and with innumerable attractions. Oh, you cannot mean it ! " She made a sudden, passionate gesture — ^looked at Wm, then away. *' It is useless — ^worse than useless, folly, madness, to lift the veil from the irrevocable past. But don't you think, don't you, Lady Thetford, that you might have been equally happy if you had married me f" She made no reply. She stood gazing seaward, cold and •HU. ** I was madly, insanely, absurdly in love with pretty Ada Vandeleur in those days, and I think I would have made hei a good husband ; better, however — forgive me— than 1 ever made my poor dead wife. But you were wise and ambitious, ray pretty Ada, and bartered your black eyes and raven ringlets to a higher bidder. You jilted me in cold blood, poor love-sick devil that 1 was, and reigned resplendent as my Lady Thetford. Ati I you knew how to choose the better part, my pretty Ada 1 " ** Captain Everard, I am sorry for the past — I have fttoned, if suffering can atone. Have a little pity, and let alone I ** '*rn»i»a!»3?»ff' ■ t$ STif NOEL*S IfJSIJt. ' He stood and looked at her silently, gravely. Then 6ald« in a voice deep and calm : ** We are both free ! Will you marry me now, Ada 1 *' *• I cannot ! " " But I love you — I have always loved you. And you— I used to think you loved me ! " He was strangely calm and passionless, voice and glance and face. But Lady Thetford had covered her face, and was sobbing. **,! did — I do — I always have ! But I cannot matry you. I will love you all ray life ; but don't, don'/ ask me to be your wife ! " ** As you please I " he said, in the same passionless voice. *• I think it is best myself; for the George Everard of to. day is not the George Everard who loved you eight years ago. We would not be happy — I know that. Ada, is that your son ? " "Yes." " I should like to look at him. Here, my little baronet I I want to see you." The boy, who had been looking curiously at the stranger, ran up at a sign from his mother. The tall captain lifted him in his arms and gazed in his small, thin face, with which his bright tartan plaid contrasted harshly. ** He hasn't a look of the Thetfords. He is your own ion, Ada. My little baronet, what is your name? *' "Sir Rupert Thetford," answered the child, struggling to get free. " Let me go — I don't know you I" The captain set him down with a grim smile; and the boy clung to his mother's skirts, and eyed the tall stranger askance. «« I want to go home, manmia ! I'm tired and hungry," " Pteaeutly, dearest. Run to Wiliiami he has cake foi Si) '■ SIX NOEL'S NETR. »9 yoOi Captain Everard, I shall be happy to have you at dinner." ** Thanks ; but I must decline. I go back to London Vo sight. I sail for India again in a week." *' So soon I I thought you meant to remain." *- Nothing is further from my intentions. I »nerely brought my little girl over to provide her a home ; that is why I have troubled you. Will you do me this kindness, Lady Thetford? ' "Take your little girl? Oh, most gladly — most will- ingly ! " *' Thanks ! Her mother's people are French, and I know little about them; and, save yourself, I can claim friendship with few in England. She will be poor ; I have settled on her all I am worth — some three hundred a year; and you. Lady Thetford, you can teach her, when she grows up, to catch a rich husband." She took no notice of the taunt ; she looked only too happy to render him this service. •* 1 am so pleased I She will be such a nice companion for Rupert. How old is sha? " *< Nearly four." "Is she here?" " No ; she is in London. I will fetch her down in a day or two." " What do you call her ? " '* Mabel — after her mother. Then it is settled, Lady Thetford, I am to fetch her ? " ** I shall be delighted ! But won't you dine with me? " " No. I must catch the evening train. Farewell, Lady Thetford, and many thanks 1 In three days I will be here again." He lifted his hat and walked away. Lady Thetford watched him out of sight, and then turned slowly, as she 90 S/X NOEL 'J IfE/X, heard her little boy calling her with shrill impatience. The red sunset had faded out ; the sea lay gray and cold under the twilight sky, and the evening breeze was chill. Changes in sky and sea and land told of coming night ; and Lady Thetford, shivering slightly in the rising wind, hurried away to be driven home. CHAPTER nL "LITTLE MAY." On the evening of the third day after this interview, a fly from the railway drove up the long, winding avenue leading to the great front entrance of the Thetford man- sion. A bronzed military gentleman, a nurse and a li'.tle girl, occupied the fly, and the gentleman's l^een, dark eyes wandered searchingly around. Swelling me:.dows, velvety lawns, sloping terraces, waving trees, bright flower-gardens, quaint old fish-ponds, sparkling fountains, and a wooded park, with sprightly deer — that was what he saw, all bathed in the golden halo of the summer sunset. Massive and grand, the old house reared its gray head, half overgrown with ivy and climbing roses. Gaudy peacocks strutted on the terraces ; a graceful gazelle flitted out for an instant amongst the trees to look at them and