CHAPTER IV.

It was 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 outstretched

To greet the new love; whilst her feet

Tread, scornful, on the old love's gifts."

After reading this one turned, of course, to her feet, 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 was thinking 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 little more. 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 that _blasé_ look 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 from

her 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 knocked softly, 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 those young 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 let her 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 what the 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 unobserved by 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 blow towards 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!

CARRISTON'S GIFT.

PART I.

_TOLD BY PHILIP BRAND, M.D., LONDON._

I.

I wish I 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 nine o'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 clerk with 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 frank _camaraderie_ which exists, or should exist,

between the followers of the painter's craft, laid his cover at my

table. The new-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 in store 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!

II.

I am disposed 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 the merits

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 strong and 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 boy who 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

to recover 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 one point 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.

III.

In the 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 should not 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--violent grief, 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 the strange 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.

The boy was in love; in love as only a passionate, romantic, imaginative

nature can be; and even then only once in a lifetime. Heedless,

headstrong, impulsive, and entirely his own master, he had given his

very heart and soul into the keeping of a woman.

IV.

That a man of Carriston's rank, breeding and refinement should meet his

fate within the walls of a lonely farm-house, beyond the Trossachs,

seems incredible. One would scarcely expect to find among such humble

surroundings a wife suitable to a man of his stamp. And yet when I saw

the woman who had won him I neither wondered at the conquest nor did I

blame him for weakness.

I made the great discovery on the morning after my arrival. Eager to

taste the freshness of the morning air, I rose betimes and went for a

short stroll. I returned, and whilst standing at the door of the house,

was positively startled by the beauty of a girl who passed me and

entered, as if she was a regular inhabitant of the place. Not a rosy

Scotch lassie, such as one would expect to find indigenous to the soil;

but a slim, graceful girl, with delicate classical features. A girl with

a mass of knotted light hair, yet with the apparent anomaly, dark eyes,

eyelashes, and eyebrows--a combination which, to my mind, makes a style

of beauty rare, irresistible, and dangerous above all others. The

features which filled the exquisite oval of her face were refined and

faultless. Her complexion was pale, but its pallor in no way suggested

anything save perfect health. To cut my enthusiastic description short,

I may at once say it has never been my good fortune to cast my eyes on a

lovelier creature than this young girl.

Although her dress was of the plainest and simplest description, no one

could have mistaken her for a servant; and much as I admire the bonny,

healthy Scotch country lassie, I felt sure that mountain air had never

reared a being of this ethereally beautiful type. As she passed me I

raised my hat instinctively. She gracefully bent her golden head, and

bade me a quiet but unembarrassed good-morning. My eyes followed her

until she vanished at the end of the dark passage which led to the back

of the house.

Even during the brief glimpse I enjoyed of this fair unknown a strange

idea occurred to me. There was a remarkable likeness between her

delicate features and those, scarcely less delicate, of Carriston.

This resemblance may have added to the interest the girl's appearance

awoke in my mind. Any way I entered our sitting-room, and, a prey to

curiosity, and perhaps, hunger, awaited with much impatience the

appearance of Carriston--and breakfast.

The former arrived first. Generally speaking he was afoot long before I

was, but this morning we had reversed the usual order of things. As soon

as I saw him I cried,

"Carriston! tell me at once who is the lovely girl I met outside?

An angel with dark eyes and golden hair. Is she staying here like

ourselves?"

A look of pleasure flashed into his eyes--a look which pretty well told

me everything. Nevertheless he answered as carelessly as if such lovely

young women were as common to the mountain side as rocks and brambles.

"I expect you mean Miss Rowan; a niece of our worthy landlady. She lives

with her."

"She cannot be Scotch, with such a face and eyes?"

"Half-and-half. Her father was called an Englishman; but was, I believe,

of French extraction. They say the name was originally Rohan."

Carriston seemed to have made close inquiries as to Miss Rowan's

parentage.

"But what brings her here?" I asked.

"She has nowhere else to go. Rowan was an artist. He married a sister of

our hostess, and bore her away from her native land. Some years ago she

died, leaving this one daughter. Last year the father died, penniless,

they tell me, so the girl has since then lived with her only relative,

her aunt."

"Well," I said, "as you seem to know all about her, you can introduce me

by and by."

