THE habit of industry practised from childhood to maturity is not
obliterated by an unexpected shower of gold. Dorothy was an early riser,
and one morning, entering the parlor from her room she saw, lying upon
the table, a letter with a Russian stamp, but addressed in an unknown
hand to her friend Katherine Kempt. She surmised that here was the first
communication from the Prince, and expected to learn all about it during
the luncheon hour at the latest. But the morning and afternoon passed,
and Katherine made no sign, which Dorothy thought was most unusual. All
that day and the next Katherine went about silent, sedate and serious,
never once quoting the humorous Mr. Gilbert. On the third morning
Dorothy was surprised, emerging from her room, to see Katherine standing
by the table, a black book in her hand. On the table lay a large package
from New York, recently opened, displaying a number of volumes in what
might be termed serious binding, leather or cloth, but none showing that
high coloring which distinguishes the output of American fiction.
“Good-morning, Dorothy. The early bird is after the worm of science.”
She held forth the volume in her hand. “Steele’s ‘Fourteen-Weeks’ Course
in Chemistry,’ an old book, but fascinatingly written. Dorothy,” she
continued with a sigh, “I want to talk seriously with you.”
“About chemistry?” asked Dorothy.
“About men,” said Katherine firmly, “and, incidentally, about women.”
“An interesting subject, Kate, but you’ve got the wrong text-books. You
should have had a parcel of novels instead.”
Dorothy seated herself, and Katherine followed her example, Steele’s
“Fourteen-Weeks’ Course” resting in her lap.
“Every man,” began Katherine, “should have a guardian to protect him.”
“From women?”
“From all things that are deceptive, and not what they seem.”
“That sounds very sententious, Kate. What does it mean?”
“It means that man is a simpleton, easily taken in. He is too honest for
crafty women, who delude him shamelessly.”
“Whom have you been deluding, Kate?”
“Dorothy, I am a sneak.”
Dorothy laughed.
“Indeed, Katherine, you are anything but that. You couldn’t do a mean or
ungenerous action if you tried your best.”
“You think, Dorothy, I could reform?” she asked, breathlessly, leaning
forward.
“Reform? You don’t need to reform. You are perfectly delightful as you
are, and I know no man who is worthy of you. That’s a woman’s opinion;
one who knows you well, and there is nothing dishonest about the
opinion, either, in spite of your tirade against our sex.”
“Dorothy, three days ago, be the same more or less, I received a letter
from John Lamont.”
“Yes, I saw it on the table, and surmised it was from him.”
“Did you? You were quite right. The reading of that letter has
revolutionized my character. I am a changed woman, Dorothy, and
thoroughly ashamed of myself. When I remember how I have deluded that
poor, credulous young man, in making him believe I understood even the
fringe of what he spoke about, it fills me with grief at my perfidy, but
I am determined to amend my ways if hard study will do it, and when next
I see him I shall talk to him worthily like a female Thomas A. Edison.”
Again Dorothy laughed.
“Now, that’s heartless of you, Dorothy. Don’t you see I’m in deadly
earnest? Must my former frivolity dog my steps through life? When I
call to mind that I made fun to you of his serious purpose in life, the
thought makes me cringe and despise myself.”
“Nonsense, Kate, don’t go to the other extreme. I remember nothing you
have said that needs withdrawal. You have never made a malicious remark
in your life, Kate. Don’t make me defend you against yourself. You have
determined, I take it, to plunge into the subjects which interest the
man you are going to marry. That is a perfectly laudable ambition, and I
am quite sure you will succeed.”
“I know I don’t deserve all that, Dorothy, but I like it just the
same. I like people to believe in me, even if I sometimes lose faith in
myself. May I read you an extract from his letter?”
“Don’t if you’d rather not.”
“I’d rather, Dorothy, if it doesn’t weary you, but you will understand
when you have heard it, in what a new light I regard myself.”
The letter proved to be within the leaves of the late Mr. Steele’s book
on Chemistry, and from this volume she extracted it, pressed it for
a moment against her breast with her open hand, gazing across at her
friend.
“Dorothy, my first love-letter!”
She turned the crisp, thin pages, and began:
“‘You may recollect that foot-note which you marked with red ink in the
book you so kindly gave me on the subject of Catalysis, which did
not pertain to the subject of the volume in question, and yet was so
illuminative to any student of chemistry. They have done a great deal
with Catalysis in Germany with amazing commercial results, but the
subject is one so recent that I had not previously gone thoroughly into
it.’”
Katherine paused in the reading, and looked across at her auditor, an
expression almost of despair in her eloquent eyes.
“Dorothy, what under heaven is Catalysis?”
“Don’t ask me,” replied Dorothy, suppressing a laugh, struck by the
ludicrousness of any young and beautiful woman pressing any such
sentiments as these to her bosom.
“Have you ever heard of a Catalytic process, Dorothy?” beseeched
Katherine. “It is one of the phrases he uses.”
“Never; go on with the letter, Kate.”
“‘I saw at once that if I could use Catalytic process which would be
instantaneous in its solidifying effect on my liquid limestone, instead
of waiting upon slow evaporation, I could turn out building stone faster
than one can make brick. You, I am sure, with your more alert mind, saw
this when you marked that passage in red.’”
