The Romance of His Life Part 11

"'I am unmarried,' said the stranger, 'and thirty years of age, and nothing of that kind has ever happened to me. I was once engaged to be married for a short time. But I had to break it off. It was no good. I suppose,' she said, with a low laugh, 'that the reason we are both talking so frankly is because we are entire strangers to each other.'

"'I do believe the world would go all right, and that we should all be happy if only we did not know each other,' said Anna earnestly.

"I felt sure the stranger would think her mad, but she answered tranquilly:

"'There are two ways of living absolutely happily with our fellow creatures, I think. When you know nothing about them and have no tie to them, and when you know them through and through. But on the long road between where all the half-way houses are, there seems to be a lot of trouble and misunderstanding and disappointment.'

"'We can never know anyone through and through until we love them,' said Anna.

"'No,' said the stranger, 'Love alone can teach that. Even I know that, I who have never seen love except once--in a dream.'

"'Tell me about it,' said Anna.

"'I have never spoken of it,' she said with the same tranquillity; her face as I took one glance at it serene and happy in the moonlight, 'except to my sister. And it is curious that I should speak of it here; for it was in this house it happened to me.'

"'You have been here before?' said Anna.

"'Yes. Ten years ago. That was why I went out of my way on my walking tour to-day just to look at the little place again. I stayed a month here, and I helped a friend of mine who is now dead, a trained nurse, to nurse a Miss Sinclair who was dying here.'

"'We are her brother and sister,' said Anna.

"'I thought it possible when I saw you on the verandah. You are both like her in a way. My friend, who was in charge, was over-taxed, and I came down to help her. Two nurses were necessary, but she did not like to complain, and the family seemed rather inaccessible. Miss Sinclair liked me, and I did the night work till she died. I left directly she was gone.'

"'My brother was too late,' said Anna.

"'Yes,' she said. 'I was grieved for him. I added a postscript unknown to her, to her last letter to him which I wrote at her dictation. My postscript would have alarmed him and brought him at once. But the letter must have been delayed in the post. The last night before the end I was sitting here on the verandah. I had just been relieved, and I ought to have gone to bed, but I came and sat here instead and watched the dawn come up, 'like thunder,' behind the moors. And as I sat I became very still, as if I were waiting in a great peace. And gradually I became conscious as at an immense distance of someone in trouble. I was not asleep, and I was not fully awake. And from a long, long way off a man came swiftly to me, and threw himself on his knees at my feet, and hid his face in my gown. He was greatly agitated, but I was not. And I wasn't surprised either. I raised him in my arms, and held him to my breast, and said, "Do not be distressed, for I love you, and all is well." It was quite true. I did love him absolutely, boundlessly, as I love him still. And gradually his agitation died away, and he rested in my arms, and ecstasy such as I had never thought possible enfolded us both. We both cried for sheer joy, and for having found each other. It was beyond anything I had ever dreamed. It was as beautiful as the dawn.'

"'It _was_ the dawn,' said Anna.

"'If it was the dawn, the day it spoke of never came,' said the stranger quietly, 'and presently we were parted from each other, and he began to be frightened again. And he called to me, 'Tell me how to find you,' and I laughed, for I saw he could not miss me. I saw the way open between him and me. Such a short little way, and so clear. I said, 'You are on your way to me now. You will find me on the high road.' It was such a plain road, that even a blind man could not miss it. And we were parted from each other and I came back to the other dawn, the outer dawn. For days and weeks I walked like one in a dream. I felt so sure of him, I would have staked my life upon his coming--that is ten years ago--but he never came.'

"Chipps, I thought the two women must have heard the mad hammering of my heart. She was there before me in the moonlight, found at last--my beautiful, inaccessible mate. And she was free, and we loved each other as no one had loved since the world began. I could neither speak nor move. Though it was joy, it was the sharpest pain I had ever known. I did not know how to bear it.

"'My dear, he will come still,' said Anna.

"'Will he?' said the stranger, and she shook her head. She rose and stood in the moonlight, a tall, n.o.ble figure. And for the first time there was a shade of sadness on her serene, happy face.

"'I saw the road so clear,' she said, 'but I am afraid he has somehow missed it. I have an intuition that he will not come now, that he is lost.'

"Sitting far back in the shadow, I looked long at her, at my wonderful dream came true; and I swore that I would never lose sight of her again once found. I would take no risks; I would bind her to me with hooks of steel.

