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.