CHAPTER VII.
SIR HAROLD’S DEPARTURE.
“Here is a letter for you to post, Stimson,” Sir Harold said, two hours later. “Put it into the box with your own hands. To-night I am going to London, and you must join me at the Southwestern Hotel to-morrow afternoon. I have placed my affairs in the hands of my men of business, and I want you to feel perfectly satisfied that you will never regret leaving home, perhaps forever.”
“My home is with you, Sir Harold,” was the fervent response.
“Tell no one whither I am gone, and when you rejoin me, be careful that your movements are not watched by well-meaning friends.”
Stimson gathered a few points of necessary information regarding the luggage required, and one hour later Sir Harold left the park, simply attired in ordinary walking costume and carrying a light cane. To an ordinary observer he appeared to be going for a stroll. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that he was a broken and hopeless man.
Until he reached the end of the avenue, he looked neither to the right nor to the left. Then he paused and gazed over the smiling gardens, now aflame with flowers. The park stood darkly beyond, clothed in its summer dress, and in the shadow of a thousand murmurous trees nestled his beautiful home.
“Oh, Heaven!” he gasped. “What might have been! What might have been!”
He believed that he was alone, but his gesture of despairhad been seen by other eyes—his words of agony had reached other ears.
There was the sound of a soft footfall, and he turned to behold the Italian singer.
“Pardon, kind sir,” she said. “I feared that you were in trouble.”
“Trouble!”
He laughed a low, mirthless laugh.
“Trouble, child! Ah, such trouble that never entered another heart! You wonder in your innocence that I—the owner of all these broad lands, of yonder noble home—you wonder what I can know of trouble! For your simple life, even though you know not from one day to another how you are to live, God knows how gladly I would exchange, if the past could be forever blotted out!”
He turned to continue his way, but spoke again.
“You have not told me your name.”
“Theresa Hamilton,” she said, simply.
“Hamilton!” he replied. “That is not an Italian name.”
“No, sir. My father is an Englishman. My dear dead mother was an Italian. My father and I live together at Tenterden, a village twenty miles away. I only sing for money when it is hard to obtain the rent for our pretty cottage. Ah, here comes father! One of the wheels of his harmonium carriage came off, and he has been to the village to have it repaired. We are going home now.” She paused and added in a whisper: “Ah, kind signor, I hope that you will not be long unhappy!”
The musician came toward them, and seemed a little surprised that his daughter should be talking to the lord of this great domain.
He frowned slightly, saying:
“Come, Theresa, we must hurry if we are to catch the train.”
He bowed distantly to Sir Harold, and, having placed the harmonium in the carriage, he started away, dragging the instrument after him.
Theresa looked back once, and the baronet found himself gazing at her, he knew not why.
“Let me do what little good I can with my useless life,” he thought. “Even such a chance as this may never occur again.”
He followed the musicians, and drew from his pocket a handful of coins, but the sharp eyes of John Hamilton had observed the movement.
“You will excuse me, Sir Harold Annesley,” he said with dignity. “My child sings for money, and I employ my poor powers to assist her, when we are driven to do so by dire necessity, but we do not beg. Pray keep your money.”
The girl blushed painfully, and the young baronet continued on his way, a bitter laugh upon his lips. Even that small pleasure was denied him.
The nearest railway station was called Crayford, and when he asked for a ticket to London the booking clerk was startled by his hoarse tones and the strange, gray pallor of his face.
He had a quarter of an hour to wait, and paced the platform with quick, restless strides. He dreaded lest some friend should follow him. He felt that any interference now would madden him.
At last the bell rang, and he heard the distant scream of the coming train. There were few people on the platform, but at the last moment John Hamilton arrived with his harmonium and his beautiful daughter.
The instrument had to be lifted into the luggage van, a task that the railway porter did not relish, and he wasnot slow in showing the contempt he felt for traveling musicians and such like.
The same man subsequently attended upon Sir Harold, and was surprised to find himself gruffly ordered out of the way.
The train started, and until he heard a hoarse cry of “Tenterden, Tenterden!” he had lost count of time and space. Then he awakened to a momentary interest in life, for he remembered that the sweet singer told him that she and her father lived at Tenterden.
He looked from the window and saw that the station was a mere wooden shanty.
It appeared to be quite deserted now, and the old musician was struggling to lift his harmonium out of the luggage van, while the guard swore roundly at him for wasting the company’s time.
All at once there was a crash, and a cry of anger and dismay from John Hamilton, mingled with the laughter of the guard, as the train steamed onward again.
In a moment Sir Harold had grasped the situation. The harmonium had been precipitated to the platform, and lay a wreck, while the old musician was alternately bewailing his misfortune and threatening the railway company.
Burning with pity and indignation, the young baronet resolved to help the old man in his distress, and, opening the door of the carriage, sprang lightly to the ground.
No one appeared to have seen his action, and the train steamed slowly from view round a curve in the line, and in this simple manner commenced one of the most extraordinary mysteries of modern times.
When Sir Harold’s feet struck the earth he had not correctly estimated the speed at which the train was traveling, and was thrown violently down.
His head struck a large stone, and he lay, dazed and unconscious.