Recalled to Life | Page 5

life, with a broken chancel to the grand
old church, and a lighthouse on a hill, with delicious views to seaward.
The doctor had sent me there (I know now) as soon as I was well
enough to move, in order to get me away from the terrible associations
of The Grange at Woodbury. As long as I lived in the midst of scenes
which would remind me of poor father, he said, and of his tragical
death, there was no hope of my recovery. The only chance for me to
regain what I had lost in that moment of shock was complete change of
air, of life, of surroundings. Aunt Emma, for her part, was only too glad
to take me in: and as poor papa had died intestate, Aunt Emma was
now, of course, my legal guardian.
She was my mother's sister, I learned as time went on; and there had
been feud while he lived between her and my father. Why, I couldn't
imagine. She was the sweetest old soul I ever knew, indeed, and what
on earth he could have quarrelled with her about I never could fathom.
She tended me so carefully that as months went by, the Horror began to
decrease and my soul to become calm again. I grew gradually able to
remain in a room alone for a few minutes at a time, and to sleep at
night in a bed by myself, if only there was a candle, and nurse was in
another bed in the same room close by me.
Yet every now and again a fresh shivering fit came on. At such times I
would cover my head with the bedclothes and cower, and see the
Picture even so floating visibly in mid-air like a vision before me.

My second education must have been almost as much of a business as
my first had been, only rather less longsome. I had first to relearn the
English language, which came back to me by degrees, much quicker, of
course, than I had picked it up in my childhood. Then I had to begin
again with reading, writing, and arithmetic--all new to me in a way, and
all old in another. Whatever I learned and whatever I read seemed
novel while I learned it, but familiar the moment I had thoroughly
grasped it. To put it shortly, I could remember nothing of myself, but I
could recall many things, after a time, as soon as they were told me
clearly. The process was rather a process of reminding than of teaching,
properly so called. But it took some years for me to recall things, even
when I was reminded of them.
I spent four years at Aunt Emma's, growing gradually to my own age
again. At the end of that time I was counted a girl of twenty-two, much
like any other. But I was older than my age; and the shadow of the
Horror pursued me incessantly.
All that time I knew, too, from what I heard said in the house that my
father's murderer had never been caught, and that nobody even knew
who he was, or anything definite about him. The police gave him up as
an uncaught criminal. He was still at large, and might always be so. I
knew this from vague hints and from vague hints alone; for whenever I
tried to ask, I was hushed up at once with an air of authority.
"Una, dearest," Aunt Emma would say, in her quiet fashion, "you
mustn't talk about that night. I have Dr. Wade's strict orders that
nothing must be said to you about it, and above all nothing that could in
any way excite or arouse you."
So I was fain to keep my peace; for though Aunt Emma was kind, she
ruled me still in all things like a little girl, as I was when I came to her.

CHAPTER III.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

One morning, after I'd been four whole years at Aunt Emma's, I heard a
ring at the bell, and, looking over the stairs, saw a tall and handsome

man in a semi-military coat, who asked in a most audible voice for
Miss Callingham.
Maria, the housemaid, hesitated a moment.
"Miss Callingham's in, sir," she answered in a somewhat dubious tone;
"but I don't know whether I ought to let you see her or not. My mistress
is out; and I've strict orders that no strangers are to call on Miss
Callingham when her aunt's not here."
And she held the door ajar in her hand undecidedly.
The tall man smiled, and seemed to me to slip a coin quietly into
Maria's palm.
"So much the better," he answered, with unobtrusive persistence; "I
thought Miss Moore was out. That's just