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Title: A woman's trust
Lady Elaine's martyrdom
Author: Bertha M. Clay
Release date: August 16, 2024 [eBook #74270]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Street & Smith, 1900
Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN'S TRUST ***
NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY No. 50
A WOMAN’S TRUST
_BY_
BERTHA M. CLAY
[Illustration]
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Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They
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work, and is the only authorized edition.
These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are
clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type
that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction
that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.
There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this
list is sure to give satisfaction.
_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_
1--In Love’s Crucible By Bertha M. Clay
2--A Sinful Secret By Bertha M. Clay
3--Between Two Loves By Bertha M. Clay
4--A Golden Heart By Bertha M. Clay
5--Redeemed by Love By Bertha M. Clay
6--Between Two Hearts By Bertha M. Clay
7--Lover and Husband By Bertha M. Clay
8--The Broken Trust By Bertha M. Clay
9--For a Woman’s Honor By Bertha M. Clay
10--A Thorn in Her Heart By Bertha M. Clay
11--A Nameless Sin By Bertha M. Clay
12--Gladys Greye By Bertha M. Clay
13--Her Second Love By Bertha M. Clay
14--The Earl’s Atonement By Bertha M. Clay
15--The Gipsy’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
16--Another Woman’s Husband By Bertha M. Clay
17--Two Fair Women By Bertha M. Clay
18--Madolin’s Lover By Bertha M. Clay
19--A Bitter Reckoning By Bertha M. Clay
20--Fair but Faithless By Bertha M. Clay
21--One Woman’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
22--A Mad Love By Bertha M. Clay
23--Wedded and Parted By Bertha M. Clay
24--A Woman’s Love Story By Bertha M. Clay
25--’Twixt Love and Hate By Bertha M. Clay
26--Guelda By Bertha M. Clay
27--The Duke’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
28--The Mystery of Colde Fell By Bertha M. Clay
29--One False Step By Bertha M. Clay
30--A Hidden Terror By Bertha M. Clay
31--Repented at Leisure By Bertha M. Clay
32--Marjorie Deane By Bertha M. Clay
33--In Shallow Waters By Bertha M. Clay
34--Diana’s Discipline By Bertha M. Clay
35--A Heart’s Bitterness By Bertha M. Clay
36--Her Mother’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
37--Thrown on the World By Bertha M. Clay
38--Lady Damer’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
39--A Fiery Ordeal By Bertha M. Clay
40--A Woman’s Vengeance By Bertha M. Clay
41--Thorns and Orange Blossoms By Bertha M. Clay
42--Two Kisses and the Fatal Lilies By Bertha M. Clay
43--A Coquette’s Conquest By Bertha M. Clay
44--A Wife’s Judgment By Bertha M. Clay
45--His Perfect Trust By Bertha M. Clay
46--Her Martyrdom By Bertha M. Clay
47--Golden Gates By Bertha M. Clay
48--Evelyn’s Folly By Bertha M. Clay
49--Lord Lisle’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
50--A Woman’s Trust By Bertha M. Clay
51--A Wife’s Peril By Bertha M. Clay
52--Love in a Mask By Bertha M. Clay
53--For a Dream’s Sake By Bertha M. Clay
54--A Dream of Love By Bertha M. Clay
55--The Hand Without a Wedding Ring By Bertha M. Clay
56--The Paths of Love By Bertha M. Clay
57--Irene’s Bow By Bertha M. Clay
58--The Rival Heiresses By Bertha M. Clay
59--The Squire’s Darling By Bertha M. Clay
60--Her First Love By Bertha M. Clay
61--Another Man’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
62--A Bitter Atonement By Bertha M. Clay
63--Wedded Hands By Bertha M. Clay
64--The Earl’s Error and Letty Leigh By Bertha M. Clay
65--Violet Lisle By Bertha M. Clay
66--A Heart’s Idol By Bertha M. Clay
67--The Actor’s Ward By Bertha M. Clay
68--The Belle of Lynn By Bertha M. Clay
69--A Bitter Bondage By Bertha M. Clay
70--Dora Thorne By Bertha M. Clay
71--Claribel’s Love Story By Bertha M. Clay
72--A Woman’s War By Bertha M. Clay
73--A Fatal Dower By Bertha M. Clay
74--A Dark Marriage Morn By Bertha M. Clay
75--Hilda’s Love By Bertha M. Clay
76--One Against Many By Bertha M. Clay
77--For Another’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
78--At War With Herself By Bertha M. Clay
79--A Haunted Life By Bertha M. Clay
80--Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce By Bertha M. Clay
81--Wife in Name Only By Bertha M. Clay
82--The Sin of a Lifetime By Bertha M. Clay
83--The World Between Them By Bertha M. Clay
84--Prince Charlie’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
85--A Struggle for a Ring By Bertha M. Clay
86--The Shadow of a Sin By Bertha M. Clay
87--A Rose in Thorns By Bertha M. Clay
88--The Romance of the Black Veil By Bertha M. Clay
89--Lord Lynne’s Choice By Bertha M. Clay
90--The Tragedy of Lime Hall By Bertha M. Clay
91--James Gordon’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
92--Set in Diamonds By Bertha M. Clay
93--For Life and Love By Bertha M. Clay
94--How Will It End? By Bertha M. Clay
95--Love’s Warfare By Bertha M. Clay
96--The Burden of a Secret By Bertha M. Clay
97--Griselda By Bertha M. Clay
98--A Woman’s Witchery By Bertha M. Clay
99--An Ideal Love By Bertha M. Clay
100--Lady Marchmont’s Widowhood By Bertha M. Clay
101--The Romance of a Young Girl By Bertha M. Clay
102--The Price of a Bride By Bertha M. Clay
103--If Love Be Love By Bertha M. Clay
104--Queen of the County By Bertha M. Clay
105--Lady Ethel’s Whim By Bertha M. Clay
106--Weaker Than a Woman By Bertha M. Clay
107--A Woman’s Temptation By Bertha M. Clay
108--On Her Wedding Morn By Bertha M. Clay
109--A Struggle for the Right By Bertha M. Clay
110--Margery Daw By Bertha M. Clay
111--The Sins of the Father By Bertha M. Clay
112--A Dead Heart By Bertha M. Clay
113--Under a Shadow By Bertha M. Clay
114--Dream Faces By Bertha M. Clay
115--Lord Elesmere’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
116--Blossom and Fruit By Bertha M. Clay
117--Lady Muriel’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
118--A Loving Maid By Bertha M. Clay
119--Hilary’s Folly By Bertha M. Clay
120--Beauty’s Marriage By Bertha M. Clay
121--Lady Gwendoline’s Dream By Bertha M. Clay
122--A Story of an Error By Bertha M. Clay
123--The Hidden Sin By Bertha M. Clay
124--Society’s Verdict By Bertha M. Clay
125--The Bride From the Sea and Other Stories By Bertha M. Clay
126--A Heart of Gold By Bertha M. Clay
127--Addie’s Husband and Other Stories By Bertha M. Clay
128--Lady Latimer’s Escape By Bertha M. Clay
129--A Woman’s Error By Bertha M. Clay
130--A Loveless Engagement By Bertha M. Clay
131--A Queen Triumphant By Bertha M. Clay
132--The Girl of His Heart By Bertha M. Clay
133--The Chains of Jealousy By Bertha M. Clay
134--A Heart’s Worship By Bertha M. Clay
135--The Price of Love By Bertha M. Clay
136--A Misguided Love By Bertha M. Clay
137--A Wife’s Devotion By Bertha M. Clay
138--When Love and Hate Conflict By Bertha M. Clay
139--A Captive Heart By Bertha M. Clay
140--A Pilgrim of Love By Bertha M. Clay
141--A Purchased Love By Bertha M. Clay
142--Lost for Love By Bertha M. Clay
143--The Queen of His Soul By Bertha M. Clay
144--Gladys’ Wedding Day By Bertha M. Clay
145--An Untold Passion By Bertha M. Clay
146--His Great Temptation By Bertha M. Clay
147--A Fateful Passion By Bertha M. Clay
148--The Sunshine of His Life By Bertha M. Clay
149--On With the New Love By Bertha M. Clay
150--An Evil Heart By Bertha M. Clay
151--Love’s Redemption By Bertha M. Clay
152--The Love of Lady Aurelia By Bertha M. Clay
153--The Lost Lady of Haddon By Bertha M. Clay
154--Every Inch a Queen By Bertha M. Clay
155--A Maid’s Misery By Bertha M. Clay
156--A Stolen Heart By Bertha M. Clay
157--His Wedded Wife By Bertha M. Clay
158--Lady Ona’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
159--A Tragedy of Love and Hate By Bertha M. Clay
160--The White Witch By Bertha M. Clay
161--Between Love and Ambition By Bertha M. Clay
162--True Love’s Reward By Bertha M. Clay
163--The Gambler’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
164--An Ocean of Love By Bertha M. Clay
165--A Poisoned Heart By Bertha M. Clay
166--For Love of Her By Bertha M. Clay
167--Paying the Penalty By Bertha M. Clay
A WOMAN’S TRUST;
OR,
Lady Elaine’s Martyrdom
_A NOVEL_
BY
BERTHA M. CLAY
Whose complete works will be published in this, the NEW
BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY.
[Illustration: S AND S
NOVELS]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 SEVENTH AVENUE
NEW YORK CITY
Copyright, 1900 and 1902
By STREET & SMITH
A Woman’s Trust
(Printed in the United States of America)
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. “AT LAST I HAVE MET MY FATE.”
CHAPTER II. A RIFT IN THE LUTE.
CHAPTER III. “MY GOD! ALL IS AT AN END.”
CHAPTER IV. COLONEL GREYSON’S MISSION.
CHAPTER V. “IF HE HAD ONLY COME HIMSELF.”
CHAPTER VI. THE LETTERS TIED WITH BLUE RIBBON.
CHAPTER VII. SIR HAROLD’S DEPARTURE.
CHAPTER VIII. “THE PAST IS ALL A BLANK.”
CHAPTER IX. “I SHALL WAIT, IF NEED BE, FOREVER.”
CHAPTER X. AT LADY GAYNOR’S BALL.
CHAPTER XI. MY PLACE IS HERE TO PROTECT THERESA.
CHAPTER XII. COLONEL GREYSON’S VISIT.
CHAPTER XIII. A STRANGE WILL.
CHAPTER XIV. AN EVIL GENIUS.
CHAPTER XV. LADY GAYNOR SHOWS HER HAND.
CHAPTER XVI. THE VISCOUNT’S SCHEME.
CHAPTER XVII. THERESA’S LOVE.
CHAPTER XVIII. SIR HAROLD’S WALK TO FARNWELL.
CHAPTER XIX. A FUNERAL AND A WEDDING.
CHAPTER XX. THE AWAKENING BEGINS.
CHAPTER XXI. THE VILLA IN HYDE PARK.
CHAPTER XXII. “TO-MORROW SHALL DECIDE.”
CHAPTER XXIII. THERESA’S WARNING.
CHAPTER XXIV. POOR THERESA.
CHAPTER XXV. A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE DUKE’S ULTIMATUM.
CHAPTER XXVII. “WE SHALL NEVER MEET AGAIN.”
CHAPTER XXVIII. MARGARET’S ATONEMENT.
CHAPTER XXIX. PEACE AT LAST.
A WOMAN’S TRUST.
CHAPTER I.
“AT LAST I HAVE MET MY FATE.”
“How ridiculously provoking you can be, Harold!”
“I do not think my remarks are ridiculous, Elaine.”
“Your society is decidedly unpleasant when your conversation takes this
morbid strain,” replied Lady Elaine Seabright.
“I only asked you a natural question, darling,” said Sir Harold
Annesley, an anxious light in his blue eyes. “I am your accepted
lover--your future husband.”
“And in consequence my life is to be made a burden to me!” the
beautiful Elaine exclaimed, pettishly.
“Heaven forbid. Every moment of my waking thoughts shall be devoted to
the happiness of my peerless darling!” He pressed her to him in sudden
rapture.
“Harold, you foolish fellow, I wish that you were less demonstrative.
The people on the lawn will see us. I am sure that papa is looking this
way!”
“No, no! We are safe in this bower of beauty,” laughed Sir Harold.
He pressed another kiss upon her ripe lips, and thanked Heaven in his
heart for the great gift of this girl’s love.
Two short months before, neither dreamt of the other’s existence. Sir
Harold had just returned from an exploring expedition, and his name was
mentioned in the papers. He was eulogized for his bravery in forcing
a passage to some outlandish place in Africa, and at the risk of his
life rescuing a well-meaning but foolish missionary. He had been away
from home for five long years, and it was hoped that he would now stay
in England for good. He represented a grand old line; he was young,
handsome, and wealthy. With all these advantages, it is easy for a man
to become popular anywhere.
Lady Elaine Seabright had read this item of news with languid interest,
and immediately forgot it. A week later it again recurred to her, for
at the county ball she found herself being introduced to Sir Harold
Annesley.
She thought that she had never before seen so perfect a man, and he
remarked to his companion, Colonel Greyson, an hour later, that she was
the most beautiful woman in the whole world.
“Did I not tell you so, Mr. Skeptic?” laughed the colonel. “Lady Elaine
has carried all hearts by storm from the hour she was launched upon
society. She has had a score of lovers.”
Sir Harold sighed and echoed: “A score of lovers!”
“Yes; all hearts that beat in manly bosoms pay homage to the most
beautiful girl in England. But she has come scathless out of the
ordeal, and is free as air after two seasons.”
“I am glad of it,” replied Sir Harold; and Colonel Greyson smiled,
meaningly.
“Why should you be glad?” he said. “Why should you be glad? A confirmed
woman-hater! Beware, Sir Harold!”
The young baronet blushed.
“I am not ashamed to tell you, old friend, that with me it is love at
first sight. I have never loved before; I have never breathed words of
love into any woman’s ear. At last I have met my fate.”
“Go in and win, my boy. You are worthy of any woman,” the colonel
said; then he looked away, adding, “this pleasure is only tempered with
one regret.”
“One regret, colonel? I do not understand you. Be frank with me, as you
have ever been, my more than father.”
“Boy, are you not aware that your cousin Margaret loves you? I believe
that she has worshiped you from her very childhood.”
A shade of annoyance passed over Sir Harold’s face, but it immediately
brightened again.
“Of course, Margaret loves me in a cousinly--a sisterly way, but it
is nothing more, colonel, I assure you. Besides, I could not marry
Margaret Nugent if she were the only choice left to me. I believe that
it is wrong for cousins to marry.”
Just then he caught sight of Lady Elaine, and he had eyes for none else.
“Come,” said Greyson, “we must not hide in this recess like a pair of
conspirators. You are the lion of the evening, Sir Harold, and people
will be inquiring for you.”
They left the conservatory, and a deep sigh, that was almost a sob,
fluttered in the scented air. From behind a mass of sub-tropical plants
emerged the figure of a woman--young and exquisitely beautiful--a woman
with a face that would have sent Titian into ecstasies of delight. She
was of medium height, and her form was outlined in graceful, rounded
curves. There was not an angle or a movement to offend the eye of an
artist. Her face was oval, her lips red and full, her eyes dark and
luminous, her hair as black as the raven’s wing. Among the coils of
these matchless tresses was a red rosebud; about her snowy throat a
necklet of rubies, and her dress was of amber silk.
“He could not marry Margaret Nugent if she were the only choice left
to him!” she murmured, her white hands tightly clinching themselves.
“And is it for this I have loved and waited all these weary years? Oh,
Harold! how can you be so cruel? You have been my ideal--my king! More
precious than my hopes of heaven! And now--oh, God, I cannot stand it!”
She sank into the lounge that the gentlemen had just left, and covered
her eyes with her hands, while her lovely bosom rose and fell with the
bitter pangs of her emotion.
The merry strains of the waltz were maddening, and the laughter of the
happy people in the brilliantly illuminated ballroom made only more
apparent her own misery.
“He has met his fate in Lady Elaine Seabright, and I had thought him
all my own!” she continued, inaudibly. “I have never liked my proud and
haughty friend, and I now hate her with an undying hatred! She shall
not take from me the man I love! If she does, I swear to fill her life
with bitterness equal to that which I suffer now!”
Her eyes had grown black, and flashed gleams of fire; her tiny hands
were clinched, and her beautiful form swelled with fury. In that brief
space Margaret Nugent had changed from a warm-tempered, imperious girl
to a determined and revengeful woman.
Just then some one touched the keys of the piano, and sang the words of
a song that haunted her forever:
“Alone in crowds to wander on
And feel that all the charm is gone,
While voices dear, and eyes beloved,
Shed round us once, where’er we roved--
This, this, the doom must be
Of all who’ve loved, and loved to see
The few bright things they thought would stay
For ever near them, die away.
Though fairer forms around us throng,
Their smiles to others all belong,
And want that charm that dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own.
Where, where the sunny brow?
The long-known voice--where are they now?
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain--
The silence answers all too plain!
Oh! what is fancy’s magic worth,
If all her art cannot call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old
From lips now mute and eyes now cold?
No, no--her spell is vain--
As soon could she bring back again
Those eyes themselves from out the grave,
As ask again one bliss they gave.”
Margaret Nugent clutched at her heart, gasping: “I will not lose him--I
will never give up my hero-king!”
Again the voice of the singer rose:
“Alone in crowds to wander on,
And feel that all the charm is gone.”
“I shall go mad!” murmured Margaret. “Can I get out into the moonlight
unobserved? The cool air will soothe my throbbing brain.”
She looked back into the ballroom, and saw Sir Harold Annesley talking
to Lady Elaine Seabright. Lady Elaine’s flower-like face was turned up
to him laughingly, and Margaret Nugent shivered.
She turned, and gliding from the conservatory, almost reeled into the
vine-wreathed piazza beyond, clutching at the wall for support.
Even here she could not be alone, for a recumbent figure started up
from a low seat, saying, in anxious tones:
“Dear Miss Margaret, are you faint? I have just come out myself to
escape the heat. Can I get you a glass of water?”
“No, thank you, viscount,” replied Margaret. “I am already better--much
better. The heat is stifling.”
“Would you prefer to be alone, Miss Margaret?” went on Viscount
Rivington, “or will you stroll with me in the moonlight for a few
minutes? It is lovely out here, and we shall not be missed now.”
He spoke with a tinge of bitterness in his tones. Margaret looked at
him sharply.
“I understand----” she said, gently, yet with a thrill of satisfaction
in her heart, “I understand. Lady Elaine is as capricious as usual;
Lady Elaine seeks new worlds to conquer!”
He laughed bitterly.
“Sir Harold is the social lion to-night. Every one bows to him,” he
said, “but I will not have him come between me and the woman I worship,
Miss Nugent!”
He turned suddenly upon her.
“You love your cousin--you love Sir Harold. Nay, how could I help but
read your secret when my own heart is torn with jealous fears? I could
curse the fate that brought him here to-night. Lady Elaine had promised
to consider my suit; her father, the earl, was pleased to welcome me as
a favored lover; but now I am extinguished!”
He glanced vengefully toward the gleaming windows just as two people
in the room beyond paused to drink in the beauty of the moonlight. The
brilliant lights behind them made every movement distinct.
“See!” Viscount Rivington whispered. “There they are, Miss Nugent--the
woman I love and the man whom you covet. Are we to stand idly by while
all that life holds dear drifts away?”
“No!” she said, and their eyes met. They understood each other.
CHAPTER II.
A RIFT IN THE LUTE.
“She is the loveliest girl in all England,” the papers said, when
the engagement of Sir Harold Annesley and Lady Elaine Seabright
was announced. “And Sir Harold is the lion of the season. Both are
extremely wealthy, and it is in every way a most suitable match.”
The wooing and winning had been short and decisive. It was love at
first sight on both sides, and the Earl of Seabright was gratified that
his beautiful but capricious daughter was at last conquered.
He was an easy-going nobleman of the old school, intensely proud of his
ancient line, but indolent to a selfish degree where the best interests
of his only child were concerned.
He wished to see her well married, but did not care whom to so long as
there was no blemish on his prospective son-in-law’s name. The man’s
private character was nothing to him if he could boast of wealth and an
ancient pedigree.
“I congratulate you, my boy,” he said, genially, to Sir Harold. “My
willful beauty has been endless trouble to me. All the men at her feet,
you know, and if you had not come upon the scene so opportunely, she
would have struck her colors to Viscount Rivington, I verily believe.
Poor fellow! It will be no end of an upset for him.”
Sir Harold frowned.
“I do not think that Elaine ever dreamed of such a thing,” he said.
“Well, well,” laughed the earl; “if you are satisfied, what does it
matter? One word, my boy; deal gently with her. She is very young,
and has never yet been thwarted. ‘Happy’s the wooing that’s not long
a-doing,’ you know, but these sudden engagements are apt to be as
quickly broken.”
Sir Harold could not forget the words of the earl for some days. The
impression left from them was far from pleasant. He was giving all
to the woman he loved--the past, the present, and the future--and he
expected an undivided return.
So rapid had been the wooing that the plans of Margaret Nugent and
Viscount Rivington had not been permitted formation. It was as
impossible to keep these two apart as to keep the needle from the
magnet.
An early marriage had been suggested by the impatient lover, and Elaine
was not averse to anything which would please Sir Harold. She worshiped
him as a being far above her, though at times his jealous fears pained
her bitterly.
This takes the reader back to the opening words of our story.
Sir Harold was an almost daily visitor at Seabright Hall. His own
estate was but ten miles distant, and, mounted upon his favorite horse,
his had become a familiar figure to the rustics of Seabright.
It was a warm July day, and the few visitors at the Hall were
sunning themselves on the lawn, and listening to my lord’s sporting
reminiscences, while the lovers had wandered to a bower festooned with
roses and fragrant clematis.
“But you have not answered my question, Elaine,” Sir Harold went on,
and there was an earnestness in his tones that surprised her.
She turned her eyes toward him--lustrous eyes, like pansies wet with
dew, saying, “Harold, I believe that you are jealous, and I dislike
jealous people.”
“Then I am to understand that you dislike me?” he smiled; but there was
an undercurrent of sadness in his voice.
“Oh, my darling! how foolish you are! Why will you tease me so?”
Lady Elaine clung to him in a passion of love, and yet he was far from
being satisfied.
“I believe that I am of a jealous nature,” he said. “It is one of the
misfortunes of my race.”
“I am glad that you call it a misfortune,” the girl observed, her lips
trembling, “and I sincerely trust that you will never be jealous of me,
Harold. Where there is jealousy there cannot be true love. You must
trust me all in all, or not at all!”
He was silent for a few minutes, and gnawed his mustache impatiently.
“My darling,” he said, at last, “I have laid bare my life to you. My
notions of love and marriage may seem peculiar, but the thought that
the woman I love had ever willingly accepted the attentions of another
man would be torture to me. I have never had a sweetheart before, I
have never pressed my lips to those of a girl, or written one line of
nonsense to any woman living. I give you all--unreservedly--my first
and my last love.”
She waited for him to continue, her heart burning resentfully.
“I know that I am accounted the luckiest and most enviable mortal
on earth because I have stepped in and taken the prize that so many
sighed for in vain; but, Elaine, my darling, now that we are engaged,
it maddens me to see such men as Viscount Rivington forever dancing
attendance upon you.”
“Harold,” she said, calmly, “what am I to do?”
“You must show by your manners that--that----”
“I cannot be rude to my father’s friend,” she replied, decidedly. “You
are asking too much, Sir Harold. You insult me.”
He had seized her hand in a moment, and was showering kisses upon it.
“No, no, Elaine, a thousand times no! It is only my great love for you
that makes me so exacting. You will forgive me, darling, when I tell
you that I have heard from several people that you were all but engaged
to Viscount Rivington, when I arrived in England, but two short months
since. I want you to deny this, and I shall be eternally satisfied.”
Lady Elaine had turned as pale as death.
“I do deny it, Sir Harold, unequivocally.”
She looked at him fearlessly, and his heart smote him.
“My dear love,” he whispered, remorsefully, “I am satisfied. I will
never doubt you again. This has been a bitter torture to me. Your
father hinted at it long ago, and--and----”
“Well?”
Her tones were cold and hard.
“You told me that it was not true.”
“And you have listened to other falsehoods--to other childish
tittle-tattle. Oh, Harold! what will my future life be if I wed a
jealous man?”
“It shall never occur again, my darling. Do not punish me more, I
beseech you!” cried Sir Harold.
“Why do you not question the viscount?” she demanded, scornfully.
Then she bowed her head and sobbed bitterly.
Sir Harold returned home that evening with a heavy heart. For the first
time since their engagement he and Elaine had not exchanged a kiss at
parting.
She had persistently remained in her own apartments, and at a late hour
he had ridden away to Annesley Park, his heart torn with conflicting
doubts and fears.
And Viscount Henry Rivington saw through it all and smiled.
CHAPTER III.
“MY GOD! ALL IS AT AN END.”
Sir Harold Annesley was the most envied of men among his kind. He was
young, wealthy and famous; possessed of a splendid physique, and the
representative of an old and honorable line. There was no blot on the
escutcheon of the Annesleys; the men had ever been noble and brave, and
the women good and virtuous.
In addition to these splendid attributes and honors, Sir Harold had won
the fairest and loveliest woman in all England. Dukes and princes had
sighed vainly at her feet. She had been the beauty of two seasons, and
had nearly turned the brains of a score of men, but to one and all was
Lady Elaine the same. Kindly and gracious, but as cold as an icicle
when there was the danger of an avowal.
Some of these disappointed lovers declared that she was a coquette;
others that she had no human passions--no heart.
At last her father, my lord of Seabright, spoke to her seriously upon
the subject of marriage.
“It must come some day, Elaine. Surely among all your acquaintances you
must have some preference?”
“No,” the girl replied. “All men are alike. It is dreadful that they
must all pretend to fall in love with me.” Her lips curled with scorn.
“I do not think,” she added, “that one man in a hundred knows anything
of the professions he makes use of so glibly.”
The earl stared at her in surprise. “Why should you think so, Elaine?”
“They are passionately in love to-day, and speaking unkindly of me
to-morrow. Is that love?”
The earl did not feel competent to argue the point, so he wisely evaded
the question by saying:
“Well, let us hope that you will be able to return the affection of
some one before many months are past--Viscount Rivington, for instance.
He is young, handsome, and comes of a great family. He will be a duke
some day, and is very much in love with you.”
“So that these men are of ancient lineage, papa, it does not seem to
concern you whether it is possible for me to love them or not,” Lady
Elaine replied.
“My dear, I sincerely hope that you could not bring yourself to care
for what is termed a man of the people,” the earl exclaimed, in alarm.
“And why not, if he were a gentleman?” laughed Elaine. “There, papa,
why should we talk of these things? I like Viscount Rivington better
than any one else, because he does not rave about broken hearts and
suicide; but as for the love that poets sing about, I fear that I am
incapable of experiencing it. In my early girlhood it was a beautiful
dream that lay before me like an enchanted garden. Now I am becoming
worldly and skeptical. I have not met my prince, and fear that my ideal
lives only in my dreams.”
“What nonsense these poets put into the heads of girls!” my lord
remarked. “Their trash does an incalculable amount of harm, and ought
to be made a bonfire of. However, I am glad that you are beginning to
see the value of it, my child. Try and think well of Rivington. He is a
capital fellow.”
After that Lady Elaine treated the viscount kindly, and he at once
fancied that he was her favored suitor. Then Sir Harold Annesley
appeared, and the beautiful Elaine knew that her prince had come at
last! With one glance Sir Harold won this peerless creature, and to
all his other honors was added this victory. And yet he was not happy!
No sooner was the prize assured than he began to make himself and
Elaine miserable by his quixotic notions of the love of twin souls. The
words of the Earl of Seabright haunted him when he spoke of Viscount
Rivington in connection with Lady Elaine, and while congratulating him,
his cousin Margaret had expressed astonishment that the earl’s daughter
could so quickly transfer her affections from one to the other.
“But it is not true,” Sir Harold had said; “she never cared for the
viscount.”
“Everybody thought that there was a tacit engagement at least,”
Margaret said, “and, of course,” she added, brightly, “everybody may
have been mistaken! People are always ready to take an interest in
other people’s love affairs. Hundreds of engagements are made in this
way, which really have no foundation in fact.”
“It is a great pity that such busybodies have nothing better with which
to employ themselves.”
“It will always be the same,” his cousin replied, indifferently, “so
long as unscrupulous society papers are permitted to print the items
sent in to them by vicious-minded people who make money out of their
news. Still, there is rarely smoke without fire, Harold, and I was
certainly under the impression that Lady Elaine favored the viscount.”
Sir Harold felt vexed and irritable, and after this he was never weary
of hearing Elaine declare that she had given him her first enduring
love.
“Suppose that you had never seen me?” he would say; “what then?”
The bare possibility, even in imagination, of the woman he loved ever
caring for another troubled him.
His persistence became painful to Lady Elaine. It seemed that he
had not implicit trust in her. She who had been so cold and haughty
to others--the spoiled child of an indulgent father, the pet of
society--became almost a slave to the caprices of her lover.
But my lady became indignant at last, and after their interview in the
summer arbor she sent for Margaret Nugent--she sent for the cousin who
knew Sir Harold’s moods, and would perhaps be able to advise her.
Miss Nugent listened, and there was a well-assumed sympathy in her
eyes, in her voice--while her heart was throbbing with triumph.
“You must not let him have his way in all things, Lady Elaine,”
she said. “Time enough for that after marriage. You will lose your
self-respect, and he will not value you any the more for that!”
“I think that you are right, Margaret, and I thank you from the bottom
of my heart. He shall not find me so childish in the future. In my
great love for him I may have acted weakly. I am the daughter of an
earl,” she added, proudly.
There was a resolute ring in her tones, and her head resumed its
haughty pose.
So when Sir Harold came to the Hall next day, an expectant smile upon
his lips, a resolve in his heart to beg Elaine’s pardon, and to promise
never to offend her again, he was informed by a servant that my lady
had gone for a ride, and that she was accompanied by Viscount Rivington.
His face turned so white that the man noticed it, and asked:
“Are you ill, Sir Harold?”
“No,” he returned, shortly. “Which way did her ladyship go?”
“In the direction of Ashbourne, Sir Harold.”
The baronet rode away, and as he galloped through the park, he saw
Viscount Rivington and Lady Elaine crossing a distant hill on their
return home.
His brain was on fire. He dared not meet them now, and continued on his
way--anywhere.
For three days he nursed his jealous wrath, and heard no word of
Elaine. Then news came to him of a garden party at Seabright Hall, to
be followed by a ball.
He could bear it no longer. He was consumed with love and wounded pride.
“I have given her all,” he told himself; “and get but half a heart in
return. She must be everything to me, or nothing!”
He rode over to the Hall, but it was not the happy lover; it was a man
with a stern, white face.
He left his horse in charge of a groom, and asked for Lady Elaine.
“I will wait in the west drawing-room,” he told the footman. “Let her
ladyship know that I am here as soon as possible.”
He paced the floor impatiently, until he saw a vision of loveliness
crossing the lawn toward the house. It was Lady Elaine, attired in a
diaphanous dress of snowy white. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat,
and in her hands were bunches of wild flowers.
“My darling!” he murmured. “Oh, what a brute I am. If she is weak and
frail, then Heaven itself is false!”
In a little while she came into the room, and his words of welcome died
on his lips, for in the eyes of Elaine there was no answering smile.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, hoarsely, “is this the best greeting you
have for me?”
“Why have you absented yourself, Sir Harold, without one word of
explanation?” she asked, with studied coldness.
He instantly resented this by saying: “Absented myself? The last time I
called you appeared to be enjoying more congenial society.”
“It is a relief to be beyond range of your unreasonable temper
sometimes,” Lady Elaine said.
“Oh, my love, this is terrible for me to bear!”
“You think only of yourself, Sir Harold.” Her lips quivered. “You think
only of yourself. I have been too childish and yielding.”
“It is the duty of woman to yield,” he retorted.
“I beg to differ with you. I do not propose to be your slave,” Lady
Elaine responded, bitterly.
There was silence for a little while--a silence that neither ever
forgot.
“We must have an understanding, Elaine,” Sir Harold said, at last. “Do
not let false pride stand between us, my darling. I was angry when I
heard that you were out with Rivington. I saw you together, and it
maddened me. I do not think it right for an engaged woman to listen to
the flattery of any man.”
She laughed musically.
“No? I suppose that you consider me your slave? I object to being any
man’s slave, Sir Harold.”
“Listen to me, my dear love,” he pleaded. “Who speaks of slavery! Oh,
why will you misunderstand me? Have I not lavished upon you the whole
wealth of my affection? Are you not my ideal of all that is good and
beautiful in woman?”
“And yet you do not trust me. I cannot understand such love as that,”
Elaine said.
He held out his arms, and she was not proof against this, but her
determination to maintain her independence remained unshaken. Had she
not already scored a victory?
For a few minutes he caressed her fondly, his face rapturously happy.
“There is only one thing now,” he told her, “that stands between us and
heaven itself. Can you guess what it is, darling?”
“No,” she replied. “How should I know?”
“Then I will tell you, dear.” He held her away from him at arm’s
length. “I want you to promise me that you will not ride out with
Viscount Rivington again?”
She drew away from him, her head erect.
“It is impossible, Sir Harold; I am not your wife yet, remember!”
“Impossible!” he echoed. “Why, may I ask?”
“I decline to answer. If the Viscount desires my society I cannot very
well refuse it. He is an old friend and neighbor. As your wife you may
command me, but again I repeat I am not yet your wife.”
“And never will be,” Sir Harold replied, with terrible calmness,
“unless you respect my wishes now.”
She endeavored to slip his ring from her finger, but was seized with an
awful faintness.
“I believe that it will kill me if I lose you, Elaine,” he went on,
“but I cannot marry a woman who accepts the attentions of other men.
I will leave you to think it over, and to decide between me and
Rivington. Bah! how I loathe his name! If you love me as I love you my
happiness is safe. If you will not give me your promise, I swear that I
will never willingly look upon your face again.”
He sprang toward her and pressed her passionately to his heart; he
showered a hundred kisses on her face mingled with tears that seemed
scalding hot.
“Good-by, Elaine! I can stand this no longer,” he groaned.
He rushed from the room, and for a long time Lady Elaine Seabright was
like one in a dark dream.
Her first impulse when she recovered her numbed senses was to cry:
“Oh, my darling, my darling, come back to me!”
Then Margaret Nugent was announced, and Lady Elaine told her all.
“You have nearly conquered him,” smiled Margaret. “He is merely trying
to frighten you. How well I know him of old! He was always a wayward,
headstrong, loving boy. As children we had our little quarrels through
his overbearing temper, but he always acknowledged at last that he was
in the wrong; I will say that for him, and it will be the same with
you, Lady Elaine. He will come back to you and confess his faults; he
will be so humble when he realizes that you refuse to encourage his
caprices, and let us hope that the lesson will be a wholesome one.”
“But there was a strange look in his eyes that I have never seen there
before,” Lady Elaine said, piteously. “Oh, Margaret, are you sure that
your counsel is good? Are you sure that you understand this strange
jealousy that has come between me and my lover?”
Miss Nugent replied confidently, and for a time her words carried
consolation to the suffering heart.
“I know Sir Harold far better than I know myself,” she said. “I know
the mood he is in exactly. Long, long ago, when we were children, he
left one of his pet birds for me to feed and care for. Let me confess
that I neglected it, and it died--poor, little thing. When my cousin
came home his rage was terrible. I thought then that I should never be
forgiven. He declared that he would never look upon me again--that he
hated me. His passions are violent always. But he apologized a few
days later, Lady Elaine, and he will come back to you in the same way.
I am sure of it.”
Miss Nugent went away thinking, “I shall win Harold yet--I, who have
loved him for years, and have the greatest right to him!”
The next morning’s post brought a letter to Sir Harold--a letter
bearing the Seabright crest.
At sight of it his haggard face lighted up with sudden hope, and he
kissed the dear writing tenderly; then he broke the seal and read:
DEAR HAROLD--Much as I love you, I cannot sacrifice my self-respect by
making the foolish promise you requested.
ELAINE.
“My God!” he gasped, a stony glare in his eyes. “And so it has come to
this! All is at an end!”
He retired to his study, and his valet kept watch at the door. He
feared that Sir Harold meant to end his life.
CHAPTER IV.
COLONEL GREYSON’S MISSION.
“She is heartless, soulless!” groaned Sir Harold. “Oh, Elaine, why
should you be so fair and fickle?”
He paced the floor like a man distraught. His eyes were bloodshot, his
face ashy pale. This misery was more bitter than death.
He had given the one great love of his life; he had tasted the most
ecstatic bliss that had ever fallen to mortal man. But, after all, he
had only been reveling in a fool’s paradise. He had believed that the
earl’s daughter loved him beyond all earthly things; that this was
no idyllic dream, but the meeting of two sympathetic twin souls--a
beautiful reality.
When the first storm of his misery had nearly subsided, he sank into a
chair, and buried his face in his hands.
The Earl of Seabright had warned him to deal gently with Lady Elaine.
She was so young, so willful, so utterly spoiled.
