exercise of his functions, and he has resumed his morning labors with
Mr. Sloane. I, on my side, have spent these morning hours in scouring
the country on that capital black mare, the use of which is one of the
perquisites of Theodore's place. The days have been magnificent--the
heat of the sun tempered by a murmuring, wandering wind, the whole north
a mighty ecstasy of sound and verdure, the sky a far-away vault of
bended blue. Not far from the mill at M., the other end of the lake, I
met, for the third time, that very pretty young girl who reminds me so
forcibly of A.L. She makes so lavish a use of her eyes that I ventured
to stop and bid her good-morning. She seems nothing loath to an
acquaintance. She's a pure barbarian in speech, but her eyes are quite
articulate. These rides do me good; I was growing too pensive.
There is something the matter with Theodore; his illness seems to have
left him strangely affected. He has fits of silent stiffness,
alternating with spasms of extravagant gayety. He avoids me at times for
hours together, and then he comes and looks at me with an inscrutable
smile, as if he were on the verge of a burst of confidence--which again
is swallowed up in the immensity of his dumbness. Is he hatching some
astounding benefit to his species? Is he working to bring about my
removal to a higher sphere of action? _Nous verrons bien_.
18th.--Theodore threatens departure. He received this morning a letter
from one of his sisters--the young widow--announcing her engagement to a
clergyman whose acquaintance she has recently made, and intimating her
expectation of an immediate union with the gentleman--a ceremony which
would require Theodore's attendance. Theodore, in high good humor, read
the letter aloud at breakfast--and, to tell the truth, it was a charming
epistle. He then spoke of his having to go on to the wedding, a
proposition to which Mr. Sloane graciously assented--much more than
assented. "I shall be sorry to lose you, after so happy a connection,"
said the old man. Theodore turned pale, stared a moment, and then,
recovering his color and his composure, declared that he should have no
objection in life to coming back.
"Bless your soul!" cried the _bonhomme_, "you don't mean to say you will
leave your other sister all alone?"
To which Theodore replied that he would arrange for her and her little
girl to live with the married pair. "It's the only proper thing," he
remarked, as if it were quite settled. Has it come to this, then, that
Mr. Sloane actually wants to turn him out of the house? The shameless
old villain! He keeps smiling an uncanny smile, which means, as I read
it, that if the poor young man once departs he shall never return on the
old footing--for all his impudence!
20th.--This morning, at breakfast, we had a terrific scene. A letter
arrives for Theodore; he opens it, turns white and red, frowns, falters,
and then informs us that the clever widow has broken off her engagement.
No wedding, therefore, and no departure for Theodore. The _bonhomme_ was
furious. In his fury he took the liberty of calling poor Mrs. Parker
(the sister) a very uncivil name. Theodore rebuked him, with perfect
good taste, and kept his temper.
"If my opinions don't suit you, Mr. Lisle," the old man broke out, "and
my mode of expressing them displeases you, you know you can easily
protect yourself."
"My dear Mr. Sloane," said Theodore, "your opinions, as a general thing,
interest me deeply, and have never ceased to act beneficially upon the
formation of my own. Your mode of expressing them is always brilliant,
and I wouldn't for the world, after all our pleasant intercourse,
separate from you in bitterness. Only, I repeat, your qualification of
my sister's conduct is perfectly uncalled for. If you knew her, you
would be the first to admit it."
There was something in Theodore's look and manner, as he said these
words, which puzzled me all the morning. After dinner, finding myself
alone with him, I told him I was glad he was not obliged to go away. He
looked at me with the mysterious smile I have mentioned, thanked me, and
fell into meditation. As this bescribbled chronicle is the record of my
follies as well of my _hauts faits_, I needn't hesitate to say that for
a moment I was a good deal vexed. What business has this angel of candor
to deal in signs and portents, to look unutterable things? What right
has he to do so with me especially, in whom he has always professed an
absolute confidence? Just as I was about to cry out, "Come, my dear
fellow, this affectation of mystery has lasted quite long enough--favor
me at last with the result of your cogitations!"--as I was on the point
of thus expressing my impatience of his ominous behavior, the oracle at
last addressed itself to utterance.
"You see, my dear Max," he said, "I can't, in justice to myself, go away
in obedience to the sort of notice that was served on me this morning.
What do you think of my actual footing here?"