"With the greatest pleasure, if Miss Rowan permits," said Carriston. I

was glad to hear him give the conditional promise with as much respect

to the lady's wishes as if she had been a duchess.

Then, with the liberty a close friend may take, I drew toward me a

portfolio, full, I presumed, of sketches of surrounding scenery. To my

surprise Carriston jumped up hastily and snatched it from me. "They

are too bad to look at," he said. As I struggled to regain possession,

sundry strings broke, and, lo and behold! the floor was littered,

not with delineations of rock, lake, and torrent, but with images of

the young girl I had seen a few minutes before. Full face, profile,

three quarter face, five, even seven eight face, all were there--each

study perfectly executed by Carriston's clever pencil. I threw myself

into a chair and laughed aloud, whilst the young man, blushing and

discomforted, quickly huddled the portraits between the covers, just as

a genuine Scotch lassie bore in the plentiful and, to me, very welcome

breakfast.

Carriston did favor me with his company during the whole of that day;

but, in spite of my having come to Scotland to enjoy his society, that

day, from easily-guessed reasons, was the only one in which I had

undisputed possession of my friend.

Of course I bantered him a great deal on the portfolio episode. He took

it in good part, attempting little or no defence. Indeed, before night

he had told me, with all a boy's fervor, how he had loved Madeline Rowan

at first sight, how in the short space of time which had elapsed since

that meeting he had wooed her and won her; how good and beautiful she

was; how he worshipped her; how happy he felt; how, when I went south,

he should accompany me; and, after making a few necessary arrangements,

return at once and bear his bride away.

I could only listen to him, and congratulate him. It was not my place to

act the elder, and advise him either for or against the marriage.

Carriston had only himself to please, and, if he made a rash step, only

himself to blame for the consequences. And why should I have dissuaded?

I who, in two days, envied the boy's good fortune.

I saw a great deal of Madeline Rowan. How strange and out-of-place her

name and face seemed amid our surroundings. If at first somewhat shy and

retiring, she soon, if only for Carriston's sake, consented to look upon

me as a friend, and talked to me freely and unreservedly. Then I found

that her nature was as sweet as her face. Such a conquest did she make

of me that, save for one chimerical reason, I should have felt quite

certain that Carriston had chosen well, and would be happy in wedding

the girl of his choice, heedless of her humble position in the world,

and absence of fitting wealth. When once his wife, I felt sure that

if he cared for her to win social success her looks and bearing would

insure it, and from the great improvement which, as I have already said,

I noticed in his health and spirits, I believed that his marriage would

make his life longer, happier, and better.

Now for my objection, which seems almost a laughable one. I objected on

the score of the extraordinary resemblance which, so far as a man may

resemble a woman, existed between Charles Carriston and Madeline Rowan.

The more I saw them together, the more I was struck by it. A stranger

might well have taken them for twin brother and sister. The same

delicate features, drawn in the same lines; the same soft, dark, dreamy

eyes; even the same shaped heads. Comparing the two, it needed no

phrenologist or physiognomist to tell you that where one excelled the

other excelled; where one failed, the other was wanting. Now, could I

have selected a wife for my friend, I would have chosen one with habits

and constitution entirely different from his own. She should have been a

bright, bustling woman, with lots of energy and common-sense--one

who would have rattled him about and kept him going--not a lovely,

dark-eyed, dreamy girl, who could for hours at a stretch make herself

supremely happy if only sitting at her lover's feet and speaking no

word. Yet they were a handsome couple, and never have I seen two people

so utterly devoted to each other as those two seemed to be during those

autumn days which I spent with them.

I soon had a clear proof of the closeness of their mental resemblance.

One evening Carriston, Madeline, and I were sitting out-of-doors,

watching the gray mist deepening in the valley at our feet. Two of the

party were, of course, hand-in-hand, the third seated at a discreet

distance--not so far away as to preclude conversation, but far enough

off to be able to pretend that he saw and heard only what was intended

for his eyes and ears.

How certain topics, which I would have avoided discussing with

Carriston, were started I hardly remember. Probably some strange

tale had been passed down from wilder and even more solitary regions

than ours--some ridiculous tale of Highland superstition, no doubt

embellished and augmented by each one who repeated it to his fellows.

