"Weeks passed before I recovered. Then I was told my baby had been born and died. I listened in a sort of dull apathy; I had suffered so much that the sense of suffering was dulled and blunted. I knew Vyking well enough not to trust him or believe him; but I was powerless to act, and could only turn my face to the wall and pray to die.

"But I grew strong, and Vyking took me to London, and left me in respectably-furnished lodgings. I might have escaped easily enough here, but the energy even to wish for freedom was gone; I sat all day long in a state of miserable, listless languor, heart-weary, heart-sick, worn-out.

"One day Vyking came to my rooms in a furious state of passion. He and his master had quarrelled. I never knew about what; and Vyking had been ignominiously dismissed. The valet tore up and down my little parlor in a towering passion.

"'I'll make Sir Noel pay for it, or my name's not Vyking,' he cried. 'He thinks because he's married an heiress he can defy me now. But there's law in this land to punish bigamy; and I'll have him up for bigamy the moment he's back from his wedding-tour.'

"I turned, and looked at him, but very quietly. 'Sir Noel?' I said. 'Do you mean my husband?'

"'I mean Miss Vandeleur's husband now,' said Vyking. '_You'll_ never see him again, my girl. Yes, he's Sir Noel Thetford, of Thetford Towers, Devonshire; and you can go and call on his pretty new wife as soon as she comes home.'

"I turned away and looked out of the window without a word. Vyking looked at me curiously.

"'Oh! we've got over it, have we; and we're going to take it easy, and not make a scene. Now that's what I call sensible. And you'll come forward and swear Sir Noel guilty of bigamy?'

"'No,' I said, 'I never will!'

"'You won't--and why not?'

"'Never mind why. I don't think you would understand if I told you--only I won't.'

"'Couldn't you be coaxed?'

"'No.'

"'Don't be too sure. Perhaps I could tell you something might move you, quiet as you are. What if I told you your baby did not die that time, but was alive and well?'

"I knew a scene was worse than useless with this man, tears and entreaties thrown away. I heard his last words, and started to my feet with outstretched hands.

"'Vyking, for the dear Lord's sake, have pity on a desolate woman, and tell me the truth.'

"'I am telling you the truth. Your boy is alive and well, and I've christened him Guy--Guy Vyking. Don't you be scared--he's all safe; and the day you appear in court against Sir Noel, that day he shall be restored to you. Now don't you go and get excited; think it over, and let me know your decision when I come back.'

"He left the room before I could answer, and I never saw Vyking again.

The next day, reading the morning paper, I saw the arrest of a pair of housebreakers, and the name of the chief was George Vyking, late valet to Sir Noel Thetford. I tried to get to see him in prison, but failed.

His trial came on, his sentence was transportation for ten years; and Vyking left England, carrying my secret with him.

"I had something left to live for now--the thought of my child. But where was I to find him, where to look? I, who had not a penny in the wide world. If I had had the means, I would have come to Devonshire to seek out the man who had so basely wronged me; but as I was, I could as soon have gone to the antipodes. Oh! it was a bitter, bitter time, that long, hard struggle with starvation--a time it chills my blood even now to look back upon.

"I was still in London, battling with grim poverty, when, six months later, I read in the _Times_ the awfully sudden death of Sir Noel Thetford, Baronet.

"My lady, I am not speaking of the effect of that blow--I dare not to you, as deeply wronged as myself. You were with him in his dying moments, and surely he told you the truth then; surely he acknowledged the great wrong he had done you?"

Mrs. Weymore paused, and Lady Thetford turned her face, her ghastly, white face, for the first time, to answer.

"He did--he told me all; I know your story to be true."

"Thank God! Oh, thank God! And he acknowledged his first marriage?"

"Yes; the wrong he did you was venial to that which he did me--I, who never was his wife, never for one poor moment had a right to his name."

Mrs. Weymore sunk down on her knees by the couch and passionately kissed the lady's hand.

