Lost





How beautiful she was in her superb calmness, so graceful, so mild, and

yet so majestic! Ah! I was a younger man then, of course, than I am now,

and possibly more impressionable; but I thought her then the most

perfect creature I had ever beheld. And even now, looking back through

the gathering mists of time and the chilling frosts of advancing age,

and recalling what she was, I endorse that earlier sentiment--she lives

in my memory now, as she lived in my presence then, as the most perfect

creature I ever beheld.



I had gone the round of all the best boarding-houses in town, when, at

last, I went to Mrs. Honeywold's, and there, in her small, unpretending

establishment, I, General Leslie Auchester, having been subdued, I

trust, to a proper and humble state of mind by my past experiences,

agreed to take up my abode.



And it was there I first met her! Hers was the early maturity of

loveliness, perfect in repose, with mild, thoughtful eyes, intelligent

and tender, a trifle sad at times, but lighting up with quick brilliancy

as some new object met her view, or some vivid thought darted its

lightning flash through her brain--for she was wonderfully quick of

perception--with an exquisite figure, splendidly symmetrical, yet

swaying and supple as a young willow, and with unstudied grace in every

quick, sinewy motion.



She spent little upon dress (I was sure she was not wealthy); but though

there was little variety, her dress was always exquisitely neat and in

perfect good taste, of some soft glossy fabric, smooth as silk and

lustrous as satin, and of the softest shade of silver-gray, that colour

so beautiful in itself, and so becoming to beautiful wearers; simply

made, but fitting with a nicety more like the work of nature than of art

to every curve and outline of that full and stately figure, and finished

off round her white throat with something scarcely whiter.



She never wore ornaments of any kind, no chain, no brooch, no ring or

pin. She had twins--two beautiful little blue-eyed things, wonderfully

like herself--little shy, graceful creatures, always together, always

playful. She never spoke of her own affairs, and affable as she was, and

gentle in manner, there was something about her which repelled

intrusion.



When, after some weeks' residence there, I had gained the good-will of

my simple-minded but kindly little landlady, I cautiously ventured to

ask her to gratify my not, I think, unnatural curiosity; but I found, to

my surprise, she knew but little more than I did myself.



"She came to me," she said, "just at the edge of the evening, one cold

rainy night, and I could not refuse to give her shelter, at least for

the night, or till she could do better. I did not think of her

remaining; but she is so pretty and gentle, and innocent-looking, I

could not turn her out of my house--could I, now? I know I am silly in

such ways; but what could I do?"



"But is it possible," I said, "that she has remained here ever since,

and you know nothing more about her?"



"No more than you do yourself, general," said Mrs. Honeywold. "I do not

even know where she lived before she came here. I cannot question her,

and now, indeed, I have become so fond of her, I should not be willing

to part with her; and I would not turn her and her little ones out of my

house for the world!"



Further conversation elicited the fact that she was not a boarder, but

that she and her little ones were the dependents upon Mrs. Honeywold's

charity.



One fine summer day I had made an appointment with a friend to drive out

to his place in the suburbs and dine with him, returning in the evening.

When I came down in the afternoon, dressed for my excursion, I went into

the dining-room to tell Mrs. Honeywold she need not wait for me. As I

came back through the parlour, she was there alone. She was sitting on

the sofa. A book lay near her, but I do not think she had been reading.

She was sitting perfectly still, as if lost in reverie, and her eyes

looked heavy with sleep or thought. But as I passed out of the room I

looked back. I saw she had risen to her feet, and standing with her

graceful figure drawn up to its full height, she was looking after me,

with a look which I flattered myself was a look of interest. Ah, how

well I remember that look!



The day had been a beautiful one, though sultry; but in the early

evening we had a heavy thunder-shower, the violence of the summer rain

delaying my return to town for an hour or two; and when the rain ceased,

the evening was still starless, cloudy, and damp; and as I drove back to

town I remember that the night air, although somewhat freshened by the

rain, was warm, and heavy with the scent of unseen flowers.



