II

Most people would be struck by the utter insignificance of the

small events which, after the death of my parents, influenced my

life and made me unhappy. The grewsome forebodings of a Welsh

nurse, which chanced to be realized by an odd coincidence of

events, should not seem enough to change the nature of a child and

to direct the bent of his character in after years. The little

disappointments of schoolboy life, and the somewhat less childish

ones of an uneventful and undistinguished academic career, should

not have sufficed to turn me out at one-and-twenty years of age a

melancholic, listless idler. Some weakness of my own character may

have contributed to the result, but in a greater degree it was due

to my having a reputation for bad luck. However, I will not try to

analyze the causes of my state, for I should satisfy nobody, least

of all myself. Still less will I attempt to explain why I felt a

temporary revival of my spirits after my adventure in the garden.

It is certain that I was in love with the face I had seen, and that

I longed to see it again; that I gave up all hope of a second

visitation, grew more sad than ever, packed up my traps, and

finally went abroad. But in my dreams I went back to my home, and

it always appeared to me sunny and bright, as it had looked on that

summer’s morning after I had seen the woman by the fountain.

I went to Paris. I went farther, and wandered about Germany. I

tried to amuse myself, and I failed miserably. With the aimless

whims of an idle and useless man come all sorts of suggestions for

good resolutions. One day I made up my mind that I would go and

bury myself in a German university for a time, and live simply like

a poor student. I started with the intention of going to Leipzig,

determined to stay there until some event should direct my life or

change my humor, or make an end of me altogether. The express

train stopped at some station of which I did not know the name. It

was dusk on a winter’s afternoon, and I peered through the thick

glass from my seat. Suddenly another train came gliding in from

the opposite direction, and stopped alongside of ours. I looked at

the carriage which chanced to be abreast of mine, and idly read the

black letters painted on a white board swinging from the brass

handrail: BERLIN—COLOGNE—PARIS. Then I looked up at the window

above. I started violently, and the cold perspiration broke out

upon my forehead. In the dim light, not six feet from where I sat,

I saw the face of a woman, the face I loved, the straight, fine

features, the strange eyes, the wonderful mouth, the pale skin.

Her head-dress was a dark veil which seemed to be tied about her

head and passed over the shoulders under her chin. As I threw down

the window and knelt on the cushioned seat, leaning far out to get

a better view, a long whistle screamed through the station,

followed by a quick series of dull, clanking sounds; then there was

a slight jerk, and my train moved on. Luckily the window was

narrow, being the one over the seat, beside the door, or I believe

I would have jumped out of it then and there. In an instant the

speed increased, and I was being carried swiftly away in the

opposite direction from the thing I loved.

For a quarter of an hour I lay back in my place, stunned by the

suddenness of the apparition. At last one of the two other

passengers, a large and gorgeous captain of the White Konigsberg

Cuirassiers, civilly but firmly suggested that I might shut my

window, as the evening was cold. I did so, with an apology, and

relapsed into silence. The train ran swiftly on for a long time,

and it was already beginning to slacken speed before entering

another station, when I roused myself and made a sudden resolution.

As the carriage stopped before the brilliantly lighted platform, I

seized my belongings, saluted my fellow-passengers, and got out,

determined to take the first express back to Paris.

This time the circumstances of the vision had been so natural that

it did not strike me that there was anything unreal about the face,

or about the woman to whom it belonged. I did not try to explain

to myself how the face, and the woman, could be traveling by a fast

train from Berlin to Paris on a winter’s afternoon, when both were

in my mind indelibly associated with the moonlight and the

fountains in my own English home. I certainly would not have

admitted that I had been mistaken in the dusk, attributing to what

I had seen a resemblance to my former vision which did not really

exist. There was not the slightest doubt in my mind, and I was

positively sure that I had again seen the face I loved. I did not

hesitate, and in a few hours I was on my way back to Paris. I

could not help reflecting on my ill luck. Wandering as I had been

for many months, it might as easily have chanced that I should be

traveling in the same train with that woman, instead of going the

other way. But my luck was destined to turn for a time.

