“Not yet. I am just going to.”
Her brother still remained calm and polite, with that contemptuous, incredulous smile playing round his lips.
“If you will make a fool of yourself, I can’t stop you. If you, with your beauty and position, choose to go and live in a garret, you must do so. Still, as your brother, I have certain responsibilities which would still be mine were your lover the highest in the land. I must make inquiries as to his character and moral worth—these fellows are generally a loose lot.”
“You may make what inquiries you choose.”
“Thank you. Now one favor—a command, the last I shall ask or give. You will not answer this letter—you will not see the man—until I have satisfied myself on these points. It is not too much to ask, Eugenia.”
She felt the justice of his remarks—could it be she was weak enough to be glad of a little delay and breathing space? But Gerald’s face, as last she saw it, rose before her.
“You must name a time,” she said.
“So impatient for true love and social extinction,” sneered Herbert. “Surely you can restrain yourself until this day week.”
It was longer than she had meant. But her brother’s bitter sneers settled it. “So be it,” she said, “until this day week.”
The promise given James Herbert dismissed the matter, but he filled up the next half-hour with the very cream of society gossip, which was undoubtedly as palatable to Eugenia as it would have been to any other woman. James Herbert lived within the inner circle, and as to-day, for purposes of his own, he spoke to Eugenia as if she were one of the initiated; his conversation was not without charm.
He was clever to know when to trust. He had not the slightest fear that Eugenia would break her promise.So he cautioned Mrs. Cathcart to keep the little fool well within sight, and thus avoid danger of a chance meeting; to order the servants to refuse the sculptor admission if he ventured to call—and above all to be sure that Norgate had every opportunity of pressing his suit. After this he waited calmly, and did nothing more in the matter for six whole days.
Days during which Gerald Leigh chafed and fretted. He refused to doubt, but his heart grew heavy within him. He felt sure that Mrs. Cathcart’s visit boded no good. At last he could bear the suspense no longer. He called and asked for Eugenia. She was out. He called again—the same result. He went back to his studio and tried to conquer his growing uneasiness by hard work. One morning a gentleman called and introduced himself as James Herbert.
Gerald received him courteously. Herbert was suave, smiling and bland. He spoke of the interest he felt in the young sculptor for his father, Mr. Herbert’s sake. He admired some embryo designs, and wished and prophesied all success. Then, as Gerald began to hope that Eugenia’s brother might some day be his friend, he turned upon him and tore him to pieces.
“But, after all, Mr. Leigh, my great object in calling concerns my sister.”
Gerald grew very pale.
“She is a good girl, but weak. She has confessed to me that some sort of romantic nonsense had passed between you.”
“She has vowed to be my wife—no more, no less.”
His impetuosity seemed to amuse Herbert. “I am afraid such a thing is an impossibility,” he saidserenely. “I shall not insult you by telling you she is all but penniless—geniuses, I know, never think of money—but I fear I must pain you by saying she repents of her hasty words.”
“That,” said Gerald slowly, yet fiercely, “is a lie.”
“My good sir, I cannot allow you to use such words. My temper is fair, but it has its limits.”
“I apologize,” said Gerald sullenly. “I should have said you were coercing her.”
“I never coerced any one in my life; much less my sister. Naturally, I shall object to her marriage with you; but that makes no difference.”
“Tell me what you have to tell,” said Gerald nervously. He hated and feared this smooth, smiling man.
“In a few words, then, my sister is unhappy and unsettled. For several days she has been trying to answer a letter you sent her. At last she confided all to me. I am sure I am not going too far when I say she would be glad to think that all boy and girl promises between you were forgotten.”
“She sent you to tell me this?” asked Gerald hoarsely.
“No. She knew I was coming. I am putting her thoughts in my own words.”
“I don’t expect you to understand what my love for your sister means; you could not,” said Gerald. “But you know she has vowed to be my wife.”
“Yes; and will keep her promise if you insist upon it.” The emphasis Herbert laid on insist made Gerald’s heart sick.
He said nothing; but, with a strange smile on his white face, he went to a table and wrote a few words.He handed the paper to his visitor. “Read,” he said; “you say you are her messenger; now you can be mine.” The words were:
“Eugenia: If this is unanswered I shall believe you wish to recall everything that has passed between us.”
“Thank you,” said Herbert. “This is all I could expect.”
With trembling hands the sculptor placed the paper in an envelope, and once more tendered it to Herbert.
“No, thank you,” said Herbert. “People have been tempted to suppress letters before now. Post it in the ordinary way.”
Gerald left the room. He returned in a few moments, and Herbert knew that the letter had been posted. He had nothing further to do with Gerald, so held out his hand affably.
“No,” said Gerald, “I would rather not.” His eyes were gleaming strangely.
“As you will,” said Herbert with indifference.
“I will change my mind,” said Gerald in a low voice, and taking the other’s hand; “condemned people always shake hands with the hangman, I think.”
He spoke with a ghastly attempt at mirth. Herbert left the studio without another word, but, as he drove to Mrs. Cathcart’s, said to himself, “The sooner that beggar shoots or hangs himself the better.”
He went straight to his sister. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and, with a look she had never yet seen on his face, said in a cold, contemptuous manner:
“Eugenia, I have been taking some trouble on your behalf. To-day two things are going to happen which will settle your future. Norgate will be here presentlyand ask you to be his wife. By the next post you will get a letter from that stone-cutter. Before you answer it, shut yourself up and think until you are in a proper frame of mind. Women are fools, but surely you can’t be the biggest among them.”
“You have seen him?” asked Eugenia faintly.
“Yes. An extremely nice young man—in his place.”
“Was he well?”
“Very well, and very comfortable. My dear girl, he quite won my respect—a thoroughly practical young man, with lots of common-sense. Now good-bye. Don’t make any mistake.”
Did she hear aright? Her brother found Gerald a thoroughly practical young man! The lie was so gigantic that it seemed impossible it could be all a lie. She was revolving it in her mind even when Sir Ralph Norgate was announced.
As for the practical young man, he had locked his door, and thrown himself on the ground. James Herbert’s words had impressed him, and perhaps his faith in Eugenia’s faith was not so great as he fancied. To-morrow he would know the verdict. He felt sure that if his letter remained unanswered for twenty-four hours James Herbert had spoken the truth.
Miss Herbert found her brother a true prophet. Sir Ralph Norgate offered his hand, and when the offer was refused, told her he did not mean to accept her answer as final. She did not, on her part, say anything about her love being given elsewhere. Then Gerald’s letter came, and following her brother’s advice she did think everything over; she sat for hours trying to nerve herself to answer the letter as love and faith demanded.
