that there is no occasion for you to bid good-by to it."
"You are wrong there!" I exclaimed. "I shall never write it. I do not
want to write it."
"Nevertheless," said Walkirk, "the book will be written. I shall write
it. In fact I have written a great part of it already."
"What in the name of common sense do you mean?" I cried, staring at him
in astonishment.
"What I am going to say to you," replied Walkirk, "may displease you,
but I earnestly hope that you may eventually agree with me, that what I
have done is for the general good. You may remember that when you first
talked to me of your travels, you also handed me some of the manuscript
you had prepared for the opening chapters of your book and gave me an
outline of the projected plan of the work. Now as I have often told you,
I considered the material for a book of travels contained in your
experiences, as recited to me, as extremely fresh, novel and
entertaining, and would be bound to make what publishers call a 'hit' if
properly presented, but at the same time I am compelled to say that I
soon became convinced that there was no probability that you would
properly present your admirable subject matter to the reading world."
"Upon my word," said I, "this is cool."
"It is hard to speak to you in this way," he answered, "and the only way
in which I can do it is to be perfectly straightforward and honest about
it. I am at heart a literary man, and have, so far as I have the power,
cultivated the art of putting things effectively; and I assure you, sir,
that it gave me actual pain when I found how you were going to present
some of the incidents of your journey, such as, for instance, your
diving experiences in the maelstrom, or at least in the place where it
was supposed to be, and where, judging from your discoveries, it may
under certain conditions and to a certain extent really exist.
"There were a good many other points which I believe could be made of
startling interest and value, not only to ordinary readers, but to
scientific people, if they were properly brought out. I saw no reason
that you would so bring them out, and I felt not only that I could do
it, but that it would delight me to do it.
"My feeling on the subject was so strong that, as you may remember, I
declined to act as your secretary. I am perhaps over-sensitive, but I
could not have written your book as you would have dictated it to me,
and as you did indeed dictate it to your various secretaries."
"Go on," I said, "I am perfectly charmed with my power of repressing
resentment."
"Therefore it was," he continued, "that I set to work to write the book
myself, founding it entirely upon your daily recitals. My plan was to
write as long as I found you were in the humor to talk, and, in fact, if
you lost interest in me as a listener I determined that I would then
declare what I had done, show you my work, and implore you, if you felt
like it, to give me enough subject matter to finish it.
"I have now stated my case, and I place it entirely in your hands. I
will give you what I have written, and if you choose to read it and do
not like it, you can throw it into the fire. The subject matter is
yours, and I have no rights over it. But if you think that the work
which you have decided to discontinue can be successfully carried on by
me, I shall be delighted to go ahead and finish it."
"Walkirk," said I, "you have the effrontery of a stone sphinx; but let
me see your manuscript."
He handed it to me, and during the rest of the morning, and for a great
part of the night, after I had returned in a late train from the city, I
read it. The next day I handed it to him.
"Walkirk," said I, "as my under-study go ahead and finish this book. You
never came nearer the truth than when you said that that material is
vastly interesting."
Walkirk was delighted and took up the work with enthusiasm. Whenever I
had a chance I talked to him, and whenever he had a chance he wrote.
However, at that time, I gave so much of my business to my under-study
that he was not able to devote himself to his literary work as
assiduously as he and I would have desired. In fact, the book is not yet
finished, but when it appears I think it will be a success.
LI.
A LOOSE END.
I was now a very happy man, but I was not an entirely satisfied one.
Looking back upon what had happened, I could see that there were certain
loose ends, which ought to be gathered up before they were broken off
and lost, or tangled up with something to which they did not belong.
It has always been my disposition to gather up the loose ends, to draw
together the floating strands of circumstance, tendency, intention, and
all that sort of thing, so that I may see what they are and where they
come from. I like to know how I stand in relation to them, and how they
may affect me.
One of the present loose ends was brought to my mind by a conversation
with Sylvia. I had been speaking of her cousin Marcia Raynor, and
expressing my pleasure that she was about to enter a new life, to which
she seemed so well adapted.
