The man who abandons all hope is constantly haunted by fears. This is
as strange as it is unjust, like much else in our everyday life. Even
though there had returned to me all the joys of existence, yet I was
still haunted by an ever-present dread--a terror lest some terrible
mandate should suddenly be launched upon me by the unknown director of
my actions.
My situation was, to say the least, a most extraordinary one. Valiantly
I strove to rid myself of the obsession which constantly crept upon me
whenever my attention was not actually distracted by the new existence
that had so mysteriously been opened up to me. For a little while I
would let my mind dwell upon the terrifying thought that I was entirely
helpless in the hands of one who was, without doubt, unscrupulous. I
had pledged my honour to keep secret that appalling midnight crime, and
to act always as directed. Edna herself, the woman whose voice sounded
so tender, whose hands were so small and soft to the touch, had forced
me to this. To her alone was due this state of constant anxiety as to
what might next be demanded of me. The thought would creep upon me, now
pausing, now advancing, until at length it wrapped me round and round,
and stifled out my breath, like a death-mask of cold clay. Then my
heart would sink, my sight seemed to die, even sound would die until
there seemed an awful void--the void of death for ever and for ever
dumb, a dreadful, conquering silence.
A thousand times I regretted that I had in that moment of my utter
helplessness given my promise to conceal the mysterious crime. Yet,
when I recollected with what extraordinary ingenuity I had been deceived
by the man whom I had believed to be a police-constable, the deep
cunning which had been displayed in obtaining from my lips a statement
of all the facts I knew, and the subsequent actions of the cool-headed
Edna, my mind became confused. I could see no solution of the
extraordinary problem, save that I believed her to be deeply implicated
in some plot which had culminated in the murder of the young man, and
that she herself had some strong personal motive in concealing the
terrible truth.
With the return of my vision my sense of hearing had, curiously enough,
become both weakened and distorted. Sounds I had heard when blind
presented quite a different impression now that I could see. The blind
hear where those with eyesight can detect nothing. The ears of the
former train themselves to act as eyes also, yet the moment the vision
is recovered the sharpened sense of hearing again assumes its normal
capacity. Hence I found that I could not distinguish voices and sounds
so quickly as before; indeed, the voices of those about me sounded some
how different now I had recovered my sight.
My friends, into whose circle they declared I had returned like one from
the grave, welcomed me everywhere, and I confess that, notwithstanding
the oppression constantly upon me, I enjoyed myself to the top of my
bent. I still remained in my dingy, smoke-grimed rooms in Essex Street,
really more for Parker's sake than for my own, and also, of course, in
order to be near Dick when he returned, but nearly every evening I was
out somewhere or other, going here and there about town.
In the middle of October, when most men I knew were away on the moors, I
had a dinner engagement one evening with the Channings, in Cornwall
Gardens. Colonel Channing, a retired officer of the Guards, was a man I
had known during greater part of my lifetime. His service had been
mainly of a diplomatic character, for he had served as British military
_attache_ at Berlin and Vienna, and now lived with his wife and daughter
in London, and seemed to divide his time mainly between the St James's
and the United Service Clubs. He was a merry old fellow, with white
hair and moustache and a florid complexion, the dandified air of
_attache_ still clinging to him.
As he sat at the head of his table, his habitual monocle in his eye, and
the tiny green ribbon of the order of the Crown of Italy in the lapel of
his dining-jacket, he looked a perfect type of the _ex-attache_. His
wife, a rather spare woman of fifty, who seemed to exist externally in a
toilette of black satin and lace, was pleasant, though just a trifle
stiff, probably because of her long association with other diplomatists'
wives; while Nellie Channing was a happy, fair-haired girl, who wore
pretty blouses, motored, golfed, flirted and shopped in the High Street
in the most approved manner of the average girl of South Kensington.
Nellie and I had always been good friends. She had been at school in
England while her parents had been abroad, but on completing her
education she had lived some five years or so in Vienna, and had thus
acquired something of the cosmopolitan habit of her father. She looked
charming in her pink blouse, a trifle _decollete_, as she sat on my left
at dinner, and congratulated me upon my recovery.
If, however, Nellie Channing was pretty, her beauty was far eclipsed by
that of my neighbour on my right, a tall, dark-haired girl in blue, a
Miss Anson, who with her mother, a quiet, white-haired elderly lady,
were the only other guests in addition to myself. From the moment we
were introduced I saw that Mrs Anson's daughter possessed a face that
was absolutely perfect, rather oval in shape, with large, beautiful
eyes, that seemed to shine as they looked upon me, and to search me
through and through. Her complexion was good, her cheeks well-moulded,
her mouth small and perfectly formed; her teeth gleamed white ever and
anon as she smiled at the Colonel's humorous remarks, and her nose was
just sufficiently tip-tilted to give her countenance a piquant air of
coquetry.
Her costume, rich and without any undue exaggeration of trimming or
style, spoke mutely of the handiwork of a first-class _couturiere_. The
shade of turquoise suited her dark beauty admirably, and the bodice, cut
discreetly low, revealed a neck white and firmly moulded as that of the
Venus of Milo. Around her throat, suspended by a golden chain so fine
as to be almost imperceptible, was a single diamond set in a thin ring
of gold, a large stone of magnificent lustre. It was her only ornament,
but, flashing and glittering with a thousand fires, it was quite
sufficient. She wore no rings. Her hands, white and well-formed, were
devoid of any jewels. The single diamond gleamed and glittered as it
rose and fell upon her breast, an ornament assuredly fit to adorn a
princess.