She loved him. Had he been present her indecision would soon have vanished; but, as it was, she could reflect fully on what an answer to his letter must mean—alienation of all her friends—an end of social ambition—many years, if not a life, of poverty. Eugenia shuddered as she thought of the consequences, and wished that she and Gerald had never met. She wished moreover, that the temptations of rank and wealth held out by her other suitor were less.
What would Gerald do if his letter was not answered? If she could but persuade herself that her brother’s estimate of his character was the right one! Possibly it might be; James knew mankind well. If she could but think so—could believe that Gerald would forget—she might then find it easier to be wise, and, by taking him at his word, save herself and perhaps him from what must insure unhappiness.
So she reasoned—so she excused her half-meditated treason—so she persuaded herself it would eventually be better for both if they parted. Yet all the while she knew she loved Gerald Leigh as she could love no other man. In this mental conflict the day passed and night found the letter unanswered. Then James Herbert came to her.
“Eugenia, have you replied to that letter?”
She shook her head.
“Give it to me,” he said.
She did so. It was a relief to get rid of it. He tore it into fragments.
“There,” he said. “I knew I could trust your good sense. There is an end of the affair. It is a secret between you and me, and I shall never again allude to it.”
For good or ill the die was cast. She had freed herself. But she had left the room with swimming eyes, and went to Mrs. Cathcart.
“Aunt,” she cried, “will you take me abroad—for a long time?”
It was hard for Mrs. Cathcart to be called upon to give up the rest of the London season. But then Mr. Herbert’s recent death prevented her going out much, and it was paramount that Eugenia’s future should be satisfactorily disposed of. So the excellent woman sacrificed herself at once.
“I will take you abroad, Eugenia, if you will promise to be Sir Ralph’s wife.”
Eugenia had chosen her own path, and knew where it would lead; yet for very shame she would not show her thoughts to others.
“I can promise nothing,” she said. “Take me away.”
Three days afterward, Gerald Leigh learned that Eugenia had gone abroad with her aunt.
Although in his studio all day long, the sculptor did no work for weeks; at last he aroused himself, engaged a model and set to work with feverish energy. From morn to night he thumbed and pushed about the ductile clay. He laughed in a sort of bitter triumph. His hands had not lost their cunning. The work grew and grew apace until the clay was done with, and a fair white block of marble stood in the centre of the studio waiting to be hewn into the statue which was to be Gerald Leigh’s first high bid for fame.
Itwas early in May. The Academy had been open about a week, long enough for the newspaper critics to tell the public what it ought to admire. Strange to say, this year the critics were unanimous in bestowing their highest praises on a piece of statuary, and a great future for the sculptor was predicted.
No. 1460 in the catalogue appealed to no one by cheap sentiment or sensational treatment. It was but the lightly-draped figure of a beautiful girl; one in the first flush of womanhood. She was in the act of stepping hastily forward. Her arms were extended as if to welcome, perhaps embrace, some one who was coming towards her. Her face bore a smile of eager delight. The grace, the likeness, the life of the figure arrested each passer by. The fall of the drapery, the position of each well-rounded limb, conveyed the idea of rapid motion. It was indeed hard to believe that she was doomed to remain forever in one fixed attitude. The stock remark of the spectators was that in a minute they expected to see her at the other side of the room.
This statute bore no distinguishing title, but those persons who turned to their catalogues found, under the number and the artist’s name, a few words of poetry:
“Her hands outstretchedTo greet the new love; whilst her feetTread, scornful, on the old love’s gifts.”
“Her hands outstretchedTo greet the new love; whilst her feetTread, scornful, on the old love’s gifts.”
“Her hands outstretchedTo greet the new love; whilst her feetTread, scornful, on the old love’s gifts.”
After reading this one turned, of course, to herfeet, and found that one of them was treading on flowers—roses and large star-shaped blossoms.
Several people, whilst admiring the statue, fancied they had somewhere seen the original of that beautiful face; but, save the sculptor, only one, James Herbert, knew the truth. He cursed Leigh’s impertinence, but was too wise to take any notice of it. Yet he determined to keep Eugenia from the Academy, if possible.
She was in town, and in a week’s time was to be married to Sir Ralph. Two months after Mrs. Cathcart had taken her niece abroad, the baronet joined them, and renewed his proposals; this time with success. The girl stipulated that the marriage should not take place until the spring. The truth is she wanted some months’ delay in order to get rid of the memories of Gerald Leigh, and by the time she returned to England flattered herself she had successfully completed the operation.
She had in the last few days heard some talk about the statue, but had steadfastly kept her eyes from the art criticisms, fearing to see Gerald’s name. Nevertheless, she wished to visit the Academy, and was surprised when James Herbert, now amiability itself, refused to take her there.
“You mustn’t go this year,” he said; “that fellow’s statute is creating quite a furore.”
“Well, what of that!” asked Eugenia, coldly.
“He has had bad taste enough to represent you. The likeness is unmistakable. It is a maudlin thing—a girl deserting her old love, or some such nonsense. Still, you’d better not go.”
Eugenia said no more, but all day long she wasthinking of her brother’s words, and longing to see what Gerald had wrought. That evening she dined out. At the table were several persons who worshipped art, and Eugenia’s cheek burned as she heard the praise bestowed on the new sculptor and the great future prophesied for him. Had she, after all, been wrong? Would it not have been better to have followed the mandates of her heart? Had she not been weak and mercenary? No matter; it was too late now to repent. Poor Gerald! She must see this wonderful image of herself.
Early next morning she went alone to Burlington House. Unlike others, she knew the meaning of the statue, knew the mute reproach it conveyed, knew why the marble foot trod down those particular flowers. She had never told him the fate of his boyish gift; but Gerald had often and often recalled his first meeting with her. Eugenia’s heart swelled as she remembered his brave words and confidence in himself—how sure he felt of success. He had, indeed, succeeded, but the first great work from his hands was a memento of his love for a faithless woman—herself.
Two gentlemen were at her side. They were talking of the work and the sculptor. One of them she knew. He was a lord, famous for his love of art and encouragement of rising artists.
“I tried to buy it,” he said, “but found it was not for sale.”
“Commercially speaking,” said his companion, “it is as well you cannot buy it.”
“Why? The man must go to the top of his profession.”
“I think not. Indeed, my belief is he will do littlemore. I have inquired about him. He does not live the life a genius must live in these days if he wants to succeed.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Lord ——, moving away.