"My lady! my lady! And you will forgive me for coming here? I did not know, when I answered Mr. Knight's advertisement, where I was coming; and when I did I could not resist the temptation of looking on his son.

Oh, my lady! you will forgive me, and bear witness to the truth of my story."

"I will; I always meant to before I died. And that young man--that Guy Legard--you know he is your son?"

"I knew it from the first. My lady, you will let me tell him at once, will you not? And Sir Rupert? Oh, my lady! he ought to know."

Lady Thetford covered her face with a groan. "I promised his father on his death-bed to tell him long ago, to seek for his rightful heir--and see how I have kept my word. But I could not--I could not! It was not in human nature--not in such a nature as mine, wronged as I have been."

"But now--oh, my dear lady! now you will?"

"Yes, now, on the verge of the grave, I may surely speak. I dare not die with my promise unkept. This very night," Lady Thetford cried, sitting up, flushed and excited, "my boy shall know all--he shall not marry in ignorance of whom he really is. Aileen has the fortune of a princess; and Aileen will not love him less for the title he must lose. When he comes home, Mrs. Weymore, send him to me, and send your son with him, and I will tell them all."

CHAPTER XIII.

"THERE IS MANY A SLIP."

A room that was like a picture--a carpet of rose-buds gleaming through rich-green moss, lounges piled with downy-silk pillows, a bed curtained in lace, foamy white, plump, and tempting, fluted panels, and delicious little medallion pictures of celebrated beauties smiling down from the pink-tinted back-ground; a pretty room--Aileen Jocyln's _chambre-a-coucher_, and looking like a picture herself, in a loose, flowing morning-robe, all ungirdled, the rich, dark hair falling heavy and unbound to her waist, Aileen Jocyln lay among piles of cushions, like some young Eastern Sultana.

Lay and mused with, oh! such an infinitely happy smile upon her exquisite face; mused, as happy youth, loving and beloved, upon its bridal-eve does muse. Nay, on her bridal-day, for the dainty little French clock on the bracket, was pointing its golden hands to three.

The house was very still; all had retired late, busy with preparations for the morrow, and Miss Jocyln had just dismissed her maid. Every one, probably, but herself, was asleep; and she, in her unutterable bliss, was too happy for slumber. She arose, presently, walked to the window and looked out. The late-setting moon still swung in the sky; the stars still spangled the cloudless blue, and shone serene on the purple bosom of the far-spreading sea; but in the East the first pale glimmer of the new day shone--her happy wedding-day. The girl slid down on her knees, her hands clasped, her radiant face, glorified with love and bliss, turned ecstatically, as some faithful follower of the Prophet might, to that rising glory of the East.

"Oh!" Aileen thought, gazing around over the dark, deep sea, the star-gemmed sky, and the green radiance and sweetness of the earth, "what a beautiful, blissful world it is, and I the happiest creature in it!"

She returned to her cushions, and fell asleep; slept and dreamed dreams as joyful as her waking thoughts, and no shadow of that gathering cloud that was to blacken all her world so soon, fell upon her.

Hours passed, and still Aileen slept. Then came an imperative knock at her door--again and again, louder each time; and then Aileen started up, fully awake. Her room was flooded with sunshine, countless birds sang in the swaying green gloom of the branches, and the ceaseless sea was all aglitter with sparkling sunlight.

"Come in," Miss Jocyln said. It was her maid, she thought--and she walked over to an arm-chair, and composedly sat down.

The door opened, and Colonel Jocyln, not Fanchon, appeared, an open note in his hand, his face full of trouble.

"Papa!" Aileen cried, starting up in alarm.

"Bad news, my daughter--very bad! very sorrowful! Read that."

The note was very brief, in a spidery, female hand.

"DEAR COLONEL JOCYLN--We are in the greatest trouble. Poor Lady Thetford died with awful suddenness this morning, in one of those dreadful spasms. We are all nearly distracted. Rupert bears it better than any of us. Pray come over as soon as you can.