Theodore's actual footing here seems to me impossible; of course I said
so.
"No, I assure you it's not," he answered. "I should, on the contrary,
feel very uncomfortable to think that I had come away, except by my own
choice. You see a man can't afford to cheapen himself. What are you
laughing at?"
"I am laughing, in the first place, my dear fellow, to hear on your lips
the language of cold calculation; and in the second place, at your odd
notion of the process by which a man keeps himself up in the market."
"I assure you it's the correct notion. I came here as a particular favor
to Mr. Sloane; it was expressly understood so. The sort of work was
odious to me; I had regularly to break myself in. I had to trample on my
convictions, preferences, prejudices. I don't take such things easily; I
take them hard; and when once the effort has been made, I can't consent
to have it wasted. If Mr. Sloane needed me then, he needs me still. I am
ignorant of any change having taken place in his intentions, or in his
means of satisfying them. I came, not to amuse him, but to do a certain
work; I hope to remain until the work is completed. To go away sooner
is to make a confession of incapacity which, I protest, costs me too
much. I am too conceited, if you like."
Theodore spoke these words with a face which I have never seen him
wear--a fixed, mechanical smile; a hard, dry glitter in his eyes; a
harsh, strident tone in his voice--in his whole physiognomy a gleam, as
it were, a note of defiance. Now I confess that for defiance I have
never been conscious of an especial relish. When I am defied I am
beastly. "My dear man," I replied, "your sentiments do you prodigious
credit. Your very ingenious theory of your present situation, as well as
your extremely pronounced sense of your personal value, are calculated
to insure you a degree of practical success which can very well dispense
with the furtherance of my poor good wishes." Oh, the grimness of his
visage as he listened to this, and, I suppose I may add, the grimness of
mine! But I have ceased to be puzzled. Theodore's conduct for the past
ten days is suddenly illumined with a backward, lurid ray. I will note
down here a few plain truths which it behooves me to take to
heart--commit to memory. Theodore is jealous of Maximus Austin. Theodore
hates the said Maximus. Theodore has been seeking for the past three
months to see his name written, last but not least, in a certain
testamentary document: "Finally, I bequeath to my dear young friend,
Theodore Lisle, in return for invaluable services and unfailing
devotion, the bulk of my property, real and personal, consisting of--"
(hereupon follows an exhaustive enumeration of houses, lands, public
securities, books, pictures, horses, and dogs). It is for this that he
has toiled, and watched, and prayed; submitted to intellectual weariness
and spiritual torture; accommodated himself to levity, blasphemy, and
insult. For this he sets his teeth and tightens his grasp; for this
he'll fight. Dear me, it's an immense weight off one's mind! There are
nothing, then, but vulgar, common laws; no sublime exceptions, no
transcendent anomalies. Theodore's a knave, a hypo--nay, nay; stay,
irreverent hand!--Theodore's a _man_! Well, that's all I want. _He_
wants fight--he shall have it. Have I got, at last, my simple, natural
emotion?
21st.--I have lost no time. This evening, late, after I had heard
Theodore go to his room (I had left the library early, on the pretext of
having letters to write), I repaired to Mr. Sloane, who had not yet gone
to bed, and informed him I should be obliged to leave him at once, and
pick up a subsistence somehow in New York. He felt the blow; it brought
him straight down on his marrow-bones. He went through the whole gamut
of his arts and graces; he blustered, whimpered, entreated, flattered.
He tried to drag in Theodore's name; but this I, of course, prevented.
But, finally, why, _why_, WHY, after all my promises of fidelity, must I
thus cruelly desert him? Then came my trump card: I have spent my last
penny; while I stay, I'm a beggar. The remainder of this extraordinary
scene I have no power to describe: how the _bonhomme_, touched,
inflamed, inspired, by the thought of my destitution, and at the same
time annoyed, perplexed, bewildered at having to commit himself to doing
anything for me, worked himself into a nervous frenzy which deprived him
of a clear sense of the value of his words and his actions; how I,
prompted by the irresistible spirit of my desire to leap astride of his
weakness and ride it hard to the goal of my dreams, cunningly contrived
to keep his spirit at the fever-point, so that strength and reason and
resistance should burn themselves out. I shall probably never again have
such a sensation as I enjoyed to-night--actually feel a heated human
heart throbbing and turning and struggling in my grasp; know its pants,
its spasms, its convulsions, and its final senseless quiescence. At
half-past one o'clock Mr. Sloane got out of his chair, went to his
secretary, opened a private drawer, and took out a folded paper. "This
is my will," he said, "made some seven weeks ago. If you will stay with
me I will destroy it."
