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BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
(Leisure Hour Series.)
CALLED BACK.
DARK DAYS.
BOUND TOGETHER.
CARRISTON'S GIFT, AND OTHER TALES.






BAN
MAN
Un
WWW
WWW
mmmmmm
LIN
MUNITIV
Frederick John Fargus
(single Consay)


LE":"71, 1CA SERT",-
5,4.
CARRISTONS GIFT
AND OTHER TILFS
MUGH CONWAY
(T. J. F18 (115)
Author of "LET HACK, ' ETC.
WITH A PORTRAIT OF T4<THOR AND CTTER
ILL! Lai TI VS
NEW YORK
HENRI HOIT AND COMPANY
1885



are


LEISURE HOUR SERIES.-No. 166.
CARRISTON'S GIFT
AND OTHER TALES
BY
HUGH CONWAY
(F. J. FARGUS)
Author of "CALLED BACK,” ETC.
WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR AND OTHER
ILLUSTRATIONS
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1885


21476.27.27
HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY
FROM THE LIBRARY OF
MRS. ELLEN HAVEN ROSS
JUNE 28, 1938
COPYRIGHT, 1885,
BY
HENRY HOLT & CO.
W. L. MERSHON & Co.,
Printers and Electrotypers,
Rahway, N. J.


CONTENTS.
PAGE
CARRISTON'S GIFT
.
.
.
.
.
CHEWTON-ABBOT
. 118
PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY .
. 163
A DEAD MAN'S FACE: A GHOST STORY
200
• 200
JULIANVANNECK
.
. 227
THE “BICHWA
.
.
.
.
.
. 264





CARRISTON'S GIFT.
PART I.
TOLD BY PHILIP BRAND, M.D., LONDON.
I WISH I had the courage to begin this tale by
1 turning to my professional visiting-books, and
taking at random any month out of the last twenty
years, give its records as a fair sample of my or-
dinary 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 ro-
mantic 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 cer-


CARRİSTON'S GIFT.
tainly 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 lia-
ble 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 sensa-
tion 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 twelve-months' 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 dis-
counted the coming pleasures of my brief respite
from labor.


CARRİSTON'S GIFT..
There are many ways of passing a holiday-
many places at which it may be spent; but, after
all, if you wish to thoroughly enjoy it, 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 shall 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 is not for me to say any thing
of their actual merits, but they are dear to me
for their associations.
This particular year I went to North Wales, and
made Bettwys-y-Coed my headquarters. I staid
at the Royal Oak, that well-known little inn dear
to many an artist's heart, and teeming with remin-
iscences of famous men who have sojourned there
times without number. It was here I made the


.
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
4
acquaintance of whose life the curious events I
am going to narrate are connected.
On the first day after my arrival at Bettwys my
appreciation of my liberty was so thorough, my ap-
petite 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 some-
thing to eat. The waiter knowing, no doubt,
something of the frank camaraderie which exists,
or should exist, between the followers of Melpo-
mene, 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 afterward 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 grace-
ful. He looked even more than gentlemanly—he
looked distinguished. His face was pale, its feat-
ures well-cut, straight, and regular. His forehead
spoke of high intellectual qualities, and there was
somewhat of that development over the eyebrows
which phrenologists, I believe, consider as evi-


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
dence of the possession of imagination. The
general expression of his face was one of seri-
ousness, if not 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 conversa-
tion I showed 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 for our sins
in painting to each other.”
We talked on pleasantly until our bodily wants
were satisfied by the good fare placed before us.
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 Car-
riston. “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 bright-
ly, 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


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
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 em-
bodiment of poetry. He paid no heed to the
merry talk of 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. Müller 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 Car-
riston, 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 For-
tune 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,


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
unaffected way in which he made these con-
fidences, 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 un-
broken 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-intro-
duction was the result of accident or arrange-
ment. 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. Even-
ing after evening we returned to dine side by
side, and afterward to talk and smoke together,
in-doors or out-doors as the temperature advised
or our wishes inclined.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
me, my interest grew deeper and deeper. I flatter
myself that I am a keen observer and skillful
analyst of personal character, and until now fan-
cied that to write a description of its component
parts was an easy matter. Yet now 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, af-
Alicted 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 spirit, 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 sor-
row, even of pity vibrated through it too strongly
for his comfort or well-being. As yet it had not


10
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
been called upon to bear the test of love, and fortu-
nately—I use the world 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 uneasi-
ness 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'S GIFT.
II
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 feel-
ings as other people. I don't think I shall ever
meet a woman I 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 prom-


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
ise to ask me to your wedding, and better still,
if you live in town, appoint me your family doc-
tor. 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 companion-
ship 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 im-
possible 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-per-
haps, even more a poet than an artist-I laid
these absent looks and recurring flights into
vacancy at the door of the Muse,


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
13
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 every thing 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, terri-
ble 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


14
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
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 a while
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 flights of genius should be re-
spected, 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
.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
15
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 can not 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 refut-
ing.”
“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
any thing. But your eyes-handsome eyes they
are, too-contain certain properties, known as
huinors and lenses, therefore in order to see—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Carriston ;“I know ex-
actly all you are going to say. You, a man of
science, ridicule every thing which breaks what
you are pleased to call the law of Nature. Yet
take all the unaccountable tales told. Nine hun-


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
dred and ninety-nine you expose to scorn or
throw grave doubt upon, yet the thousandth rests
on evidence which can not 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 deli-
cate 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 ex-
plain 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 seen yourself ? ”
“Nothing, I tell you. And I pray I may never
see any thing."
After this he seemed inclined to shirk the sub-
ject, 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'S GIFT.
17
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 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 pleasant-
est 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 that we should
spend together, to do all I could toward taking
the nonsense out of him.
My efforts were unavailing. I kept a sharp
look-out 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."


18
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
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 sub.
sequent 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 Bourne-
mouth, 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 traveling com-
panion a well-dressed, gentlemanly man of about
forty years of age. We were alone in the com-
partment, and after interchanging some small
civilities, such as the barter of newspapers, slid
into conversation.
My fellow-traveler 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


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
19
such peculiarities are of little moment, but for my
part I should not choose one who possessed them
for a friend without due trial and searching proof.
At this time the English public were much
interested in an important will case which was
now being tried. The reversion to a vast sum of
money depended upon the testator's sanity or
insanity. Like most other people we duly dis-
cussed 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, thought.
fully.
“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


20
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
to my intelligent listener. He heard me with
rapt interest.
“You predict he will go mad?” he said.
“Certainly not. Unless any thing 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 unex-
pected 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 under-
taking 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,



"
YOU PREDICT HE WILL GO MAD,' HE SAID."





CARRISTON'S GIFT.
21
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 let-
ter 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 every thing 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 primi-
tive 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


22
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
treated Carriston. I was both delighted and as-
tonished 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-altogether 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 gay-
est spirits and full of fun and anecdote. I con-
gratulated him heartily upon the marked improve-
ment in his health, both mental and physical.
“Yes, I am much better,” he said. “I fol-
lowed 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, anx-
ious 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 descrip-
tions of the varieties of Scotch character which
he had met with during his stay. He depicted
his experiences so amusingly that I laughed heart-
ily for many a mile.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
23
“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 ordi-
nary standard.”
“Well, the fact is, my cousin is also in Scot-
land. I feared if I gave my true name at the
hotel at which I staid on my way here, he might
by chance 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


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
difference. I dare say all this is 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 preju-
dices were proof against any thing I could do to
remove them.
At last we reached our temporary abode. It
was a substantial, low-built house, owned and in-
habited by a thrifty, middle-aged widow, who, al-
though well-to-do so far as the simple ideas of
her neighbors went, was nevertheless always will-
ing 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 sight-seers.
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 inspec-
tion 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 Çarriston's demeanor;


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
25
knew why his step was lighter, his eye brighter,
his voice gayer, and his whole bearing altered.
Whether the reason was a subject for congratula-
tion or not I could not as yet say.
The boy was in love; in love as only a passion-
ate, 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 suit-
able 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 weak-
ness.
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 while standing at
the door of the house was positively startled by
the beauty of a girl who passed me and entered,
as if she were a regular inhabitant of the place.
Nột a rosy Scotch lassie, such as one would


26
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
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 any thing 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 lasses, 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 pas-
sage 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


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
27
to the interest the girl's appearance awoke in my
mind. Anyway 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 our-
selves?”
A look of pleasure flashed into his eyes—a look
which pretty well told me every thing. Neverthe-
less 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 can not be Scotch with such a face and
eyes.”
“Half and half. Her father was called an
Englishman; but was, I believe, of Scotch extrac-
tion. 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's, and


28
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
bore her away from her native lnad. 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 rela-
tive, 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 fair young girl I had seen
a few minutes before. Full face, profile, three-
quarter face, five, even seven-eighth face, all were
there-each study perfectly executed by Carris-
ton's clever pencil. I threw myself into a chair
and laughed aloud, while the young man, blush-
ing and discomfited, quickly huddled the portraits
between the covers, just as a genuine Scotch
lassie bore in the plentiful, and, to me, very wel-
come breakfast.
Carriston did favor me with his company dur-


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
29
ing 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 defense. 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
worshiped 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 good 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 Carrington's
sake, consented to look upon me as a friend, and


30
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
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: heed-
less of her humble position in the world, and
absence of befitting 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. Com-
paring the two, it needed no phrenologist or
physiognomist to tell you 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.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
31
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 speak-
ing no word. Yet they were a handsome couple,
and never have I seen two people so utterly de-
voted 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, watch-
ing 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 High-
land superstition, no doubt embellished and aug-
mented 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


32
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
her veins, was as firm a believer in things vision-
ary 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 Carris-
ton'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. Every thing 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 the aunt by
telling her he was passing under an alias, while if
he gave Madeline his true reason for so doing she



22
"I WAITED MANY, MANY MINUTES WHILE CARRISTON STOOD HAND IN HAND WITH MADELINE."





34
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
look which I had on a previous occasion at
Bettwys-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 con-
necting 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 like 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


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
35
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 every
thing."
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 more 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-
while I was deep in a new and clever treatise on
zymotics, a man haggard, wild, unshorn, and


36
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
unkempt rushed past my startled servant, and
entered the room in which I sat. He threw him-
self into a chair, and I was horrified to recognize
in the intruder my clever and brilliant friend,
Charles Carriston !
“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 with-
out a word sank back into his chair and buried
his face in his hands. A sort of nervous trem-
bling 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,
while a ghastly smile—a phantom of 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 meť mine so


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
37
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 can not have been won by another. If so,
all I can say is—”
“What!” he shouted. “You who 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


38
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
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 pro-
tection. But I have eaten and I have drank,
knowing I must keep my health and strength.”
However, I insisted upon 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 his 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



"HIS FACE WAS DISTORTED WITH RAGE. HE CLINCHED AND UNCLINCHED HIS LONG SLENDER HANDS."





CARRISTON'S GIFT.
39
approaching marriage, so in a 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 women were sparing with their congratu-
lations. Indeed, Mr. Ralph Carriston, the cousin
whose name was coupled with such absurd sus-
picions, 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 affections 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 posi-
•tion and parentage. Feeling sure that only his
cousin Ralph could have had the curiosity to in-
stitute 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 pen-


40
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
niless, 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 concern-
ing certain property he wished to settle upon her.
These 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 mean
time 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 traveling the greatest part of the time, so it


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
39
approaching marriage, so in a 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 women were sparing with their congratu-
lations. Indeed, Mr. Ralph Carriston, the cousin
whose name was coupled with such absurd sus-
picions, 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 affections 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 posi-
• tion and parentage. Feeling sure that only his
cousin Ralph could have had the curiosity to in-
stitute 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 pen.


