CHAPTER VIII.
“THE PAST IS ALL A BLANK.”
It was four weeks before Sir Harold opened his eyes to the beauty of the summer world.
There was not much wrong with him bodily, but mentally he was a wreck. His memory had been completely destroyed.
He gazed wonderingly at his surroundings, and inhaled the odor of a hundred flowers that ornamented the table in the humble little room he occupied.
Near to a latticed window sat an old man reading, and Sir Harold watched him curiously. He never remembered to have seen him before.
John Hamilton glanced anxiously at his guest.
“Do you recognize me yet, Sir Harold?”
“Recognize you? No, sir. Who are you?”
“My name is Hamilton. I am the musician whose daughter sang to you at Annesley Park. Do you not remember falling from the train?”
“No, sir,” replied the baronet. “I think that you must be mistaken.”
John Hamilton sighed.
“You fell, and hurt your head terribly,” he went on, “and I have nursed you through a long mental illness. I did not call in a doctor for several reasons, one of which is that I once practiced the healing art myself.”
“I remember none of these things,” Sir Harold said; “I would not even know that my name were Sir Harold if you did not tell me so. The past is all a blank.”
“This is terrible—terrible!” John Hamilton groaned.
“I do not experience any of your terrors,” laughed theyoung man. “What a lovely day! If you will permit it, doctor, I would like to go out into the sunshine.”
“Certainly, sir! It may do you much good.”
He gazed anxiously at his guest for a few moments; then he assisted him to dress, and the light, boyish laughter of Sir Harold shocked him.
“He is happy now,” he thought, “and perhaps it will be a blessing to him if he never again awakens to his misery—the misery that I have heard was driving him from his home. It was my duty to warn his friends of his whereabouts, but I dared not do it. I should have brought ruin upon myself and child.”
Sir Harold nodded brightly to him as he left the room and strolled into the garden. And such a garden it was—of blossom and perfume! It seemed to be scented by many millions of flowers.
As he wandered about he whistled merrily. He did not dream that he was being watched by loving, anxious eyes. He knew of nothing but the happy present.
Then John Hamilton called Theresa to him, and bade her sing the songs in which Sir Harold had been so interested on that fatal day a month ago.
“Oh, father,” she whispered, “must I?” Her lips quivered.
“Yes,” he said, sternly. “His memory must be awakened. He cannot stay here forever.”
She seated herself at the window, while her father played an accompaniment, and sang in her matchless tones the scoffing words of Moore:
“Away, away! You’re all the same—A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!Oh, by my soul, I burn with shameTo think I’ve been your slave so long!“Slow to be warned, and quick to prove,From folly kind and cunning loth;Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,Yet feigning all that’s best in both.“Still panting o’er a crowd to reign,More joy it gives to woman’s breastTo make ten frigid coxcombs vainThan one true manly lover blest!“Away, away! Your smile’s a curse!Oh, blot me from the race of men,Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,Before I love such things again!”
“Away, away! You’re all the same—A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!Oh, by my soul, I burn with shameTo think I’ve been your slave so long!“Slow to be warned, and quick to prove,From folly kind and cunning loth;Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,Yet feigning all that’s best in both.“Still panting o’er a crowd to reign,More joy it gives to woman’s breastTo make ten frigid coxcombs vainThan one true manly lover blest!“Away, away! Your smile’s a curse!Oh, blot me from the race of men,Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,Before I love such things again!”
“Away, away! You’re all the same—A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!Oh, by my soul, I burn with shameTo think I’ve been your slave so long!
“Away, away! You’re all the same—
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!
Oh, by my soul, I burn with shame
To think I’ve been your slave so long!
“Slow to be warned, and quick to prove,From folly kind and cunning loth;Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,Yet feigning all that’s best in both.
“Slow to be warned, and quick to prove,
From folly kind and cunning loth;
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that’s best in both.
“Still panting o’er a crowd to reign,More joy it gives to woman’s breastTo make ten frigid coxcombs vainThan one true manly lover blest!
“Still panting o’er a crowd to reign,
More joy it gives to woman’s breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain
Than one true manly lover blest!
