CHAPTER XI.
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'mnot mistaken Aunt Rob has hit the nail straight on the head, and UncleRob made a clumsy blow at it. But my secret is mine, and I will guardit jealously.
"Dear little Florence! My chum, my comrade, almost from the day of herbirth. Boys aren't generally fond of babies, but I was of her from thefirst; and when as a child she promised to be my wife when she grew upI did not think of it as a thistledown promise that time would lightlyblow away. At that age we do not think; our hearts, our souls, arelike a prism which leaps into light and colour when light and colourshine upon it. Had I been wiser I might have believed that a moreenduring flower than thistledown would grow up in its place, a flowerthat would bloom and shed its sweetness and fragrance upon me throughall the years to come. Thank God I was not wiser, for we were veryhappy then. It was only when graver responsibilities forced themselvesupon me that I knew, as I know now, that she and she alone could bringhappiness into my life. Fate willed it otherwise. It can never be.
"Would it have been otherwise had I myself been different from what Iam, been firmer of purpose, had won respect and esteem for sterlingqualities that are not in my nature? Who can tell? We are the sport ofcircumstance, and drift, and drift, and drift--as I have drifted. Youare quite right, Aunt Rob. Your nephew, Dick Remington, has nostability--but he can keep his secret.
"Does Florence suspect it? Sometimes I have thought she has a fearthat the love I bear for her is not the love a brother bears for hissister; sometimes I have thought there was a dumb pity in her eyes asshe looked at me. And when, with this impression upon me, I havelaunched into light speech and manner, as though I were incapable ofdeeper feeling, I have noticed the relief it gave her to learn thatshe was mistaken. Of one thing she may be sure. That there is nosacrifice I would hesitate to make to secure her happiness--that shemay rely upon me and trust me with implicit confidence--that I amher faithful watchdog, ready to die in her service without hope ofreward. Yes, dear Florence--so dear that my heart aches when I thinkof her--be sure of that.
"She grew into beauty incomparable, and to observe this was a dailydelight to me. But I love her chiefly for her gentleness, her purity,her dear womanly ways which find their best expression in her kindnessand sweetness to all around her. We lived our quiet life, disturbedonly by my harum-scarum habits, and then Mr. Reginald stepped into thepicture--Mr. Reginald Boyd, son of Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square.That was before I took service with the old hunks, and it was becauseof the son that I sought and obtained a situation in the father'soffice. For I said to myself, 'Here is this young gentlemanintroducing himself simply as Mr. Reginald, when I, from my previousknowledge of him (of which he was not aware) know him to be the son ofthat man. What reason has he for the suppression?' There was noacquaintance between us. Happening to be in conversation one day witha constable in the neighbourhood of Catchpole Square a young gentlemanpassed with a flower in his coat. There was something in him thatstruck me as bearing a resemblance to myself, the advantage being onhis side. A free and easy manner, a certain carelessness of gesture,an apparent disregard of conventionality, a bright smile (which I havenot), a grace (which I have not). He gave the constable a friendlyword and walked on without looking at me. 'Who is that gentleman?' Iinquired. 'Mr. Reginald,' the constable answered, 'son of Samuel Boyd,though you would hardly believe it if you knew the pair of them.' Ithought no more of the matter, and saw no more of Mr. Reginald, tillhe made his appearance one evening in Aunt Rob's house. He did notrecognise me, but I knew him immediately.
"We were introduced by Florence. 'My cousin, Dick Remington,' shesaid, 'Mr. Reginald.' There was a blush on her cheek, a shy look inher eyes. I waited for his other name. Why did it not come? Becausethe name of Samuel Boyd was held in general detestation? It was a fairinference that that was his reason for concealing it.
"He became a regular visitor to the house, and I perceived that hisvisits were eagerly looked forward to by Florence. Have I delayed toolong? I thought. Have I been foolishly silent as to the real feelingsI entertain for the dear girl, and given another man the chance ofoccupying 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 Ispoken in time my love for her might have awakened a responsive echoin her breast. I cannot speak with certainty as to this, but it mighthave been. One day I saw Florence and Mr. Reginald walking outtogether, he speaking with animation, she listening modestly with headcast down. I was careful that they should not see me. They passed frommy sight through the garden of hope and love, I pursued my way throughan arid waste."
Some spiritual resemblance between the arid waste of his hopes and thearid waste of white mist through which he was walking seemed to strikehim here. It brought a sudden chill to his heart. Love that washopeless could have found no more emphatic illustration than thesilence and desolation by which he was surrounded. The light of heavenhad died out of the world. No star shone, no moon shed its peacefulrays upon the earth, and for a few moments he allowed the deathlikelethargy of nature to overpower him. Through the silence stole amuffled voice:
"Lost, lost for ever is the love you hoped to gain. Not for you thetender look and word, the sweet embrace, love's kiss upon your goingand returning, the prattle of children's voices, the patter of littlefeet, the clinging of little arms. Not for you the joys of Home!"
So powerfully was he affected by these melancholy thoughts that heinvoluntarily raised his hand, as if to avoid a blow.
Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery Page 12