"Really, Mr. Sloane," I said, "if you think my purpose is to exert any
pressure upon your testamentary inclinations--"
"I will tear it in pieces," he cried; "I will burn it up! I shall be as
sick as a dog to-morrow; but I will do it. A-a-h!"
He clapped his hand to his side, as if in sudden, overwhelming pain,
and sank back fainting into his chair. A single glance assured me that
he was unconscious. I possessed myself of the paper, opened it, and
perceived that he had left everything to his saintly secretary. For an
instant a savage, puerile feeling of hate popped up in my bosom, and I
came within a hair's-breadth of obeying my foremost impulse--that of
stuffing the document into the fire. Fortunately, my reason overtook my
passion, though for a moment it was an even race. I put the paper back
into the bureau, closed it, and rang the bell for Robert (the old man's
servant). Before he came I stood watching the poor, pale remnant of
mortality before me, and wondering whether those feeble life-gasps were
numbered. He was as white as a sheet, grimacing with pain--horribly
ugly. Suddenly he opened his eyes; they met my own; I fell on my knees
and took his hands. They closed on mine with a grasp strangely akin to
the rigidity of death. Nevertheless, since then he has revived, and has
relapsed again into a comparatively healthy sleep. Robert seems to know
how to deal with him.
22d.--Mr. Sloane is seriously ill--out of his mind and unconscious of
people's identity. The doctor has been here, off and on, all day, but
this evening reports improvement. I have kept out of the old man's room,
and confined myself to my own, reflecting largely upon the chance of his
immediate death. Does Theodore know of the will? Would it occur to him
to divide the property? Would it occur to me, in his place? We met at
dinner, and talked in a grave, desultory, friendly fashion. After all,
he's an excellent fellow. I don't hate him. I don't even dislike him. He
jars on me, _il m'agace_; but that's no reason why I should do him an
evil turn. Nor shall I. The property is a fixed idea, that's all. I
shall get it if I can. We are fairly matched. Before heaven, no, we are
not fairly matched! Theodore has a conscience.
23d.--I am restless and nervous--and for good reasons. Scribbling here
keeps me quiet. This morning Mr. Sloane is better; feeble and uncertain
in mind, but unmistakably on the rise. I may confess now that I feel
relieved of a horrid burden. Last night I hardly slept a wink. I lay
awake listening to the pendulum of my clock. It seemed to say, "He
lives--he dies." I fully expected to hear it stop suddenly at _dies_.
But it kept going all the morning, and to a decidedly more lively tune.
In the afternoon the old man sent for me. I found him in his great
muffled bed, with his face the color of damp chalk, and his eyes glowing
faintly, like torches half stamped out. I was forcibly struck with the
utter loneliness of his lot. For all human attendance, my villainous
self grinning at his bedside and old Robert without, listening,
doubtless, at the keyhole. The _bonhomme_ stared at me stupidly; then
seemed to know me, and greeted me with a sickly smile. It was some
moments before he was able to speak. At last he faintly bade me to
descend into the library, open the secret drawer of the secretary (which
he contrived to direct me how to do), possess myself of his will, and
burn it up. He appears to have forgotten his having taken it out night
before last. I told him that I had an insurmountable aversion to any
personal dealings with the document. He smiled, patted the back of my
hand, and requested me, in that case, to get it, at least, and bring it
to him. I couldn't deny him that favor? No, I couldn't, indeed. I went
down to the library, therefore, and on entering the room found Theodore
standing by the fireplace with a bundle of papers. The secretary was
open. I stood still, looking from the violated cabinet to the documents
in his hand. Among them I recognized, by its shape and size, the paper
of which I had intended to possess myself. Without delay I walked
straight up to him. He looked surprised, but not confused. "I am afraid
I shall have to trouble you to surrender one of those papers," I said.
"Surrender, Maximus? To anything of your own you are perfectly welcome.
I didn't know that you made use of Mr. Sloane's secretary. I was looking
for some pages of notes which I have made myself and in which I conceive
I have a property."
