CHAPTER XIX.
A FUNERAL AND A WEDDING.
In every bush, and tree, and lurking shadow the young baronet probed, but without avail. The evil messenger was gone, and he now had to break the awful news to poor Theresa.
He stood for a few minutes with his hands clasped to his throbbing temples. Then he hurried back to the cottage, and after taking one hasty glance about him, his first care was to destroy the fatal scrawl.
This much accomplished, he crept softly to Stimson’s room, hastily roused the man, and sent him for the nearest doctor.
“Mr. Hamilton is dead,” he whispered to the horrified valet; “has died of heart failure! To me it was not unexpected, as he predicted it only a few days since; but we must have the independent opinion of a doctor to save trouble.”
“Yes, Sir Harold. I know Tenterden very well. The parish doctor lives next door to the rectory,” Stimson said.
In a few minutes he was gone, and Sir Harold was confronted by the awkwardness of his position. There was only one thing for him to do now, and that was to marry Theresa at once. He would be then her natural and lawful protector.
“Stimson shall call upon the rector of Tenterden,” he decided, “and I will interview him here. I see no reason why I should hide my identity. Let people think and say what they will. No, I will be married as Sir Harold Annesley immediately after the funeral, and we will goabroad at once! As for this accursed vendetta, I will leave no stone unturned to bring the fiends to justice!”
The doctor came and viewed the body. He was satisfied that death was the result of heart disease. He listened to the relation of Mr. Hamilton’s unusual exertions during the day, and was satisfied. An ordinary certificate would be promptly granted.
When he was gone, Sir Harold and Stimson carried the body upstairs, and laid it on the bed wherein Mr. Hamilton had slept for many years.
Then the house became silent again, and Theresa was sleeping, a happy smile upon her face and Sir Harold’s name upon her lips.
The morning broke dull and gray. There was a wet mist everywhere, and the birds that loved to carol in the sunshine were voiceless.
The deaf servant came downstairs at an early hour, and was surprised to find Sir Harold already about and talking earnestly to his man.
When Theresa appeared, she noticed the worn look upon her lover’s face, and he took her gently aside.
“You are not well, Harold!” she said in sudden alarm. “You have heard bad news!”
“Theresa, my poor Theresa, I have heard bad news, and I know not how best to tell it to you.”
He felt that he was blundering, and his heart smote him when her face blanched deathly white.
“My dear little girl,” he said, “come to my arms and let me hold you tight.”
“Oh, Harold, what is this that is coming upon us? Tell me that I am not to lose you!”
“Never, darling, never! You are the sweetest charge that man ever had. You shall never leave me, Theresa!”
“But this trouble—this bad news. Oh, Harold, do not torture me!” she sobbed.
“Theresa, cannot you guess? Your father is an old man and——”
“Ah! my father is ill! My poor, dear father. Let me go to him, Harold. Take me to him now.”
He led her to the chamber of the dead man, but paused at the door, saying:
“Theresa, he will never speak again. He died last night, and the doctor has already been here.”
He never forgot the faint moan that left her anguished heart. For an instant she reeled, then glided into the death chamber, and kissed the cold face, her eyes tearless, her breath hot almost as a furnace.
After this she did not speak for a long time, but was never far from her lover.
Stimson was very busy all day, and several strange men moved about the house. The funeral was to be hurried. Sir Harold had strong reasons for this. He wanted it over and done with, and both the rector and the doctor were of the same opinion when he had explained his somewhat anomalous position.
The clergyman was deeply interested in his story. He had heard of Sir Harold Annesley, and while he believed that it was wise to go abroad immediately after the marriage, he did not quite approve of so much secrecy.
“It is an extraordinary experience,” he said, “and the reawakening will be a mental shock, Sir Harold. I once read of an accident to a bricklayer—some heavy substance was dropped down and struck his head, utterly destroying his memory. He fancied he was a child again. Twenty years elapsed before he recovered one month of what he had forgotten. His case was similar to yours in many respects, only that he remained in the care of his friends. Have you no one—no lady friend—-who you could send for? Miss Hamilton needs some one, Sir Harold. Evena fond lover cannot supply all wants. A little womanly sympathy from one who is related to you would be a real blessing to the lonely child in this trying hour.”