Miss Herbert left the Academy with an echo of Gerald’s extravagant statement that life or death hung upon her love sounding in her ears. The conversation she had overheard distressed her greatly. The thought that her treachery had ruined a life full of promise would not be dismissed. She spent a most miserable day, and its misery was not diminished by the truth, which she could no longer conceal from herself, that she still loved Gerald. She loved him more than ever. Too late! too late! And Eugenia Herbert wept, as many others have wept, that the past could not be undone.
Sir Ralph Norgate and James Herbert dined that evening at Mrs. Cathcart’s. Their society was little comfort to Eugenia. She felt now that she hated her lover—hated his polite, hollow society ways and expressions—hated thatblasélook which so often settled on his face. She had never cared for him. Their love-making had been of a frigid kind—not, be it said, by Sir Ralph’s wish. He was proud of, and perhaps really fond of, the beautiful girl he had bought; so it was scarcely fair that Eugenia should compare his polite wooing with that of the impassioned boy’s, which recked no obstacles—heeded no consequences.
Her bitter thoughts made it impossible for her to sit out the dinner. Very soon she pleaded headache and went to her own room to resume her self-revilings. She made no further attempt to banish Gerald fromher thoughts. She lived again every moment she had spent in his company—heard again every word of wild love—felt his hand close on hers—his lips press her own—and shuddered as the dismal words “Life or death,” seemed echoing through her ears. If she could but undo the past!
Why not! The thought rushed through her. What hindered her save the false gods to whom she had bent? She was still legally free. Gerald was in the same town. Why should she heed her friends? Why trouble as to what people would think or say? By one bold step she could right everything. If to-morrow—nay, this very hour—she went to Gerald and bade him take her and hold her against all, she knew he would do so. He would forgive. To him her action would not seem bold or unmaidenly. In his eyes she would rank as high as ever; and what mattered the rest? To-morrow they might be miles away, and the bliss of being Gerald’s wife might well compensate for what people would say about her conduct. She herself could forget all, save that she was now bound forever to the man she loved!
She would do it. With feverish impatience she threw off her rich dress and wrapped herself in a plain cloak. She put on the quietest hat she could find, stole down stairs, and was out of the house before second thoughts had time to bring irresolution. Her heart beat wildly. She hailed a cab and was driven to Nelson Studios. On the way she remembered it was an unlikely hour to find an artist in his studio, but, nevertheless, now she had set out, resolved to complete her journey.
She walked quickly to Gerald’s door. She knockedsoftly, but met with no response. She dared not wait longer outside. The pictured consequences of her rash act were assuming tremendous proportions in her brain. Another minute’s delay and she must leave the spot never to return. She turned the handle of the door and entered the room.
Now, Miss Herbert’s half-formed plan of action when she found herself face to face with her ill-treated lover, had been something like this—she would walk up to him and simply say, “Gerald, I am come.” The rest must be left to him, but she believed, in spite of her weakness and treachery, he would freely forgive her all.
Gerald was not in the studio. The gas was half-turned down, and the clay casts on the wall looked grim and spectral. But, if Gerald was not in the room it was still inhabited. On a low couch—a couch covered by a rich Oriental rug—lay a woman, fast asleep.
She crept across the room and gazed on the sleeper. Even by the dim gas-light she knew that she gazed on beauty before which her own must pale. The woman might have been some five years older than herself, and those wonderful charms were at their zenith. The rich, clear, warm color on the cheek, the long black lashes, the arched and perfect eyebrows, told of Southern lands. The full, voluptuous figure, the shapely, rounded arms, the red lips, the soft creamy neck—before these the heart of man would run as wax before a fire. Eugenia, seeking her lover, found this woman in her stead.
A bitter, scornful smile played on Miss Herbert’s lips as she gazed at the sleeper. Somehow that oval,sunny face seemed familiar to her. Well might it be. In London, Paris, everywhere, she had seen it in the shop windows. There were few people in France or England who had not heard the name of Mlle. Carlotta, singer, dancer, darling of opera-bouffe, whose adventures and amours were notorious, who had ruined more men than she could count on the fingers of her fair hands.
Eugenia recognized her, and her smile of scorn deepened. The sight of a half-emptied champagne bottle close to the sleeper, a half-smoked cigarette lying on the floor just as it had fallen from her fingers, added nothing to the contempt Miss Herbert’s smile expressed. Gathering her skirts together to avoid any chance of contamination by touch, she was preparing to leave the studio as noiselessly as she had entered it, when suddenly the sleeper awoke.
Awoke without any warning. Simply opened her splendid dark eyes, stared for half a second, then, with wonderful lightness and agility, sprang to her feet.
“Que faites vous la?Why are you here?” she cried.
Without a word Eugenia moved towards the door. Mlle. Carlotta was before her. She turned the key and placed her back against the door.
“Doucement! doucement! ma belle,” she said. “Permit me to know who honors me with a visit?”
“I wished to see Mr. Leigh. I suppose he is out. Be good enough to let me pass.”
“Are you a model, then? But no; models look not as you look.”
“I am not a model.”
“Not!fi donc!You are, perhaps, one of thoseyoung misses who write Geraldo letters of love.A la bonne heure!I wish to see one of them—moi.”
With a saucy smile Carlotta pocketed the key, turned up the gas, and commenced a cool scrutiny of her prisoner. Eugenia blushed crimson.
“Qui vous etes belle, ma chere—belle mais blonde, and Geraldo, he loves not the blonde.”
“Let me pass!” said Eugenia, stamping her foot.
Her tormentor laughed, but not ill-temperedly.
“He will soon be here,” she said mockingly. “Surely Mademoiselle will wait. He will be enchanted to see one of the young misses.”
Mlle. Carlotta, when not injured, was not vindictive or unkindly; but she was as mischievous as a monkey. No doubt, having teased the girl to her satisfaction, she would have soon released her, but it happened that Eugenia turned her head, and for the first time the light shone full upon her face. Her gaoler started. She sprang towards her, seized her arm and dragged her across the room. Still holding her captive, she tore down a sheet and revealed the clay model of the statue which had made Gerald famous. She looked from the lifeless to the living face then burst into a peal of derisive laughter. Eugenia’s secret was discovered.
“Ha! ha! ha! The young miss that Geraldo loved. The one who threw him away for a rich lover! Yet, she wishes to see him again—so at night she comes. Ah, Mademoiselle, you have w-r-r-recked him, c-r-r-rushed him, r-r-ruined him, still would see him. Good; good! it is now his turn. My Gerald shall have revenge—revenge!”
