He is a faint-hearted creature indeed who, while struggling along some
dark lane of life, cannot, at least intermittently, extract some comfort
to himself from the thought that the turn must come at last--the turn
which, presumably, will bring him out upon the well-metalled high-road
of happy contentment.
I do not know that I was exactly faint-hearted. The mystery of it all
had so stunned me that I felt myself utterly incapable of believing
anything. The whole thing seemed shadowy and unreal.
And yet the facts remained that I was alive, standing there in that
comfortable room, in possession of all my faculties, both mental and
physical, an entirely different person to my old self, with six years of
my past lost and unaccountable.
Beyond the lawn the shadow of the great trees looked cool and inviting,
therefore I went forth, wandering heedlessly across the spacious park,
my mind full of thoughts of that fateful night when I had fallen among
that strange company, and of Mabel, the woman I had loved so fondly and
devotedly.
Sweet were the recollections that came back to me. How charming she had
seemed to me as we had lingered hand-in-hand on our walks across the
Park and Kensington Gardens, how soft and musical her voice! how full of
tenderness her bright dark eyes! How idyllic was our love! She had
surely read my undeclared passion. She had known the great secret in my
heart.
Nevertheless, all had changed. In a woman's life half a dozen years is
a long time, for she may develop from girl to matron in that space. The
worst aspect of the affair presented itself to me. I had, in all
probability, left her without uttering a word of farewell, and she--on
her part--had, no doubt, accepted some other suitor. What more natural,
indeed, than she should have married?
That thought held me rigid.
Again, as I strolled on beneath the rustling elms which led straight
away in a wide old avenue towards where a distant village church stood,
a prominent figure in the landscape, there recurred to me vivid
recollections of that last night of my old self--of the astounding
discovery I had made in the drawing-room at The Boltons.
How was I to account for that?
I paused and glanced around upon the view. All was quiet and peaceful
there in the mid-day sunlight. Behind me stood the great white facade
of Denbury; before, a little to the right, lay a small village with its
white cottages--the villages of Littleham, I afterwards discovered--and
to the left white cliffs and the blue stretch of the English Channel
gleaming through the greenery.
From the avenue I turned and wandered down a by-path to a stile, and
there I rested, in full uninterrupted view of the open sea. Deep below
was a cove--Littleham Cove, it proved to be--and there, under shelter of
the cliffs, a couple of yachts were riding gaily at anchor, while far
away upon the clear horizon a dark smoke-trail showed the track of a
steamer outward bound.
The day was brilliant. It was July in Devonshire, that fairest of all
counties--and July there is always a superb month. The air, warm and
balmy, was laden with the scent of roses and honeysuckle, the only
sounds that broke the quiet were the songs of the birds and the soft
rustling of the trees.