“Away, away! Your smile’s a curse!Oh, blot me from the race of men,Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,Before I love such things again!”
“Away, away! Your smile’s a curse!
Oh, blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,
Before I love such things again!”
Sir Harold listened with a smile on his face, and when the singer had finished he stepped toward the window, while Theresa watched like one who was fascinated.
“To whom am I indebted for such sweet music?” asked the young man. Then he paused and bowed gallantly upon observing the figure of Theresa Hamilton, who was half-crouching behind her father.
“This is my daughter, sir,” Mr. Hamilton said. “Do you mean to tell me that you do not remember her?”
Sir Harold smiled.
“If I have ever seen the lady before, the circumstance has quite escaped me,” he replied. “But I hardly think that I could forget any one so lovely.”
A low moan of surprise and fear left Theresa’s pale lips, and her father looked on displeased.
“Sir Harold Annesley,” he said, “I am placed in a desperate position, and I have none to advise me what is best to do. I hoped that you would be off my hands in a few days, and intended demanding that you keep my identity a secret. I think that you understand what I say, though your mind regarding all that is past has become a blank.”
“Yes, I understand,” replied the young man, his admiring gaze fixed upon Theresa’s sweet face.
“My child,” observed Hamilton, turning to her, “you had better leave us.” Then, as she began to move away, he added: “But, no. It is just as well that you hear. Sit beside me, Theresa.”
The girl obeyed him, and he went on addressing Sir Harold.
“I wish you to understand your position, sir. Are you not aware that you are a wealthy man, a famous man, whose unaccountable disappearance is the talk of all England?”
“I am not aware of this,” smiled Sir Harold. “It may appear to be a terrible thing to you, but I am like a man who has just dropped into a half-familiar world from some mystery that he cannot fathom. My faculties are clear and my health and strength unimpaired. I do not know why I am famous, and I have no use for wealth. But tell me all of myself that you know. At present I am more amused than alarmed by whatever misfortune may have befallen me.”
Theresa was watching him, pity and love smoldering in her soft, dark eyes.
“A few weeks since,” Hamilton went on, “I had never seen or even heard of you. For five years I have lived in this cottage, a recluse who hates and fears the world beyond. I see surprise in your face, and I will explain. By profession I am a doctor, but it is long since I practiced the healing art until you crossed my path, and Theresa and I have lived upon the scanty earnings of my pen. When this has failed me, and we have been pressed for money, it has been comparatively easy to make up our deficiencies by playing and singing before the houses of the wealthy. In this way we came to Annesley Park. Do you remember?”
“No, sir; I do not.”
There was not the faintest hesitation in Sir Harold’s tones.
“Well, my daughter’s singing attracted your attention,” went on John Hamilton, “and you were free with your money. You appeared to be in great trouble, and I pitied you from the bottom of my heart, though I resented your offer of further money a little later.”
“I am sorry,” faltered Sir Harold, and Hamilton smiled faintly.
“You entered the same train with us, and I did not think of you again until I saw you lying insensible some thirty yards beyond the platform of Tenterden railway station.”
“Extraordinary!” murmured Sir Harold, pressing his hands to his brow.
A sharp spasm of pain shot through his head, and he added:
“No, no! I will not try to remember. I feel dazed and bewildered. I do not wish to remember.”
“My duty was clear,” continued Hamilton. “I ought to have sent to Annesley Park at once, but I was afraid for myself—I was afraid for Theresa, because the story would have got into the papers. I thought that I would cure you, exact from you a promise of secrecy, and send you away; but now I know not what to do.”
“What is this fear that you have concerning yourself?” asked Sir Harold; but he did not press the question when he met the appealing glance of the old man.
“Some day,” Hamilton whispered in his ear, “I will tell you. It affects my darling child even more than myself. Her life, if not mine, is in danger.”
There was silence for a few minutes; then the old man went on:
“When you had been here a little while, Sir Harold,I read in the papers something of your trouble. I had not bought a newspaper for years, but I was anxious to see what they had to say about you—to learn if there was even a suspicion concerning your whereabouts.”
