Neville dwelt much in the world of his childhood, fancied himself riding along English lanes, and pulling briar and eglantine in the valleys of Surrey and Somerset with Peggy by his side. Then his imagination led to a beautiful golden-haired girl who went robed in green holding herself like some stately palm.
He remembered watching her walking over close-cropped lawn, and dancing galliards on polished floors. It seemed to him that he had loved her in that strange far away world, and he could recall vaguely a pang of regret when he heard that she was married. Then a blank and nothing more till he found himself here in this hospitable home, with Peggy still beside him ministering to him without ceasing, and the circle of friendly faces about. He knew neither curiosity nor sadness. It was well with him, and he asked nothing but to stay as he was.
"That is the worst of the case," said Master Huntoon to his wife. "If Neville were discontented or unhappy, it would show that there was some half-conscious memory at work in his mind; as it is, I have little hope. And such a man! Faith, Brent must have been mad to believe anything evil of that broad, open brow. I have seen many criminals in my time, Betty, and I know the look of them; but there is another look—the look of a man who might commit a crime if the motive were strong enough—I know that too; and then there is yet another face that God keeps for the man who is to play a man's part in the world, to do and dare and bear bravely the worst Fate can lay upon him, and that is the face of Christopher Neville."
"Alas that his mind should have died before the body!"
"Nay, Betty, let us not give it up so easily. Memory may be gone and judgment even, and yet the vital spark linger. Thought is the breath of the soul. While that lasts there is life, and Christopher's thought is as beautiful and as pure as the heaven above us."
"Ay, that's God's truth."
"More than that, I have seen in him now and then a glimpse of recognition of earth as though the soul were shaking off its lethargy. Were the real world a less sad one for him, I might be tempted to try to call him back by mention of the Brents or Mistress Calvert."
"Oh, that woman!" exclaimed Elizabeth; "not a word from her in all these weeks."
"You forget. She counts him dead."
"Ay, but she might have written to Peggy."