Mrs Anson sat opposite me, chatting pleasantly during the meal, and now
and then her daughter would turn, raise her fine eyes to mine for an
instant, and join in our conversation. That she was exceedingly clever
and well-informed I at once detected by her terse and smart criticism of
the latest play, which we discussed. She compared it, with a display of
knowledge that surprised me, to a French play but little known save to
students of the French drama, and once or twice her remarks upon stage
technicalities caused me to suspect that she was an actress.
Mrs Anson, however, dispelled this notion by expressing her disapproval
of the stage as a profession for women, an opinion with which her
daughter at once agreed. No, she could not be an actress, I felt
assured. Both mother and daughter bore the unmistakable hallmark of
gentlewomen.
I sat beside Mabel Anson in rapt admiration. Never before in all my
life had my eyes fallen upon so perfect an incarnation of feminine grace
and marvellous beauty; never before until that moment had a woman's face
held me in such enchantment.
Presently the conversation turned, as it so often does at dinner-tables,
upon certain engagements recently announced, whereupon the Colonel, in
the merry, careless manner habitual to him, advanced the theory that
most girls married with a view to improve their social position.
"As to a husband's fortune," remarked his wife, with that stiff
formality which was her peculiar characteristic, "it really isn't so
important to a woman as the qualities which lead to fortune--ambition,
determination, industry, thrift--and position such a man may attain for
himself."
"And in education?" inquired Miss Anson, softly, apparently interested
in the argument.
"In education a man certainly should be his wife's equal," answered Mrs
Channing.
"And is not good temper essential with a husband?--come, now. Let's
hear your ideas on that point," said the Colonel, chaffingly, from
behind the big epergne.
Mabel Anson hesitated. For an instant her lustrous eyes met mine, and
she at once lowered them with a downward sweep of her long dark lashes.
"I don't argue that a girl thinking seriously of her future husband
should lay any great stress on good temper," she answered, in a sweet
musical voice. "A soldierly form, a pair of good eyes, a noble
profile--any of these might easily outweigh good temper."
"Ah! there, I fear, I disagree with you," I remarked smilingly. "It has
always appeared to me that after the first year or so married people
rarely think of each other's features, because they are always in each
other's presence. They become heedless of whether each other's features
are classical or ugly; but they never fail to be cognisant of one
another's temper or shortcomings."
"You speak as though from experience," she laughed, without, however,
attempting to combat my argument.
Another outburst of laughter greeted this bantering remark of hers.
"No," observed Nellie, on my other hand. "Mr Heaton is the most
confirmed bachelor I know. I believe he's a woman-hater--if the truth
were told."
"Oh, really, Miss Channing!" I protested. "That's certainly too bad of
you. I assure you I'm no hater of the sex, but an admirer."
"Heaton's about to make a pretty speech," observed the jovial, red-faced
Colonel. "Go on, Wilford, my dear fellow, we're all attention."
"No," I said, laughing. "I've been drawn quite unfairly into this
controversy. Therefore I'll preserve a masterly silence."
"Mr Heaton is, I think, diplomatic," laughed the dark, handsome girl
next to me. "He has cleared his character of the aspersion cast upon
it, and preserves a dignified attitude." And she turned and smiled
gaily upon me in triumph.
She was exquisitely charming. I sat at her side gossiping merrily,
while to my dazzled gaze she presented a beautiful picture of youthful
airy delicacy--feminine sweetness combined with patrician grace. For
the first time in all my life that petticoated paradox, woman, conveyed
to me the impression of perfect beauty, of timidity and grace, combined
with a natural, inborn dignity. There was nothing forced or unnatural
in her manner as with other women I had met; none of that affected
mannishness of deportment and slangy embellishments of conversation
which are so characteristic of girls of to-day, be they daughters of
tradesmen or of peers.
She gave me the impression--why, I cannot tell--of one who had passed
under the ennobling discipline of suffering and self-denial. A
melancholy charm tempered the natural vigour of her mind; her spirit
seemed to stand upon an eminence and look down upon me as one inferior
to her in intellect, in moral principle--in fact, in everything. From
the very first moment when I had bowed to her on our introduction she
held me spell-bound in fascination.
When the ladies had left, and I sat alone with the Colonel, smoking over
a liqueur, I inquired about her.
"Mrs Anson is the widow of old General Anson," he said. "He died about
twelve years ago, and they've since lived a great deal abroad."
"Well off?" I inquired, with affected carelessness.
"Very comfortably, I should say. Mrs Anson has a fortune of her own, I
believe. They have a house at present in The Boltons."
"Mabel is extremely good-looking," I remarked.
"Of course, my dear boy," laughed the Colonel, with his liqueur-glass
poised in his hand, a twinkle in his eye. "Between us, she's the
prettiest girl in London. She creates a sensation wherever she goes,
for beauty like hers isn't met with twice in a lifetime. Lucky chap,
whoever marries her."
"Yes," I said reflectively, and then diligently pursued the topic in an
endeavour to learn further details regarding her. My host either knew
very little, or purposely affected ignorance--which, I was unable to
determine. He had known her father intimately, having been in his
regiment long ago. That was about all I learnt further.
So we tossed away our cigars, drained our glasses, and rejoined the four
ladies who were awaiting us in the drawing-room, where later, at Mrs
Channing's urgent persuasion, my divinity in blue seated herself at the
piano, and in a sweet, clear contralto sang in Italian a charming solo
from Puccini's _Boheme_, the notable opera of that season.
Then, with the single diamond glittering at her throat, she came back to
where I stood, and sinking into the cosy-corner with its pretty hangings
of yellow silk, she accepted my congratulations with a delicate grace, a
charming dignity, and a grateful smile.
At last, however, the hour of parting came, and reluctantly--very
reluctantly--I took her small hand, bent over it, and handed her into
her carriage beside her mother.
"Good-night," she cried merrily, and next instant the fine pair of bays
plunged away into the rainy night.