“Yes; go on with this extraordinary story, Mr. Hamilton. I am interested because it concerns myself, not that I have any knowledge of one hour of my past.”
“I will tell you everything, and then you shall decide upon your future course. You were engaged to be married, Sir Harold, to one of the highest ladies in the land—to Lady Elaine, the daughter of the Earl of Seabright.”
He looked keenly at the young baronet, and only saw a puzzled smile, that deepened into one of incredulity.
“I do not remember Lady Elaine,” he observed, “and to the best of my belief this is the first time that I have ever heard the lady’s name.”
“You were engaged to her, and the papers say that you loved her madly, but that you deserted her because you believed that she was not true to you.”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Sir Harold, “this is extraordinary! Are you quite sure that you are not mistaking me for some other man?”
He buried his face in his hands and tried to think, but again was afflicted by an agony that was excruciating.
“Mr. Hamilton,” he said, at last, “I cannot recall one incident—I cannot recall one hour of my past. The accident which has befallen me may be considered a terrible one, but at present I cannot be brought to regard it as such. It does not make me suffer in the least until I try to use my darkened brains. I cannot doubt one word of your story, but I have no wish to go back into a world that will have nothing but pity for me. Some time in the future I may recover what I have lost, but I have no desire to do so, for it seems that my life must in some way have been a failure.”
“Sir Harold,” cried John Hamilton, in dismay, “you must permit me to take you home! I do not like to hear you talk in this way. I will tell your story to your friends without revealing too much of myself, and you will be cured by some of the great doctors of the day.”
“No, no!” pleaded the young baronet. “I could not bear to be pitied! Time will heal all things. Do you not see that I should be held up to ridicule everywhere? A man who had been jilted—a man who was little better than an idiot! The idea that I might eventually be adjudged insane is terrifying! Do you not see the force of my reasoning? Suppose that I return to Annesley Park, and specialists are called in to diagnose my case—what will be the result? I shall be pitied and ridiculed. I cannot remain in blissful ignorance of this like the ordinary lunatic, even if the doctors were unsuccessful. My life would be to me a daily torture. I may even have a keeper constantly at my elbow, or be shut up altogether in an asylum for idiots. On the other hand, if I am cured, my mind will reawaken to much that will be unpleasant, and the ridicule will be the same. People will point at me, and say: ‘There goes a man who went mad because a woman jilted him!’ I could not bear it, and I am so happy here! No, sir! Let me stay where I am until the excitement has cooled down. Let me enjoy the perfect peace of this little paradise until I can face the world again as Sir Harold Annesley of old!”
Theresa had listened to him with shining eyes, and now she turned them anxiously, appealingly, toward her father.
“Shall I be doing right if I accede to this request?” the old man muttered.
“You have spoken of some reason for the recluse-like life you are leading,” added Sir Harold; “you have spoken of some danger that menaces your daughter ifyour identity be discovered. Why should you run the risk of this? If you object to my presence here, let me go quietly away elsewhere.”
At that moment he saw the light of adoration in Theresa’s humid eyes, and he never forgot it.
“Sir Harold,” Mr. Hamilton said, brokenly, “you shall please yourself. You shall do just as you wish—all but one thing. I cannot part with you; I dare not let you go away until God lifts the cloud that has blotted out your past. We are poor—miserably poor—but you will not miss the luxuries of life now, and it may be that soon, very soon, you will awaken to the full knowledge of all that you have lost. At least, we will hope for the best. We will wait for a while, and then——”
But Sir Harold interrupted him with words of thanks, saying:
“Enough, sir; I am quite satisfied. You have told me sufficient to convince me that my past, whatever it may be, is linked with the perfidy of some woman—that it is one of misery. The present is one of perfect joy! I shall not be a burden upon you. I have money in my pocketbook amounting to hundreds of pounds. I will stay until I can return to the world a rational being, and it will be amusing to read the papers about myself—to see how a man is valued after he is thought to be dead.”
He laughed a little, and while Mr. Hamilton grasped his hand in token of acquiescence, Theresa glided swiftly from the room to hide her joy.