“Oh, Dorothy,” almost whimpered Katherine, leaning back, “how can I go
on? Don’t you see what a sneak I am? It was bad enough to cozen with my
heedless, random markings of the book, but to think that line of red ink
might have been marked in his blood, for I nearly sent the poor boy to
his death.”
“Go on, Katherine, go on, go on!”
“‘In my search for a Catalytic whose substance would remain unchanged
after the reaction, I quite overlooked the chemical ingredients of one
of the materials I was dealing with, and the result was an explosion
which nearly blew the roof off the shop, and quite startled poor
Drummond out of a year’s growth. However, no real harm has been done,
while I have been taught a valuable lesson; to take into account all
the elements I am using. I must not become so intent on the subject I am
pursuing as to ignore everything else.’ And now, Dorothy, I want to ask
you a most intimate question, which I beg of you to answer as frankly as
I have confided in you.”
“I know what your question is, Kate. A girl who is engaged wishes to see
her friend in the same position. You would ask me if I am in love with
Alan Drummond, and I answer perfectly frankly that I am not.”
“You are quite sure of that, Dorothy?”
“Quite. He is the only man friend I have had, except my own father, and
I willingly confess to a sisterly interest in him.”
“Well, if that is all--”
“It is all, Kate. Why?”
“Because there is something about him in this letter, which I would read
to you if I thought you didn’t care.”
“Oh, he is in love with Jack’s sister, very likely. I should think that
would be a most appropriate arrangement. Jack is his best friend, and
perhaps a lover would weaken the influence which Tolstoi exerts over
an emotional person’s mind. Lieutenant Drummond, with his sanity, would
probably rescue a remnant of her estates.”
“Oh, well, if you can talk as indifferently as that, you are all right,
Dorothy. No, there is no other woman in the case. Here’s what Jack says:
“‘It is amazing how little an Englishman understands people of other
nations. Here is my tall friend Drummond marching nonchalantly among
dangers of which he has not the least conception. The authorities whom
he thinks so courteous are fooling him to the top of his bent. There
is, of course, no danger of his arrest, but nevertheless the eyes of the
police are upon him, and he will not believe it, any more than he will
believe he is being hoodwinked by the Foreign Minister. What I fear is
that he will be bludgeoned on the street some dark night, or involved in
a one-sided duel. Twice I have rescued him from an imminent danger
which he has not even seen. Once in a restaurant a group of officers,
apparently drunk, picked a quarrel and drew swords upon him. I had
the less difficulty in getting him away because he fears a broil, or
anything that will call down upon him the attention of his wooden-headed
cousin in the Embassy. On another occasion as we were coming home toward
midnight, a perfectly bogus brawl broke out suddenly all around us.
Drummond was unarmed, but his huge fists sent sprawling two or three
of his assailants. I had a revolver, and held the rest off, and so we
escaped. I wish he was safely back in London again.’ What do you think
of that, Dorothy?”
“I think exactly what Mr. Lamont thinks. Lieutenant Drummond’s mission
to Russia seems to me a journey of folly.”
“After all, I am glad you don’t care, Dorothy. He should pay attention
to what Jack says, for Jack knows Russia, and he doesn’t. Still, let
us hope he will come safely out of St. Petersburg. And now, Dot, for
breakfast, because I must get to work.”
Next morning Dorothy saw a letter for herself on the table in the now
familiar hand-writing, and was more relieved than perhaps she would
have confessed even to her closest friend, when she saw the
twopence-halfpenny English stamp on the envelope. Yet its contents were
startling enough, and this letter she did not read to Katherine Kempt,
but bore its anxiety alone.
DEAR MISS AMHURST:
I write you in great trouble of mind, not trusting this letter to the
Russian post-office, but sending it by an English captain to be posted
in London. Two days ago Jack Lamont disappeared; a disappearance as
complete as if he had never existed. The night before last, about
ten o’clock, I thought I heard him come into his shop below my room.
Sometimes he works there till daylight, and as, when absorbed in his
experiments, he does not relish interruptions, even from me, I go on
with my reading until he comes upstairs. Toward eleven o’clock I thought
I heard slight sounds of a scuffle, and a smothered cry. I called out
to him, but received no answer. Taking a candle, I went downstairs, but
everything was exactly as usual, the doors locked, and not even a bench
overturned. I called aloud, but only the echo of this barn of a room
replied. I lit the gas and made a more intelligent search, but with
no result. I unlocked the door, and stood out in the street, which was
quite silent and deserted. I began to doubt that I had heard anything at
all, for, as I have told you, my nerves lately have been rather prone to
the jumps. I sat up all night waiting for him, but he did not come. Next
day I went, as had been previously arranged, to the Foreign Office, but
was kept waiting in an anteroom for two hours, and then told that the
Minister could not see me. I met a similar repulse at the Admiralty. I
dined alone at the restaurant Jack and I frequent, but saw nothing of
him. This morning he has not returned, and I am at my wit’s end, not
in the least knowing what to do. It is useless for me to appeal to
the embassy of my country, for, Jack being a Russian, it has no
jurisdiction. The last letter I received from you was tampered with. The
newspaper extract you spoke of was not there, and one of the sheets of
the letter was missing. Piffling business, I call it, this interfering
with private correspondence.
Such was the last letter that Alan Drummond was ever to send to Dorothy
Amhurst.