“These sudden engagements are apt to be as quickly broken,” my lord had
said, and now his words rang like the knell of doom in Sir Harold’s
ears. Was all at an end between them? Was their quarrel to be the
subject of a nine days’ wonder? The society papers would enlarge upon
it. Innumerable five-o’clock teas would be enlivened by it, and then it
would be forgotten by everybody but Sir Harold.
Thus he reasoned, and he felt that his heart would be broken, that it
would be forever dead.
“Perhaps it will be better so. She does not love me--she does not love
as I love. I do not want half a heart. I will go away, and the sooner
I am dead the better it will be for me. My life has ever been a bitter
mistake. I am a visionary, and my last delusion will kill me!”
It was a relief to John Stimson, Sir Harold’s valet, that he had a
legitimate cause for knocking at the door of his master’s study. A
footman had appeared bearing the card of Colonel Greyson on a salver.
“He told me to see that he was not disturbed on any account,” he
muttered; “but I shall risk it. I didn’t like the look in his face when
he went into the study, and the awful silence within makes me uneasy.”
He took the salver from the footman, saying:
“All right. I will attend to this. Sir Harold is engaged. Where is
Colonel Greyson?”
“In the blue drawing-room,” the footman replied.
“Thank you; that will do,” said the valet, as he tapped gently on the
door.
To his surprise it was opened at once, and his master took the card
with an exclamation of impatience.
“I told you not to disturb me, Stimson,” he said, harshly.
“But you never refuse to see the colonel, Sir Harold, and I felt
anxious about you.”
Stimson was a privileged servant. He had traveled over half the globe
with his young master, and had nursed him through the yellow fever in
an African swamp.
“You are ill, master, I am sure.”
“Ill?” echoed Sir Harold. “No, I am not ill. I wish to heaven that I
were sick unto death!”
It was a strange speech, but Stimson pretended not to notice it. He
merely said:
“You will see Colonel Greyson, Sir Harold?”
“Yes, I will see him here, in my study,” was the gloomy reply, and when
Stimson had gone he added:
“He it was who introduced us, and who more fitting to be the first to
hear that we are parted forever?”
Then the colonel’s bluff tones fell upon his ears; and he felt his hand
being shaken warmly.
“I have not seen much of you for weeks, my boy,” he was saying; “but
suddenly determined to make an assault upon you. In your bower of
bliss, presided over by I don’t know how many Cupids, you seem to
forget that you are necessary, to a small extent at least, to your
neighbors.”
Every word was like the stab of a knife, and Sir Harold, his heart too
full for words, made a deprecatory gesture.
However, the colonel went on without noticing the agony of his young
friend. The study was a dark room at any time, when no artificial light
was used, and Colonel Greyson was notoriously short-sighted.
“Yes, my boy, we are organizing a steeplechase. Now, don’t tell me that
you cannot ride, or that you have other engagements. You must have a
little consideration for the county. I want you to become even more
popular than you are already, and we may yet run you for a seat in the
House.”
“Colonel,” broke in Sir Harold, “why will you torture me in this way?”
His voice was so harsh that the old soldier promptly pulled himself up,
and began to search for his eyeglasses.
“Torture you, eh? Egad, what is wrong with the boy? Confound it, sir,
what is the trouble? You, whom I account one of the most fortunate men
of the century, talking of torture!
“Is it torture to be a rich man? Is it torture to be young, handsome,
famous and engaged to the loveliest woman under the sun? I tell you
what it is, my boy, you are one of Fortune’s spoiled darlings, and have
been so much surfeited with good things that you do not know what is
best for you! Now, as you have hitherto professed to have implicit
confidence in my common sense, I intend prescribing for you. My dear
fellow, the county cannot possibly get on without you, and I am sure
that you cannot get along without the county! It is my ambition to see
you at the very top of the political tree, and if you take the thing in
hand I am pretty certain as to the result, for your abilities are far
beyond the average, and only want bringing out. Now, about this little
scheme of mine--this steeplechase----”
“Sit down, colonel,” Sir Harold interrupted, closing the door. “I have
something to tell you that will drive steeplechasing out of your head,
so far as I am concerned. I did not intend speaking of my misery to any
living soul, but my confidence is due to you, old friend, though I do
not solicit advice. I know my own case only too well!”
Colonel Greyson listened like a man in a stupor, but he had no
suspicion of the nature of Sir Harold’s trouble until it was revealed
to him in words that seemed to quiver with agony.
“Only a lovers’ quarrel,” he interjected.
“No, colonel, it is no ordinary affair. Mine is no ordinary love; it
is life or death to me. I have not shaped my life in any stereotyped
pattern. I have always been afraid of linking my fate with another,
because I am so intense in all that I profess. It is my misfortune. I
believed that Lady Elaine was capable of loving after my fashion of
loving, but I was wrong, and I wish you to understand that I do not
blame her, though my disappointment will embitter my whole life.”
“You must see her again,” said the colonel, “and I’ll wager that it is
nothing but a storm in a teacup.”
“No, I could not bear the agony of another interview. I have appealed
to her in vain. The reply she has sent to me is final. The engagement
is at an end, and the world may judge as it pleases. I do not suppose
that Lady Elaine will care one jot.”
“You wrong her,” Colonel Greyson retorted, a little angrily. “I have
known Lady Elaine from childhood. She is as good as she is beautiful.”
“I admit that. But, oh, the agony of knowing that she is soulless!”
“I will not listen to such nonsense!” fumed the colonel. “I will see
her myself. It is a duty I owe to both of you, for, in a measure, I
brought you together. Curse Viscount Rivington! I say--though I have no
doubt that your own insane jealousy is at the root of all the trouble.
No young woman of spirit would put up with it. I am determined to hear
both sides of the story.”
Sir Harold shook his head gloomily.
“I will not be content to have the matter patched up,” he said. “My
wife must be all in all to me. My ideal is in my dreams, and to that
alone will I be wedded.”
“Stuff!” interrupted the colonel, inelegantly. “All stuff, sir, depend
upon it! Lady Elaine Seabright will be your wife, and a more perfect
woman never breathed!”
To accentuate this Colonel Greyson brought his fist down upon the table
with a bang.
“Heaven help me!” went on Sir Harold. “I loved her as I believed her to
be, not as she is, and shall do so for evermore!”
“Once again,” pleaded the colonel, “I ask you to see her. You are
acting like an insane man. Why will you wreck two lives when----”
“Don’t--don’t! It is impossible!” groaned the baronet. “If she will
not grant me one reasonable request, with the full knowledge that she
will lose me, it is proof positive that her love is a mere chimera, a
passing fancy, undefinable and worthless! No, colonel, all is at an
end, and I shall leave Annesley Park to-night. My affairs shall be
put into the hands of my men of business in London, and I pray to God
that I may never set foot in the place again! My heart is broken! I
have one request to make of you, old friend, and that is to correct any
wrong impressions that get abroad. Spare Lady Elaine all that may be
annoying, and if any one has to bear the blame, let it be me. We part
now, probably never to meet again, and I wish you to take my farewell
to my cousin, Margaret Nugent.”
The colonel jumped to his feet, tears in his eyes.
He held out his hand, replying huskily:
“I will do all that you ask of me, you foolish fellow, and probably
a great deal more. I hope to see you again, though,” he added,
energetically. “I will see you again! You must excuse my haste; I have
several important matters needing my attention. Good-by!”
He scarcely gave Sir Harold time to reply, but dashed out of the room
into the hall, seized his hat and commanded a servant to see that a
horse was saddled for him at once.
In a few minutes the animal was brought to the door, and the colonel
galloped at a mad pace toward Ashbourne, the seat of the Earl of
Seabright.
“The boy is full of cranky, quixotic notions,” he thought, “and my
lady is too high-spirited and proud to pander to all his follies. As a
consequence, he would ruin two lives. The county cannot afford it. What
does she care for that dandyfied ass of a Rivington? Not one iota! I
consider that the girl has acted very properly. Does he want to shut
her out of the world entirely? By Jove, I feel that I could give him a
piece of my mind!”
When he arrived at Seabright Hall, his horse dripping with foam, the
first person he encountered in the vestibule was Viscount Rivington,
who regarded him in wonderment.
“One of Annesley’s horses,” he observed. “Why, colonel, one would think
that you were the bearer of important dispatches! You must be living
over again the days when you were a military aide-de-camp on active
service.”
“Where is the earl?” demanded the colonel, brusquely. Then he added
fiercely, his gray eyes flashing under his bristling brows: “See here,
Rivington, you are causing trouble between two young people who love
each other dearly. If you are a gentleman, you must stop it. D’ye hear?”
“No man ever dared say that I am not a gentleman!” retorted the
viscount, flushing hotly.
“Then prove that you are worthy of the name,” the colonel said, “or I
may have to stigmatize you as a blackguard! We men of the old school
are still ready to back our words at the sword’s point!”
So saying, Colonel Greyson stalked away in quest of Lady Elaine, while
Viscount Rivington watched him with gathering fury in his black eyes.
CHAPTER V.
“IF HE HAD ONLY COME HIMSELF.”
“Show me into a room where I am not likely to be interrupted,” the old
soldier said to the footman who stepped forward. “And tell Lady Elaine
that I am here upon a matter of great urgency.”
The footman grasped the situation with alacrity. The colonel was a
favorite with everybody. His liberality, if not his past record for
deeds of valor, entitled him to respect, particularly in the servants’
hall.
Colonel Greyson was ushered into a small private library, and ten
minutes later Lady Elaine entered the room, her eyes anxious, troubled
and expectant.
“Good-morning, Elaine!” the old soldier said. He always addressed the
earl’s daughter with easy familiarity.
Her ladyship faintly responded to his greeting.
“There, sit down, my dear, and compose yourself. Why, you are trembling
as though with cold, while I am boiling with perspiration and bad
temper!”
Lady Elaine obeyed, smiling in a wintry sort of way.
“Perhaps it was my duty to see your father first,” the old soldier
began, “but as he is anything but a sympathetic man where young
people’s love affairs are concerned, I have come direct to you, my
dear.”
Lady Elaine paled, and her heart throbbed wildly.
“You have heard?” she hazarded.
“I have heard that two young people who passionately love each other
are trying their utmost to drift into the shoals of misery,” he
replied, kindly.
“Has Sir Harold told you anything?” she demanded, proudly.
It seemed to her a strange thing to do. Why should he make their little
differences public?
The colonel was quick to notice this.
“Elaine,” he said, “I called at Annesley Park to try and induce Sir
Harold to interest himself in local affairs. To my utter astonishment I
found him in the very depths of despair.”
The tears started to the girl’s eyes.
“Now, although I have been like a father to the lad, I had some
difficulty in learning the cause of his misery. At last he told me, in
a disjointed way, that his engagement--that your engagement, was at an
end, and that he was upon the point of starting for some outlandish
place, never to return. I told him that it was all stuff, but he
assured me that you preferred some one else to him, and I have galloped
over here to know what is really the matter. You are just sending the
lad to his death!”
“Oh, colonel, why will you be so unkind to me?” Elaine whispered.
“Because he is a fool!” blurted out the old soldier, angrily. “My
dear, you did a very silly thing in sending him some letter that he
mentioned. Why not undo the mischief at once? What do you care about
Viscount Rivington? Nothing!”
“I hate him,” said Lady Elaine, “but I cannot insult a guest whom my
father honors. Why will Sir Harold be so unreasonably jealous? Why will
he not trust me as I trust him?”
“You must pocket your pride, my dear. I don’t pretend to take sides
with Harold, but you must admit that he never runs after any other
girls. Indeed, he is barely civil to any other woman except yourself.
He is a romantic sort of fellow, a modern knight-errant, full of
poetry, chivalry and all that kind of thing. His friendship or his love
nothing will alter when once given. He is an idealist, and being so
much out of the common run of simpering, deceitful dandies, merits a
peculiar consideration. With all these super-excellent qualities, he is
as stupid as a mule, and if you don’t want to lose him you must call
him back to you--that’s the beginning and the end of it!”
For a little while Lady Elaine was silent. Then she paced the floor
like an insulted queen. It was a struggle between love and pride.
“I will think it over, Colonel Greyson,” she said, tremulously. “I will
think it over, and----”
“You will wait until it is too late, child. The mad-brained fellow will
be gone past recall,” the old soldier said, vigorously.
“Oh, what am I to do?” was her piteous cry. “I have no one to advise
me!”
“Am I not advising you? Let me go back to Annesley Park and tell him
that you wish to see him.”
“But that would mean unconditional surrender,” Lady Elaine replied,
with a flash of scorn. “I will not be treated like a willful child--no,
not if my heart were rended to atoms! What wrong have I done? Sir
Harold listens to every scrap of tittle-tattle and believes it. You
have come to champion his cause, Colonel Greyson, and in your heart you
think that I am all to blame.”
“No--no!” he protested. “You are both equally foolish. If you had seen
him as I have seen him this morning, you would throw your pride to the
winds. Do not let me go away feeling that my efforts have been in vain.
My child, I am old enough to be your father. I am a man of the world,
who has experienced the bitterness and misery of such folly as this.”
“If he had come himself!” murmured Elaine. “If he had only come
himself!”
“Shall I give him that message?” was the eager question. “Yes, I will
tell him that you wish to see him--that you have relented.”
For a minute the girl was silent. Would it be fair to Margaret Nugent?
Had she not kindly counseled her--counseled her with the best of
intentions? And to ignore her would be ungrateful--cruel!
“No, you must take no message from me yet,” she said, imperiously. “You
are probably exaggerating things, Colonel Greyson, in your anxiety to
bring about a reconciliation. You must not forget that, as Sir Harold
Annesley’s wife, I may have to live through many years of such jealous
torture as this, unless I analyze his true character before marriage.”
“What nonsense--what arrant nonsense!” the colonel exclaimed, bitterly.
“I had believed you until now to be possessed of sound reason. Lady
Elaine, I must say that, however severe your punishment may be, you
will well deserve it, and my words may recur to you again in your hour
of grief--when it will be too late--too late!”
He had not intended to be so harsh, but he could not help it.
“You are presuming, sir!” she flashed, haughtily. “I have no desire for
your censorship.”
“No, my lady; your own conscience will be quite enough to bear with!”
He jumped to his feet and turned toward the door.
“At least,” he said, “let us part friends. I have nothing but pity for
you, Lady Elaine.”
His tender tones were more than she could bear, and for a little while
she wept unrestrainedly.
“If you had cared for him as I believed,” he went on, but she
interrupted him with a passionate cry.
“Love him! I worship my darling with all the strength of my being! Oh,
colonel, my pride is broken--the barrier is swept away! I will send a
message to him to-day!”
“Can I tell him this?” he asked, joyously.
“No. You must grant me the favor of not doing so. You can say that you
have seen me, but no more. Promise, colonel!”
“Very well; I will obey my lady’s behest,” he said, reluctantly. “When
will you send this blessed relief to a tortured soul?”
“This afternoon--by one whom I can trust to deliver it with his own
hands.”
“You have made a happy man of me, Elaine. On second thought, I will
not go back to Annesley Park until I can meet Sir Harold, and see the
light of hope and happiness once more in his face. My dear, he will be
at your side within an hour of receiving your message, if horse-flesh
can carry him. You will rescue a man from the brink of inferno--a man
who loves you as woman was never loved before! Good-by! Every moment is
precious, and I will not be the cause of one being lost.”
He pressed her trembling fingers tightly, warm tears springing into his
eyes. Then with a whispered “Heaven bless both of you!” he left the
library.
Lady Elaine heard him ride away, and with a happy resolve in her heart
sought her own apartments.
In one of the passages she encountered Viscount Rivington, quite
unconscious that he had purposely placed himself in her path.
“My dear Lady Elaine,” he said, “I have been in agonies lest the
weather should be unpropitious and upset our plans for a ride to-day.”
“I do not think that I shall go out this morning, viscount,” Lady
Elaine said, sweetly.
“But your promise of yesterday!” he exclaimed, biting his lips with
vexation.
“You are not unkind enough to hold me to it when I particularly wish to
be released?” she asked.
“I am only disappointed,” he replied, bowing. “It is like a black
cloud obscuring golden sunshine to be so suddenly deprived of the
anticipation of so sweet a pleasure.”
She thanked him and passed on. But had she seen the scowl of rage and
hate that distorted the viscount’s features, my lady would never have
tolerated him even as an acquaintance again.
Elaine’s first step was to send a servant in quest of Margaret
Nugent. The Nugents, mother and daughter, lived on the outskirts of
Ashbourne, and within two miles of Seabright Hall. Mrs. Nugent was not
a wealthy woman, but she and her handsome daughter were in comfortable
circumstances.
“Nina,” Lady Elaine said to her maid, “I want you to go to The Ferns,
Mrs. Nugent’s place, and to ask Miss Margaret to come to the Hall at
once.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“You will be sure to impress upon Miss Nugent the urgency of losing no
time, Nina. And, Nina, you may use the pony carriage if you do not care
for the walk.”
“Yes, my lady. Thank you.”
The maid withdrew, and secure in the privacy of her own apartments,
Lady Elaine prepared to write one of the sweetest letters she had ever
written to the man she loved.
“My dear love!” she murmured. “I feel that I have misjudged you. I
will never bother you again with my silly caprices. Oh, how bright and
beautiful the world seems, now that my king will soon be with me again!”
She drew before her a pearl-enameled writing desk, and, having opened
it, penned the following:
MY DARLING HAROLD--Can you ever forgive me for being so cruel to you?
I have myself suffered agonies that words cannot paint. Come back to
me, my love! I will confess that I detest Viscount Rivington, and
promise you that in future your wishes shall be my law. My pride is
humbled to the dust, and you will never be jealous of me again. I can
write no more; only come to me! Forever your own.
ELAINE.
She wrote the loving words with glowing cheeks and eyes beaming with
happiness. Then she sealed up the letter, and kissed it again and again.
“Nina, my trusty maid, shall take this to my lover,” she thought, “and
while she is gone I will tell Margaret that my troubles are ended.”
She was awakened from a blissful reverie by the return of her maid,
with Margaret Nugent following close behind.
“I declare,” exclaimed Miss Nugent, “it is a positive relief to
find that there is nothing seriously wrong. Nina was so urgent,
so mysterious, that I began to anticipate all sorts of awful
possibilities; and here you are looking perfectly happy, Lady Elaine.”
Margaret’s dark eyes promptly took in the situation, as she swept into
my lady’s boudoir, while Nina retired to another room.
“You are right, Margaret; I am happier than I have been for days
and days,” Lady Elaine said. “And it is really very kind of you to
bother with my foolish troubles. I can never forget your sympathy and
kindness.” Then she told Miss Nugent all, concluding:
“You advised me for the best, but my pride is broken. I can live no
longer without my lover.”
Margaret was almost bewildered by the shock.
“You have astonished me,” she said, at last. “I can scarcely realize
that the proud daughter of a hundred earls can possibly become so
meek. But, then, we are all forced to acknowledge that man is lord of
creation, while we poor women are crushed into obedience.”
She tried to laugh, but it was a dismal failure.
“Oh, Elaine,” she added, a pang of bitterness at her heart, “I pity
your future!”
“I am not afraid,” the earl’s daughter replied, softly. “My faith, my
love is too strong.”
Even now she did not for one moment suspect Margaret Nugent hated her
as only a jealous woman can hate.
“I have written to my lover to come back and forgive me,” Lady Elaine
went on, “and now that I have seen you, Margaret, my maid shall take my
letter to him.”
For a moment Miss Nugent turned away her face to hide the flash of
malevolence that sprang to her eyes. Then she spoke quickly, eagerly:
“Oh, Lady Elaine, since my advice has not ended happily, it would be a
pleasure, indeed, for me to be the bearer of the flag of truce to my
willful cousin. His ultimate happiness is one of my dearest wishes,
and, though I have no patience with his moods and freaks, no one cares
more for Sir Harold in a sisterly way than I do. You will grant me this
one favor, please, because I am beginning to feel that in some way
I have been acting disloyally toward him. Mamma and I have to drive
to Annesley Park after lunch, and I will place your letter into Sir
Harold’s own hands.”
“How can I refuse so kind an offer?” Elaine replied. “Who so reliable
a messenger as you, Margaret? Here is my letter---here are the words
which will recall my lover.”
Miss Nugent almost snatched it from her. Then she laughed a forced
laugh, and promised that it should be given to Sir Harold within two
hours.
She gave Lady Elaine a Judas kiss, her heart throbbing with triumph.
Then she went away, saying:
“Your lover will be here soon. How happy you look, Lady Elaine!”
When she was gone the earl’s daughter wandered from room to room, from
house to arbor, wherein she and her lover had spent so many blissful
hours.
As the time sped away her heart pulsed painfully and dark circles began
to form under her eyes.
The sun cast slanting shadows on the grass, then sank to rest in a
cloud of fire. Still Sir Harold did not come.
A young moon mounted the purple sky, and my lady sought her chamber.
The clocks tolled the hours until the servants closed the windows and
doors, and there was no Sir Harold.
“He will come to-morrow,” Lady Elaine told herself; “my love will come
to-morrow.”
But the morrow brought no relief to her tortured soul. Margaret Nugent
came, with pale face and burning eyes.
“I gave Sir Harold your letter,” she said, “but he tore it to atoms and
cast it into my face. He scoffed at you and your love. Oh, Lady Elaine,
you have broken his heart! He has left Annesley Park forever!”
“Gone! Forever!”
The words struggled through the pale lips of the earl’s daughter.
“Do I hear you aright--he scoffed at my love; he destroyed my letter?
Just Heaven, help me to bear this pain!”
She fell prone to the floor, like one stricken with death.
CHAPTER VI.
THE LETTERS TIED WITH BLUE RIBBON.
Sir Harold Annesley had been in England so short a time that he had
made few friends, and not even these had any particular claim upon him.
He had no reason to consider them; he had no explanations to make. Was
he of any importance, after all? There would be a ripple on society’s
water when the story was given out that his engagement to Lady Elaine
Seabright was broken; then all would become calm again. He might be
condemned, but he did not care for that. He would be far away, where no
blame could reach his ears.
When Colonel Greyson had gone he heaved a deep sigh of relief. The
colonel was well-meaning, but he did not understand. It was impossible
for him to understand.
“I have said good-by to my old friend,” thought Sir Harold, “and I am
glad of it. One bitter parting at least is over, and, in dread of his
interference, I will hasten my movements.”
There was determination in every line of his face, in every motion of
his strong figure.
“No,” he repeated again and again, “the unhappy affair shall not be
patched up by any one. I would rather die than marry a woman in whom I
have not absolute faith and trust. It is perhaps hard upon Lady Elaine
that she has been misunderstood by me. I have idealized a creature of
clay, and because the veil is torn from my eyes she must suffer--if she
has heart enough to understand!”
The bitter words escaped him in accents of scorn. Then he held his
hands toward heaven and cried:
“Merciful God, forgive me, if I am wronging her! Oh, my darling! my
darling!”
The strong man wept, and it seemed to him that his tears must be tears
of blood!
For an hour he scarcely moved. Then he summoned his valet, who came to
him with anxious eyes.
“Stimson,” Sir Harold said, “how long have you served me?”
The valet hardly understood the question, but he answered:
“Nine years, Sir Harold.”
“And you have always been faithful to me and satisfied with your
position?”
“I have no wish to change it,” the valet said. “I would like to die in
your service, Sir Harold.”
“I believe you, Stimson, I believe you.”
The young baronet paced the floor for a minute, then he went on:
“I am leaving Annesley Park, Stimson, at once. I do not know whither
I am going. The prospect to any one but myself cannot be very
encouraging, because I have no intention of ever coming back again.”
The valet was startled.
“Under the circumstances,” his master continued, “I cannot ask you to
share my exile, Stimson--I can ask no one--and I think that I shall be
best alone.”
“Let me go with you, Sir Harold,” the valet begged. “I have no friends,
no relations, in England; I have no ties, and I care for nothing, so
long as I am with you.”
The baronet was visibly affected.
“I want you to clearly understand,” he said, “that nothing can change
my future plans.”
“I am content, Sir Harold, whatever they may be,” was the firm reply.
“Then let everything be ready for my departure to London to-night.”
“To-night!” echoed Stimson. “Very well, Sir Harold.”
“You must tell no living soul whither I have gone, and be prepared to
join me to-morrow. I may even change my name, my very identity. I never
wish to be known to the world as Sir Harold Annesley again. You will
deny me to everybody, Stimson. I have said good-by to Colonel Greyson.
Yes, deny me to everybody except my cousin, Miss Nugent, if she should
wish to see me. There, Stimson, I have nothing more to say. For an hour
or two I shall be busy with my letters. In the meanwhile be ready to
see me off by the six o’clock train to London.”
His manner was now calm, almost perfunctory, and Stimson went about his
duties, his mind in a chaos of bewilderment.
“Of course,” thought the valet, regretfully, “a woman is at the bottom
of the trouble. Women always are. But who would have thought that Lady
Elaine could not agree with Sir Harold?”
Meanwhile the baronet indited half-a-dozen business letters. They were
concise and to the point, as such letters always were with him. Not one
betrayed a single emotion beyond the cold facts they stated.
Then he turned to his desk and opened it, a groan bursting from his
lips.
Among other treasures was a tiny bundle of letters, held together with
a piece of blue ribbon, and in a secret recess the portrait of a lovely
girl.
In the haughty eyes there was the soft light of love; the firm mouth
was curved with love’s tender lines. The whole face was as beautiful as
that of the most idealized angel. This was Lady Elaine Seabright.
“Dear God,” Sir Harold groaned, “why should woman be so fair to lure
man’s soul to perdition? Who could doubt the goodness and purity of the
woman who has made of my life a desolate waste by merely gazing upon
this delusive picture!”
A cry of rage escaped him, and he nearly tore the photograph in half.
Then he bent his face to the table, and his form shook with convulsive
sobs.
“I am only suffering as thousands have suffered--as thousands of
men are suffering now,” he thought. “Can it be that I am the most
despicable coward of them all? Let me put it from me! Let me be a
man, not a pitiful cur! My heart cries aloud for love and gets a
sword-thrust! What is my duty now? A renunciation of every happy dream.
My life begins anew from this very day. I have been a lotus-eater; my
brain has been steeped in the opium of self-delusion. I will write an
answer to Lady Elaine. I did not think that my nerves would permit me
to attempt such a thing, but now I feel that this is one of my first
duties. It shall not be said that I went away without one word, and my
lady will be free to love where she will!”
A cold chill passed from head to foot, his brain reeled; he felt that
to utter such words were almost blasphemy.
He drew writing materials before him and penned the following:
MY BROKEN IDOL--I hardly know whether I am writing to a creature of
my dreams, or to one who is possessed of neither heart nor soul! Oh,
Elaine, your last letter has slain every hope that life held so dear!
Better had you pressed to my lips the poison cup--better to have
sheathed a dagger in my heart than rend it to atoms and leave the body
living. I give you your freedom. I am leaving Annesley Park forever.
You will never see or hear of me again. I shall take particular care
of that. Your bondmaster sets you free! Think of me kindly, if you
can--if you ever trouble to think of me at all--and believe that I
have none but the most sincere wishes for your future welfare.
HAROLD ANNESLEY.
“This shall be posted to-morrow,” he decided. “I will leave it in the
hands of Stimson. When she reads it let me be far away!”
Just then the mournful strains of an old harmonium fell upon his ears,
and he started up in surprise, to find that a couple of musicians had
found their way into the park, and were playing almost under his window.
He was about to toss them some silver and send them away, when his eyes
fell upon a girl of rare beauty, who was turning over some music and
preparing to sing.
She was attired in the picturesque costume affected by the peasant
class of Italy, and in the rich coils of her black hair was a bunch of
crimson flowers.
Presently she opened her ruby lips and warbled softly:
“Away, away! You’re all the same--
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!
Oh, by my soul, I burn with shame
To think I’ve been your slave so long!
“Slow to be warned, and quick to prove,
From folly kind and cunning loth;
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that’s best in both.
“Still panting o’er a crowd to reign,
More joy it gives to woman’s breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain
Than one true manly lover blest.
“Away, away! Your smile’s a curse!
Oh, blot me from the roll of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,
Before I love such things again.”
Sir Harold listened like one who was charmed. Then he opened the
window and dropped a gold coin into the girl’s brown palm.
“Thank you, kind signor!” she said, in perfect English. “Shall I sing
to you again?”
“Yes, sing me that song once more. The words appeal to me strongly, and
the air is admirably adapted to your sweet voice,” cried Sir Harold.
The girl gazed at him wonderingly for a moment; then a soft light stole
into her beautiful, dark eyes, and she sang to him again, a world of
passion in her liquid notes:
“Away, away! Your smile’s a curse!
Oh, blot me from the roll of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,
Before I love such things again.”
Sir Harold never forgot those words, and they rang in his ears, the
requiem of all his dead hopes!
“Has the kind signor loved one who is frail?” the girl whispered,
softly.
“Once more sing to me,” was his reply, and the man at the harmonium
played the prelude, glad to have so generous a patron, though he
occasionally cast uneasy glances toward his daughter.
Sir Harold was rudely awakened from the spell that the youthful singer
had cast about him by the metallic tones of his cousin, Margaret
Nugent, who had entered the room unobserved.
“My dear Harold,” she was saying. “What is the meaning of this
_extempore_ concert? What a sweet voice the girl has!”
The baronet turned as the musicians went away, the girl casting back at
him pitying glances from her liquid black eyes.
“And pretty, too, is she not?” continued Margaret. “Why, goodness,
Harold! What is wrong with you? Is it the old story--the first quarrel?”
“Do not jest, Margaret,” Sir Harold groaned. “I know that, in a
measure, you have been Lady Elaine’s confidante, but I will add to all
else that you may know that everything is at an end between us, and
that you have just arrived here in time to say good-by.”
She glanced at him sympathetically, and replied:
“My poor Harold, I am sorry, but I am not surprised. Lady Elaine is
young and thoughtless. Such love as yours she does not understand. Must
we part with you?”
In her heart she thought:
“And the sooner he goes the better, lest that meddlesome Colonel
Greyson will take it into his head to come here again. A few months
will suffice to efface her from his heart, and then----”
“I will not inflict myself upon you now, Harold,” she went on, “but
you will let us know--mamma and me--where you are going to--how you
are progressing? I do not like this sort of thing, but it is not
altogether a surprise for me. For goodness’ sake, don’t worry yourself
to death! How could I bear that? There is at least one who cares for
you disinterestedly.”
She dropped her eyes, conscious that they were burning with all the
passion of her intense nature.
“Yes, Margaret,” Sir Harold said, sadly, “you have ever been a dear,
dear sister to me, and I think that I esteem you now more than at any
other time. I have met with a severe shock, a disappointment which no
words can describe. I hate my home, my country even, and shall again
become a wanderer in strange lands, until the edge of my grief is
blunted.”
“But you must write to us, Harold”--there was real pain in her
voice--“you must write to us, and I am sure that you will be glad to
come home again to those who really care for you!”
“Some day I may, Margaret, but it may not be for years! I leave
to-night!”
She wept a little, then pressed his fingers in parting, and he was
grateful for her womanly sympathy.
CHAPTER VII.
SIR HAROLD’S DEPARTURE.
“Here is a letter for you to post, Stimson,” Sir Harold said, two hours
later. “Put it into the box with your own hands. To-night I am going
to London, and you must join me at the Southwestern Hotel to-morrow
afternoon. I have placed my affairs in the hands of my men of business,
and I want you to feel perfectly satisfied that you will never regret
leaving home, perhaps forever.”
“My home is with you, Sir Harold,” was the fervent response.
“Tell no one whither I am gone, and when you rejoin me, be careful that
your movements are not watched by well-meaning friends.”
Stimson gathered a few points of necessary information regarding the
luggage required, and one hour later Sir Harold left the park, simply
attired in ordinary walking costume and carrying a light cane. To an
ordinary observer he appeared to be going for a stroll. There was
nothing in his manner to indicate that he was a broken and hopeless man.
Until he reached the end of the avenue, he looked neither to the right
nor to the left. Then he paused and gazed over the smiling gardens,
now aflame with flowers. The park stood darkly beyond, clothed in its
summer dress, and in the shadow of a thousand murmurous trees nestled
his beautiful home.
“Oh, Heaven!” he gasped. “What might have been! What might have been!”
He believed that he was alone, but his gesture of despair had been
seen by other eyes--his words of agony had reached other ears.
There was the sound of a soft footfall, and he turned to behold the
Italian singer.
“Pardon, kind sir,” she said. “I feared that you were in trouble.”
“Trouble!”
He laughed a low, mirthless laugh.
“Trouble, child! Ah, such trouble that never entered another heart! You
wonder in your innocence that I--the owner of all these broad lands,
of yonder noble home--you wonder what I can know of trouble! For your
simple life, even though you know not from one day to another how you
are to live, God knows how gladly I would exchange, if the past could
be forever blotted out!”
He turned to continue his way, but spoke again.
“You have not told me your name.”
“Theresa Hamilton,” she said, simply.
“Hamilton!” he replied. “That is not an Italian name.”
“No, sir. My father is an Englishman. My dear dead mother was an
Italian. My father and I live together at Tenterden, a village twenty
miles away. I only sing for money when it is hard to obtain the rent
for our pretty cottage. Ah, here comes father! One of the wheels of his
harmonium carriage came off, and he has been to the village to have it
repaired. We are going home now.” She paused and added in a whisper:
“Ah, kind signor, I hope that you will not be long unhappy!”
The musician came toward them, and seemed a little surprised that his
daughter should be talking to the lord of this great domain.
He frowned slightly, saying:
“Come, Theresa, we must hurry if we are to catch the train.”
He bowed distantly to Sir Harold, and, having placed the harmonium in
the carriage, he started away, dragging the instrument after him.
Theresa looked back once, and the baronet found himself gazing at her,
he knew not why.
“Let me do what little good I can with my useless life,” he thought.
“Even such a chance as this may never occur again.”
He followed the musicians, and drew from his pocket a handful of coins,
but the sharp eyes of John Hamilton had observed the movement.
“You will excuse me, Sir Harold Annesley,” he said with dignity. “My
child sings for money, and I employ my poor powers to assist her, when
we are driven to do so by dire necessity, but we do not beg. Pray keep
your money.”
The girl blushed painfully, and the young baronet continued on his way,
a bitter laugh upon his lips. Even that small pleasure was denied him.
The nearest railway station was called Crayford, and when he asked for
a ticket to London the booking clerk was startled by his hoarse tones
and the strange, gray pallor of his face.
He had a quarter of an hour to wait, and paced the platform with quick,
restless strides. He dreaded lest some friend should follow him. He
felt that any interference now would madden him.
At last the bell rang, and he heard the distant scream of the coming
train. There were few people on the platform, but at the last moment
John Hamilton arrived with his harmonium and his beautiful daughter.
The instrument had to be lifted into the luggage van, a task that the
railway porter did not relish, and he was not slow in showing the
contempt he felt for traveling musicians and such like.
The same man subsequently attended upon Sir Harold, and was surprised
to find himself gruffly ordered out of the way.
The train started, and until he heard a hoarse cry of “Tenterden,
Tenterden!” he had lost count of time and space. Then he awakened to
a momentary interest in life, for he remembered that the sweet singer
told him that she and her father lived at Tenterden.
He looked from the window and saw that the station was a mere wooden
shanty.
It appeared to be quite deserted now, and the old musician was
struggling to lift his harmonium out of the luggage van, while the
guard swore roundly at him for wasting the company’s time.
All at once there was a crash, and a cry of anger and dismay from John
Hamilton, mingled with the laughter of the guard, as the train steamed
onward again.
In a moment Sir Harold had grasped the situation. The harmonium had
been precipitated to the platform, and lay a wreck, while the old
musician was alternately bewailing his misfortune and threatening the
railway company.
Burning with pity and indignation, the young baronet resolved to help
the old man in his distress, and, opening the door of the carriage,
sprang lightly to the ground.
No one appeared to have seen his action, and the train steamed slowly
from view round a curve in the line, and in this simple manner
commenced one of the most extraordinary mysteries of modern times.
When Sir Harold’s feet struck the earth he had not correctly estimated
the speed at which the train was traveling, and was thrown violently
down.
His head struck a large stone, and he lay, dazed and unconscious.
CHAPTER VIII.
“THE PAST IS ALL A BLANK.”
It was four weeks before Sir Harold opened his eyes to the beauty of
the summer world.
There was not much wrong with him bodily, but mentally he was a wreck.
His memory had been completely destroyed.
He gazed wonderingly at his surroundings, and inhaled the odor of a
hundred flowers that ornamented the table in the humble little room he
occupied.
Near to a latticed window sat an old man reading, and Sir Harold
watched him curiously. He never remembered to have seen him before.
John Hamilton glanced anxiously at his guest.
“Do you recognize me yet, Sir Harold?”
“Recognize you? No, sir. Who are you?”
“My name is Hamilton. I am the musician whose daughter sang to you at
Annesley Park. Do you not remember falling from the train?”
“No, sir,” replied the baronet. “I think that you must be mistaken.”
John Hamilton sighed.
“You fell, and hurt your head terribly,” he went on, “and I have nursed
you through a long mental illness. I did not call in a doctor for
several reasons, one of which is that I once practiced the healing art
myself.”
“I remember none of these things,” Sir Harold said; “I would not even
know that my name were Sir Harold if you did not tell me so. The past
is all a blank.”
“This is terrible--terrible!” John Hamilton groaned.