then lied in afright; and the brrking of half a dozen mastiffs greeted their ap- proach noiivily. <« A fine old place," thought Captain Everard. " My pretty Ada might have done worse. A grand old place for that puny child to inherit. The staunch old warrior-blood of the Thetfords is sadly adulterated in his pale veins, I fancy. Well, my little May, and how are you going to like aUthis?" Sm JVOSt *S ''BBIK. The child, a bright-faced little creature, with greal sparkling eyes and rose-bloom cheeks, was looking in do* light at a distant terrace. ** See, papa I See all the pretty peacocks 1 Look, El> Itn," to the nurse, *' three, four, five I Oh, how pretty 1 " " Then little May will like to live here, where she can gee the pretty peacocks every day ? " " And all the pretty flowers, and the water, and the littlA boy — Where's the little boy, papa? '* ** In the house— you'll see him presently ; but you must be very good, little May, and not pull his hair, and scratch bis face, and poke your fingers in his eyes, like you used to do with Willie Brandon. Little May must learn to be good." Little May put one rosy finger in her mouth, and set her head on one side like a defiant canary. She was one of the prettiest little fairies imaginable, with her pale, flaxen curls, and sparkling light-gray eyes, and apple-blossom complex* ion ; but she was evidently a3 much spoiled as little Sir Rupert Thetford himself. Lady Thetford sat in the long drawing-room, after her solitary dinner, and little Sir Rupert played with his rock* ing-horse and a pile of picture-books in a remote corner. The young widow lay back in the violet-velvet depths of a carved and gilded fauteuil, very simply dressed in black and crimson, but looking very fair and stately withal. She was watching her boy with a half smile on her face, when a footman entered with Captain Everard's card. I^dy Thetford looked up eagerly, " Show Captain Everard up at once." The footman bowed and disappeared. Five minutes ^ter, and ^he tall captain and his little daughter stood be« fore her. **Ax lastfaaid Lady Thetfocd, rising and holding out SIR NOEL* S HEIR. her hanrl to her old lover, with a smile that reminded hioi of other oays — " at last, when I was growing tiied waiting. And thii ib your little girl — my little girl from henceforth? Come U?ie, wy pet, and kiss your new mamma." She bent oicr the little one» kissing the pink cheeks and losy lips. ** SUe is fair and tiny — a very fairy; but she resemble^ you, n^eitheless, Capt. Everard." * * In teoi^per — yes, ' ' said the captain. •« You will find het spoiled, acd willful, and cross, and capricious and no end of trouble. Won't she, May ? " *' She will be the better match for Rupert on that ac- count," Lady Thetford said, smiling, and unfastening little Miss Evernrd's wraps with her own fair finge.-8. " Come here, Ruptrt, and welcome your new sister." The young baronet approached, and dutifully kissed lit- tle May, y;ho put up her rose-bud mouth right willingly. Sir Ruff-zt Thetford wasn't tall, rather undersized, and delicate for his seven years ; but he was head and shoulders over the flaxen-haired fairy, with the bright gray eyes. " I want a ride on your rocking-horse," cried little May, fraternizing with him at once; *< and oh 1 what nice picture booka and what a lot 1 " The children ran off together to their distant comer, and Captain Everard sat down for the first time. " You have not dined? " said Lady Thetford. " Allow >Tke to ** her hand was on the bell, but the captain in* tcrposed. '* Many thanks — ^nothing. We dined at the village ; and I leave again by the seven-fifty train. It is past seven now, so I have but little time to spare. I fear I am putting yon to a great deal of trouble ; but May's nu»e insists on being taken back to London to- night." *< It; will be of no consequence,"' replied Lady Thetfiooli SIR NOEt*S HEIR. «s ** Rupert* 8 nnne will take charge of her. I Intend ti ad- fertise for a nuiacry governess in a few days. Rupert*! health has always been so extremely delicate, that he haa not even began a pretext of learning yet, and it is quite time. He grows stronger, I fancy ; but Dr. Gale tells me frankly his constitution is dangerously weak." She sighed as she spoke, and looked over to where he Itood beside little May, who had mounted the rocking* horse boy-fashion. Sir Rupert was expostulating. "You oughtn't to sit that way — ask mamma. Voa ought to sit side-saddle. Only lx>ys sit like that." «* I don't care I " retorted Miss Everard, rocking more violently than ever. <' I'll sit whatever way I like 1 Let me alone t " Lady Thetford looked at the captain with a smile. " Her father's daughter, surely 1 bent on having her own way. What a fairy it is ! and yet such a perfect picture of health." *' Mabel was never ill an hour in her life, I believe," laid her father; " she is not at all too good fot this world. I only hope she may not grow up the torment of your liff —she is thoroughly spoiled." " And I fear if she were not, I should do it. Ah 1 1 ex. pect she will be a great comfort to me, and a world of goo(? to Rupert. He has never had a