From her awed talk I soon found that Madeline Rowan, perhaps by reason

of the Scotch blood in her veins, was as firm a believer in things

visionary and beyond nature as ever Charles Carriston in his silliest

moments could be. As soon as I could I stopped the talk, and the next

day, finding the girl for a few minutes alone, told her plainly that

subjects of this kind should be kept as far as possible from her future

husband's thoughts. She promised obedience, with dreamy eyes which

looked as far away and full of visions as Carriston's.

"By the by," I said, "has he ever spoken to you about seeing strange

things?"

"Yes; he has hinted at it."

"And you believe him?"

"Of course I do; he told me so."

This was unanswerable. "A pretty pair they will make," I muttered, as

Madeline slipped from me to welcome her lover who was approaching. "They

will see ghosts in every corner, and goblins behind every curtain."

Nevertheless, the young people had no doubts about their coming bliss.

Everything was going smoothly and pleasantly for them. Carriston had at

once spoken to Madeline's aunt, and obtained the old Scotchwoman's ready

consent to their union. I was rather vexed at his still keeping to his

absurd whim, and concealing his true name. He said he was afraid of

alarming her aunt by telling her he was passing under an _alias_, whilst

if he gave Madeline his true reason for so doing she would be miserable.

Moreover, I found he had formed the romantic plan of marrying her

without telling her in what an enviable position she would be placed

so far as worldly gear went. A kind of Lord Burleigh surprise no doubt

commended itself to his imaginative brain.

The last day of my holiday came. I bade a long and sad farewell to lake

and mountain, and, accompanied by Carriston, started for home. I did not

see the parting proper between the young people--that was far too sacred

a thing to be intruded upon--but even when that protracted affair was

over, I waited many, many minutes whilst Carriston stood hand-in-hand

with Madeline, comforting himself and her by reiterating "Only six

weeks--six short weeks! And then--and then!" It was the girl who at last

tore herself away, and then Carriston mounted reluctantly by my side on

the rough vehicle.

From Edinburgh we travelled by the night train. The greater part of the

way we had the compartment to ourselves. Carriston, as a lover will,

talked of nothing but coming bliss and his plans for the future. After

a while I grew quite weary of the monotony of the subject, and at last

dozed off, and for some little time slept. The shrill whistle which told

us a tunnel was at hand aroused me. My companion was sitting opposite to

me, and as I glanced across at him my attention was arrested by the same

strange intense look which I had on a previous occasion at Bettws-y-Coed

noticed in his eyes--the same fixed stare--the same obliviousness to

all that was passing. Remembering his request, I shook him, somewhat

roughly, back to his senses. He regarded me for a moment vacantly, then

said:

"Now I have found out what was wanting to make the power I told you of

complete. I could see her if I wished."

"Of course you can see her--in your mind's eye. All lovers can do that."

"If I tried I could see her bodily--know exactly what she is doing." He

spoke with an air of complete conviction.

"Then I hope, for the sake of modesty, you won't try. It is now nearly

three o'clock. She ought to be in bed and asleep."

I spoke lightly, thinking it better to try and laugh him out of his

folly. He took no notice of my sorry joke.

"No," he said, quietly, "I am not going to try. But I know now what

was wanting. Love--such love as mine--such love as hers--makes the

connecting link, and enables sight or some other sense to cross over

space, and pass through every material obstacle."

"Look here, Carriston," I said seriously, "you are talking as a madman

talks. I don't want to frighten you, but I am bound both as a doctor

and your sincere friend to tell you that unless you cure yourself of

these absurd delusions they will grow upon you, develop fresh forms, and

you will probably end your days under restraint. Ask any doctor, he will

tell you the same."

"Doctors are a clever race," answered my strange young friend, "but they

don't know everything."

So saying he closed his eyes and appeared to sleep.

We parted upon reaching London. Many kind words and wishes passed

between us, and I gave him some well-meant, and, I believed, needed

warnings. He was going down to see his uncle, the baronet. Then he had

some matters to arrange with his lawyers, and above all, had to select

a residence for himself and his wife. He would, no doubt, be in London

for a short time. If possible he would come and see me. Any way he would

write and let me know the exact date of his approaching marriage. If I

could manage to come to it, so much the better. If not he would try,

as they passed through town, to bring his bride to pay me a flying and

friendly visit. He left me in the best of spirits, and I went back to my

patients and worked hard to make up lost ground, and counteract whatever

errors had been committed by my substitute.

