The words written there were puzzling indeed. A dozen times I read them
through, agape with wonder.
The communication, upon the notepaper of the _Bath Hotel_ at
Bournemouth, was dated June 4, 1891--five years before--and ran as
follows:--
"Dear Mr Heaton,--
"I very much regret that you should have thus misunderstood me. I
thought when we met at Windermere you were quite of my opinion. You,
however, appear to have grown tired after the five months of our
engagement, and your love for me has suddenly cooled; therefore our
paths in life must in future lie apart. You have at least told me the
truth honestly and straightforwardly. I, of course, believed that your
declarations were true, and that you really loved me truly, but alas! it
is evidently not so. I can only suffer in silence. Good-bye for ever.
We shall never, never meet again. But I tell you, Wilford, that I bear
you no malice, and that my prayers will ever be for your welfare and
your happiness. Perhaps sometimes you will give a passing thought to
the sorrowful, heart-broken woman who still loves you.
"Mabel Anson."
What could this mean? It spoke of our engagement for five months! I
had no knowledge whatever of ever having declared the secret of my love,
much less becoming her affianced husband. Was it possible that in the
first few months of my unconscious life I had met her and told her of my
affection, of how I worshipped her with all the strength of my being?
As I sat there with the carefully preserved letter in my hand there
arose before my eyes a vision of her calm, fair face, bending over the
piano, her handsome profile illumined by the candles on either side, the
single diamond suspended by its invisible chain, gleaming at her throat
like a giant's eye. The impression I had obtained of her on that night
at The Boltons still remained indelibly with me. Yes, her beauty was
superb, her sweetness unsurpassed by that of any other woman I had ever
met.
Among the other private papers preserved within the wallet were four
scraps of notepaper with typewriting upon them. All bore the same
signature--that of the strange name "Avel." All of them made
appointments. One asked me to meet the writer in the writing-room of
the _Hotel Victoria_ in London, another made an appointment to meet me
"on the Promenade at Eastbourne opposite the Wish Tower"; a third
suggested my office at Winchester House as a meeting-place, and the
fourth gave a rendezvous on the departure platform at King's Cross
Station.
I fell to wondering whether I had kept any of these engagements. The
most recent of the letters was dated nearly two years ago.
But the afternoon was wearing on, therefore I placed the puzzling
communications in my pocket and ascended to my room in order to rest,
and thus carry out the feint of attending to old Britten's directions.
The dressing-bell awakened me, but, confident in the knowledge that I
should remain undisturbed, I removed the bandages from my head, bathed
the wound, and applied some plaster in the place of the handkerchief.
Then, with my hat on, my injury was concealed.
The sun was declining when I managed to slip out of the house
unobserved, and set forth down the avenue to Littleham village. The
quaint old place was delightful in the evening calm, but, heedless of
everything, I hurried forward down the hill to Withycombe Raleigh, and
thence straight across the open country to Lympston station, where I
took a third-class ticket for Exeter. At a wayside station a passenger
for London is always remarked, therefore I only booked as far as the
junction with the main-line.
At Exeter I found that the up-mail was not due for ten minutes,
therefore I telegraphed to London for a room at the _Grand Hotel_, and
afterwards bought some newspapers with which to while away the journey.
Sight of newspapers dated six years later than those I had last seen
aroused within me a lively curiosity. How incredible it all seemed as
in that dimly lit railway-carriage I sat gathering from those printed
pages the history of the lost six years of my life!
The only other occupant of the compartment besides myself was a woman.
I had sought an empty carriage, but failing to find one, was compelled
to accept her as travelling companion. She was youngish, perhaps
thirty-five, and neatly dressed, but her face, as far as I could
distinguish it through her spotted veil, was that of a woman melancholy
and bowed down by trouble. In her dark hair were premature threads of
silver, and her deep-sunken eyes, peering forth strangely at me, were
the eyes of a woman rendered desperate.
I did not like the look of her. In travelling one is quick to entertain
an instinctive dislike to one's companion, and it was so in my case. I
found myself regretting that I had not entered a smoking-carriage. But
I soon became absorbed in my papers, and forgot her presence.
It was only her voice, a curiously high-pitched one, that made me start.
She inquired if I minded her closing the window because of the draught,
and I at once closed it, responding rather frigidly, I believe.
But she was in no humour to allow the conversation to drop and commenced
to chat with a familiarity that surprised me.