playmate of his own years, and children need children as much as they need sun shine." ' They sat for ten minutes conversing gravely, chiefly on business matters connected with little May's annuity — not at all as they had conversed three days before by the seap side. Then, as half-T)ast seven drew near, the captain arose. **I must go; I will hardly be in time as it is. Come kctt, little May» and bid papa good-bye." 94 srx NOEL'S imrR* ♦'Let papa come to May," responded his daughter, still rocking. " I can't get off." Captain Everard laughed, went over, bent down and kissed her. *« Good bye, May; don't forget papa, and learn to be a good girl. Good bye, baronet ; try and grow strong and tall. Farewell, Lady Thetford, with my best thanks." She held his hand, looking up in his sun-burned face with tears in her dark eyes. " We may never nwet again, Captain Everard," she said hurriedly. ♦* Tell me before we part that you forgive me the past." *' Truly, Ada, and for the first time. The service you have rendered me fully atones. You should have been my child's mother— be a mother to her now. Good-bye, and God bless you and your boy I " He stooped over, touched her cheek with his lips rever- entially, and then was gone. Gone forever — never to meet those he left behind this side of eternity. Little May bore the loss of papa and nurse with philosoph- ical indifference — her new playmate sufficed for both. The children took to one another with the readiness of childhood — Rupert all the more readily that he had ne-er before had a playmate of his own years. He was naturally a quiet child, caring more for his picture-books and his mirse's stories than for tops, or balls, or marbles. But be- lle May Everard seemed from the first to inspire him with some of her own superabundant vitality and life. The child was never, for a single instant, quiet ; she was the most restless, the most inqDetuous, the most vigorous little creature that can be conceived. Feet and tongue and hands never were still from morning till night ; and the life of Sir Rupert's nurse, hitherto one of idle ease, became all at once a misery to her. The little girl was everywhere— every* s SIR NOEL*S HEIR, where j especially where she had no business to be j and nurse never knew an easy moment for trotting after her, and rescuing her from all sorts of perils. She could climb like a cat, or a goat, and risked her nerk about twenty times per diem ; she sailed her shoes in the soup when let in as a treat to dinner, and washed her hands in her milk-and-water. She became the intimate friend of the pretty peacocks and the big, good-tempered dogs, with whom, in utter fearlessness, she rolled about in the grass half the day. She broke young Rupert's toys, and tore his picture-books and slapped hi» face, and pulled hia hair, and made herself master of tl)« situation before she had been twenty-four hours in the house. She was thoroughly and completely spoiled What India nurses had left undone, injudicious petting and flat- tery on the homeward passage had completed — and her temper was something appalling. Her shrieks of passion at the slightest contradiction of her imperial will rang through the house, and rent the tortured tympanums of all who heard. The little Xantippe would fling herself flat on the carpet, and literally scream herself black in the face, until, in dread of apoplexy and sudden death, her frightened hearers hastened to yield. Of course, one such irictory in- sured all the rest. As for Sir Rupert, before she had been a week at Thetford Towers, he dared not call his soid his own. She had partly scalped him on several occasions, and left the mark of her cat-like nails 'w his tender visage : but her venomous power of screeching for hours at will had more to do with the little baronet's dread of her than any- thing else. He fled ingloriously in every battle — running in tears to mamma, and leaving the fieli and the trophies ol victory triumphantly to Miss Everard. With all this, when not thwarted — when allowed to smash toys, and dirty her clothes, and smear her infantile face, and tear pictures, 9nd torment inoffensive lapdo^; when allowed, inshort| J6 SIX NOEVS heir^ to follow " her own sweet will," little May was as chatm* ing a fairy as ever the sun shone on. Her gleeful laugh made music in the dreary old rooms, such as had never been heard there for many a day, ?,nd her mischievous antics were the delight of all who did not suffer thereby. The servants petted and indulged her, and fed her on unwhole- some cakes and sweetmeats, and made her worse and worse every day of her life. Lady Thetford saw all this with inward apprehension. If her ward was completely beyond her power of control at four, what would she be a dozen years hence ? **Her father was right," thought the lady. "lam afraid she will give me a great deal of trouble. I never saw so headstrong, so utterly unmanageable a child." But Lady Thetford was very fond of the fairy despot withal. When her son came running to her for succor, drowned in tears, his mother took him in her arms and kissed him and soothed him — ^but she never punished