Some six weeks afterward--late at night--whilst I was deep in a new and

clever treatise on zymotics, a man, haggard, wild, unshorn, and unkempt,

rushed past my startled servant, and entered the room in which I sat.

He threw himself into a chair, and I was horrified to recognize in the

intruder my clever and brilliant friend, Charles Carriston!

V.

"The end has come sooner than I expected." These were the sad words I

muttered to myself as waving my frightened servant away I closed the

door, and stood alone with the supposed maniac. He rose and wrung my

hand, then without a word sank back into his chair and buried his face

in his hands. A sort of nervous trembling seemed to run through his

frame. Deeply distressed I drew his hands from his face.

"Now, Carriston," I said, as firmly as I could, "look up, and tell me

what all this means. Look up, I say, man, and speak to me."

He raised his eyes to mine, and kept them there, whilst a ghastly

smile--a phantom humor--flickered across his white face. No doubt his

native quickness told him what I suspected, so he looked me full and

steadily in the face.

"No," he said, "not as you think. But let there be no mistake. Question

me. Talk to me. Put me to any test. Satisfy yourself, once for all, that

I am as sane as you are."

He spoke so rationally, his eyes met mine so unflinchingly, that I was

rejoiced to know that my fears were as yet ungrounded. There was grief,

excitement, want of rest in his appearance, but his general manner told

me he was, as he said, as sane as I was.

"Thank heaven you can speak to me and look at me like this," I

exclaimed.

"You are satisfied then?" he said.

"On this point, yes. Now tell me what is wrong?"

Now that he had set my doubts at rest his agitation and excitement

seemed to return. He grasped my hand convulsively.

"Madeline!" he whispered; "Madeline--my love--she is gone."

"Gone!" I repeated. "Gone where?"

"She is gone, I say--stolen from me by some black-hearted

traitor--perhaps forever. Who can tell?"

"But, Carriston, surely, in so short a time her love cannot have been

won by another. If so, all I can say is--"

"What!" he shouted. "You have seen her! You in your wildest dreams to

imagine that Madeline Rowan would leave me of her own free-will! No,

sir; she has been stolen from me--entrapped--carried away--hidden. But

I will find her, or I will kill the black-hearted villain who has done

this."

He rose and paced the room. His face was distorted with rage. He

clinched and unclinched his long slender hands.

"My dear fellow," I said; "you are talking riddles. Sit down and tell me

calmly what has happened. But, first of all, as you look utterly worn

out, I will ring for my man to get you some food."

"No," he said; "I want nothing. Weary I am, for I have been to Scotland

and back as fast as man can travel. I reached London a short time ago,

and after seeing one man have come straight to you, my only friend,

for help--it may be for protection. But I have eaten and I have drank,

knowing I must keep my health and strength."

However, I insisted on some wine being brought. He drank a glass, and

then with a strange enforced calm, told me what had taken place. His

tale was this:

After we had parted company on our return from Scotland, Carriston went

down to the family seat in Oxfordshire, and informed his uncle of the

impending change in his life. The baronet, an extremely old man, infirm

and all but childish, troubled little about the matter. Every acre of

his large property was strictly entailed, so his pleasure or displeasure

could make but little alteration in his nephew's prospects. Still, he

was the head of the family, and Carriston was in duty bound to make

the important news known to him. The young man made no secret of his

approaching marriage, so in a very short time every member of the family

was aware that the heir and future head was about to ally himself to

a nobody. Knowing nothing of Madeline Rowan's rare beauty and sweet

nature Carriston's kinsmen and kinswomen were sparing with their

congratulations. Indeed, Mr. Ralph Carriston, the cousin whose name was

coupled with such absurd suspicions, went so far as to write a bitter,

sarcastic letter, full of ironical felicitations. This, and Charles

Carriston's haughty reply, did not make the affection between the

cousins any stronger. Moreover, shortly afterward the younger man heard

that inquiries were being made in the neighborhood of Madeline's home as

to her position and parentage. Feeling sure that only his cousin Ralph

could have had the curiosity to institute such inquiries, he wrote and

thanked him for the keen interest he was manifesting in his future

welfare, but begged that hereafter Mr. Carriston would apply to him

direct for any information he wanted. The two men were now no longer on

speaking terms.