“I do not experience any of your terrors,” laughed the young man.
“What a lovely day! If you will permit it, doctor, I would like to go
out into the sunshine.”
“Certainly, sir! It may do you much good.”
He gazed anxiously at his guest for a few moments; then he assisted him
to dress, and the light, boyish laughter of Sir Harold shocked him.
“He is happy now,” he thought, “and perhaps it will be a blessing to
him if he never again awakens to his misery--the misery that I have
heard was driving him from his home. It was my duty to warn his friends
of his whereabouts, but I dared not do it. I should have brought ruin
upon myself and child.”
Sir Harold nodded brightly to him as he left the room and strolled into
the garden. And such a garden it was--of blossom and perfume! It seemed
to be scented by many millions of flowers.
As he wandered about he whistled merrily. He did not dream that he was
being watched by loving, anxious eyes. He knew of nothing but the happy
present.
Then John Hamilton called Theresa to him, and bade her sing the songs
in which Sir Harold had been so interested on that fatal day a month
ago.
“Oh, father,” she whispered, “must I?” Her lips quivered.
“Yes,” he said, sternly. “His memory must be awakened. He cannot stay
here forever.”
She seated herself at the window, while her father played an
accompaniment, and sang in her matchless tones the scoffing words of
Moore:
“Away, away! You’re all the same--
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!
Oh, by my soul, I burn with shame
To think I’ve been your slave so long!
“Slow to be warned, and quick to prove,
From folly kind and cunning loth;
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that’s best in both.
“Still panting o’er a crowd to reign,
More joy it gives to woman’s breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain
Than one true manly lover blest!
“Away, away! Your smile’s a curse!
Oh, blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,
Before I love such things again!”
Sir Harold listened with a smile on his face, and when the singer had
finished he stepped toward the window, while Theresa watched like one
who was fascinated.
“To whom am I indebted for such sweet music?” asked the young man. Then
he paused and bowed gallantly upon observing the figure of Theresa
Hamilton, who was half-crouching behind her father.
“This is my daughter, sir,” Mr. Hamilton said. “Do you mean to tell me
that you do not remember her?”
Sir Harold smiled.
“If I have ever seen the lady before, the circumstance has quite
escaped me,” he replied. “But I hardly think that I could forget any
one so lovely.”
A low moan of surprise and fear left Theresa’s pale lips, and her
father looked on displeased.
“Sir Harold Annesley,” he said, “I am placed in a desperate position,
and I have none to advise me what is best to do. I hoped that you would
be off my hands in a few days, and intended demanding that you keep my
identity a secret. I think that you understand what I say, though your
mind regarding all that is past has become a blank.”
“Yes, I understand,” replied the young man, his admiring gaze fixed
upon Theresa’s sweet face.
“My child,” observed Hamilton, turning to her, “you had better leave
us.” Then, as she began to move away, he added: “But, no. It is just as
well that you hear. Sit beside me, Theresa.”
The girl obeyed him, and he went on addressing Sir Harold.
“I wish you to understand your position, sir. Are you not aware that
you are a wealthy man, a famous man, whose unaccountable disappearance
is the talk of all England?”
“I am not aware of this,” smiled Sir Harold. “It may appear to be a
terrible thing to you, but I am like a man who has just dropped into
a half-familiar world from some mystery that he cannot fathom. My
faculties are clear and my health and strength unimpaired. I do not
know why I am famous, and I have no use for wealth. But tell me all
of myself that you know. At present I am more amused than alarmed by
whatever misfortune may have befallen me.”
Theresa was watching him, pity and love smoldering in her soft, dark
eyes.
“A few weeks since,” Hamilton went on, “I had never seen or even heard
of you. For five years I have lived in this cottage, a recluse who
hates and fears the world beyond. I see surprise in your face, and
I will explain. By profession I am a doctor, but it is long since I
practiced the healing art until you crossed my path, and Theresa and I
have lived upon the scanty earnings of my pen. When this has failed me,
and we have been pressed for money, it has been comparatively easy to
make up our deficiencies by playing and singing before the houses of
the wealthy. In this way we came to Annesley Park. Do you remember?”
“No, sir; I do not.”
There was not the faintest hesitation in Sir Harold’s tones.
“Well, my daughter’s singing attracted your attention,” went on John
Hamilton, “and you were free with your money. You appeared to be in
great trouble, and I pitied you from the bottom of my heart, though I
resented your offer of further money a little later.”
“I am sorry,” faltered Sir Harold, and Hamilton smiled faintly.
“You entered the same train with us, and I did not think of you again
until I saw you lying insensible some thirty yards beyond the platform
of Tenterden railway station.”
“Extraordinary!” murmured Sir Harold, pressing his hands to his brow.
A sharp spasm of pain shot through his head, and he added:
“No, no! I will not try to remember. I feel dazed and bewildered. I do
not wish to remember.”
“My duty was clear,” continued Hamilton. “I ought to have sent to
Annesley Park at once, but I was afraid for myself--I was afraid for
Theresa, because the story would have got into the papers. I thought
that I would cure you, exact from you a promise of secrecy, and send
you away; but now I know not what to do.”
“What is this fear that you have concerning yourself?” asked Sir
Harold; but he did not press the question when he met the appealing
glance of the old man.
“Some day,” Hamilton whispered in his ear, “I will tell you. It affects
my darling child even more than myself. Her life, if not mine, is in
danger.”
There was silence for a few minutes; then the old man went on:
“When you had been here a little while, Sir Harold, I read in the
papers something of your trouble. I had not bought a newspaper for
years, but I was anxious to see what they had to say about you--to
learn if there was even a suspicion concerning your whereabouts.”
“Yes; go on with this extraordinary story, Mr. Hamilton. I am
interested because it concerns myself, not that I have any knowledge of
one hour of my past.”
“I will tell you everything, and then you shall decide upon your future
course. You were engaged to be married, Sir Harold, to one of the
highest ladies in the land--to Lady Elaine, the daughter of the Earl of
Seabright.”
He looked keenly at the young baronet, and only saw a puzzled smile,
that deepened into one of incredulity.
“I do not remember Lady Elaine,” he observed, “and to the best of my
belief this is the first time that I have ever heard the lady’s name.”
“You were engaged to her, and the papers say that you loved her madly,
but that you deserted her because you believed that she was not true to
you.”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Sir Harold, “this is extraordinary! Are you quite
sure that you are not mistaking me for some other man?”
He buried his face in his hands and tried to think, but again was
afflicted by an agony that was excruciating.
“Mr. Hamilton,” he said, at last, “I cannot recall one incident--I
cannot recall one hour of my past. The accident which has befallen me
may be considered a terrible one, but at present I cannot be brought to
regard it as such. It does not make me suffer in the least until I try
to use my darkened brains. I cannot doubt one word of your story, but
I have no wish to go back into a world that will have nothing but pity
for me. Some time in the future I may recover what I have lost, but I
have no desire to do so, for it seems that my life must in some way
have been a failure.”
“Sir Harold,” cried John Hamilton, in dismay, “you must permit me to
take you home! I do not like to hear you talk in this way. I will tell
your story to your friends without revealing too much of myself, and
you will be cured by some of the great doctors of the day.”
“No, no!” pleaded the young baronet. “I could not bear to be pitied!
Time will heal all things. Do you not see that I should be held up to
ridicule everywhere? A man who had been jilted--a man who was little
better than an idiot! The idea that I might eventually be adjudged
insane is terrifying! Do you not see the force of my reasoning?
Suppose that I return to Annesley Park, and specialists are called
in to diagnose my case--what will be the result? I shall be pitied
and ridiculed. I cannot remain in blissful ignorance of this like
the ordinary lunatic, even if the doctors were unsuccessful. My life
would be to me a daily torture. I may even have a keeper constantly
at my elbow, or be shut up altogether in an asylum for idiots. On the
other hand, if I am cured, my mind will reawaken to much that will be
unpleasant, and the ridicule will be the same. People will point at me,
and say: ‘There goes a man who went mad because a woman jilted him!’ I
could not bear it, and I am so happy here! No, sir! Let me stay where I
am until the excitement has cooled down. Let me enjoy the perfect peace
of this little paradise until I can face the world again as Sir Harold
Annesley of old!”
Theresa had listened to him with shining eyes, and now she turned them
anxiously, appealingly, toward her father.
“Shall I be doing right if I accede to this request?” the old man
muttered.
“You have spoken of some reason for the recluse-like life you are
leading,” added Sir Harold; “you have spoken of some danger that
menaces your daughter if your identity be discovered. Why should you
run the risk of this? If you object to my presence here, let me go
quietly away elsewhere.”
At that moment he saw the light of adoration in Theresa’s humid eyes,
and he never forgot it.
“Sir Harold,” Mr. Hamilton said, brokenly, “you shall please yourself.
You shall do just as you wish--all but one thing. I cannot part with
you; I dare not let you go away until God lifts the cloud that has
blotted out your past. We are poor--miserably poor--but you will not
miss the luxuries of life now, and it may be that soon, very soon, you
will awaken to the full knowledge of all that you have lost. At least,
we will hope for the best. We will wait for a while, and then----”
But Sir Harold interrupted him with words of thanks, saying:
“Enough, sir; I am quite satisfied. You have told me sufficient to
convince me that my past, whatever it may be, is linked with the
perfidy of some woman--that it is one of misery. The present is one
of perfect joy! I shall not be a burden upon you. I have money in my
pocketbook amounting to hundreds of pounds. I will stay until I can
return to the world a rational being, and it will be amusing to read
the papers about myself--to see how a man is valued after he is thought
to be dead.”
He laughed a little, and while Mr. Hamilton grasped his hand in token
of acquiescence, Theresa glided swiftly from the room to hide her joy.
CHAPTER IX.
“I SHALL WAIT, IF NEED BE, FOREVER.”
The mysterious, unaccountable disappearance of Sir Harold Annesley was
the talk of all England.
In some way, the quarrel between himself and Lady Elaine Seabright had
got into the papers. First, it was published in a society journal; then
it went the whole round of the press.
This is the way in which the public received the news:
ROMANCE OUTDONE.--It now transpires that the quixotic young baronet,
who has provided society with a new nine days’ wonder, has violently
quarreled with his _fiancée_, the Lady Elaine Seabright. My lady
discovered at a very early stage of their love-making that Sir Harold
was periodically attacked with insane jealousy. The theory of Stimson,
the valet, that his master has met with foul play is absurd, simply
because he got rid of Mr. Stimson by a sly trick. No, Sir Harold
merely left England under an assumed name, and is no doubt quietly
enjoying the sensation he has created. At any rate, he is teaching his
capricious ladylove a lesson which she may not readily forget.
Colonel Greyson read this with bristling mustache and a face purple
with anger.
He showed it to Margaret Nugent, little dreaming that the cruel story
had emanated from her. Then he rode over to Seabright Hall, and found
that a marked copy of the paper had been sent to Lady Elaine.
This was his first visit since he had appealed to her on behalf of her
lover. He had started on his journey with fierce resentment in his
heart, but at sight of Elaine’s white face his anger turned to tender
pity.
The earl was disgusted with the whole affair. He pretended that he
could not understand it.
“Egad, sir,” he said, “if Sir Harold has gone away deliberately,
leaving my daughter to be made a laughing stock of, I say that he is
worse than a scoundrel; he is a coward! For my part, I never wish to
see or hear of him again. She can have her pick among a score of better
men, and is a fool to give him another thought. I’ll call him out, by
Jove!”
“I have not come here to defend him,” replied Colonel Greyson; “but
Sir Harold Annesley is neither a scoundrel nor a coward. There is
some mystery about the affair that is quite beyond me. He made all
arrangements for his valet to meet him in London. He left Crayford by
the six o’clock train on the evening preceding, and has never been seen
or heard of since.”
“Disguised himself!” sneered the earl. “He is so used to newspaper
sensation that he must have it at any cost.”
The colonel glared at him angrily, but went on:
“I don’t believe one word of it. I know the boy too well. I have had
a clever detective at work for a week, and we have not advanced one
step. He made several appointments in London, not one of which he
kept. He was perfectly sane when he went away, and quietly wished his
cousin, Miss Nugent, good-by. He went away under the impression that
Lady Elaine did not really care for him; but I will swear that he never
contemplated this miserable scandal. His final wishes were that he
should bear whatever blame was attached to the----”
The earl interrupted him with a harsh laugh.
“It is of no use, my dear Greyson,” he said; “your defense only makes
his actions appear the more contemptible. For some reason, he wished to
break the engagement between himself and Lady Elaine, and adopted this
course for the sake of the theatrical effect. He will turn up again
from Timbuctoo or some other outlandish place, by and by, for the sole
purpose of creating another sensation; but he may get far more than he
expects. For my part, I wash my hands of the affair, and shall insist
upon Lady Elaine accepting Viscount Rivington.”
The earl spoke decidedly, and Colonel Greyson had little to say. What
argument could he offer? None, until the mystery surrounding Sir
Harold’s movements was cleared up.
He did not tell the earl that his visit was to Lady Elaine, and when
she did not appear at the dinner-table he became anxious.
“I hope,” he observed, “that your daughter is not ill, my lord?”
“She is pretending to be,” was the rejoinder. “Of course, this farce
must be kept up for a time. I hope you will not stuff any nonsense into
her head, colonel.”
“I hope not,” was the reply.
“I am glad to hear that she is ill,” he thought, “though I would not be
surprised to find the child of such a father perfectly heartless.”
He began to give up all hope of seeing Lady Elaine as the evening
advanced and she did not appear. The earl was not particularly cordial,
and he had no pretense for prolonging his stay.
Luckily, he encountered my lady’s maid in one of the passages, just
when he was fuming savagely, and bade her tell her mistress that he
desired a few words with her.
“That is,” he added, a little considerately, “if she is well enough to
see me. I will wait in the west drawing-room.”
Lady Elaine came much sooner than he had expected, a world of anxiety
and suffering in her face.
He stepped forward swiftly and took one of her hands between his,
thinking, “Poor child! How I have misjudged her!”
“I did not know that you were here, Colonel Greyson,” Lady Elaine
said, faintly. She sat down and looked at him pleadingly.
“You have no news for me?”
“None,” he replied, sadly. “I came here to-day to see if you--if you
cared at all.”
“If I cared!” she echoed. “Do you not see that my heart is breaking;
that this horrible suspense will kill me? The papers are full of cruel
things, and if I have sent my darling to his death, I have no further
wish to live.”
“The papers?” he questioned, and then his eyes blazed with anger when
she took from her pocket a marked copy of the society journal which had
tried to make scandal out of her misery.
“Whose hand is in this?” he muttered. “By Heaven, if I only knew!
Toss the thing into the fire!” he added, aloud. “It is not worthy of
a moment’s thought, Elaine. Child, be of good cheer. I am leaving no
stone unturned. There is foul play somewhere. You promised me that you
would send to him. Why did you delay?”
“I did not,” was the piteous rejoinder. “Has not Margaret told you? He
scoffed at my love; he tore my letter to fragments and threw it away.
Afterward he wrote cruel things to me. But he will come back again, if
he lives. I know that he will, and I shall wait, if need be, forever.”
She looked at him in a way that he never forgot.
“I have misjudged you, Lady Elaine,” he said. “I did not think you were
capable of such love as this.”
He looked at her pityingly, then his brow became dark.
“Why did Margaret Nugent not tell me of the letter?” he thought. “This
puts the matter in a new light. This inclines me to believe that the
earl’s theory is the correct one, and yet how could that boy be guilty
of such meanness? He must have been mad.”
He promised Lady Elaine some news at an early date, but nothing came of
his investigations.
A small fortune was spent upon detectives and advertisements in papers
all over the world, but not an atom of information was to be obtained
anywhere. A hundred messages were flashed across the Atlantic, and many
harmless, innocent men were made objects of suspicion, but it all ended
in--nothing.
The sum total was this: Sir Harold Annesley had been seen to enter a
train at Crayford Station, and there he disappeared completely.
CHAPTER X.
AT LADY GAYNOR’S BALL.
A month had passed, and the world was beginning to forget that such a
person as Sir Harold Annesley had ever existed.
His man of business had closed the park, and dismissed half the
servants, and it was the general belief that the eccentric young
baronet was masquerading abroad. His actions had been strongly
condemned; and many leaders of fashion decided to close their doors to
him when he did return home again.
“This wearing of the willow must end,” the Earl of Seabright said to
his daughter one morning. “Where is your pride, Elaine? Do you not see
that you are an object of pity among the servants and one of contempt
among your equals?”
“I do not care for either pity or contempt, papa,” she replied,
listlessly.
“But I do!” was the angry retort.
“I do not see how it can affect you, papa.”
“You do not see!” he cried, in surprise. “Great Heavens, are you bereft
of common sense? What man will care to marry a woman who is fretting
after a lover who shamelessly jilted her?”
“My lover will come back to me,” replied Elaine. “I can marry no other
man.”
“Where is your self-respect?” he demanded, furiously. “Your lover will
never come back to you! Can you not see through his shallow trick? At
least, you must appear in society. I will not have this moping away in
dark rooms. Here is an invitation to Lady Gaynor’s ball. You must be
there, if only to end the silly gossip about broken hearts. Pshaw, I
have no sympathy with such nonsense!”
“If it is your desire, papa, I will accept the invitation,” Lady Elaine
said, calmly; “but I shall find no pleasure at Lady Gaynor’s ball.”
The earl was satisfied that he had gained his point so far.
“She will soon forget the fellow in the excitement of pleasure. If
necessary, I will take her abroad,” he thought.
Two days later Miss Nugent came and kissed Lady Elaine with a great
show of affection.
The one subject was the ball and the dresses they were to wear. Lady
Elaine treated the whole thing in a listless, apathetic manner.
“I have no special choice,” she said; “I shall leave the selection to
my maid. I have no one to please.”
“My dear Elaine, how ridiculous you are,” exclaimed Margaret Nugent.
“You know that the viscount adores you.”
“Silence!” the earl’s daughter said, sternly. “How can you speak in
that way--you, who know all?”
“It is that very knowledge that makes me speak,” Miss Nugent replied,
steadily. “It is that very knowledge that makes me speak, Lady Elaine.
You are wasting your life for a man who never cared for you. He
confessed to me that it was merely the infatuation of a moment. I dared
not tell you so before. These creatures of poetic fancy are never to
be trusted wholly. Sir Harold has ever been eccentric and quixotic;
he has ever been afflicted with some new craze at which hard-hearted,
sober-minded men have smiled. I believe that for a little while he
worshiped you as the perfect embodiment of some cherished ideal; but
the instant he realized that you were only human, his so-called love
changed to actual dislike.”
Lady Elaine had become deadly pale.
“And do you expect me to listen to you, Margaret Nugent--to believe
you?” she asked.
“Before Heaven, I swear that I am telling you simple truth, Lady
Elaine! My cousin never really loved you as men are supposed to love
women, and soon regretted the tangle he had woven about himself. To
escape it, he stooped to trickery and dishonor. I alone am in his
confidence. I alone know where he is wandering again. I have had a
letter from him this very day. Even if you hate me for it, it is my
duty to tell you the truth.”
“Heaven help me!” moaned Elaine. “I have given him my love--the love of
my life--and I can never change! I worship the king of my dreams, not
the wretched creature of clay that he has proved himself to be! And,
now that I know the worst, I will school myself to wear a smile, though
my heart is broken!”
It never occurred to her to doubt Miss Nugent’s words. Margaret had
always been her friend, and there was no earthly reason why she should
deceive her. Besides, everything pointed to the truth of the statement,
and the mystery about Sir Harold was partly cleared away.
At Lady Gaynor’s ball she appeared to be one of the gayest of the gay,
and my lord of Seabright was delighted.
“She has sense and pride, after all,” he thought. “Being a Seabright,
it could not well be otherwise.”
She danced with several eligible men, but Viscount Rivington was the
most favored of all, and his eyes burnt with triumph.
“The earl has told me to go in for rapid conquest,” he thought. “Hearts
are easily caught in the rebound.”
He led Lady Elaine from the heated ballroom, and, seated in a
conservatory, they listened to the singing of one of the lady guests:
“No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper’s ear
When, half awake from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full choir of heaven is near--
Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again!
“Sweet voice of comfort! ’Twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro’ some wreathed shell--
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of my soul echoed to its spell!
’Twas whispered balm! ’Twas sunshine spoken!
I’d live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again!”
“Beautiful words,” Lady Elaine murmured, dreamily, “and beautifully
rendered!”
Viscount Rivington only dimly comprehended her remark. His whole being
was on fire with love.
He made no reply, but snatched her to him in a frenzy of passion.
For a moment Lady Elaine was so overcome with astonishment that she
could make no resistance. His action had been so unexpected, so sudden,
that she felt herself clasped in his arms before she realized what had
happened. Brief as the scene was, it had not escaped the watchful eyes
of Margaret Nugent, and she retired with the feelings of a victor.
She encountered the Earl of Seabright a dozen steps away, and he looked
about him eagerly.
“Miss Nugent, have you seen Lady Elaine?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” she smiled. “I would not advise you to interrupt a very
interesting _tête-à-tête_.”
He grasped one of her wrists and looked straight into her eyes.
“Is Viscount Rivington with my daughter?” he demanded.
“I have just seen Lady Elaine in the viscount’s arms,” replied Miss
Nugent, with a light laugh. “Not very flattering to my absent cousin,
but girls’ hearts are not made to break.”
The earl was delighted, and the two went away, Miss Nugent to impart
the news to an aristocratic scandalmonger, who added to her income
by writing sensational paragraphs for a certain unscrupulous society
paper, and the earl to excuse Lady Elaine’s absence to Colonel Greyson,
who had only recently arrived, and had made an inquiry for her.
“My dear colonel,” he said, “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I do not
think that my daughter would welcome your presence just now.”
“I am of a different opinion,” Colonel Greyson said, stoutly. “You and
I, my lord, will never agree upon one point. What that is you know only
too well.”
“I have no desire to discuss the matter,” the earl replied, “and I do
not thank you for interfering in what is purely a family matter. As I
told you recently, I never wish to hear the name of Sir Harold Annesley
again. My dear colonel, if Lady Gaynor knew that you had followed me
here to-night, of all nights, for the express purpose of annoying me,
you would incur her severe displeasure.”
“I have brought news for Lady Elaine,” the colonel said. “I have no
wish to annoy you, Lord Seabright, or any of Lady Gaynor’s guests.
I bring hope to a breaking heart, and I intend seeing your daughter
before I leave to-night.”
The earl laughed harshly.
“You must see her, certainly, if you are determined to do so; but I
warn you that Lady Elaine does not wish to see you or hear from you
again. In brief, she has this very day accepted Viscount Rivington for
her future husband.”
The colonel’s face became fiery red, but further words were checked by
the appearance of Margaret Nugent.
“Miss Nugent will verify my statement,” the earl said, carelessly. “As
the affianced wife of Viscount Rivington, my daughter cannot wish to be
bothered by news of a recreant lover. It is very bad taste upon your
part, colonel, to make yourself a meddlesome busybody.”
He turned coldly and walked away.
“Is this true?” asked Colonel Greyson, turning to Miss Nugent.
“It is,” she replied, pale to the lips. “I myself witnessed the
viscount’s declaration; I saw her ladyship in his arms.”
“Then my faith in woman’s constancy is forever shattered,” he said.
“Good-by, Margaret. It is perhaps better that he should never know.”
“He? To whom do you refer?”
“To Sir Harold. My detective has found him. He is well in health,
but for the present his mind is a wreck. I came here like a happy
schoolboy, and go away the most miserable and disappointed of men. I
would have staked my life on the constancy of Lady Elaine Seabright.”
Miss Nugent was painfully agitated. There was an unnatural fire in her
eyes.
“So my cousin is back!” she whispered, her whole frame quivering with
excitement. “You must come and see us to-morrow, colonel; my mother
and I will be glad to see you. It is best for you not to remain here
longer. I can understand the shock of your disappointment, but your
pity for the earl’s daughter is wasted. I have always known this. You
men cannot divine the depth of our sex as a woman can. Lady Elaine is
tender and loving, but her character lacks strength. Knowing Sir Harold
as I do, the escape from this marriage is a most fortunate thing for
him, for he would have found out, sooner or later, that his wife was
little better than a doll. You wonder that I should speak so strongly?
I cannot help it when I realize how quickly and easily my poor cousin
has been forgotten by the woman who may have ruined his whole life.
The earl’s daughter and I have had bitter words this very evening. I
do not think that we can ever be friendly again. She told me calmly of
her engagement to Viscount Rivington, and at the same time was wearing
the ring that Sir Harold gave her. She spoke of him so lightly that I
became angry, and both have uttered things that may never be forgotten.”
She accompanied him to the door, fearful lest anything might happen
even now to turn the tide against her. She longed to ask him questions
concerning her cousin, but dared not.
As they paused for a moment in the hall, he saw Lady Elaine and
Viscount Rivington enter the ballroom from another doorway. What
further proof did he require that all he had heard was indeed true?
“Good-by, Margaret,” he said. “You shall hear the whole pitiful story
in a day or two. Sir Harold is in no danger, but his mind concerning
the past is blank. He does not know even me. He does not remember Lady
Elaine, and now I believe it is better so. I have been cherishing some
pet schemes for trying to restore his memory, but now all is over.”
He went away, cursing at the frailty of women, and Miss Nugent thanked
Heaven when he was gone.
“It is hard to believe,” she thought, “that Elaine would so soon
succumb to the pleadings of the viscount, but did I not see her
clasped to his bosom with my own eyes? I must find out what it all
means.”
Had she waited one moment longer, when she was spying upon the viscount
and Lady Elaine, how different would her feelings have been!
Recovering from her astonished bewilderment, Elaine had pushed her
suitor indignantly aside, a flash of loathing and disgust in her eyes.
“How dare you?” she panted. “How dare you take advantage of me in so
cowardly a manner? I hate and despise you for it!”
Rivington fell back aghast. He had not expected this. In his first
flush of triumph he believed that she accepted his embraces willingly.
“Lady Elaine,” he said, “what harm have I done you? I offer you the
fond love of an honest heart. I have never loved any woman but you, and
fancied that the reward of my patience and hope was at hand. Forgive me
if I have been mistaken.”
He spoke so penitently that she felt sorry for her harsh words.
“Viscount, I thought that it was a settled thing between us that I
have no love to give any man now,” she said, sorrowfully. “I shall
never marry, and this talk of love cuts me to the soul! If you value my
friendship, you will never hint at love again. My heart is dead to all
other but the love that is past.”
He knew not what to say to this, and paced the floor in angry
disappointment.
“I cannot live without you, Lady Elaine!” he said, at last. “I have
loved you for two years. I can wait for years longer if you will but
give me one spark of hope.”
She shook her head mournfully.
“You will forget what is gone,” he went on, desperately. “Time will
heal the wound----”
“You must not continue in this strain,” she interrupted, sadly but
firmly, “if we are to be friends. I can give you no hope, Viscount
Rivington. Even if I had never met my lover, who is dead, I could not
have cared for you--only as a--a friend--as my father’s guest. I can
never love again, and once more I warn you that if you do not put
this vain and useless desire away from you I will not speak to you or
recognize you any more.”
He bowed his head in silence. In his heart he was a raging demon. He
told himself that he would never give her up.
They passed through the ballroom together, and my Lord of Seabright
watched them with glances of approval.
Lady Elaine escaped to her apartments and retired for the night, while
Viscount Rivington and Margaret Nugent conversed in the open air.
Two days later the following announcement appeared in a society paper:
We have pleasure in being able to inform our readers that the
famous beauty, Lady Elaine Seabright, and Viscount Henry Rivington
have become engaged. The match is suitable in every way, and gives
unbounded satisfaction to both families. It will be remembered that
the Earl of Seabright’s beautiful daughter was to have been married to
Sir Harold Annesley, of Annesley Park, who recently disappeared in so
mysterious a manner. Poor fellow! He is gone! _N’importe!_ Off with
the old love and on with the new. Such is life! We offer the happy
couple our sincere congratulations.
CHAPTER XI.
MY PLACE IS HERE TO PROTECT THERESA.
John Hamilton’s cottage was one of the prettiest of its kind. It was
built of brown stone, and seemed to be a combination of nooks and
gables. To the doors, both at the back and the front, there was a
trellised porch, wreathed with trailing vines, roses and sweet-smelling
clematis. On every window-sill there was a box of bright-hued flowers
and fragrant mignonette, while the garden that surrounded the house was
a veritable maze of bewildering beauty.
At the farther end was a summer arbor, and there Sir Harold spent many
happy hours, a cigar between his teeth and a book in his hands.
Sometimes he would dream lazily, and try to think of the mystery of his
life, but always gave up these efforts with a sigh.
John Hamilton and his daughter attended to the household duties, and
the labor was equally divided. No stranger ever crossed the threshold
of the little cottage door.
Sir Harold would watch the girl in wonderment, and listen with rapture
to her sweet singing as she worked about the house.
Oh, how happy she was, though at times a great black cloud would rise
before her, and she would clutch at her heart to still its agony!
When her work was done, her sweetest delight was to sit near to Sir
Harold, and drink in eagerly every word that he uttered.
John Hamilton saw all this, and frowned, but he felt that he was
helpless at present.
One day he spoke harshly to his daughter, and she listened half-ashamed.
“Theresa,” he said, “you must not seek the society of our guest so
much, or I shall send him away.”
The girl started, and a swift blush leaped into her cheeks.
“Father!”
“Do you not understand that your conduct is unbecoming a lady?” he
continued.
“What have I done?” murmured Theresa.
“You are wasting your thoughts upon a stranger, my dear,” he said. “I
can see it in your eyes. You are not so much to blame for this, because
you are purely a child of Nature, but it will be best if Sir Harold
Annesley is left more to himself.”
“Oh, father, must this be?” cried Theresa. “Must I not speak to him
again? Must I not listen to his reading while I work? It is like heaven
to me! I never understood the meaning of life until he came here!”
She rocked herself to and fro bitterly.
“I wish that he had never crossed our path,” he returned, harshly. “You
are in love with this man!”
He was very angry--as much with himself and Sir Harold as with his
daughter--and left the room determined to speak to the baronet.
He found him in the summer arbor, reading and smoking as usual, the
happy light of contentment in his blue eyes.
“Where is Theresa?” he asked. “I have been reading Tennyson’s ‘Maud,’
and I want Theresa to hear it. Much of the beautiful poem seems to be
but an echo. I feel that I have known these lines before:
“Go not, happy day,
From the shining fields;
Go not, happy day,
Till the maiden yields.
Rosy is the west,
Rosy is the south,
Roses are her cheeks,
And a rose her mouth.
When the happy yes
Falters from her lips,
Pass and blush the news,
Over glowing ships;
Over blowing seas,
Over seas at rest,
Pass the happy news,
Blush it through the west;
Till the red man dance,
By his cedar tree,
And the red man’s babe
Leap beyond the sea.
Blush from west to east,
Blush from east to west,
Till the west is east;
Blush it through the west.
Rosy is the west,
Rosy is the south,
Roses are her cheeks,
And a rose her mouth!”
He paused to turn over another page, and Mr. Hamilton spoke:
“Sir Harold, this is sufficient evidence to convince me that you
cannot--must not remain here longer. Your place is in the great world
beyond.”
“I am quite happy,” the young baronet replied. “You promised that I
should suit my own inclinations.”
“Then I must withdraw that promise. Circumstances have arisen that
render it imperative.”
Sir Harold dropped his cigar, and looked at Mr. Hamilton in surprise.
“What is wrong, my friend?” he demanded. “If there are pecuniary
troubles, it will not be difficult to obtain money upon the valuables I
have about me.”
John Hamilton made a deprecatory movement, and sat down opposite his
guest.
“It is not that, Sir Harold,” he said. “I wish you to leave my humble
home for the sake of my dear child. She is young, impressionable,
imaginative. She has never been used to the society of young men. She
knows nothing of the world. This poetry reading has influenced her
young mind, and the most gallant of the old-world knights pale into
insignificance when compared with you in her estimation. In short,
Sir Harold, she is in love with you, as romantic girls will be with
handsome young men.”
Sir Harold was surprised. “I had never dreamed of this,” he said. “Poor
Theresa!”
“Do not pity her; I cannot bear it, but go--go!”
“Why should I leave her to unhappiness?” Sir Harold mused. “I love her
as a very dear sister. I have never cared for woman in any other way,
and Theresa has first claim upon me. Mr. Hamilton,” he added aloud,
“why should I throw away the priceless gift of Theresa’s love?”
“You are mad!” was the rejoinder. “You know not what you say. This
thing cannot be!”
“And why not?”
“Your memory will return, and your heart go back to its old love.”
“I do not think so. Whoever the woman may be, you say that she was
false to me. That is quite sufficient to kill my love forever.”
John Hamilton pressed his hands to his head to still his reeling brain.
“I know not what to say,” he whispered, huskily. “Just Heaven, guide
me aright! Let me not make shipwreck of my child’s life! You tempt
me sorely, Sir Harold, for I know not what will become of her when
I am dead, and I am far from being strong! At times my heart pains
me so that the fear of sudden death fills me with terror for my dear
child’s sake. I know the symptoms only too well. Some day, aye, at any
hour--the knife of the assassin may be turned against her, and if I am
gone, who is to protect her then?”
He was silent for a minute, then went on: “I owe you a story, Sir
Harold. I promised weeks ago to tell you why I lived in this secluded
place, and held no communication with the world beyond. I am old now,
and poor, with no hope for rest this side the grave. At thirty I was
a successful man, with a brilliant future before me. The whole world
was my battlefield, and I gathered fresh laurels wherever I went. At
last my surgical skill attracted the attention of a Russian prince,
who had for years been suffering with a malformation which made of
him an object of pity. He offered me an enormous fee to operate upon
him; he cared not what pain he endured; he cared not whether he lived
or died unless he could mingle with his fellows, and enjoy the sweets
of life. I was warned by the cleverest physicians of the day that the
task was hopeless; but, fired with the enthusiasm of youth, I shook
off all restraint; I turned a deaf ear to all counsel, and went to St.
Petersburg. I will not weary you with a description of my anxiety--of
the weeks of patient waiting while my charge lingered between life and
death after the operation. Let it suffice that I was successful; my
name rang through Europe, and fame and fortune met me at every turn.”
His pale cheeks flushed, and his eyes brightened with the recollections
of those bygone days.
“A few months afterward I was tempted to go to Italy by the promise of
an unusually large fee if I could remove a tumor from the cheek of a
wealthy old count. As usual, I was careful to receive correct reports
concerning the condition of my would-be patient, and I heard that no
power on earth could save his life. Already had he been twice operated
upon.
“This news fired me with determination, and I accepted the onerous task.
“It was a foolish decision on my part, for now I could not afford to
make a mistake, or the fame that had so suddenly encircled me would
fall in ruins at my feet.
“One glance at the sufferer convinced me that the days of Count Crispi
were numbered--whether he was operated on or not. The taint of the
tumor was in every artery of his shriveled frame.
“‘It is of no use adding fresh torture to the brief span of your life,’
I told him. ‘You have less than a month to live in any case.’
“‘You lie!’ he said, fiercely. ‘I will live--I must live! You think
that I am old, and that the fire has forever left my veins! Ha! you
cold Northerners know nothing of the passions of the children of
the South! I tell you that I will live, for the sake of one whom I
adore--one who is to be my wife. She is youthful--she is beautiful!
_Carissima mia!_’
“I was startled into a feeling of pity and contempt. It seemed absurd
for so old a man, on the verge of eternity, going into raptures of this
kind.
“‘If you insist, Count Crispi, I suppose that, as I have accepted the
commission and your fee, I must do my best, but I warn you that it will
be needless infliction of pain and disappointment upon you.’
“But no words of mine could dissipate the strong belief that he
cherished in the certainty of his speedy recovery, and I began to make
arrangements for the operation, which I decided should be conducted in
two days’ time.
“In the meanwhile, however, I was careful to inform all those friends
who were immediately concerned in his welfare that his death, which was
certainly near at hand, would possibly be accelerated by the needless
butchery. Among these friends I made the acquaintance of the young girl
whom he professed to love so violently, and I must confess that I was
almost bewildered by her brilliant beauty.”
John Hamilton paused, and Sir Harold saw that he was momentarily
overcome by the emotions which were raised by this recital of the story
from the shadowy past.
“Let me continue,” Mr. Hamilton said, hastily brushing a tear from his
cheek. “Sir Harold, I soon discovered that this beautiful, guileless
creature was Count Crispi’s wealthy ward, and that, while she feared
the man, she also loathed him. In my pity for Theresa Ludovci, I soon
drifted into a passion that seemed to consume me. I loved her as strong
men love but once in a lifetime, and she returned my adoration only as
such burning natures can.
“At all risks, I determined that she should be my wife, and within two
weeks of the count’s operation we fled, and a priest made us one.
“When the story reached the ears of Count Crispi, his rage was so great
that he fell back with blood-flecked lips, and with his last breath
denounced me as an assassin. I had deliberately planned his death, so
that an obstacle might be removed which threatened the disruption of my
connubial pleasures.
“His relatives, who had counted upon being the ultimate recipients of a
goodly share of Theresa’s wealth, registered an oath of vengeance, and
a vendetta began, under the awful ban of which my beloved wife died,
two weeks after the birth of our daughter--Theresa.