the offender. As for Sir Rupert, he might fly ignominiously, but he never fought back. Little May had all the hair- pulling and face-scratching to herself. ** I must get a governess," nnised lady Thetford. ** 1 may find one who can control this little vixen ; and it is really time Rupert began his studies. I shall speak to Mr. Knight about it." Lady fhetford sent that very day to the rectory her lady- ship's compliments, the servant said, and wo''ld Mr. Knight call at his earliest convenience, Mr. Knight sent in answer to expect him that same evening ; and on his way he fell in with Dr. Gale, going to the manor-house on a professional visit. "Little Sir Rupert keeps weakly," he said; "no con- stitution to speak of. Not at all like the Thetfords — splen- did old stock, the Thetfords, but run out — run out. Sir SIX NOEL 'S HEIR, 27 Rupert is a Vandeleur, inherits his mother's constitutioa— 1 delicate child, very." " Have you se.-n I^dy Thetford's ward ! " inquired the clergyman, smiling; no hereditary weakness there, I fancy. I'll answer for the streugth of her lungs, at any rate. The other day she wanted Lady Thetford's watch for a play- thing ; she couldn't have it, and down she fell flat on the floor in what her nurse calls * one of her tantrums.' You should have hcard her, her shrieks were appalling." **I have," said the doctor, with emphasis; "she has the temper of tl.^ old demon. If I had anything to do with that cl. l;i, 1 should whip her within an inch of her life — that's all she wants, lots of whipping ! The Lord only knows the future, but I pity her prospective hus- band ! " "The taming of the shrew," laughed Mr. Knight ** Katherine and Petruchio over again. For ray part, I think Lady Thetford was unwise to undertake such a charge. With her delicate health it is altogether too much for her." The two gentlemen were shown into the library, whilst the servant went to inforni his lady of their arrival. The library had a French window opening on a sloping lawn, and here chasing butterflies in high glee, were the two children — the pale, dark-eyed baronet, and the flaxen- tressed little East Indian. "Look," said Dr. Gale. "Is Sii* Rupert going to be your Petruchio ? Who knows what the future may bring forth — who knows that we do not behold a future Lady Thetford?" " She is very pretty," said the rector thoughtfully, "and she may change with years. Your proptiecy may be ful- filled." . The present Lady Thetford entered as he spc^ She had S8 Sm NOEL»S HEIR, heard the remarks of both, and there was an tinusual pallot and gravity in her face as she advanced to receive them. Little Sir Rupert was called in, and May followed, with a butteifly crushed to death in each fat little hand. *« She kills them as fast as she catches them," said Sir Rupert, ruefully. "It's cruel, isn't it, mamma?" Little May, quite unabashed, displayed her dead prizes, and cut short the doctor's conference by impatiently pull- ing her play-fellow away. ** Come, Rupert, come," she cried. ** I want to catch the black one with the yellow wings. Stick your tongue out and come." Sir Rupert displayed his tongue, and submitted his pulse to the doctor, and let himself be pulled away by May. •• The gray mare in that span is decidedly the better horse," laughed the doctor. ** What a little despot in pin- afores it is." When her visitors had left, Lady Thetford walked to the window and stood watching the two children racing in the sunshine. It was a pretty sight, but the lady's face was contracted with pain. ** No, no," she thought. " I hope not — I pray not. Strange! but I never thought of the possibility before. She will be poor, and Rupert must marry a rich wife, so «ihat :f-— " She paused, with a sort of shudder, then added : "< What will he think, my darling boy, of his father and " You have lost children ? " **One, my lady." Again that choked, hysterical soix My lady went on pitilesslv. "Is it long ago?" " When— when I lost its father?" ** Ah 1 both together ? That was rather hard. Well, I hope you unaerstand the management of childreno-spoiled ones particularly. Here are the two you are to take charg* oC Rupert—May come here." !« SIR NOEL'S IfEJX, The children came over from their comer. Mrs. Wej^ more drew May toward her, but Sir Rupert held aloof. "This is my ward — this is my son. I presume Mr. Knight has told you. If you can subdue the temper of that child, you will prove yourself, indeed, a treasure. The east parlor has been fitted up for your use ; the chil- dren will take their meals there with you ; the room adjoin, ing is to be the cchool-roon\. I have appointed one of the maids to wait on you. I trust you will find your cbambei comfortable.'