I searched Paris for several days. I dined at the principal

hotels; I went to the theaters; I rode in the Bois de Boulogne in

the morning, and picked up an acquaintance, whom I forced to drive

with me in the afternoon. I went to mass at the Madeleine, and I

attended the services at the English Church. I hung about the

Louvre and Notre Dame. I went to Versailles. I spent hours in

parading the Rue de Rivoli, in the neighborhood of Meurice’s

corner, where foreigners pass and repass from morning till night.

At last I received an invitation to a reception at the English

Embassy. I went, and I found what I had sought so long.

There she was, sitting by an old lady in gray satin and diamonds,

who had a wrinkled but kindly face and keen gray eyes that seemed

to take in everything they saw, with very little inclination to

give much in return. But I did not notice the chaperon. I saw

only the face that had haunted me for months, and in the excitement

of the moment I walked quickly toward the pair, forgetting such a

trifle as the necessity for an introduction.

She was far more beautiful than I had thought, but I never doubted

that it was she herself and no other. Vision or no vision before,

this was the reality, and I knew it. Twice her hair had been

covered, now at last I saw it, and the added beauty of its

magnificence glorified the whole woman. It was rich hair, fine and

abundant, golden, with deep ruddy tints in it like red bronze spun

fine. There was no ornament in it, not a rose, not a thread of

gold, and I felt that it needed nothing to enhance its splendor;

nothing but her pale face, her dark strange eyes, and her heavy

eyebrows. I could see that she was slender too, but strong withal,

as she sat there quietly gazing at the moving scene in the midst of

the brilliant lights and the hum of perpetual conversation.

I recollected the detail of introduction in time, and turned aside

to look for my host. I found him at last. I begged him to present

me to the two ladies, pointing them out to him at the same time.

“Yes—uh—by all means—uh,” replied his Excellency with a pleasant

smile. He evidently had no idea of my name, which was not to be

wondered at.

“I am Lord Cairngorm,” I observed.

“Oh—by all means,” answered the Ambassador with the same

hospitable smile. “Yes—uh—the fact is, I must try and find out

who they are; such lots of people, you know.”

“Oh, if you will present me, I will try and find out for you,” said

I, laughing.

“Ah, yes—so kind of you—come along,” said my host. We threaded

the crowd, and in a few minutes we stood before the two ladies.

“’Lowmintrduce L’d Cairngorm,” he said; then, adding quickly to me,

“Come and dine to-morrow, won’t you?” he glided away with his

pleasant smile and disappeared in the crowd.

I sat down beside the beautiful girl, conscious that the eyes of

the duenna were upon me.

“I think we have been very near meeting before,” I remarked, by way

of opening the conversation.

My companion turned her eyes full upon me with an air of inquiry.

She evidently did not recall my face, if she had ever seen me.

“Really—I cannot remember,” she observed, in a low and musical

voice. “When?”

“In the first place, you came down from Berlin by the express ten

days ago. I was going the other way, and our carriages stopped

opposite each other. I saw you at the window.”

“Yes—we came that way, but I do not remember—” She hesitated.

“Secondly,” I continued, “I was sitting alone in my garden last

summer—near the end of July—do you remember? You must have

wandered in there through the park; you came up to the house and

looked at me—”

“Was that you?” she asked, in evident surprise. Then she broke

into a laugh. “I told everybody I had seen a ghost; there had

never been any Cairngorms in the place since the memory of man. We

left the next day, and never heard that you had come there; indeed,

I did not know the castle belonged to you.”

“Where were you staying?” I asked.

“Where? Why, with my aunt, where I always stay. She is your

neighbor, since it IS you.”

“I—beg your pardon—but then—is your aunt Lady Bluebell? I did

not quite catch—”

“Don’t be afraid. She is amazingly deaf. Yes. She is the relict

of my beloved uncle, the sixteenth or seventeenth Baron Bluebell—I

forget exactly how many of them there have been. And I—do you

know who I am?” She laughed, well knowing that I did not.

“No,” I answered frankly. “I have not the least idea. I asked to

be introduced because I recognized you. Perhaps—perhaps you are a

Miss Bluebell?”

“Considering that you are a neighbor, I will tell you who I am,”

she answered. “No; I am of the tribe of Bluebells, but my name is

Lammas, and I have been given to understand that I was christened

Margaret. Being a floral family, they call me Daisy. A dreadful

American man once told me that my aunt was a Bluebell and that I

was a Harebell—with two l’s and an e—because my hair is so thick.