“For a time I struggled against the terrible fear--fear only for my
little child--until some poor fellow who had the misfortune to resemble
me was stabbed to death in the streets of London. My name and that
of Count Crispi were attached to the handle of the murderer, and I
knew its meaning! The newspapers made a great fuss of the mysterious
tragedy, and I changed my name and sought retirement.”
“Then your name is not Hamilton?” asked the baronet, greatly interested.
“No; it is Egerton--Lambert Egerton. I even start when I utter it
myself. Not one word of this story does my poor Theresa know--not even
her real name; and thus have I lived for fifteen years, my waking and
sleeping hours never free from the shadow of the knife! My own little
fortune has long since gone, and my wife’s money I have not dared to
claim.”
“It is infamous!” Sir Harold said, when Hamilton had concluded. “I
utterly refuse to leave you now, sir; I should be an ungrateful coward
if I did. My place is here to protect Theresa--to make the poor child
happy if I can.”
“I will not give my consent yet,” Hamilton replied, distressfully,
“and yet, why should I stand in the light of all that is near and dear
to me? Not yet--not yet,” he added, “it would not be fair to you, Sir
Harold. Your mind is not clear, and you do not rightly estimate the
burden you would take upon yourself. Oh, my poor Theresa!”
He clutched at his side, his face becoming pale and clammy with the
dews of excruciating pain.
“My old trouble,” he whispered to Sir Harold, who was anxiously bending
over him. “There, it is gone. I am always bothered in this way if I
become agitated. One word more; try and avoid my daughter for a little
while, until both have had time for calm reflection. If I have rightly
diagnosed your case, your memory will return by easy stages. Some of
the brain cells are merely paralyzed, and in time will recover their
action. You may then turn with disgust from your present surroundings
and the thoughts that now----”
“My friend--my good friend,” Sir Harold interrupted, “what you say is
impossible. I accept from you the sacred trust of devoting my life to
Theresa. I care for her deeply, and will protect her with my life, if
need be. As for my memory, let me confess to you that many years of my
early life are now as clear as noonday; but at that point where I left
Eton for Cambridge all becomes enshrouded in an impenetrable mist.”
“Ah! why did you not tell me this before?” Hamilton said, betraying
much excitement.
“Cannot you guess? I did not tell you lest you should wish to send
me away. I distinctly remember my boyhood’s friends--my cousin
Margaret--my beautiful home at Crayford--and in spirit I am but
seventeen years old. There is nothing peculiar about the sensation, but
I have no wish to return home until the threads of the remaining years
are gathered together, though I am naturally curious to know that my
business affairs are being carefully attended to. I am even wishing to
look upon the woman who wrought such havoc in my life, though I have
nothing but contempt for her and for myself.”
He laughed lightly, and Hamilton said:
“This is just what I expected, Sir Harold. You spoke of a cousin
Margaret a moment or two ago. Would you not like to send for her?”
“No,” was the energetic reply; “I only remember her as a child of
twelve years old. She must be a woman now. No, I do not wish to see her
or any one else until my mind has regained its normal state. I prefer
things as they are. I am perfectly content, and while Theresa is near,
this little home is paradise!”
“Wait, wait,” said Mr. Hamilton. “I will not give my consent yet.”
“Hark! Theresa is coming!” Sir Harold exclaimed. “I hear her voice in
the garden.”
He turned and ran to meet her like a happy schoolboy.
CHAPTER XII.
COLONEL GREYSON’S VISIT.
That very day Mr. Hamilton had an unexpected visitor, and he knew at
once that the friends of Sir Harold had discovered his retreat.
He met the intruder at the garden gate, and Colonel Greyson (for it was
he) regarded him suspiciously.
“Good-morning, sir,” Hamilton said.
“Good-morning,” was the gruff rejoinder. “You have a gentleman staying
here, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. Sir Harold Annesley is here. Do you wish to see him?”
“One moment, my friend. A detective has traced him. I trust that you
have not detained him against his will?”
“On the other hand, sir, I cannot persuade him to leave,” replied
Hamilton, with dignity.
“I have heard that he met with an accident that paralyzed his memory.
No matter how I obtained the information--there is the substance of it.
Now answer me truthfully, Mr.--Mr.----”
“Hamilton,” was the calm reply, although the old musician strongly
resented the brusque, condemnatory manner of his interlocutor. “Your
information is perfectly correct. May I ask, sir, who and what you are?”
The colonel bent upon him a ferocious glance.
“I? My name is Greyson--Colonel Greyson. I have known Sir Harold since
he was a mere boy of twenty. I succeeded to the co-trusteeship of his
business and social welfare when his natural guardian died. I have
traced him here, and will be responsible for him, while I may have to
hold you responsible for his detention!”
“I am prepared to meet any reasonable question you may think fit to put
to me,” was the haughty reply; “but I object to this bluster.”
“Why did you not send for his friends? Why has he not received proper
medical treatment?”
“I have valid reasons for my actions, however neglectful they may seem
to you. Sir Harold has been in good hands,” Hamilton said. “Will you
follow me, sir?”
“Wait!” the colonel commanded. “I have not quite done with you, Mr.
Hamilton. Never let it be said that I condemn a man unheard, and if
you are as innocent as you strive to appear, you will not be afraid to
answer one or two questions which, to save time, I will put to you in
categorical order. As a man of sense, it must at once be apparent to
you that you are guilty of a serious misdemeanor in the eyes of the law
for retaining a titled and wealthy man without making a single effort
to restore him to his friends. To add to this, you have permitted
him to regain bodily health at the expense of his mind, while proper
medical treatment would doubtless have resulted in sound reason also.
To my thinking, this constitutes in itself a most serious offense,
as the natural conclusions are that you have had but one end in
view--extortion!”
Mr. Hamilton flushed angrily and knitted his brows.
“Pray go on with your questions,” he said. “I am prepared to answer.”
“Good,” the colonel replied. “Now, sir, when and where did you first
make the acquaintance of Sir Harold Annesley?”
“Upon the very day that he disappeared. I am an itinerant musician when
money runs short, though this has been my permanent home for fifteen
years. I and my daughter, by pure accident, turned into Annesley Park,
and, after hearing my child sing, Sir Harold was very liberal with
his money. By the same train that returned to Tenterden, Sir Harold
evidently intended to go to London, but met with an accident, which
will never be properly explained except by himself, just outside the
Tenterden railway station. As is often the case, there was no porter
in attendance, for the train had to be stopped by signal for me and
Theresa--my daughter--to alight; and it was not until the train had
steamed away that I saw the figure of a man lying at the mouth of the
tunnel. I went to his assistance, and, much against my will, was forced
to bring him here lest he should die.”
The Colonel smiled unpleasantly.
“Who was your confederate? You do not expect me to believe that an aged
man--a feeble man--could possibly convey the insensible body of a big
fellow like Sir Harold Annesley for upward of a mile over an uneven
road!”
So saying, Greyson fixed upon Hamilton his keen eyes.
“I had no confederate, as you term it, unless you call my Theresa a
confederate,” the musician said. “In my travels I take with me an
harmonium, and that harmonium is conveyed upon a flat carriage, which
you may inspect if you desire. Sir Harold’s inanimate form was placed
by myself and daughter upon that carriage and brought here. As for
my secrecy, I have my own private reasons, with which my guest is
fully acquainted. Answering your complaint concerning proper medical
treatment, Sir Harold can satisfy you upon that point, if he considers
you worthy of implicit trust.”
The colonel bent one of his piercing glances upon Hamilton, and held
out his hand, saying:
“I believe you, sir. If I have been unreasonably suspicious, forgive
me. Now let me see the boy.”
“If you will step into my cottage, Colonel Greyson,” Hamilton said,
courteously, “I will send Sir Harold to you. He is somewhere in the
garden, I have no doubt.”
The old soldier permitted himself to be conducted into a little parlor
fragrant with the incense of flowers.
“If you will wait here, colonel----”
“Certainly--certainly!” was the quick interruption. “My nerves are
simply quivering with the excitement of expectancy.”
The musician withdrew, and when Sir Harold entered, five minutes
later, looking well and happy, the colonel held out his hand, saying,
tremulously, “Harold, my boy, do you not know me?”
The young man took the proffered hand, but there was a puzzled
expression on his face.
“I have heard the name of Colonel Greyson very often,” he said, “but I
do not remember that we have ever met before, sir.”
“My Heaven!” groaned the colonel, “this is terrible. Why, my dear boy,
who was it that got you out of your scrapes at Cambridge? Who was it
that undertook the sole management of your business affairs while you
went trying to emulate Livingstone, Stanley and those fellows?”
Sir Harold laughed.
“You understand, colonel,” he said, “my friend, Mr. Hamilton, who is in
reality a clever surgeon, predicts that I shall recover in time, and
then we may be able to enter into these matters with mutual interest.
At present they are of very little importance to me. Of course, I have
heard much that greatly concerns me, and I have no desire to return to
Annesley Park as an object of pity and curiosity, if you will be so
kind as to see that my affairs do not get muddled. Perhaps I am asking
too much.”
“Asking too much?” the colonel interrupted, with tears in his eyes. “I
would lay down my life for you, Harold. Now, tell me, do your thoughts
ever return to Lady--to Lady Elaine?”
“Mr. Hamilton has told me something of Lady Elaine, but I really do not
remember her, colonel. From what I understand she must be a heartless
beauty. I only wonder that I was fool enough to succumb to her wiles.”
“Do you wish to see her again?” Greyson asked.
“No--only perhaps out of idle curiosity,” was the indifferent reply;
“but there is one thing that I am anxious about, Colonel Greyson. What
do the newspapers say about me--and about Lady Elaine?”
“Oh, the usual twaddle. It is supposed that you went away in a huff and
are abroad again.”
“Capital!” laughed Sir Harold. “I could not bear to be pitied as the
brokenhearted lover, who, in addition, had lost half his wits! I intend
to remain here, colonel, and rely upon you to keep my secret until I am
again in complete possession of my faculties. I can trust you--I know
that I can trust you, and let me confide to you something concerning my
host, who calls himself John Hamilton.”
He straightway repeated the old musician’s story, and all became as
clear as noonday to the brusque old soldier.
After conversing with Sir Harold for an hour the colonel sought John
Hamilton.
“I have to ask your pardon again,” he said. “Annesley has told me
sufficient to exculpate you completely. I am almost ashamed of my
unworthy suspicions, and I am deeply sorry for you. Now, sir, I have
not yet quite resolved what is best to be done. Sir Harold does not
want to leave here until he is perfectly restored, and you, as an
eminent surgeon, may be able to give me some idea of the extent of his
malady. Can I introduce him to his friends--to the world--in months, or
years?”
“I have already carefully worked it out,” replied Hamilton, readily,
“and am of opinion that an operation is necessary. There appears to
be a clot of blood, or other viscid matter, pressing upon some of
the nerve-centers of the brain. This matter may assimilate with the
blood, and it may remain where it is for many years unless removed by a
careful surgical operation.”
“Which you are willing to perform?”
“Certainly, if it is Sir Harold’s wish.”
For a little while the colonel was thoughtful.
“We will not press the question yet,” he said, at last. “I must discuss
it with--er--other friends. He appears to be very happy here, but his
duties are elsewhere, and he must be awakened to them. In a few days--a
week at most, Mr. Hamilton--I will come again, and I may bring other
friends with me. Good-day, and accept my hearty thanks. I trust that
our friendship, so awkwardly begun, will be lifelong.”
“Thank you,” said John Hamilton, as he accompanied him to the door.
At the end of one of the garden walks they saw Sir Harold and Theresa
stroll past, and the expression upon the girl’s face was a revelation
to Colonel Greyson.
He glanced sharply at Hamilton, remarking:
“I said that you should hear from me within a week. Alter that to three
days. Good-by, sir.”
“Good-day!” replied Hamilton; then he called angrily to Theresa, and
bade her attend to some household duties while he lectured his guest.
“Sir Harold, it amounts to this: Until I hear from your friends I will
not give you permission to harbor the slightest hope regarding my
daughter. I even forbid you to speak to her except upon terms of the
merest civility. Her young life shall not be ruined!”
“I do not care one atom for the opinion of my friends,” retorted Sir
Harold. “Theresa is dearer to me than all else in the world!”
“Wait, wait,” was the testy rejoinder. “You may think differently in a
few days’ time.”
“Never,” was the confident reply.
One--two--three days passed, and then a letter and some newspapers came
from Colonel Greyson.
This is the letter:
MY DEAR MR. HAMILTON--I do not think it necessary to subject poor
Annesley to a further operation. Let time work its own cure. I left
you full of hope, believing that he and Lady Elaine Seabright had been
the victims of a misunderstanding, and with the confident intention of
bringing them together again. However, I was mistaken in my lady, and
send to you papers containing the news of her engagement to another
man. This may serve to dissipate any lingering doubts if Sir Harold
should recover sooner than we expect. You may use it how you please.
The affairs at Annesley Park are in the hands of competent people, and
I intend going to the Continent at once for the autumn and winter. I
will send you my address later. I strongly counsel you to keep Sir
Harold’s whereabouts a secret, or you will be overrun with newspaper
reporters, and the distressing notoriety might retard his recovery. As
I have practically assumed control of Annesley’s affairs, I inclose
you authority to draw upon my bankers for any funds that may be
required.
Very faithfully yours, EVERARD GREYSON.
Hamilton turned to the newspapers and saw the items to which the
colonel referred, ejaculating:
“Thank God!”
He placed the letter and the papers in Sir Harold’s hands, saying:
“I think that the bar is removed, and if you are sure of your own
heart, my darling child is yours. That she loves you with the pure love
of a romantic girl there is no doubt, and with the passing years this
will ripen into the deep affection of a warm-hearted and noble woman. I
pray of the great Master of our lives that you may never misunderstand
my child, Sir Harold. She is giving to you unreservedly every thought
of her innocent life, and to meet with coldness or indifference in
return would kill her as surely as a flower dies for lack of sunshine!
In some way I have all confidence in your chivalry and devotion, and if
there is any passing shade of doubt it is when I think of the position
that my child must occupy as your wife. The world of fashion will be
so new and strange to her at first that you may suffer some sense of
disappointment if she prefers the quiet life of home to the giddy whirl
of society. But,” he added, proudly, “I have no fear for the result.
Theresa is a lady by birth and instinct. In a few years she will fall
easily into the ways of fashion.”
A warm flush mantled the young man’s cheek and a sparkle came into his
eye.
“Theresa will be my fondest care,” he said. “I am quite content with
her as she is.”
He turned to the newspapers, and his lips curled with scorn.
“The world makes light of the folly that is past. Some day I may meet
Lady Elaine Seabright again, and if my contempt for her is as great as
that which I feel for myself it will be immeasurable.”
CHAPTER XIII.
A STRANGE WILL.
Miss Nugent was bitterly mortified by the action of Colonel Greyson.
He had promised to call upon her mother, and instead had taken himself
off, no one knew whither, and with him the secret of Sir Harold’s
movements. He had not even troubled himself to write one word of
explanation.
She had waited for whole days in miserable expectation, and then
suddenly announced her determination of calling upon the colonel.
“You will come with me, mamma, dear. I believe that Colonel Greyson has
news of Harold. He hinted as much to me at Lady Gaynor’s ball, and I am
so anxious. It is not more than an hour’s drive to the colonel’s place.”
Mrs. Nugent rarely attempted to combat the wishes of her handsome
daughter. She was one of those invalids who find pleasure in nursing
their own ailments, and though it was a positive martyrdom to leave her
lounge for several hours, to be jolted over miles of stony ground, she
assented to the proposal with a long-drawn sigh of resignation.
The carriage was ordered, and immediately after lunch Mrs. Nugent and
her daughter were driven to the colonel’s cottage at Crayford.
To Margaret’s dismay there was an air of desertion about the place, and
she was informed by his house keeper that her master was going abroad
for the autumn and winter.
“Then he has not yet gone?” asked Miss Nugent, with a gasp of relief.
“No, ladies; but his man is upstairs packing, and he knows more about
it than I do.”
With a nod the woman ran into the house, and in a few minutes the
colonel’s military manservant appeared, as straight and stiff as a
ramrod.
“What is this I hear about the colonel, Simmons?” asked Miss Nugent.
“My master is going away, madam,” replied Simmons, saluting solemnly.
“Yes--yes! I have heard all about that. But where is he now?”
Simmons looked surprised.
“In London by this time, Miss Nugent. He spent the whole of yesterday
at Annesley Park, and last evening left for London, where I am to join
him to-night.”
Miss Nugent bit her lips with vexation.
“It is extraordinary,” she said. “I really do not understand Colonel
Greyson, after his promise to me and knowing how anxious I am
concerning my luckless cousin.”
The concluding part of her speech was uttered aside.
“My dear!” Mrs. Nugent mildly remonstrated, “I do not see anything
so extraordinary in it. You know what the papers have said about Sir
Harold, and it is quite possible that the colonel intends joining him
somewhere. I am sure that I shall take a chill if we remain here much
longer.”
“You are sure that there is no message for us--for me, Simmons?”
continued Margaret.
“Quite sure, madam.”
“Well, it is possible that your master will write to me from
London, but I wish you to impress upon him some sense of my great
disappointment. He will understand why, and I shall expect a lengthy
letter of explanation and particulars. You will not forget, Simmons?”
“No, madam.”
Simmons’ right hand flew up automatically in answer to Miss Nugent’s
farewell nod, and the carriage rolled away.
“I cannot expect everything to fall into my lap,” she thought, “and in
one sense it is perhaps lucky that the colonel has taken himself off,
though his unlooked-for movements have left me completely in the dark.”
As the carriage swept round a bend in the road, Annesley Park was
revealed with startling distinctness some two miles distant. The towers
and minarets stood sharply against the purple sky, while a golden fire
seemed to flash from every window in the light of the sun.
“If we only had a fourth of Sir Harold’s money, how happy we might
be!” sighed Mrs. Nugent. “I really think that he is most unkind in not
giving the Park to us while he is chasing wild beasts in Africa. I
believe that such an exhilarating prospect would almost give me health
again; or, at least, as much as I can ever expect to enjoy.”
Margaret laughed musically.
“Mamma,” she said, “the Park may be our home yet!”
It was a prize worth scheming for, but, to do her justice, Miss Nugent
loved Sir Harold for himself alone. How impatiently she awaited the
letter-bag next morning, only to be filled with a disappointment that
almost amounted to dismay. There was no letter from Colonel Greyson,
and she blamed herself for not insisting upon his London address.
Still, it was not too late to give up hoping, and she denied herself
several pleasures by remaining at home throughout the day, so that she
should immediately receive any news that came.
In the evening a boy from the telegraph office delivered the following:
MISS MARGARET NUGENT--I have no good news for you, and the less said
the better. Time alone can straighten the tangle. I leave London for
Paris to-night. Kind regards.
GREYSON.
Margaret angrily tossed the telegram in the fire.
“A miserable evasion,” she muttered. “How much does he suspect? I see
through it all. He is taking Harold abroad with him. If I only dared
to follow them and nurse my darling back to life! It may be months or
years, and with my lady out of the way my devotion is sure to win in
the end.”
That very night, at a late hour, some terrible news reached the
Nugents. The Earl of Seabright was dead, killed while riding over his
own estate. His horse had stumbled over some hidden brambles, and
my lord was pitched headforemost to the earth. The land steward was
with him at the time, and the accident at first appeared to be only a
trivial one. The earl had struggled up again, but only to sink back
with a groan. The shock had injured him internally, and he was carried
to his bedchamber a dying man.
“You have only an hour to live, my lord,” the hastily-summoned doctor
gravely told him. “If your affairs are not in order there is no time to
be lost.”
The earl listened incredulously at first.
“I suffer no pain,” he said. “Surely you are mistaken! Am I to die
because my horse stumbled--I, the maddest rider in the county?”
“You are bleeding internally, my lord. No human power can save you,”
was the decided reply.
Then the earl had wept childishly for a little while, and sent hastily
for the nearest lawyer. He wished to make a new will--to appoint fresh
executors.
The lawyer came and was closeted with the dying earl for half-an-hour.
“Now read it over carefully,” the earl said, and the lawyer obeyed him.
The will was short and concise. My lord left the whole of his
personality to his only child, the Lady Elaine, upon the condition that
she became the wife of Viscount Henry Rivington within six months of
the date of the will. If she refused to obey this last wish of the earl
his fortune would pass away to various charitable institutions, which
were carefully named. In addition, the viscount was made joint-executor
with Lady Gaynor. As the title and estate of Seabright Hall reverted
to the next male heir in succession the earl’s daughter would be under
the immediate control of the executors. There was a clause to the
effect that if the marriage was not consummated, through the refusal
or inability of the viscount to ratify the contract, the whole of the
earl’s fortune would be devoted to the exclusive enjoyment of his
daughter, the Lady Elaine Seabright.
In the presence of many witnesses the will was signed, and twenty
minutes later my lord breathed his last.
It was an impressive scene. The awful suddenness seemed to have
bewildered everybody, and Lady Elaine hardly realized that her father
was, indeed, no more until she was gently led from the death-chamber by
Lady Gaynor and the doctor.
The earl had ever been a selfish man, but, notwithstanding her loveless
life, the full force of her loss seemed to numb every sense for a time.
At last she burst into a passion of tears. How well she understood
his last words to her, and how her soul revolted from the wishes they
expressed.
“We quarreled this morning, Elaine. Do not let a last disobedience
haunt you through life. I mean all for the best, child. Annesley has
left you to humiliation and scorn. Obey my last wishes, and some day
you will understand that I have acted harshly to be kind.”
Her reply had been a sob, and a few moments later a quick, fluttering
sigh told that all was over.
He was gone--first her lover, and then her father; and, locked in her
own apartments, she gave way to her grief in sobs and tears.
CHAPTER XIV.
AN EVIL GENIUS.
It was not until the funeral was over and my lord’s last will and
testament had been read that Lady Elaine Seabright was brought to a
knowledge of her true position.
She had many sympathizing friends, and the new earl and lord of the
domain kindly offered to leave the house and effects at her disposal
for any reasonable length of time.
“Indeed,” he added, magnanimously, “with the consent of my wife and
daughters, I may offer you a home here until the viscount claims you.
The late earl and I were not good friends simply because he had no son
and I was his natural heir.”
Elaine thanked her cousin, but told him that what he had proposed was
impossible.
The old family lawyer was thoroughly indignant, and muttered threats
about contesting the last will; but what could he do in face of a dozen
witnesses, who were all convinced that the earl’s mind had been clear
to the last? Besides, Lady Elaine would never have consented to such a
course of action.
“Even if you cared for this man--this Viscount Rivington--the will
places you in a most humiliating position, my lady,” he told her,
indignantly. “By what I gather, it was made really in the heat of
anger, notwithstanding the fact that the earl was dying. You had
resolutely declined to encourage the advances of Rivington that very
morning and my lord was determined that he should be your husband.
In an apparently easy-going way your father was a perfect martinet.
He generally had his own way, even if he waited long years for the
opportunity. And then why should the original executors be struck
out--myself and Colonel Greyson?”
Mr. Worboys snorted angrily, and stamped to and fro across the floor of
the library, where he had come at Lady Elaine’s bidding, so that she
might learn her true position.
“There is no doubt at all that you have been treated badly by Sir
Harold Annesley,” he went on, but Lady Elaine interrupted him.
“Please do not speak of Sir Harold,” she said. “My heart tells me that
he will come back to me some day.”
“Well, my lady,” proceeded Mr. Worboys, “it amounts to this: If you
refuse to wed Viscount Rivington you will lose a fortune of nearly
half-a-million sterling and an income of ten or twelve thousand a year.”
“I have my private fortune,” she reminded him.
“A paltry five hundred a year,” he told her, “and even that is under
the control of your guardians until you are of age.”
“It appears that I am practically bound hand and foot,” she said,
bitterly. “Must I submit to these people?”
She stood erect, with flashing eyes, and deathly-white face--a pathetic
figure in her loneliness.
“Cannot you help me, Mr. Worboys?”
“The law will not permit of my interference, my lady. Now, look at
matters on their brightest side. Within one year you will be of age
and your own mistress. You are determined to lose your fortune rather
than marry Viscount Rivington. No one can legally force you into this
marriage, and if undue pressure is brought to bear upon you, then I may
be able to step in to your assistance. What manner of woman is this
Lady Gaynor?”
“I do not like her,” Elaine replied. “I do not know why, but we were
never upon friendly terms. Had my father lived I believe that he would
have made Lady Gaynor the Countess of Seabright.”
The old lawyer was silent for a little while, then he glanced at the
girl pityingly and said:
“I do not think that we can improve matters by remaining here longer,
Lady Elaine. Above all, we must avoid arousing suspicion. Note
carefully the manner in which Lady Gaynor approaches you, and always
rely upon my active friendship whenever such is possible.”
Mr. Worboys went back to London, and for three or four days Lady Elaine
was practically left to her own devices, while her maid was busy
packing up.
On the fifth day, however, there was a letter from Lady Gaynor, which
ran as follows:
DEAR LADY ELAINE--I sincerely trust that the first edge of your
grief is dulled by this time, and that you have made preparations
for leaving the old home. The new earl has been extremely kind and
considerate toward you. According to the provisions of your father’s
will, I and Viscount Rivington are in a measure responsible for you,
and as you are practically without a fortune, your future home must
be the best I can afford. The Lodge will doubtless appear a very
insignificant place after the splendid surroundings of Seabright
Hall. Still, none of us can choose our own lot in life, and the dear
viscount has acquiesced to all my proposals. I have written to your
cousin, the new earl, informing him that it is my intention to relieve
him of further responsibility, so far as you are concerned, to-morrow
morning. Your very dear friend, Miss Nugent, will accompany me.
Sincerely yours, ELEANOR GAYNOR.
Lady Elaine shivered when she read the letter. There was something
ominous in its softly-turned sentences.
At dinner the earl broached the subject.
“If you are not quite ready to leave, Lady Elaine,” he said, “I shall
be glad to have you here as long as it suits your own convenience. The
countess and the girls will be here next week.”
“Thank you,” Elaine replied, listlessly. “There is no reason that I
should delay the inevitable. I will leave Seabright Hall to-morrow
morning with Lady Gaynor.”
“A strange choice of the late earl’s,” he mused. “Lady Gaynor is
notorious in certain circles. She is miserably poor, and makes an
income by coaching the daughters of rich Americans and successful
tradesmen generally.”
Lady Elaine did not reply, but again that icy shudder passed through
her, leaving her as cold as death. Her great sorrow had left her numb
and spiritless.
Lady Gaynor came next morning; she was a large, handsome woman of fifty
or thereabouts--a woman with determination marked in every line of her
smiling face. For ten years she had succeeded in maintaining a small
estate known as “The Lodge” upon absolutely no assured income at all.
The house and lands were incumbered, but Lady Gaynor had managed, so
far, to keep off the marauding hands of the money-lenders. But of late
her practices had obtained the severe notice of people who moved in
the charmed circle of the court, and Lady Gaynor knew that she must
employ sharp wits in other directions, or fall a prey to the harpies
which, like the vampire, feed upon the blood of human hearts. Then
the Earl of Seabright in some way became entangled in her toils, and
many rumors were rife when he died. This was a serious blow to Lady
Gaynor, but there was one hope still left. Upon his marriage with Lady
Elaine, Viscount Rivington had promised her a handsome check--a check
that would free her of the Jews, and still leave a respectable sum with
which to make fresh ventures. It was really a matter of life and death
to Lady Gaynor.
“My dear girl!” she said, effusively kissing one of Lady Elaine’s pale
cheeks, “how sweet of you to be so considerate! Here you are quite
ready, and we shall be back at the Lodge in time for lunch.”
Then Margaret Nugent came forward and greeted Elaine with a great show
of affection. She could afford now to be affectionate in reality, for
she no longer regarded Lady Elaine as a rival.
The drive to the Lodge was without incident, and Lady Gaynor showed the
girl to a suite of shabbily-furnished rooms. The curtains were dingy,
the carpets threadbare, and there was an air of mustiness everywhere
that was stifling.
“Ah! I can see disappointment in your face,” her ladyship said, with
well-assumed regret, “but this is the best that I can offer. Let us
hope that you will soon reign as mistress of a home equal to the one
you have left. I shall then expect you to requite the kindness I am
endeavoring to extend to you now. Ah! how selfish poverty makes us all,
Lady Elaine. You do not care to come down for lunch? Well, you shall
have a cup of tea up here and spend the rest of the day as you please,
assisting your maid to unpack.”
Lady Gaynor went away, and a little later Margaret Nugent came to say
good-by.
“I am going home,” she said, “because mamma has a fresh attack of
fancied woes. Shall I bring the pony-carriage to-morrow, and we will
have a long drive?”
“No, thank you, Margaret,” said Lady Elaine, “I think that I hate the
old, familiar scenes. My great trouble has fallen on me with the weight
of an avalanche. I do not seem able to realize it yet. My lover--my
father--all--at one blow. My energy--my spirit is killed within me!”
“Time will soften your grief, Elaine,” said Margaret, gently. “There is
a great future before you--a future bright with triumph and splendor,
if you only grasp it aright.”
There seemed to be a hidden meaning in Margaret’s words.
“I believe that I understand you, Miss Nugent,” Elaine said, coldly;
“but I fail to appreciate your counsels. In some way my troubles
began when I was weak enough to listen to your advice. I accepted it
against my better judgment, and I beg of you not to refer to matters
which particularly concern myself again. In my present loneliness I
need friends badly enough, Heaven knows, but I can never associate you
with anything but unpleasantness and misery. I feel that you are my
enemy, and am only sorry that I did not make the discovery sooner. The
very fact that you are a close associate of my oppressors precludes
the possibility of any sympathy between us, and I shall consider it
a favor if you will cease making any pretenses of affection for me
in the future. I must now know upon whom I can depend, Miss Nugent,
and I can neither accept you as a confidante nor an adviser. I am not
superstitious, but there is a fatality about some people which it is
impossible to withstand, and everything in connection with yourself has
resulted in evil for me.”
“I am sorry,” Miss Nugent said, and her face was pale. “Can it be
possible, Lady Elaine, that you regard me as a sort of evil genius?”
“That is just it. In some way I feel that you are my evil genius!”
Elaine replied.
Without a word, Margaret Nugent turned away, and the two girls did not
meet again for many months.
CHAPTER XV.
LADY GAYNOR SHOWS HER HAND.
A week passed, and Lady Elaine had been permitted to indulge in almost
perfect seclusion, but at length a message was sent to her announcing
that Lady Gaynor wished to see her in her _boudoir_.
The servant who delivered it glanced pityingly at the black-robed
figure, and told the shabbily-dressed butler a little later that the
atmosphere would soon be sultry.
The butler smiled, as only an upper servant can smile, and remarked:
“We are hall hinterested in this last spec., John. Three years’ money
owin’ to me, an’ not a stitch to my back, hardly. If her ladyship
hadn’t hev explained, it meant a county court case for her.”
John smirked.
“It’s hin the _boudoir_, eh?” continued the butler. “Then that’s
hominous.”
“How blood do tell,” said the footman. “I was hordered to deliver the
message peremptory like, and you should hev seen the beautiful young
lady’s eyes flash!”
“Look ’ere, don’t you take sides with her, John, because my back pay
depends hon the winnin’ side being Lady Gaynor.”
The footman’s manner had seemed extremely rude to Lady Elaine, and Nina
had strongly resented it by closing the door in his face.
It is true that Elaine had met one or two kindly inquiries with an
exasperating indifference, and Lady Gaynor decided that it was time to
show her authority.
Fully understanding that the servant’s manner was but a reflection of
that of his mistress, Lady Elaine promptly attended the summons, her
blood raised to a white heat of indignation.
She paused momentarily at the half-open door of her ladyship’s
_boudoir_, and immediately heard the soft, cooing tones of the woman
she hated and distrusted.
“Is that you, child? Come in, and close the door after you. I am far
from feeling well this morning, and the tiresome viscount has written
to say that he is coming to dinner to-day. Will you sit down, please,
Lady Elaine? Nothing makes me so uncomfortable as to see my friends
standing about the rooms when I wish to talk to them.”
She sighed, and arranged the folds of her dirty dressing-gown, watching
the girl at the same time from the corners of her eyes.
“Lady Gaynor,” Elaine said, haughtily, “I am here to learn what it is
you wish to communicate to me. Mind you, I am not to be deceived by
this outward complaisance after your bold attempt to humiliate me in
the eyes of your servants!”
For a few moments the cool woman of the world was taken completely off
her guard.
“My dear Elaine,” she said, aghast, “whatever are you driving at?”
Inwardly she reflected: “I have heard that she has a temper of her
own, but it must be crushed! Backed by strong friends and perfect
independence, the task might be a difficult one, but now--faugh!”
She eyed the angry girl with a glance that gradually deepened into a
smile of bitterest contempt.
“Is it to be open warfare between us, Lady Elaine?” she asked,
sneeringly, a baleful light in her deep-set eyes. “As you appear to
have taken the initiative, I must accept the impudent challenge!”
“It is as well that we should at once understand each other,” the
earl’s daughter replied, icily.
“I agree with you there perfectly, my lady, and for that very reason
I sent for you here. My frankness may appear almost brutal, but you
yourself have forced me to cease from paltering with words. My lady of
Seabright, you must forget that you are the daughter of an earl, and
remember that you are practically little better than a pauper upon my
bounty.”
“Stop!”
Elaine advanced one step, with flashing eyes.
“Who dares to beard me on my own ground!” screamed Lady Gaynor, losing
all control of herself. “Girl, I am your legal guardian, and will force
you into obedience! Do you think that I will permit my guests to be
insulted as you insulted Miss Nugent? Do you think that I will endure
your moping away in silence, with a maid dancing attendance upon you at
my expense? What is your paltry five hundred a year? It will not keep
personal attendants and buy you handsome clothes. I say that your maid
shall be dismissed this very day; I insist that you appear downstairs
at my request, and amuse my guests. I am determined to exercise my full
authority, and since you have treated the viscount so shamefully I am
sure that he will exact a similar obedience.”
At the end of her tirade she rose to her feet, her face purple with
unbridled rage, and shook both her tightly-clinched hands at the
astonished girl.
“Have you finished?” Lady Elaine asked, calmly. “I do not forget
that the blood of a hundred earls flows in my veins! I am not to be
frightened by a creature like you. Your melodramatic ravings are
more amusing than otherwise. I need say little more. I ignore your
commands and wishes alike, because I despise you for an unprincipled
adventuress. You must not imagine that I am wholly without friends, and
I give you warning that I shall quit the Lodge to-day!”
With a glance of withering contempt, Lady Elaine swept from the room.
She hurried to her own apartments, and commanded Nina to begin packing
at once.
“I have quarreled with Lady Gaynor,” she said, “and we cannot remain
here another hour. Oh, Nina, I am in great trouble, and now I want your
help and sympathy. The mistress of this place has insulted me cruelly,
and I must seek the advice of Mr. Worboys, our old family lawyer, at
the earliest possible moment.”
“And where shall we go to, my lady?” ventured Nina.
“To London--to a hotel. I have five hundred pounds a year, surely they
cannot deprive me of that! Then we will find a comfortable little home
somewhere, Nina, and you shall stay with me as long as you like--not as
a mere servant--but as a friend, the most faithful friend I have ever
had.”
Nina’s face flushed with pleasure, and she clapped her hands together
joyously.
“Oh, my lady, won’t that be nice! But what a shame for all your fortune
to go because of that wretched will.”
“Hush, Nina; I never wish to think of it again. Never before was a
poor mortal so afflicted as I, but beyond the black clouds of the
present I have faith that there is a golden promise that will blossom
into glorious fruition. I know that my lover will come back to me some
day--and I shall wait--even if it is until I am old and gray. Bitter as
my sorrows have been, the most dreadful blow has not fallen. There is
no proof that Sir Harold has been false to me. If this were so, then I
should be stricken with death, indeed!”
Lady Elaine shed a few tears, then, with rapid and decisive movements,
assisted her maid to turn out the contents of drawers and wardrobes,
and pack them into her traveling trunks.
In the meantime, Lady Gaynor had sent an urgent telegram to the
viscount, who was dutifully visiting his octogenarian uncle, the
Duke of Rothwell. The duke’s country seat was within twenty miles of
Ashbourne, and the viscount had many reasons for trying to conciliate
the old gentleman. In the first place, his grace had complete control
of every acre of his possessions. There was not a square yard of
entail, and the viscount had never been a favorite with his uncle.
When the telegram arrived, Rivington was reading that morning’s _Times_
to the Duke of Rothwell. The day was bright and warm, and they were
sunning themselves on one of the terraces that overlooked miles of
undulating woodland.
“What is that, Henry?” asked his grace, suspiciously.
“Lady Gaynor desires my immediate presence at the Lodge,” replied
Rivington, knitting his brows.
“Lady Gaynor!” echoed the duke, contemptuously. “You must break with
that woman, Henry. Let me see the telegram.”
Rivington reluctantly handed the slip of pink paper to his uncle, who
slowly read:
You must come at once. Trouble with the girl.--GAYNOR.
