The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1897-06-01
THE UNSEEN SINGER.

was alone in the little seaside town,
the solace of work being denied me be-
| cause of the illness that had brought me
there to seek for health.
had been perhaps a fortnight in the
place when first I saw the lady of whom
would tell you. 1t was only for a mo-
ment, as she drove past in the company of
an older woman, but that moments sight
was enough to fill my thoughts until
saw her again upon the morrow. She was
beautiful beyond all words; fancied she
could hardly have passed the age of 30,
| and speech and hearing had been denied
her. She had the innocent gladness that
remains while they are yet young with
some who are afflicted. She looked upon
the world with beautiful, bright eyes and,
in despite of fate, was well pleased to be
alive. But she was talking with her fin
gers to the elder lady, her companion, in
whose eyes, as they looked on the girl,
saw an infinite pity expressed.
That pity instantly invaded my own
heart, though it's object was gone out of
my sight within few seconds of her ap-
lpearance, and, despite the fact that
knew not SO much as her name, there was
mixed with the pity a sense of angry re-
bellion against the fates that had thus
afflicted her, wantonly robbing of it's value
a generosity that, through her, might
otherwise have gladdened the wide world.
could not refrain from laughter at the
emotions SO suddenly aroused in me.
might have been her lover, and this in
ability to hear or to speak calamity quite
newly fallen upon her.
Now, more than ever, regretted my
loneliness, for I had no one from whom
might expect to gather any information
I
of my gaining the privilege of her &C
quaintance I made some futile inquiries
at the hotel, and only got SO far as to be
RlInoss certain she was, like myself, Wis
itor.
On the next day, at about the same
hour, the carriage passed along the length
of the promenade. She was still innocent
~ glad to be alive, content to accept her
burden as If it were no burden at all. 1t
was with smiles she looked into the pity
ing eyes of her companion, and l could
fancy that the messages she was conveying
with swiftly moving fingers were humor-
Gus appropriations of what she saw around
her.
My earlier questions had been addressed
TO a quaint, elderly waiter at the hotel,
man who had in some sort made it his
especial task to see to my well being, and
who was the nearest approach to a friend
I possessed within a hundred miles of the
the open window one day when the car
riage passed, little earlier than usual.
''That is the lady of whom was speak
ing" I said to him.
He looked out of the window with quick
interest. GA dear little maid, if I may say
SO. Yes, and the poor dear is deaf and
dumb. She's talking upon her fingers.
Well thought from what you told me they
/ must be strangers in these parts, and so
they are. don't even know the horses
nor the carriag -
Thus passed period of several days I
began to find myself vastly better, and
with the growth of energy to look forward
pleasurably to the time when I should re-
turn to my work in London. My good
friend the waiter had succeeded, much to
his delight, in getting me to go for nu-
merous drives through the lovely country
that surrounds the watering place. had
! even, on divers occasions, set forth on foot
| and explored the coast and the inland
lanes for myself. went alone, but new
er felt the absence of companions, for my
expeditions always took place before or
after the hour at which she might be ex-
pceted to pass along the promenade, and
so my thoughts were always busy, whether
with anticipation or remem braDoe.
Never once did she fail me; never once
] did her affection seem to mar the beauti-
( full gayety of her mood. 1t appeared that
she saw and enjoyed every little thing that
could be seen, nor was it altogether a
young mans vanity that made me wonder
whether she had begun to notice the fact
that a certain sallow invalid was always
idling on the promenade at the hour when
| she drove by.
had come to understand the routine of
| their daily outing. They were 1nanifestly
| living somewhere to the west of the town.
| Every day they went through the inland
lanes at the back of it until they were a
ill., -, ~. 4 !
ing seaward, drove home by the promenade
| and the road that skirts the sea.
Now one day, with no set purpose that
! I would have confessed even to myself,
/ took the western road and went into the
/ country. The road lies for some distance
j betwixt low hills and the southern sea; at
/ first, the suns heat was intolerable, but
gradually one mounted higher. and then
the sunlight was but the fit accOmpani-
ment of the lively wind that blew from
the sea. So I went forward in the best of
spirits until I had come to the edge of a
great valley that runs from the sea.
Some dozen or so cottages and little
pier stood at the margin of the sea. In
land few houses were seen among their
fruitful orchards. But at the edge of the
slope there was a little space of wild wood
and this, as I looked across the flower
grown hedge, tempted me to rest
| climbed the intervening barrier and lay
| down in the shelter of a little oak tree
The sunlight flooded wealth of braoken,
foxgloves and golden harvest weed. I
lounged at ease, content to watch stray
butterflies that went lazily from flower to
flower.
It may be I slept. Certainly I was a long
time under the oak before became aware
that was not the only occupant of the
wood. Some one was singing softly, and
1 could hear footsteps moving slowly
through the fern. could tell by the sound
that the newcomer was stopping here and
there to pick flowers.
Now, had enjoyed the solitude, but
even at the first the person who was COM
ing toward me did not strike me as an in
| truder. Her sineing was in absolute CON