“There?” he asked. “Did you say you were sitting in that seat? Where did
you get on?”
“At Townsend.”
“Queer,” he answered; he punched the ticket. “Queer. I passed that seat
several times. It was empty!”
Empty! It was almost a shock. Could it be that my isolation was becoming
physical as well as mental? What was this gulf that was widening between
myself and my fellows?
It was the beginning of another phase. I have noticed it many times; on
the street, in public places, everywhere. I thread in and out among men.
Sometimes they see me, sometimes they don't. It is strange. I feel at
times as though I might be vanishing out of the world!
It was late when I reached my old home; but the lights were still
burning. My favourite dog, Queen, was on the veranda. As I came up the
steps she growled slightly, but on recognition went into a series of
circles about the porch. My father opened the door. I stepped inside. He
touched me on the shoulder, his jaw dropped.
“Harry!” he exclaimed.
Was it as bad as that? How much meaning may be placed in a single
intonation! I was weary to the point of exhaustion. The ride upon the
train had been too much.
My mother came in. For some moments I was busy protesting my health.
But it was useless; it wasn't until I had partaken of a few of the old
nostrums that I could placate her.
“Work, work, work, my boy,” said my father, “nothing but work. It
really won't do. You're a shadow. You must take a vacation. Go to the
mountains; forget your practice for a short time.”
I didn't tell them. Why should I? I decided right then it was my own
battle. It was enough for me without casting the worry upon others. Yet
I could not see Charlotte without calling on my parents.
As soon as possible I crossed the street to the Fentons'. Someone had
seen me in town. Charlotte was waiting. She was the same beautiful girl
I had known so long; the blue eyes, the blonde, wavy mass of hair, the
laughing mouth and the gladness. But she was not glad now. It was
almost a repetition of what had happened at home, only here a bit more
personal. She clung to me almost in terror. I didn't realise I had gone
down so much. I knew my weariness; but I hadn't thought my appearance
so dejected. I remembered Watson. He had been wan, pale, forlorn.
After what brief explanation I could give, I proposed a stroll in the
moonlight.
It was a full moon; a wonderful night; we walked down the avenue under
the elm trees. Charlotte was beautiful, and worried; she clung to my
arm with the eagerness of possession. I could not but compare her
with Nervina. There was a contrast; Charlotte was fresh, tender,
affectionate, the girl of my boyhood. I had known her all my life; there
was no doubt of our love.
Who was the other? She was something higher, out of mystery, out of
life--almost--out of the moonbeams. I stopped and looked up. The great
full orb was shining. I didn't know that I spoke.
“Harry,” asked Charlotte, “who is the Nervina?”
Had I spoken?
“What do you know about the Nervina?” I asked.
“She has been to see me. She told me. She said you would be here
tonight. I was waiting. She is very beautiful. I never saw anyone like
her. She is wonderful!”
“What did she say?”
“She! Oh, Harry. Tell me. I have waited. Something has happened. Tell
me. You have told me nothing. You are not like the old Harry.”
“Tell me about the Nervina. What did she say? Charlotte, tell me
everything. Am I so much different from the old Harry?”
She clutched at my arm fearfully; she looked into my eyes.
“Oh,” she said, “how can you say it? You haven't laughed once. You are
melancholy; you are pale, drawn, haggard. You keep muttering. You are
not the old Harry. Is it this Nervina? At first I thought she loved you;
but she does not. She wanted to know all about you, and about our love.
She was so interested. What is this danger?”