“Trouble with the girl,” repeated the duke, suspiciously. “What does
that mean? No deception, please. I endured quite enough of that in your
young days, when you used money that did not belong to you. Sometimes
I think that I have been a fool to take you back again and make you
a handsome allowance. It is hard to believe in the reformation of a
blackleg and a gambler. But my will is not yet made in your favor, and
all depends upon your marriage with Lady Elaine Seabright. After that
there is some hope for you!”
“Uncle!” pleaded Rivington. “How unkind you are!”
“The telegram, the telegram!” was the interruption.
“Oh, that is nothing. The facts are simple. Of course, everybody is
aware of Lady Gaynor’s crippled condition so far as finances go, and I
recently recommended to her care the--er--sister of a fellow I know,
who suffers with periodical attacks of mild insanity--the result of a
carriage accident. Her brother was willing to pay a decent sum to any
one who would take particular care of the girl until she was quite
recovered, and I recommended Lady Gaynor. That is all there is in it.
It is a great nuisance at all events, just now.”
“H’m! Is that the truth?” the duke grunted.
“My dear uncle,” exclaimed Rivington, distressfully, “it pains me
beyond measure that you should continue to doubt me.”
“Can you wonder at it? Well, I suppose that you must leave me. If it
was anywhere but Lady Gaynor’s place I would go with you. I can’t think
what possessed the Earl of Seabright when he mixed that woman up with
his affairs. I must see Lady Elaine as soon as she has got over her
spell of grief. I must hear from her own lips that she intends to marry
you, and then you may depend upon getting something from me besides
the title. I won’t believe one word of the story until her ladyship
confirms it. It will ever be a mystery to me how you managed to
ingratiate yourself in the Earl of Seabright’s good graces. He was no
fool, and must have known what a worthless scoundrel you were in your
younger days. I would see you hanged before you should marry a daughter
of mine, no matter how much you promised to reform. I have no belief
in reformed rakes. Confound it, I am almost disposed to put a stop to
this abominable marriage, but I suppose that Lady Elaine knows her own
business best. There never is any accounting for taste--particularly
a woman’s! Not only are you deficient in what I consider the ordinary
attributes of manhood, but you are small and insignificant. You will be
the most undignified Duke of Rothwell that has ever borne the title.
Why the deuce didn’t I marry myself, I wonder!”
Inwardly the viscount was fuming. He hated his uncle, and cursed Lady
Gaynor for a fool. Why had she sent the insane telegram? What had she
done to Lady Elaine?
When once beyond the notice of the old duke, his haste became almost
frantic. He helped the groom to saddle a horse, and then galloped away
as though upon an errand of life and death.
In less than two hours he was pacing Lady Gaynor’s drawing-room, hot,
dust-stained and angry; and when her ladyship appeared his irritability
burst out.
“Well! Until now I have looked upon you as a woman of sense. That
telegram nearly exploded the whole business to the duke!”
“Why should the duke see it?”
“See it he did. Now for the trouble. What is the matter?” he demanded.
“My lady is packing up. She refuses to remain here longer, and, of
course, we must use our authority.”
“Use our authority,” he sneered. “I suppose you have been using your
infernal temper, woman-like! Where is your tact? A girl of Lady
Elaine’s spirit would submit to no living woman--not even you. It
appears that I have been depending upon a broken reed!”
“What was I to do? I have tried kindness in vain, and I consider
that----”
“Well, please don’t employ your extraordinary considering powers
again,” Rivington interrupted savagely. “My very life depends upon
my marriage with Lady Elaine. If the duke discovers that he has been
deceived I shall be a titled pauper. I lose both fortunes--while you
will find a resting place from your labors in one of her majesty’s
prisons. It is a serious offense to purchase thousands of pounds’ worth
of jewelry on credit and to pawn it the same day.”
Lady Gaynor was deathly pale.
“Now,” he continued, a little more calmly, “tell me exactly what has
taken place.”
“If you persist in your taunts,” she told him, “I may have something
to say. As for this girl, I tell you that it is impossible to manage
her, and the marriage will have to be forced. Money will do anything. I
repeat that I have tried kindness in vain, and because I remonstrated
with her this morning she flew into a temper, and declared her
intention of quitting the Lodge at once. As her legal guardians we must
exercise our authority.”
He did not reply immediately, but continued to pace the floor. At last
he came to a standstill, and said:
“Lady Elaine will not be coerced into anything, and it was a mistake to
bring her here at all. Your suggestion of compelling her to suitably
respond to the marriage lines must only be adopted as a last desperate
resort. I do not even wish to hear you hint at the means to be employed
at present, because, independently of what the marriage means to me, I
honestly love the earl’s daughter.”
Lady Gaynor laughed doubtfully.
“Now,” continued Rivington, without deigning to notice the
interruption, “for the present I shall assume active control of
affairs, and Lady Elaine will be permitted to follow her own devices.
I shall even advise her to hasten her departure, and constitute myself
her guide and protector. Apparently you and I will be upon very bad
terms. In this way I shall enlist her confidence, and also keep her in
sight. If my plan fails, well, then we must have recourse to something
which requires the nerve of a bad woman to formulate and successfully
accomplish.”
“Thank you!” said Lady Gaynor.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE VISCOUNT’S SCHEME.
Rivington scribbled the following in his notebook, and for a minute
reflected intently:
MY DEAR LADY ELAINE--I have just reached here to learn that there has
been some unpleasantness between you and Lady Gaynor. She evidently
imagined that I should sanction any course she was pleased to take,
but has been woefully disappointed. I quite agree with you that the
Lodge cannot longer be your home, and my active advice, if required,
is at your service. If you will see me for a few minutes I shall be
happy to assist you to the utmost of my limited powers, without in the
last interfering with your freedom of thought and action.
Very sincerely yours, HENRY RIVINGTON.
He tore the leaf containing the message out of his notebook, and handed
it to Lady Gaynor to read, remarking:
“This merely foreshadows my plan of campaign. In any event, I am
determined to make Lady Elaine the future Duchess of Rothwell, and
the sooner the ceremony takes place the better for me and for you. My
uncle refuses to make a new will until Lady Elaine is either my wife
or he is convinced that nothing less than a miracle can prevent her
being so. He is not content with my mere word or printed notices in the
newspapers. He wishes confirmation from my lady’s own lips. So far,
luck has ever been attendent upon me. I shall now pose in the character
of the chivalrous but unhappy lover. A week or two will decide me upon
its ultimate success. If the plan does not work, I shall require your
services again, Lady Gaynor, and the business will have to be put in
hand with expedition. I care not what means are employed.”
“I will be in readiness, viscount,” her ladyship replied, with an evil
smile. “Lady Elaine has made an enemy of me, and to punish her I am
resolved that she shall be your wife.”
She laughed maliciously.
“After that she will always be in my power, more or less.”
He pretended not to notice this ambiguous speech, but said:
“I shall deliver my written message in person. It is impossible that I
may not have an opportunity of speaking to you again to-day, but I will
keep you alive regarding my movements.”
“_Au revoir!_ my dear boy. I think that there is nothing more to
say. You will make me out a monster of iniquity to her ladyship,
and your own virtues will shine with luminous brightness against my
dark background. You have a subtle brain, and the scheme would work
admirably with any ordinary girl, but Lady Elaine Seabright is not an
ordinary girl. Unfortunately, viscount, you are not an Apollo, like the
recreant Sir Harold, for instance, and I am afraid that the part you
have chosen does not suit you. The stage villain is more in your line!”
The viscount did not relish her raillery, but with a bow and a muttered
good-morning he left the room in quest of Lady Elaine, conscious that
the butler was ever on the alert.
In answer to his gentle knock the door was opened by Nina, and the
viscount’s quick eyes saw that the girl was flushed and trembling with
excitement. The floor was littered with hastily-packed boxes.
“Can I see your mistress, Nina?” he asked, softly and kindly. “Nay, I
have no wish to intrude, and will be here again in ten minutes’ time.
Meanwhile, give Lady Elaine this note from me.”
The maid took the scrap of paper from him, and when he returned in the
time he had named he was immediately admitted by Nina.
Lady Elaine was standing in the middle of the shabby little
sitting-room, his note between her fingers, and at sight of her
graceful, haughty figure and beautiful face, the viscount’s heart
throbbed with its old passion.
He stepped forward with what appeared to be warm impulsiveness, and
gently took one of her hands between his.
“I have heard something of the annoyance to which you have been
subjected by that vulgar woman downstairs. Indeed, she telegraphed to
me,” he added, with an air of candor, “and the result has not been
pleasant to her. I believe that we have good and sufficient grounds to
cause her co-guardianship to be rescinded. I applaud your determination
to leave this wretched house, and only hope that I may be permitted to
help you in some way.”
“You are very kind, viscount,” Lady Elaine said, gratefully. “I
scarcely knew how you would view my conduct.”
“You could not believe that I would oppose you, Lady Elaine?” he said,
softly. “I had no hand in bringing you here. I had no knowledge even of
the late earl’s choice of executors until it was too late to offer a
protest upon my own behalf at least. The position naturally prejudices
me in your eyes.”
“No! No!” the girl interjected.
“As for Lady Gaynor, she merits nothing but my contempt. She is a
violent and dangerous woman. This house is nightly the resort of
gamblers, and it is wonderful the influence that she obtained over
the late earl. I have myself lost fabulous sums of money among the
card-sharpers who frequent the place. I make this confession with
shame, but Lady Gaynor and I are open foes at last!”
“I believe that I have misjudged you, and I am sorry, viscount,” said
Elaine, a little penitently.
It was so sweet to have a friend at this unlooked-for moment--a friend
in one whom she had feared would be an enemy!
“You are nearly ready to leave!” he observed, glancing around.
“I shall be quite ready in an hour.”
“And may I ask whither? I would like to take you to my uncle’s
place--Rothwell Abbey--but I do not wish it to appear that I have any
hand in shaping your course. At the same time I should like to help
you.”
“I intended going direct to a London hotel--I and my maid,” Elaine
said, “and then seeking for a pretty home somewhere in the country. I
have a few hundred pounds in money, and there is my private fortune.
Now that I have your friendship, viscount, I know that no bar will be
put against my deriving full benefit from that. You see my plans are
very simple,” she added, pathetically; “I have no desire to meet those
friends who have nothing but pity for me, and my soul sickens at the
thought of gayety.”
“I quite agree with all you say; indeed, nothing could be better under
existing circumstances,” the viscount said. “I will order the carriage
to be ready in an hour. The luggage had better precede us to the
railway station, if it is ready. Allow me to tighten the straps.”
He busied himself for some minutes, then asked if lunch should be sent
upstairs.
“No, thank you,” Lady Elaine said. “I shall not breathe freely until
I am out of this house forever. I shall never forget your kindness,
viscount.”
There were tears in her eyes and in her voice, and Rivington felt that
his cause was half won.
“I will accompany you to London,” he said. “A man is useful in looking
after things, and I may be able to assist you in the choice of a house.
I know every inch of the suburbs. I would suggest a pretty villa in
the vicinity of Hyde Park--a sort of combination of country and town,
where people mind their own business. The ordinary country village is a
perfect hotbed of malicious gossip.”
“I am sure that I shall be content to leave the selection in your
hands,” Lady Elaine replied, thoughtfully. “And it will, perhaps, be
wise to be within easy reach of Mr. Worboys.”
“The late family lawyer!” the viscount exclaimed, incautiously, but
added quickly, “yes, and you may have need of his services soon. Lady
Elaine, at present I stand between you and a vast fortune. You know
what my hopes have been and ever will be, but I want you to acquit me
of having any hand in that infamous will! It is impossible to alter it,
but I am not so mean a cur that I will permit you to lose one shilling
because I suffer the keenest disappointment that it is possible for man
to endure and live!”
She looked at him gratefully, and he pressed her hand in silence.
“There,” he concluded, “I will send the cart to the door for your
luggage, and find that prying footman something to do. You have
selected your train, I presume?”
“Two-thirty from Ashbourne,” Elaine said.
“Very well,” he went on, consulting his watch, “the carriage shall be
waiting at two.”
He bowed gracefully, and left the room with the feelings of a victor.
“I shall win her,” he thought. “Aye, in a canter, I verily believe.
Sympathy and kindness appeal to her haughty soul.”
At two o’clock Lady Elaine, Viscount Rivington and Nina, the maid,
left the Lodge in Lady Gaynor’s rickety brougham, and were driven to
Ashbourne station.
“It happears to me,” remarked the butler to the footman, “that there’s
a good chance of our getting the back wages, but hang me if I can see
the drift of the little game.”
CHAPTER XVII.
THERESA’S LOVE.
Never until Sir Harold Annesley came into her life had Theresa Hamilton
understood the ecstatic joy of living. The songs of the birds were
tuned afresh, the flowers took on a newer bloom, and the bees that
buzzed in the blossoming garden told but one story, and its name was
Love--beautiful Love!
In a few short weeks she had changed from a girl into a woman, and the
soft, happy light that shone in her glorious, Southern eyes told its
own story.
And now that Mr. Hamilton had given his consent to Sir Harold’s wooing,
he became aware that Theresa wanted new frocks, and things of which
most girls are proud.
One day he called her to him.
“My darling,” he said, kissing her tenderly, “in one way I have been
very unkind to you, and you have never once complained.”
She looked at him wonderingly.
“You do not understand me, Theresa?”
“No, father; because I do not know the meaning of unkindness. You have
ever striven hard to teach me all those accomplishments that are so
essential to women of refinement. I never knew their value until----”
She hesitated, and he asked:
“Until when, Theresa?”
“Until Sir Harold expressed his pleasure and surprise,” she replied,
blushing vividly and burying her face on his shoulder.
“Theresa,” her father went on, “I will tell you how I have been
unkind, though my motives in all things concerning you have been
actuated by my keen desire to leave you in some way provided for. Have
you ever wanted nicer frocks and boots, and all those little fineries
that add a charm to woman’s dress?”
“No, but I should like them now,” she replied, naïvely, “only that I
know we are poor.”
“Then you shall have them,” he promised her, with a sparkle of triumph
in his eyes. “I have a little money put away, Theresa--a little hoard
of gold which I have saved for you. What do you say to going with me to
one of the big towns and choosing all that you require?”
She clapped her hands gleefully. “I wonder what Sir Harold will think
of me then,” she laughed.
It was always Sir Harold first with her now, and her father smiled
indulgently.
“Well, Theresa, is it settled? I am feeling better to-day than I have
for years. A burden seems to have been lifted from about me.”
“Oh, father, I am so happy! Is it much money that you have saved--very
much?”
“Enough for present needs, Theresa, and I have dreamed of buying this
little house in which to spend the evening of my life, but it may not
be needed now.”
He looked wistfully from the window, adding: “How strange are Thy ways,
O Providence! * * * Well, Theresa, we must start early, and for a few
hours leave Sir Harold to his flowers and books.”
The girl ran about the house like a happy child. A new world was
opening to her, filled with unexpected treasures, as beautiful even as
the stories of fairydom.
Mr. Hamilton took his daughter to a town called Farnwell, and left her
in the hands of a firm of _costumiers_, while he made other purchases.
He spent his money freely, and it seemed to afford him infinite
satisfaction. A further visit to Farnwell was made a few days later,
followed by several large parcels which were delivered by the local
carrier.
The next day was Sunday, and, after the midday meal, Sir Harold was
startled by a vision of beauty that suddenly appeared before him.
It was Theresa in one of her new frocks--a perfect-fitting dress of
creamy, shimmering stuff, a coral necklet round her ivory throat, and a
bunch of scarlet poppies in her hair.
“Theresa!” gasped Sir Harold. “Surely not. Oh, how lovely you are,
little one!”
“Do you think so? I am so glad if you are pleased!”
Mr. Hamilton was looking on, and a deep sigh escaped him.
“It is her mother over again,” he said, in a half-whisper. “I never
noticed it before. The likeness is almost fatal. They would know her
anywhere!”
He shuddered, and his face blanched. But with Sir Harold his darling
would be safe!
He watched them into the garden, Theresa looking trustfully up at the
man she loved, and her happy laughter ringing in his ears.
“I never knew the meaning of real happiness until now,” she was saying
to the young baronet; “my father has always told me that it was
illusive, and the mere imaginings of the poets and romancists.”
“But it is real, Theresa, is it not? We have proved it to be so,”
replied the baronet.
“How could it be otherwise when we love so well?” she whispered.
He did not reply; he was thinking what a pleasant duty it was to take
care of this lovely child, who lived wholly and solely for him.
“As my wife, Theresa, you will some day be one of the highest ladies in
the land,” he said.
“I shall be one of the proudest and happiest, Harold. I covet no
greater honor than to be by your side in a cottage or a palace.”
“We will live abroad for a few years,” he went on, “until my memory is
fully restored. Then I can return to the home of my ancestors without
fear.”
“And if you should ever meet and recognize the Lady Elaine?” she asked
him, her face paling at the thought.
“It is hardly likely,” he laughed. “I must have hated her when I went
away--hated myself for my folly. She will never cross my path again.”
They sat down in the little arbor side by side, but Theresa would talk
and think of nothing but love. Love was her eternal theme. She heard it
among the leaves, and in the stream that trickled behind the garden.
She heard it in the song of the birds and in the drone of the bees.
“If you did not love me, Harold, I should die,” she said. “I could
almost wish that the few years you have forgotten would never return
again. Have you ever heard the Romaic song which tells of the deathless
agony of slighted love? Listen, Harold. Its burden has fascinated me:
Ah, Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.
Without one friend to bear my woe,
I faint, I die, beneath the blow;
That love had arrows well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison’d, too!
Birds yet in freedom shun the net
Which love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,
Your hearts shall burn, your hope expire.
Who ne’er has loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain.
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love’s angry glance.
My curdling blood, my maddening brain,
In silent anguish I sustain;
And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults, while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now;
I’ve lived to curse my natal day,
And love, that thus can lingering slay!
She stopped with a sob, and flung her arms about Sir Harold’s neck, a
passion of tears raining from her eyes.
“Poor little Theresa,” he said, tenderly; “but how foolish you are to
give way to such fears. Am I not near you--shall I not be ever near to
protect you?”
With a long, fluttering sigh, she nestled her head upon his shoulder
and was content.
CHAPTER XVIII.
SIR HAROLD’S WALK TO FARNWELL.
“Sir Harold,” Mr. Hamilton said, a day or two later, “I have engaged
a woman-servant to live in the house. She is old and deaf, and will
notice nothing in particular if we simply call you Mr. Harold. I have
known her for some years in connection with the laundry work, and as
her husband is lately dead, she is very glad of a home. Now that it is
settled that Theresa is to be your wife, we must take better care of
her.”
“I am glad that you have mentioned this, Mr. Hamilton,” Sir Harold
replied, “because I want to talk with you about our future. This idle
life is growing a little tiresome, and I should like to travel. Theresa
loves me, and relies upon me so much, that I do not see why the wedding
should be long delayed.”
“She is very young yet,” faltered Hamilton.
“Nineteen--is she not? And I am nearly thirty, though I have the
feelings of a boy,” laughed Sir Harold. “As the autumn will soon be
upon us, I intend asking your consent to an early marriage, so that
the winter may be spent in Nice, or some similar place. Of course,
you would accompany us if you chose to do so, but I do not anticipate
returning to England until I can take possession of that which is mine
with unimpaired faculties.”
“I am afraid, with all my fears and fancies, that I should be a sort of
death’s-head at the feast,” replied Hamilton, a little mournfully. “I
hate parting with my Theresa, but she is safer with you. As your wife,
the enemy may never suspect whom she really is. If it pleases you--if
it pleases Theresa, my dear boy--I am agreeable to all that you may do
and desire. But for myself, I shall remain here. I have enough money
to buy the place--the money I have saved for Theresa, and I think that
the evening of my life may be spent in comparative happiness now that
I know my beloved child is well provided for. Treat her tenderly, Sir
Harold, for she is like a delicate flower, that would droop and die if
neglected or deprived of the sunshine of your love.”
“God helping me, I ever will,” the baronet fervently responded.
“And now,” continued Mr. Hamilton, “what of your business affairs?
Between us--Colonel Greyson and me--everything can be managed until you
feel disposed to assume the reins of control. I have had a letter from
the colonel to-day. He is in Switzerland, and inquires anxiously about
you. His letter contains news that surprises me, and we must really try
and keep better informed with that which is happening about us. The
Earl of Seabright recently met with an accident, and is dead.”
“Indeed!” remarked Sir Harold, indifferently. “I endeavored to become
interested in the _Daily Telegraph_ you brought home last Saturday,
but its very strangeness bewildered me. I felt like a man who had
been asleep for half a century when I tried to connect the politics I
remembered and the politics of to-day.”
“Well, what do you think of my proposal?” continued Hamilton; “you will
require funds while abroad, and who so reliable as myself in all that
interests you? Besides, the occupation will be of benefit to me, for
when you and Theresa are gone, I shall be a lonely old man.”
“I am grateful to you,” the young man said, heartily; “no better
arrangement could possibly be made.”
“I am glad that you think so, and, as I have a letter of introduction
from the colonel to his London bankers, I will present it to-day. It
is of no use leaving everything until the last moment, and you will be
wanting money soon.”
“Yes,” was the thoughtful rejoinder. “You may draw a few hundreds on
my behalf, and enter into arrangements with the colonel to let me have
five thousand pounds in a month’s time. I suppose that I have plenty
of funds, and I must make Theresa a handsome wedding present. You can
explain, if you like, that I am going to be married!”
He laughed pleasantly.
“It shall be as you say,” Mr. Hamilton told him. “And now, if you will
excuse me, Harold, I will go and dress, as I want to catch an early
train. Our new servant will arrive by and by, and Theresa will look
after her.”
An hour later Mr. Hamilton was gone, and after a little lover-like talk
with Theresa, Sir Harold strolled into the garden. Wet or fine, he
rarely was to be found anywhere else. The low-ceilinged cottage seemed
to envelop him. He could not breathe within its close walls.
There had been a heavy fall of rain in the night, and the leaves were
still dripping, with a sound that irritated his nerves.
He had been provided with plenty of books and cigars; but neither
afforded him any pleasure now, and he wandered out of the garden into
the lane beyond.
How many weeks had he been confined within the cottage and its
environs? Six or seven? He could not remember exactly, and now the idea
for viewing the country beyond seized upon him like an inspiration.
If he should chance to meet people who remembered him, what did it
matter? He was a free agent. But there was little likelihood of that,
and he strode away, interested in every new object that met his view.
When a sense of weariness began to creep over him, he knew that he
must have walked half-a-dozen miles. He looked at his watch. It was
eleven when he left the cottage, and now the hands pointed to the hour
of one.
Half-a-mile away there was a town perched upon the side of a hill.
“I will get refreshments there,” he thought, “and then hasten back.
Theresa will wonder what has become of me.”
He went into the town, and pulled his hat over his eyes like a man who
has committed some crime. The people whom he met stared curiously after
him. His was no common, everyday figure.
At last he turned into a public house, and, walking into a little
parlor, the door of which was held invitingly open by a trim-looking
maid, he called for a glass of ale and some biscuits.
“This is Farnwell, is it not?” he presently inquired.
“Yes, sir,” replied the girl.
He was about to express his astonishment at the number of alterations
that had taken place in an amazingly short space of time, when he
remembered his accident.
“I have not been here for a long time,” he explained, “and everything
seems quite strange. Who is the landlord now?”
“Mr. Fletcher, sir.”
“Fletcher? Oh, I do not remember him. I suppose that the house has
recently changed hands?”
“Not for ten years, sir,” the maid replied.
“Of course; I had forgotten my long absence. A very nice and quiet
town, is it not?”
He turned to a newspaper that lay near him, hoping that the girl
would take the hint and retire; but it was not often that so handsome
a gentleman talked to her, and she endeavored to continue the
conversation.
“Yes, very quiet,” she said; “rather too quiet to my liking, sir,
though, of course, we do get a bit of sensation sometimes in connection
with the gentry. Now, the best bit for years is the disappearance of
Sir Harold Annesley, and everybody is talking about it.”
Fortunately for Sir Harold, another customer came in, and he hastily
finished his beer.
His thoughts reverted to Theresa, and he regretted that he had left her
without a word about his intentions.
He jumped up, said “Good-morning” to the buxom maid, and left the house.
He strode rapidly through the town, unaware that he was being followed
by a spare little man, whose face betrayed emotions of the most violent
and complex kind.
Once out of the town, Sir Harold’s long legs took quicker and longer
strides, and the little man began to run. He panted painfully for a
little while, and then cried:
“Master! Master!”
Sir Harold swung round, and eyed the man wonderingly.
“Well?” he demanded. “I am afraid that you have made some mistake, my
good fellow.”
“Don’t you know me, Sir Harold?” cried the man. “I’m Stimson, your
valet. You left me to go to London, and I followed the next day with
all the luggage, and have never seen you since.”
“I really don’t know you, Stimson; I am very sorry, and I wish that you
had not met me.”
“Oh, Sir Harold, I thought that you were dead. I never did believe what
they said about your running away. I knew you too well.”
“That is what they say, is it?” Sir Harold said. “Well, I am glad of
it. I have no desire to undeceive them, whoever ‘they’ may be.”
Stimson stood watching anxiously every expression of his master’s face.
“I will tell you that which very few people know, Stimson--I fell from
the train at Tenterden on that fatal day, and had ten years of my life
utterly obliterated. That is why I do not recognize you. I am told that
I shall soon be all right again, and there is only one other of my old
friends in the secret--Colonel Greyson.”
“Oh, master, it is good to hear your voice again!” was the valet’s
hysterical rejoinder. “You want me again, don’t you, Sir Harold? You
said that I should always remain with you.”
“I am ready to keep my word, Stimson, because I am really in need of a
valet. I am to be married soon, and intend going abroad immediately, to
stay until my memory is fully restored.”
The valet stared at him doubtfully, and blankly said:
“Married, Sir Harold?”
“Yes, to the daughter of the man who saved my intellect, if not my
life. I never want you to refer to the past, Stimson. That is over and
done with--at least, that portion which brought me so much sorrow. I
understand that I was infatuated with a cold-hearted, beautiful flirt,
who is engaged to some other fellow already. There, that is done with.
You may accompany me now, but I rely upon your absolute secrecy. I am
not staying far from here, and you will be very useful, for my wardrobe
is limited to what I have on my back!”
“The luggage is still at the London hotel, Sir Harold, and I waited
there for you until I was penniless. Shall I fetch it away?” the valet
asked.
“We will talk about that later, as I wish to arouse no suspicion. To
everybody, for a time, I am to be plain Mr. Harold.”
“Yes, master; I shall not forget,” the half-hysterical Stimson replied.
Theresa was watching for her lover, and the dark rings under her eyes
told of the anxiety she had endured.
The appearance of a stranger frightened her, and Sir Harold drew her
aside, whispering:
“Poor little girl! How thoughtless of me to leave you so long without
one word of explanation. But I did not intend going so far, Theresa,
and then, my old valet recognized me, and I have engaged him to go with
us on our wedding tour. I can see that he is trustworthy, and he is
half-frantic with joy. Is there room for him in this little nest? If
not, we must find him lodgings somewhere until we go away.”
“I think that we can manage, Harold,” Theresa said, happy tears
standing in her eyes. “Oh, I was so frightened when I could not find
you. I am always dreaming that I have lost you!”
“There is not much fear of that, darling,” he said, laughingly, and
pressing a kiss to her lips.
By the time Mr. Hamilton returned from London a room had been put to
rights for the valet, the resources of the cottage being taxed to their
utmost.
The visit to the metropolis had been successful in every way, and the
evening was spent in writing a somewhat lengthy letter to Colonel
Greyson, wherein Sir Harold’s arrangements for the immediate future
were fully set forth.
It was nearly midnight when Sir Harold retired, and he wished Hamilton
an affectionate “Good-night!” saying, “You have overdone yourself
to-day. Do not sit up too long.”
“No, Harold; I have a few old papers to destroy. I shall not be many
minutes.”
The young man went up to his room, which was directly over the one in
which he had left Mr. Hamilton.
For a little while he heard the rustling of papers, then a sudden
silence, followed by the opening of a door.
Five--ten minutes passed, and there was not a sound.
Slipping into his clothes again, Sir Harold stepped downstairs, and Mr.
Hamilton was apparently asleep. The young man spoke to him, but there
was no reply. Then he ran and shook him. The head dropped forward,
and one glance revealed that he was dead--the hanging lower jaw, the
glazing eyes, filled with unutterable horror, and the stiffening hands.
“My God!” gasped Sir Harold. “Poor Theresa!”
He lifted the poor old man to a sofa, and a scrap of paper dropped from
the nerveless fingers, bearing these words:
Tracked at last, Lambert Egerton, assassin of the Count Crispi, of
blessed memory. It is useless to evade us longer. Your doom is sealed!
Your life and the life of the child of the false Theresa Ludovci are
demanded by the Brotherhood. Blood for blood! Prepare, for at any
moment the avenger may be upon you! You are spared a little longer, so
that you may understand the tortures of the doomed!
The writing was a mere scrawl, and the spelling and grammar proclaimed
the author to be an illiterate foreigner.
For a minute Sir Harold stared at the paper aghast, then darting
through the open doorway, he plunged into the garden in quest of the
man or woman the shock of whose presence had deprived Mr. Hamilton of
life.
CHAPTER XIX.
A FUNERAL AND A WEDDING.
In every bush, and tree, and lurking shadow the young baronet probed,
but without avail. The evil messenger was gone, and he now had to break
the awful news to poor Theresa.
He stood for a few minutes with his hands clasped to his throbbing
temples. Then he hurried back to the cottage, and after taking one
hasty glance about him, his first care was to destroy the fatal scrawl.
This much accomplished, he crept softly to Stimson’s room, hastily
roused the man, and sent him for the nearest doctor.
“Mr. Hamilton is dead,” he whispered to the horrified valet; “has died
of heart failure! To me it was not unexpected, as he predicted it only
a few days since; but we must have the independent opinion of a doctor
to save trouble.”
“Yes, Sir Harold. I know Tenterden very well. The parish doctor lives
next door to the rectory,” Stimson said.
In a few minutes he was gone, and Sir Harold was confronted by the
awkwardness of his position. There was only one thing for him to do
now, and that was to marry Theresa at once. He would be then her
natural and lawful protector.
“Stimson shall call upon the rector of Tenterden,” he decided, “and I
will interview him here. I see no reason why I should hide my identity.
Let people think and say what they will. No, I will be married as Sir
Harold Annesley immediately after the funeral, and we will go abroad
at once! As for this accursed vendetta, I will leave no stone unturned
to bring the fiends to justice!”
The doctor came and viewed the body. He was satisfied that death
was the result of heart disease. He listened to the relation of Mr.
Hamilton’s unusual exertions during the day, and was satisfied. An
ordinary certificate would be promptly granted.
When he was gone, Sir Harold and Stimson carried the body upstairs, and
laid it on the bed wherein Mr. Hamilton had slept for many years.
Then the house became silent again, and Theresa was sleeping, a happy
smile upon her face and Sir Harold’s name upon her lips.
The morning broke dull and gray. There was a wet mist everywhere, and
the birds that loved to carol in the sunshine were voiceless.
The deaf servant came downstairs at an early hour, and was surprised to
find Sir Harold already about and talking earnestly to his man.
When Theresa appeared, she noticed the worn look upon her lover’s face,
and he took her gently aside.
“You are not well, Harold!” she said in sudden alarm. “You have heard
bad news!”
“Theresa, my poor Theresa, I have heard bad news, and I know not how
best to tell it to you.”
He felt that he was blundering, and his heart smote him when her face
blanched deathly white.
“My dear little girl,” he said, “come to my arms and let me hold you
tight.”
“Oh, Harold, what is this that is coming upon us? Tell me that I am not
to lose you!”
“Never, darling, never! You are the sweetest charge that man ever had.
You shall never leave me, Theresa!”
“But this trouble--this bad news. Oh, Harold, do not torture me!” she
sobbed.
“Theresa, cannot you guess? Your father is an old man and----”
“Ah! my father is ill! My poor, dear father. Let me go to him, Harold.
Take me to him now.”
He led her to the chamber of the dead man, but paused at the door,
saying:
“Theresa, he will never speak again. He died last night, and the doctor
has already been here.”
He never forgot the faint moan that left her anguished heart. For an
instant she reeled, then glided into the death chamber, and kissed the
cold face, her eyes tearless, her breath hot almost as a furnace.
After this she did not speak for a long time, but was never far from
her lover.
Stimson was very busy all day, and several strange men moved about the
house. The funeral was to be hurried. Sir Harold had strong reasons
for this. He wanted it over and done with, and both the rector and the
doctor were of the same opinion when he had explained his somewhat
anomalous position.
The clergyman was deeply interested in his story. He had heard of Sir
Harold Annesley, and while he believed that it was wise to go abroad
immediately after the marriage, he did not quite approve of so much
secrecy.
“It is an extraordinary experience,” he said, “and the reawakening
will be a mental shock, Sir Harold. I once read of an accident to a
bricklayer--some heavy substance was dropped down and struck his head,
utterly destroying his memory. He fancied he was a child again. Twenty
years elapsed before he recovered one month of what he had forgotten.
His case was similar to yours in many respects, only that he remained
in the care of his friends. Have you no one--no lady friend---who you
could send for? Miss Hamilton needs some one, Sir Harold. Even a fond
lover cannot supply all wants. A little womanly sympathy from one who
is related to you would be a real blessing to the lonely child in this
trying hour.”
“I can think of no one, except my cousin, Margaret Nugent. I do not
remember much of her, but my valet says that we were good friends until
the last--that Miss Nugent was with me within an hour of my leaving
Annesley Park.”
“Excellent!” the rector said, rubbing his hands briskly together. “Now,
with your permission, Sir Harold, I will run down to Ashbourne and see
Miss Nugent. It is a duty you owe to her to let her know something
of your true position, and if you have confidence in my tact, I will
undertake to prepare her carefully, and see that no one else hears one
word of the story.”
Sir Harold hesitated a moment, then he said: “I am very grateful to
you, Mr. Pembrose, and accept your kind offer. I clearly see that
Theresa will be the better for it.”
So Mr. Pembrose went to Craythorne that very day, and in the afternoon
Margaret Nugent arrived at the cottage.
Her first thought was that an objection to the marriage might be
raised, but when she had seen Theresa and talked with Sir Harold, she
knew that such a proceeding was quite beyond her control.
“You have become a very beautiful woman, Margaret,” he said, “and you
and I were always good friends. I shall never forget this kindness. I
suppose that the rector has told you all?”
“Yes, Harold.”
Her lips were hot and dry, and there was a look of unutterable longing
in her eyes. It seemed that all her scheming and wrongdoing had been in
vain. She was to lose him, after all.
“There is one other thing that you must know, so that you may guard my
Theresa with greater care.”
He bent closer.
“Listen, Margaret, and you shall hear that which must be forever locked
in your heart--the story of an infamous vendetta. I would not have
Theresa know one word of it for all that life is worth.”
He then told her the story that he had heard from Mr. Hamilton, and the
final cause of the old man’s sudden death.
“And these assassins may be near us now?” she whispered. “Oh, Harold,
it is terrible!”
“As my wife, Theresa may lose her identity. I shall guard her with
constant care, and if I can succeed in making an example of one of the
fiends, I will show him no mercy!”
For hours after this recital Margaret Nugent was very thoughtful, and
her face was not pleasant to look upon.
The funeral of John Hamilton took place the next day, and when the last
sad rites had been administered to the dead, Sir Harold gently told
Theresa of his wishes concerning an immediate marriage.
“As my wife, darling, I can care for you, and shield you from every
storm. I have made all arrangements for the wedding to take place next
Tuesday, and, in the meantime, my Cousin Margaret will advise you
concerning the clothing you will require, and other matters of which
a man knows nothing. We will leave the servant woman in charge of the
cottage, and go to London. There a suitable maid can be engaged and our
tour begun.”
“If it pleases you, Harold, I shall be content,” Theresa said,
pitifully. “The pain is still big at my heart, and now you are my all
in all.”
He kissed her tenderly, continuing:
“And after the wedding Miss Nugent is willing to remain with us until
we are ready to go abroad. I am sure you must find her assistance and
sympathy of great value.”
“I had rather she left us after the wedding day, Harold,” Theresa said.
“I do not think she really likes me.”
“Nonsense! Why should you think so?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Harold. Still, I cannot get rid of the feeling.”
There was a quiet little wedding a few days later at Tenterden Church,
and in the afternoon the bride and bridegroom left for London,
accompanied by Miss Nugent and Stimson, the valet.
A splendid suite of apartments was engaged at the Victoria Hotel, and
Margaret was of great help to Theresa.
“You must try to like me a little, Theresa,” she said, when they were
alone for a few minutes. “I felt disappointed at first, because I did
not believe that Harold could really know his own mind. And then, you
know, Lady Elaine Seabright is a very dear friend of mine.”
“But she was unworthy of my darling!” Theresa replied, quickly. “I do
not wish to hear her name again!”
“No! no! my dear! It was all a misunderstanding, though, of course, it
would never do to tell Sir Harold now! Lady Elaine loves him still;
indeed, she is somewhere in London, and I dread a meeting between her
and my cousin.”
There was a wicked light in Margaret’s downcast eyes when she noted the
deadly pallor of Theresa’s lovely face.
“Why should you tell me these things?” she said, piteously. “Ah, Lady
Elaine never loved Sir Harold as I love him! He has told me many times
that I am all the world to him!”
