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Page 1
Ever mingle the sight and shade
That make this human world so dear;
Sorrow of joy is ever made,
And what were a hope without a fear?
A morning shadow o'er youth is cast,
Warning from pleasure's dazzling snare;
A shadow lengthening across the past,
Fixes our fondest memories there.
One shadow there is, so dark, so drear,
So broad we see not the brightness round it;
Yet 'tis but the dark side of the sphere
Moving into the light unbounded.
ISA CRAIG-KNOX.
CHAPTER I.
THE BARONET'S BRIDE.
"And there is danger of death--for mother and child?"
"Well, no, Sir Jasper--no, sir; no certain danger, you know; but in
these protracted cases it can do no harm, Sir Jasper, for the clergyman
to be here. He may not be needed but your good lady is very weak, I am
sorry to say, Sir Jasper Kingsland."
"I will send for the clergyman," Sir Jasper Kingsland said. "Do your
best, Doctor Godroy, and for God's sake let me know the worst or best
as soon as may be. This suspense is horrible."
Doctor Parker Godroy looked sympathetically at him through his
gold-bowed spectacles.
"I will do my best, Sir Jasper," he said, gravely. "The result is in
the hands of the Great Dispenser of life and death. Send for the
clergyman, and wait and hope."
He quitted the library as he spoke. Sir Jasper Kingsland seized the
bell and rang a shrill peal.
"Ride to the village--ride for your life!" he said, imperatively, to
the servant who answered, "and fetch the Reverend Cyrus Green here at
once."
The man bowed and departed, and Sir Jasper Kingsland, Baronet, of
Kingsland Court, was alone--alone in the gloomy grandeur of the vast
library; alone with his thoughts and the wailing midnight storm.
A little toy time-piece of buhl on the stone mantel chimed musically
its story of the hour, and Sir Jasper Kingsland lifted his gloomy eyes
for a moment at the sound. A tall, spare middle-aged man, handsome
once--handsome still, some people said--with iron-gray hair and a
proud, patrician face.
"Twelve," his dry lips whispered to themselves--"midnight, and for
three hours I have endured this maddening agony of suspense! Another
day is given to the world, and before its close all I love best may be
cold and stark in death! Oh, my God! have mercy, and spare her!"
He lifted his clasped hands in passionate appeal. There was a picture
opposite--a gem of Raphael's--the Man of Sorrows fainting under the
weight of the cross, and the fire's shine playing upon it seemed to
light the pallid features with a derisive smile.
"The mercy you showed to others, the same shall be shown to you. Tiger
heart, you were merciless in the days gone by. Let your black, bad
heart break, as you have broken others!"
No voice had sounded, yet he was answered. Conscience had spoken in
trumpet-tones, and with a hollow groan the baronet turned away and
began pacing up and down.
It was a large and spacious apartment, this library of Kingsland Court,
dimly lighted now by the flickering wood-fire and the mellow glow of a
branch of wax-lights. Huge book-cases filled to overflowing lined the
four walls, and pictures precious as their weight in rubies looked
duskily down from their heavy frames. Busts and bronzes stood on
brackets and surmounted doors; a thick, rich carpet of moss-green,
sprinkled with oak leaves and acorns, muffled the tread; voluminous
draperies of dark green shrouded the tall, narrow windows. The massive
chairs and tables, fifty years old at least, were spindle-legged and
rich in carving, upholstered in green velvet and quaintly embroidered,
by hands moldered to dust long ago. Everything was old and grand, and
full of storied interest. And there, on the wall, was the crest of the
house--the uplifted hand grasping a dagger--and the motto, in old
Norman French, "Strike once, and strike well."
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