Charles Carriston in his present frame of mind cared little whether his

relatives wished to bless or forbid the banns. He was passionately in

love, and at once set about making arrangements for a speedy marriage.

Although Madeline was still ignorant of the exalted position held by her

lover--although she came to him absolutely penniless--he was resolved in

the matter of money to treat her as generously as he would have treated

the most eligible damsel in the country. There were several legal

questions to be set at rest concerning certain property he wished to

settle upon her. This of course caused delay. As soon as they were

adjusted to his own, or rather to his lawyer's satisfaction, he purposed

going to Scotland and carrying away his beautiful bride. In the meantime

he cast about for a residence.

Somewhat Bohemian in his nature, Carriston had no intention of settling

down just yet to live the life of an ordinary moneyed Englishman. His

intention was to take Madeline abroad for some months. He had fixed

upon Cannes as a desirable place at which to winter, but having grown

somewhat tired of hotel life, wished to rent a furnished house. He had

received from an agent to whom he had been advised to apply the refusal

of a house, which, from the glowing description given, seemed the one

above all others he wanted. As an early decision was insisted upon,

my impulsive young friend thought nothing of crossing the Channel and

running down to the south of France to see, with his own eyes, that

the much-lauded place was worthy of the fair being who was to be its

temporary mistress.

He wrote to Madeline, and told her he was going from home for a few

days. He said he should be travelling the greater part of the time, so

it should be no use her writing to him until his return. He did not

reveal the object of his journey. Were Madeline to know it was to choose

a winter residence at Cannes she would be filled with amazement, and the

innocent deception he was still keeping up would not be carried through

to the romantic end which he pictured to himself.

The day before he started for France Madeline wrote that her aunt was

very unwell, but said nothing as to her malady causing any alarm.

Perhaps Carriston thought less about the old Scotch widow than her

relationship and kindness to Miss Rowan merited. He started on his

travels without any forebodings of evil.

His journey to Cannes and back was hurried; he wasted no time on the

road, but was delayed for two days at the place itself before he could

make final arrangements with the owner and the present occupier of the

house. Thinking he was going to start every moment, he did not write to

Madeline--at the rate at which he meant to return, a letter posted in

England would reach her almost as quickly as if posted at Cannes.

He reached his home, which for the last few weeks had been Oxford, and

found two letters waiting for him. The first, dated on the day he left

England, was from Madeline. It told him that her aunt's illness had

suddenly taken a fatal turn--that she had died that day, almost without

warning. The second letter was anonymous.

It was written apparently by a woman, and advised Mr. Carr to look

sharply after his lady-love or he would find himself left in the lurch.

The writer would not be surprised to hear some fine day that she had

eloped with a certain gentleman who should be nameless. This precious

epistle, probably an emanation of feminine spite, Carriston treated as

it deserved--he tore it up and threw the pieces to the wind.

But the thought of Madeline being alone at that lonely house troubled

him greatly. The dead woman had no sons or daughters; all the anxiety

and responsibility connected with her affairs would fall on the poor

girl. The next day he threw himself into the Scotch Express and started

for her far-away home.

On arriving there he found it occupied only by the rough farm servants.

They seemed in a state of wonderment, and volubly questioned Carriston

as to the whereabouts of Madeline. The question sent a chill of fear to

his heart. He answered their questions by others, and soon learned all

they had to communicate.

Little enough it was. On the morning after the old woman's funeral

Madeline had gone to Callendar to ask the advice of an old friend of her

aunt's as to what steps should now be taken. She had neither been to

this friend, nor had she returned home. She had, however, sent a message

that she must go to London at once, and would write from there. That was

the last heard of her--all that was known about her.

Upon hearing this news Carriston became a prey to the acutest terror--an

emotion which was quite inexplicable to the honest people, his

informants. The girl had gone, but she had sent word whither she had

gone. True, they did not know the reason for her departure, so sudden

and without luggage of any description; true, she had not written as

promised, but no doubt they would hear from her to-morrow. Carriston

knew better. Without revealing the extent of his fears he flew back to

Callendar. Inquiries at the railway station informed him that she had

gone, or had purposed going, to London; but whether she ever reached it,

or whether any trace of her could be found there, was at least a matter

of doubt. No good could be gained by remaining in Scotland, so he

travelled back at once to town, half-distracted, sleepless, and racking

his brain to know where to look for her.