* ** Exceedingly so, my lady." " And the terms proposed by Mr. Knight suit you ?" Mrs. Weymore bowed. Lady Thetford rose to close the interview. ** You must need refreshment and rest after your journey. I will not detain you longer. To-morrow your duties will commence." She rang the bell — directed the servant who came to show the governess to the east parlor and see to her wants, and then to send nurse for the children. Fifteen minutes after she drove away in the pony-phaeton, whilst the new governess stood by the window of the east parlor and watched her vanish in the amber haze of the August sun set. Lady Thetford's business in St. Gosport detained her a couple of hours. The big, white, August moon was rising as she drove slowly homeward, and the nightingales sang its vesper lay in the scented hedge-rows. As she passed the rectory she saw Mr. Knight leaning over his own gate enjoying the placid beauty of the summer evening, and I^ady Thetford reined in her ponies to speak to him. ** So happy to see your ladyship ! Won't you alight and £ome in ? Mrs, Knight will be delighted." "Not this evening, I think. Had you much trouble libout my businem? ' iti SIX NOi:L*S HElk. SI ^*I had applicant? enough, certainly," laughed the reo 8or. ** I had reason to remember Mr. Weller's immortal idvice, ' Beware of widders.' How do you like your gov- irnesi?" ** I have hardly had time to form an opinion. She is younger than I could desire." " She looks much younger than the age she gives, I know ; but that is a common case. I trust my choice will prove satisfactory — her references are excellent. Your ladyship has had an interview with her ? " ** A very brief one. Her manner struck me unpleasantly *— so odd, and shy, and nervous. I hardly know how to characterize it ; but she may be a paragon of governesses, for all that. Good evening ; best regards to Mrs. Knight. Call soon and see how yonx pro tigi gets on." Lady Thetford drove away. As she alighted from the pony-carriage and ascended the great front steps of the house, she saw the pale governess still seated at the window of the east parlor, gazing dejectedly out at the silvery «ioonlight. "A most woeful countenance," thought my lady. " There is some deeper grief than the lo?s of a husband and child eight years ago, the matter with tnat woman. I don't like her." No, Lady Thetford did not like the meek and submissive looking gov.irness, but the children and the rest oi the ihousehold did. Sir Rupert and little May took to her at once — her gentle voice, her tender smile seemed to win its way to their capricious favor ; and before -he end of the first week she had more influence over them than mother and nurse together. The subdued and gentle governess soon had the love of all at Thetford Towers, ex-:ept its misti-e3">; uo.i Mrs. F.l'!iard, <,:k stately housekeeper, down. She was couiteous aud con^^iderate, so anxious to ava i gil^ V ,572? JVOEVS HFm\ ing trouble. Above all, that fixed expression of hopelea trouble on her sad, pale face, inade its way to every ucarL She had full charge of the children now; tbey took their meals with her, and she had them in her keeping the best part of the day — an office that was no sinecure. When they were with their nurse, or my lady, fhe governess sat alone in smile, that ended in a sigh, " and I have grown to like it Will you take a seat ? " •« No," said Mrs. Hilliard. " I heard you say the other day you would like to go over the house ; so, as I have « couple of hours leisure, I will show it to you ncvr." The governess rose eagerly. *"' I have been wanting to see it so much," she said, **bu3 I feared to give trouble by asking. It is very good of yoif to think of me^, dear Mrs. Hilliard." "She isn't much used to people thinking of her," t©> fleeted the housekeeper, '* or she wouldn't be so grateful for trifles. Let me see," aloud, *' you have seen thff dtawing-room and library, and that is all, er.cept your own apar ments. Well, come this way, I'll show you the oli •Quth wing." Through the long corridors, up wide, blapV, slippeif I. into vast, unused rooms, where ghostlljr eduM* SIR NOEL*S HEIiU SI tnd darkness bad it all to themselves, Mrs. Hilliard led tiio governess. " These apartments have been unused since before the late Sir Noel's time," said Mrs. Hilliard ; ** his father kepi them full in the hunting season, and at Christmas timo. Since Sir Noel's death, my lady has shut herself up and re- ceived no company, and gone nowhere. She is beginning to go out more of late than she has done ever since his death." Mrs. Hilliard was not looking at the governess, or she might have been surprised at the nervous restlessness and agitation of her manner, as she listened to these very com> monplace remarks. ** Lady Thetford was very much attached to her dusband, then ? " Mrs. Weymore said, her voice tremulous. " Ah 1 that she was I She must have been, for his death nearly killed her. It was sudden enough, and shocking enough, goodness knows I I shall never forget that dread- ful night. This is the old banqueting-hall, Mrs. Weymore, the largest and dreariest room in the house." Mrs. Weymore, trembling very much, either with cold or that unaccountable nervousness of hers, hardly looked round at the vast wilderness of a room. *' You were with the late Sir Noel, then, when he died?" *' Yes, until my lady came. Ah I it was a areadful thing ! He had taken her to a ball, and riding home his horse threw him. We sent for the doctor and my lady at once ; and when she came, all white and scared like, he sent us out of the