I felt loth to part with it, for the old place had been built soon after the fierce and historic battle had been fought at Tewkesbury, and ever since Richard Heaton had commanded one of the frigates which went forth to meet the Armada, it had been the ancestral home of the Heatons.

How strange it all was! At every turn I peered upon the world through my grey gla.s.s spectacles, and took as keen an interest in it as does a child. All seemed new to me; my brain, like a child's, became filled with new impressions and fresh ideas. After my dull, colourless existence of sound and touch, this bright life of movement filled me with a delight that pen cannot describe. Imagine, however, what joy it is to one who has been p.r.o.nounced incurably blind to look upon the world again and taste of its pleasures. It was that joy which gave lightness to my heart.

Yet over all was one grim shadow--the remembrance of that fateful night with its grim tragedy. Who was Edna? Where was she? What was she?

Through her instrumentality I had regained my sight, but her ident.i.ty and her whereabouts still remained hidden, as she had plainly told me they would be before we had parted.

Hither and thither I went, feted and feasted by my friends at the Savage, the Devonshire, and other clubs, yet my mind was ever troubled by the mystery of the woman who had, from motives that were entirely hidden, exerted herself on my behalf, first in saving my life from unscrupulous a.s.sa.s.sins, and, secondly, in restoring my vision.

I entertained a strong desire to meet her, to grasp her small hand, to thank her. I longed to see her.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE GIRL IN BLUE.

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 a.s.sumes 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 Ess.e.x Street, really more for Parker's sake than for my own, and also, of course, in order to be near d.i.c.k 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 a.s.sociation 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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.g or style, spoke mutely of the handiwork of a first-cla.s.s _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 l.u.s.tre. 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 a.s.suredly 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 a.s.sured. 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 l.u.s.trous 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 n.o.ble 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 cla.s.sical 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 a.s.sure you I'm no hater of the s.e.x, 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 att.i.tude." 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 pa.s.sed under the enn.o.bling 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-gla.s.s 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 gla.s.ses, 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.