CHAPTER XI.
MY PLACE IS HERE TO PROTECT THERESA.
John Hamilton’s cottage was one of the prettiest of its kind. It was built of brown stone, and seemed to be a combination of nooks and gables. To the doors, both at the back and the front, there was a trellised porch, wreathed with trailing vines, roses and sweet-smelling clematis. On every window-sill there was a box of bright-hued flowers and fragrant mignonette, while the garden that surrounded the house was a veritable maze of bewildering beauty.
At the farther end was a summer arbor, and there Sir Harold spent many happy hours, a cigar between his teeth and a book in his hands.
Sometimes he would dream lazily, and try to think of the mystery of his life, but always gave up these efforts with a sigh.
John Hamilton and his daughter attended to the household duties, and the labor was equally divided. No stranger ever crossed the threshold of the little cottage door.
Sir Harold would watch the girl in wonderment, and listen with rapture to her sweet singing as she worked about the house.
Oh, how happy she was, though at times a great black cloud would rise before her, and she would clutch at her heart to still its agony!
When her work was done, her sweetest delight was to sit near to Sir Harold, and drink in eagerly every word that he uttered.
John Hamilton saw all this, and frowned, but he felt that he was helpless at present.
One day he spoke harshly to his daughter, and she listened half-ashamed.
“Theresa,” he said, “you must not seek the society of our guest so much, or I shall send him away.”
The girl started, and a swift blush leaped into her cheeks.
“Father!”
“Do you not understand that your conduct is unbecoming a lady?” he continued.
“What have I done?” murmured Theresa.
“You are wasting your thoughts upon a stranger, my dear,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. You are not so much to blame for this, because you are purely a child of Nature, but it will be best if Sir Harold Annesley is left more to himself.”
“Oh, father, must this be?” cried Theresa. “Must I not speak to him again? Must I not listen to his reading while I work? It is like heaven to me! I never understood the meaning of life until he came here!”
She rocked herself to and fro bitterly.
“I wish that he had never crossed our path,” he returned, harshly. “You are in love with this man!”
He was very angry—as much with himself and Sir Harold as with his daughter—and left the room determined to speak to the baronet.
He found him in the summer arbor, reading and smoking as usual, the happy light of contentment in his blue eyes.
“Where is Theresa?” he asked. “I have been reading Tennyson’s ‘Maud,’ and I want Theresa to hear it. Much of the beautiful poem seems to be but an echo. I feel that I have known these lines before:
“Go not, happy day,From the shining fields;Go not, happy day,Till the maiden yields.Rosy is the west,Rosy is the south,Roses are her cheeks,And a rose her mouth.When the happy yesFalters from her lips,Pass and blush the news,Over glowing ships;Over blowing seas,Over seas at rest,Pass the happy news,Blush it through the west;Till the red man dance,By his cedar tree,And the red man’s babeLeap beyond the sea.Blush from west to east,Blush from east to west,Till the west is east;Blush it through the west.Rosy is the west,Rosy is the south,Roses are her cheeks,And a rose her mouth!”
“Go not, happy day,From the shining fields;Go not, happy day,Till the maiden yields.Rosy is the west,Rosy is the south,Roses are her cheeks,And a rose her mouth.When the happy yesFalters from her lips,Pass and blush the news,Over glowing ships;Over blowing seas,Over seas at rest,Pass the happy news,Blush it through the west;Till the red man dance,By his cedar tree,And the red man’s babeLeap beyond the sea.Blush from west to east,Blush from east to west,Till the west is east;Blush it through the west.Rosy is the west,Rosy is the south,Roses are her cheeks,And a rose her mouth!”
“Go not, happy day,From the shining fields;Go not, happy day,Till the maiden yields.Rosy is the west,Rosy is the south,Roses are her cheeks,And a rose her mouth.When the happy yesFalters from her lips,Pass and blush the news,Over glowing ships;Over blowing seas,Over seas at rest,Pass the happy news,Blush it through the west;Till the red man dance,By his cedar tree,And the red man’s babeLeap beyond the sea.Blush from west to east,Blush from east to west,Till the west is east;Blush it through the west.Rosy is the west,Rosy is the south,Roses are her cheeks,And a rose her mouth!”
“Go not, happy day,
From the shining fields;
Go not, happy day,
Till the maiden yields.
Rosy is the west,
Rosy is the south,
Roses are her cheeks,
And a rose her mouth.
When the happy yes
Falters from her lips,
Pass and blush the news,
Over glowing ships;
Over blowing seas,
Over seas at rest,
Pass the happy news,
Blush it through the west;
Till the red man dance,
By his cedar tree,
And the red man’s babe
Leap beyond the sea.
Blush from west to east,
Blush from east to west,
Till the west is east;
Blush it through the west.