"She has been decoyed away," he said in conclusion. "She is hidden,

imprisoned somewhere. And I know, as well as if he told me, who has done

this thing. I can trace Ralph Carriston's cursed hand through it all."

I glanced at him askance. This morbid suspicion of his cousin amounted

almost to monomania. He had told the tale of Madeline's disappearance

clearly and tersely; but when he began to account for it his theory was

a wild and untenable one. However much he suspected Ralph Carriston of

longing to stand in his shoes, I could see no object for the crime of

which he accused him, that of decoying away Madeline Rowan.

"But why should he have done this?" I asked. "To prevent your marriage?

You are young; he must have foreseen that you would marry some day."

Carriston leaned toward me, and dropped his voice to a whisper.

"This is his reason," he said; "this is why I come to you. You are not

the only one who has entirely misread my nature, and seen a strong

tendency to insanity in it. Of course I know that you are all wrong, but

I know that Ralph Carriston has stolen my love--stolen her because he

thinks and hopes that her loss will drive me mad--perhaps drive me to

kill myself. I went straight to him--I have just come from him. Brand,

I tell you that when I taxed him with the crime--when I raved at

him--when I threatened to tear the life out of him--his cold, wicked

eyes leaped with joy. I heard him mutter between his teeth, 'Men have

been put in strait-waistcoats for less than this.' Then I knew why he

had done this. I curbed myself and left him. Most likely he will try to

shut me up as a lunatic; but I count upon your protection--count upon

your help to find my love."

That any man could be guilty of such a subtle refinement of crime as

that of which he accused his cousin seemed to me, if not impossible, at

least improbable. But as at present there was no doubt about my friend's

sanity I promised my aid readily.

"And now," I said, "my dear boy, I won't hear another word to-night.

Nothing can be done until to-morrow; then we will consult as to what

steps should be taken. Drink this and go to bed; yes, you are as sane as

I am, but, remember, insomnia soon drives the strongest man out of his

senses."

I poured out an opiate. He drank it obediently. Before I left him for

the night I saw him in bed and sleeping a heavy sleep.

VI.

The advantage to one who writes, not a tale of imagination, but a simple

record of events, is this: He need not be bound by the recognized canons

of the story-telling art--need not exercise his ingenuity to mislead his

reader--need not suppress some things and lay undue stress on others to

create mysteries to be cleared up at the end of the tale. Therefore,

using the privilege of a plain narrator, I shall here give some account

of what became of Miss Rowan, as, so far as I can remember, I heard it

some time afterward from her own lips.

The old Scotchwoman's funeral over, and those friends who had been

present departed, Madeline was left in the little farm-house alone, save

for the presence of the two servants. Several kind bodies had offered to

come and stay with her, but she had declined the offers. She was in no

mood for company, and perhaps being of such a different race and breed,

would not have found much comfort in the rough homely sympathy which was

offered to her. She preferred being alone with her grief--grief which

after all was bound to be much lightened by the thought of her own

approaching happiness, for the day was drawing near when her lover would

cross the border and bear his bonny bride away. She felt sure that she

would not be long alone--that the moment Carriston heard of her aunt's

death he would come to her assistance. In such a peaceful, God-fearing

neighborhood she had no fear of being left without protection. Moreover,

her position in the house was well-defined. The old woman, who was

childless, had left her niece all of which she died possessed. So

Madeline decided to wait quietly until she heard from her lover.

Still there were business matters to be attended to, and at the funeral

Mr. Douglas, of Callendar, the executor under the will, had suggested

that an early interview would be desirable. He offered to drive out to

the little farm the next day, but Miss Rowan, who had to see to some

feminine necessaries which could only be supplied by shops, decided that

she would come to the town instead of troubling Mr. Douglas to drive so

far out.