42
CARRISTON'S GIFT,
vas
a Wom:
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, Carris-
ton 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 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


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
43
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 inform-
ants. 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 with-
out luggage of any description-true, she had not
written as promised, bui 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 trav-
eled back at once to town, half distracted, sleep-
less, and racking his brain to know where to look
for her.
“She has been decoyed away,” he said in con-
clusion. “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 sus-
picion of his cousin amounted almost to mono-
mania. He had told the tale of Madeline's disap-
pearance clearly and tersely; but when he began


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
45
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 in-
genuity 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.


46
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
The old Scotchwoman's funeral over, and those
friends who had been present departed, Madeline
was left in the little farmhouse 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 differ-
ent 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 ap-
proaching happiness, for the day was drawing near
when her lover would cross the Border and bear
his bonnie bride away. She felt sure that she
would not be long alone—that the moment Carris-
ton 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 with-
out 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


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
47
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 outdoor 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 Made-
line 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 Callen-
dar she saw a boy on a pony. The boy, who must
have known her by sight, stopped, and handed


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
49
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-de-
lirious 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 con-
tinue 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 Pad-
dington 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 sus-
tained 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.


50
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
Her conductor did not say much of his own
accord, but in replying to her questions he was ·
politely sympathetic. She thought of little out-
side the fearful picture which filled every corner
of her brain, but from her conductor's manner re-
ceived the impression that he was a medical ad-
viser, 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' car-
riage 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 re-
freshments. Hunger seemed to have left her, but
she accepted a cup of tea once or twice. At last
sorrow, fatigue, and the 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.


52
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
self 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 men-
tal 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 per.
son whom I had met on my journey to Bourne-
mouth 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 Carris-
ton's peculiar mind.
I should have at once claimed acquaintance-
ship with my visitor, but before I could speak he
advanced, and apologized gracefully for his intru-
sion.
“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





CARRISTON'S GIFT.
53
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 remem-
ber 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, smiling, “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 sweet-
heart 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


54
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
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 murder-
ous 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 delu-
sions 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.”
He left the room as gracefully as he had entered
it. I remained in a state of doubt. It was curious
that Ralph Carriston turned out to be the man


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
55
whom I had met in the train ; but the evidence
offered by the coincidence was not enough to con-
vict him of the crime of endeavoring to drive his
cousin mad by such a far-fetched stratagem as the
inveigling away of Madeline Rowan. Besides,
even in wishing to prove Charles Carriston mad,
he had much to say on his side. Supposing him
to be innocent of having abducted Madeline, Car-
riston's violent behavior on the preceding evening
must have seemed very much like insanity. In
spite of the aversion with which Ralph Carriston
inspired me, I scarcely knew which side to believe.
Carriston still slept: so when I went out on my
afternoon rounds I left a note, begging him to
remain in the house until my return. Then I
found him up, dressed, and looking much more
like himself. When I entered, dinner was on the
table, so not until that meal was over could we
talk unrestrainedly upon the subject which was
uppermost in both our minds.
As soon as we were alone I turned toward my
guest. “And now,” I said, “ we must settle what
to do. There seems to me to be but one course
open. You have plenty of money, so your best
plan is to engage skilled police assistance. Young
ladies can't be spirited away like this without
leaving a trace.”
To my surprise Carriston flatly objected to this
course. “No," he said, “I shall not go to the
police. The man who took her away has placed


56
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
her where no police can find her. I must find her
myself.”
“Find her yourself! Why, it may be months
-years-before you do that! Good heavens,
Carriston! She may be murdered, or worse—”.
“I shall know if any further evil happens to her
-Then I shall kill Ralph Carriston."
“But you tell me you have no clew whatever
to trace her by. Do talk plainly. Tell me all or
nothing."
Carriston smiled very faintly. “No clew that
you, at any rate, will believe in,” he said. “But
I know this much, she is a prisoner somewhere.
She is unhappy; but not, as yet, ill-treated.
Heavens! Do you think if I did not know this I
should keep my senses for an hour?”
“How can you possibly know it?”
"By that gift—that extra sense or whatever it
is—which you deride. I knew it would come to
me some day, but I little thought how I should
welcome it. I know that in some way I shall find
her by it. I tell you I have already seen her
three times. I may see her again at any moment
when the strange fit comes over me.”
All this fantastic nonsense was spoken so sim-
ply and with such an air of conviction that once
more my suspicions as to the state of his mind
were aroused. In spite of the brave answers
which I had given Mr. Ralph Carriston I felt that
common sense was undeniably on his side,


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
57
“Tell me what you mean by your strange fit,”
I said, resolved to find out the nature of Carris-
ton's fancies or hallucinations. “Is it a kind of
trance you fall into ?”
He seemed loth to give any information on the
subject, but I pressed him for an answer.
“Yes,” he said at last. “It must be a kind of
trance. An indescribable feeling coines over me.
I know that my eyes are fixed on some object-
presently that object vanishes, and I see Made-
line."
“How do you see her?”
“She seems to stand in a blurred circle of light
as cast by a magic lantern. That is the only way
that I can describe it. But her figure is plain
and clear-she might be close to me. The car-
pet on which she stands I can see, the chair on
which she sits, the table on which she leans her
hand, any thing she touches I can see, but no
more. I have seen her talking. I knew she was
entreating some one, but that some one was in-
visible. Yet, if she touched that person, the
virtue of her touch would enable me to see
him.”
So far as I could see, Carriston's case appeared
to be one of over-wrought or unduly stimulated
imagination. His I had always considered to be
a mind of the most peculiar construction. In his
present state of love, grief, and suspense these
hallucinations might come in the same way in


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
which dreams come. For a little while I sat in
silence considering how I could pest combat with
and dispel his remarkable delusions. Before I
had arrived at any decision I was called away to
see a patient. I was but a short time engaged.
Then I returned to Carriston, intending to con-
tinue my inquiries.
Upon re-entering the room I found him sitting
as I had left him—directly opposite to the door.
His face was turned fully toward me, and I trem-
bled as I caught sight of it. He was leaning for-
ward, his hands on the table-cloth, his whole
frame rigid, his eyes staring in one direction, yet,
I knew, capable of seeing nothing that I could
see. He seemed even oblivious to sound, for I
entered the room and closed the door behind me,
without causing him to change look or position.
The moment I saw the man I knew that he had
been overtaken by what he called his strange fit.
My first impulse—a natural one-was to arouse
him, but second thoughts told me that this was
an opportunity for studying his disease which
should not be lost-I felt that I could call it by
no other name than disease—so I proceeded to
make a systematic examination of his symp-
toms.
I leaned across the table, and with my face
about a foot from his, looked straight into his
eyes. They betrayed no sign of recognition--no
knowledge of my presence. I am ashamed to



"I LIGHTED A TAPER AND HELD IT BEFORE HIS EYES, BUT COULD SEE NO EXPANSION OF THE IRIS.”





CARRISTON'S GIFT.
59
say I could not. divest myself of the impression
that they were looking through me. The pupils
were greatly dilated. The lids were wide apart.
I lighted a taper and held it before them, but
could see no expansion of the iris. It was a case,
I confess, entirely beyond my comprehension. I
had no experience which might serve as a guide
as to what was the best course to adopt. All I
could do was to stand and watch carefully for any
change.
Save for his regular breathing and a sort of con-
vulsive twitching of his fingers, Carriston might
have been a corpse or a statue. His face could
scarcely grow paler than it had been before the
attack. Altogether, it was an uncomfortable
sight : a creepy sight—this motionless man, ut-
terly regardless of all that went on around him,
and seeing, or giving one the idea that he saw,
something far away. I sighed as I looked at the
strange spectacle, and foresaw what the end must
surely be. But although I longed for him to
awake, I determined on this occasion to let the
trance, or fit, run its full course, that I might no-
tice in what manner and how soon consciousness
returned.
I must have waited and watched some ten min-
utes—minutes which seemed to be interminable.
At last I saw the lips quiver, the lids flicker once
or twice, and eventually close wearily over the
eyes. The unnatural tension of every muscle


6.
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
seemed to relax, and, sighing deeply, and appar-
ently quite exhausted, Carrington sank back into
his chair with beads of perspiration forming on
his white brow. The fit was over.
In a moment I was at his side and forcing a
glass of wine down his throat. He looked up
at me and spoke. His voice was faint, but his
words were quite collected.
“I have seen her again,” he said. “She is well ;
but so unhappy. I saw her kneel down and pray.
She stretched out her beautiful arms to me. And
yet I know not where to look for her—my poor
love ! my poor love!”
I waited until I thought he had sufficiently re-
covered from his exhaustion to talk without in-
jurious consequences. “Carriston,” I said, “let
me ask you one question: are these trances or
visions voluntary or not?”.
He reflected for a few moments. “I can't
quite tell you," he said ;“ or, rather, I would put
it in this way. I do not think I can exercise my
power at will ; but I can feel when the fit is com-
ing on me, and, I believe, can, if I choose, stop
myself from yielding to it.”
“ Very well. Now listen. Promise me you
will fight against these seizures as much as you
can. If you don't you will be raving mad in a
month."
“I can't promise that,” said Carriston, quietly.
“See her at times I must, or I shall dię. But I


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
61
will promise to yield as seldom as may be. I know,
as well as you do, that the very exhaustion I now
feel must be injurious to any one.”
In truth, he looked utterly worn out. Very
much dissatisfied with this concession, the best I
could get from him, I sent him to bed, knowing
that natural rest, if he could get it, would do
more than any thing else toward restoring a
healthy tone to his mind.
VIII.
ALTHOUGH Carriston stated that he came to me
for aid, and, it may be, protection, he manifested
the greatest reluctance in following any advice I
offered him. The obstinacy of his refusal to ob-
tain the assistance of the police placed me in a
predicament. That Madeline Rowan had really
disappeared I was, of course, compelled to believe.
It might even be possible that she was kept
against her will in some place of concealment. In
such a case it behooved us to take proper steps to
trace her. Her welfare should not depend upon
the hallucinations and eccentric ideas of a man
half out of his senses with love and grief. I all
but resolved, even at the risk of forfeiting Carris-
ton's friendship, to put the whole matter in the
hands of the police, unless, in the course of a day
or two, we heard from the girl herself, or Carris-
ton suggested some better plan,


62
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
Curiously enough, although refusing to be
guided by me, he made no suggestion on his own
account. He was racked by fear and suspense,
yet his only idea of solving his difficulties seemed
to be that of waiting. He did nothing. He sim-
ply waited, as if he expected that chance would
bring what he should have been searching for high
and low.
Some days passed before I could get a tardy
consent that aid should be sought. Even then
he would not go to the proper quarter ; but he
allowed me to summon to our councils a man
who advertised himself as being a private detec-
tive. This man, or one of his men, came at our
call, and heard what was wanted of him. Carris-
ton reluctantly gave him one of Madeline's
photographs. He also told him that only by
watching and spying on Ralph Carriston's every
action could he hope to obtain the clew. I did
not much like the course adopted, nor did I like
the look of the man to whom the inquiry was
entrusted; but, at any rate, something was being
done.
A week passed without news from our agent.
Carriston, in truth, did not seem to expect any.
I believe he only employed the man in deference
to my wishes. He moved about the house in a
disconsolate fashion. I had not told him of my
interview with his cousin, but had cautioned him
on the rare occasions upon which he went out of