room. He was as calm and sensible as you or me, but he seemed to have something on his mind. My lady was shut up with him for about three hours, and then we went in — Dr. Gale and rae. I shall never forget that sad sight Poor Sir Noel was dead, and she was kneel- 30 Sm KOEt*S HETii, log beside hltn in her ball dress, like somebody turned in ■tone. I spoke to her, {ind she looked up at me, and then fell back in my arms in a fainting iit. Are you cold, Mrsb Weymore, that you shake so? " ^ « No — yes — it is this desolate room, I think." the go** emess answered, hardly able to speak. " It is desolate. Come, I'll show yon the billiard-room, and then we'll go up-stairs to the room Sir Noel died in. Everjrthing remains just as it was — no one has ever slept there since. If you only knew, Mrs. Weymore, what a sad time it was ; l.ut you do know, poor dear I you have lost a husband yourself ! " The governess flung up her hands before her face with a suppressed cry so full of anguish that the housekeeper stared at her aghast. Almost as quickly she recovered herself again. ** Don't mind me," she said, in a choking voice, ** I can't help it. You don't know what I suffered — what I still suffer. Oh, pray, don't mind me 1 " •* Certainly not my dear," said Mrs. Hilliard, thinking Inwardly the governess was a very odd person, indeed. Th jy looked at the billiard-room, where the tables stood, du'ty and disused, and the balls lay idly by. **1 don't know when it wil] be used again/' said Mrs. Hilliard ; ** perhaps not until Sir Rupert grows up. There was a time," lowering her voice, ** that I thought he would aever live to be as old and strong as he is now. He was the puniest baby, Mrs. Weymore, you ever looked at — ^no- body thought he would live. And that would have been a pity, you know ; for then the Thetford estate would have gone to a distant branch of the family, as it would, too, if Bir Rupert had been a little girl." She went on up-stairs to the inhabited part of the build* S/Jt NOEL'S HIS tit. Sf log, followed by Mrs. Weymore, who seemed to grow more and more agitated with every word the housekeeper said. "This is Sir Noel's room," said Mrs. Hilliard, in an awe-stnick whisper, as if the dead man still lay there; "no one ever enters here but me." She unlocked it as she spoke, and went in. Mrs. Weyw more followed, with a face of frightened pallor that struck even the housekeeper. " Good gracious me I Mrs. Weymore, what is the mat- ter? You are as pib as a ghost. Are you afraid to enter a room where a pt; son has died ? " Mrs. Weynj le'b i eply was almost inaudible ; she stood on the threshold, puilid, trembling, unaccountably moved. The housekeeper glanced at her suspiciously. " Very odd," she thought, " very I The new governess is either the most nervous person 1 ever met, or else — no, she can't have known Sir Noel in his lifetime. Of course not." They left the chamber after a cursory glance around— Mrs. Weymore never advancing beyond the threshold. She had not spoken, and tliat while pallor made her face ghastly stiU. " I'll show you the picture-gnllery," said Mrs. Hilliard ; " and then, I believe, you wiii ha\re seen all that is worth seeing at Thetford Towers." She led the way to a long, high-lighted room, wainscoted and antique, like all the rest, where k ng rows of dead and gone Thetfords looked down from the carved walls. There were knights in armor, countesses in ruffles and powder and lace, bishops in mitre on head and crozier in hand, and judges in gown and wig. There were lames in pointed stomachers and jeweled fans, with the ^v3ists of theii dresses under their arms, but all fair and handsome, and unmistak- ably alike. Last of all the long array, there was Sir Noel» fi S/S JiTOISL'S HETR. 9. fair-haired, handsome youlti of twenty, with a stnile on his face and a happy radiance i.i his blue eyes. And by bis side, dark and haughty and beautiful, was my lady in her bridal-robes. *' There is not a handsomer face amongst them all thaai my kdy's," said Mrs. Milliard, with pride. ** You ough) to have seen her when Sir Noel first brought her home : ish^ tvas the most beautiful creature I ever looked at. Ah ! it tiras such a pity he was killed. I suppose they'll be having Sir Rupert's taken next and hung beside her. He don't look much like the Thetfords ; he's his mother over again — ^a Vendeleur, dark and still." If Mrs. Weymore made any reply the housekeeper did not catch it ; she was standing with her face averted, hardly looking at the portraits, and was the first to leave the pict- ure-gallery. There were a kw more rooms to be seen — a drawing- room suite, now closed and disused ; an ancient library, with a wonderful stained window, and avast echoing recep- tion-room. But it was all over at last, and Mrs. Hilliard, with her keys, trotted cheerfully off; and Mrs. Weymore was left to solitude and her own thoughts once more. A strange person, certainly. She locked the door and fell down on her knees by the bedside, sobbing until her whole form was convulsed. •* Oh I why did I come here ? Why did I come here? " came passionately with the wild storm of