Madeline, in spite of the superstitious element in her character, was

a brave girl, and in spite of her refined style of beauty, strong and

healthy. Early hours were the rule in that humble home, so before seven

o'clock in the morning she was ready to start on her drive to the little

town. At first she thought of taking with her the boy who did the rough

out-door work; but he was busy about something or other, and besides,

was a garrulous lad who would be certain to chatter the whole way,

and this morning Miss Rowan wanted no companions save her own mingled

thoughts of sadness and joy. She knew every inch of the road; she feared

no evil; she would be home again long before nightfall; the pony was

quiet and sure-footed--so away went Madeline in the strong primitive

vehicle on her lonely twelve miles' drive through the fair scenery.

She passed few people on the road. Indeed, she remembered meeting no one

except one or two pedestrian tourists, who like sensible men were doing

a portion of their day's task in the early morning. I have no doubt but

Miss Rowan seemed to them a passing vision of loveliness.

But when she was a mile or two from Callendar, she saw a boy on a pony.

The boy, who must have known her by sight, stopped and handed her a

telegram. She had to pay several shillings for the delivery, or intended

delivery of the message, so far from the station. The boy galloped away,

congratulating himself on having been spared a long ride, and Miss Rowan

tore open the envelope left in her hands.

The message was brief: "Mr. Carr is seriously ill. Come at once. You

will be met in London."

Madeline did not scream or faint. She gave one low moan of pain, set her

teeth, and with the face of one in a dream drove as quickly as she could

to Callendar, straight to the railway station.

Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, she had money with her, so she did

not waste time in going to Mr. Douglas. In spite of the crushing blow

she had received the girl had all her wits about her. A train would

start in ten minutes' time. She took her ticket, then found an idler

outside the station, and paid him to take the pony and carriage back to

the farm, with the message as repeated to Carriston.

The journey passed like a long dream. The girl could think of nothing

but her lover, dying, dying--perhaps dead before she could reach him.

The miles flew by unnoticed; twilight crept on; the carriage grew dark;

at last--London at last! Miss Rowan stepped out on the broad platform,

not knowing what to do or where to turn. Presently a tall well-dressed

man came up to her, and removing his hat, addressed her by name. The

promise as to her being met had been kept.

She clasped her hands. "Tell me--oh tell me, he is not dead," she cried.

"Mr. Carr is not dead. He is ill, very ill--delirious and calling for

you."

"Where is he? Oh take me to him!"

"He is miles and miles from here--at a friend's house. I have been

deputed to meet you and to accompany you, if you feel strong enough to

continue the journey at once."

"Come," said Madeline. "Take me to him."

"Your luggage?" asked the gentleman.

"I have none. Come!"

"You must take some refreshment."

"I need nothing. Come!"

The gentleman glanced at his watch. "There is just time," he said. He

called a cab, told the driver to go at top speed. They reached

Paddington just in time to catch the mail.

During the drive across London Madeline asked many questions, and

learned from her companion that Mr. Carr had been staying for a day or

two at a friend's house in the west of England. That yesterday he had

fallen from his horse and sustained such injuries that his life was

despaired of. He had been continually calling for Madeline. They

had found her address on a letter, and had telegraphed as soon as

possible--for which act Miss Rowan thanked her companion with tears in

her eyes.

Her conductor did not say much of his own accord, but in replying to her

questions he was politely sympathetic. She thought of little outside the

fearful picture which filled every corner of her brain, but from her

conductor's manner received the impression that he was a medical adviser

who had seen the sufferer, and assisted in the treatment of the case.

She did not ask his name, nor did he reveal it.

At Paddington he placed her in a ladies' carriage and left her.

He was a smoker, he said. She wondered somewhat at this desertion. Then

the train sped down West. At the large stations the gentleman came to

her and offered her refreshments. Hunger seemed to have left her; but

she accepted a cup of tea once or twice. At last sorrow, fatigue, and

weakness produced by such a prolonged fast had their natural effect.

With the tears still on her lashes the girl fell asleep, and must have

slept for many miles: a sleep unbroken by stoppages at stations.

Her conductor at last aroused her. He stood at the door of the carriage.

"We must get out here," he said. All the momentarily-forgotten anguish

came back to her as she stood beside him on the almost unoccupied

platform.

"Are we there at last?" she asked.

"I am sorry to say we have still a long drive; would you like to rest

first?"

"No--no. Come on, if you please." She spoke with feverish eagerness.