"This is what I want, Theodore," I said; and I drew the will, unfolded,
from between his hands. As I did so his eyes fell upon the
superscription, "Last Will and Testament, March. F.S." He flushed an
extraordinary crimson. Our eyes met. Somehow--I don't know how or why,
or for that matter why not--I burst into a violent peal of laughter.
Theodore stood staring, with two hot, bitter tears in his eyes.
"Of course you think I came to ferret out that thing," he said.
I shrugged my shoulders--those of my body only. I confess, morally, I
was on my knees with contrition, but there was a fascination in it--a
fatality. I remembered that in the hurry of my movements the other
evening I had slipped the will simply into one of the outer drawers of
the cabinet, among Theodore's own papers. "Mr. Sloane sent me for it," I
remarked.
"Very good; I am glad to hear he's well enough to think of such things."
"He means to destroy it."
"I hope, then, he has another made."
"Mentally, I suppose he has."
"Unfortunately, his weakness isn't mental--or exclusively so."
"Oh, he will live to make a dozen more," I said. "Do you know the
purport of this one?"
Theodore's color, by this time, had died away into plain white. He shook
his head. The doggedness of the movement provoked me, and I wished to
arouse his curiosity. "I have his commission to destroy it."
Theodore smiled very grandly. "It's not a task I envy you," he said.
"I should think not--especially if you knew the import of the will." He
stood with folded arms, regarding me with his cold, detached eyes. I
couldn't stand it. "Come, it's your property! You are sole legatee. I
give it up to you." And I thrust the paper into his hand.
He received it mechanically; but after a pause, bethinking himself, he
unfolded it and cast his eyes over the contents. Then he slowly smoothed
it together and held it a moment with a tremulous hand. "You say that
Mr. Sloane directed you to destroy it?" he finally inquired.
"I say so."
"And that you know the contents?"
"Exactly."
"And that you were about to do what he asked you?"
"On the contrary, I declined."
Theodore fixed his eyes for a moment on the superscription and then
raised them again to my face. "Thank you, Max," he said. "You have left
me a real satisfaction." He tore the sheet across and threw the bits
into the fire. We stood watching them burn. "Now he can make another,"
said Theodore.
"Twenty others," I replied.
"No," said Theodore, "you will take care of that."
"You are very bitter," I said, sharply enough.
"No, I am perfectly indifferent. Farewell." And he put out his hand.
"Are you going away?"
"Of course I am. Good-by."
"Good-by, then. But isn't your departure rather sudden?"
"I ought to have gone three weeks ago--three weeks ago." I had taken his
hand, he pulled it away; his voice was trembling--there were tears in
it.
"Is _that_ indifference?" I asked.
"It's something you will never know!" he cried. "It's shame! I am not
sorry you should see what I feel. It will suggest to you, perhaps, that
my heart has never been in this filthy contest. Let me assure you, at
any rate, that it hasn't; that it has had nothing but scorn for the base
perversion of my pride and my ambition. I could easily shed tears of joy
at their return--the return of the prodigals! Tears of sorrow--sorrow--"
He was unable to go on. He sank into a chair, covering his face with his
hands.
"For God's sake, stick to the joy!" I exclaimed.
He rose to his feet again. "Well," he said, "it was for your sake that I
parted with my self-respect; with your assistance I recover it."
"How for my sake?"
"For whom but you would I have gone as far as I did? For what other
purpose than that of keeping our friendship whole would I have borne you
company into this narrow pass? A man whom I cared for less I would long
since have parted with. You were needed--you and something you have
about you that always takes me so--to bring me to this. You ennobled,
exalted, enchanted the struggle. I _did_ value my prospect of coming
into Mr. Sloane's property. I valued it for my poor sister's sake as
well as for my own, so long as it was the natural reward of
conscientious service, and not the prize of hypocrisy and cunning. With
another man than you I never would have contested such a prize. But you
fascinated me, even as my rival. You played with me, deceived me,
betrayed me. I held my ground, hoping you would see that what you were
doing was not fair. But if you have seen it, it has made no difference
with you. For Mr. Sloane, from the moment that, under your magical
influence, he revealed his nasty little nature, I had nothing but
contempt."
"And for me now?"
"Don't ask me. I don't trust myself."
"Hate, I suppose."
"Is that the best you can imagine? Farewell."
"Is it a serious farewell--farewell forever?"
"How can there be any other?"