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
63
doors to avoid speaking to strangers, and my
servants had strict instructions to prevent any
one coming in and taking my guest by surprise.
For I had, during those days, opened a confi-
dential inquiry on my own account. I wanted to
learn something about this Mr. Ralph Carriston.
So I asked a man who knew every body to find
out all about him.
He reported that Ralph Carriston was a man
well known about London. He was mâi ried, and
had a house in Dorsetshire ; but the greater part
of his time was spent in town. Once he was sup-
posed to be well off; but now it was the general
opinion that every acre he owned was mortgaged,
and that he was much pressed for money. “But,”
my informant said, “there is but one life between
him and the reversion to large estates, and that
life is a poor one. I believe even now there is a
talk about the man who stands in his way being
mad. If so, Ralph Carriston will get the manage-
ment of every thing."
After this news I felt it more than ever need-
ful to keep a watchful eye on my friend. So far
as I knew there had been no recurrence of the
trance, and I began to hope that proper treatment
would effect a complete cure, when, to my great
alarm and annoyance, Carriston, while sitting with
me, suddenly and without warning fell into the
same strange state of body and mind as previ-
ously described. This time he was sitting in


64
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
another part of the room. After watching him
for a minute or two, and just as I was making up
my mind to arouse him and scold him thoroughly
for his folly, he sprang to his feet, and shouting,
“Let her go! Loose her, I say!” rushed violently
across the room-so violently that I had barely
time to interpose and prevent him from coming
into contact with the opposite wall.
Upon returning to his senses he told me, with
great excitement, that he had again seen Made-
line ; moreover, this time he had seen a man with
her-a man who had placed his hand upon her
wrist and kept it there; and so, according to Car-
riston's wild reasoning, became, on account of the
contact, visible to him.
He told me he had watched them for some
moments, until the man, tightening his grip on
the girl's arm, endeavored, he thought, to lead her
or induce her to follow him somewhere. At this
juncture, unaware that he was gazing at a vision,
he had rushed to her assistance in the frantic way
I have described—then he awoke.
He also told me he had studied the man's feat-
ures and general appearance most carefully with
a view to future recognition. All these ridiculous
statements were made as he made the former
ones, with the air of one relating simple, undeni-
able facts—one speaking the plain, unvarnished
truth, and expecting full credence to be given to
his words.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
65
It was too absurd ! too sad! It was evident
to me that the barrier between his hallucina-
tions, dreams, visions, or what he chose to call
them, and pure insanity was now a very slight
and fragile one. But before I gave his case up
as hopeless I determined to make another strong
appeal to his common sense. I told him of his
cousin's visit to me-of his intentions and prop-
osition. I begged him to consider what conse-
quences his extraordinary beliefs and extravagant
actions must eventually entail. He listened
attentively and calmly.
“ You see now," he said, “how right I was in
attributing all this to Ralph Carriston-how right
I was to come to you, a doctor of standing, who
can vouch for my sanity.”
“Vouch for your sanity! How can I when
you sit here and talk such arrant nonsense, and
expect me to believe it? When you jump from
your chair and rush madly at some visionary foe?
Sane as you may be in all else, any evidence I
could give in your favor must break down in cross-
examination if an inkling of these things got
about. Come, Carriston, be reasonable, and prove
your sanity by setting about this search for Miss
Rowan in a proper way.”
He made no reply, but walked up and down
the room apparently in deep thought. My words
seemed to have had no effect upon him. Pres-
ently he seated himself; and, as if to avoid re-


66
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
turning to the argument, drew a book at hazard
from my shelves and began to read. He opened
the volume at random, but after reading a few
lines seemed struck by something that met his
eyes, and in a few minutes was deeply immersed
in the contents of the book. I glanced at it to
see what had so awakened his interest. By a
curious fatality, he had chosen a book the very
worst for him in his present frame of mind-
Gilchrist's recently published life of William
Blake, that masterly memoir of a man who was
on certain points as mad as Carriston himself. I
was about to remonstrate, when he laid down the
volume and turned to me.
“Varley, the painter," he said, “was a firm be-
liever in Blake's visions.” .
“Varley was a bigger fool than Blake,” I re-
torted. “Fancy his sitting down and watching
his clever but mad friend draw spectral heads,
and believing them to be genuine portraits of dead
kings whose forms condescended to appear to
Blake!"
A sudden thought seemed to strike Carriston.
“Will you give me some paper and chalk ?” he
asked. Upon being furnished with these ma-
terials he seated himself at the table and began
to draw. At least a dozen times he sketched,
with his usual rapidity, some object or another,
and a dozen times, after a moment's considera-
tion, threw each sketch aside with an air of dis-


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
67
appointment and began a fresh one. At last one
of his attempts seemed to come up to his re-
quirements. “I have it now, exactly!” he cried,
with joy-even triumph-in his voice. He
spent some time in putting finishing touches
to the successful sketch, then he handed me the
paper.
“That is the man I saw just now with Made-
line,” he said. “When I find him I shall find
her.” He spoke with all sincerity and conviction.
I looked at the paper with, I am bound to say,
a great amount of curiosity.
No matter from what visionary source Carris-
ton had drawn his inspiration, his sketch was
vigorous and natural enough. I have already
mentioned his wonderful power of drawing por-
traits from memory, so was willing to grant that
he might have reproduced the outline of some
face which had somewhere struck him. Yet why
should it have been this one? His drawing rep-
resented the three-quarter face of a man-an
ordinary man—apparently between forty and fifty
years of age. It was a coarse-featured, ill-favored
face, with a ragged ruff of hair round the chin.
It was not the face of a gentleman, nor even the
face of a gently-nurtured man; and the artist, by
a few cunning strokes, had made it wear a crafty
and sullen look. The sketch, as I write this,
lies before me, so that I am not speaking from
memory.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
IX.
A DAY or two after I had witnessed what I
must call Carriston's second seizure we were
favored with a visit from the man whose services
we had secured to trace Madeline. Since he had
received his instructions we had heard nothing of
his proceedings until he now called to report prog-
ress in person. Carriston had not expressed the
slightest curiosity as to where the man was or
what he was about. Probably he looked upon
the employment of this private detective as
nothing more useful than a salve to my conscience.
That Madeline was only to be found through the
power which he professed to hold of seeing herin
his visions was, I felt certain, becoming a rooted
belief of his. Whenever I expressed my surprise
that our agent had brought or sent no information,
Carriston shrugged his shoulders, and assured me
that from the first he knew the man's researches
would be fruitless. However, the fellow had
called at last, and, I hoped, had brought us good
news.
He was a glib-tongued man, who spoke in a
confident, matter-of-fact way. When he saw us
he rubbed his hands as one who had brought
affairs to a successful issue and now meant to
reap praise and other rewards. His whole bearing
told me he had made an important discovery; so
I begged him to be seated, and give us his news.


70
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
Carriston gave him a careless glance, and stood
at some little distance from us. · He looked as if
he thought the impending communication scarcely
worth the trouble of listening to. He might, in-
deed, from his looks, have been the most disin-
terested person of the three. He even left me
to do the questioning.
“Now, then, Mr. Sharpe,” I said, “ let us hear if
you have earned your money.”
“I think so, sir," replied Sharpe, looking
curiously at Carriston, who, strange to say, heard
this answer with supreme indifference.
“I think I may say I have, sir,” continued the
detective—“that is, if the gentleman can identify
these articles as being the young lady's property.”
Thereupon he produced from a thick letter-
case a ribbon in which was stuck a silver pin,
mounted with Scotch pebbles, an ornament that
I remembered having seen Madeline wear. Mr.
Sharpe handed them to Carriston. He examined
them, and I saw his cheeks flush and his eyes grow
bright. .
“How did you come by this ?” he cried, pointing
to the silver ornament.
"I'll tell you presently, sir. Do you recognize
it?”
“ I gave it to Miss Rowan myself.”
“Then we are on the right track,” I cried, joy-
fully. “Go on, Mr. Sharpe.”
“Yes, gentlemen, we are certainly on the right



“CARRISTON TARASHED THE MAN VIGOROUSLY WITH HIS OWN ASH STICK,"





CARRISTON'S GIFT.
73
himself Mr. Smith; and, what's more, she called
herself Mrs. Smith. Perhaps she was, as they
lived like man and wife.”
Whether the fellow was right or mistaken, this
explanation of Madeline's disappearance seemed
to give me what I can only compare to a smack
in the face. I stared at the speaker in speechless
astonishment. If the tale he told so glibly and
circumstantially was true, farewell, so far as I was
concerned, to belief in the love or purity of
women. Madeline Rowan, that creature of a
poet's dream, on the eve of her marriage with
Charles Carriston, to fly, whether wed or unwed
mattered little, with another man! And yet, she
was but a woman. Carriston-or Carr, as she only
knew him—was in her eyes poor. The companion
of her flight might have won her with gold.
Such things have been. Still-
My rapid and wrongful meditations were cut
short in an unexpected way. Suddenly I saw
Mr. Sharpe dragged bodily out of his chair and
thrown on to the floor, while Carriston, standing
over him, thrashed the man vigorously with his
own ash stick-a convenient weapon, so conven-
ient, that I felt Mr. Sharpe could not have selected
a stick more appropriate for his own chastise-
ment. So Carriston seemed to think, for he laid
on cheerfully some eight or ten good cutting
strokes.
Nevertheless, being a respectable doctor and


74
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
man of peace, I was compelled to interfere. I
held Carriston's arm while Mr. Sharpe struggled
to his feet, and after collecting his hat and his
pocket-book, stood glaring vengefully at his assail-
ant, and rubbing the while such of the weals on
his back as he could reach. Annoyed as I felt at
the unprofessional fracas, I could scarcely help
laughing at the man's appearance. I doubt the
possibility of any one looking heroic after such a
thrashing.
“I'll have the law for this,” he growled. “I
ain't paid to be beaten by a madman.”
“You're paid to do my work, not another's,"
said Carriston. “Go to the man who has over.
bribed you and sent you to tell me your lies-go
to him, tell him that once more he has failed. Out
of my sight.”
As Carriston showed signs of re-commencing
hostile operations, the man fled as far as the
doorway. There, being in comparative safety, he
turned with a malignant look.
“You'll smart for this," he said; “ when they
lock you up as a raving lunatic I'll try and get a
post as keeper."
I was glad to see that Carriston paid no atten-
tion to this parting shaft. He turned his back
scornfully, and the fellow left the room and the
house.
“Now are you convinced?” asked Carriston,
turning to me.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
75
“Convinced of what? That his tale is untrue,
or that he has been misled, I am quite certain of.”
“Tush! That is not worth consideration.
Don't you see that Ralph has done all this? I set
that man to watch him; he found out the
espionage; suborned my agent, or your agent, I
should say; sent him here with a trumped-up tale.
Oh yes ; I was to believe that Madeline had de-
serted me—that was to drive me out of my senses.
My cousin is a fool, after all!”
“Without further proof I can not believe that
your suspicions are correct,” I said; but I must
own I spoke with some hesitation.
“ Proof! A clever man like you ought to see
ample proof in the fact of that wretch having
twice called me a madman. I have seen him but
once before—you know if then I gave him any
grounds for making such an assertion. Tell me,
from whom could he have learned the word except
from Ralph Carriston?”
I was bound, if only to save my own reputation
for sagacity, to confess that the point noted by
Carriston had raised certain doubts in my mind.
But if Ralph Carriston really was trying by some
finely wrought scheme to bring about what he
desired, there was all the more reason for great
caution to be exercised.
“I am sorry you beat the fellow," I said. “He
will now swear right and left that you are not in
your senses.'