"And then, in a few minutes, it was bedtime, and Anna aroused me, and she and her guest went off together hand in hand. I dragged myself to my room, too. I was shaking from head to foot, and Brown, my valet, said 'You aren't fit, sir, to start at six in the morning.'

"I had clean forgotten that I had arranged to drive early across the moors to stop the sale of my foster brother's farm. It was impossible to go now. I might come back in the afternoon and find my lady flown. There was no telegraph office within miles; I must think of some other plan.

It was too late to countermand the motor, which put up several miles away. So I told Brown to send it back when it arrived at six, and to tell the chauffeur to bring it round again at eleven. Then, perhaps, my lady would deign to drive with me, and I might have speech with her.

"'On the high road'--that was where she had said we should meet. Yes, when we were on the high road alone together, I would prove to her that I was her lover. I would boldly claim her. She would never repulse me, for she needed me as I needed her.

"I did not sleep that night. It seemed so impossible, so amazing, that we had met at last. I felt transformed, younger than I had ever been.

Waves of joy pa.s.sed over me, and yet I was frightened, too. There was a sort of warning voice at the back of my mind telling me that I should lose her yet. But that was nonsense. My nerves were shaken. I could not lose her again. I would see to that.

"Very early, long before six, I heard Anna stirring. I remembered with compunction that she had only one servant, and that she had said she would get up and cook my breakfast for me herself before I started. Anna was an excellent cook. I heard her rattling the kitchen grate and singing as she laid the breakfast and presently there were two voices, Anna's and another. I knew it was the voice of my lady. I felt unable to lie still any longer, and when the motor came round at six I was already half dressed. There was a momentary turmoil, and an opening and shutting of doors, and then the motor went away again. I finished dressing and went into the garden into the soft September suns.h.i.+ne. There was no one about. I went back to the house and found the servant clearing away a meal and relaying the table for me. I asked her where her mistress was, and she said she had gone in the motor with the other lady and had left a note for me. Sure enough, there was a scrawl stuck up on the mantelpiece.

"'So sorry you are not well enough to start, but don't worry your kind heart about it. I have gone in your place and will arrange everything. Take care of yourself, and don't wait luncheon.'

"I got through the morning as best I could. I was abominably tired after my sleepless night and getting up so early, and a horrible anxiety grew and grew in me as the hours pa.s.sed and Anna did not return. I had luncheon alone, and still no Anna. Could there have been an accident? I thought of my careful chauffeur and my new Daimler. Nothing ever happened to Anna, but I could not tolerate the idea of any risk to my lady. At last I heard the motor, and Anna came rus.h.i.+ng in.

"'It's all right,' she cried joyfully. 'Brian's farm is saved, and he and his old mother can't thank you enough. I told them both it was all your doing, and you had sent me as you were not well enough to go yourself. Brown told me how poorly you were. And it was only a hundred and fifty pounds, after all. I gave my cheque for it, as I didn't like to wake you for a blank one. They were almost paralysed with surprise.

They could hardly thank me--I mean you--at first. Old Nancy cried, poor old darling, and called down blessings on you.'

"'Did your guest enjoy the drive?' I said at last.

"'She did,' said Anna. 'And, oh! how I wished you had been well enough to be driving with her instead of me. The world was all sky. Such a pageant I had never seen--such vistas and fastnesses and citadels of light. She said she should remember it always.'

"'She is not tired, I hope?' I said.

"'Tired! She said she was never tired. She said she would have walked the whole way if there had been time; but of course she was delayed by last night's storm. So she was glad of the lift, and I dropped her at the cross roads above Riffle station. That was a splendid woman, Gerald.'

"I turned cold.

"'Do you mean to say she's gone?'

"'Yes. She sails for South America on Tuesday. I forget why she said she was going.'

"'And what was her name?'

"'I haven't an idea.'

"'Anna, you don't mean to say you let her go without finding out her name and address?'

"'I never thought of such a thing. She never asked any questions about me, and I didn't ask any about her. Why should I? What does her name matter?'"

Sinclair groaned.

"I lost her absolutely just when I thought I was sure of her," he said.

"She walked into my life and she walked out of it again, leaving no trace. I haven't had the ghost of a chance."

"Perhaps you will meet her again," I said at last, somewhat lamely. "She may turn up suddenly, just when you least expect her."

He shook his head.

"I shall never find her," he said. "She's gone for ever, I know it. She knew it. Lost! Lost! Lost!"

And the shadowed room echoed the word "Lost!"

I told the whole story to Mildred next day. I dare say I ought not to have done, but I did.

"Poor Mr. Sinclair," she said softly when I had finished.