Eugenia, thoroughly aroused, commanded her to lether go. Carlotta laughed in her face, was even ill-bred enough to snap her fingers and poke out her tongue at her prisoner. Eugenia humbled herself, and implored her by their common womanhood. Carlotta laughed the louder. Eugenia appealed to her venality, and tried to bribe her. Carlotta lowered her black eyebrows and scowled, but laughed louder than ever. “He will come very soon,” was all she said. “He will not stop long away from me—Carlotta.”
Miss Herbert was at her wit’s end. Yet, even through the shame of the situation, the anguish of her heart made itself felt. After having wrought herself up to make such a sacrifice, such an atonement, it was pitiable to find Gerald no better than the rest of his sex! She sat upon a chair longing for release, yet dreading to hear the step which would herald it.
Half an hour passed. Mlle. Carlotta whiled it away by emptying a glass of champagne, smoking a cigarette, and making comments upon Gerald’s prolonged absence. Presently she cried, “Ah, Mademoiselle, this is dull for you; see, I will dance to you,” and therewith she raised herself on her toes and went pirouetting round her captive, humming the while an air of Offenbach’s. Her dress was long, but she managed it with marvellous skill, and Eugenia, whilst loathing, could not help watching her with a sort of fascination. She was as agile as a panther; every attitude was full of grace, every gesture alluring.
Suddenly she stopped short. Her great eyes sparkled even more brightly. She glanced at her victim. “Hist!” she said. “I hear him. I know his step. He comes!”
A moment afterwards the door was tried. Eugenia covered her face with her hands. She knew not whatthe woman meant to do or say, but she felt that her crowning shame was at hand. Yet her heart beat at the thought of seeing Gerald once more, and a wild idea of forgiveness on either side passed through her.
Mlle. Carlotta turned down the gas, unlocked the door, and, as it opened, threw herself into the arms of the new-comer. Eugenia heard the sound of kisses given and returned, and her heart grew like stone.
“Geraldo,mon ami,” she heard the dancer say in passionate tones, “dis moi, que tu m’aimes—que tu m’aimes toujours!”
“Je t’adore ma belle—tu es ravissante!”
“Tell me in your own dear barbarous tongue. Swear it to me in English.”
“I swear it, my beautiful gipsy. I love you.”
“Me only?”
“You only;” and Eugenia heard him kiss her again and again.
“Dis done, my Geraldo. You love me more than the pale-faced miss who scorned you?” He laughed a wild, unpleasant sounding laugh.
“Why not? You can love or say you can love. She was the changeable white moon; you are the glorious Southern sun. She was ice; you are fire. Better be burnt to death than die of cold and starvation. Men have worshipped you—men have died for you. I love you.”
They came into the room. His arm was round her. Her radiant face rested on his shoulder. Again and again he kissed those beautiful lips. His eyes were only for her and saw not Eugenia.
Miss Herbert rose. Her face was as white as her marble prototype’s. She might have passed out unobservedby Gerald, but Mlle. Carlotta was on the watch. She pointed to her, and Gerald turned and saw Eugenia.
He had but time to realize it was no vision—then she was gone. With a wild cry he turned to follow her, but the woman twined her arms around him and restrained him. She was strong, and for some moments detained him. Her resistance maddened him. With a fierce oath he grasped her round arms and tore them from his neck, throwing her away with such force that she fell upon the floor. Then he rushed after Eugenia.
She was walking swiftly along the road. He soon reached her side; but, although aware of his presence, she neither spoke nor looked at him.
“What brought you here?” he said hoarsely.
She made no reply—only walked the faster.
“Tell me why you came?” he said. “I will never leave you until you answer me.”
She turned and looked at him. Fresh from that scene in the studio—with those words still ringing in her ears—even the great change she saw in his face did not move her to pity.
“I came,” she said, “on the eve of my marriage, to ask forgiveness of a man whom I fancied I had wronged. I am glad I came. I found him happy, and in society after his own heart.”
Her voice was cold and contemptuous. He quivered beneath her scorn. At that moment a cab passed. Eugenia called it.
“Leave me!” she said to Gerald. “Leave me! Our paths in life shall cross no more.”
He grasped her wrist. “Do you dare to reproach me? You! Eugenia, I told you it was life or death.”
“Life or death!” she repeated. “Death, at any rate, seems made very sweet to you.”
Still holding her wrist, he looked into her eyes in a strange, hopeless way. He saw nothing in them to help him. He leaned down to her ear.
“Yes, death,” he said in a solemn whisper; “but the moral and spiritual death comes first.”
His hand left her wrist. He turned, and without a word strode away. Whither? Even as Tannhauser returned to the Venusberg, so Gerald Leigh returned to his studio and Carlotta.
Eugenia wept all the way home. Wept for herself and Gerald. Wept for the shame she had endured. Wept for the uselessness of the contemplated atonement. Wept for the life before her, and for a man’s future and career wrecked by her weakness.
The next week she married Sir Ralph Norgate. The ceremony was surrounded by befitting splendor. Yet, even at the alter, Gerald Leigh’s pale passionate face rose before her, and she knew it would never leave her thoughts. She loved him still!
On her wedding morning she received many letters. She had no time to read them, so took them with her, and perused them as she went north with her husband. Among them was one in a strange handwriting; it ran thus:
“For your sake he struck me—Carlotta! But he came back to me and is mine again. Him I forgive; not you. We go abroad together to warm, sunny lands. Some day we shall quarrel and part. Then I shall remember you and take my revenge. How? That husband, for whom you deserted Gerald, I shall take from you.”
Eugenia’s lip curled. She tore the letter and threw the pieces out of the carriage window.
Two years afterwards Lady Norgate was listlessly turning the leaves of a society journal. Although she was a great and fashionable lady she was often listless, and found life rather a dreary proceeding. She read to-day, among the theatrical notes, that Mlle. Carlotta, the divine opera bouffe actress, was engaged to appear next month at the “Frivolity.” Although the woman’s absurd threat was unheeded, if not forgotten, her name recalled too vividly the most painful episode in Lady Norgate’s life. She turned to another part of the paper and read that the gentleman who committed suicide under such distressing circumstances, at Monaco, had now been identified. He was Mr. Gerald Leigh, the sculptor, whose first important work attracted so much attention two years ago. It was hinted that his passion for a well-known actress was the cause of the rash deed.
Lady Norgate dropped the paper, and covered her face with her hands. He had spoken truly. Her love meant life or death!
Had she believed, or troubled about the concluding paragraph of the notice, had she ventured to tell herself it was true that Gerald had forgotten her, and Carlotta was responsible for his death, her mind would soon have been set at rest.
