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.