Chapter 23

That evening, as I sat with Edith in the music room, listening to some pieces in the programme of that day which had attracted my notice, I took advantage of an interval in the music to say, “I have a question to ask you which I fear is rather indiscreet.”

“I am quite sure it is not that,” she replied, encouragingly.

“I am in the position of an eavesdropper,” I continued, “who, having overheard a little of a matter not intended for him, though seeming to concern him, has the impudence to come to the speaker for the rest.”

“An eavesdropper!” she repeated, looking puzzled.

“Yes,” I said, “but an excusable one, as I think you will admit.”

“This is very mysterious,” she replied.

“Yes,” said I, “so mysterious that often I have doubted whether I really overheard at all what I am going to ask you about, or only dreamed it. I want you to tell me. The matter is this: When I was coming out of that sleep of a century, the first impression of which I was conscious was of voices talking around me, voices that afterwards I recognized as your father’s, your mother’s, and your own. First, I remember your father’s voice saying, “He is going to open his eyes. He had better see but one person at first.” Then you said, if I did not dream it all, “Promise me, then, that you will not tell him.” Your father seemed to hesitate about promising, but you insisted, and your mother interposing, he finally promised, and when I opened my eyes I saw only him.”

I had been quite serious when I said that I was not sure that I had not dreamed the conversation I fancied I had overheard, so incomprehensible was it that these people should know anything of me, a contemporary of their great-grandparents, which I did not know myself. But when I saw the effect of my words upon Edith, I knew that it was no dream, but another mystery, and a more puzzling one than any I had before encountered. For from the moment that the drift of my question became apparent, she showed indications of the most acute embarrassment. Her eyes, always so frank and direct in expression, had dropped in a panic before mine, while her face crimsoned from neck to forehead.

“Pardon me,” I said, as soon as I had recovered from bewilderment at the extraordinary effect of my words. “It seems, then, that I was not dreaming. There is some secret, something about me, which you are withholding from me. Really, doesn’t it seem a little hard that a person in my position should not be given all the information possible concerning himself?”

“It does not concern you--that is, not directly. It is not about you exactly,” she replied, scarcely audibly.

“But it concerns me in some way,” I persisted. “It must be something that would interest me.”

“I don’t know even that,” she replied, venturing a momentary glance at my face, furiously blushing, and yet with a quaint smile flickering about her lips which betrayed a certain perception of humor in the situation despite its embarrassment, --”I am not sure that it would even interest you.”

“Your father would have told me,” I insisted, with an accent of reproach. “It was you who forbade him. He thought I ought to know.”

She did not reply. She was so entirely charming in her confusion that I was now prompted, as much by the desire to prolong the situation as by my original curiosity, to importune her further.

“Am I never to know? Will you never tell me?” I said.