Like a courteous foe who gives fair warning, Mlle. Carlotta wrote once more:
“He is dead. He died for your sake, not mine. Your name, not mine, was on his lips. Look to yourself. I am coming to London.”
No doubt Carlotta meant this letter as a first blowtowards revenge. She would hardly have written it had she known that Lady Norgate would cherish those words forever. Poor comfort as it was, they told her that Gerald had loved her to the last.
Then Mlle. Carlotta, more beautiful, more enticing, more audacious than ever, came to London.
For some months it had been whispered in society that Sir Ralph Norgate was not so perfect a husband as such a wife as Eugenia might rightly expect. After Carlotta’s reappearance the whispers grew louder, the statements more circumstantial. Eugenia caught an echo of them and smiled disdainfully.
Then the name of Carlotta’s new victim became town-talk. Yet Eugenia made no sign.
Not even when she met her husband, in broad daylight, seated side by side with the siren. The man had the grace to turn his head away, but Carlotta shot a glance of malicious triumph at the pale lady who passed without a quiver of the lip. James Herbert was with his sister, and found this encounter too much even for his cynicism. He was bound to speak.
“The blackguard!” he said. “But Eugenia, I don’t think I would have a divorce or a separation. It makes such a scandal.”
“It is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” she said coldly.
She spoke the truth. Carlotta’s romantic vengeance was an utter failure. Lady Norgate and her husband were, in truth, no farther apart than they had been for many months. Eugenia was indifferent.
And, as time goes on, grows more and more so. Indifferent to wealth, indifferent to rank, to pleasure, even to pain. She cherishes nothing, cares for nothing,save the remembrance that she was once loved by Gerald Leigh—that he bade her give him life or death—that although she gave him death, he died with her name on his lips!
I wishI had the courage to begin this tale by turning to my professional visiting books, and, taking at random any month out of the last twenty years, give its record as a fair sample of my ordinary work. The dismal extract would tell you what a doctor’s—I suppose I may say a successful doctor’s—lot is, when his practice lies in a poor and densely-populated district of London. Dreary as such a beginning might be, it would perhaps allay some of the incredulity which this tale may probably provoke, as it would plainly show how little room there is for things imaginative or romantic in work so hard as mine, or among such grim realities of poverty, pain, and grief as those by which I have been surrounded. It would certainly make it appear extremely unlikely that I should have found time to imagine, much less to write, a romance or melodrama.
The truth is that when a man has toiled from nineo’clock in the morning until nine o’clock at night, such leisure as he can enjoy is precious to him, especially when even that short respite is liable to be broken in upon at any moment.
Still, in spite of the doleful picture I have drawn of what may be called “the daily grind,” I begin this tale with the account of a holiday.
In the autumn of 1864 I turned my back with right good-will upon London streets, hospitals, and patients, and took my seat in the North Express. The first revolution of the wheels sent a thrill of delight through my jaded frame. A joyful sense of freedom came over me. I had really got away at last! Moreover, I had left no address behind me, so for three blessed weeks might roam an undisputed lord of myself. Three weeks were not very many to take out of the fifty-two, but they were all I could venture to give myself; for even at that time my practice, if not so lucrative as I could wish, was a large and increasing one. Having done a twelvemonth’s hard work, I felt that no one in the kingdom could take his holiday with a conscience clearer than mine, so I lay back in a peculiarly contented frame of mind, and discounted the coming pleasures of my brief respite from labor.
There are many ways of passing a holiday—many places at which it may be spent; but after all, if you wish to enjoy it thoroughly there is but one royal rule to be followed. That is, simply to please yourself—go where you like, and mount the innocent holiday hobby which is dearest to your heart, let its name be botany, geology, entomology, conchology, venery, piscation, or what not. Then you will be happy, and return well braced up for the battle of life. I knew a city clerkwith literary tastes, who invariably spent his annual fortnight among the mustiest tomes of the British Museum, and averred that his health was more benefited by so doing than if he had passed the time inhaling the freshest sea-breezes. I dare say he was right in his assertion.
Sketching has always been my favorite holiday pursuit. Poor as my drawings may be, nevertheless, as I turn them over in my portfolio, they bring to me at least vivid remembrances of many sweet and picturesque spots, happy days, and congenial companions. It was not for me to say anything of their actual merits, but they are dear to me for their associations.
This particular year I went to North Wales, and made Bettws-y-Coed my headquarters. I stayed at the Royal Oak, that well-known little inn dear to many an artist’s heart, and teeming with reminiscences of famous men who have sojourned there times without number. It was here I made the acquaintance of the man with whose life the curious events here told are connected.
On the first day after my arrival at Bettws my appreciation of my liberty was so thorough, my appetite for the enjoyment of the beauties of nature so keen and insatiable, that I went so far and saw so much, that when I returned to the Royal Oak night had fallen and the hour of dinner had long passed by. I was, when my own meal was placed on the table, the only occupant of the coffee-room. Just then a young man entered, and ordered something to eat. The waiter knowing no doubt something of the frankcamaraderiewhich exists, or should exist, between the followers of the painter’s craft, laid his cover at my table. Thenew-comer seated himself, gave me a pleasant smile and a nod, and in five minutes we were in full swing of conversation.
The moment my eyes fell upon the young man I had noticed how singularly handsome he was. Charles Carriston—for this I found afterwards to be his name—was about twenty-two years of age. He was tall, but slightly built; his whole bearing and figure being remarkably elegant and graceful. He looked even more than gentlemanly,—he looked distinguished. His face was pale, its features well-cut, straight, and regular. His forehead spoke of high intellectual qualities, and there was somewhat of that development over the eye-brows which phrenologists, I believe, consider as evidence of the possession of imagination. The general expression of his face was one of sadness, and its refined beauty was heightened by a pair of soft, dark, dreamy-looking eyes.
It only remains to add that, from his attire, I judged him to be an artist—a professional artist—to the backbone. In the course of conversation I told him how I had classified him. He smiled.
“I am only an amateur,” he said; “an idle man, nothing more—and you?”
“Alas! I am a doctor.”
“Then we shall not have to answer to each other for our sins in painting.”
We talked on pleasantly until our bodily wants were satisfied. Then came that pleasant craving for tobacco, which after a good meal, is natural to a well-regulated digestion.
“Shall we go and smoke outside?” said Carriston. “The night is delicious.”
We went out and sat on one of the wooden benches. As my new friend said, the night was delicious. There was scarcely a breath of air moving. The stars and the moon shone brightly, and the rush of the not far distant stream came to us with a soothing murmur. Near us were three or four jovial young artists. They were in merry mood; one of them had that day sold a picture to a tourist. We listened to their banter until, most likely growing thirsty, they re-entered the inn.