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
“Of course he will. What do I care ?"
“ Only remember this. It is easier to get put
in an asylum than to get out of it."..
“It is not so very easy for a sane man like my-
self to be put in, especially when he is on his
guard. I have looked up the law. There must.
be a certificate signed by two doctors, surgeons,
or, I believe, apothecaries will do, who have seen
the supposed lunatic alone and together. I'll
take very good care I speak to no doctor save
yourself, and keep out of the way of surgeons and
apothecaries."
It quite cheered me to hear him speaking so
sensibly and collectedly about himself, but I
again impressed upon him the need of great
caution. Although I could not believe that his
cousin had taken Madeline away, I was, after the
affair with the spy, inclined to think that, as Car-
riston averred, he aimed at getting him, sane or
insane, into a mad-house.
But after all these days we were not a step
nearer to the discovery of Madeline's whereabouts.
Carriston made no sign of doing any thing to
facilitate that discovery Again I urged him to
intrust the whole affair to the police. Again he
refused to do so, adding that he was not quite
ready. Ready for what, I wondered !


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
77
X.
I MUST confess, in spite of my affection for Car-
riston, I felt inclined to rebel against the course
which matters were taking. I was a prosaic, mat-
ter-of-fact medical man; doing my work to the
best of my ability, and anxious when that work
was done that my hours of leisure should be as
free from worry and care as possible. With Car-
riston's advent several disturbing elements entered
into my quiet life.
- Let Ralph Carriston be guilty or innocent of
the extraordinary crime which his cousin laid at
his door, I felt certain that he was anxious to ob-
tain possession of the supposed lunatic's person.
It would suit his purposes for his cousin to be
proved mad. I did not believe that even if the
capture was legally effected, Carriston's liberation
would be a matter of great difficulty so long as he
remained in his present state of mind; so long as
I, a doctor of some standing, could go into the
witness box and swear to his sanity. But my old
dread was always with me—the dread that any
further shock would overturn the balance of his
sensitive mind.
So it was that every hour that Carriston was
out of my sight was fraught with anxiety. If
Ralph Carriston was really as unscrupulous as
my friend supposed; if he had really, as seemed


78
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
almost probable, suborned our agent, he might
by some crafty trick obtain the needful certificate,
and some day I should come home and find Car-
riston had been removed. In such a case I fore-
saw great trouble and distress.
Besides, after all that had occurred, it was as
much as I could do to believe that Carriston
was not mad. Any doctor who knew what I
knew would have given the verdict against him.
After dismissing his visions and hallucinations
with the contempt which they deserved, the fact
of a man who was madly, passionately in love with
a woman, and who believed that she had been
entrapped and was still kept in restraint, sitting
down quietly, and letting day after day pass with-
out making an effort toward finding her, was in
itself primâ facie evidence of insanity. A sane
man would at once have set all the engines of
detection at work.
I felt that if once Ralph Carriston obtained
possession of him he could make out a strong
case in his own favor. First of all, the proposed
marriage out of the defendant's own sphere of
life; the passing under a false name; the ridicu-
lous, or apparently ridiculous, accusation made
against his kinsman; the murderous threats; the
chastisement of his own paid agent who brought
him a report which might not seem at all untrue
to any one who knew not Madeline Rowan. Leav-
ing out of the question what might be wrung from


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
79
me in cross-examination, Ralph Carriston had a
strong case, and I knew that, once in his power,
my friend might possibly be doomed to pass years,
if not his whole life, under restraint. So I was
anxious, very anxious.
And I felt an anxiety, scarcely second to that
which prevailed on Carriston's account, as to the
fate of Madeline. Granting, for sake of argu-
ment, that Carriston's absurd conviction that no
bodily harm had as yet been done her was true,
I felt sure that she, with her scarcely less sensi-
tive nature, must feel the separation from her
lover as much as he himself felt the separation
from her. Once or twice I tried to comfort my-
self with cynicism-tried to persuade myself that
a young woman could not in our days be spirited
away—that she had gone of her own free will
that there was a man who had at the eleventh
hour alienated her affections from Carriston. But
I could not bring myself to believe this. So I was
placed between the horns of a dilemma.
If Madeline had not fied of her own free will,
some one must have taken her away, and if so,
our agent's report was a coined one, and, if a
coined one, issued at Ralph's instance; therefore,
Ralph must be the prime actor in the mystery.
But in sober moments such a deduction seemed
an utter absurdity.
Although I have said that Carriston was doing
nothing toward clearing up the mystery, I wrong


80
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
him in so saying. After his own erratic way, he
was at work. At such work too! I really lost
all patience with him.
He shut himself up in his room, out of which
he scarcely stirred for three days. By that time
he had completed a large and beautiful drawing
of his imaginary man. This he took to a well-
known photographer's, and ordered several hund-
red small photographs of it to be prepared as
soon as possible. The minute description which
he had given me of his fanciful creation was
printed at the foot of each copy. As soon as the
first batch of these precious photographs was sent
home, to my great joy he did what he should have
done days ago : yielded to my wishes, and put the
matter into the hands of the police.
I was glad to find that in giving details of what
had happened he said nothing about the advisa-
bility of keeping a watch on Ralph Carriston's
proceedings. He did indeed offer an absurdly
large reward for the discovery of the missing girl,
and, moreover, gave the officer in charge of the
case a packet of photographs of his phantom
man, telling him in the gravest manner that he
knew the original of that likeness had something
to do with the disappearance of Miss Rowan.
The officer, who thought the portrait was that of
a natural being, took his instructions in good
faith, although he seemed greatly surprised when
he heard that Carriston knew neither the name


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
81
nor the occupation, in fact, knew nothing concern-
ing the man who was to be sought for. How-
ever, as Carriston assured him that finding this
man would insure the reward as much as if he
found Madeline, the officer readily promised to
combine the two tasks, little knowing what waste
of time any attempt to perform the latter must
be.
Two days after this Carriston came to me. “I
shall leave you to-morrow,” he said.
“Where are you going?” I asked. “Why do
you leave?”
“I am going to travel about. I have no inten-
tion of letting Ralph get hold of me. So I mean
to go from place to place until I find Madeline.”
“Be careful,” I urged.
“I shall be careful enough. I'll take care that
no doctors, surgeons, or even apothecaries get on
my track. I shall go just as the fit seizes me. If
I can't say one day where I shall be the next, it
will be impossible for that villain to know.”
This was not a bad argument. In fact, if he
carried out his resolve of passing quickly from
place to place I did not see how he could plan
any thing more likely to defeat the intentions with
which we credited his cousin. As to his finding
Madeline by so doing, that was another matter.
His idea seemed to be that chance would sooner
or later bring him in contact with the man of his
dream. However, now that the search had been


82
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
intrusted to the proper persons his own action in
the matter was not worth troubling about. I
gave him many cautions. He was to be quiet
and guarded in words and manner. He was not
to converse with strangers. If he found himself
dogged or watched by any, he was to communi-
cate at once with me. But, above all, I begged
him not to yield again to his mental infirmity.
The folly of a man who could avoid it throwing
himself into such a state ought to be apparent to
him.
“Not oftener than I can help,” was all the
promise I could get from him. “But see her I
must sometimes, or I shall die.”
I had now given up the combat with his pecu.
liar idiosyncrasy as hopeless. So, with many
expressions of gratitude on his part, we bade each
other farewell.
During his absence he wrote me nearly every
day, so that I might know his whereabouts in case
I had any news to communicate. But I had none.
The police failed to find the slightest clew. I had
been called upon by them once or twice in order
that they might have every grain of information I
could give. I took the liberty of advising them
not to waste their time in looking for the man, as
his very existence was problematical. It was but
a fancy of my friend's, and not worth thinking
seriously about. I am not sure but that after
hearing this they did not think the whole affair


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
83
was an imagined one, and so relaxed their
efforts.
Once or twice Carriston happening to be in the
neighborhood of London, came to see me, and
slept the night at my house. He also had no
news to report. Still, he seemed hopeful as
ever.
The weeks went by until Christmas was over
and the New Year begun ; but no sign, word, or
trace of Madeline Rowan. “I have seen her,”
wrote Carriston, “several times. She is in the
same place—unhappy, but not ill treated.”
Evidently his hallucinations were still in full
force.
At first I intended that the whole of this tale
should be told by myself; but upon getting so
far it struck me that the evidence of another
actor, who played an important part in the drama
would give certain occurrences to the reader at
first instead of at second-hand, so I wrote to my
friend Dick Fenton, of Frenchay, Gloucestershire,
and begged him, if he found himself capable of
so doing, to put in simple narrative form his im-
pressions of certain events which happened in
January, 1866—events in which we two were con-
cerned. He has been good enough to comply
with my request. His communication follows.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
85
What freak took me to the little God-forsaken
village of Midcombe in the depth of winter is en-
tirely between myself and my conscience. The
cause, having no bearing upon the matters I am
asked to tell you about, is no one's business but
mine-I will only say that now I would not stay
in such a place at such a time of the year for the
sake of the prettiest girl in the world, let alone
the bare chance of meeting her once or twice.
But one's ideas change. I am now a good bit
older, ride some two stone heavier, and have been
married ever so many years. Perhaps, after all, as
I look back I can find some excuse for being such
an ass as to endure for more than a fortnight all
the discomforts heaped upon me in that little
village inn.
A man who sojourns in such a hole as Midcombe
must give some reason for doing so. My ostensi-
ble reason was hunting. I had a horse with me,
and a second-rate subscription pack of slow-going
mongrels did meet somewhere in the neighbor-
hood, so no one could gainsay my explanation.
But if hunting was my object, I got precious little
of it. A few days after my arrival a bitter, biting
frost set in—a frost as black as your hat, and as
hard as nails. Yet still I staid on.
From private information received-no matter
how, when, or where—I knew that some people
in the neighborhood had organized a party to go
skating on a certain day at Lilymere, a fine sheet


86
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
of water some distance from Midcombe. I guessed
that some one whom I particularly desired to meet
would be there, and as the skating at Lilymere
was free to any one who chose to take the trouble
of getting to such an out of the way place, I hired
a horse and an apology for a dog cart, and at ten
in the morning started to drive the twelve miles to
the pond. I took no one with me. I had been
to Lilymere once before, in bright summer weather,
so fancied I knew the way well enough.
The sky when I started was cloudy; the wind
was chopping round in a way which made the effete
rustic old hostler predict a change of weather. He
was right. Before I had driven two miles light
snow began to fall, and by the time I reached a
wretched little wayside inn, about a mile from the
Mere, a film of white covered the whole country.
I stabled my horse as well as I could, then, taking
my skates with me, walked down to the pond.
Now,whether I had mistaken the day, or whether
the threatening fall of snow had made certain
people change their minds, I don't know; but to
my annoyance and vexation, no skaters were to
be seen, and, moreover, the uncut, white surface
told me that none had been on the pond that
morning. Still, hoping they might come in spite
of the weather, I put on my skates and went out-
side-edging and grape-vining all over the place.
But as there was no person in particular—in fact,
no one at all—to note my powers, I soon got tired.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
87.
It was indeed dreary, dreary work. But I waited
and hoped until the snow came down so fast
and furiously, that I felt sure that waiting was
in vain, and that I had driven to Lilymere for
nothing.
Back I went to the little inn, utterly disgusted
with things in general, and feeling that to break
some one's head would be a relief to me in my
present state of mind. Of course a sensible man
would at once have got his horse between the
shafts and driven home. But whatever I may be
now, in those days I was not a sensible man-
Brand will, I know, cordially indorse this remark.
The accommodation of the inn was not such as to
induce one to linger within its precincts; but the
fire was a right good one, and a drink, which I
skillfully manufactured out of some hot beer, was
not to be despised, and proved warming to the
body and soothing to the ruffled temper. So I
lingered over the big fire until I began to feel
hungry, and upon the landlady assuring me that
she could cook a rasher, decided it would be wiser
to stay where I was until the violence of the snow-
storm was over ; for coming down it was now,
and no mistake!
And it kept on coming down. About half past
three, when I sorrowfully decided I was bound to
make a move, it was snowing faster than ever. I
harnessed my horse, and laughing at the old
woman's dismal prophecy that I should never get