I warn you, so that you may avoid making such a bad pun.”

“Do I look like a man who makes puns?” I asked, being very

conscious of my melancholy face and sad looks.

Miss Lammas eyed me critically.

“No; you have a mournful temperament. I think I can trust you,”

she answered. “Do you think you could communicate to my aunt the

fact that you are a Cairngorm and a neighbor? I am sure she would

like to know.”

I leaned toward the old lady, inflating my lungs for a yell. But

Miss Lammas stopped me.

“That is not of the slightest use,” she remarked. “You can write

it on a bit of paper. She is utterly deaf.”

“I have a pencil,” I answered; “but I have no paper. Would my cuff

do, do you think?”

“Oh, yes!” replied Miss Lammas, with alacrity; “men often do that.”

I wrote on my cuff: “Miss Lammas wishes me to explain that I am

your neighbor, Cairngorm.” Then I held out my arm before the old

lady’s nose. She seemed perfectly accustomed to the proceeding,

put up her glasses, read the words, smiled, nodded, and addressed

me in the unearthly voice peculiar to people who hear nothing.

“I knew your grandfather very well,” she said. Then she smiled and

nodded to me again, and to her niece, and relapsed into silence.

“It is all right,” remarked Miss Lammas. “Aunt Bluebell knows she

is deaf, and does not say much, like the parrot. You see, she knew

your grandfather. How odd that we should be neighbors! Why have

we never met before?”

“If you had told me you knew my grandfather when you appeared in

the garden, I should not have been in the least surprised,” I

answered rather irrelevantly. “I really thought you were the ghost

of the old fountain. How in the world did you come there at that

hour?”

“We were a large party and we went out for a walk. Then we thought

we should like to see what your park was like in the moonlight, and

so we trespassed. I got separated from the rest, and came upon you

by accident, just as I was admiring the extremely ghostly look of

your house, and wondering whether anybody would ever come and live

there again. It looks like the castle of Macbeth, or a scene from

the opera. Do you know anybody here?”

“Hardly a soul! Do you?”

“No. Aunt Bluebell said it was our duty to come. It is easy for

her to go out; she does not bear the burden of the conversation.”

“I am sorry you find it a burden,” said I. “Shall I go away?”

Miss Lammas looked at me with a sudden gravity in her beautiful

eyes, and there was a sort of hesitation about the lines of her

full, soft mouth.

“No,” she said at last, quite simply, “don’t go away. We may like

each other, if you stay a little longer—and we ought to, because

we are neighbors in the country.”

I suppose I ought to have thought Miss Lammas a very odd girl.

There is, indeed, a sort of freemasonry between people who discover

that they live near each other and that they ought to have known

each other before. But there was a sort of unexpected frankness

and simplicity in the girl’s amusing manner which would have struck

anyone else as being singular, to say the least of it. To me,

however, it all seemed natural enough. I had dreamed of her face

too long not to be utterly happy when I met her at last and could

talk to her as much as I pleased. To me, the man of ill luck in

everything, the whole meeting seemed too good to be true. I felt

again that strange sensation of lightness which I had experienced

after I had seen her face in the garden. The great rooms seemed

brighter, life seemed worth living; my sluggish, melancholy blood

ran faster, and filled me with a new sense of strength. I said to

myself that without this woman I was but an imperfect being, but

that with her I could accomplish everything to which I should set

my hand. Like the great Doctor, when he thought he had cheated

Mephistopheles at last, I could have cried aloud to the fleeting

moment, Verweile doch, du bist so schon!

“Are you always gay?” I asked, suddenly. “How happy you must be!”

“The days would sometimes seem very long if I were gloomy,” she

answered, thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I find life very pleasant,

and I tell it so.”

“How can you ‘tell life’ anything?” I inquired. “If I could catch

my life and talk to it, I would abuse it prodigiously, I assure

you.”

“I dare say. You have a melancholy temper. You ought to live out-

of-doors, dig potatoes, make hay, shoot, hunt, tumble into ditches,

and come home muddy and hungry for dinner. It would be much better

for you than moping in your rook tower and hating everything.”

“It is rather lonely down there,” I murmured, apologetically,

feeling that Miss Lammas was quite right.

“Then marry, and quarrel with your wife,” she laughed. “Anything

is better than being alone.”