Rosy is the west,
Rosy is the south,
Roses are her cheeks,
And a rose her mouth!”
He paused to turn over another page, and Mr. Hamilton spoke:
“Sir Harold, this is sufficient evidence to convince me that you cannot—must not remain here longer. Your place is in the great world beyond.”
“I am quite happy,” the young baronet replied. “You promised that I should suit my own inclinations.”
“Then I must withdraw that promise. Circumstances have arisen that render it imperative.”
Sir Harold dropped his cigar, and looked at Mr. Hamilton in surprise.
“What is wrong, my friend?” he demanded. “If there are pecuniary troubles, it will not be difficult to obtain money upon the valuables I have about me.”
John Hamilton made a deprecatory movement, and sat down opposite his guest.
“It is not that, Sir Harold,” he said. “I wish you to leave my humble home for the sake of my dear child. She is young, impressionable, imaginative. She has never been used to the society of young men. She knows nothing of the world. This poetry reading has influenced her young mind, and the most gallant of the old-world knights pale into insignificance when compared with you in her estimation. In short, Sir Harold, she is in love with you, as romantic girls will be with handsome young men.”
Sir Harold was surprised. “I had never dreamed of this,” he said. “Poor Theresa!”
“Do not pity her; I cannot bear it, but go—go!”
“Why should I leave her to unhappiness?” Sir Harold mused. “I love her as a very dear sister. I have never cared for woman in any other way, and Theresa has first claim upon me. Mr. Hamilton,” he added aloud, “why should I throw away the priceless gift of Theresa’s love?”
“You are mad!” was the rejoinder. “You know not what you say. This thing cannot be!”
“And why not?”
“Your memory will return, and your heart go back to its old love.”
“I do not think so. Whoever the woman may be, you say that she was false to me. That is quite sufficient to kill my love forever.”
John Hamilton pressed his hands to his head to still his reeling brain.
“I know not what to say,” he whispered, huskily. “Just Heaven, guide me aright! Let me not make shipwreckof my child’s life! You tempt me sorely, Sir Harold, for I know not what will become of her when I am dead, and I am far from being strong! At times my heart pains me so that the fear of sudden death fills me with terror for my dear child’s sake. I know the symptoms only too well. Some day, aye, at any hour—the knife of the assassin may be turned against her, and if I am gone, who is to protect her then?”
He was silent for a minute, then went on: “I owe you a story, Sir Harold. I promised weeks ago to tell you why I lived in this secluded place, and held no communication with the world beyond. I am old now, and poor, with no hope for rest this side the grave. At thirty I was a successful man, with a brilliant future before me. The whole world was my battlefield, and I gathered fresh laurels wherever I went. At last my surgical skill attracted the attention of a Russian prince, who had for years been suffering with a malformation which made of him an object of pity. He offered me an enormous fee to operate upon him; he cared not what pain he endured; he cared not whether he lived or died unless he could mingle with his fellows, and enjoy the sweets of life. I was warned by the cleverest physicians of the day that the task was hopeless; but, fired with the enthusiasm of youth, I shook off all restraint; I turned a deaf ear to all counsel, and went to St. Petersburg. I will not weary you with a description of my anxiety—of the weeks of patient waiting while my charge lingered between life and death after the operation. Let it suffice that I was successful; my name rang through Europe, and fame and fortune met me at every turn.”
His pale cheeks flushed, and his eyes brightened with the recollections of those bygone days.
“A few months afterward I was tempted to go to Italy by the promise of an unusually large fee if I could removea tumor from the cheek of a wealthy old count. As usual, I was careful to receive correct reports concerning the condition of my would-be patient, and I heard that no power on earth could save his life. Already had he been twice operated upon.
“This news fired me with determination, and I accepted the onerous task.
“It was a foolish decision on my part, for now I could not afford to make a mistake, or the fame that had so suddenly encircled me would fall in ruins at my feet.
“One glance at the sufferer convinced me that the days of Count Crispi were numbered—whether he was operated on or not. The taint of the tumor was in every artery of his shriveled frame.
“‘It is of no use adding fresh torture to the brief span of your life,’ I told him. ‘You have less than a month to live in any case.’
“‘You lie!’ he said, fiercely. ‘I will live—I must live! You think that I am old, and that the fire has forever left my veins! Ha! you cold Northerners know nothing of the passions of the children of the South! I tell you that I will live, for the sake of one whom I adore—one who is to be my wife. She is youthful—she is beautiful!Carissima mia!’
“I was startled into a feeling of pity and contempt. It seemed absurd for so old a man, on the verge of eternity, going into raptures of this kind.
“‘If you insist, Count Crispi, I suppose that, as I have accepted the commission and your fee, I must do my best, but I warn you that it will be needless infliction of pain and disappointment upon you.’