“But when his memory returns, Theresa,” Margaret said, “you must be
prepared.”
And every word she uttered was as painful as a knife-thrust in poor
Theresa’s heart.
CHAPTER XX.
THE AWAKENING BEGINS.
Although Margaret Nugent had strongly advocated as short a stay in
London as possible, she placed every obstacle in the way of the
Annesleys’ speedy departure.
“Theresa is so young, so inexperienced,” Sir Harold had told her, “that
I leave the engagement of her maid in your hands unreservedly.”
So Miss Nugent had sent advertisements to the newspapers, and entered
into correspondence with a dozen or more ladies desiring the post of
maid to Lady Annesley, but there appeared to be something wrong with
them all.
In the meantime, Sir Harold devoted himself assiduously to his
beautiful young wife. Her pale face, almost listless manner and heavy
eyes were a source of constant uneasiness to him.
“My darling,” he said one morning, “you must not dwell so much upon the
grief that has been caused by the loss of your poor father. I cannot
afford to have my little one fade before my eyes in this way.”
“I shall be better when we are out of London, Harold,” Theresa said. “I
have heard of the cruel things that go on daily in this great city, and
I am afraid.”
It was a strange speech, and he glanced at her keenly.
“Afraid of what, Theresa?” he asked.
“Oh, my darling, afraid of losing you!”
He laughed now. The idea was so utterly absurd.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “do you imagine that I shall be kidnaped? Poor,
imaginative Theresa! While this seemingly interminable business of
engaging a maid is in progress, you shall accompany me everywhere I
go. I quite expected that we should have been in France by this time.
Colonel Greyson has arranged with me to meet us in Paris.”
“I wish that we could start to-night, Harold,” Theresa said.
“And I echo that wish, darling. Do you know if Margaret has yet decided
upon a suitable person?”
“No, Harold; I think that we might have managed our affairs much better
alone. For some reason, Miss Nugent wishes to delay our departure. She
objects to haste of any kind.”
“It is only because she feels the responsibility of suiting you in
every way, Theresa,” Sir Harold hastened to assure her. “I think that
Margaret has been very kind to us.”
Theresa shuddered.
“I do not like her, Harold,” she said. “It may seem a silly prejudice,
but I cannot get rid of the feeling that your cousin is our enemy.”
For a moment Sir Harold was inclined to anger. An exclamation of
impatience escaped him, and the young wife never forgot his look of
annoyance.
“Theresa, I cannot listen to such folly. Margaret Nugent our enemy? Why
should she be our enemy? It is unjust--cruel!”
He turned and left her, and Theresa shed bitter tears. But in one
minute he was back again, and soothing her with tender words and
caresses.
“Forgive me, dear one,” he cried. “I spoke hastily, and I am sorry. I
will speak to Margaret, and we will not wait for the maid if it is so
difficult to find a suitable one. The bustle and whirl of the streets
makes me irritable, and lately I have suffered excruciating pains in my
head at times. It annoys me when I am accosted by people of whom I know
nothing, and this occurred twice yesterday. Fortunately, this is the
time of year when London is comparatively empty, or I should be afraid
to go out at all. I believe that my memory will soon assume its proper
functions,” he added, reflectively. “I distinctly remember many things
this morning which have been a blank.”
She clutched at his arm in sudden terror.
“It will be better if we leave London soon, Harold,” she said. “A maid
can be picked up anywhere, and as I have never been used to the luxury,
the loss will not cause me any inconvenience. I dread that you may be
discovered here by old friends, who will make you forget me!”
He kissed away her tears, and she added, plaintively:
“I should like to live in my mother’s country, Harold. You cannot think
how I long to see the blue skies of Italy.”
He shuddered a little, and replied, huskily:
“Yes--yes, Theresa! It is only natural. Now I will speak to Margaret,
and this very night we will shake the dust of London from our feet!”
She seemed greatly relieved, and smiled at him through her tears,
murmuring:
“How good you are to me, my husband, and how selfish I am!”
“The duty of my life, Theresa, is to love and care for you,” he said.
“I believe that Margaret is at the door--yes; and I will speak to her
now.”
They were in a private sitting-room, and Miss Nugent’s voice was asking
if she might enter.
For reply, Sir Harold opened the door, and Margaret saw at once that
something was wrong.
“I hope that I am not intruding,” she remarked, sweetly. “Dear Theresa
is not well?”
“No, Margaret. Lady Annesley is naturally upset by her recent
bereavement, and the bustle of busy London is too much for her. I
purpose going away to-night, maid or no maid, and you must not take
this sudden decision unkindly.”
“My dear cousin! how can you speak so? I am here for your pleasure
alone,” Miss Nugent said.
“I believe you, Margaret,” replied Sir Harold. “And now I will leave
you two together while I hunt up Stimson and give him imperative
orders. I shall probably go for a last stroll also.”
He kissed Theresa tenderly, and Margaret saw the action with jealous
anger.
“He is very fond of you, Theresa,” she observed, when her cousin was
gone; “but you must not be too exacting; he is already sacrificing so
much for you. I suppose that it is your wish to fly from London because
of Lady Elaine Seabright, and I am pleased that you think so well of my
advice.”
“I do not care to discuss the matter,” Lady Annesley said, coldly. “In
all things I wish to please my husband.”
“You do not like me, my lady,” was Margaret’s next shaft. “I know that
you do not like me. Why is it?”
“Because you are not my friend. A woman’s instincts rarely err!”
Theresa replied.
“I like your candor,” Margaret laughed, a little bitterly, “but it is
a poor return for my efforts to warn you against the shipwreck of this
love of yours. You profess to love my cousin, but it is a selfish love.
It is this which makes me doubt you.”
“You speak in riddles, Miss Nugent,” Theresa said, angrily. “I would
willingly lay down my life for my husband. My love is richer than
pearls or rubies. For his sake I would willingly walk barefooted
through life. I would even renounce my hopes of heaven!”
“It sounds very nice, truly,” was the sneering rejoinder; “and yet
because of you he carries his life in his hand. Do you wonder that I
do not fall into raptures over such a sacrifice? Blood is thicker than
water, Lady Annesley. You affect not to understand me, when you must
well know that you and yours for all time are the victims of a secret
vendetta. Your countrymen know how to hate and to stab in the dark.
Your father stole another man’s bride, and the shadow of the knife for
this act killed your mother. In fear Mr. Hamilton buried himself in the
country to escape the fate that was sure to follow sooner or later. The
executive of the vendetta visited him the night he died!”
“No--no!” gasped Theresa, terrified beyond mere words.
“Why will you seek to deceive yourself?” continued Miss Nugent,
vindictively. “You know that it is true--you also know that Sir Harold,
as your husband, is a marked man. He may be stabbed to death at any
moment. Do you think that I, his cousin, can love you, knowing the
ban that his alliance with you has placed upon him? We English do not
understand these things. It is revolting.”
Lady Annesley was lying back, deathly white. It seemed that all the
beauty of the early September morning had suddenly been enveloped by a
black ball.
“Is this true?” she whispered, hoarsely. “Yes, my heart tells me that
it is true!”
“Do you mean to say that it is news to you?” demanded Margaret, with
well-assumed astonishment. “Oh, Theresa, if it is so, you must not tell
Sir Harold, or he will never forgive me. Promise that you will not tell
him!”
“Swear that you have not lied to me, and I promise,” Theresa said.
“Before Heaven, every word is truth, and I could cut out my tongue for
having spoken it. Sir Harold himself destroyed the written warning
from the executive which threatened his own life. Oh, Lady Annesley, I
shall never forgive myself for what I have done!”
“Leave me, Margaret Nugent. I never wish to look upon your face again.
I hate you!”
Theresa rose, with heaving bosom and flashing eyes.
“Go,” she continued, pointing to the door. “Upon that condition only
will I keep silence. You have this day dealt me a blow that will be my
death!”
Half-frightened, Miss Nugent left the room, and an hour later she
quitted the hotel, leaving as an excuse the following, addressed to Sir
Harold:
DEAR HAROLD--An urgent telegram from mamma, who is an invalid, obliges
me to run down to Ashbourne at once. Let me know of your movements,
and always count upon my help if you need it. I have said good-by to
Theresa.
Your affectionate cousin, MARGARET NUGENT.
In the meanwhile, Annesley had given his orders to Stimson, and gone to
Coutts’ Bank to transact some financial business on behalf of Colonel
Greyson, from whom he had received various drafts and letters of credit.
While standing at the counter, a gentleman had placed his hand
familiarly upon his shoulder and ejaculated:
“Great heavens! Is that you, Sir Harold?”
“You really have the advantage of me, sir,” replied the baronet, with a
cold stare.
“Come, come; this will not do,” the stranger continued. “You may wish
to hide your identity from most people, but when you try that on with
your lawyer and man of business, I think that it is time to draw the
line! To refresh your memory, Sir Harold,” a little sarcastically,
“my name is Babbet, of the firm of Babbet & Co., and as you have not
removed the management of your affairs from our hands, I naturally
suppose that you continue to have confidence in us. Of course, we are
in communication with Colonel Greyson.”
Sir Harold suddenly put his hands to his head, and reeled like a
drunken man. His face turned deathly white.
“Ah, I recognize you, Babbet!” he gasped, “but the effort was awful. I
have been ill, you know. Let me have fresh air.”
The lawyer led him to the door, much concerned, and walked with him
toward Charing Cross.
“You will see me again before leaving London?” he said.
“Yes, I will endeavor to do so,” was the reply.
“Are you sure that you are able to proceed alone?”
“Quite,” said Sir Harold. “My hotel is near.”
They parted, but Annesley did not go to his hotel. He felt utterly
bewildered, and walked in the direction of Hyde Park, where he seated
himself, and bared his hot brow to the cool September breeze.
“It is all so strange, and yet so familiar,” he kept murmuring. “I
cannot make it out at all. I must not delay; Theresa will be waiting
for me. Poor little Theresa! I am married to Theresa--or is it a dream?
I am on my wedding tour, of course, but I hope that I am not going to
be ill. Oh, that cruel knife is ever present! My poor little Theresa!”
He saw that two persons were approaching, and he replaced his hat. The
figures were those of ladies, but they appeared to be misty and far
away. He wished that they would go on, so that he could be alone. Then
he was conscious that one of them gave utterance to a half-stifled
scream, and cried:
“Oh, my lady! my lady! it is Sir Harold himself!”
Again that awful throbbing made him dizzy, and he saw before him the
face of an angel.
“Oh, Heaven!” he whispered, hoarsely, “am I dreaming, or is it the face
of my false love, Lady Elaine?”
CHAPTER XXI.
THE VILLA IN HYDE PARK.
The subtle, insinuating manner of Viscount Rivington completely
deceived Lady Elaine. Open and honest as the sunshine of day, it was
impossible for her mind to descend to the lower plane wherein his
schemes had birth.
He accompanied her and her maid to London, and saw them comfortably
quartered at an hotel. He it was who elected next day to escort Lady
Elaine to the office of Mr. Worboys. He had no desire to know anything
of her business with the old family lawyer, and he remained in the
waiting-room without.
In truth, it was but a formal call, and at first Mr. Worboys waited
expectantly to hear what Lady Elaine had to say.
She told him briefly of her quarrel with Lady Gaynor and Viscount
Rivington’s unexpected help and sympathy.
“You can trust him?” questioned the lawyer. “Do not blind yourself to
possible ulterior motives.”
Lady Elaine flushed slightly.
“The Viscount thoroughly understands that all hope in that
direction--in the direction of an alliance between us--is at an end.
He has even been generous enough to hint that I shall ultimately be no
loser by my father’s eccentric will.”
“Ah! you surprise me, Lady Elaine; indeed you do. I am astonished that
any man can so easily relinquish so great a prize as yourself and a
princely income--particularly when that man is so needy as Viscount
Rivington. It is not generally known, but within the last three months
the Viscount’s name has been filed in bankruptcy by importunate
creditors, and he has only escaped a receiving order by very doubtful
practices. He has made known the contents of your father’s will to
several money lenders for pecuniary reasons purely, and his marriage
with you means, at least, social salvation to him. You wonder how these
things come to my ears? My dear child, a lawyer gets such knowledge
without any seeking. I only say, be careful of Viscount Rivington.”
“I am deeply sorry for him if all this is true,” Lady Elaine said.
“And now as to your future movements,” went on Mr. Worboys.
“Yes. My maid and I will rent a small house somewhere in the
suburbs--until--until----”
“I understand what you mean. Until something lucky happens, eh?” he
smiled. “Well, it appears to me that I can do little or nothing for
you, Lady Elaine, but remember that I am always at your service. Let me
know where you reside when you are settled, and if you require a small
advance for furniture or anything of that kind, don’t go to any one
else.”
“Thank you, Mr. Worboys; you are extremely kind, but I have a reserve
fund amounting to a few hundreds.”
A little later the old lawyer bowed my lady out, and Viscount Rivington
escorted her back to her hotel.
The next few days were so full of busy hours that Lady Elaine almost
forgot her pitiful lot. The viscount managed to secure a bijou villa
within half a mile of Hyde Park. It was a pretty little place, set in
an acre of garden, and the whole was surrounded by a high brick wall.
To add to its advantage, the villa was already furnished, and the agent
who let it to the viscount proudly announced that the last occupant had
been a Russian prince.
“I have taken it in my own name,” he explained to Elaine, “to save the
bother of references and the needless exposure consequent upon such
a course. You have no idea how loth people are to have responsible
business transactions exclusively with ladies. I have paid the rent
three months in advance--a matter of fifty guineas, which includes all
rates and taxes--so that you will not be bothered by anybody. Here is
the key to the house. Now I am leaving London for a week or two to join
some friends in Scotland, but if you require anything at my hands, a
telegram will promptly bring me back.”
Lady Elaine did not quite like the arrangement, but it was perhaps the
best that could be made under the circumstances. It almost appeared
that she and her maid were living in a house to which Viscount
Rivington alone had legal right. However, she paid him the amount of
money he claimed to have disbursed upon her account, and thanked him
warmly for the great trouble he had taken in all matters concerning
herself.
“I do not think that I shall willingly trespass further upon your
kindness,” she told him. “My life is already mapped out, and I shall
be content to spend it quietly between the four walls of yonder garden
until hope breaks through the dark clouds of the future.”
“Time will dull the edge of your sorrow,” he said, gently, but with
a sense of bitter defeat gnawing at his heart. Her very words, the
mournful sadness in her tones, sounded the death knell to his hopes.
“You cannot live here always--you, the loveliest girl in England--the
daughter of an earl! Oh, Lady Elaine, it is impossible!”
He spoke almost passionately.
“I have no other choice--no other wish--until my lover comes back to
me,” she said.
The viscount turned away to hide the disappointment--the fury in his
eyes.
“Good-by,” he said, suddenly. “I will send you my address to your new
home in a few days. You will take possession at once?”
“To-morrow,” replied Lady Elaine. “Nina is engaging a servant to-day.”
He went away--a raging demon in his heart.
“Lady Gaynor was right,” he said to himself. “Force and questionable
means must be employed or I am a ruined man! But I have my bird safely
caged. She cannot escape me; she shall not, by Heaven! Now have I to
conciliate the vampires who seek for my heart’s blood--to prove to
them that Lady Elaine is under my protection--living in my house. I
know that I no longer belong to myself, and that my life is a living
death--all for what?--Money! Money! And when I have humbled myself
to these birds of prey, whose talons are red with the blood of human
hearts, I have to turn toward that old dotard--the Duke of Rothwell,
and lie and fawn to him--for what?--Money! Money!”
He ground his teeth with impotent fury, sprang into a cab, and ordered
the driver to take him to Oxford Circus, where we will leave him.
In the course of a few days Lady Elaine Seabright was comfortably
installed in her new home, and then commenced a weary time of waiting.
Two or three of the curious-minded neighbors called at the villa, but
she declined to see them. The efforts of the clergyman who claimed that
respective district were equally futile, and nearly three weeks passed
without one word from Viscount Rivington.
Then a letter reached her from the Duke of Rothwell’s country seat. The
viscount professed that he had been unable to go to Scotland on account
of his uncle’s indisposition. She made no reply to this, and appeared
to be growing thinner and whiter every day to the eyes of the watchful
Nina.
“My lady,” she said at last, “I am getting frightened. It is killing
you in this stifling place. You ought to go for a morning walk every
day.”
“Am I really looking ill, Nina?” asked Lady Elaine, listlessly. “Yes,”
she added, looking at herself in a mirror. “What a miserable being I
shall be when my lover comes home! This will never do, Nina!”
After that Elaine and Nina were often seen in the park, and many people
wondered whom the graceful and lovely girl could be.
At length another letter came from the viscount, and with it a
newspaper.
This is what he wrote:
MY DEAR LADY ELAINE--I have news for you which you may hate me for
sending, but I must honestly confess that I cannot withhold it, for
the very reason that it may influence you to look more favorably upon
the wishes that are still dearest to my heart. Surely my patience
deserves some recognition, and I shall wait in a fever of anxiety for
your reply. To be brief, it is proven beyond all doubt that Sir Harold
Annesley has been masquerading about the country for some time, and
his eccentricities have culminated in his marriage to a young and
beautiful girl, named Theresa Hamilton. The ceremony took place a few
days since at Tenterden Church, and I forward to you a copy of the
_Telegraph_, containing a description of the wedding. I do not wish to
force my attentions upon you, but I ask you to give me hope. I care
not if it is months before I may look to the happy consummation of my
soul’s delightful desire. I only want hope, after your most careful
consideration. I love you, and shall ever love you! Till death, yours
alone,
RIVINGTON.
Lady Elaine read this extraordinary letter with the numbness of an
awful despair at her heart. Hope! how could he dream of hope?
Then she opened the newspaper, and saw a paragraph ruled round with red
ink that looked like blood.
It was true then--all true! She sat for an hour dimly comprehending
the fact that life was at last ended for her. Sir Harold was her lover
no longer! Sir Harold--her darling, her king--belonged to another!
She mechanically penned a few words to the viscount, as follows:
Your letter has filled me with pain. I thought that you understood. I
can give you no hope--absolutely none. I shall never marry. My love
has been given, and is lost. My heart is dead.
ELAINE SEABRIGHT.
She told nothing of the crushing facts to Nina until the next day, when
they went for their usual walk in Hyde Park, and the girl listened in
wonderment and with righteous indignation.
The letter to the viscount was posted, and they were returning
homeward, when Nina noticed the figure of a man that seemed to be
familiar, reclining on one of the park benches.
When they came nearer to him, the girl’s eyes dilated wildly and she
screamed loudly:
“Oh, my lady! my lady! It is Sir Harold himself!”
Then Lady Elaine forgot the news of his marriage, and cast herself at
his feet in a paroxysm of tears.
CHAPTER XXII.
“TO-MORROW SHALL DECIDE.”
It was a trying moment--a moment never to be forgotten by Sir Harold
and Lady Elaine--never to be forgotten by Nina, who was looking
helplessly on.
“Not false, Harold--not false to you in word or deed!” cried Lady
Elaine. “Oh, my dear love, why did you doubt me? Why were you so cruel?”
“Hush!” he whispered. “I am not yet quite clear as to your meaning. My
brain is on fire. Let me think--think! All this is so strange. You do
not know what has happened--you--oh! the pain is maddening! I cannot
bear it!”
In an instant my lady was on her feet, in her eyes a look of infinite
love and pity.
“I know that there is now an impassable barrier between us, Sir
Harold,” she said, “and that it is wrong for me to even speak to you
upon familiar terms. Do not think that I shall forget my duty.”
He held out his hands blindly, saying:
“I must see you again, Elaine--my lost darling! Theresa is waiting for
me--poor Theresa. I will come to the park another day, when my head
pains me less.”
He shook hands with her and staggered away. The forgotten past was
passing before him like a dream within a dream.
He never knew how he reached the hotel. He had lost all count of time
and space; his eyes were bloodshot, his lips and tongue parched and dry.
He was late, and Theresa met him with tear-stained cheeks and hollow
eyes. At sight of his haggard face her thoughts immediately fled to
the story that Margaret Nugent had told her--the story of the vendetta.
“Harold, dear Harold, my husband,” she cried, “you are ill!”
He pushed her from him, but the next instant turned to comfort her.
“Yes, little one, I am ill, and I wish that I might die! What sin is
mine that my misery should be so great that others should be cursed by
the relentless fate that pursues me? Theresa, poor little confiding
Theresa! Do not look at me in that way, dear one. I will shield you
from every threatening storm. You will not be disappointed, Theresa,
but we cannot leave London until to-morrow night. I have not completed
my business yet; I have arranged for one more interview with--with an
old friend.”
She noted his hesitation, and a pang shot through her heart.
“Is it imperative, Harold?” she asked. “I hate London so much--I hate
it for your sake, darling. The hum that ever sounds in my ears sings of
strife and woe, and every strange footstep fills me with undefinable
terrors.”
“Silly girl!” he said, pettishly. “Ah, my brain is surely bursting!
Send that footman away!”
“Footman, Harold? There is no one in the room except ourselves!” she
cried, clinging to him tightly.
He laughed a hollow laugh, and reeled toward his bedroom, uttering wild
words.
“Who is this,” he said, “that dares stand between me and freedom? Who
has robbed me of my love of my life? Oh, cursed is my fate!”
A doctor was sent for, and Sir Harold was pronounced to be in a high
state of fever. A sedative was administered, and the medical man
would give no decided opinion as to the malignancy of the attack.
For two days he raved of many things, appealing by turns to Lady
Elaine and his young wife for protection against some mysterious and
dreaded phantom, and Theresa drank in every word--drank them in one by
one--poison drops that crowded her soul with a hopeless misery more
bitter than death.
On the sixth day he was pronounced out of danger. The fever had in
reality only been a passing attack, and his first rational words were a
demand for his wife.
“Theresa,” he said, softly, “is it not annoying that I should become
ill so soon after our wedding? But I shall soon be all right again,
dear one, and we will leave England, perhaps forever. I hate it now!”
“And why do you hate England?” his wife asked, with a look in her eyes
that made him feel uneasy. “Would you have hated your country if we had
never met, Harold?”
“Have I been talking some nonsense in my delirium?” was his quick
demand. “Oh, Theresa, you must forget every word of it! Kiss me, little
wife! and let me see the happy smile of old upon your sweet face! Do
you remember how happy we were in the little garden at Tenterden, with
its wonderland of flowers and nooks, its singing birds and humming
bees?”
“Don’t, don’t, my husband!” she sobbed. “Those blessed days are passed.
They were but an illusive dream. If we were back again in the cottage,
and things were just the same as then, without knowledge of the cruel
world beyond, how sweet to die, with my head on your breast!”
He could not understand these strange words or the hopeless look in her
eyes, and he watched for Stimson with an anxiety that was painful.
At last the valet was alone with him, and Sir Harold spoke quickly:
“You have attended me during my fever, have you not, Stimson?”
“Yes, master.”
“Have I talked much? Out with it, man! Why was my wife permitted to
remain at my bedside?”
“She insisted, Sir Harold, upon watching over you. You have talked
rather wildly about Lady Elaine Seabright, the shadow of a knife, and
other equally foolish things.”
For a minute Annesley was silent. His thoughts were perplexed.
“Stimson,” he said at last, “my mind is now as clear as possible. I am
not quite sure, though, whether or not I met Lady Elaine in Hyde Park
the same day that I was taken ill. It may have been a dream, and I want
you to find out the truth.”
“You did meet Lady Elaine, Sir Harold. Her maid has called twice to
inquire about you. Lady Annesley is not aware of it, though.”
Sir Harold groaned.
“Stimson, there has been some horrible mistake. I must see Lady Elaine
for a few minutes, and then leave England forever. My duty is toward my
loving, trusting wife.”
“Yes, Sir Harold, I have Lady Elaine’s address. I send her news of your
condition daily. I may have done wrong, but----”
“Hush, Stimson! Not another word! I rely upon you completely.”
The valet understood, and three days later he bore a message to Lady
Elaine Seabright, which read in this way:
MY LOST LOVE--To-morrow night I shall leave England forever. Before
doing so, I must see you once more, if only to vindicate myself
in your eyes. I have a wife who is devoted to me heart and soul,
and, God helping me, I will do my duty toward her. At three o’clock
to-morrow afternoon I shall arrive at your address. Do not deny me
this last farewell.
HAROLD.
Lady Elaine shed tears over this missive, and replied simply:
It is wrong, but I cannot deny you. Heaven forgive me!
The very knowledge of his disloyalty to his wife increased his
tenderness toward her. He called her by many pet names, and spoke in
glowing terms of the brightness of their future, but she only smiled in
a sad, sweet way, and sometimes shook her head.
“You will forget me some day, my husband,” she said. “You will forget
me, and it may be soon. Already have your thoughts gone back to the
woman you first loved.”
“My silly ravings again,” he replied. “Theresa, it pains me to hear you
talk in this way. I shall never fail in my duty to you.”
“I know it, Harold; you are too good, too noble, too unselfish. I could
never blame you; I love you too well, and my love is all-sacrificing.”
She pressed hot kisses on his brow, mingled with tears.
“Dear little Theresa,” he said, dreamily, “how you love me! Ah!
sweetheart, a life’s devotion cannot repay such wonderful love as
yours! To-morrow we enter upon a new life--new scenes, new aspirations,
and leave the past behind.”
He sighed, and for a few minutes Theresa’s face looked almost happy.
“If I could only believe it,” she thought. “If I could only believe
it! No, no! It is not possible; I am the bar to his happiness! I am
the dread phantom that kills his peace! But to-morrow--to-morrow shall
decide!”
CHAPTER XXIII.
THERESA’S WARNING.
Theresa was much more cheerful the following morning. There might yet
be happiness for her and the man she loved so much. He had declared
his intention of quitting England that very day and devoting his life
to her. Surely her all-absorbing passion for him would meet with some
return!
“I know that the sight of his old love, and the memory of the old
days have revived much that has lain dormant within him, but he
is mine--mine--and I love him best! Why should she steal away my
happiness? I who am so lonely and sad. If he were free to make his
choice, which would he take? Ah, my love is no mere outward show. For
his sake I would willingly lay down my life!”
She had forgotten the vendetta, but that very day she had a note thrust
into her hand by an urchin who had found his way to her apartments
unobserved.
In astonishment and horror she opened it and read the following:
Lady Theresa Annesley, daughter of Lambert Egerton and Theresa
Ludovic, remember the death of Count Crispi cries still for vengeance.
You and yours are forever under the ban until the hateful blood of
your people is wiped from off the face of the earth. Think not to
escape us. The executive awaits the signal to strike.
In a moment all sunshine was blotted away, and she stood pale,
trembling and hopeless.
In this way Sir Harold found her, and his heart smote him with
remorseless pangs.
“If you don’t wish it, Theresa,” he said, “I will not go out at all
to-day. Your pallor frightens me. Tell me, child. What is your trouble?”
He waited anxiously, fearfully. If Theresa asked him to stay with her,
then he might never see Lady Elaine again. It was a terrible sacrifice,
but he was prepared to make it.
For one brief space she hesitated, then burst into a storm of tears.
“No, darling, you must not forego every pleasure for my sake,” she
sobbed. “Have I not surrounded you with a network of perplexities
and dangers already? I am frightened--not for myself, but for my
beloved husband! See! You ought to read this. A danger menaces you, my
love--the danger of death!”
He took the paper, and his face flamed with fury.
“The cowards!” he hissed--“the pitiful, wretched cowards! Theresa, this
is a mere, contemptible threat! Why was the boy not seized? I will get
to the root of it if half my fortune is spent in so doing!”
He made inquiries from the hotel clerk, the burly _commissionaire_
in the doorway, the servants about the hall. Then he was driven to
Scotland Yard and placed the matter in competent hands. Money was no
object. The wretches must be brought to justice, and his wife’s person
properly guarded.
He returned and told her what he had done, and she said, in reply:
“I am glad for your sake, Harold, but I am very much afraid. My father
ought not to have hidden this from me!”
Then she looked up at him, with a mournfulness in her eyes that he
never forgot.
“My husband,” she said, “I am going to make a strange request of
you--a request which I hope that you will grant, because I know that it
is for your good.”
“Well, Theresa? Sweet one, don’t look at me in that way! Your eyes will
haunt me forever. Now, what is it you want?”
“Sir Harold, I want you to divorce me! I was reading only recently
in some paper that a marriage under any serious misapprehension was
practically null and void--that the law would unhesitatingly set it
aside. I ask you this with a breaking heart, because I love you as no
other can love you--knowing that I am but a clog--a menace to your
future happiness!”
“Theresa--Theresa! What has put this madness into your tender, loving
heart?”
He took her in his arms and held her to him tightly. He showered upon
her words of endearment.
“A little while, Theresa, and all these worries will have melted like
mists in the sun. You are too sensitive--too imaginative. Oh, the
thought to me is horrible!”
After lunch, one of the smartest detectives in London was sent to
Sir Harold from Scotland Yard. The liberality of his reward for
the apprehension of the letter-writer was a strong incentive. He
was closeted with Annesley for half-an-hour, and finally pocketed
unimportant letters and addressed envelopes which had been received at
the hotel since his stay there.
“You must be perfectly frank with me in all things,” said the
detective. “If I appear to be curious concerning your private affairs
I shall only have one end in view, and that is the elucidation of this
little mystery. My theory is already formed, and I do not think that I
shall be far out when my deductions are complete.”
“You have _carte blanche_ so far as I and my household are concerned,”
Sir Harold told him. “To-night we leave for Paris, and you may send me
news of your progress there. I will telegraph my address to you.”
The detective went away, and, half-an-hour later, Annesley was in a
hansom, being driven to Lady Elaine Seabright’s villa in Hyde Park. He
had promised his wife that he would not be gone long, and left Stimson
to prepare everything for their departure by the Dover express.
Lady Elaine’s address was Lyndhurst Villa, and Sir Harold told the
cabman to stop within fifty yards of the house.
When the hansom pulled up he sprang out, and the man pointed with his
whip to a little Queen Anne building half-embowered in trees, saying:
“That is Lyndhurst Villa, sir.”
“Thank you. I shall not be gone long. Wait here for me, please.”
For a minute his heart beat into his throat, and his eyes were blinded
with mist; then he pushed resolutely onward into the presence of the
one whom he would love as long as life lasted.
He was admitted by Nina, who conducted him into a prettily-furnished
drawing-room.
“Her ladyship will not keep you waiting long, Sir Harold,” the maid
said, quietly. She could not find it in her heart to forgive the man
who had ruined her mistress’ life.
She withdrew, and in a state of great agitation he paced the floor. Why
had he come? It was needless pain for both. It was unfair to his wife.
He might have explained all to Lady Elaine by letter. It would have
been much more simple--much easier.
At last there was the rustle of a woman’s dress, the door opened
softly, and his lost love stood before him. How ethereal she looked.
Had the vision appeared unexpectedly he would have believed that it
was a visitant from the spirit world.
“Elaine!”
There was a great sob in his voice, and he held out his arms, but she
did not respond.
“Sir Harold,” she replied, softly. “You must not forget the bar between
us. You must not forget your wife! I was perhaps wrong to grant this
interview, but I wish to look upon you for the last time--to hear
your voice once more. My hero is not yet dethroned, and I desire to
vindicate myself----”
“Stop!” he cried. “Oh, my God, this is too much for human hearts to
bear! Elaine, come and sit beside me; let me place my arms about
you--pillow your head upon my shoulder, while I tell you all that has
happened to me since that day when you drove me forth! It may be the
last time, Elaine; it may be the last time that we shall meet on earth,
and I want to carry it through life and to the grave a pleasant memory.
Do not forget what we have been to each other--what we are to each
other still! When you know all you will not blame me, and then----”
He covered his eyes with his hands, and she was instantly beside him.
“If I am sinning, Heaven forgive me. Surely the sin will be expiated by
the martyrdom that is mine!”
Bit by bit, he told his wonderful story--the story of his utter
oblivion--the story of his awakening--of his brotherly love for the
sweet girl whom he called wife--of his utter despair.
“But my duty is clear, Elaine; I could never shut my eyes to that,
although I should be sorely tempted were Theresa other than she is.”
“I feel that I must love her,” Lady Elaine replied. “Love her because
she loves you, Harold! You see what my pride--my silly pride--has
done for us, but in some way all the evil that has ever befallen me
is attributable to your cousin--to Margaret Nugent. She it was who
professed to know your moods and to whom I listened blindly for advice.
This is no palliation for the fault--for the folly I committed; but
I cannot help thinking that she had some ulterior motive in parting
us--that she perhaps cared for you herself.”
He was thoughtful for a little while, and then remarked, sternly: “You
cannot both be wrong. Poor Theresa distrusts Margaret.”
“It is fatal to one’s happiness or even peace to permit some people
to enter into the secrets of their lives,” continued Lady Elaine,
“and I have thought lately that if I had obeyed the wishes of Colonel
Greyson, and permitted him to carry my letter of recall--my complete
surrender--to you, how different things might have been.”
“Why did you not send that letter, Elaine?” he said, sadly.
“Ah, you have forgotten, Harold. I sent it by Margaret Nugent, and she
told me that you scoffed at it, and cast it to the winds.”
“I never received that letter, darling,” he replied, starting up, a
bitter imprecation on his lips against his false cousin. “I never
received that letter--I swear it! At last I believe that light is
breaking upon me! The night that we first met, Colonel Greyson said
that Margaret would be jealous, and I laughed at what I considered the
absurdity of the idea. And the stories of your engagement to Rivington?
Ah, what a blind fool I have been!”
He heard of the terms of the late earl’s will with wonderment and
regret.
“I cannot understand it, if your father knew nothing of Rivington’s
private character,” he said, “or he may have been blinded to everything
in his obstinacy and determination to have his own way.”
A silver-tongued clock on the mantel-piece chimed the hour of five, and
Sir Harold started up in dismay.
“I must go, Elaine. Kiss me, darling, for the last time! Oh, the misery
of it.”
He embraced her fiercely, saying, hoarsely:
“If you are in trouble at any time call me to your side, Elaine; I
shall never be more than two or three days’ journey away. Promise me,
my lost love!”
“Yes, I will send to you if my trouble is serious--if our old lawyer
cannot combat with it,” she said.
“And your fortune shall be restored to you. I will see Mr. Worboys
within two months’ time. That will be soon enough. Between us Rivington
can be brought to his knees. In the meantime I shall not be idle, and
will drop the lawyer a few lines. You will understand later, Elaine.”
Another frantic, hopeless embrace, and, seizing his hat, he almost ran
from the room--there was a bang of the outer door, and he was gone.
As the cab whirled away in obedience to his wild words, “Home again!
Lose not a moment!” the figure of a man appeared from behind a mass of
evergreens which grew in the shadow of a spreading and leafy maple. It
was that of Viscount Rivington.
He took a final glance through the drawing-room window, where Lady
Elaine was kneeling, her face buried in the cushions of a lounge,
paused irresolute, then glided into the street, a savage imprecation
upon his lips, hate in his flashing, black eyes.
“So this is why my love is spurned!” he muttered. “Why my life is to be
utterly wrecked! He is her lover still. What unlucky fate has brought
them together again? What of the story of his shattered memory? God!
Has Margaret deceived me also, or is there a mine beneath her also
which is soon to explode? How long has he been visiting here? Had
I chanced upon them unawares--but, bah! I saw her in his arms, he a
married man! I heard her sobs, and I hate her for it! Now it is my turn
to woo, aye, and to win! My Lady Elaine shall be my wife at any cost.
I am upon the very brink of disaster, a disaster which will forever
place me beyond the pale of decent society. I shall be an outcast--a
pariah--a thing to be avoided! I have tried soft measures--tender
appeals, declarations of a love which has now turned to gall and
wormwood! My lady, you have only yourself to blame, and desperation is
my master!”
He looked up and down the street, and continued at a rapid pace to Hyde
Park Corner, from whence he took a cab to Charing Cross post office. A
telegram was sent to Lady Gaynor, as follows:
Your presence is required in town. I am staying at the Metropole.
After a hasty dinner, he decided to play his first card, and went to
the Victoria Hotel in quest of Sir Harold Annesley.
CHAPTER XXIV.
POOR THERESA.
When Sir Harold reached his hotel he found a note awaiting him from the
detective, which threatened to alter his plans very materially. It ran:
DEAR SIR--You spoke of going to Paris to-night. It is important that
you see me before leaving London, even if your journey is postponed
for twenty-four hours. If you value your peace of mind, you will not
disregard this suggestion, and I will call upon you at the earliest
possible moment with news. I have every belief that I can lay my hand
upon one, at least, of the despicable wretches who are bent upon the
misery of yourself and Lady Annesley.
Obediently yours,
PAUL ASBURY.
Theresa herself had handed the note to Sir Harold, and, while his face
flushed and paled by turns as he read it, she watched him with painful
eagerness.
“It is from the detective,” he said. “A somewhat ambiguous message--but
must I obey it? Theresa, you shall be judge. It seems that everything
is conspiring to keep us in London.”
He gave the letter to her, and she perused it with mixed feelings.
“I think we ought to stay,” she said. “Oh, Harold, what misery, what
danger I have surrounded you with! I am terrified for your sake. If one
of the men is caught a score may be ready to spring up and avenge him.”