"Marcia is a fine woman," she said, "and I love her ever so much, but
you know she has caused me a great deal of pain; that she has actually
made me cry when I was in bed at night."
I assured her that I had never imagined such a thing possible.
"Of course," Sylvia continued, "I do not refer to the way she acted just
before the House of Martha was broken up. Then she opposed everything I
wanted to do, and would listen to no reason, but I wouldn't listen to
her reasons either, and I was entirely too angry with her to think of
crying on her account. It was before that, that she made my very heart
sick, and all on your account."
"She was severe upon me, I suppose."
"Not a bit of it," said Sylvia, "if she had been severe, I should not
have minded it so much, but it was quite the other way. Now just put
yourself in my place and try to think how you would have felt about it.
Here was I, fixed and settled for life in the House of Martha, and here
were you, perfectly convinced--at least I was afraid you were
convinced--that there was nothing for you to do but to give me up, and
here was Marcia, just about to step out into the world a free woman, and
at the same time taking a most wonderful interest in you, and trying to
make you understand that you ought to let me alone, and all that sort of
thing."
"In which she did not succeed at all," I said.
"So it appears," said Sylvia, "but I couldn't be sure about that at the
time, you know, and if she had succeeded there was no earthly reason why
you should not have become as much interested in her as she was in you,
and then--but it's too dreadful to talk about; it used to make me fairly
boil."
"You mean to say," said I, "that you were jealous of your Cousin
Marcia."
"Yes," she answered, "there is no use in calling it by any other name; I
was jealous, savagely so, sometimes."
Now this was a very high compliment, and I did not fail to express my
satisfaction at having been the subject of such emotions. But one of the
results of Sylvia's communication was to remind me of the existence of a
loose end. I had never understood Mother Anastasia's feelings towards
me. It had been very interesting to me to make conjectures about those
feelings, and now that I could safely do more than conjecture I wished
to do more, and to find out, if possible, if there had been any reasons
for the construction I had placed upon the actions of the beautiful
Mother Superior. Of course this was of no real importance now, but one
cannot be brought into relations with such a woman as Marcia Raynor
without wanting to know exactly what those relations were.
I had far too much prudence, however, to talk on this subject with
Sylvia; if I talked with any one I must do it very cautiously. One
morning I called upon Miss Laniston. That lady was informed on a great
many points, and, moreover, was exceedingly free-spoken. I did not
expect any direct information from her, but she might say something from
which I might make inferences.
She thought I had come to thank her for what she had done for me, but I
assured her that this ceremony must be postponed for the present, for
Sylvia had instructed me to write my gratitude in a letter, which she
thought would be a much preferable method than for me to pour it out in
a private interview.
"Your Sylvia seems to be a jealous little body," she remarked.
"Oh, no," said I, "although, of course, it is natural enough for persons
in our state of mind to have tendencies that way. By the way, one of
these tendencies on her part was rather odd. Do you know that at one
time she was almost jealous of her cousin Marcia, at that time a
gray-bonneted sister? As you know so much of our affairs I do not think
I am going too far in telling that."
Miss Laniston seemed to be considering the subject.
"It is the commonest thing," she said presently, "to make mistakes about
matters of this sort. Now, for instance, I once put some questions to
you which seemed to indicate that there might be some reason for
Sylvia's uneasiness. Didn't you think they pointed that way?"
"Yes, I did," I replied.
"And have you ever thought of it since?" she asked.
"Occasionally. Of course the matter is of no vital interest now. But at
the time you spoke of it, I could not help wondering if I had said or
done anything during my rather intimate acquaintance with Mother
Anastasia which would give you good cause to put the questions to which
you just now alluded."
"Well," said Miss Laniston, "you seemed to me, at the time, to be in a
decidedly unbalanced state of mind, but I think I acted most
unwarrantably in speaking of Marcia as I did. In fact, I often act
unwarrantably. It is one of my habits. And to prove it to you, I am
going to act unwarrantably again. Having brought the elder Miss Raynor
before you in a way that might have led you to have undefined ideas
about her, I am going to bring her before you again in order that those
ideas may be exactly defined. It is all wrong, I know, but I like to set
things straight, whether I do it in the right way or wrong way."
