POOR THERESA.
When Sir Harold reached his hotel he found a note awaiting him from the
detective, which threatened to alter his plans very materially. It ran:
DEAR SIR--You spoke of going to Paris to-night. It is important that
you see me before leaving London, even if your journey is postponed
for twenty-four hours. If you value your peace of mind, you will not
disregard this suggestion, and I will call upon you at the earliest
possible moment with news. I have every belief that I can lay my hand
upon one, at least, of the despicable wretches who are bent upon the
misery of yourself and Lady Annesley.
Obediently yours,
PAUL ASBURY.
Theresa herself had handed the note to Sir Harold, and, while his face
flushed and paled by turns as he read it, she watched him with painful
eagerness.
“It is from the detective,” he said. “A somewhat ambiguous message--but
must I obey it? Theresa, you shall be judge. It seems that everything
is conspiring to keep us in London.”
He gave the letter to her, and she perused it with mixed feelings.
“I think we ought to stay,” she said. “Oh, Harold, what misery, what
danger I have surrounded you with! I am terrified for your sake. If one
of the men is caught a score may be ready to spring up and avenge him.”
“My dear, the English law will not tolerate anything of this kind. I
will root out the fiends at any cost. It is a duty I owe to ourselves
and society in general. Remember that they have not a poor man to deal
with in me. These secret assassins are always cowards, and they shall
be taught a severe lesson.”
Though he spoke thus hopefully, poor Theresa shivered with a nervous
dread.
Dinner was served in private under the direction of Stimson, who was
not ill-pleased at the prospect of remaining in London a few more
hours, at least. In his secret soul he desired his master to return to
Annesley Park, and live as a rich country gentleman should live.
The meal was hardly finished when Stimson announced that a gentleman
wished to see Sir Harold upon urgent business.
“His name?” demanded Sir Harold, a little surprised.
“He has not sent it up, Sir Harold. The servant says that he is waiting
in the smoking-room downstairs.”
“My detective, I expect,” Annesley whispered to Theresa; then aloud to
Stimson, “Send him up here. I will see the gentleman in the anteroom.
Now, my little girl,” he went on, cheerfully, to his trembling wife,
“there shall soon be an end to these cowardly threats. The rascals
shall feel the weight of British law!”
“But you do not know who this man is!” she said, shivering with a
deadly chill.
“I do not anticipate that he is an enemy,” he smiled. “Besides,
Theresa, I am armed, and shall be merciless enough to shoot the foe
like a mad dog!”
He pressed a kiss upon her brow, and noticed that it was moist and cold.
“The gentleman is here, Sir Harold,” Stimson announced, adding, in an
undertone: “It is Viscount Rivington, sir.”
Annesley’s face flushed with fierce resentment. What business had the
viscount with him? He paused, irresolute, then said, suddenly, “I will
see him.”
With a fond glance of assurance toward Theresa, he stepped into the
anteroom beyond, softly closing the door of the dining-room behind him.
“I have no doubt that you are somewhat surprised to see me here, Sir
Harold Annesley,” Rivington said, in his smooth, bland tones, rising
quickly from a seat in the corner next to the door. “You will not take
my hand? Well, I cannot help it if you are determined to be unfriendly.
I came to congratulate you upon your recent marriage, and the recovery
of your memory, though I cannot say that either event has made you
particularly robust or joyful in appearance!”
“What is your business with me?” Annesley demanded, steadily.
“I came as a friend--an old acquaintance,” Rivington said.
“I never recognized you as a friend, and I have no desire for your
acquaintance, viscount,” was the cold reply. “Your impertinence would
be amusing if it were not irritating.”
Rivington laughed sneeringly.
“Well, if you will not accept my friendship, I cannot help it,” he
said. “I hate to be bad friends with any one.”
“Your friendship and enmity are equally indifferent to me,” retorted
Annesley, raising his voice; “and I should advise you to retire, or my
servant must show you the door. I have nothing in common with gamblers
and blacklegs.”
He spoke so loudly that every word reached the ears of the trembling
Theresa, and she crept near to the door, ready to push between her
husband and the foe. It was not the detective; the man’s tones were
strange to her. Who else was he but one of the fiends who was pursuing
her with the relentless certainty of fate?