“I am a very peaceable person. I never quarrel with anybody. You

can try it. You will find it quite impossible.”

“Will you let me try?” she asked, still smiling.

“By all means—especially if it is to be only a preliminary

canter,” I answered, rashly.

“What do you mean?” she inquired, turning quickly upon me.

“Oh—nothing. You might try my paces with a view to quarreling in

the future. I cannot imagine how you are going to do it. You will

have to resort to immediate and direct abuse.”

“No. I will only say that if you do not like your life, it is your

own fault. How can a man of your age talk of being melancholy, or

of the hollowness of existence? Are you consumptive? Are you

subject to hereditary insanity? Are you deaf, like Aunt Bluebell?

Are you poor, like—lots of people? Have you been crossed in love?

Have you lost the world for a woman, or any particular woman for

the sake of the world? Are you feeble-minded, a cripple, an

outcast? Are you—repulsively ugly?” She laughed again. “Is

there any reason in the world why you should not enjoy all you have

got in life?”

“No. There is no reason whatever, except that I am dreadfully

unlucky, especially in small things.”

“Then try big things, just for a change,” suggested Miss Lammas.

“Try and get married, for instance, and see how it turns out.”

“If it turned out badly it would be rather serious.”

“Not half so serious as it is to abuse everything unreasonably. If

abuse is your particular talent, abuse something that ought to be

abused. Abuse the Conservatives—or the Liberals—it does not

matter which, since they are always abusing each other. Make

yourself felt by other people. You will like it, if they don’t.

It will make a man of you. Fill your mouth with pebbles, and howl

at the sea, if you cannot do anything else. It did Demosthenes no

end of good, you know. You will have the satisfaction of imitating

a great man.”

“Really, Miss Lammas, I think the list of innocent exercises you

propose—”

“Very well—if you don’t care for that sort of thing, care for some

other sort of thing. Care for something, or hate something. Don’t

be idle. Life is short, and though art may be long, plenty of

noise answers nearly as well.”

“I do care for something—I mean, somebody,” I said.

“A woman? Then marry her. Don’t hesitate.”

“I do not know whether she would marry me,” I replied. “I have

never asked her.”

“Then ask her at once,” answered Miss Lammas. “I shall die happy

if I feel I have persuaded a melancholy fellow creature to rouse

himself to action. Ask her, by all means, and see what she says.

If she does not accept you at once, she may take you the next time.

Meanwhile, you will have entered for the race. If you lose, there

are the ‘All-aged Trial Stakes,’ and the ‘Consolation Race.’”

“And plenty of selling races into the bargain. Shall I take you at

your word, Miss Lammas?”

“I hope you will,” she answered.

“Since you yourself advise me, I will. Miss Lammas, will you do me

the honor to marry me?”

For the first time in my life the blood rushed to my head and my

sight swam. I cannot tell why I said it. It would be useless to

try to explain the extraordinary fascination the girl exercised

over me, or the still more extraordinary feeling of intimacy with

her which had grown in me during that half hour. Lonely, sad,

unlucky as I had been all my life, I was certainly not timid, nor

even shy. But to propose to marry a woman after half an hour’s

acquaintance was a piece of madness of which I never believed

myself capable, and of which I should never be capable again, could

I be placed in the same situation. It was as though my whole being

had been changed in a moment by magic—by the white magic of her

nature brought into contact with mine. The blood sank back to my

heart, and a moment later I found myself staring at her with

anxious eyes. To my amazement she was as calm as ever, but her

beautiful mouth smiled, and there was a mischievous light in her

dark-brown eyes.

“Fairly caught,” she answered. “For an individual who pretends to

be listless and sad you are not lacking in humor. I had really not

the least idea what you were going to say. Wouldn’t it be

singularly awkward for you if I had said ‘Yes’? I never saw

anybody begin to practice so sharply what was preached to him—with

so very little loss of time!”

“You probably never met a man who had dreamed of you for seven

months before being introduced.”

“No, I never did,” she answered gayly. “It smacks of the romantic.

Perhaps you are a romantic character, after all. I should think

you were if I believed you. Very well; you have taken my advice,

entered for a Stranger’s Race and lost it. Try the All-aged Trial

Stakes. You have another cuff, and a pencil. Propose to Aunt

Bluebell; she would dance with astonishment, and she might recover

her hearing.”