"That is exactly my disposition," I replied; "I always want to set
things straight."
She left the room, and soon returned with a letter.
"When I decide positively to do a thing," she said, sitting down and
opening the letter, "I think it just as well to drop apologies and
excuses. You and I have decided that matters ought to be set straight,
and so, here goes. Marcia has just written me a long letter in which she
says a good deal about you and Sylvia, and I am going to read you a part
of it which I think will straighten out some things which I may have
made crooked, in my efforts to do good to all parties concerned--a
dangerous business, I may say.
"'It is delightful to think,' thus Marcia writes,--'that Sylvia's life
is at last settled for her, and that, too, in the right way. Of course,
neither you nor I would be satisfied with a match like that; but Sylvia
is not only satisfied with Mr. Vanderley, but I have no doubt that she
will be perfectly happy with him. More than that, I believe she will
supply his shortcomings, and strengthen his weaknesses, and as he has a
naturally good disposition, and an ample fortune, I think Sylvia is to
be sincerely congratulated. When we first spoke of this matter a good
while ago I thought that if the Sylvia-Vanderley affair could ever be
arranged, it would be a good thing, and I have not changed my opinion.'
The rest of the letter," said Miss Laniston, folding it as she spoke,
"chiefly concerns the new college, and I do not suppose it would
interest you."
I agreed with her, and took my leave. The loose end had been gathered
up.
LII.
I FINISH THE SICILIAN LOVE-STORY.
It might have been supposed that my little experience in gathering up
loose ends would have deterred me from further efforts in this
direction, but it did not.
I had left Miss Laniston without asking some questions I had intended to
put to her. I wished very much to know--I thought it was my right to
know--something definite about the Mr. Brownson who had formerly been
connected, so to speak, with the Misses Raynor. I hated this subject as
I hated the vilest medicine, but I felt that I must get the matter
straightened in my mind, yet I could not say anything to Sylvia about
it. And after what Miss Laniston had read to me I could not ask her
anything, even if my mind had been sufficiently composed to formulate
questions. She was a very plain-spoken person. Too much so, perhaps.
Walkirk was very different; in fact, I think he erred on the other side.
I am sure that he would have liked to conceal from me anything that
would give me pain. In the course of his life he had met a great many
people; he might know something about Brownson. Any way, I would throw
out some feelers in that direction.
"Yes," I remarked to him, in the course of a conversation about the late
Mother Superior, "what she is going to do is a very fine thing,--a noble
enterprise, and she is just the sort of person to go into it, but after
all I would rather see her married to the right sort of man. A woman
like that owes it to society to be married."
"I fancy," said Walkirk, "that she has permanently left the marrying
class. When she broke with Brownson, I think she broke with marriage."
"What were the points of that?" I asked. "Did you ever happen to hear
anything about him?"
"I knew him very well," answered Walkirk. "Those were his prints I was
cataloguing just before I entered your service. He had then been dead a
year or more, and I was working for the estate."
I arose and went to the window. I wiped my forehead, which had become
moist. If this man had known Brownson, why should he not know all? Was
he familiar with both engagements? It made me sick to think of it. There
was no sense or reason in such emotion, for it was not likely that
Sylvia's engagement had been a secret one; but I had a proud soul and
could not bear to think that people about me, especially Walkirk, should
be aware of Sylvia's attachment, slight as it may have been, to another
than myself. I heartily wished that I had not spoken of the subject.
Still, as I had spoken of it, I might as well learn all that I could.
"What sort of a man was this Brownson?" I asked. "What reason was there
that Miss Marcia Raynor should have cared for him?"
"He was a fine man," said Walkirk. "He was educated, good-looking, rich.
