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.