“My dear, the English law will not tolerate anything of this kind. I
will root out the fiends at any cost. It is a duty I owe to ourselves
and society in general. Remember that they have not a poor man to deal
with in me. These secret assassins are always cowards, and they shall
be taught a severe lesson.”
Though he spoke thus hopefully, poor Theresa shivered with a nervous
dread.
Dinner was served in private under the direction of Stimson, who was
not ill-pleased at the prospect of remaining in London a few more
hours, at least. In his secret soul he desired his master to return to
Annesley Park, and live as a rich country gentleman should live.
The meal was hardly finished when Stimson announced that a gentleman
wished to see Sir Harold upon urgent business.
“His name?” demanded Sir Harold, a little surprised.
“He has not sent it up, Sir Harold. The servant says that he is waiting
in the smoking-room downstairs.”
“My detective, I expect,” Annesley whispered to Theresa; then aloud to
Stimson, “Send him up here. I will see the gentleman in the anteroom.
Now, my little girl,” he went on, cheerfully, to his trembling wife,
“there shall soon be an end to these cowardly threats. The rascals
shall feel the weight of British law!”
“But you do not know who this man is!” she said, shivering with a
deadly chill.
“I do not anticipate that he is an enemy,” he smiled. “Besides,
Theresa, I am armed, and shall be merciless enough to shoot the foe
like a mad dog!”
He pressed a kiss upon her brow, and noticed that it was moist and cold.
“The gentleman is here, Sir Harold,” Stimson announced, adding, in an
undertone: “It is Viscount Rivington, sir.”
Annesley’s face flushed with fierce resentment. What business had the
viscount with him? He paused, irresolute, then said, suddenly, “I will
see him.”
With a fond glance of assurance toward Theresa, he stepped into the
anteroom beyond, softly closing the door of the dining-room behind him.
“I have no doubt that you are somewhat surprised to see me here, Sir
Harold Annesley,” Rivington said, in his smooth, bland tones, rising
quickly from a seat in the corner next to the door. “You will not take
my hand? Well, I cannot help it if you are determined to be unfriendly.
I came to congratulate you upon your recent marriage, and the recovery
of your memory, though I cannot say that either event has made you
particularly robust or joyful in appearance!”
“What is your business with me?” Annesley demanded, steadily.
“I came as a friend--an old acquaintance,” Rivington said.
“I never recognized you as a friend, and I have no desire for your
acquaintance, viscount,” was the cold reply. “Your impertinence would
be amusing if it were not irritating.”
Rivington laughed sneeringly.
“Well, if you will not accept my friendship, I cannot help it,” he
said. “I hate to be bad friends with any one.”
“Your friendship and enmity are equally indifferent to me,” retorted
Annesley, raising his voice; “and I should advise you to retire, or my
servant must show you the door. I have nothing in common with gamblers
and blacklegs.”
He spoke so loudly that every word reached the ears of the trembling
Theresa, and she crept near to the door, ready to push between her
husband and the foe. It was not the detective; the man’s tones were
strange to her. Who else was he but one of the fiends who was pursuing
her with the relentless certainty of fate?
“A gambler and a blackleg, am I?” cried Rivington, his voice full of
concentrated rage. “Well, granted that I am, I think that you are the
last man on earth to preach morality, Sir Harold Annesley! To be plain
with you, I am here to warn you against intriguing with women to whom
you have no right! Pray remember, also, that you are a married man!”
“Scoundrel!”
“Scoundrel to your teeth!” was the bitter retort. “The kisses of
another woman are still fresh upon your lips! I heard your words of
endearment, and as that woman belongs to me, I have a right to protest
against your secret visits to my house----”
“Your house!” cried Sir Harold, in a white heat of passion, his
features working with a fury that he could hardly control. “Your house!”
“Yes, my dear Annesley. There are the papers--agreements and receipts
to prove it. Lady Elaine Seabright is under my protection, and I
was not well pleased to discover that you had been poaching upon my
preserves. I hate scandal, but I shall undeceive this trusting wife of
yours unless----”
“You craven, lying cur!” thundered Annesley. “Lady Elaine under
your protection--the sweetest, truest woman that ever lived! You
slander her, and I will choke the words in your lying throat! I
have just parted from Lady Elaine--I admit it. I also admit that I
love her still, and shall ever love her. We drifted apart through
misunderstandings created by serpents of your stamp, and though there
is a legal bar between us, I shall watch over the woman I love with a
never-relaxing vigilance, and an arm ever ready to avenge!”
He opened the door, adding, “Stimson, see this creature to the street.”
The viscount tried to smile bravely, but it was only a ghastly grin.
He never knew how he descended the broad stairs, but he found himself
being advised to “Move on!” by a burly policeman, who had no sympathy
with his savage gesticulations.
“I have a double reason now for remaining in London,” Annesley
reflected, as he paced the floor in fierce agitation. “I must see Mr.
Worboys to-morrow, and Lady Elaine must be placed under his protection.
Oh, the coward!--the mean, pitiful coward! What a pleasure it would
have been to lash him until he screamed for mercy!”
He returned to the room wherein he had left Lady Annesley, but he was
too agitated to notice her ashen face, or the fire that shone in her
dusky eyes.
“It was not the detective,” he said, “but a man whom I detest. He will
not visit me again. Excuse me for a short time, Theresa; I have letters
to write--important letters.”
He went away, and she murmured:
“Who am I that I should stand between my husband and all that he loves
best? Who am I that I should place him under the evil ban of the
vendetta? If I did not love him beyond all other things I should not
care so much, but my love is so great that it is all-sacrificing.”
She stared into the fire, the words she had overheard booming in her
ears like the knell of fast-advancing doom:
“I have just parted from Lady Elaine. * * * I love her still, and shall
ever love her * * * though there is a legal bar between us, I shall
ever watch over the woman I love!”
“What is my duty?” thought poor Theresa, a resolute light in her
mournful eyes. “My duty is to make my darling happy. Oh, the burden of
my misery is greater than I can bear!”
For the first time in many days she thought of the Romaic love song
that had once haunted her so persistently, but, oh! how significant it
seemed now!
Ah, Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.
Without one friend to bear my woe,
I faint, I die, beneath the blow;
That Love had arrows well I knew;
Alas! I find them poisoned, too.
Birds yet in freedom shun the net
Which Love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.
Who ne’er has loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love’s angry glance.
My curdling blood, my maddening brain,
In silent anguish I sustain;
And still the heart, without partaking
One pang, exults, while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison; fear not, thou!
Thou can’st not murder more than now;
I’ve lived to curse my natal day
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
She retired at an early hour to her bedroom, to weep quietly and to
think. No sleep came to her weary, aching brain. The clocks tolled
the hour of midnight before Sir Harold came. He stepped about softly,
believing that his wife was asleep. Then he pressed a silent kiss upon
her lips, and murmured:
“Poor Theresa!”
The words and the tone rang in her ears to the hour of her death--“Poor
Theresa!”
It seemed that Sir Harold could find little rest. He was up again at
six o’clock, and, after glancing at his wife, was leaving the room,
when she held out her arms to him in a childish, loving way.
“Kiss me, Harold,” she said.
He obeyed, and she whispered:
“You will always love poor Theresa a little?”
“Can I help doing so, dear one?” he asked. “I should be a brute,
unworthy of the name of man, if I did not care for you and protect you
forever.”
She sighed, and he thought he had never seen her look so lovely before.
“At a late hour last night the detective made an appointment to see
me at seven o’clock this morning,” he went on. “I cannot rest in
consequence, and shall not see you again until breakfast time.”
“One more kiss, Harold,” she sighed.
“Only one? A hundred, darling, if you want them!”
He looked back as he was leaving the room--the last time his eyes
rested upon her in life!
Poor Theresa!
CHAPTER XXV.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
Annesley went to the smoking-room, and read the morning news until the
detective came in. Mr. Paul Asbury was punctual to the moment, and
there was a gleam of triumph in his eyes that spoke of success and
self-confidence.
“Good-morning, Sir Harold,” he said. “I must thank you for remaining in
London at my request, as your presence will very much simplify matters.”
“What news?” demanded Annesley.
“I have traced the person who wrote the threatening letter to Lady
Annesley, and require further instructions from you.”
“Go on.” Sir Harold endeavored to be calm, but his muscles twitched
nervously.
“Must I take steps to make an arrest?”
“Certainly. I mean to make an example of these people. Mr. Asbury,
allow me to congratulate you upon your success.”
The detective looked away for a moment, then he said:
“Before you become too enthusiastic, Sir Harold, I wish you to listen
to a few particulars. From the very first I had no belief in the story
of the vendetta, save in the imagination of Mr. Hamilton. We have
investigated dozens of such stories, and discovered them to be mere
bubbles. Upon leaving you yesterday I telegraphed for particulars of
Lambert Egerton, Count Crispi, and Theresa Ludovic to no less than four
reliable agents stationed in Italy. The replies satisfy me that the
relatives of Count Crispi made a few threats when the surgeon, Lambert
Egerton, ran away with the ward of his illustrious client. There the
matter ended, save in the imagination of Egerton himself.”
Annesley shook his head impatiently.
“But the man who was stabbed in the streets of London--the man who
resembled Egerton?” he asked.
“No such thing ever took place--not as described by Lady Annesley’s
father. My assistants have made an exhaustive search through the
records,” smiled Mr. Asbury. “The fact is Mr. Hamilton--or Mr.
Egerton--became a monomaniac upon that one subject. His mind dwelt upon
it until he thoroughly believed in it.”
Still Annesley was not convinced.
“The badly-scrawled note that I found upon the night of his death. How
do you account for that?”
“Without a doubt he wrote it himself,” the detective said, confidently.
“I have met with similar cases, Sir Harold.”
“Mr. Asbury, I am woefully disappointed,” the baronet said. “Nothing
but theory--not one atom of fact. And yet you talk of making an arrest!”
“Yes; and it depends upon you whether it is wise to take such a step.
You admit having let one other person into the secret--the secret of
this supposed danger that menaces you and Lady Annesley.”
“Well?”
“This person is the author of the last anonymous warning, and if you
insist upon an arrest, you will be called upon to prosecute your
cousin--Miss Margaret Nugent!”
Sir Harold stared at the detective--pale and speechless for a minute.
The monstrous charge against Margaret appeared too much to believe.
Then he thought of what Lady Elaine had said--of Theresa’s dislike, and
exclaimed, huskily:
“Proof! proof!”
“As plain as the nose on my face,” Mr. Asbury smiled. “I submitted
the letter of warning, or whatever the nonsense may be termed, to
one of the best experts in handwriting in all London, together with
an assortment of the letters you gave me. My expert unhesitatingly
declared that the writer of the letters signed Margaret Nugent was
author of the anonymous one delivered here by hand. If you are not yet
fully satisfied we can find the boy who brought the letter, though it
may occupy several days. A reward must be offered, and advertisements
put in the papers.”
“The result has shocked me severely,” Annesley said, after a long
silence, “though I am greatly relieved to find that we have been chased
by a mere shadow. I scarcely know how to break the disgraceful news to
Lady Annesley, and must insist upon Miss Nugent making some sort of a
confession to completely satisfy my wife, whose health her insane folly
has viciously undermined. Mr. Asbury, I must turn the thing over in my
mind for a little while before giving you my final instructions. I am
bitterly annoyed and ashamed.”
“I can understand that, Sir Harold,” the detective said, rising.
“One minute, please,” Annesley said. “I am so well satisfied with your
abilities, Mr. Asbury, that I shall esteem it a favor if you will
undertake another little case in which I am interested.”
“I shall be pleased, Sir Harold, but if you will excuse me for an hour
I shall be glad. I am expecting a cable from New York which must be
answered promptly.”
Sir Harold glanced at his watch. It was exactly eight o’clock.
“If you like, Mr. Asbury, I will walk with you,” he said. “I have
exactly an hour to spare, and I want to think how best to approach my
wife with this shameful story.”
“I am at your service, Sir Harold,” was the respectful rejoinder.
The baronet rang for Stimson.
“I am going out for an hour or two, Stimson. You will tell her ladyship
if she inquires for me.”
Now, it happened that Theresa had dressed, and was standing at the head
of the main staircase when Annesley and the detective went out.
“Bad news,” she thought, “or my husband would come to me at once.”
Then Stimson informed her that his master would not be back for an
hour, and she retired to her sitting-room.
In the meantime, Sir Harold and Paul Asbury walked to Scotland Yard.
The detective’s business with one of his subordinates occupied but a
few minutes, and he left the office, looking well pleased.
“Sir Harold,” he said, “one more question, please. When did Miss Nugent
leave you to return to Ashbourne?”
“Oh, some time before my illness--ten or twelve days since.”
“I have just received information that she left the Victoria Hotel,
and proceeded to the house of a lady friend in Bayswater, where she
is still staying. Now, the sooner this silly business is exploded the
better, or she may be tempted to perpetrate some new joke. I can now do
nothing more unless I receive instructions from you.”
“Can you furnish me with Miss Nugent’s present address?” demanded
Annesley, savagely.
The detective promptly scribbled a few words on the back of one of his
cards, and gave it to the baronet. This is the address he wrote down:
MRS. NORTON, The Laurels, Bayswater.
“Mrs. Norton is a lady of fashion,” the detective remarked, “and her
place is well known. If you do not object, Sir Harold, I prefer to
discuss the remaining business in the Café Royal. It is close here, and
I have a private room upstairs. We never know who is spying about.”
He stepped briskly along, and suddenly turned into a low archway facing
Trafalgar Square. He opened a door with his passkey, and ran up three
flights of stairs, at the top of which was a small, dingy-looking room.
“Now, sir,” he went on, “one touch upon this electric button and a
waiter appears. I intend having coffee--black and strong. It is the
best nerve sedative I know of.”
“Order two cups,” said Annesley. “I shall not detain you five minutes
with the new business.”
“And then?”
“I am going direct to Bayswater.” Mr. Asbury smiled grimly. He had not
told his client all that he knew.
The coffee was promptly served, and Sir Harold began, briefly:
“It is possible, Mr. Asbury, that you have heard something of the idle
gossip concerning myself and Lady Elaine Seabright?”
“I know the whole story from beginning to end, Sir Harold. Even to the
later scheming of a swell named Rivington to secure the late earl’s
fortune by a marriage between himself and Lady Elaine.”
“Go on.”
“And that there appears to be every probability of his success, luckily
for him!”
“It is false--utterly false!” Annesley said, fiercely. “Lady Elaine
hates the man, and I want you to protect her.”
“I hardly understand you.”
“It is plain enough. I will pay you to keep a man on the watch--to
protect Lady Elaine against any of this villain’s schemes. Any unusual
movement is to be promptly reported to me, as the man made certain
threats yesterday which have made me uneasy.”
“I understand thoroughly, Sir Harold, and I will say this much, in
confidence, that Viscount Henry Rivington is already under police
surveillance. Upon two separate occasions have applications been made
to the lord mayor for warrants for his apprehension. By arrangement
they have not been executed, but his safety depends upon his obtaining
the fortune left by the late Earl of Seabright. His creditors will not
be hoodwinked. It is either the money, for value obtained in many cases
under false pretenses, or his body.”
Sir Harold gave the detective a silent pressure of the hand, as he rose.
“There is no need for me to say more,” he observed, reaching for his
hat; “I am now going to Bayswater, and any communication will reach me
at the Victoria Hotel.”
The detective nodded, said “good-morning,” and Annesley hurried
downstairs and into the streets, which were gradually awakening to the
usual business of life.
“Nine o’clock,” he reflected. “Theresa will wonder what has become of
me. But this disgraceful conduct of Margaret must be promptly punished.
I will never forgive her--never.”
He signaled to the first passing cab, jumped in, and told the man to
drive quickly to the Laurels, Bayswater.
Arrived there, he was informed by a flunkey that the family was out.
“Since when?” demanded Annesley.
“Last night, sir.”
“Miss Nugent, of Ashbourne, has been staying with Mrs. Norton?” he
asked.
“Yes, sir. She and my mistress left for Ashbourne by the six o’clock
train last evening,” the footman replied.
Annesley was bitterly annoyed, but the matter could not be helped, of
course. Unfortunately, he met one or two people who detained him, and
when he reached his hotel it was half-an-hour past noon.
He ran upstairs, and was met in the anteroom by Stimson.
“I was just wondering, Sir Harold, what was best to be done,” he said,
“as I did not know what to order for lunch. I never did feel at home in
a hotel.”
“Why did you not consult Lady Annesley?” demanded Sir Harold,
pettishly, and Stimson stared.
“Her ladyship followed you out, master,” he said, a sense of impending
evil suddenly coming over him.
“Followed me! Nonsense, man! You must be dreaming!” cried the baronet.
“No, Sir Harold! I gave her ladyship your message, and she just had
one cup of tea in her private sitting-room; then she came out, fully
dressed, and told me that she was going out.”
Sir Harold was bewildered. Still, why should not Theresa go for a walk
if she felt inclined?
He stared blankly at his valet for a few moments; then he turned
suddenly, and walked into his wife’s apartments, thinking:
“She may have left some written message for me.”
In this conjecture he was right; a sealed envelope, addressed to him in
Theresa’s handwriting, lay on the table before him.
Snatching it up, he tore open the envelope, took out the letter it
contained, and read as follows:
My darling--my beloved--I am going away from you forever--away into
the unknown shadow land, where I shall be no bar to your happiness in
this world. I have loved you--and shall ever love you, as no other
woman can love--so much that it is infinite misery to me to know that
I am not all in all to you. I am the bar between you and Lady Elaine;
I am even the unhappy fate that causes my king to be menaced by a
cruel death! At last, Harold, my darling, my beloved, it is ended, but
my spirit will be with you. Good-by. Your unhappy
THERESA.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE DUKE’S ULTIMATUM.
Viscount Rivington was placed in a terrible dilemma. The morning after
his call upon Annesley he received two letters at his club--one from
Lady Gaynor, and one from his uncle, the Duke of Rothwell.
The first one ran in this way:
DEAR VISCOUNT--In answer to your telegram, I must say that it would
be most indiscreet of me to put my head in the lion’s mouth, as it
were. I quite understand your meaning; your plans have failed, as I
predicted, and now you wish to try mine. There is safety only at the
Lodge, and if you will come immediately matters may be discussed with
some hope of success. I greatly deprecate the waste of valuable time,
as things are really growing desperate with me.
Faithfully yours,
ELEANOR GAYNOR.
The Duke of Rothwell’s letter was as follows:
DEAR NEPHEW--Yes, I have no doubt that it is the correct thing to
make your _fiancée_ valuable presents from time to time, but not
at my expense--just yet. I must be satisfied that all is fair and
aboveboard, as I am well seasoned to your crooked dealings, and I
refuse to send you one shilling, and, in addition, shall stop the
allowance I am making you within twenty-four hours unless I have proof
that Lady Elaine Seabright is to be your wife. I have not an atom of
faith in you, and regret more than ever that I have no son to bear
my honored name. This is my ultimatum: Introduce Lady Elaine to me
forthwith, and I will soon learn for myself how things really are. No
more excuses will do for me.
ROTHWELL.
“By heavens!” he gasped. “I am ruined--ruined! Oh, I could gladly choke
the life out of the old dotard! I am on the brink of a volcano that is
rumbling at my feet, and powerless to move for--what? A paltry two
thousand pounds! And now am I driven to the last stages of desperation,
and there is not a moment to lose. I must face Isaacs once more, and if
the worst comes to the worst, a pill from this will be the end!”
He tapped his inside breast pocket, his sallow face assuming a ghastly
hue. Then he laughed lightly, curled the ends of his mustache, and
walked from the club library into the hall.
A cab was crawling past, and he hurried to the street.
“Oxford Circus!” he called to the driver, and jumped into the vehicle.
As he moved away he saw a man watching him, and he never forgot the
strange look in his eyes. He shivered, and called himself a fool.
“It is my last throw,” he thought, “and I must keep my nerves steady.
If I fail--exit! Pshaw! Why should I? The very alternative should give
me confidence and strength.”
He left the cab at Oxford Circus, and strolled along in a leisurely
manner until he reached a narrow court.
Here he paused momentarily, and glanced to the right and left. Again
those eyes haunted him, but the man was not in the crowd. It was
impossible.
Turning into the court, he walked, perhaps twenty paces, and then
entered a foul-smelling hallway, almost as dark as night. He was
evidently well acquainted with the place, for, without any hesitation,
he stepped lightly up a flight of rickety stairs and knocked sharply at
a door at the top.
It was opened by a middle-aged automaton, of powerful build, who stared
dully at the visitor.
“Is Mr. Isaacs within, Bulger?” inquired Rivington.
“Oh, it’s the viscount!” observed Bulger, after a full minute’s
reflection. “Yes, sir, he’s in. Do you wish to see him?”
“Of course, Bulger; most important. Here is half-a-crown to expedite
your movements, old man.”
Bulger took the coin between the dirty fingers of his right hand, and
smiled a wooden smile.
“Thank you, viscount. I hope you are able to settle with him now.”
He laid particular stress upon the word “now,” and Rivington understood
that things looked pretty bad.
“Announce me,” was all he said, again caressing the spot where his
revolver lay hidden.
He watched the huge form of Bulger disappear within a farther room, and
wondered why the man, who was by courtesy called the “clerk,” did not
strangle the life out of old Isaacs.
Bulger reappeared, and beckoned to Rivington with one of his
forefingers, supplementing this with a jerk of his thumb toward the
room occupied by the money-lender.
The viscount went in, closed the door behind him, and dropped languidly
into a chair, directly opposite an old man, whose features at once
proclaimed him a Jew. He was attired in a greasy suit of black, which
had evidently done duty for ten years, at least. His linen and flesh
were equally as dirty as Mr. Bulger’s own, but, unlike his clerk, he
wore a magnificent diamond ring upon one hooked finger. His nose was
like the beak of a hawk, his eyes deep-set and close together, while
his mouth was full and large, surrounded by a closely-cropped beard and
mustache, as white as snow.
He glanced up at Rivington with a wolfish grin that disclosed two rows
of broken, yellow teeth, and said in cackling tones:
“In luck, eh, my future duke? For all your confidence last
Saturday--yes, it was Saturday! How dared you come to my private house
on a Saturday? For all your confidence, I did not place much credence
in your promise to be here to-day with the two thousand pounds--just
the interest upon that document of the duke’s--or, I should say,
imitation of the duke’s signature. Well, well, I am glad that you are
at last going to be a man of your word, and I am sure that the gentle
Bulger would not have admitted you unless you were prepared to pay
me. A very useful fellow, Bulger, and when clients get abusive, he
demonstrates the fact, my dear viscount. He was once a prize-fighter,
and got ten years for killing a man. Then I took a fancy to him.
Splendid fellow for a man to have about him who has many enemies. Now
for the interest--only the interest upon that little document for ten
thousand!”
He rubbed his hands together and laughed softly.
“Mr. Isaacs, you are too fond of anticipating things,” Rivington
began, and was promptly interrupted. In an instant the face of the Jew
underwent an alarming change. The grin extended, but the eyes glowed
like burning coals.
“No money!” he snarled. “Just as I expected. Why did Bulger let you
in? You lied to him, you thief! I won’t hear you--not a word! I gave
you until noon to-day. Time is nearly up. At three my lawyer has
instructions to present the bill to the duke himself. Ha! I will not
wait one minute more. I will get principal and interest, or----”
He shrugged his shoulders and touched a bell, in answer to which Bulger
appeared.
“Turn him out!” cried Isaacs. “Why did you bring him here? He has no
money, bah!”
At any other time Rivington would have been sick with rage and fear,
but he was at the end of his tether. He was faced with the very worst,
and had already rehearsed this scene.
“Leave us, Bulger,” he said, calmly, “or stay, as you choose. I am not
going until I have had some assurance from Mr. Isaacs----”
“None! None!” screamed the enraged Jew. “I will not be swindled--oh!
you would murder me!”
He cowered back in terror, for Rivington had drawn a revolver from his
coat pocket.
“No--no, Isaacs! Your carrion is not worth a cartridge. I wish you to
understand my position exactly. I cannot get the two thousand you want
until I have secured Lady Elaine Seabright. Those are my uncle’s own
terms. I shall endeavor to make her mine to all intents and purposes
within three days’ time. If I fail, I shall put a ball through my
brains and cheat my enemies. If I succeed, everybody will be paid in
full. I am really perfectly indifferent as to what course you take,
though I do not think that you are mad enough to present that bill,
well knowing that you kill my last chance by so doing, and at the same
time lose every shilling of your money. I am not to be frightened
again. Do you not see that I am perfectly calm and indifferent?” He
laughed, adding, “here is my antidote,” and tapped the handle of his
revolver. “You will either hear of my complete success, or read of my
suicide, Mr. Isaacs, within three days’ time. Good-morning. Bulger,
you may now show me out. Stay--one moment. It may be possible for
you, Isaacs, to assist me in some way. I do not mean by any further
advances--oh, no; do not mistake me for an instant--I mean that your
brain is so full of infernal cunning that you may think of something
that might assist me out of this awful predicament. You see, the lady
is unwilling, and has to be persuaded”--he laughed hollowly--“and as
you have also a great deal at stake, Isaacs, it is to your interest
that I succeed. We are situated in this way. Now, pay attention, and
don’t for one moment think that I ever dreamed of shooting you. Lady
Elaine Seabright is in London, and will have to be taken before a
priest by force to-night. There is no use in further mincing matters
and playing with fire, and I have to admit that the undertaking is a
most desperate one. A hundred things may happen to upset my plans, but
it is my last throw, and if I fail--well, you know what to expect.”
He laughed again that strange laugh that struck a chill even into the
heart of the Jew.
“So help me!” gasped Isaacs. “I believe that he is in earnest this
time. He never was but once before, and that was when he signed the
bill. He!--he! Bulger, my gentle little clerk, the viscount must
succeed, and if he will pay you I will loan you to him. What do you
say, viscount? Your corpse is no good to me. I want my money--my money!”
Rivington eyed Bulger calmly.
“Probably a good suggestion,” he said. “I cannot trust my thief of a
valet. I do not anticipate violence of any kind, but one never knows.
Bulger, will you meet me at my club--the Albermarle--at eight o’clock
to-night? Stay, I will meet you instead, say at the corner of this
court. It will be safer. Good-day, Isaacs. If we ever meet again, it
will be under more favorable auspices; if we don’t, well, you’ll be
none the worse off in the other world.”
He left the money-lender’s office with the feelings of a victor. He had
not experienced so much self-confidence and peace of mind for years.
Turning into the first telegraph office he came to, he dispatched the
following to Lady Gaynor:
I am quite in accord with you. Shall arrive by the one-fifty express.
Send carriage to meet train.
To the Duke of Rothwell he telegraphed:
Congratulate me. All is settled. Within the time you stipulate I shall
have satisfied you.
From the telegraph office he took a hansom to Euston Station, and just
succeeded in catching the express to Ashbourne.
To an ordinary observer, the viscount was merely a gentleman of
leisure. His face bore no traces of the inward storms that had raged so
recently. He smoked a fragrant cheroot, and consulted a timetable while
the train was whirling him onwards, now and again making pencil notes
in a small memorandum book.
This done, he tossed the timetable aside, and gave himself up to
reflection until the engine slowed into Ashbourne.
To his relief, if not actual pleasure, Lady Gaynor herself was at the
station to meet him with her pony carriage.
“This is thoughtful of you,” he told her. “It may save much time. What
have you to say to me?”
She touched the ponies lightly, and smiled at him strangely.
“So you have failed absolutely?”
“Absolutely! To make matters worse, Annesley is pretty much in his
usual form again, and has discovered her retreat. I was fool enough
to blackguard him in the heat of my jealous passion. Now, then, it is
success or ruin for both. I shall not attempt to face things out, and
if we lose there will be an inquest.”
He looked gloomily away, and Lady Gaynor’s face became pale under her
paint. Like all women, she dreaded violence and death.
“Now, then, what are we to do?” he concluded. “Don’t drive to the
lodge. I shall feel that I am being stifled. We can talk safely here,
and you can take me back to the station after a while. I must catch the
next up-train.”
“I have not much to say,” was Lady Gaynor’s reply; “but Lady Elaine
Seabright must be brought home to-night without her maid! I have long
anticipated this, and am prepared. I shall expect you and her by the
last train. Your wit must devise the means. Chloroform, or anything
you like. I have an Italian physician staying with me, and a form of
marriage ceremony shall be gone through, whether my lady wills it or
not!”
A strange light flashed into his eyes, and his dark skin reddened.
“I believe that we shall win, after all,” he said, “and I will teach
my wife to care for me some day. Take me back to the station, Lady
Gaynor!”
CHAPTER XXVII.
“WE SHALL NEVER MEET AGAIN.”
Lady Elaine was toying with the breakfast that it was impossible for
her to eat, and thinking with a hopeless kind of bitterness of the
misery that had come into her life, when Nina suddenly entered the
room, her face betraying strong agitation.
“My lady, there is a person in the drawing-room who insists upon seeing
you. I cannot say whether she is young or old, but I fancy that she
must be young by the sweetness of her voice. She is closely veiled, and
speaks nicely.”
Nina stopped to regain breath, adding, “She will not give her name, my
lady.”
“I do not wish to be bothered, Nina,” said Lady Elaine, wearily. “This
is an extraordinary hour for visitors. Possibly the person is engaged
in some charitable pursuit. Tell her that she can state the nature of
her business to you.”
“I have done everything in that way, my lady,” the maid declared. “I
think that it will be best for you to see her.”
“No, I cannot be bothered. I am weary of everything, Nina.”
Then the maid stammered: “I was to tell you, my lady, that--that she
came from Sir Harold Annesley.”
Lady Elaine started, her face turning deathly white. Was Sir Harold
ill? Had some fresh misfortune befallen him?
“You are sure of this, Nina?” She held one hand to her throbbing heart.
“Quite sure, my lady.”
“Then I will see her. Bring the lady to me here. This room is warm, and
I fear that I dare not try to walk. My limbs are shaking with nervous
dread.”
Nina glanced at her mistress, a pitiful look in her eyes, and left the
room.
One minute, and she returned, a black-robed, girlish figure behind her.
“A mere girl,” thought Lady Elaine. “How could Nina be doubtful whether
she were young or old?”
“This is the lady from Sir Harold Annesley, your ladyship,” said Nina.
Elaine rose and bowed to her visitor, and was conscious of being
closely scrutinized.
Then, at a sign from her mistress, Nina softly withdrew, and the
stranger spoke.
The tones were soft, tremulous, and flute-like, and there was a world
of pathos in every note.
“You are Lady Elaine Seabright?”
“Yes,” Elaine said, gently. She knew not why her heart went out in
tenderness to this black-robed figure. Perhaps it was in sympathy,
because she, too, mourned a lost one.
“You are very beautiful, Lady Elaine,” continued the visitor,
half-dreamily, “and I have wanted to see you so much! I wanted to see
the woman whom Sir Harold loved first--and loves best.”
A haughty light flashed into Elaine’s eyes, but the words that rose to
her lips were checked by the girl tossing aside her veil, and revealing
a face of wondrous beauty.
“I am Theresa,” she said. “I am Sir Harold’s unhappy wife.”
She dropped into a lounge, and shed passionate tears. In a moment
Elaine was beside her, and murmuring soothing words to poor Theresa.
“I cannot understand why you should come here, Lady Annesley,” she
said. “Sir Harold loves you fondly. Why should you call yourself
unhappy!”
“I wanted to see you. Oh, I have longed so much to see you--to know if
you were good and true! My husband loves me, yes, but not as he loves
you. While in the delirium of fever he told me so, and I know that he
has seen you recently--that a bitter parting has taken place between
you. Lady Elaine, you will never know how happy we were once, in the
garden of roses, where I learned to worship my king. Oh, if I could
have died then, what a blissful death it would have been!”
“You must forget that Sir Harold and I ever cared for each other,”
Lady Elaine said, gently. “It is all over and past, you and he are now
husband and wife.”
Theresa looked at her mournfully.
“I wanted to see you,” she went on, “and now I am satisfied. I do not
wonder that he loves you best. I have heard much of the shameful story
which parted you, and then Sir Harold only married me out of pity for
my helplessness, while I loved him, even as you may never love him,
Lady Elaine! For my sake he has sacrificed all that makes life worth
the living. He does not know that I am here--he will never know unless
you tell him. He does not even dream that I have any knowledge of your
whereabouts; but I wished to look upon your beautiful face once, and
that is why I am here.”
“Lady Annesley, I have parted from Sir Harold forever,” Elaine said.
“He came here yesterday to say good-by. His words concerning you were
only words of love.”
Theresa did not reply, but gazed wistfully at Lady Elaine.
“Kiss me once,” she said, after a little while. “I am going now, and we
shall never meet again!”
Elaine knew not what to say. After all, Theresa was but a child, and
she pressed her lips fondly to the girl’s cold cheek.
“Yes, we shall meet again, Lady Annesley,” she whispered. “In the
future, when the pain in our hearts is less. After all, life is but a
feverish dream, and our longings are never satisfied.”
Theresa smiled sadly, but there was a sweet, saintly expression on her
lovely face that Elaine never forgot.
“I am much happier now that I have seen you,” she said. A long-drawn
sigh escaped her, and she added “Good-by.”
She rose to her feet, and Lady Elaine walked with her into the hall,
the door of which was standing open, for the early autumn morning was
warm and balmy.
There was a last farewell, and then the lovely, little, black figure
was gone.
An inexpressible mournfulness seemed to be in the very air, and for
a long time Elaine wandered from room to room, a strange feeling of
unrest upon her. She could not forget the sorrowfulness of Theresa’s
last good-by. It seemed to echo about her like a voice from the spirit
world.
Late in the evening the little household was startled by an imperative
knock, followed by a sharp ring at the doorbell.
The woman who did the duty of housekeeper obeyed the somewhat noisy
summons, and a man handed her a sealed letter, saying:
“For Lady Seabright. Hurry up, ma’am; there’s an answer wanted!”
Nina received the letter from the housekeeper, and promptly conveyed it
to her mistress.
This is what Elaine read:
Lady Elaine Seabright is requested by Sir Harold Annesley’s medical
adviser to come to the Victoria Hotel at once if she wishes to see
Harold alive. He has met with a street accident, and is fast sinking.
His one desire is to see Lady Elaine before he dies. Her ladyship is
advised to lose not an instant, but to accompany the bearer of this
urgent appeal. A closed carriage has been sent for her exclusive use.
She read the letter twice, and then stood white and rigid. Had this
anything to do with Lady Annesley’s visit? What tragedy had been
committed?
“Nina,” she said, “Sir Harold is dying. He has sent for me. You must
help me dress at once! I am going to him. Fetch my hat and cloak. That
is all I shall want.”
“My lady, must I accompany you?” the maid asked, after rapidly obeying
the order.
“No, Nina; I do not see the necessity for it. I may have to remain all
night. Oh, merciful Heavens! How disaster follows upon the heels of
disaster!”
In a few minutes she was ready, and Nina followed her to the door.
“How dark it is, my lady!” she said.
A huge figure loomed forward, and a man’s voice said:
“The kerridge is here, my lady. I ain’t had no time, your ladyship, to
light my lamps; in fact, the order came so sudden that I clean forgot
’em.”
“Lead the way,” commanded Lady Elaine.
The man obeyed, and she saw a four-wheeled cab harnessed to a powerful
horse.
“Do not sit up for me,” she said to Nina, “I will telegraph to you in
the morning.”
She stepped into the carriage, the door was banged fast, and the next
moment the horse plunged away under the stinging lash of the whip.
Almost at the same instant Lady Elaine felt that she was not alone,
and a terrible dread seized upon her. What did it mean? Against the
purple darkness of the night, through one of the windows, she had
clearly seen a man’s profile! Then, as her eyes became accustomed to
the blackness about her, his form was apparent like a misty shadow.
A cold chill seemed to rest upon her heart, but, by a desperate effort,
she spoke:
“Can you tell me if Sir Harold’s condition is as hopeless as the
physician appears to think in the note he has sent to me?”
She waited, but there was no reply. The strain was too awful to bear.
She uttered a wild shriek, and a hand was clapped to her mouth, while a
sinewy arm clasped her waist. She gasped for breath, and then relapsed
into insensibility under the powerful fumes of something pressed to her
palpitating nostrils.
The man pulled the checkstring, and the carriage stopped.
“It’s all right, Bulger,” said the voice of Viscount Rivington. “Drive
carefully now, so that we do not attract any needless attention.
Straight to Sim’s alley, King’s Cross.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MARGARET’S ATONEMENT.
Like a man bereft of all reason, Sir Harold Annesley paced his wife’s
room, the words of her last letter seeming to eat into his brain like
molten fire.
“Poor Theresa!” he said, at last. “What must have been your mental
sufferings to drive you to this? A life’s devotion can never repay such
wonderful love as yours!”
He clasped one hand to his burning brow, and looked about him
mournfully. The place was fragrant with her sweet presence, like the
perfume of a flower that is dead.
He stepped to the window, and gazed at the busy crowd below. Then the
full force of Theresa’s meaning burst upon him, and he cried aloud in
his agony.
He reverently placed the letter in his pocketbook, and rang for
Stimson. The valet was near at hand, and came quickly into the room.
