CHAPTER 6 THE LETTERS TIED WITH BLUE RIBBON

Sir Harold Annesley had been in England so short a time that he had made few friends, and not even these had any particular claim upon him. He had no reason to consider them; he had no explanations to make. Was he of any importance, after all? There would be a ripple on society’s water when the story was given out that his engagement to Lady Elaine Seabright was broken; then all would become calm again. He might be condemned, but he did not care for that. He would be far away, where no blame could reach his ears.

When Colonel Greyson had gone he heaved a deep sigh of relief. The colonel was well-meaning, but he did not understand. It was impossible for him to understand.

“I have said good-by to my old friend,” thought Sir Harold, “and I am glad of it. One bitter parting at least is over, and, in dread of his interference, I will hasten my movements.”

There was determination in every line of his face, in every motion of his strong figure.

“No,” he repeated again and again, “the unhappy affair shall not be patched up by any one. I would rather die than marry a woman in whom I have not absolute faith and trust. It is perhaps hard upon Lady Elaine that she has been misunderstood by me. I have idealized a creature of clay, and because the veil is torn from my eyes she must suffer—if she has heart enough to understand!”

The bitter words escaped him in accents of scorn. Then he held his hands toward heaven and cried:

“Merciful God, forgive me, if I am wronging her! Oh, my darling! my darling!”

The strong man wept, and it seemed to him that his tears must be tears of blood!

For an hour he scarcely moved. Then he summoned his valet, who came to him with anxious eyes.

“Stimson,” Sir Harold said, “how long have you served me?”

The valet hardly understood the question, but he answered:

“Nine years, Sir Harold.”

“And you have always been faithful to me and satisfied with your position?”

“I have no wish to change it,” the valet said. “I would like to die in your service, Sir Harold.”

“I believe you, Stimson, I believe you.”

The young baronet paced the floor for a minute, then he went on:

“I am leaving Annesley Park, Stimson, at once. I do not know whither I am going. The prospect to any one but myself cannot be very encouraging, because I have no intention of ever coming back again.”

The valet was startled.

“Under the circumstances,” his master continued, “I cannot ask you to share my exile, Stimson—I can ask no one—and I think that I shall be best alone.”

“Let me go with you, Sir Harold,” the valet begged. “I have no friends, no relations, in England; I have no ties, and I care for nothing, so long as I am with you.”

The baronet was visibly affected.

“I want you to clearly understand,” he said, “that nothing can change my future plans.”

“I am content, Sir Harold, whatever they may be,” was the firm reply.

“Then let everything be ready for my departure to London to-night.”

“To-night!” echoed Stimson. “Very well, Sir Harold.”

“You must tell no living soul whither I have gone, and be prepared to join me to-morrow. I may even change my name, my very identity. I never wish to be known to the world as Sir Harold Annesley again. You will deny me to everybody, Stimson. I have said good-by to Colonel Greyson. Yes, deny me to everybody except my cousin, Miss Nugent, if she should wish to see me. There, Stimson, I have nothing more to say. For an hour or two I shall be busy with my letters. In the meanwhile be ready to see me off by the six o’clock train to London.”

His manner was now calm, almost perfunctory, and Stimson went about his duties, his mind in a chaos of bewilderment.

“Of course,” thought the valet, regretfully, “a woman is at the bottom of the trouble. Women always are. But who would have thought that Lady Elaine could not agree with Sir Harold?”

Meanwhile the baronet indited half-a-dozen business letters. They were concise and to the point, as such letters always were with him. Not one betrayed a single emotion beyond the cold facts they stated.

Then he turned to his desk and opened it, a groan bursting from his lips.

Among other treasures was a tiny bundle of letters, held together with a piece of blue ribbon, and in a secret recess the portrait of a lovely girl.

In the haughty eyes there was the soft light of love; the firm mouth was curved with love’s tender lines. The whole face was as beautiful as that of the most idealized angel. This was Lady Elaine Seabright.

“Dear God,” Sir Harold groaned, “why should woman be so fair to lure man’s soul to perdition? Who could doubt the goodness and purity of the woman who has made of my life a desolate waste by merely gazing upon this delusive picture!”

A cry of rage escaped him, and he nearly tore the photograph in half. Then he bent his face to the table, and his form shook with convulsive sobs.

“I am only suffering as thousands have suffered—as thousands of men are suffering now,” he thought. “Can it be that I am the most despicable coward of them all? Let me put it from me! Let me be a man, not a pitiful cur! My heart cries aloud for love and gets a sword-thrust! What is my duty now? A renunciation of every happy dream. My life begins anew from this very day. I have been a lotus-eater; my brain has been steeped in the opium of self-delusion. I will write an answer to Lady Elaine. I did not think that my nerves would permit me to attempt such a thing, but now I feel that this is one of my first duties. It shall not be said that I went away without one word, and my lady will be free to love where she will!”