It was late when I reached the quiet street where I had taken up my

abode, and as I mounted the steps I involuntarily felt for my latch-key,

but to my surprise I found the hall-door not only unfastened, but a

little way opened.



"Why, how is this, Mrs. Honeywold?" I said, as my landlady met me in the

hall. "Do you know that your street-door was left open?"



"Yes," she said, quietly, "I know it."



"But is it safe?" I asked, as I turned to lock the door; "and so late,

too."



"I do not think there is any danger," she said. "I was on the watch; I

was in the hall myself, waiting."



"Not waiting for me, I hope?" said I; "that was surely unnecessary."



"No, not for you," she answered. "I presume you can take care of

yourself; but," she added, in a low voice, "she is out, and I was

waiting to let her in."



"Out at this time of night!--that seems strange. Where has she gone?"



"I do not know."



"And how long has she been gone?" I asked, as I hung up my hat.



"I cannot tell just what time she went out," she said; "I know she was

in the garden with the little ones, and came in just before tea. After

they had had their suppers and gone to bed I saw her in the parlour

alone, and when I came into the room again she was gone, and she has not

returned, and I----"



"Oh, then she went out before the rain, did she?"



"Yes, sir; some time before the rain."



"Oh, then that explains it; she was probably caught out by the rain, and

took shelter somewhere, and has been persuaded to stay. There is nothing

to be alarmed at; you had better not wait up another moment."



"But I don't like to shut her out, general; I should not sleep a wink."



"Nonsense, nonsense!" I said. "Go to bed, you silly woman; you will hear

her when she comes, of course, and can come down and let her in." And so

saying, I retired to my own room.



The next morning at breakfast, I noticed that my landlady was looking

pale and troubled, and I felt sure she had spent a sleepless night.



"Well, Mrs. Honeywold," I said, with assumed cheerfulness, as she handed

my coffee to me, "how long did you have to sit up? What time did she

come in?"



"She did not come in all night, general," said my landlady, in a

troubled voice. "She has not come home yet, and I am very anxious about

it."



"No need of that, I trust," I said, reassuringly; "she will come this

morning, no doubt."



"I don't know. I wish I was sure of that. I don't know what to make of

it. I don't understand it. She never did so before. How she could have

stayed out, and left those two blessed little things all night--and she

always seemed such a tender, loving mother, too--I don't understand it."



When I returned at dinner-time I found matters still worse. She had not

returned. My poor landlady was almost in hysterics, though she tried

hard to control herself.



To satisfy her I set off to consult the police. My mission was not

encouraging. They promised to do their best, but gave slight hopes of a

successful result.



So sad, weary, and discouraged, I returned home, only to learn there

were no tidings of the missing one.



"I give her up now," said my weeping landlady; "I shall never see her

again. She is lost for ever; and those two poor pretty little

creatures----"



"By the way," I said, "I wanted to speak to you about them. If she never

does return, what do you purpose to do with them?"



"Keep them!" said the generous and impulsive little woman.



"I wanted to say, if she does not return, I will, if you like, relieve

you of one of them. My sister, who lives with me, and keeps my house, is

a very kind, tender-hearted woman. There are no children in the house,

and she would, I am sure, be very kind to the poor little thing. What do

you say?"



"No, no!" sobbed the poor woman; "I cannot part with them. I am a poor

woman, it is true, but not too poor to give them a home; and while I

have a bit and a sup for myself they shall have one too. Their poor

mother left them here, and if she ever does return she shall find them

here. And if she never returns, then----"



And she never did return, and no tidings of her fate ever reached us.

If she was enticed away by artful blandishments, or kidnapped by cruel

violence, we knew not. But I honestly believe the latter. Either way, it

was her fatal beauty that led her to destruction; for, as I have said

before, she was the most perfect creature, the most beautiful Maltese

cat, that I ever beheld in my life! I am sure she never deserted her two

pretty little kittens of her own accord. And if--poor dumb thing--she

was stolen and killed for her beautiful fur, still I say, as I said at

first, she was "more sinned against than sinning."--C. H. GRATTAN, in

Tit-Bits.





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