88
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
to Midcombe in such weather, gathered up the
reins, and away I went along the white road.
I thought I knew the way well enough. In
fact, I had always prided myself upon remember-
ing any road once driven over by me; but does
any one who has not tried it really know how a
heavy fall of snow changes the aspect of the
country, and makes landmarks snares and delu-
sions? I learned all about it then, once and for
all. I found, also, the snow lay much deeper than
I thought could possibly be in so short a time,
and it still fell in a manner almost blinding. Yet
I went on bravely and merrily for some miles.
Then came a bit of uncertainty-
Which of those two roads was the right one?
This one, of course—no, the other. There was no
house near; no one was likely to be passing in
such weather, so I was left to exercise my free,
unbiassed choice-a privilege I would willingly
have dispensed with. However, I made the best
selection I could, and followed it for some two
miles. Then I began to grow doubtful, and soon
persuading myself that I was on the wrong track,
retraced my steps. I was by this time something
like a huge white plaster-of-Paris figure, and the
snow which had accumulated on the old dog.cart
made it run heavier by half a ton, more or less.
By the time I came to that unlucky juncture of
roads at which my misfortunes began, it was
almost dark; the sky as black as a tarpaulin, yet


90
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
ing helpless beside a jaded horse and a broken
cart-I should like to know what Brand would
have done under the circumstances.
As for me, I reflected for some minutes—re-
.flection in a snow-storm is weary work. I rea-
soned, I believe, logically, and at last came to this
decision : I would follow the road. If, as I sus-
pected, it was but a cart track, it would probably
soon lead to a habitation of some kind. Any way,
I had better try a bit further. I took hold of the
wearied horse, and with snow under my feet,
snowflakes whirling round me, and a wind blowing
right into my teeth, struggled on.
- It was a journey! I think I must have been
three-quarters of an hour going about a quarter of
a mile. I was just beginning to despair, when I
saw a welcome gleam of light. I steered toward
it, fondly hoping that my troubles were at an end.
I found the light stole through the ill-fitting win-
dow-shutters of what seemed, so far as I could
make out in the darkness, to be a small farm-
house. Tying to a gate the knotted reins by which
I had been leading the horse, I staggered up to
the door and knocked loudly. Upon my honor,
until I leaned against the door-post I had no idea
how tired I was—until that moment I never sus-
pected that the finding of speedy shelter meant
absolutely saving my life. Covered from head to
foot with snow, my hat crushed in, I must have
been a pitiable object.



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“I STAGGERED UP TO THE DOOR AND KNOCKED LOUDLY."





CARRISTON'S GIFT.
91
elsewn his ain.cre, mis
No answer came to my first summons. It was
only after a second and more imperative applica-
tion of my heel that the door deigned to give way
a few inches. Through the aperture a woman's
voice asked who was there.
“Let me in,” I said. “I haved missed my way
to Midcombe. My horse has fallen. You must
give me shelter for the night. Open the door,
and let me in.”
“Shelter! You can't get sheltered here, mis-
ter," said a man's gruff voice. “ This ain't an inn,
so you'd best be off, and go elsewhere.”
“But I must come in,” I said, astounded at
such inhospitality; "I can't go a step further.
Open the door at once!”
“You be d-d,” said the man. “ 'Tis my
house, not yours.”
“But, you fool, I mean to pay you well for
your trouble. Don't you know it means death
wandering about on such a night as this ? Let
me in!”
“You won't come in here,” was the brutal and
boorish reply. The door closed.
That I was enraged at such incivility may be
easily imagined; but if I said I was thoroughly
frightened I believe no one would be surprised.
As getting into that house meant simply life or
death to me, into that house I determined to get,
by door or window, by fair means or foul. So, as
the door closed, I hurled myself against it with


92
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
all the might I could muster. Although I ride
much heavier now than I did then, all my weight
at that time was bone and muscle. The violence
of my attack tore from the lintel the staple which
held the chain; the door went back with a bang,
and I fell forward into the house, fully resolved
to stay there whether welcome or unwelcome.
II.
THE door through which I had burst like a bat-
tering-ram opened straight into a sort of kitchen,
so although I entered in a most undignified way,
in fact on my hands and knees, I was well-estab-
lished in the center of the room before the man
and woman emerged from behind the door, where
my successful assault had thrown them. I stood
up and faced them. They were a couple of ordi-
nary, respectably attired country people. The
man—a sturdy, strong-built, bull-necked rascal -
stood scowling at me, and, I concluded, making
up his mind as to what course to pursue.
“My good people," I said, "you are behaving
in the most unheard-of manner. Can't you under-
stand that I mean to pay you well for any trouble
I give you? But whether you like it or not, here
I stay to-night. To turn me out would be sheer
murder."
So saying I pulled off my overcoat, and began
shaking the snow out of my whiskers,


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
93
I dare say my determined attitude, my respect-
able, as well as muscular appearance, impressed
my unwilling hosts. Any way, they gave in with-
out more ado. While the woman shut the door,
through which the snow-flakes were whirling, the
man said, sullenly,
“Well, you'll have to spend the night on a
chair. We've no beds here for strangers. 'Spe-
cially those as ain't wanted.”
“Very well, my friend. Having settled the
matter, you may as well make yourself pleasant.
Go out and put my horse under cover, and give
him a feed of some sort-make a mash if you
can.”
After giving the woman a quick glance as of
warning, my scowling host lighted a horn lantern
and went on the errand I suggested. I gladly sank
into a chair, and warmed myself before a cheerful
fire. . The prospect of spending the night amid
such discomfort was not alluring, but I had at
least a roof over my head.
The more churlish the nature, the more avari-
cious it is, as a rule, found to be. My promise of
liberal remuneration was, after all, not without its
effect upon the strange couple whose refusal to
afford me refuge had so nearly endangered my
life. They condescended to get me some tea and
rough food. After I had disposed of all that, the
man produced a bottle of gin. We filled our
glasses, and then, with the aid of my pipe, I set.


94
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
tled down to make the best of a night spent in a
hard wooden chair.
I had come across strange people in my travels,
but I have no hesitation in saying that my host
was the sullenest, sulkiest, most boorish specimen
of human nature I had as yet met with. In spite
of his recent ill-treatment of me, I was quite
ready to establish matters on a friendly footing,
and made several attempts to draw him into con-
versation. The brute would only answer in mon-
osyllables, or often not answer at all. So I gave
up talking as a bad job, and sat in silence, smok-
ing and looking into the fire, thinking a good deal,
it may be, of some one I should have met that
morning at Lilymere, had the wretched snow but
kept off.
The long clock—that cumbrous eight-day ma-
chine which inevitably occupies one corner of
every cottager's kitchen - struck nine. The
woman rose and left us. I concluded she was
going to bed. If so I envied her. Her husband
showed no signs of retiring. He still sat over
the fire, opposite me. By this time I was dread-
fully tired : every bone in my body ached. The
hard chair which, an hour or two ago, seemed all
I could desire, now scarcely came up to my ideas
of the comfort I was justly entitled to claim. My
sulky companion had been drinking silently but
steadily. Perhaps the liquor he had poured into
himself might have rendered his frame of mind
more pleasant and amenable to reason.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
95
“My good fellow," I said, “ your chairs are ex-
cellent ones of the kind, but deucedly uncomfort-
able. I am horribly tired. If the resources of
your establishment can't furnish a bed for me to
sleep in, couldn't you find a mattress or some-
thing to lay down before the fire ?”
“You've got all you'll get to-night,” he
answered, knocking the ashes out of his pipe.
“Oh, but I say!”
“So do I say. I say this: if you don't like
it you can leave it. We didn't ask you to come.”
“You infernal beast," I muttered—and meant
it too. I declare had I not been so utterly worn
out, I would have had that bullet-headed ruffian
up for a few rounds on his own kitchen floor, and
tried to knock him into a more amiable frame of
mind.
“Never mind,” I said, “but remember, civility
costs nothing, and often gets rewarded. How-
ever, if you wish to retire to your own couch,
don't let your native politeness stand in your
way. Pray don't hesitate on my account. Leave
plenty of fuel, and I shall manage until the
morning."
“Where you stay, I stay,” he answered. Then
he filled his pipe, and once more relapsed into
stony silence.
I bothered about him no more. I dozed off for
a few minutes—woke-dozed off again for some
hours. I was in an uncomfortable sort of half


96
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
sleep, crammed full of curious dreams-dreams
from which I started, wondering where I was and
how I got there. I even began to grow nervous.
All sorts of horrible travelers' tales ran through
my head. It was in just such places as this that
unsuspecting voyagers were stated to have been
murdered and robbed, by just such unmitigated
ruffians as my host-I can tell you that altogether
I spent a most pleasant night.
To make matters worse and more dismal, the
storm still raged outside. The wind moaned
through the trees, but it had again changed, and
I knew from the sound of the window-panes that
heavy rain had succeeded snow. As the big drops
of water found their way down the large, old-
fashioned chimney, the fire hissed and spluttered
like a spiteful vixen. Every thing combined to
deprive me of what dog's sleep I could, by sheer
persistency, snatch.
I think I tried every position which an ordinary
man, not an acrobat, is capable of adopting
with the assistance of a common wooden chair.
I even lay down on the hard flags. I actually
tried the table. I propped up the upper half of
my body against the corner walls of the room,
but found no rest. At last I gave up all idea of
sleeping, and fully aroused myself. I comforted
myself by saying that my misery was only tem-
porary—that the longest night must come to an
end.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
My companion had now succumbed to fatigue,
or to the combined effects of fatigue and gin-and-
water. His head was hanging sideways, and he
slept in a most uncomfortable attitude. I
chuckled as I looked at him, feeling quite sure that
if such a clod was capable of dreaming at all, his
dreams must be worse even than mine. I filled
another pipe, poked the smoldering logs into
a blaze, and sat almost nose and knees over the
fire, finding some amusement in speculating upon
the condition of the churl before me, and thank-
ing the Lord I was not like unto this man. Sud.
denly an idea flashed across me.
I had seen this fellow before. But when or
where I could not remember. His features, as I
looked at them with keener interest, seemed to
grow more and more familiar to me. Where
could I have met him? Somewhere or other, but
where? I racked my brain to associate him with
some scene—some event. Although he was but
an ordinary countryman, such as one sees scores
of in a day's ride, only differing from his kind on
account of his unpleasant face, I felt sure we
were old acquaintances. When he awoke for a
moment and changed his strained attitude, my
feeling grew stronger and stronger. Yet puzzle
and puzzle as I would, I could not call to mind
a former encounter; so at last I began to think
the supposed recognition was purely fancy on my
part.


98
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
Having smoked out several pipes, I thought
that a cigar would be a slight break to the
monotony of the night's proceedings. So I drew
out my case and looked at its contents. Among
the weeds was one of a lighter color than the
others. As I took it out I said to myself, “ Why,
old Brand gave me that one when I was last at his
house.” Curiously enough, that cigar was the
missing link in the chain of my memory. As I
held it in my hand I knew at once why my host's
ugly face seemed familiar to me.
About a fortnight before, being in town, I had
spent the evening with the doctor. He was not
alone, and I was introduced to a tall, pale young
man named Carriston. He was a pleasant, po-
lite young fellow, although not much in my line.
At first I judged him to be a would-be poet of the
fashionable miserable school; but finding that he
and Brand talked so much about art, I eventually
decided that he was one of the doctor's many
artist friends. Art is a hobby he hacks about on
grandly. (Mem. Brand's own attempts at pic-
tures are simply atrocious !)
Just before I left, Carriston, the doctor's back
being turned, asked me to step into another room.
There he showed me the portrait of a man. It
seemed very cleverly drawn, and I presumed he
wanted me to criticise it.
“I am a precious bad judge,” I said.
“I am not asking you to pass an opinion,” said



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பையா பாயையை
WA
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algia
PLUM
"I CAREFULLY COMPARED THE PHOTO WITH THE SLEEPER.”





