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.