Carriston had said little since we had been out of doors. He smoked his cigar placidly and gazed up at the skies. With the white moonlight falling on his strikingly-beautiful face—the graceful pose into which he fell—he seemed to me the embodiment of poetry. He paid no heed to the merry talk or the artists, which so much amused me—indeed, I doubted if he heard their voices.
Yet he must have done so, for as soon as they had left us he came out of his reverie.
“It must be very nice,” he said, “to have to make one’s living by Art.”
“Nice for those who can make livings by it,” I answered.
“All can do that who are worth it. The day of neglected genius is gone by. Muller was the last sufferer, I think—and he died young.”
“If you are so sanguine, why not try your own luck at it?”
“I would; but unfortunately I am a rich man.”
I laughed at this misplaced regret. Then Carriston, in the most simple way, told me a good deal about himself. He was an orphan; an only child. He had already ample means; but fortune had still favors instore for him. At the death of his uncle, now an aged man, he must succeed to a large estate and a baronetcy. The natural, unaffected way in which he made these confidences, moreover made them not, I knew, from any wish to increase his importance in my eyes, greatly impressed me. By the time we parted for the night I had grown much interested in my new acquaintance—an interest not untinged by envy. Young, handsome, rich, free to come or go, work or play, as he listed! Happy Carriston!
I amdisposed to think that never before did a sincere friendship, one which was fated to last unbroken for years, ripen so quickly as that between Carriston and myself. As I now look back I find it hard to associate him with any, even a brief, period of time subsequent to our meeting, during which he was not my bosom friend. I forget whether our meeting at the same picturesque spot on the morning which followed our self-introduction was the result of accident or arrangement. Anyway, we spent the day together, and that day was the precursor of many passed in each other’s society. Morning after morning we sallied forth to do our best to transfer the same bits of scenery to our sketching-blocks. Evening after evening we returned to dine side by side, and afterward to talk and smoke together, indoors or outdoors as the temperature advised or our wishes inclined.
Great friends we soon became—inseparable as long as my short holiday lasted. It was, perhaps, pleasant for each to work in company with an amateur like himself. Each could ask the other’s opinion of themerits of the work done, and feel happy at the approval duly given. An artist’s standard of excellence is too high for a non-professional. When he praises your work he praises it but as the work of an outsider. You feel that such commendation condemns it and disheartens you.
However, had Carriston cared to do so, I think he might have fearlessly submitted his productions to any conscientious critic. His drawings were immeasurably more artistic and powerful than mine. He had undoubtedly great talent, and I was much surprised to find that good as he was at landscape, he was even better at the figure. He could, with a firm, bold hand draw rapidly the most marvellous likenesses. So spirited and true were some of the studies he showed me, that I could without flattery advise him, provided he could finish as he began, to keep entirely to the higher branch of the art. I have now before me a series of outline faces drawn by him—many of them from memory; and as I look at them the original of each comes at once before my eyes.
From the very first I had been much interested in the young man, and as day by day went by, and the peculiarities of his character were revealed to me, my interest grew deeper and deeper. I flatter myself that I am a keen observer and skilful analyst of personal character, and until now fancied that to write a description of its component parts was an easy matter. Yet when I am put to the proof I find it no simple task to convey in words a proper idea of Charles Carriston’s mental organization.
I soon discovered that he was, I may say, afflicted by a peculiarly sensitive nature. Although strongand apparently in good health, the very changes of the weather seemed to affect him almost to the same extent as they affect a flower. Sweet as his disposition always was, the tone of his mind, his spirits, his conversation, varied, as it were, with the atmosphere. He was full of imagination, and that imagination, always rich, was at times weird, even grotesquely weird. Not for one moment did he seem to doubt the stability of the wild theories he started, or the possibility of the poetical dreams he dreamed being realized. He had his faults, of course; he was hasty and impulsive; indeed to me one of the greatest charms about the boy was that, right or wrong, each word he spoke came straight from his heart.
So far as I could judge, the whole organization of his mind was too highly strung, too finely wrought for every-day use. A note of joy, of sorrow, even of pity vibrated through it too strongly for his comfort or well-being. As yet it had not been called upon to bear the test of love, and fortunately—I use the word advisedly—fortunately he was not, according to the usual significance of the word, a religious man, or I should have thought it not unlikely that some day he would fall a victim to that religious mania so well known to my professional brethren, and have developed hysteria or melancholia. He might even have fancied himself a messenger sent from heaven for the regeneration of mankind. From natures like Carriston’s are prophets made.
In short, I may say that my exhaustive study of my new friend’s character resulted in a certain amount of uneasiness as to his future—an uneasiness not entirely free from professional curiosity.
Although the smile came readily and frequently to his lips, the general bent of his disposition was sad, even despondent and morbid. And yet few young men’s lives promised to be so pleasant as Charles Carriston’s.
I was rallying him one day on his future rank and its responsibilities.
“You will, of course, be disgustingly rich?” I said.
Carriston sighed. “Yes, if I live long enough; but I don’t suppose I shall.”
“Why in the world shouldn’t you? You look pale and thin, but are in capital health. Twelve long miles we have walked to-day—you never turned a hair.”
Carriston made no reply. He seemed in deep thought.
“Your friends ought to look after you and get you a wife,” I said.
“I have no friends,” he said sadly. “No nearer relation than a cousin a good deal older than I am, who looks upon me as one who was born to rob him of what should be his.”
“But by the law of primogeniture, so sacred to the upper ten thousand, he must know you are entitled to it.”
“Yes; but for years and years I was always going to die. My life was not thought worth six months’ purchase. All of a sudden I got well. Ever since then I have seemed, even to myself, a kind of interloper.”
“It must be unpleasant to have a man longing for one’s death. All the more reason you should marry, and put other lives between him and the title.”
“I fancy I shall never marry,” said Carriston, looking at me with his soft dark eyes. “You see, a boywho has waited for years expecting to die, doesn’t grow up with exactly the same feelings as other people. I don’t think I shall ever meet a woman I can care for enough to make my wife. No, I expect my cousin will be Sir Ralph yet.”
I tried to laugh him out of his morbid ideas. “Those who live will see,” I said. “Only promise to ask me to your wedding, and better still, if you live in town, appoint me your family doctor. It may prove the nucleus of that West End practice which it is the dream of every doctor to establish.”