CARRISTON'S GIFT.
99
Carriston. “I want to beg a favor of you. I
am almost ashamed to beg it on so short an ac-
quaintance."
He seemed modest, and not in want of money,
so I encouraged him to proceed.
“I heard you say you were going into the
country," he resumed. “I want to ask you if by
any chance you should meet the original of that
drawing, to telegraph at once to Dr. Brand.”
“Whereabouts does he live ?”.
“I have no idea. If chance throws him in your
way, please do as I ask.”
“Certainly I will,” I said, seeing the young man
made the request in solemn earnest.
He thanked me, and then gave me a small
photograph of the picture. This photograph he
begged me to keep in my pocket-book, so that I
might refer to it in case I met the man he wanted.
I put it there, went my way, and, am sorry to say,
forgot all about it. Had it not been for the strange
cigar in my case bringing back Carriston's unusual
request to my mind, the probabilities are that I
should not have thought again of the matter.
Now, by a remarkable coincidence, I was spend-
ing the night with the very man who, so far as my
memory served me, must have sat for the portrait
shown me at Brand's house.
"I wonder what I did with the photo,” I said.
I turned out my letter-case. There it was, right
enough! Shading it with one hand, I carefully
compared it with the sleeper.


100
CARŘÍSTON'S GIFT.
Not a doubt about it! So far as a photograph
taken from a picture can go, it was the man him-
self. The same ragged beard, the same coarse
features, the same surly look. Young Carriston
was evidently a wonderful hand at knocking off
a likeness. Moreover, in case I had felt any
doubt on the matter, a printed note at the bottom
of the photograph said that one joint was missing
from a right-hand finger. Sure enough, my friend
lacked that small portion of his misbegotten
frame.
This discovery threw me into an ecstasy of
delight. I laughed so loudly that I almost awoke
the ruffian. I guessed I was going to take a
glorious revenge for all the discomforts I had
suffered. No one, I felt sure, could be looking
for such a fellow as this to do any good to him.
I was quite happy in the thought, and for the
remainder of the night gloated over the idea of
putting a spoke in the wheel of one who had been
within an ace of causing my death. I resolved,
the moment I got back to civilization, to send the
desired intelligence to Brand, and hope for the
best.
III.
The end of that wretched night came at last.
When the welcome morning broke I found that a
great change had taken place out-of-doors. The
fierce snow-storm had been the farewell of the


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
IÓI
frost. The heavy rain that followed had filled the
roads with slushy and rapidly thawing snow. I
managed to extort some sort of a breakfast from
my host, then, having recompensed him accord-
ing to my promise, not his deserts, started, as soon
as I could, on the bare back of my unfortunate
steed, for Midcombe, which place, after my night's
experiences, seemed gifted with merits not its
own.
I was surprised, upon leaving the house, to find
it was of larger dimensions than, from the little
I saw of it during the night, I had imagined. It
was altogether a better class of residence than I
had supposed. My surly friend accompanied me
until he had placed me on the main road, where
I could make no possible mistake. He was kind
enough to promise to assist any one I might send
out in getting the dog-cart once more under way.
Then, with a hearty wish on my part that I might
never again meet with his like, we parted.
I found my way to Midcombe without much
trouble. I took off my things, had a wash, and,
like a sensible man for once, went to bed. But
I did not forget to send a boy straight off to the
nearest telegraph station. My message to Brand
was a brief one. It simply said: “Tell your
friend I have found his man." This duty done,
I dismissed all speculation as to the result from
my mind, and settled down to make up arrears of
sleep.


102
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
I was surprised at the reply received that same
evening from Brand: “We shall be with you as
soon as we can get down to-morrow. Meet us at
station.” From this it was clear that my friend
was wanted particularly—all the better! I turned
to the time-table and found that; owing to changes
and delays, they could not get to C- , the near-
est station to Midcombe, until three o'clock in the
afternoon. I inquired about the crippled dog-
cart. It had been brought in; so I left strict in-
structions that a shaft of some sort was to be
rigged in time for me to drive over the next day
and meet the doctor and his friend.
They came as promised. It was a comfort to
see friends of any description, so I gave them a
hearty welcome. Carriston took hold of both my
hands, and shook them so warmly that I began to
fear I had discovered a long-lost father of his in
my friend. I had almost forgotten the young
fellow's appearance, or he looked a very different
man to-day from the one I had seen when last we
met. Then he was a wan, pensive, romantic, po-
etical-looking sort of fellow; now he seemed full
of energy, vitality, and grit. Poor old Brand
looked as serious as an undertaker engaged in
burying his own mother.
Carriston began to question me, but Brand
stopped him. “You promised I should make
inquiries first,” he said. Then he turned to
me.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
103
“Look here, Richard” — when he calls me
Richard I know he is fearfully in earnest—“I
believe you have brought us down on a fool's
errand; but let us go to some place where we
can talk together for a few minutes.”
I led them across the road to the Railway Inn
We entered a room, and having for the sake of
appearances ordered a little light refreshment, told
the waiter to shut the door from the outside.
Brand settled down with the air of a cross-exam.
ining counsel. " I expected to see him pull out a
New Testament and put me on my oath.
“Now, Richard,” he said, “ before we go fur-
ther I want to know your reasons for thinking this
man, about whom you telegraphed, is Carriston's
man, as you call him.”
“Reasons! Why, of course he is the man.
Carriston gave me his photograph. The likeness
is indisputable-leaving the finger-joint out of the
question.”
Here Carriston looked at my cross-examiner
triumphantly. The meaning of that look I have
never to this hour understood. But I laughed
because I knew old Brand had for once made a
mistake, and was going to be called to account
for it. Carriston was about to speak, but the
doctor waved him aside.
“Now, Richard, think very carefully. You
speak of the missing finger-joint. We doctors
know how many people persuade themselves into


104
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
all sorts of things. Tell me, did you notice the
likeness before you saw the mutilated finger, or
did the fact of the finger being mutilated bring
the likeness to your mind ?”
“ Bless the man," I said; “ one would think I
had no eyes. I tell you there is no doubt about
this man being the original of the photo.”
“Never mind-answer my question.”
“Well, then, I am ashamed to confess it, but
I put the photo in my pocket, and forgot all
about it until I had recognized the man, and
pulled out the likeness to make sure. I didn't
even know there was a printed description at the
foot, nor that any member was wanting. Con.
found it, Brand! I'm not such a duffer as you
think.”
Brand did not retaliate. He turned to his
friend and said gravely, “To me the matter is
inexplicable. Take your own course as I promised
you should.” Then he sat down, looking deli-
ciously crestfallen, and wearing the discontented
expression always natural to him when worsted in
argument.
It was now Carriston's turn. He plied me with
many questions. In fact, I gave him the whole
history of my adventure. “What kind of house
is it?” he asked.
“Better than a cottage, scarcely a farm-house.
A place, I should think, with a few miserable
acres of bad land belonging to it. One of those


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
105
wretched little holdings which are simply curses
to the country.”
He made lots of other inquiries, the purport of
which I could not then divine. He seemed greatly
impressed when I told him that the man had
never for a moment left me alone. He shot a
second glance of triumph at Brand, who still kept
silent, and looking as if all the wind had been
taken out of his sails.
“How far is the place ?” asked Carriston.
“ Could you drive me there after dark?"
At this question the doctor returned to life.
“What do you mean to do ?” he asked his friend.
“Let us have no nonsense. Even now I feel sure
that Fenton is misled by some chance resem-
blance_”
“ Deuce a bit, old chap," I said.
“Well, whether or not, we needn't do foolish
things. We must go and swear information, and
get a search warrant, and the assistance of the
police. The truth is, Richard,” he continued,
turning to me, “ we have reason to believe, or I
should say Carriston persists in fancying, that a
friend of his has for some time been kept in dur-
ance by the man whom you say you recognized.”
“Likely enough,” I said. “He looked villain
enough for any thing up to murder.”
“ Any way,” said Brand, “we must do every
thing according to law.”
“Law! I want no law," answered Carriston.


106
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
$
“I have found her, as I knew I should find her.
I shall simply fetch her, and at once. You can
come with me or stay here, as you like, doctor;
but I am afraid I must trouble your friend to
drive me somewhere near the place he speaks of.”
Foreseeing an adventure and great fun-more-
over, not unmoved by thoughts of revenge-I
placed myself entirely at Carriston's disposal.
He expressed his gratitude, and suggested that we
should start at once. In a few minutes we were
ready, and mounted the dog-cart. Brand, after
grumbling loudly at the whole proceeding, finished
up by following us, and installing himself in the
back seat. Carriston placed a parcel he carried
inside the cart, and away we went.
It was now nearly dark, and raining cats and
dogs. I had my lamps lighted, so we got along
without much difficulty. The roads were deep
with mud; but by this time the snow had been
pretty nearly washed away from everywhere. I
don't make a mistake in a road twice, so in due
course we reached the scene of my upset. Here
I drew up.
“The house lies about five hundred yards up
the lane,” I told Carriston ; “we had better get
out here.”
“What about the horse ?” asked Brand.
“No chance of any one passing this way on
such a night as this ; so let us put out the lamps
and tie him up somewhere.”


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
107
We did so; then struggled on afoot until we
saw the gleam of light which had been so wel.
comed by me two nights before.
It was just about as dark as pitch; but, guided
by the light, we went on until we stood in front
of the house, where a turf bank and a dry hedge
hid us from sight, although on such a night we
had little fear of our presence being discovered.
“What do you mean to do now?” asked Brand,
in a discontented whisper. “You can't break
into the house."
Carriston said nothing for a minute; then I
felt him place his hand on my shoulder.
“Are there any horses, any cows, about the
place ?” he asked.
I told him I thought that my surly friend re-
joiced in the possession of a horse and a cow.
“Very well. Then we must wait. He'll come
out to see them before he goes to bed," said
Carriston, as decidedly as a general giving orders
just before a battle.
I could not see how Brand expressed his feel-
ings upon hearing this order from our commander
-I know I shrugged my shoulders, and if I said
nothing, I thought a deal. The present situation
was all very well for a strongly-interested party
like Carriston, but he could scarcely expect
others to relish the prospect of waiting, it
might be for hours, under that comfortless hedge.
We were all wet to the skin, and although I was


108
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
extremely anxious to see the end of the expedi-
tion, and find poetical justice meted out to my
late host, Carriston's Fabian tactics lacked the
excitement I longed for. Brand, in spite of his
disapproval of the whole course of action, was
better off than I was. As a doctor, he must have
felt sure that, provided he could survive the ex.
posure, he could secure two fresh patients. How-
ever, we made no protest, but waited for events
to develop themselves.
IV.
MORE than half an hour went by. I was grow-
ing numbed and tired, and beginning to think
that we were making asses of ourselves, when I
heard the rattle of a chain, and felt Carriston
give my arm a warning touch. No doubt my
late host had made sure that his new door-fasten-
ings were equal to a stronger test than that to
which I had subjected the former ones; so we
were wise in not attempting to carry his castle by
force.
The door opened and closed again. I saw the
feeble glimmer of a lantern moving toward the
outhouse in which my horse had been stabled. I
heard a slight rustling in the hedge, and, stretch-
ing out my arm, found that Carriston had left my
side. In the absence of any command from him



"BIND HIM! PANTED CARRISTON."