“Lady Annesley has gone away, Stimson,” his master said, brokenly,
“has left me with some mistaken notion of giving me my freedom. She
heard something last night, when I was angry with that scoundrel,
Rivington--something concerning Lady Elaine Seabright, and her heart is
broken. Stimson, I must find her if all London has to be searched. Her
words may be wild and irresponsible, but my heart reproaches me sorely.
Now, try and remember what she said to you last, and how she looked.”
The valet could only repeat what he had already stated.
“It seems,” Sir Harold said, “that the fates are all against me. I
have been detained at every turn against my will.”
He sprang up resolutely.
“There is nothing that you can do, Stimson, and I am incapable of
sustained thought at present. Within an hour, though, the whole
machinery of the law shall be put in motion.”
He stepped swiftly away without another word, and, jumping into a cab,
was driven to Scotland Yard once more.
The inspector readily granted him an interview, and listened in
amazement to his latest trouble.
“Only an hour since I learned from Asbury that the anonymous
letter-writer was within reach when wanted, and I concluded that your
troubles were nearly at an end, Sir Harold,” he said.
“This is merely an outcome of the disgraceful affair,” Annesley
replied, savagely clinching his hands. “My poor wife has evidently been
driven out of her mind with fear--more upon my account than her own.
Now, sir, what can be done?”
“Notice must be promptly given to every police station in the
metropolis. The railway station and hotels must be watched. Now, if she
had less start of us, the matter would be as simple as A B C. For the
present, leave it in my hands, with a carefully-written description of
Lady Annesley’s dress, etc. I have no doubt that Asbury has the whole
case at his fingers’ ends, and I really do not think that you have
reason for so much alarm. Women take strange fancies into their heads
at times, Sir Harold. Let us hope that you will find her at your hotel
when you get back.”
Annesley shook his head. “The moment that Mr. Asbury is available let
him come to me,” he said.
“I am sorry that he is not here now,” was the reply. “I telephoned to
his private office only a few minutes before you came in, and hear that
he is out of London until the evening. You may depend, however, that we
will do our best for you, Sir Harold.”
Annesley went back to his hotel, but there was no news of Theresa. He
sent for copies of the evening papers, and was almost afraid to read
them, lest there should be some awful story concerning his wife.
At this unhappy moment Stimson announced Miss Margaret Nugent, and a
wild hope sprang into his heart, to be as quickly dispelled when he saw
his cousin standing before him alone, wonder and alarm in her face at
sight of his misery.
“So it is you!” he cried, harshly.
“Harold--dear Harold!” Margaret said, “what is the matter? I am leaving
London to-day for home. Until last night I have been visiting a friend
living at Bayswater, and I have come to see Theresa--because I have
been very miserable about something.”
“You have driven her from me--perhaps to her death,” he replied,
flashing upon her a glance of bitter contempt, “wretched woman that you
are!”
“You know, then----” she murmured, her lips white and dry.
“Know!” he sneered. “I have had detectives following your every
movement. I will have you made a public example of unless you bring my
wife back to me, slanderer and liar that you are!”
She dropped upon her knees before him, and sobbed bitter tears.
“Oh, Harold! this from you to me! I who have loved you so well! Let my
love for you be my excuse. I have hated all who have seemed to come
between us; first, Lady Elaine, and then poor, confiding Theresa. Since
I penned that wretched letter my life has been a torture to me. I have
been appalled by the misery that I and Viscount Rivington have already
caused you, and yet the gulf between us has but widened. And now I am
humiliating myself as woman was never humiliated before. I came back
to-day to tell your wife all. I knew that she would forgive me--if she
could not forget. I knew that I shall never forgive myself. Do you not
believe me, Harold? Do you not see that I have hardly been responsible
for my actions? I think that I must have been mad! I have only just
realized the hideousness of my folly--of my wickedness. My love for
you, and my jealousy of all others who came between us, have blinded
me utterly and completely. Pity me, Harold, though I am not deserving
of one moment’s consideration from you. Remember the old days--the old
days of our childhood--when I deemed that you were all my own. Remember
when you petted me, and made me love you! and I never dreamed that any
other girl could come between us. I regarded you as my very own! Was
it not I who waited in patient expectancy for your return from abroad?
Was it not I who gloried in your conquests? And then, when I believed
that I was about to taste the sweets of life, the bowl was ruthlessly
snatched from my lips. God and myself alone know the bitterness of
my trial! I hated all who stood between you and me. I hated Lady
Elaine Seabright--I hated the gentle-hearted Theresa; but I have been
mad--mad! But at last I have wakened, and it shall be my duty to make
atonement!”
Her anguish was terrible to see, but he said, sternly:
“If my innocent Theresa is not restored to me I will never forgive
you, Margaret Nugent. I will never look upon your hateful face again!
There is no pity in my heart for you--there never will be. Go, and find
Theresa!”
She rose to her feet, her face wet with tears, and turning, silently
left him. No punishment could equal the anguish that had pierced her
heart. The man whom she had sinned for spurned and hated her!
“I will find Theresa,” she whispered to herself; “and I pray to God
that I may not be too late, or I shall live hereafter marked with the
brand of Cain!”
She did not seek advice anywhere, but went straight to Euston station.
She asked for a ticket to Tenterden, but was informed that no further
trains stopped there that day. Her only hope of reaching Tenterden was
to book to Crayford, and return to Tenterden by a local train. Even
by doing this she ran great chances. If the London train was not in
exactly to time at Crayford the last local would have left.
“Then I must trust to chance,” Margaret thought. “In any event I have
to go to Ashbourne to-night, and that is only one station beyond
Crayford.”
As the booking clerk had anticipated, the train was late at Crayford,
and Margaret continued to the station nearest her home, deciding to go
to Tenterden the next morning.
In the meantime the day wore late, and still no news came to Sir
Harold. It seemed that in a few hours he had aged years.
At nine o’clock Paul Asbury came to the hotel, and there was a look of
pity in his eyes.
“I have everything in hand,” he said, reassuringly, in answer to Sir
Harold’s appealing glance; “and all that we can do is--wait! The next
few hours are pregnant with big results. I will stay with you if you
will permit it. My men have instructions to telephone to me here.”
“There is some hope, then?”
“There is always hope,” was the reply.
Annesley told the detective of Miss Nugent’s visit that day. Then he
wanted to know if Asbury had formed any theory concerning his wife.
“If she had left here at night, I should have feared for the worst,” he
said. “Impulsive people do strange things in the dark. The river, you
know! However, that is quite out of the question, as Lady Annesley left
the hotel in the early morning. You say that she had no friend in the
world save yourself--not even an acquaintance; but I will tell you this
much, Sir Harold, I believe your wife visited Lady Elaine Seabright
this morning. A lady enveloped in black was seen to enter Lady Elaine’s
villa, and leave half-an-hour later. They parted upon the best of
terms. I may be wrong, but I incline to the belief that this lady was
your wife.”
Annesley was strangely moved, but he knew not what to think.
It was eleven o’clock before Asbury was called to the telephone, and he
obeyed with alacrity.
In ten minutes he was back, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Two calls almost simultaneously. Sir Harold, your wife was seen at
Euston station this morning. Be of good cheer! We shall find her. The
second item is even more important. Lady Elaine Seabright was inveigled
from home at ten o’clock, drugged, and taken to a certain house in
King’s Cross by Viscount Rivington and an ex-convict named Bulger.”
Sir Harold started up wildly.
“The lady must be released,” continued Asbury; “and I think that it is
quite time to stop the viscount’s little career. Come; you can be of no
use here.”
Annesley followed him out of the room almost mechanically--received his
hat and overcoat from the attentive Stimson, and the two were driven
rapidly in the direction of King’s Cross.
“It will probably be all over when we arrive,” the detective explained.
“I issued my orders lest the wily snake gave us the slip. This is a
last desperate move on the part of Rivington. His confederate, Lady
Gaynor, will be arrested to-morrow upon the charge of obtaining money
and jewelry under false pretenses.”
At length the cab pulled up with a jerk, and Asbury jumped out,
followed by Annesley, whose blood was boiling with indignation.
A man in uniform was promptly by the side of Asbury, and said:
“A doctor is with her ladyship, and the viscount is dead--shot hisself,
sir, and laughed while he did it. Bulger’s locked up!”
“Poor devil,” was the grim rejoinder. “So he has given us the slip!”
They went into the house, and in a minute Annesley was bending over
Elaine, one of her hands clasped in his.
“You are not hurt?” he asked.
“No; I shall be better soon. I cannot understand anything yet; my head
throbs and burns so much. I knew that you would come to me, Harold!”
The light of a great love was shining in her eyes; then she added:
“Oh, forgive me; I had forgotten--all but your presence here!”
“Do not try to think now,” he whispered, tenderly. “You must return
home, and Nina will take care of you. To-morrow you may know all.”
She sighed softly, content that the man she loved was near her!
CHAPTER XXIX.
PEACE AT LAST.
At the urgent request of Annesley the doctor consented to accompany
them back to the villa in Hyde Park and remain in the house all night.
He feared that Lady Elaine might be severely shocked when the events
of the past hour recurred vividly to her, and wished to feel sure that
she would have proper attention at hand. She was tenderly lifted into a
carriage by Annesley, and the doctor sat opposite them.
“I will see you at an early hour to-morrow morning, Sir Harold,” Paul
said at parting. “You may expect news at any time.”
Elaine slept through the journey, and hardly a word passed between
Annesley and the doctor, the young man’s heart was so full of his cruel
grief.
When the villa was reached her ladyship was led indoors in a
half-dreamful state, and Sir Harold hastened to reassure the terrified
Nina.
“You are not dying, sir!” the girl cried. “Oh, what a wicked hoax!”
Annesley said nothing. This was no time for explanations and
investigations. He introduced the old doctor, promising to call early
in the morning, and was driven back to his hotel.
He looked into his wife’s empty room, and wept such tears that men only
can weep. He did not undress or attempt to rest. Where was the use
of it? The remainder of the night was spent in pacing the floor and
thinking of the absent Theresa.
With the advent of daylight a little hope came to him, and he indulged
himself to the extent of a bath. This refreshed him a little, and the
sounds of life in the house and the streets told him that there was
something to be done. Only in activity could he find relief.
He waited feverishly for the post, but there was only a letter from
Colonel Greyson in answer to a telegram. The colonel was coming home at
once.
Then Paul Asbury came in. He had no news yet. It was a little too early.
Even while he was speaking a telegram was handed to Sir Harold, and he
opened it with trembling fingers. It was from Margaret Nugent, and ran:
“I have found Theresa. Come to the little cottage at Tenterden.”
He passed it to Asbury, and the detective read it thoughtfully.
“I have sent a man down there this morning,” he said. “We are
forestalled. The next train does not leave until eleven o’clock--the
one by which your wife went there yesterday. It is now barely half-past
eight.”
“I will go to Hyde Park first,” Annesley replied. “I will see if my
wife really called upon Lady Elaine. Asbury, what do you think of this
telegram? It has filled me with dread. I am afraid that something has
happened.”
“It is like a woman to be vague,” the detective said, evasively. “I do
not think that I can be of any further use to you now,” he went on,
“but do not forget I am ever at your service.”
They shook hands, and Paul Asbury went away, while Annesley gave his
valet some hurried orders.
“My wife has gone back to Tenterden,” he said; “I am going to her at
once, Stimson, and, if all is well, shall take her to the Park. You
will hear from me during the day.”
“Yes, Sir Harold.”
Stimson was very pale. He had just been reading of the suicide of
Viscount Rivington, and many strange details in connection with it.
It was barely half-past nine when Annesley’s cab pulled up before the
villa in Hyde Park.
He was admitted by Nina, and, in answer to his eager inquiries, heard
that her mistress was completely recovered.
“The doctor thought it useless to remain,” she concluded, “and has been
gone an hour. Oh, Sir Harold,” with quivering lips, “I have read it all
in the papers!”
“The papers! Ah!” he exclaimed, “I had forgotten!”
He followed Nina into the morning-room, where Lady Elaine was seated,
and a faint flush mounted to her cheeks when he entered.
“You are well, almost?” he said, taking one of her thin hands between
his own.
“As well as I can ever be, Harold.”
Some way she could not help addressing him in the old, familiar manner.
He was her lover still, though another had a stronger claim upon him.
“I have read all in the newspaper this morning,” she shuddered. “I did
not realize the danger I had been in until then, and, but for you,
Heaven alone knows what may have happened!”
“Now that Rivington is dead you are free,” Annesley observed, “and I
should advise sending for Mr. Worboys at once.”
“I will do as you wish, Harold,” Elaine replied. “It is possible that
we shall leave here to-day, but I will let you know soon.”
“Mr. Worboys had better write to my lawyer,” Annesley said, and she
flushed redly, saying, “I had forgotten. You will forgive me, Sir
Harold?”
He looked at her, pained and startled.
“I did not mean that, Elaine--not in that way; but of course you have
not heard of my possible change of plans--how could you? You have not
heard that my wife has left me, and been traced to her own home in the
village of Tenterden? I am going to her now, and if all is as I wish it
to be, we shall go home to the Park.”
Then Lady Elaine told him of Theresa’s visit to her, and much of what
had passed between them.
He listened with tear-dimmed eyes, and only murmured, “Poor Theresa!”
How many times had he said this of late!
He said good-by to Lady Elaine, and he believed that it was forever;
then he went away, and was driven rapidly to Euston. From Euston he was
whirled to Tenterden, and then walked through the old, familiar ways to
the cottage embowered in trees and flowers.
“My little Theresa,” he thought, “I wonder if she is waiting for me?
Oh, how kind I will be to the sensitive, loving child, and may Heaven
punish me if I ever neglect my duty to my wife in thought, word or
deed.”
He turned in at the gate, and in fancy saw Theresa’s face peeping
at him round the porch. Then he shivered, for all was still, with a
silence that spoke of death.
He placed his thumb on the latch of the cottage door, and when it
opened he was met by Margaret Nugent. In loathing he turned away,
saying: “Where is she--where is Theresa?”
She pointed solemnly upstairs, and he bounded up the steps two at a
time, as though madness was in his veins.
“Theresa! Theresa!” he cried, “I am here!”
He stepped into the bedroom, and saw her before him in the sweet dream
of death--her hands folded over her breast, and beside her a huge
bunch of the flowers that she had loved so well.
He kissed the dead face, that even now seemed to smile up at him; he
shed bitter tears, for he knew that poor Theresa had died for love of
him!
They had found her that morning in the old summer arbor--cold and
still. Her heart was broken.
* * * * *
Immediately after his wife’s funeral Sir Harold went abroad. The
sympathy of his friends was as distasteful to him as the slanderous
gossip of the careless and vicious. Never before within the memory
of mortal man had the county been in such a turmoil! Following the
viscount’s suicide, Lady Gaynor had vanished like a shadow, leaving her
servants and debts behind her.
The parting between Lady Elaine and Sir Harold was one that was never
forgotten by either. With the concurrence of Mr. Worboys, she had made
her home with a widowed sister of Colonel Greyson in a lovely little
place among the hills and vales of lovely Kent.
“I will never lose sight of him, Elaine,” the colonel said, “and the
future may yet be filled with golden promise!”
* * * * *
A year passed and the wanderer returned, and soon after there was
a quiet wedding from the house of Colonel Greyson’s sister. The
guests did not number more than a dozen. There was no ostentation--no
display--but their way from the church was strewn with flowers, and the
bells throbbed with melody.
They went direct to Annesley Park--Sir Harold and Elaine--to the quiet
enjoyment of their own home. Their parting had been so long and so
bitter that every hour now was too precious to be lost.
Sometimes they walk hand in hand to the graveyard where poor Theresa
lies, and her last resting place is kept fresh and fragrant with
flowers, not by their hands alone, but by those of a repentant woman
who passes by on the other side--Margaret Nugent! And when Sir Harold
and his wife think of all these things, and bless Heaven for bringing
them together at last, the sorrows of the past grow less and less,
merged into the fullness and beauty of the present.
THE END.
In “A Wife’s Peril,” which will be No. 51 of the NEW BERTHA CLAY
LIBRARY, Miss Clay has written an attention-gripping story of a wife’s
struggle and faithfulness.
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1--Queen Bess By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
2--Ruby’s Reward By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
7--Two Keys By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
9--The Virginia Heiress By May Agnes Fleming
12--Edrie’s Legacy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
17--Leslie’s Loyalty By Charles Garvice
(His Love So True)
22--Elaine By Charles Garvice
24--A Wasted Love By Charles Garvice
(On Love’s Altar)
41--Her Heart’s Desire By Charles Garvice
(An Innocent Girl)
44--That Dowdy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
50--Her Ransom By Charles Garvice
(Paid For)
55--Thrice Wedded By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
66--Witch Hazel By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
70--Sydney By Charles Garvice
(A Wilful Young Woman)
73--The Marquis By Charles Garvice
77--Tina By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
79--Out of the Past By Charles Garvice
(Marjorie)
84--Imogene (Dumaresq’s Temptation) By Charles Garvice
85--Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold By Charles Garvice
88--Virgie’s Inheritance By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
95--A Wilful Maid By Charles Garvice
(Philippa)
98--Claire By Charles Garvice
(The Mistress of Court Regna)
99--Audrey’s Recompense By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
102--Sweet Cymbeline By Charles Garvice
(Bellmaire)
109--Signa’s Sweetheart By Charles Garvice
(Lord Delamere’s Bride)
111--Faithful Shirley By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
117--She Loved Him By Charles Garvice
119--’Twixt Smile and Tear By Charles Garvice
(Dulcie)
122--Grazia’s Mistake By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
130--A Passion Flower By Charles Garvice
(Madge)
133--Max By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
136--The Unseen Bridegroom By May Agnes Fleming
138--A Fatal Wooing By Laura Jean Libbey
141--Lady Evelyn By May Agnes Fleming
144--Dorothy’s Jewels By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
146--Magdalen’s Vow By May Agnes Fleming
151--The Heiress of Glen Gower By May Agnes Fleming
155--Nameless Dell By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
157--Who Wins By May Agnes Fleming
166--The Masked Bridal By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
168--Thrice Lost, Thrice Won By May Agnes Fleming
174--His Guardian Angel By Charles Garvice
177--A True Aristocrat By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
181--The Baronet’s Bride By May Agnes Fleming
188--Dorothy Arnold’s Escape By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
199--Geoffrey’s Victory By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
203--Only One Love By Charles Garvice
210--Wild Oats By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
213--The Heiress of Egremont By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
215--Only a Girl’s Love By Charles Garvice
219--Lost: A Pearle By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
222--The Lily of Mordaunt By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
223--Leola Dale’s Fortune By Charles Garvice
231--The Earl’s Heir By Charles Garvice
(Lady Norah)
233--Nora By Mrs. George Sheldon
236--Her Humble Lover By Charles Garvice
(The Usurper; or, The Gipsy Peer)
242--A Wounded Heart By Charles Garvice
(Sweet as a Rose)
244--A Hoiden’s Conquest By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
250--A Woman’s Soul By Charles Garvice
(Doris; or, Behind the Footlights)
255--The Little Marplot By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
257--A Martyred Love By Charles Garvice
(Iris; or, Under the Shadows)
266--The Welfleet Mystery By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
267--Jeanne By Charles Garvice
(Barriers Between)
268--Olivia; or, It Was for Her Sake By Charles Garvice
272--So Fair, So False By Charles Garvice
(The Beauty of the Season)
276--So Nearly Lost By Charles Garvice
(The Springtime of Love)
277--Brownie’s Triumph By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
280--Love’s Dilemma By Charles Garvice
(For an Earldom)
282--The Forsaken Bride By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
283--My Lady Pride By Charles Garvice
287--The Lady of Darracourt By Charles Garvice
(Floris)
288--Sibyl’s Influence By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
291--A Mysterious Wedding Ring By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
292--For Her Only By Charles Garvice
(Diana)
296--The Heir of Vering By Charles Garvice
299--Little Miss Whirlwind By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
300--The Spider and the Fly By Charles Garvice
(Violet)
303--The Queen of the Isle By May Agnes Fleming
304--Stanch as a Woman By Charles Garvice
(A Maiden’s Sacrifice)
305--Led by Love By Charles Garvice
Sequel to “Stanch as a Woman”
309--The Heiress of Castle Cliffs. By May Agnes Fleming
312--Woven on Fate’s Loom, and The Snowdrift By Charles Garvice
315--The Dark Secret By May Agnes Fleming
317--Ione By Laura Jean Libbey
(Adrien Le Roy)
318--Stanch of Heart By Charles Garvice
322--Mildred By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
326--Parted by Fate By Laura Jean Libbey
327--He Loves Me By Charles Garvice
328--He Loves Me Not By Charles Garvice
330--Aikenside By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
333--Stella’s Fortune By Charles Garvice
(The Sculptor’s Wooing)
334--Miss McDonald By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
339--His Heart’s Queen By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
340--Bad Hugh. Vol. I. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
341--Bad Hugh. Vol. II. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
344--Tresillian Court By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
345--The Scorned Wife By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
346--Guy Tresillian’s Fate By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
347--The Eyes of Love By Charles Garvice
348--The Hearts of Youth By Charles Garvice
351--The Churchyard Betrothal By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
352--Family Pride. Vol. I. By Mary J. Holmes
353--Family Pride. Vol. II. By Mary J. Holmes
354--A Love Comedy By Charles Garvice
360--The Ashes of Love By Charles Garvice
361--A Heart Triumphant By Charles Garvice
367--The Pride of Her Life By Charles Garvice
368--Won By Love’s Valor By Charles Garvice
372--A Girl in a Thousand By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
373--A Thorn Among Roses By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Sequel to “A Girl in a Thousand”
380--Her Double Life By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
381--The Sunshine of Love By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “Her Double Life”
382--Mona By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
391--Marguerite’s Heritage By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
399--Betsey’s Transformation By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
407--Esther, the Fright By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
415--Trixy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
440--Edna’s Secret Marriage By Charles Garvice
449--The Bailiff’s Scheme By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
450--Rosamond’s Love By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “The Bailiff’s Scheme”
451--Helen’s Victory By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
456--A Vixen’s Treachery By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
457--Adrift in the World By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “A Vixen’s Treachery”
458--When Love Meets Love By Charles Garvice
464--The Old Life’s Shadows By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
465--Outside Her Eden By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “The Old Life’s Shadows”
474--The Belle of the Season By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
475--Love Before Pride By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “The Belle of the Season”
481--Wedded, Yet No Wife By May Agnes Fleming
489--Lucy Harding By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
495--Norine’s Revenge By May Agnes Fleming
511--The Golden Key By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
512--A Heritage of Love By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Sequel to “The Golden Key”
519--The Magic Cameo By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
520--The Heatherford Fortune By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Sequel to “The Magic Cameo”
525--Sweet Kitty Clover By Laura Jean Libbey
531--Better Than Life By Charles Garvice
534--Lotta, the Cloak Model By Laura Jean Libbey
542--Once in a Life By Charles Garvice
543--The Veiled Bride By Laura Jean Libbey
548--’Twas Love’s Fault By Charles Garvice
551--Pity--Not Love By Laura Jean Libbey
553--Queen Kate By Charles Garvice
554--Step by Step By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
557--In Cupid’s Chains By Charles Garvice
630--The Verdict of the Heart By Charles Garvice
635--A Coronet of Shame By Charles Garvice
640--A Girl of Spirit By Charles Garvice
645--A Jest of Fate By Charles Garvice
648--Gertrude Elliott’s Crucible By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
650--Diana’s Destiny By Charles Garvice
655--Linked by Fate By Charles Garvice
663--Creatures of Destiny By Charles Garvice
671--When Love Is Young By Charles Garvice
676--My Lady Beth By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
679--Gold in the Gutter By Charles Garvice
712--Love and a Lie By Charles Garvice
721--A Girl from the South By Charles Garvice
730--John Hungerford’s Redemption By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
741--The Fatal Ruby By Charles Garvice
749--The Heart of a Maid By Charles Garvice
758--The Woman in It By Charles Garvice
774--Love in a Snare By Charles Garvice
775--My Love Kitty By Charles Garvice
776--That Strange Girl By Charles Garvice
777--Nellie By Charles Garvice
778--Miss Estcourt; or Olive By Charles Garvice
818--The Girl Who Was True By Charles Garvice
826--The Irony of Love By Charles Garvice
896--A Terrible Secret By May Agnes Fleming
897--When To-morrow Came By May Agnes Fleming
904--A Mad Marriage By May Agnes Fleming
905--A Woman Without Mercy By May Agnes Fleming
912--One Night’s Mystery By May Agnes Fleming
913--The Cost of a Lie By May Agnes Fleming
920--Silent and True By May Agnes Fleming
921--A Treasure Lost By May Agnes Fleming
925--Forrest House By Mary J. Holmes
926--He Loved Her Once By Mary J. Holmes
930--Kate Danton By May Agnes Fleming
931--Proud as a Queen By May Agnes Fleming
935--Queenie Hetherton By Mary J. Holmes
936--Mightier Than Pride By Mary J. Holmes
940--The Heir of Charlton By May Agnes Fleming
941--While Love Stood Waiting By May Agnes Fleming
945--Gretchen By Mary J. Holmes
946--Beauty That Faded By Mary J. Holmes
950--Carried by Storm By May Agnes Fleming
951--Love’s Dazzling Glitter By May Agnes Fleming
954--Marguerite By Mary J. Holmes
955--When Love Spurs Onward By Mary J. Holmes
960--Lost for a Woman By May Agnes Fleming
961--His to Love or Hate By May Agnes Fleming
964--Paul Ralston’s First Love By Mary J. Holmes
965--Where Love’s Shadows Lie Deep By Mary J. Holmes
968--The Tracy Diamonds By Mary J. Holmes
969--She Loved Another By Mary J. Holmes
972--The Cromptons By Mary J. Holmes
973--Her Husband Was a Scamp By Mary J. Holmes
975--The Merivale Banks By Mary J. Holmes
978--The One Girl in the World By Charles Garvice
979--His Priceless Jewel By Charles Garvice
982--The Millionaire’s Daughter and Other Stories,
By Charles Garvice
983--Doctor Hathern’s Daughters By Mary J. Holmes
984--The Colonel’s Bride By Mary J. Holmes
988--Her Ladyship’s Diamonds, and Other Stories,
By Charles Garvice
998--Sharing Her Crime By May Agnes Fleming
999--The Heiress of Sunset Hall By May Agnes Fleming
1004--Maude Percy’s Secret By May Agnes Fleming
1005--The Adopted Daughter By May Agnes Fleming
1010--The Sisters of Torwood By May Agnes Fleming
1015--A Changed Heart By May Agnes Fleming
1016--Enchanted By May Agnes Fleming
1025--A Wife’s Tragedy By May Agnes Fleming
1026--Brought to Reckoning By May Agnes Fleming
1027--A Madcap Sweetheart By Emma Garrison Jones
1028--An Unhappy Bargain. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1029--Only a Working Girl By Geraldine Fleming
1030--The Unbidden Guest By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1031--The Man and His Millions By Ida Reade Allen
1032--Mabel’s Sacrifice By Charlotte M. Stanley
1033--Was He Worth It? By Geraldine Fleming
1034--Her Two Suitors By Wenona Gilman
1035--Edith Percival By May Agnes Fleming
1036--Caught in the Snare By May Agnes Fleming
1037--A Love Concealed By Emma Garrison Jones
1038--The Price of Happiness By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1039--The Lucky Man By Geraldine Fleming
1040--A Forced Promise By Ida Reade Allen
1041--The Crime of Love By Barbara Howard
1042--The Bride’s Opals By Emma Garrison Jones
1043--Love That Was Cursed By Geraldine Fleming
1044--Thorns of Regret By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1045--Love Will Find the Way By Wenona Gilman
1046--Bitterly Atoned By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
1047--Told in the Twilight By Ida Reade Allen
1048--A Little Barbarian By Charlotte Kingsley
1049--Love’s Golden Spell By Geraldine Fleming
1050--Married in Error By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1051--If It Were True By Wenona Gilman
1052--Vivian’s Love Story By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
1053--From Tears to Smiles By Ida Reade Allen
1054--When Love Dawns By Adelaide Stirling
1055--Love’s Earnest Prayer By Geraldine Fleming
1056--The Strength of Love By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
1057--A Lost Love By Wenona Gilman
1058--The Stronger Passion By Lillian R. Drayton
1059--What Love Can Cost By Evelyn Malcolm
1060--At Another’s Bidding By Ida Reade Allen
1061--Above All Things By Adelaide Stirling
1062--The Curse of Beauty By Geraldine Fleming
1063--Her Sister’s Secret By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1064--Married in Haste By Wenona Gilman
1065--Fair Maid Marian By Emma Garrison Jones
1066--No Man’s Wife By Ida Reade Allen
1067--A Sacrifice to Love By Adelaide Stirling
1068--Her Fatal Gift By Geraldine Fleming
1069--Her Life’s Burden By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1070--Evelyn, the Actress By Wenona Gilman
1071--Married for Money By Lucy Randall Comfort
1072--A Lost Sweetheart By Ida Reade Allen
1073--A Golden Sorrow By Charlotte M. Stanley
1074--Her Heart’s Challenge By Barbara Howard
1075--His Willing Slave By Lillian R. Drayton
1076--A Freak of Fate By Emma Garrison Jones
1077--Her Punishment By Laura Jean Libbey
1078--The Shadow Between Them By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1079--No Time for Penitence By Wenona Gilman
1080--Norna’s Black Fortune By Ida Reade Allen
1081--A Wilful Girl By Lucy Randall Comfort
1082--Love’s First Kiss By Emma Garrison Jones
1083--Lola Dunbar’s Crime By Barbara Howard
1084--Ethel’s Secret By Charlotte M. Stanley
1085--Lynette’s Wedding By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1086--A Fair Enchantress By Ida Reade Allen
1087--The Tide of Fate By Wenona Gilman
1088--Her Husband’s Other Wife By Emma Garrison Jones
1089--Hearts of Stone By Geraldine Fleming
1090--In Love’s Springtime By Laura Jean Libbey
1091--Love at the Loom By Geraldine Fleming
1092--What Was She to Him? By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1093--For Another’s Fault By Charlotte M. Stanley
1094--Hearts and Dollars By Ida Reade Allen
1095--A Wife’s Triumph By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1096--A Bachelor Girl By Lucy May Russell
1097--Love and Spite By Adelaide Stirling
1098--Leola’s Heart By Charlotte M. Stanley
1099--The Power of Love By Geraldine Fleming
1100--An Angel of Evil By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1101--True to His Bride By Emma Garrison Jones
1102--The Lady of Beaufort Park By Wenona Gilman
1103--A Daughter of Darkness By Ida Reade Allen
1104--My Pretty Maid By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1105--Master of Her Fate By Geraldine Fleming
1106--A Shadowed Happiness By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1107--John Elliott’s Flirtation By Lucy May Russell
1108--A Forgotten Love By Adelaide Stirling
1109--Sylvia, The Forsaken By Charlotte M. Stanley
1110--Her Dearest Love By Geraldine Fleming
1111--Love’s Greatest Gift By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1112--Mischievous Maid Faynie By Laura Jean Libbey
1113--In Love’s Name By Emma Garrison Jones
1114--Love’s Clouded Dawn By Wenona Gilman
1115--A Blue Grass Heroine By Ida Reade Allen
1116--Only a Kiss By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1117--Virgie Talcott’s Mission By Lucy May Russell
1118--Her Evil Genius By Adelaide Stirling
1119--In Love’s Paradise By Charlotte M. Stanley
1120--Sold for Gold By Geraldine Fleming
1121--Andrew Leicester’s Love By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1122--Taken by Storm By Emma Garrison Jones
1123--The Mills of the Gods By Wenona Gilman
1124--The Breath of Slander By Ida Reade Allen
1125--Loyal Unto Death By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1126--A Spurned Proposal By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1127--Daredevil Betty By Evelyn Malcolm
1128--Her Life’s Dark Cloud By Lillian R. Drayton
1129--True Love Endures By Ida Reade Allen
1130--The Battle of Hearts By Geraldine Fleming
1131--Better Than Riches By Wenona Gilman
1132--Tempted By Love By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1133--Between Good and Evil By Charlotte M. Stanley
1134--A Southern Princess By Emma Garrison Jones
1135--The Thorns of Love By Evelyn Malcolm
1136--A Married Flirt By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1137--Her Priceless Love By Geraldine Fleming
NEW MAGNET LIBRARY.
To Be Published in August, 1923.
1111--The Sign of the Dagger By Nicholas Carter
1112--Nick Carter’s Promise By Nicholas Carter
1113--Marked for Death By Nicholas Carter
To Be Published in September, 1923.
1114--The Limited Holdup By Nicholas Carter
1115--When the Trap Was Sprung By Nicholas Carter
To Be Published in October, 1923.
1116--Through the Cellar Wall By Nicholas Carter
1117--Under the Tiger’s Claws By Nicholas Carter
To Be Published in November, 1923.
1118--The Girl in the Case By Nicholas Carter
1119--Behind a Throne By Nicholas Carter
To Be Published in December, 1923.
1120--The Lure of Gold By Nicholas Carter
1121--Hand to Hand By Nicholas Carter
Detective Stories
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Splendid Romances of American Life
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After the two books just mentioned, her “Hidden Hand” is best known,
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1--Ishmael By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
2--Self-Raised
Sequel to “Ishmael” By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
3--Em By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
4--Em’s Courtship
Sequel to “Em” By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
5--Em’s Husband By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Em’s Courtship”
6--The Bride’s Ordeal By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
7--Her Love or Her Life? By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “The Bride’s Ordeal”
8--Erma, the Wanderer By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Her Love or Her Life?”
9--Gloria By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
10--David Lindsay By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Gloria”
11--A Love Lost and Won By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “David Lindsay”
12--The Trail of the Serpent By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
13--A Tortured Heart By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “The Trail of the Serpent”
14--The Test of Love By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “A Tortured Heart”
15--Love’s Suspense By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “The Test of Love”
16--A Deed Without a Name, By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
17--Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret, By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “A Deed Without a Name”
18--To His Fate By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret”
19--When Love Gets Justice, By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “To His Fate”
20--For Woman’s Love By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
21--An Unrequited Love By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “For Woman’s Love”
22--A Leap in the Dark By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
23--The Mysterious Marriage By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “A Leap in the Dark”
24--Her Mother’s Secret By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
25--Love’s Bitterest Cup By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Her Mother’s Secret”
26--When Shadows Die By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
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27--Sweet Love’s Atonement By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
28--Zenobia’s Suitors By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
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29--The Unloved Wife By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
30--When the Shadow Darkens, By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
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31--Lilith By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “When the Shadow Darkens”
32--Only a Girl’s Heart By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
33--Gertrude’s Sacrifice By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Only a Girl’s Heart”
34--The Rejected Bride By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Gertrude’s Sacrifice”
35--A Husband’s Devotion By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
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36--Gertrude Haddon By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
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37--Reunited By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Gertrude Haddon”
38--Why Did He Wed Her? By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
39--For Whose Sake? By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
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40--The Rector’s Daughter By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
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41--A Skeleton in the Closet By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
42--Brandon Coyle’s Wife By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “A Skeleton in the Closet”
43--When Love’s Shadows Flee By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Brandon Coyle’s Wife”
44--The Changed Brides By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Or “Winning Her Way”
45--The Bride’s Fate By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “The Changed Brides”
46--The Lost Lady of Lone By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
47--The Struggle of a Soul By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “The Lost Lady of Lone”
48--Cruel as the Grave By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Or “The Halloween Mystery”
49--Tried for Her Life By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave”
50--The Lost Heir of Linlithgow, By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
51--A Noble Lord By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow”
52--A Beautiful Fiend By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
53--Victor’s Triumph By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend!”
54--Nearest and Dearest By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
55--Little Nea’s Engagement By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Nearest and Dearest”
56--Unknown By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
57--The Mystery of Raven Rocks By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Unknown”
58--The Hidden Hand By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
59--Capitola’s Peril By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “The Hidden Hand”
60--Fair Play By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Or “Britomarte”
61--Elfie’s Vision By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Fair Play”
62--How He Won Her By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “Elfie’s Vision”
63--The Three Beauties By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Or “Shannondale”
64--The Doom of Deville By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
65--The Broken Engagement By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
66--The Christmas Guest By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
67--The Missing Bride By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
68--The Fortune Seeker By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
69--The Family Doom By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
70--The Maiden Widow By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “The Family Doom”
71--The Mother-in-Law By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Or “Married in Haste”
72--Retribution By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
73--India By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Or “The Pearl of Pearl River”
74--The Curse of Clifton By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
75--The Lost Heiress By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
76--The Widow’s Son By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Or “Left Alone”
77--The Bride of Llewellyn, By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Sequel to “The Widow’s Son”
78--The Bridal Eve By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
79--The Two Sisters By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
80--Eudora, or the False Princess, By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
81--Love’s Labor Won By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
82--The Bride’s Dowry By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
83--The Lady of the Isle By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
84--The Deserted Wife By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
85--The Wife’s Victory By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
86--The Three Sisters By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
87--Vivia, or The Secret of Power By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
88--The Discarded Daughter By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Or “The Children of the Isle”
89--The Gipsy’s Prophecy By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
90--The Haunted Homestead, By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
91--The Artist’s Love By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
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Transcriber’s Notes:
A table of contents has been added by the transcriber and placed in the
public domain.
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
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