“But no words of mine could dissipate the strong belief that he cherished in the certainty of his speedy recovery, and I began to make arrangements for the operation, which I decided should be conducted in two days’ time.
“In the meanwhile, however, I was careful to inform all those friends who were immediately concerned in his welfare that his death, which was certainly near at hand, would possibly be accelerated by the needless butchery. Among these friends I made the acquaintance of the young girl whom he professed to love so violently, and I must confess that I was almost bewildered by her brilliant beauty.”
John Hamilton paused, and Sir Harold saw that he was momentarily overcome by the emotions which were raised by this recital of the story from the shadowy past.
“Let me continue,” Mr. Hamilton said, hastily brushing a tear from his cheek. “Sir Harold, I soon discovered that this beautiful, guileless creature was Count Crispi’s wealthy ward, and that, while she feared the man, she also loathed him. In my pity for Theresa Ludovci, I soon drifted into a passion that seemed to consume me. I loved her as strong men love but once in a lifetime, and she returned my adoration only as such burning natures can.
“At all risks, I determined that she should be my wife, and within two weeks of the count’s operation we fled, and a priest made us one.
“When the story reached the ears of Count Crispi, his rage was so great that he fell back with blood-flecked lips, and with his last breath denounced me as an assassin. I had deliberately planned his death, so that an obstacle might be removed which threatened the disruption of my connubial pleasures.
“His relatives, who had counted upon being the ultimate recipients of a goodly share of Theresa’s wealth, registered an oath of vengeance, and a vendetta began, under the awful ban of which my beloved wife died, two weeks after the birth of our daughter—Theresa.
“For a time I struggled against the terrible fear—fearonly for my little child—until some poor fellow who had the misfortune to resemble me was stabbed to death in the streets of London. My name and that of Count Crispi were attached to the handle of the murderer, and I knew its meaning! The newspapers made a great fuss of the mysterious tragedy, and I changed my name and sought retirement.”
“Then your name is not Hamilton?” asked the baronet, greatly interested.
“No; it is Egerton—Lambert Egerton. I even start when I utter it myself. Not one word of this story does my poor Theresa know—not even her real name; and thus have I lived for fifteen years, my waking and sleeping hours never free from the shadow of the knife! My own little fortune has long since gone, and my wife’s money I have not dared to claim.”
“It is infamous!” Sir Harold said, when Hamilton had concluded. “I utterly refuse to leave you now, sir; I should be an ungrateful coward if I did. My place is here to protect Theresa—to make the poor child happy if I can.”
“I will not give my consent yet,” Hamilton replied, distressfully, “and yet, why should I stand in the light of all that is near and dear to me? Not yet—not yet,” he added, “it would not be fair to you, Sir Harold. Your mind is not clear, and you do not rightly estimate the burden you would take upon yourself. Oh, my poor Theresa!”
He clutched at his side, his face becoming pale and clammy with the dews of excruciating pain.
“My old trouble,” he whispered to Sir Harold, who was anxiously bending over him. “There, it is gone. I am always bothered in this way if I become agitated. One word more; try and avoid my daughter for a little while, until both have had time for calm reflection. If Ihave rightly diagnosed your case, your memory will return by easy stages. Some of the brain cells are merely paralyzed, and in time will recover their action. You may then turn with disgust from your present surroundings and the thoughts that now——”
“My friend—my good friend,” Sir Harold interrupted, “what you say is impossible. I accept from you the sacred trust of devoting my life to Theresa. I care for her deeply, and will protect her with my life, if need be. As for my memory, let me confess to you that many years of my early life are now as clear as noonday; but at that point where I left Eton for Cambridge all becomes enshrouded in an impenetrable mist.”
“Ah! why did you not tell me this before?” Hamilton said, betraying much excitement.
“Cannot you guess? I did not tell you lest you should wish to send me away. I distinctly remember my boyhood’s friends—my cousin Margaret—my beautiful home at Crayford—and in spirit I am but seventeen years old. There is nothing peculiar about the sensation, but I have no wish to return home until the threads of the remaining years are gathered together, though I am naturally curious to know that my business affairs are being carefully attended to. I am even wishing to look upon the woman who wrought such havoc in my life, though I have nothing but contempt for her and for myself.”
He laughed lightly, and Hamilton said:
“This is just what I expected, Sir Harold. You spoke of a cousin Margaret a moment or two ago. Would you not like to send for her?”
“No,” was the energetic reply; “I only remember her as a child of twelve years old. She must be a woman now. No, I do not wish to see her or any one else until my mind has regained its normal state. I prefer thingsas they are. I am perfectly content, and while Theresa is near, this little home is paradise!”
“Wait, wait,” said Mr. Hamilton. “I will not give my consent yet.”
“Hark! Theresa is coming!” Sir Harold exclaimed. “I hear her voice in the garden.”
He turned and ran to meet her like a happy schoolboy.