I have already alluded to the strange beauty of Carriston’s dark eyes. As soon as companionship commenced between us those eyes became to me, from scientific reasons, objects of curiosity on account of the mysterious expression which at times I detected in them. Often and often they wore a look the like to which, I imagine, is found only in the eyes of a somnambulist—a look which one feels certain is intently fixed upon something, yet upon something beyond the range of one’s own vision. During the first two or three days of our new-born intimacy, I found this eccentricity of Carriston’s positively startling. When now and then I turned to him, and found him staring with all his might at nothing, my eyes were compelled to follow the direction in which his own were bent. It was at first impossible to divest one’s self of the belief that something should be there to justify so fixed a gaze. However, as the rapid growth of our friendly intercourse soon showed me that he was a boy of most ardent poetic temperament—perhaps even more a poet than an artist—I laid at the door of the Muse these absent looks and recurring flights into vacancy.
We were at the Fairy Glen one morning, sketching, to the best of our ability, the swirling stream, the gray rocks, and the overhanging trees, the last just growing brilliant with autumnal tints. So beautiful was everything around that for a long time I worked, idled, or dreamed in contented silence. Carriston had set up his easel at some little distance from mine. At last I turned to see how his sketch was progressing. He had evidently fallen into one of his brown studies, and, apparently, a harder one than usual. His brush had fallen from his fingers, his features were immovable, and his strange dark eyes were absolutely riveted upon a large rock in front of him, at which he gazed as intently as if his hope of heaven depended upon seeing through it.
He seemed for the while oblivious to things mundane. A party of laughing, chattering, terrible tourist girls scrambled down the rugged steps, and one by one passed in front of him. Neither their presence nor the inquisitive glances they cast on his statuesque face roused him from his fit of abstraction. For a moment I wondered if the boy took opium or some other narcotic on the sly. Full of the thought I rose, crossed over to him, and laid my hand upon his shoulder. As he felt my touch he came to himself, and looked up at me in a dazed, inquiring way.
“Really, Carriston,” I said, laughingly, “you must reserve your dreaming fits until we are in places where tourists do not congregate, or you will be thought a madman, or at least a poet.”
He made no reply. He turned away from me impatiently, even rudely; then, picking up his brush, went on with his sketch. After awhile he seemed torecover from his pettishness, and we spent the remainder of the day as pleasantly as usual.
As we trudged home in the twilight, he said to me in an apologetic, almost penitent way,
“I hope I was not rude to you just now.”
“When do you mean?” I asked, having almost forgotten the trivial incident.
“When you woke me from what you called my dreaming.”
“Oh dear, no. You were not at all rude. If you had been, it was but the penalty due to my presumption. The flight of genius should be respected, not checked by a material hand.”
“That is nonsense; I am not a genius, and you must forgive me for my rudeness,” said Carriston simply.
After walking some distance in silence he spoke again. “I wish when you are with me you would try and stop me from getting into that state. It does me no good.”
Seeing he was in earnest I promised to do my best, and was curious enough to ask him whither his thoughts wandered during those abstracted moments.
“I can scarcely tell you,” he said. Presently he asked, speaking with hesitation, “I suppose you never feel that under certain circumstances—circumstances which you cannot explain—you might be able to see things which are invisible to others?”
“To see things. What things?”
“Things, as I said, which no one else can see. You must know there are people who possess this power.”
“I know that certain people have asserted they possess what they call second-sight; but the assertion is too absurd to waste time in refuting.”
“Yet,” said Carriston dreamily, “I know that if I did not strive to avoid it some such power would come to me.”
“You are too ridiculous, Carriston,” I said. “Some people see what others don’t because they have longer sight. You may, of course, imagine anything. But your eyes—handsome eyes they are, too—contain certain properties, known as humors and lenses, therefore in order to see—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Carriston; “I know exactly all you are going to say. You, a man of science, ridicule everything which breaks what you are pleased to call the law of Nature. Yet take all the unaccountable tales told. Nine hundred and ninety-nine you expose to scorn or throw grave doubt upon, yet the thousandth rests on evidence which cannot be upset or disputed. The possibility of that one proves the possibility of all.”
“Not at all; but enough for your argument,” I said, amused at the boy’s wild talk.
“You doctors,” he continued with that delicious air of superiority so often assumed by laymen when they are in good health, “put too much to the credit of diseased imagination.”
“No doubt; it’s a convenient shelf on which to put a difficulty. But go on.”
“The body is your province, yet you can’t explain why a cataleptic patient should hear a watch tick when it is placed against his foot.”
“Nor you; nor any one. But perhaps it may aid you to get rid of your rubbishing theories if I tell you that catalepsy, as you understand it, is a disease not known to us; in fact, it does not exist.”
He seemed crestfallen at hearing this. “But what do you want to prove?” I asked. “What have you yourself seen?”
“Nothing, I tell you. And I pray I may never see anything.”
After this he seemed inclined to shirk the subject, but I pinned him to it. I was really anxious to get at the true state of his mind. In answer to the leading questions with which I plied him, Carriston revealed an amount of superstition which seemed utterly childish and out of place beside the intellectual faculties which he undoubtedly possessed. So much so, that at last I felt more inclined to laugh at than to argue with him.
Yet I was not altogether amused by his talk. His wild arguments and wilder beliefs made me fancy there must be a weak spot somewhere in his brain—even made me fear lest his end might be madness. The thought made me sad; for, with the exception of the eccentricities which I have mentioned, I reckoned Carriston the pleasantest friend I had ever made. His amiable nature, his good looks, and perfect breeding had endeared the young man to me; so much so, that I resolved, during the remainder of the time we should spend together, to do all I could toward talking the nonsense out of him.
My efforts were unavailing. I kept a sharp lookout upon him, and let him fall into no more mysterious reveries; but the curious idea that he possessed, or could possess, some gift above human nature, was too firmly rooted to be displaced. On all other subjects he argued fairly and was open to reason. On this onepoint he was immovable. When I could get him to notice my attacks at all, his answer was:
“You doctors, clever as you are with the body, know as little of psychology as you did three thousand years ago.”
When the time came for me to fold up my easel and return to the drudgery of life, I parted from Carriston with much regret. One of those solemn, but often broken, promises to join together next year in another sketching tour passed between us. Then I went back to London, and during the subsequent months, although I saw nothing of him, I often thought of my friend of the autumn.
