CHAPTER XXIX.
PEACE AT LAST.
At the urgent request of Annesley the doctor consented to accompany them back to the villa in Hyde Park and remain in the house all night. He feared that Lady Elaine might be severely shocked when the events of the past hour recurred vividly to her, and wished to feel sure that she would have proper attention at hand. She was tenderly lifted into a carriage by Annesley, and the doctor sat opposite them.
“I will see you at an early hour to-morrow morning, Sir Harold,” Paul said at parting. “You may expect news at any time.”
Elaine slept through the journey, and hardly a word passed between Annesley and the doctor, the young man’s heart was so full of his cruel grief.
When the villa was reached her ladyship was led indoors in a half-dreamful state, and Sir Harold hastened to reassure the terrified Nina.
“You are not dying, sir!” the girl cried. “Oh, what a wicked hoax!”
Annesley said nothing. This was no time for explanations and investigations. He introduced the old doctor, promising to call early in the morning, and was driven back to his hotel.
He looked into his wife’s empty room, and wept such tears that men only can weep. He did not undress or attempt to rest. Where was the use of it? The remainder of the night was spent in pacing the floor and thinking of the absent Theresa.
With the advent of daylight a little hope came to him,and he indulged himself to the extent of a bath. This refreshed him a little, and the sounds of life in the house and the streets told him that there was something to be done. Only in activity could he find relief.
He waited feverishly for the post, but there was only a letter from Colonel Greyson in answer to a telegram. The colonel was coming home at once.
Then Paul Asbury came in. He had no news yet. It was a little too early.
Even while he was speaking a telegram was handed to Sir Harold, and he opened it with trembling fingers. It was from Margaret Nugent, and ran:
“I have found Theresa. Come to the little cottage at Tenterden.”
He passed it to Asbury, and the detective read it thoughtfully.
“I have sent a man down there this morning,” he said. “We are forestalled. The next train does not leave until eleven o’clock—the one by which your wife went there yesterday. It is now barely half-past eight.”
“I will go to Hyde Park first,” Annesley replied. “I will see if my wife really called upon Lady Elaine. Asbury, what do you think of this telegram? It has filled me with dread. I am afraid that something has happened.”
“It is like a woman to be vague,” the detective said, evasively. “I do not think that I can be of any further use to you now,” he went on, “but do not forget I am ever at your service.”
They shook hands, and Paul Asbury went away, while Annesley gave his valet some hurried orders.
“My wife has gone back to Tenterden,” he said; “I am going to her at once, Stimson, and, if all is well, shall take her to the Park. You will hear from me during the day.”
“Yes, Sir Harold.”
Stimson was very pale. He had just been reading of the suicide of Viscount Rivington, and many strange details in connection with it.
It was barely half-past nine when Annesley’s cab pulled up before the villa in Hyde Park.
He was admitted by Nina, and, in answer to his eager inquiries, heard that her mistress was completely recovered.
“The doctor thought it useless to remain,” she concluded, “and has been gone an hour. Oh, Sir Harold,” with quivering lips, “I have read it all in the papers!”
“The papers! Ah!” he exclaimed, “I had forgotten!”
He followed Nina into the morning-room, where Lady Elaine was seated, and a faint flush mounted to her cheeks when he entered.
“You are well, almost?” he said, taking one of her thin hands between his own.
“As well as I can ever be, Harold.”
Some way she could not help addressing him in the old, familiar manner. He was her lover still, though another had a stronger claim upon him.
“I have read all in the newspaper this morning,” she shuddered. “I did not realize the danger I had been in until then, and, but for you, Heaven alone knows what may have happened!”
“Now that Rivington is dead you are free,” Annesley observed, “and I should advise sending for Mr. Worboys at once.”
“I will do as you wish, Harold,” Elaine replied. “It is possible that we shall leave here to-day, but I will let you know soon.”
“Mr. Worboys had better write to my lawyer,” Annesley said, and she flushed redly, saying, “I had forgotten. You will forgive me, Sir Harold?”
He looked at her, pained and startled.
“I did not mean that, Elaine—not in that way; but of course you have not heard of my possible change of plans—how could you? You have not heard that my wife has left me, and been traced to her own home in the village of Tenterden? I am going to her now, and if all is as I wish it to be, we shall go home to the Park.”
Then Lady Elaine told him of Theresa’s visit to her, and much of what had passed between them.
He listened with tear-dimmed eyes, and only murmured, “Poor Theresa!” How many times had he said this of late!
He said good-by to Lady Elaine, and he believed that it was forever; then he went away, and was driven rapidly to Euston. From Euston he was whirled to Tenterden, and then walked through the old, familiar ways to the cottage embowered in trees and flowers.
“My little Theresa,” he thought, “I wonder if she is waiting for me? Oh, how kind I will be to the sensitive, loving child, and may Heaven punish me if I ever neglect my duty to my wife in thought, word or deed.”
He turned in at the gate, and in fancy saw Theresa’s face peeping at him round the porch. Then he shivered, for all was still, with a silence that spoke of death.
He placed his thumb on the latch of the cottage door, and when it opened he was met by Margaret Nugent. In loathing he turned away, saying: “Where is she—where is Theresa?”
She pointed solemnly upstairs, and he bounded up the steps two at a time, as though madness was in his veins.
“Theresa! Theresa!” he cried, “I am here!”
He stepped into the bedroom, and saw her before him in the sweet dream of death—her hands folded over herbreast, and beside her a huge bunch of the flowers that she had loved so well.
He kissed the dead face, that even now seemed to smile up at him; he shed bitter tears, for he knew that poor Theresa had died for love of him!
They had found her that morning in the old summer arbor—cold and still. Her heart was broken.
Immediately after his wife’s funeral Sir Harold went abroad. The sympathy of his friends was as distasteful to him as the slanderous gossip of the careless and vicious. Never before within the memory of mortal man had the county been in such a turmoil! Following the viscount’s suicide, Lady Gaynor had vanished like a shadow, leaving her servants and debts behind her.
The parting between Lady Elaine and Sir Harold was one that was never forgotten by either. With the concurrence of Mr. Worboys, she had made her home with a widowed sister of Colonel Greyson in a lovely little place among the hills and vales of lovely Kent.
“I will never lose sight of him, Elaine,” the colonel said, “and the future may yet be filled with golden promise!”
A year passed and the wanderer returned, and soon after there was a quiet wedding from the house of Colonel Greyson’s sister. The guests did not number more than a dozen. There was no ostentation—no display—but their way from the church was strewn with flowers, and the bells throbbed with melody.
They went direct to Annesley Park—Sir Harold and Elaine—to the quiet enjoyment of their own home. Their parting had been so long and so bitter that every hour now was too precious to be lost.
Sometimes they walk hand in hand to the graveyard where poor Theresa lies, and her last resting place is kept fresh and fragrant with flowers, not by their hands alone, but by those of a repentant woman who passes by on the other side—Margaret Nugent! And when Sir Harold and his wife think of all these things, and bless Heaven for bringing them together at last, the sorrows of the past grow less and less, merged into the fullness and beauty of the present.
THE END.
In “A Wife’s Peril,” which will be No. 51 of theNew Bertha Clay Library, Miss Clay has written an attention-gripping story of a wife’s struggle and faithfulness.