"I am sorry this should be your point of view. It's characteristic. All
the more reason then that I should say a word in self-defence. You
accuse me of having 'played with you, deceived you, betrayed you.' It
seems to me that you are quite beside the mark. You say you were such a
friend of mine; if so, you ought to be one still. It was not to my fine
sentiments you attached yourself, for I never had any or pretended to
any. In anything I have done recently, therefore, there has been no
inconsistency. I never pretended to take one's friendships so seriously.
I don't understand the word in the sense you attach to it. I don't
understand the feeling of affection between men. To me it means quite
another thing. You give it a meaning of your own; you enjoy the profit
of your invention; it's no more than just that you should pay the
penalty. Only it seems to me rather hard that _I_ should pay it."
Theodore remained silent, but he looked quite sick. "Is it still a
'serious farewell'?" I went on. "It seems a pity. After this clearing
up, it appears to me that I shall be on better terms with you. No man
can have a deeper appreciation of your excellent parts, a keener
enjoyment of your society. I should very much regret the loss of it."
"Have we, then, all this while understood each other so little?" said
Theodore.
"Don't say 'we' and 'each other.' I think I have understood you."
"Very likely. It's not for my having kept anything back."
"Well, I do you justice. To me you have always been over-generous. Try
now and be just."
Still he stood silent, with his cold, hard frown; it was plain that, if
he was to come back to me, it would be from the other world--if there be
one! What he was going to answer I know not. The door opened, and Robert
appeared, pale, trembling, his eyes starting in his head.
"I verily believe that poor Mr. Sloane is dead in his bed!" he cried.
There was a moment's perfect silence. "Amen," said I. "Yes, old boy, try
and be just." Mr. Sloane had quietly died in my absence.
24th.--Theodore went up to town this morning, having shaken hands with
me in silence before he started. Doctor Jones, and Brooks the attorney,
have been very officious, and, by their advice, I have telegraphed to a
certain Miss Meredith, a maiden lady, by their account the nearest of
kin; or, in other words, simply a discarded niece of the defunct. She
telegraphs back that she will arrive in person for the funeral. I shall
remain till she comes. I have lost a fortune, but have I irretrievably
lost a friend? I am sure I can't say. Yes, I shall wait for Miss
Meredith.
[1] _The Galaxy, July_, 1869.
YATIL.[2]
BY F.D. MILLET.
While in Paris, in the spring of 1878, I witnessed an accident in a
circus, which for a time made me renounce all athletic exhibitions. Six
horses were stationed side by side in the ring before a spring-board,
and the whole company of gymnasts ran and turned somersaults from the
spring over the horses, alighting on a mattress spread on the ground.
The agility of one finely developed young fellow excited great applause
every time he made the leap. He would shoot forward in the air like a
javelin, and in his flight curl up and turn over directly above the
mattress, dropping on his feet as lightly as a bird. This play went on
for some minutes, and at each round of applause the favorite seemed to
execute his leap with increased skill and grace. Finally, he was seen to
gather himself a little farther in the background than usual, evidently
to prepare for a better start. The instant his turn came he shot out of
the crowd of attendants and launched himself into the air with
tremendous momentum. Almost quicker than the eye could follow him, he
had turned and was dropping to the ground, his arms held above his head,
which hung slightly forward, and his legs stretched to meet the shock of
the elastic mattress.
But this time he had jumped an inch too far. His feet struck just on the
edge of the mattress, and he was thrown violently forward, doubling up
on the ground with a dull thump, which was heard all over the immense
auditorium. He remained a second or two motionless, then sprang to his
feet, and as quickly sank to the ground again. The ring attendants and
two or three gymnasts rushed to him and took him up. The clown, in
evening dress, personating the mock ringmaster, the conventional spotted
merryman, and a stalwart gymnast in buff fleshings, bore the drooping
form of the favorite in their arms, and, followed by the bystanders, who
offered ineffectual assistance, carried the wounded man across the ring
and through the draped arch under the music gallery. Under any other
circumstances the group would have excited a laugh, for the audience was
in that condition of almost hysterical excitement when only the least
effort of a clown is necessary to cause a wave of laughter. But the
moment the wounded man was lifted from the ground, the whole strong
light from the brilliant chandelier struck full on his right leg
dangling from the knee, with the foot hanging limp and turned inward. A
deep murmur of sympathy swelled and rolled around the crowded
amphitheatre.