“A gambler and a blackleg, am I?” cried Rivington, his voice full of
concentrated rage. “Well, granted that I am, I think that you are the
last man on earth to preach morality, Sir Harold Annesley! To be plain
with you, I am here to warn you against intriguing with women to whom
you have no right! Pray remember, also, that you are a married man!”
“Scoundrel!”
“Scoundrel to your teeth!” was the bitter retort. “The kisses of
another woman are still fresh upon your lips! I heard your words of
endearment, and as that woman belongs to me, I have a right to protest
against your secret visits to my house----”
“Your house!” cried Sir Harold, in a white heat of passion, his
features working with a fury that he could hardly control. “Your house!”
“Yes, my dear Annesley. There are the papers--agreements and receipts
to prove it. Lady Elaine Seabright is under my protection, and I
was not well pleased to discover that you had been poaching upon my
preserves. I hate scandal, but I shall undeceive this trusting wife of
yours unless----”
“You craven, lying cur!” thundered Annesley. “Lady Elaine under
your protection--the sweetest, truest woman that ever lived! You
slander her, and I will choke the words in your lying throat! I
have just parted from Lady Elaine--I admit it. I also admit that I
love her still, and shall ever love her. We drifted apart through
misunderstandings created by serpents of your stamp, and though there
is a legal bar between us, I shall watch over the woman I love with a
never-relaxing vigilance, and an arm ever ready to avenge!”
He opened the door, adding, “Stimson, see this creature to the street.”
The viscount tried to smile bravely, but it was only a ghastly grin.
He never knew how he descended the broad stairs, but he found himself
being advised to “Move on!” by a burly policeman, who had no sympathy
with his savage gesticulations.
“I have a double reason now for remaining in London,” Annesley
reflected, as he paced the floor in fierce agitation. “I must see Mr.
Worboys to-morrow, and Lady Elaine must be placed under his protection.
Oh, the coward!--the mean, pitiful coward! What a pleasure it would
have been to lash him until he screamed for mercy!”
He returned to the room wherein he had left Lady Annesley, but he was
too agitated to notice her ashen face, or the fire that shone in her
dusky eyes.
“It was not the detective,” he said, “but a man whom I detest. He will
not visit me again. Excuse me for a short time, Theresa; I have letters
to write--important letters.”
He went away, and she murmured:
“Who am I that I should stand between my husband and all that he loves
best? Who am I that I should place him under the evil ban of the
vendetta? If I did not love him beyond all other things I should not
care so much, but my love is so great that it is all-sacrificing.”
She stared into the fire, the words she had overheard booming in her
ears like the knell of fast-advancing doom:
“I have just parted from Lady Elaine. * * * I love her still, and shall
ever love her * * * though there is a legal bar between us, I shall
ever watch over the woman I love!”
“What is my duty?” thought poor Theresa, a resolute light in her
mournful eyes. “My duty is to make my darling happy. Oh, the burden of
my misery is greater than I can bear!”
For the first time in many days she thought of the Romaic love song
that had once haunted her so persistently, but, oh! how significant it
seemed now!
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 poisoned, 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 hopes 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 the heart, without partaking
One pang, exults, while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison; fear not, thou!
Thou can’st not murder more than now;
I’ve lived to curse my natal day
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
She retired at an early hour to her bedroom, to weep quietly and to
think. No sleep came to her weary, aching brain. The clocks tolled
the hour of midnight before Sir Harold came. He stepped about softly,
believing that his wife was asleep. Then he pressed a silent kiss upon
her lips, and murmured:
“Poor Theresa!”
The words and the tone rang in her ears to the hour of her death--“Poor
Theresa!”
It seemed that Sir Harold could find little rest. He was up again at
six o’clock, and, after glancing at his wife, was leaving the room,
when she held out her arms to him in a childish, loving way.
“Kiss me, Harold,” she said.
He obeyed, and she whispered:
“You will always love poor Theresa a little?”
“Can I help doing so, dear one?” he asked. “I should be a brute,
unworthy of the name of man, if I did not care for you and protect you
forever.”
She sighed, and he thought he had never seen her look so lovely before.
“At a late hour last night the detective made an appointment to see
me at seven o’clock this morning,” he went on. “I cannot rest in
consequence, and shall not see you again until breakfast time.”
“One more kiss, Harold,” she sighed.
“Only one? A hundred, darling, if you want them!”
He looked back as he was leaving the room--the last time his eyes
rested upon her in life!
Poor Theresa!