Inthe spring of 1865 I went down to Bournemouth to see, for the last time, an old friend who was dying of consumption. During a great part of the journey down I had for a travelling companion a well-dressed gentlemanly man of about forty years of age. We were alone in the compartment, and after interchanging some small civilities, such as the barter of newspapers, slid into conversation. My fellow-traveller seemed to be an intellectual man, and well posted up in the doings of the day. He talked fluently and easily on various topics, and judging by his talk must have moved in good society. Although I fancied his features bore traces of hard living and dissipation, he was not unprepossessing in appearance. The greatest faults in his face were the remarkable thinness of the lips, and his eyes being a shade closer together than one cares to see. With a casual acquaintance such peculiarities are of little moment, but for my part I shouldnot choose for a friend one who possessed them without due trial and searching proof.
At this time the English public were much interested in an important will case which was then being tried. The reversion to a vast sum of money depended upon the testator’s sanity or insanity. Like most other people we duly discussed the matter. I suppose, from some of my remarks, my companion understood that I was a doctor. He asked me a good many technical questions, and I described several curious cases of mania which had come under my notice. He seemed greatly interested in the subject.
“You must sometimes find it hard to say where sanity ends and insanity begins,” he said thoughtfully.
“Yes. The boundary-line is in some instances hard to define. To give in such a dubious case an opinion which would satisfy myself I should want to have known the patient at the time he was considered quite sane.”
“To mark the difference?”
“Exactly. And to know the bent of the character. For instance, there is a friend of mine. He was perfectly sane when last I saw him, but for all I know he may have made great progress the other way in the interval.”
Then without mentioning names, dates, or places, I described Carriston’s peculiar disposition to my intelligent listener. He heard me with rapt interest.
“You predict he will go mad?” he said.
“Certainly not. Unless anything unforeseen arises he will probably live and die as sane as you or I.”
“Why do you fear for him, then?”
“For this reason. I think that any sudden emotion—violentgrief, for instance—any unexpected and crushing blow—might at once disturb the balance of his mind. Let his life run on in an even groove, and all will be well with him.”
My companion was silent for a few moments.
“Did you mention your friend’s name?” he asked.
I laughed. “Doctors never give names when they quote cases.”
At the next station my companion left the train. He bade me a polite adieu, and thanked me for the pleasure my conversation had given him. After wondering what station in life he occupied I dismissed him from my mind, as one who had crossed my path for a short time and would probably never cross it again.
Although I did not see Charles Carriston I received several letters from him during the course of the year. He had not forgotten our undertaking to pass my next holiday together. Early in the autumn, just as I was beginning to long with a passionate longing for open air and blue skies, a letter came from Carriston. He was now, he said, roughing it in the Western Highlands. He reminded me of last year’s promise. Could I get away from work now? Would I join him? If I did not care to visit Scotland, would I suggest some other place where he could join me? Still, the scenery by which he was now surrounded was superb, and the accommodation he had secured, if not luxurious, fairly comfortable. He thought we could not do better. A postscript to his letter asked me to address him as Cecil Carr, not Charles Carriston. He had a reason for changing his name; a foolish reason I should no doubt call it. When we met he would let me know it.
This letter at once decided me to accept his invitation.In a week’s time my arrangements for leave of absence were complete, and I was speeding northward in the highest spirits, and well equipped with everything necessary for my favorite holiday pursuit. I looked forward with the greatest pleasure to again meeting Carriston. I found him at Callendar waiting for me. The coach did not follow the route we were obliged to take in order to reach the somewhat unfrequented part of the country in which our tent was pitched, so my friend had secured the services of a primitive vehicle and a strong shaggy pony to bear us the remainder of the journey.
So soon as our first hearty greetings were over I proceeded to ascertain how the last year had treated Carriston. I was both delighted and astonished at the great change for the better which had taken place in his manner, no less than his appearance. He looked far more robust; he seemed happier, brighter; although more like ordinary humanity. Not only had he greeted me with almost boisterous glee, but during our drive through the wonderful scenery he was in the gayest of spirits and full of fun and anecdote. I congratulated him heartily upon the marked improvement in his health, both mentally and physically.
“Yes, I am much better,” he said. “I followed a part of your advice; gave up moping, tried constant change of scene, interested myself in many more things. I am quite a different man.”
“No supernatural visitations?” I asked, anxious to learn that his cure in that direction was complete.
His face fell. He hesitated a second before answering.
“No—not now,” he said. “I fought against thestrange feeling, and I believe have got rid of it—at least I hope so.”
I said no more on the subject. Carriston plunged into a series of vivid and mimetic descriptions of the varieties of Scotch character which he had met with during his stay. He depicted his experiences so amusingly that I laughed heartily for many a mile.
“But why the change in your name?” I asked, when he paused for a moment in his merry talk.
He blushed, and looked rather ashamed. “I scarcely like to tell you; you will think my reason so absurd.”
“Never mind. I don’t judge you by the ordinary standard.”
“Well, the fact is, my cousin is also in Scotland. I feared if I gave my true name at the hotel at which I stayed on my way here, he might perchance see it, and look me up in these wild regions.”
“Well, and what if he did?”
“I can’t tell you. I hate to know I feel like it. But I have always, perhaps without cause, been afraid of him; and this place is horribly lonely.”
Now that I understood the meaning of his words, I thought the boy must be joking; but the grave look on his face showed he was never further from merriment.
“Why, Carriston!” I cried, “you are positively ridiculous about your cousin. You can’t think the man wants to murder you?”
“I don’t know what I think. I am saying things to you which I ought not to say; but every time I meet him I feel he hates me, and wishes me out of the world.”
“Between wishing and doing there is a great difference. I dare say all this ’s fancy on your part.”
“Perhaps so. Any way, Cecil Carr is as good a name up here as Charles Carriston, so please humor my whim and say no more about it.”
As it made no difference to me by what name he chose to call himself I dropped the subject. I knew of old that some of his strange prejudices were proof against anything I could do to remove them.
At last we reached our temporary abode. It was a substantial, low-built house, owned and inhabited by a thrifty middle-aged widow, who, although well-to-do so far as the simple ideas of her neighbors went, was nevertheless always willing to add to her resources by accommodating such stray tourists as wished to bury themselves for a day or two in solitude, or artists who, like ourselves, preferred to enjoy the beauties of Nature undisturbed by the usual ebbing and flowing stream of sightseers.
As Carriston asserted, the accommodation if homely was good enough for two single men; the fare was plentiful, and our rooms were the picture of cleanliness. After a cursory inspection I felt sure that I could for a few weeks make myself very happy in these quarters.
I had not been twenty-four hours in the house before I found out one reason for the great change for the better in Charles Carriston’s demeanor; knew his step was lighter, his eye brighter, his voice gayer, and his whole bearing altered. Whether the reason was a subject of congratulation or not I could not as yet say.