sobs. " I might have known how it would be 1 Nearly nine years— nine lcne„ long years, and not to have forgotten yet 1 i> ■m SIS NOEL^S HMIJL 39 CHAPTER V. A JOURNEy TO LONDOW. Very slowly, very monotonously went life at Thetford Towers. The only noticable change and that my lady went rather more into society, and a greater number of visitors came to the manor. There had been a children's party on the occasion of Sir Rupert's eighth birthday, and Mrs. Weymore had played for the little people to dance; and my lady had cast off her chronic gloom, had been handsome and happy as of old. There had been a dinner- party later — an imprecedented event now at Thetford Towers ; and the weeds, worn so long, had been discarded, and in diamonds and black velvet Lady Ada Tnetford had been beautiful, and t^tately, and gracious, as a young queen. No one knew the reason of the sudden change, but they ac- cepted the fact just as they found it, and set it down, per- haps, to woman's caprice. ^ So slowly the summer passed : autumn came and went, and it was December, and the ninth anniversary of Sir Noel's death. A gloomy day — wet, and wild, and wmdy. The wind, sweeping over the angry sea, surged and roared through the skeleton trees ; the rain lashed the windows in rattling gusts ; and the leaden sky hung !ow and frowning over the drenched and dreary earth. A dismal day — very like that other, nine years ago, that had been Sn- Noel's last. In Lady Thetford's boudoir a brigJit-ref' coal fire blazed. Pale-blue curtains of satin damask shut ot.i the wintry pros- pect, and the softest and richest of foreign carpets hushed ^ SIK JffOBL '&' NEtB. every footfall. Before the fire, on a little table, tny 1ady*» breakfast temptingly stood j the silver, old and quaint j the rare antique porcelain sparkling in the ruddy firelight. An easy chair, caived and gilded, and cushioned in azure vel- vet, stood by the table ; and near my lady's plate lay the letters and papers the morning's mail had brought. A toy of a clock on the low marble mantle chimed mus- ically ten as my lady entered. 7n dainty morning negligte, with her dark hair rippliii^ n , Ailing low on her neck, she looked very young, and fair, and graceful. Be- hind her came her maid, a olooming English girl, who took off the cover and poured out my lady's chocolate. Lady Thetford sank languidly into the azure velvet depths oihtt /aufenuii, and took up her letters. There were three— one a note from her man of business j one an invi- tation to a dinner-party ; and the third, a big official-look- ing document, with a huge seal, and no end of postmarks. The languid eyes suddenly lighted ; the pale cheeks flushed as she took it eagerly up. It was a letter from Inf!ia from Capt. Everard. Lady Thetford sipped her chocolate, and r-r . Yn ietter leisurely, with her slippered feet on the shinir ,■: .r. It was a long letter, and she read it over slowly twi<: .. htee times, before she laid it down. She finished her breakiast, motioned her maid to remove the service, and lying back in her chair, with her deep, dark eyes fixed dreamily on the fire, she fell into a reverie of other days far gone. The lover of her girlhood came back to her from over the sea. He was lying at her feet once more in the long summer days, under the waving trees of her girlhocct . -lorne. Ah, how happy I how happy she had been iu '' se by-p;one days, before Sir Noel Thetford had come, wuh his wealth and his title, to tempt her from her love and truth. Eleven (Ftruck, twelve itor:^ the musical dock od tbt Sm NOEL *S'HEm — 4t flumtle, and still my lady sat living in the past. Outside the wintry storm raged on; the rain clamored against the curtained glass, and the wind worried the trees. With a long sigh my lady awoke from her dream, and mechanic- itUy took up the Times newspaper — the first of the little iieap. "Vain! vain I" she thought, dreamily; "worse than vain those dreams now. With my own hand I threw back the heart that loved me ; of my own free will I resigned the man I loved. And now the old love, that I thought teould die in the splendor of my new life, is stronger than ever — and it is nine years too late." She tried to wrench her thoughts away and fix them on her newspaper. In vain ! her eyes wandered aimlessly over the closely-printed columns— her mind was in India with Capt. Everard. All at once she started, uttered a sud- den, sharp cry, and grasped the paper with dilated eyes and whitening cheeks. At the top of a column of " personal" advertisements was one which her strained eyes literally de- voured. " If Mr. Vyking, who ten years ago left a male infant in charge cA Mrs. Martha Brand, wishes to keep that child cut of the workhouse, he will call, within the next five days, at No. 17 Wadington Street, Lambeth." Again and again, and again Lady Thetford read this ap- parently uninteresting advertisement. Slowly the paper dropped into her lap, and she sat staring blankly into the fire. *' At last I " she thought, '* at last it has come. I fancied all danger was over — the death, perhaps, had forestalled me; and now, after all these years, I am summoned to