He was young enough, but had been a bachelor too long, perhaps, and had
very independent ways. It was on account of his independence of thought,
especially on religious matters, that he and Miss Marcia Raynor had
their difficulties, which ended in the breaking of the engagement. I am
quite sure that she was a good deal cut up. As I said before, I do not
think that she will consider marriage again."
I took in a full breath of relief. Here Walkirk had told the little
story of Brownson, and had said nothing of any subsequent engagement.
Perhaps he knew of none. This thought was truly encouraging.
"Perhaps you are right," I said, "she may know better than any of us
what will suit her. Any way I ought to be satisfied; and that reminds
me, Walkirk, that I have never expressed to you, as strongly as I wished
to do it, my appreciation of the interest you have taken in my varied
relations with Miss Sylvia Raynor, and for the valuable advice and
assistance you have given me from time to time. For instance, I believe
that your reluctance to have me go away from Tangent Island was due to
your discovery that the island belonged to Sylvia's mother, and,
therefore, there was some probability that she might come there."
Walkirk smiled. "You have hit the truth," he said.
"I have sometimes wondered," I continued, "why a man should take so much
interest in the love affairs of another. When one engages an
under-study, he does not generally expect that sort of thing."
"Well," said Walkirk, "when a man engages as an under-study, or in a
similar capacity, he often performs services, without regard to his duty
and salary, simply because they interest and please him. Now it struck
me that it would be a curious bit of romantic realism if two beautiful
women, who on account of one man had become nuns in a convent, or what
was practically the same thing, should both be taken out of that convent
and brought back to their true life in the world by another man."
"Two women"--I gasped.
Walkirk smiled, and his voice assumed a comforting tone.
"Of course that sort of thing has its rough points for the second man,
but in this case I do not think they amount to much. Brownson's affair
with the younger lady would have come to an end as soon as she had
discovered the rocks in his character, but her mother broke it off
before it came to that. But I do not think she would have gone into the
sisterhood, if it had not been for the man's death very soon after the
breaking of the engagement. This affected her very much, but there was
no reason why it should, for he was killed in a railway accident, and I
am positively certain that he would have married some one else if he had
lived long enough."
I had nothing to say to all this. I walked slowly into my study and shut
the door. Surely I had had enough of picking up loose ends. If there
were any more of them I would let them flap, dangle, float in the air,
do what they please; I would not touch them.
* * * * *
That evening I spent with Sylvia. In the course of our conversation she
suddenly remarked:--
"Do you know we have had so much to do and so much to talk about, and so
much to think about and plan, that I have had no chance to ask you some
questions that I have been thinking about. In the first place I want you
to tell me all about Mr. Walkirk. How long has he been with you? Are you
always going to keep him? What does he do? What was his business before
he came to you? Was he always an under-study for people? It has struck
me that that would be such an odd occupation for a man to have. And then
there is another thing,--a mere supposition of mine, but still something
that I have had a sort of curiosity about: supposing that the House of
Martha had not been broken up, and it were all fixed and settled that I
should stay there always, and supposing cousin Marcia had left us, and
had gone into her college work, just as she is doing now--do you think
that you would have had any desire to study medicine?
"And then there is another thing that is not a question, but something
which I think I ought to tell you,--something which you have a right to
know before we are married."
"Sylvia," said I, interrupting her, "let me give you a little piece of
wisdom from my own experience: The gnawings of ungratified curiosity are
often very irritating, but we should remember that the gnawings of
gratified curiosity are frequently mangling."
"Indeed!" she exclaimed, "is that the way you look at it? Well, I can
assure you that what I have to tell is of no importance at all, but if
you have anything to say that is mangling, I want to hear it this very
minute."
"My dear Sylvia," said I, "we have had so much to do and so much to talk
about, and so much to think about and plan, that I have had no chance to
finish the story of Tomaso and Lucilla."
"That is true," she cried, with sparkling eyes; "and above all things I
want to hear the end of that story."
I sat by her on the sofa and finished the story of the Sicilian lovers.
"In some ways," she said, "it is very much like our story, isn't it?"
"Except," I answered, "that the best part of ours is just beginning."