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.”