keep my broken promise ! " The hue of death had settled on her face ; 8he«at cold 4* SrH JVOEL*S HEHt, and rigid, staring with that blank, fixed gaze into the fita Ceaselessly beat the rain ; wilder grew the December day j steadily the moments wore on, and still she sat in thai fixed trance. The armula clock struck two — the sound aroused hex at last. ** I must ! " she said, setting her teeth. ** I will I My boy shall not lose his birthrign., come what may I " She rose and rang the bell — very pale, but icily calm. Her maid answered the summons. " Eliza," my lady asked, " at what hour does the after- noon train leave St. Gosport for London 1 " Eliza stared — did not know, but would ascertain. &i five minutes she was back. " -^t half-past three, my lady ; and another at seven." Lady Thetford glanced at the clock — it was a quarter past two. "Tell William to have the carriage at the door at a quarter past three ; and do you pack my dressing case, and the few things I shall need for two or three days' absence. I am going to London." Eliza stood for a moment quite petrified. In all the nine years of her service under my lady, no such ordci as this had ever been received. To go to London at a moment's notice — my lady, who rarely went beyond her own park gates ! Turning away, not quite certain that her ears had not deceived her, my lady's voice arrested her. "Send Mrs. Weymore to me j and do you lose no time in packing up." Eliza departed. Mrs. Weymore appeared. My lady had some instructions to give concerning the children during her absence. Tlien the governess was dismissed, and she was again alone. Through the wind and rain of the wintry storm, Lady Thetford was driven to the station* in time to catch tt^ SIR NOEL*S HEIR. 43 three-fifty train to the metropolis. She went unattended j with no message to any one, only saying she would be back in three days at the furthest. In that dull household, where so few events ever dis- turbed the stagnant quiet, this sudden journey produced an indescribable sensation. What could have taken my lady to London at a moment's notice ? Some urgent reason it must have been to force her out of the gloomy seclusion in which she had buried herself since her husband's death. But, discuss it as they might, they could come no nearer the heart of the mystery. CHAPTER VL GUY. i The rainy December day closed in a rainier night. An- other day dawned on the world, sunless, and chilly, and overcast stiil. It dawned on London in murky, yellow fog, on sloppy, muddy streets — in gloom and dreariness, and a raw, east- erly wind. In the densely populated streets of the district of Lambeth, where poverty huddled in tall, gaunt build- ings, the dismal light stole murkily and slowly over the crowded, filthy streets and swarming purlieus. In a small upper room of a large dilapidated house, this bad December morning, a painter stood at his easel. The room was bare and cold, and comfortless in the extreme ; the painter was middle-aged, small, brown and shriveled, and very much out at elbows. The dull, gray light fell full on his work — no inspiration of genius by any means — only fee portrait, coarsely colored, of a fat, well-to-do butcher's daughter round the corner. The man was Joseph Legard« 44 SIR NOEL'S HEIR. scene-painter to one of the minor city theatres, who eked out his slender income by painting portraits when be could /a;et them to paint. He was as fond of his art as any of the great, old masters ; but he had only one attribute in com- mon with those immortals — extreme poverty ; for his salary was not large, and Mr. Legard found it a tight fit, indeed, to "make both ends meet." So he stood over his work this dull morning, however, in his tireless room, with a cheerful, brown face, whistling a tune. In the adjoining room he could hear his wife's voice raised shrilly, and the cries of half a dozen Legards. He was used to it, and it did not disturb him ; and he painted and whistled cheerily, touching up the butcher's daughter's snub nose and fat cheeks and double chin, until light foot> steps came running up-stairs, and the door was flung wide by an impetuous hand. A boy of ten, or thereabouts, came in— a bright-eyed, fair-haired lad, with a handsome, reso- lute face, and eyes of cloudless, Saxoi^ blue. . " Ah, Guy I " said the scene-painter, turning round and nodding good-humoredly. *' I've been expecting you I Wnat do you think of Miss Jenkins ? " The boy looked at the picture with the glance of an em* bryo connoisseur. " It's as like her as two peas, Joe ; or would be, if her hair was a little redder, and her nose a little thicker, and the freckles were plainer. But it looks like her as it is." " V/ell, you see, Guy," said the painter, going on with Miss Jenkins's left eyebrow, *' it don't do to make 'em too true— people don't like it ; they pay their money, and they expect to take it out in good looks. And now, any news this morning, Guy ? " The boy leaned against the window and looked out into the dingy street, his bright, young face growing; gloomy and ovexcast. Srx NOEl*S HEIR, 41 "No," he said, moodily; "there is no news, excepi