CARRISTON'S GIFT.
109
I did not follow, but resumed the old occupation
—waiting.
In a few minutes the light of the lantern re-
appeared; the bearer stood on the threshold of
the house, while I wondered what Carriston was
doing. Just as the door was opened for the
boor's readmittance, a dark figure sprang upon
him! I heard a fierce oath and a cry of surprise ;
then the lantern flew out of the man's hand, and
he and his assailant tumbled struggling through
the narrow door-way!
“Hurrah! the door is won, any way!” I
shouted, as followed closely by the doctor, I
jumped over the hedge and rushed to the scene
of the fray.
Although Carriston's well-conceived attack was
so vigorous and unexpected that the man went
down under it; although our leader utilized the
advantage he had gained in a proper and laudable
manner, by bumping that thick bullet head as
violently as he could against the flags on which it
lay; I doubt if, after all, he could have done his
work alone. The countryman was a muscular
brute and Carriston but a stripling. However,
our arrival speedily settled the question.
“Bind him!” panted Carriston; “there is cord
in my pocket.” He appeared to have come quite
prepared for contingencies. While Carriston still
embraced his prostrate foe, and Brand, to facili-
tate matters, kneeled on his shoulders, sat on his


IIO
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
head, or did something else useful, I drew out
from the first pocket I tried a nice length of half-
inch line, and had the immense satisfaction of
trussing up my scowling friend in a most work-
manlike manner. He must have felt those turns
on his wrists for days afterward. Yet when we
were at last at liberty to rise and leave him lying
helpless on his kitchen floor, I consider I exercised
great self-denial in not bestowing a few kicks upon
him, as he swore at us in his broadest vernacular,
in a way which, under the circumstances, was
no doubt a great comfort to him.
We scarcely noticed the man's wife while we
rendered the husband helpless. As we entered
she attempted to fly out, but Brand, with a
promptitude which I am glad to record, inter-
cepted her, closed the door, turned and pocketed
the key. After that the woman sat on the floor
and rocked herself to and fro.
For some moments, while recovering his breath,
Carriston stood and positively glared at his pros-
trate foe. At last he found words.
“Where is she? Where is the key, you
hound ?" he thundered out, stooping over the
fellow, and shaking him with a violence which
did my heart good. As he received no answer
save the unrecordable expressions above-men-
tioned, we unbuttonedtthe wretch's pockets, and
searched those .greasy receptacles. Among the
usual litter we did certainly find a key. Carriston


CARRİSTON'S GIFT.
III
snatched at it, and shouting“Madeline ! Madeline !
I come!” rushed out of the room like a maniac,
leaving Brand and me to keep guard over our
prisoners.
I filled a pipe, lighted it, and then came back
to my fallen foe.
"I say, old chap,” I said, stirring him gently
with the toe of my boot, “this will be a lesson to
you. Remember, I told you that civility costs
nothing. If you had given me Christian bed
accommodation instead of making me wear out
my poor bones on that infernal chair, you could
have jogged along in your rascality quite com-
fortably, so far as I am concerned.”
He was ungrateful-so much that my desire to
kick him was intensified. I should not like to
swear I did not to a slight degree yield to the
temptation.
“Push a handerchief in his mouth,” cried
Brand, suddenly. “A lady is coming.”
With right good will I did as the doctor sug-
gested.
Just then Carriston returned. I don't want to
raise home tempests, yet I must say that he was
accompanied by the most beautiful creature my
eyes have ever lighted upon. True, she was pale
as a lily_looked thin and delicate, and her face
bore traces of anxiety and suffering, but for all
that she was beautiful—too beautiful for this
world, I thought, as I looked at her. She was


II2
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
clinging in a half-frightened, half-confiding way
to Carriston, and he-happy fellow !-regardless
of our presence, was showering down kisses on
her sweet pale face. Confound it! I grow quite
romantic as I recall the sight of those lovers.
A most curious young man, that Carriston !
He came to us, the lovely girl on his arm, without
showing a trace of his recent excitement.
“Let us go now," he said, as calmly as if he
had been taking a quiet evening drive. Then he
turned to me.
“Do you think, Mr. Fenton, you could with-
out much trouble get the dog-cart up to the
house?”
I said I would try to do so.
“But what about these people?" asked Brand.
Carriston gave them a contemptuous glance.
“Leave them alone,” he said. “They are but
the tools of another—him I can not touch. Let
us go.”
“Yes, yes. But why not verify your suspicions
while you can ?”
Just like Brand! He's always wanting to ver-
ify every thing.
In searching for the key we had found some
papers on our prisoner. Brand examined them,
and handed to Carriston an envelope which con-
tained what looked like bank-notes.
Carriston glanced at it. “The handwriting is,
of course, disguised,” he said, carelessly, “but


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
113
the postmark shows whence it came. It is as I
always told you. You agree with me now?”.
“I am afraid I must," said Brand, humbly.
“But we must do something about this man,” he
continued.
Hereupon Carriston turned to our prisoner.
"Listen, you villain,” he said. "I will let you go
scot-free if you breathe no word of this to your
employer for the next fortnight. If he learns
from you what has happened before that time, I
swear you shall go to penal servitude. Which do
you choose ?"
I pulled out the gag, and it is needless to say
which the fellow chose.
Then I went off, and recovered the horse and
cart. I relighted the lamps, and with some diffi-
culty got the dog-cart up to the house. Carriston
must have exactly anticipated the events of the
night. The parcel he had brought with him con-
tained a bonnet and a thick, warm cloth cloak; his
beautiful friend was equipped with these. Then
leaving the woman of the house to untie her hus-
band at her leisure and pleasure, away we started;
the doctor sitting by me; Carriston and the lady
behind.
We just managed to catch the last train from
C- Not feeling sure as to what form inquir-
ies might take to-morrow, I thought it better to
go up to town with my friends, so, as we passed
through Midcombe, I stopped, paid my bill, and


114
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
gave instructions for my luggage to be forwarded
to me. By six o'clock the next morning we were
all in London.
DR. BRAND IN CONCLUSION.
WHEN I asked Dick Fenton to relate his exper.
iences I did not mean him to do so at such length.
But there, as he has written it, and as writing is
not a labor of love with him, let it go.
When Madeline Rowan found the bed, by the
side of which she had thrown herself in an ecstasy
of grief, untenanted, she knew in a moment that
she was the victim of a deep-laid plot. Being
ignorant of Carriston's true position in the world,
she could conceive no reason for the elaborate
scheme which had been devised to lure her só
many miles from her home, and make a prisoner
of her.
A prisoner she was. Not only was the door
locked upon her, but a slip of paper lay on the
bed. It bore these words: “No harm is meant
you, and in due time you will be released. Ask
no questions, make no foolish attempts at escape,
and you will be well treated.”
Upon reading this the girl's first thought was
one of thankfulness. She saw at once that the
reported accident to her lover was but an inven.
tion. The probabilities were that Carriston was
alive, and in his usual health. Now that she felt
certain of this, she could bear any thing.


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
115
From the day on which she entered that room,
to that on which we rescued her, Madeline was,
to all intents and purposes, as close a prisoner in
that lonely house on the hill-side as she might
have been in the deepest dungeon in the world.
Threats, entreaties, promises of bribes availed
nothing. She was not unkindly treated—that is,
suffered no absolute ill usage. Books, materials
for needle-work, and other little aids to while away
time were supplied. But the only living creatures
she saw were the woman of the house who at-
tended to her wants, and, on one or two occasions,
the man whom Carriston asserted he had seen in
his trance. She had suffered from the close con-
finement, but had always felt certain that sooner
or later her lover would find her, and effect her
deliverance. Now that she knew he was alive she
could not be unhappy.
I did not choose to ask her why she had felt so
certain on the above points. I wished to add no
more puzzles to the one which, to tell the truth,
exercised, even annoyed me more than I care to
say. But I did ask her if, during her incarcera-
tion, her jailer had ever laid his hand upon her.
She told me that some short time after her ar-
rival a stranger had gained admittance to the
house. While he was there the man had entered
her room, held her arm, and threatened her with
violence if she made any outcry. After hearing
this I did not pursue the subject.


116
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
Carriston and Madeline were married at the
earliest possible moment, and left England imme-
diately after the ceremony. A week after their
departure, by Carriston's request, I forwarded the
envelope found upon our prisoner to Mr. Ralph
Carriston. With it I sent a few lines stating
where and under what peculiar circumstances we
had become possessed of it. I never received any
reply to my communication, so, wild and improb-
able as it seems, I am bound to believe that
Charles Carriston's surmise was right-that Mad-
eline was decoyed away and concealed, not from
any ill will toward herself, but with a view to the
possible baneful effect which her mysterious dis-
appearance might work upon her lover's strange
and excitable organization; and I firmly believe
that had he not in some inexplicable way been
firmly convinced that she was alive and faithful to
him, the plot would have been a thorough success,
and Charles Carriston would have spent the rest
of his days in an asylum.
Both Sir Charles-he succeeded to his title
shortly after his marriage—and Lady Carriston
are now dead, or I should not have ventured to
relate these things concerning them. They had
twelve years of happiness. If measured by time,
the period was but a short one; but I feel sure
that in it they enjoyed more true happiness than
many others find in the course of a protracted
life. In word, thought, and deed they were as


CARRISTON'S GIFT.
117
one. She died in Rome of fever; and her hus-
band, without, so far as I know, any particular
complaint, simply followed her.
I was always honored with their sincerest friend-
ship, and Sir Charles left me sole trustee and guar-
dian to his three sons; so there are now plenty of
lives between Ralph Carriston and his desire. I
am pleased to say that the boys, who are as dear
to me as my own children, as yet show no evidence
of possessing any gifts beyond Nature.
I know that my having made this story public
will cause two sets of objectors to fall equally foul
of me—the matter-of-fact, prosaic man who will
say that the abduction and subsequent imprison-
ment of Madeline Rowan was an absurd impossi-
bility, and the scientific man, like myself, who can
not, dare not believe that Charles Carriston, from
either memory or imagination, could draw a
face and describe peculiarities by which a certain
man could be identified. I am far from saying
there may not be a simple, natural explanation of
the puzzle, but I, for one, have failed to find it,
so close this tale as I began it, by saying I am a
narrator, and nothing more.