“I can think of no one, except my cousin, Margaret Nugent. I do not remember much of her, but my valet says that we were good friends until the last—that Miss Nugent was with me within an hour of my leaving Annesley Park.”
“Excellent!” the rector said, rubbing his hands briskly together. “Now, with your permission, Sir Harold, I will run down to Ashbourne and see Miss Nugent. It is a duty you owe to her to let her know something of your true position, and if you have confidence in my tact, I will undertake to prepare her carefully, and see that no one else hears one word of the story.”
Sir Harold hesitated a moment, then he said: “I am very grateful to you, Mr. Pembrose, and accept your kind offer. I clearly see that Theresa will be the better for it.”
So Mr. Pembrose went to Craythorne that very day, and in the afternoon Margaret Nugent arrived at the cottage.
Her first thought was that an objection to the marriage might be raised, but when she had seen Theresa and talked with Sir Harold, she knew that such a proceeding was quite beyond her control.
“You have become a very beautiful woman, Margaret,” he said, “and you and I were always good friends. I shall never forget this kindness. I suppose that the rector has told you all?”
“Yes, Harold.”
Her lips were hot and dry, and there was a look of unutterable longing in her eyes. It seemed that all her scheming and wrongdoing had been in vain. She was to lose him, after all.
“There is one other thing that you must know, so that you may guard my Theresa with greater care.”
He bent closer.
“Listen, Margaret, and you shall hear that which must be forever locked in your heart—the story of an infamous vendetta. I would not have Theresa know one word of it for all that life is worth.”
He then told her the story that he had heard from Mr. Hamilton, and the final cause of the old man’s sudden death.
“And these assassins may be near us now?” she whispered. “Oh, Harold, it is terrible!”
“As my wife, Theresa may lose her identity. I shall guard her with constant care, and if I can succeed in making an example of one of the fiends, I will show him no mercy!”
For hours after this recital Margaret Nugent was very thoughtful, and her face was not pleasant to look upon.
The funeral of John Hamilton took place the next day, and when the last sad rites had been administered to the dead, Sir Harold gently told Theresa of his wishes concerning an immediate marriage.
“As my wife, darling, I can care for you, and shield you from every storm. I have made all arrangements for the wedding to take place next Tuesday, and, in the meantime, my Cousin Margaret will advise you concerning the clothing you will require, and other matters of which a man knows nothing. We will leave the servant woman in charge of the cottage, and go to London. There a suitable maid can be engaged and our tour begun.”
“If it pleases you, Harold, I shall be content,” Theresa said, pitifully. “The pain is still big at my heart, and now you are my all in all.”
He kissed her tenderly, continuing:
“And after the wedding Miss Nugent is willing to remain with us until we are ready to go abroad. I am sure you must find her assistance and sympathy of great value.”
“I had rather she left us after the wedding day, Harold,” Theresa said. “I do not think she really likes me.”
“Nonsense! Why should you think so?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Harold. Still, I cannot get rid of the feeling.”
There was a quiet little wedding a few days later at Tenterden Church, and in the afternoon the bride and bridegroom left for London, accompanied by Miss Nugent and Stimson, the valet.
A splendid suite of apartments was engaged at the Victoria Hotel, and Margaret was of great help to Theresa.
“You must try to like me a little, Theresa,” she said, when they were alone for a few minutes. “I felt disappointed at first, because I did not believe that Harold could really know his own mind. And then, you know, Lady Elaine Seabright is a very dear friend of mine.”
“But she was unworthy of my darling!” Theresa replied, quickly. “I do not wish to hear her name again!”
“No! no! my dear! It was all a misunderstanding, though, of course, it would never do to tell Sir Harold now! Lady Elaine loves him still; indeed, she is somewhere in London, and I dread a meeting between her and my cousin.”
There was a wicked light in Margaret’s downcast eyes when she noted the deadly pallor of Theresa’s lovely face.
“Why should you tell me these things?” she said, piteously. “Ah, Lady Elaine never loved Sir Harold as Ilove him! He has told me many times that I am all the world to him!”
“But when his memory returns, Theresa,” Margaret said, “you must be prepared.”
And every word she uttered was as painful as a knife-thrust in poor Theresa’s heart.