For some moments the young man dared not move. The anguish of his
shattered ribs, the choking up-rush of blood from his lungs, was so
present to him, that he turned deadly faint. By degrees he realised that
all these sensations were illusory; or rather memory of that which had,
long ago, befallen him. Then he asked himself--was the cry which had
just now answered his cry illusory, a matter of memory, likewise? This
he must ascertain. He began speaking slowly and softly; and the
conviction of his identity with that other Laurence Rivers, his
namesake, was so complete, that in speaking as he did he had no sense of
practising any deceit upon his hearer.
"Agnes," he said, "do you remember the summer morning when, like a lazy
fellow, I fell asleep under the lime-trees, and how you came to me just
as I woke up, and how we spoke to one another, and how my brother Dudley
interrupted our conversation."
A pause followed, during which he listened with almost feverish anxiety,
looking up into the sweet, dimly-seen face. Was it possible that she
had already gained in physical attributes and powers to the point of
audible speech? He almost prayed it might be so; and yet what tremendous
issues such development opened up!
At last the low, far-away voice began to answer him. The words came
lispingly, at first, with a pathetic effort and hesitancy. It was as the
utterance of a baby child but just learning to articulate.
"How could I fail to remember that morning, since the joy of it proved
the prelude to the sorrow of your departure?"
Laurence could barely control his excitement; but he just managed to
remain very still and to continue speaking slowly and softly.
"Was that so?" he said. "I had forgotten."
"Surely it was so," she answered. "For Dudley brought you the orders,
which had just been delivered by a despatch-rider, requiring your
immediate return to your ship."
"Yes, yes--of course. I begin to recollect," he rejoined. "Lord Nelson
had news of the whereabouts of the French fleet, and we put to sea at a
few hours' notice. Recollect, dear me, I should rather think I did! It
was an awful rush to get one's kit together, and get through, and there
was no end of a bother about post-horses."
Laurence rose to his feet. It was impossible to him to sit still any
longer. This strange awakening of memory, and the miracle of his sweet,
phantom companion's recovered speech, moved him too deeply. He went
across to the escritoire.
"Come here, Agnes," he said. "I want to look at you. I must see you
clearly. And I--I want you to look at me. Come."
While speaking he struck a match, and lighted, first the tall wax
candles standing upon the escritoire, and then those in the candelabra
upon the chimney-piece. Beheld in their mellow light, the room assumed a
more than ever familiar and friendly aspect. Laurence felt that he was
at home--at home, consciously, and with a security and content upon him
such as he had never experienced before. It was singularly pleasant to
feel thus. Moving back he stood in front of the slender, rose-clad
figure. His manner was serious, though very gentle, and his voice
somewhat broken by the emotion under which he laboured.
"See, I have opened your little treasure-chest for you," he said. "And I
have read your dear letters--that constituted no breach of faith, or act
of presumption, considering how often I have read them already. I have
put everything carefully back in its place, save our two miniatures,
which lie here side by side. I tell you honestly, I am perplexed. I
can't fit in the bits of the puzzle, or piece out the story as yet; but
that, to my mind, doesn't matter very much. For we are here together,
once again, you and I."
He shifted the position of the candles so that their full light should
fall upon her.
"Now let me look at you," he said.
And as he looked his eyes grew somewhat moist, for he perceived that
which he had blindly desired, blindly sought all his days, that which
had been as an ache at his heart even in his gayest hours, because he
needed it and had it not--though he had had no knowledge of what indeed
it was he needed--now stood visibly before him. Sweet phantom, old-time
love, exquisite companion--having found her, how could he ever again let
her go? Listening to her pretty, halting speech the flattering belief
had once more grown strong in him that he had the power--had he also the
will--to restore her to complete and living womanhood. The ambition of
so doing possessed him with redoubled force; and the love of her, rooted
so deeply in that mysterious former life and former personality of his,
possessed him too. Considerations of right and wrong, of duty, even of
honour, he brushed aside. The peace and content of the present, the
daring effort, the triumph and delight of the future should that effort
succeed, rendered him callous to all things beside. Then a touch of
self-distrust took him. Did he please, as he was pleased? He wondered.
"Agnes," he asked her almost wistfully, "tell me, have I changed very
much?"
Her eyes, which had grown somewhat shy beneath his searching scrutiny,
regained their serenity. She replied more readily, and in more assured
accents, while a gentle playfulness was perceptible in her bearing.
"You appear older," she said; "but I will not reproach you with that,
since I think you have matured in character rather than greatly
increased in years. I could fancy you taller, were not such a
supposition absurd. The fashion of your clothes is much altered--you
affect very sober colours now."
But suddenly her expression changed. A wide-eyed, haunting sadness came
back into her lovely face, and she spread abroad her hands in mingled
apology and appeal.
"Ah! indeed," she cried, "I fear a long, long period has elapsed during
my illness and alienation of mind. You have had time and to spare in
which to grow older, to acquire new habits of thought, perchance--but
that idea I cannot tolerate--to form fresh ties. I bitterly deplore my
weakness, but they assured me of your death. Their purpose was not
cruel, I am sure; but when I refused to believe their statements, your
brother Dudley and Mrs. Lambart sent for our rector, Mr. Burkinshaw, to
talk with me and preach resignation. He preached to deaf ears, poor man!
How could I be resigned to see all the joy of my life cut down as grass
under the sweep of a scythe? I did not believe them, yet their
reiterated assertions so worked on me that they killed hope in me, and,
in so doing, killed reason likewise. Yet in my heart of hearts,
Laurence, I have always known that you would come again."
She clasped her hands high on her bosom and smiled upon him.
"And you have come, oh! my love," she said; "you have come!"
"Yes, in good truth," he answered, while a sense of fear took him--"I
have come."
For he was filled with pity and with wonder concerning the end of this
adventure; while her innocent passion softened his whole nature to a
great tenderness, as the sun softens the frozen earth in spring. Then he
held out his hand to her in invitation, and led her across to the
brocade-covered sofa, set corner-wise between the piano and the
fireplace, and for a while they both remained silent, sitting there side
by side. And as the minutes slid away, the young man's fears departed,
and content returned to him. It was so natural to sit with her thus! Yet
his content had an underlying pathos in it, since their situation--his
and hers--though immediately happy was so very strange.