The moment I entered his room on the following day he said: "I
thought you had planned to have another doctor come and look me over,
yesterday." He was watching me closely as he spoke: "Did I hear you
mention his name?"
Ah, thought I, here _is_ a mystery in spite of Dr. Hamilton's denial. I
will try him.
"Yes," I said, "I had decided to ask the best Homeopathic doctor I know,
a skilful man, especially successful in diagnosing cases, to overhaul
you and see if he agrees with me that you ought to be on your feet this
blessed minute, if my diagnosis of your case is entirely right. I
don't see why you are still so weak. He may find the spring that I have
missed. Why?"
"Did you--I am not acquainted with the doctors here,--I think you said
his name is--?"
"I have not mentioned his name to you," I said, "but the one I had in
mind is Dr. Hamilton of---- Madison Avenue."
There was no doubt about it, the color rose slowly to his face, and he
was struggling for self-control. At length he said: "No, I do not
wish to see another doctor. I am perfectly satisfied with you. I am--I
say--no, positively do not ask him; that is, do not ask anyone to come
unless I know and definitely agree to it. And I certainly shall want to
know who he is first."
All this was wholly foreign to the man, to his nature and habit.
"Tell me," I said, "what you have against Dr. Hamilton, for I cannot
fail to see that there is something behind all this."
He did not reply for some time; then he said wearily, but with great
depth of feeling.
"I suppose I may as well tell you. I cannot forgive him for an injury I
did him long ago."
I did not say anything nor did I look at him. Presently he went on
hoarsely; "If I had only injured him, perhaps I could get over it but
I took a mean advantage of--I did it through a woman who liked him--and
whom he--loved and trusted." There was another long silence; then I
said; "You were right to tell me, Lathro. You need not fear that I will
betray you to him, and he does not know you. He did not recognize you
either before or after you fainted. Of course I knew there was something
wrong. He will not come again."
He sprang to his feet, and a wave of red surged into his face. "I knew
it! I knew I had seen him! I was sure it was not a delusion," he said.
"He was here. No, he would not know me. He never saw me. I did not
injure him like a man, I struck from behind a woman. A woman who cared
for his respect, and I let him blame her. I suppose I could get over it
if it were not for that. I came back here partly to let him know, if
I could some way, that she was not to blame"--there was another
long silence--"and partly to get rid of myself. Russia did not do
it,--Turkey,--France--none of them. I thought perhaps he would--I had
some sort of a wild idea that he might settle with me some way. I have
carried that forged cheque in my brain, until--"
I started visibly. I had had no idea that it was so bad as this. I
changed my position to hide or cover the involuntary movement I had
made, but he had seen it and the color died out of his face. He
forced himself to begin again. "I carried that forged check," he was
articulating now with horrible distinctness, "wherever I went. She never
knew anything about it. She knew I was--she thought, or feared, that I
might be somewhat--what you Americans call crooked; but she did not know
the truth, not until the very last. She knew that I had been unreliable
in some ways long ago; but she did not dream of the worst. At
last,--sometimes I think I was a fool to have done it,--but I told her.
I told her the whole truth, and--she left me. She had borne everything
till then. I think she came here. Before long I followed. She told me
not to, and I said I would not; but of course I did. I could not help
it. I knew then, and I know now, that I am putting myself into the
clutches of the law; but I do not care--not now-- since I cannot find
Florence Campbell."
He pronounced the name as if it were a treasure wrung from him by force.
"It is the only really criminal thing I ever did. I do not know why
I did it. They say that crime--a taste for it, develops slowly, by
degrees. Maybe so; but not with me, not with me.
"I had money enough; but--oh, my God! how I hated him. I saw that he
was growing to love her without knowing it. I often heard them talking
together. They did not know it, and if they had it could not have been
more innocent; but I was madly jealous, for the first time in my life.
I determined to make him think ill of her, and yet I said just now that
forgery was my only crime. That was worse, by far, but I believe it is
not a crime in law."
He smiled scornfully. "I have outgrown all that now. The storm has
left me the wreck you see; but I thought it all out last night, and
determined to tell you. You are to tell--him--for her sake," he said
between his set teeth.
"He may see her yet some day. She will never return to me--God bless
her! God help us both!"
"No, she will never return to you nor to anyone else," I said, as gently
as I could.
He sprang up with the energy of a maniac. "How do you know? What do you
know?" he demanded.
"I only know that she is dead, my friend," I said, placing my hand on
his arm, "and that Dr. Hamilton does not wish to punish you. I heard it
all; the story of the forgery of his name, and that a Florence Campbell
was in some way connected with it. I heard it from him long, long ago;
but he does not know that you are Tom Campbell. You are safe."
"Does not wish to punish me! I am safe! Great God, no one could punish
me. I do that. Safe! Oh, the irony of language!"
There was a long pause. He had gone to the window and was staring out
into the darkness.
Presently the sound of convulsive sobbing filled the room; I thought
best to remain near the door and make no effort to check his grief with
words.
At last the storm spent itself. He came slowly into the middle of the
room and stood facing me. At length he said:
"One of the greatest punishments is gone, thank God. Florence Campbell
is dead, you say. Do you know what it is, Doctor, to wish that one you
loved was dead?"
"Yes, yes." I said; "but it is best for you not to talk any more--nor
think, just now--not of that--not of that."
He broke in impatiently--"Don't you know me well enough yet to know that
that sort of thing--that sort of professional humbug is useless? Must
not talk more of that--nor think of it, indeed! What else do you suppose
I ever think of? The good men who are bad and the bad ones who are
good--the puppets of our recent conversations? Suppose we boil it down a
little. Am I a bad man? That is a question that puzzles me. Am I a good
one? At least I can answer _that_--and yet I never did but one criminal
deed in my whole life, and I have done a great many so-called good ones
to set over against it."
"Then you can answer neither question with a single word," I said. He
took my hand and pressed it with the frenzy of a new hope.
"At least one man's philosophy is not all words," he said. "You act upon
your theories. You are the only one I ever knew who did."
"Perhaps I am the only one you ever gave the chance," I replied, still
holding his hand.
We stood thus silent for a moment, then he said with an inexpressible
accent of satire: "Would you advise me to try it, doctor, with anyone
else?" I deliberated some time before I replied. Then I said: "No, I am
sorry to say that I fear it would not be safe. There is still so much
tiger in the human race. No, do not tell your story again to any one; it
can do no good. Most certainly I would advise you _not_ to try it ever
again."
As I left the room he said: "True, true. It can do no good, none
whatever."
The next day he left. I never saw him again. Two years later I received
a kind letter from him in which he greatly over-estimated all I had done
for him. The letter came from St. Petersburg and was signed "T. Lathro
Campbell, Col. Imperial Guard."
I fancied, in spite of his letter, that he would rather sever all
connection with this country, and feel that he had no ties nor past; so
I never answered his letter.
Sometimes I wonder if he misunderstood my silence, and accepted it as a
token of unfriendliness--and yet--well, I have never been able to decide
just what would be least painful to him; so I let it drift into years of
silence, and perhaps, after all, these very good intentions of mine may
be only cobble-stones added to the paving of the streets of a certain
dread, but very populous city which is, in these days of agnosticism
quite a matter of jest in polite society.
Who shall say? Which would he prefer, friendly communication or silence
and forgetfulness?