The man bowed. "A carriage waits," he said.

Outside the station was a carriage of some sort, drawn by one horse, and

driven by a man muffled up to the eyes. It was still night, but Madeline

fancied dawn could not be far off. Her conductor opened the door of the

carriage and waited for her to enter.

She paused. "Ask him--that man must know if--"

"I am most remiss," said the gentleman. He exchanged a few words with

the driver, and coming back, told Madeline that Mr. Carr was still

alive, sensible, and expecting her eagerly.

"Oh, please, please drive fast," said the poor girl, springing into the

carriage. The gentleman seated himself beside her, and for a long time

they drove on in silence. At last they stopped. The dawn was just

glimmering. They alighted in front of a house. The door was open.

Madeline entered swiftly. "Which way--which way?" she asked. She was

too agitated to notice any surroundings; her one wish was to reach her

lover.

"Allow me," said the conductor, passing her. "This way; please follow

me." He went up a short flight of stairs, then paused, and opened a

door quietly. He stood aside for the girl to enter. The room was dimly

lit, and contained a bed with drawn curtains. Madeline flew past her

travelling companion, and as she threw herself on her knees beside the

bed upon which she expected to see the helpless and shattered form of

the man she loved, heard, or fancied she heard, the door locked behind

her.

VII.

Carriston slept on late into the next day. Knowing that every moment

of bodily and mental rest was a precious boon to him, I left him

undisturbed. He was still fast asleep when, about mid-day, a gentleman

called upon me. He sent up no card, and I supposed he came to consult

me professionally.

The moment he entered my room I recognized him. He was the thin-lipped,

gentlemanly person whom I had met on my journey to Bournemouth last

spring--the man who had seemed so much impressed by my views on

insanity, and had manifested such interest in the description I had

given--without mentioning any name--of Carriston's peculiar mind.

I should have at once claimed acquaintanceship with my visitor, but

before I could speak he advanced, and apologized gracefully for his

intrusion.

"You will forgive it," he added, "when I tell you my name is Ralph

Carriston."

Remembering our chance conversation, the thought that, after all,

Charles Carriston's wild suspicion was well-founded, flashed through me

like lightning. My great hope was that my visitor might not remember my

face as I remembered his. I bowed coldly but said nothing.

"I believe, Dr. Brand," he continued, "you have a young relative of mine

at present staying with you?"

"Yes, Mr. Carriston is my guest," I answered. "We are old friends."

"Ah, I did not know that. I do not remember having heard him mention

your name as a friend. But as it is so, no one knows better than

you do the unfortunate state of his health. How do you find him

to-day--violent?"

I pretended to ignore the man's meaning, and answered smilingly,

"Violence is the last thing I should look for. He is tired out and

exhausted by travel, and is in great distress. That, I believe, is the

whole of his complaint."

"Yes, yes; to be sure, poor boy! His sweetheart has left him, or

something. But as a doctor you must know that his mental condition is

not quite what it should be. His friends are very anxious about him.

They fear that a little restraint--temporary, I hope--must be put upon

his actions. I called to ask your advice and aid."

"In what, Mr. Carriston?"

"In this. A young man can't be left free to go about threatening his

friends' lives. I have brought Dr. Daley with me; you know him, of

course. He is below in my carriage. I will call him up, with your

permission. He could then see poor Charles, and the needful certificate

could be signed by you two doctors."

"Mr. Carriston," I said decidedly, "let me tell you in the plainest

words that your cousin is at present as fully in possession of his wits

as you are. Dr. Daley, whoever he may be, could sign no certificate, and

in our day no asylum would dare to keep Mr. Carriston within its walls."

An unpleasant sinister look crossed my listener's face, but his voice

still remained bland and suave. "I am sorry to differ from you, Dr.

Brand," he said, "but I know him better than you do. I have seen him as

you have never yet seen him. Only last night he came to me in a frantic

state. I expected every moment he would make a murderous attack on me."

"Perhaps he fancied he had some reasons for anger," I said.

Ralph Carriston looked at me with those cold eyes of which his cousin

had spoken. "If the boy has succeeded in converting you to any of his

delusions I can only say that doctors are more credulous than I fancied.

But the question is not worth arguing. You decline to assist me, so I

must do without you. Good-morning, Dr. Brand."