DICK REMINGTON REVIEWS THE PAST.
Dick Remington also mused as he made his way through the white mist.
His thoughts, put into words, ran in this wise:
"Come, old man, let us review the past, and see how we stand. If I'm
not mistaken Aunt Rob has hit the nail straight on the head, and Uncle
Rob made a clumsy blow at it. But my secret is mine, and I will guard
it jealously.
"Dear little Florence! My chum, my comrade, almost from the day of her
birth. Boys aren't generally fond of babies, but I was of her from the
first; and when as a child she promised to be my wife when she grew up
I did not think of it as a thistledown promise that time would lightly
blow away. At that age we do not think; our hearts, our souls, are
like a prism which leaps into light and colour when light and colour
shine upon it. Had I been wiser I might have believed that a more
enduring flower than thistledown would grow up in its place, a flower
that would bloom and shed its sweetness and fragrance upon me through
all the years to come. Thank God I was not wiser, for we were very
happy then. It was only when graver responsibilities forced themselves
upon me that I knew, as I know now, that she and she alone could bring
happiness into my life. Fate willed it otherwise. It can never be.
"Would it have been otherwise had I myself been different from what I
am, been firmer of purpose, had won respect and esteem for sterling
qualities that are not in my nature? Who can tell? We are the sport of
circumstance, and drift, and drift, and drift--as I have drifted. You
are quite right, Aunt Rob. Your nephew, Dick Remington, has no
stability--but he can keep his secret.
"Does Florence suspect it? Sometimes I have thought she has a fear
that the love I bear for her is not the love a brother bears for his
sister; sometimes I have thought there was a dumb pity in her eyes as
she looked at me. And when, with this impression upon me, I have
launched into light speech and manner, as though I were incapable of
deeper feeling, I have noticed the relief it gave her to learn that
she was mistaken. Of one thing she may be sure. That there is no
sacrifice I would hesitate to make to secure her happiness--that she
may rely upon me and trust me with implicit confidence--that I am
her faithful watchdog, ready to die in her service without hope of
reward. Yes, dear Florence--so dear that my heart aches when I think
of her--be sure of that.
"She grew into beauty incomparable, and to observe this was a daily
delight to me. But I love her chiefly for her gentleness, her purity,
her dear womanly ways which find their best expression in her kindness
and sweetness to all around her. We lived our quiet life, disturbed
only by my harum-scarum habits, and then Mr. Reginald stepped into the
picture--Mr. Reginald Boyd, son of Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square.
That was before I took service with the old hunks, and it was because
of the son that I sought and obtained a situation in the father's
office. For I said to myself, 'Here is this young gentleman
introducing himself simply as Mr. Reginald, when I, from my previous
knowledge of him (of which he was not aware) know him to be the son of
that man. What reason has he for the suppression?' There was no
acquaintance between us. Happening to be in conversation one day with
a constable in the neighbourhood of Catchpole Square a young gentleman
passed with a flower in his coat. There was something in him that
struck me as bearing a resemblance to myself, the advantage being on
his side. A free and easy manner, a certain carelessness of gesture,
an apparent disregard of conventionality, a bright smile (which I have
not), a grace (which I have not). He gave the constable a friendly
word and walked on without looking at me. 'Who is that gentleman?' I
inquired. 'Mr. Reginald,' the constable answered, 'son of Samuel Boyd,
though you would hardly believe it if you knew the pair of them.' I
thought no more of the matter, and saw no more of Mr. Reginald, till
he made his appearance one evening in Aunt Rob's house. He did not
recognise me, but I knew him immediately.
"We were introduced by Florence. 'My cousin, Dick Remington,' she
said, 'Mr. Reginald.' There was a blush on her cheek, a shy look in
her eyes. I waited for his other name. Why did it not come? Because
the name of Samuel Boyd was held in general detestation? It was a fair
inference that that was his reason for concealing it.
"He became a regular visitor to the house, and I perceived that his
visits were eagerly looked forward to by Florence. Have I delayed too
long? I thought. Have I been foolishly silent as to the real feelings
I entertain for the dear girl, and given another man the chance of
occupying the place in her heart which it was my dearest wish to fill?
The thought was torture; I seemed to awake from a dream. For had I
spoken in time my love for her might have awakened a responsive echo
in her breast. I cannot speak with certainty as to this, but it might
have been. One day I saw Florence and Mr. Reginald walking out
together, he speaking with animation, she listening modestly with head
cast down. I was careful that they should not see me. They passed from
my sight through the garden of hope and love, I pursued my way through
an arid waste."
Some spiritual resemblance between the arid waste of his hopes and the
arid waste of white mist through which he was walking seemed to strike
him here. It brought a sudden chill to his heart. Love that was
hopeless could have found no more emphatic illustration than the
silence and desolation by which he was surrounded. The light of heaven
had died out of the world. No star shone, no moon shed its peaceful
rays upon the earth, and for a few moments he allowed the deathlike
lethargy of nature to overpower him. Through the silence stole a
muffled voice:
"Lost, lost for ever is the love you hoped to gain. Not for you the
tender look and word, the sweet embrace, love's kiss upon your going
and returning, the prattle of children's voices, the patter of little
feet, the clinging of little arms. Not for you the joys of Home!"
So powerfully was he affected by these melancholy thoughts that he
involuntarily raised his hand, as if to avoid a blow.