“TO-MORROW SHALL DECIDE.”
It was a trying moment--a moment never to be forgotten by Sir Harold
and Lady Elaine--never to be forgotten by Nina, who was looking
helplessly on.
“Not false, Harold--not false to you in word or deed!” cried Lady
Elaine. “Oh, my dear love, why did you doubt me? Why were you so cruel?”
“Hush!” he whispered. “I am not yet quite clear as to your meaning. My
brain is on fire. Let me think--think! All this is so strange. You do
not know what has happened--you--oh! the pain is maddening! I cannot
bear it!”
In an instant my lady was on her feet, in her eyes a look of infinite
love and pity.
“I know that there is now an impassable barrier between us, Sir
Harold,” she said, “and that it is wrong for me to even speak to you
upon familiar terms. Do not think that I shall forget my duty.”
He held out his hands blindly, saying:
“I must see you again, Elaine--my lost darling! Theresa is waiting for
me--poor Theresa. I will come to the park another day, when my head
pains me less.”
He shook hands with her and staggered away. The forgotten past was
passing before him like a dream within a dream.
He never knew how he reached the hotel. He had lost all count of time
and space; his eyes were bloodshot, his lips and tongue parched and dry.
He was late, and Theresa met him with tear-stained cheeks and hollow
eyes. At sight of his haggard face her thoughts immediately fled to
the story that Margaret Nugent had told her--the story of the vendetta.
“Harold, dear Harold, my husband,” she cried, “you are ill!”
He pushed her from him, but the next instant turned to comfort her.
“Yes, little one, I am ill, and I wish that I might die! What sin is
mine that my misery should be so great that others should be cursed by
the relentless fate that pursues me? Theresa, poor little confiding
Theresa! Do not look at me in that way, dear one. I will shield you
from every threatening storm. You will not be disappointed, Theresa,
but we cannot leave London until to-morrow night. I have not completed
my business yet; I have arranged for one more interview with--with an
old friend.”
She noted his hesitation, and a pang shot through her heart.
“Is it imperative, Harold?” she asked. “I hate London so much--I hate
it for your sake, darling. The hum that ever sounds in my ears sings of
strife and woe, and every strange footstep fills me with undefinable
terrors.”
“Silly girl!” he said, pettishly. “Ah, my brain is surely bursting!
Send that footman away!”
“Footman, Harold? There is no one in the room except ourselves!” she
cried, clinging to him tightly.
He laughed a hollow laugh, and reeled toward his bedroom, uttering wild
words.
“Who is this,” he said, “that dares stand between me and freedom? Who
has robbed me of my love of my life? Oh, cursed is my fate!”
A doctor was sent for, and Sir Harold was pronounced to be in a high
state of fever. A sedative was administered, and the medical man
would give no decided opinion as to the malignancy of the attack.
For two days he raved of many things, appealing by turns to Lady
Elaine and his young wife for protection against some mysterious and
dreaded phantom, and Theresa drank in every word--drank them in one by
one--poison drops that crowded her soul with a hopeless misery more
bitter than death.
On the sixth day he was pronounced out of danger. The fever had in
reality only been a passing attack, and his first rational words were a
demand for his wife.
“Theresa,” he said, softly, “is it not annoying that I should become
ill so soon after our wedding? But I shall soon be all right again,
dear one, and we will leave England, perhaps forever. I hate it now!”
“And why do you hate England?” his wife asked, with a look in her eyes
that made him feel uneasy. “Would you have hated your country if we had
never met, Harold?”
“Have I been talking some nonsense in my delirium?” was his quick
demand. “Oh, Theresa, you must forget every word of it! Kiss me, little
wife! and let me see the happy smile of old upon your sweet face! Do
you remember how happy we were in the little garden at Tenterden, with
its wonderland of flowers and nooks, its singing birds and humming
bees?”
“Don’t, don’t, my husband!” she sobbed. “Those blessed days are passed.
They were but an illusive dream. If we were back again in the cottage,
and things were just the same as then, without knowledge of the cruel
world beyond, how sweet to die, with my head on your breast!”
He could not understand these strange words or the hopeless look in her
eyes, and he watched for Stimson with an anxiety that was painful.
At last the valet was alone with him, and Sir Harold spoke quickly:
“You have attended me during my fever, have you not, Stimson?”
“Yes, master.”
“Have I talked much? Out with it, man! Why was my wife permitted to
remain at my bedside?”
“She insisted, Sir Harold, upon watching over you. You have talked
rather wildly about Lady Elaine Seabright, the shadow of a knife, and
other equally foolish things.”
For a minute Annesley was silent. His thoughts were perplexed.
“Stimson,” he said at last, “my mind is now as clear as possible. I am
not quite sure, though, whether or not I met Lady Elaine in Hyde Park
the same day that I was taken ill. It may have been a dream, and I want
you to find out the truth.”
“You did meet Lady Elaine, Sir Harold. Her maid has called twice to
inquire about you. Lady Annesley is not aware of it, though.”
Sir Harold groaned.
“Stimson, there has been some horrible mistake. I must see Lady Elaine
for a few minutes, and then leave England forever. My duty is toward my
loving, trusting wife.”
“Yes, Sir Harold, I have Lady Elaine’s address. I send her news of your
condition daily. I may have done wrong, but----”
“Hush, Stimson! Not another word! I rely upon you completely.”
The valet understood, and three days later he bore a message to Lady
Elaine Seabright, which read in this way:
MY LOST LOVE--To-morrow night I shall leave England forever. Before
doing so, I must see you once more, if only to vindicate myself
in your eyes. I have a wife who is devoted to me heart and soul,
and, God helping me, I will do my duty toward her. At three o’clock
to-morrow afternoon I shall arrive at your address. Do not deny me
this last farewell.
HAROLD.
Lady Elaine shed tears over this missive, and replied simply:
It is wrong, but I cannot deny you. Heaven forgive me!
The very knowledge of his disloyalty to his wife increased his
tenderness toward her. He called her by many pet names, and spoke in
glowing terms of the brightness of their future, but she only smiled in
a sad, sweet way, and sometimes shook her head.
“You will forget me some day, my husband,” she said. “You will forget
me, and it may be soon. Already have your thoughts gone back to the
woman you first loved.”
“My silly ravings again,” he replied. “Theresa, it pains me to hear you
talk in this way. I shall never fail in my duty to you.”
“I know it, Harold; you are too good, too noble, too unselfish. I could
never blame you; I love you too well, and my love is all-sacrificing.”
She pressed hot kisses on his brow, mingled with tears.
“Dear little Theresa,” he said, dreamily, “how you love me! Ah!
sweetheart, a life’s devotion cannot repay such wonderful love as
yours! To-morrow we enter upon a new life--new scenes, new aspirations,
and leave the past behind.”
He sighed, and for a few minutes Theresa’s face looked almost happy.
“If I could only believe it,” she thought. “If I could only believe
it! No, no! It is not possible; I am the bar to his happiness! I am
the dread phantom that kills his peace! But to-morrow--to-morrow shall
decide!”