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
CHAPTER I.
THE Abbots of Chewton-Abbot, Gloucester-
T shire, were county people, and, moreover,
had always occupied that coveted position. They
dreaded not the researches of the officious an-
tiquary who pokes about in pedigrees, and finds
that, three or four generations ago, the founders
of certain families acquired their wealth by trade.
They at least were independent of money-earning.
The fact that Chewton began to be known as
Chewton-Abbot so far back as the fifteenth cen-
tury, showed they were no upstarts. Indeed, if
not of the very first rank—that rank from which
knights of the shire are chosen—the Abbots, from
the antiquity of their family, and from the cen-
turies that family had owned the same estates,
were entitled to dispute the question of prec-
edence with all save a few very great magnates.
They were undoubtedly people of importance.
The reigning Abbot, it need scarcely be said, was
always a county magistrate, and at some period of


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
119
his life certain to serve as sheriff. But for genera-
tions the family had occupied exactly the same
position, and exercised exactly the same amount
of influence in the land. The Abbots seemed
neither to rise nor fall. If they added nothing to
their estates, they alienated nothing. If they
gave no great statesmen, warriors, or geniuses to
the world, they produced, sparingly, highly
respectable members of society, who lived upon
the family acres and spent their revenues in a
becoming manner.
The estates were unentailed; but as, so far, no
Abbot had incurred his father's displeasure, the
line of descent from father to eldest son had been
unbroken, and appeared likely to continue so.
True, it was whispered, years ago, that the custom
was nearly changed, when Mr. William Abbot,
the present owner of the estate, was leading a life
in London very different from the respectable
traditions of the family. But the reports were
not authenticated; and as, soon after his father's
death, he married a member of an equally old,
equally respectable, and equally proud family, all
such ill-natured gossip died a natural death; and
at the time this tale opens, William Abbot was
leading the same quiet life his ancestors had led
before him.
It was one of the cherished Abbot traditions
that the family was not prolific. So long as the
ſace was kept from disappearing, they were con-


I 20
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
tented. In this respect the present head of the
family showed himself a true Abbot. He had but
one son, a young man who had just taken a fair
degree at Oxford, and who was now staying at
Chewton Hall, before departing on a round of
polite travel, which, according to old-world prec-
edent, his parents considered necessary to crown
the educational edifice.
Mr. and Mrs. Abbot were in the breakfast-room
at Chewton Hall. Mr. Abbot was alone at the
table, lazily discussing his breakfast. His wife
and son, who were early risers, had taken that
meal nearly an hour before. The young man
being away on some outdoor pursuit, the husband
and wife had the room to themselves. Mr. Abbot
had just poured out his second cup of tea, and,
according to his usual custom, commenced break-
ing the seals of the letters which lay beside his
plate. His wife drew near to him.
“I am afraid that infatuated boy has in some
way entangled himself with the young woman I
told you of,” she said.
“What young woman?” asked Mr. Abbot,
laying down his letters.
“ I told you last week he was always riding into
Bristol-so often, that I felt sure there was some
attraction there."
“You did, I remember. But I took little notice
of it. Boys will be boys, you know.”
“Yes; but it is time we interfered. I found


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
121
him this morning kissing a photograph and hold-
ing a lock of hair in his hand. I taxed him with
his folly."
“My dear Helena," said Mr. Abbot, with a shade
of contempt in his voice, “will you forgive my
saying, that in matters of this kind it is best to
leave young men alone, and not to see more than
can be helped. Leave the boy alone—that is my
advice.”
“You don't quite understand me," replied Mrs.
Abbot. “He wants to marry her.”
“Wants to do what !” cried her husband, now
fully aware of the gravity of the situation.
“He told me this morning he had asked her to
be his wife. She would, he knew, consent, if we
would welcome her as a daughter."
“How kind! How considerate !” said Mr. Abbot
scornfully. “Who may she be, and where did
Frank meet her?”
“He saved her from some incivility at the rail-
way station, and so made her acquaintance. Who
she is, he scarcely seems to know, except that her
name is Millicent Keene, and that she lives with
an aunt somewhere in Clifton. Frank gave me
the address, and begged me to call-assuring me
that I should take her to my heart the moment I
saw her.”
“He must be mad!” exclaimed Mr. Abbot
rising and pacing the room. “Mad, utterly mad!
Does he think that we are going to let him-an


I 22
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
Abbot-marry the first nameless young woman
who strikes his fancy? I will talk to him, and
soon bring him to his senses. The estates are un-
entailed, thank goodness! so I have some hold
over him."
Mrs. Abbot's lip just curled with scorn, as she
heard'her husband's direct commonplace plan for
restoring her son's wandering senses. She knew
that such parental thunderbolts were apt to do
more harm than good.
“I would not threaten just yet,” she said.
“Frank is very self-willed, and may give us trouble.
For my part, I intend to drive into Clifton this
morning and see the girl.”
“What folly? To give the affair your appar-
ent sanction ?"
“No. To show her how absurd it is to fancy
we shall ever allow Frank to take a wife out of
his proper sphere; and to hint that if he marries
against our will, her husband will be a beggar.
The fact of her withholding her consent to marry
him, until we approve of her, shows me she is
quite able to look after her own interests."
Mr. Abbot, who knew his wife's skill in social
diplomacy, offered no valid objections ; so the
horses were ordered, and Mrs. Abbot drove to
Clifton.
The mistress of Chewton Hall was a woman of
about fifty-five; tall and stately, noticeably but
not attractively handsome. Rising in intellect


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
123
far above the level of the family into which she
had married, she had started by endeavoring to
mold her husband's mind to the capacities of
her own. In the early days of their married life,
she had urged him unceasingly to strive for a
higher position in the world than that of a mere
country gentleman. She wished him to 'enter
he political arena; to contest a borough ; in fact,
o change his way of living entirely. But she
found the task a hopeless one. A docile husband
in most things, nothing could move Williaın
Abbot from the easy groove in which his fore-
fathers had always placidly slidden. The husband
and wife were of very different natures. Perhaps
the only common ground between them was their
family pride and the sense of their importance.
Yet while the gentleman was quite contented
with the latter as it now stood, and always had
stood, 'the lady was ambitious, and wished to
augment it. But her efforts were of no avail; so
at last, with a feeling touching dangerously near
to contempt, she gave up attempting to sway her
husband in this direction, and centered all her
hopes in her only son, on whom she flattered her-
self she had bestowed some of her superior intel-
lect. He should play an important part in the
world. At the first opportunity he should enter
parliament, become a distinguished member of
society, and, so far as possible, satisfy her ambition.
Of course he must marry, but his marriage should


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
125
A piano, an unfinished drawing, some dainty
embroidery, gave evidence of more refinement
than Mrs. Abbot expected, or, to tell the truth,
hoped to find in her enemy's surroundings. A
bunch of flowers, artistically arranged, was in a
glass vase on the table; and the visitor felt more
angry and bitter than before, as she recognized
many a choice orchid, and knew by this token
that the Chewton hothouses had been robbed for
Miss Keene's sake. Mrs. Abbot tapped her foot
impatiently as she awaited the moment when her
youthful enemy should appear and be satisfactorily
crushed.
The mistress of Chewton-Abbot had somehow
conceived the idea that the girl who had won her
son's heart was of a dollish style of beauty. She
may have jumped at this conclusion from the
memories of her own young days, when she found
the heart of man was more susceptible to attrac-
tions of this type than to those of her own se-
verer charms. Pretty enough, after a fashion, she
expected to find the girl, but quite crushable and
pliant between her clever and experienced hands.
She had no reason for this impression. She had
coldly declined to look at the portrait which her
son, that morning, had wished to show her. Hav-
ing formed her own ideal of her would-be successor
at Chewton-Abbot Hall, she regulated her ac-
tions accordingly. Her plan was to begin by
striking terror into the foe. She wished no decep-


126
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
tion; the amenities of social warfare might be
dispensed with on this occasion. Knowing the
advantage usually gained by a sudden and unex-
pected attack, she had not revealed her name.
She simply desired the servant to announce a lady
to see Miss Keene.
Hearing a light step approaching the door, Mrs.
Abbot drew herself up to her full height and
assumed the most majestic attitude she could. It
was as one may imagine a fine three-decker of the
old days, turning her broadside, with sixty guns
run out and ready for action, upon some puny foe,
to show her that at a word she might be blown
out of the water. Or it was what is called now-
adays a demonstration in force.
The door opened, and Millicent Keene entered.
Mrs. Abbot bowed slightly; then, without speak-
ing a word, in a deliberate manner looked the
new-comer up and down. She did not for a mo-
ment attempt to conceal the object of her visit.
Her offensive scrutiny was an open declaration of
war, and the girl was welcome to construe it as
such.
But what did the great lady see as she cast that
hostile, but, in spite of herself, half-curious glance
on the girl who came forward to greet her unex-
pected visitor? She saw a beautiful girl of about
nineteen; tall, and making allowances for age,
stately as herself. She saw a figure as near per-
fection as a young girl's may be. She saw a sweet,


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
127
calm face, with regular features and pale, pure
complexion, yet with enough color to speak of per-
fect health. She saw a pair of dark-brown, truth-
ful eyes-eyes made darker by the long lashes-a
mass of brown hair dressed exactly as it should
be. She saw, in fact, the exact opposite to the
picture she had drawn, and as Millicent Keene,
with graceful carriage, and a firm but light step,
advanced toward her, Mrs. Abbot's heart sank.
She had entirely miscalculated the strength of the
enemy, and she felt that it would be no easy mat-
ter to tear a woman such as this from a young
man's heart.
The girl bore Mrs. Abbot's offensive glance
bravely. She returned her bow, and without em-
barrassment, begged her to be seated. Then she
waited for her visitor to explain the object of her
call.
“You do not know who I am, I suppose?” said
Mrs. Abbot after a pause.
“I have the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Abbot
by sight,” replied Millicent in a perfectly calm
voice.
“Then you know why I have called upon
you?”
The girl made no reply.
Mrs. Abbot continued, with unmistakable scorn
in her voice: “I have called to see the young
lady whom my son tells me he is resolved, against
his parents' wish, to make his wife.”


128
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Abbot, you should have
thought it needful to call and tell me this.”
“How could you expect otherwise ? Frank
Abbot bears one of the oldest names, and is heir
to one of the best estates in the county. When
he marries, he must marry a wife in his own posi-
tion. What has Miss Keene to offer in exchange
for what he can bestow ?”
The girl's pale face flushed; but her brave
brown eyes met those of her interrogator without
flinching. “If I thought you would understand
me, Mrs. Abbot, I should say that I have a
woman's true love to give him, and that is enough.
He sought me, and won that love. He asked for
it, and I gave it. I can say no more.”
“In these days,” said Mrs. Abbot, contempt-
uously, “persons in our station require more than
love-that, a young man like Frank can always,
have for the asking.– Of what family are you,
Miss Keene?”
"Of none. My father was a tradesman. He
was unfortunate in his business, and has been
many years abroad trying to redeem his fortunes.
With the exception of an education which, I fear,
has cost my poor father many privations, I have
nothing to boast of. I live with an aunt, who
has a small income of her own. Now you know
my history.”
Mrs. Abbot had soon seen that crushing tactics
failed to meet the exigencies of the case. She


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
129
put on an appearance of frankness. “You are
candid with me, Miss Keene, and it appears to
me you have plenty of common-sense. I put it
to you: do you think that Mr. Abbot or myself
can lend our sanction to this ill-advised affair ?"
The girl's lip curled in a manner which was par-
ticularly galling to Mrs. Abbot. A tradesman's
daughter, whose proper place was behind a count-
er, had no right to be able to assume such an ex.
pression! “That was for Frank, not for me, to
consider, Mrs. Abbot.”
“But surely you will not marry him against our
wishes?”
The girl was silent for a minute. An answer
to such a question required consideration. “Not
yet,” she said. “We are both too young. But if,
in after years, Frank Abbot wishes me to be his
wife, I will share his lot, let it be high or low."
She spoke proudly and decisively, as one who felt
that her love was well worth having, and would
make up for much that a man might be called on
to resign in order to enjoy it.
It was this independence, the value the trades-
man's daughter set upon herself, that annoyed
Mrs. Abbot, and led her into the mistake of firing
her last and, as she hoped, fatal shot. “You are
not perhaps aware,” she said, “that the estate is
unentailed.”
Millicent, who did not at once catch the drift
of her words, looked inquiringly.


130
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
“I mean," explained Mrs. Abbot, “that my hus-
band may leave it to whom he likes—that if you
marry my son, you will marry a beggar."
The girl rose. With all her practice, Mrs.
Abbot herself could not have spoken or looked
more scornfully. “How little you know me,
madam, to insult me like that! Have you so poor
an opinion of your son as to fancy I can not love
him for himself? Did you marry Mr. Abbot for
his wealth ?”—Mrs. Abbot winced mentally at the
question.—“ Do you think I wish to marry Francis
Abbot only for the position I shall gain ? You are
wrong-utterly wrong!”.
“Then,” said Mrs. Abbot with the bitterness of
defeat, “I suppose you will persist in this foolish
engagement, and the only chance I have is an
appeal to my son?”.
“I have promised to be his wife. He alone
shall release me from that promise. But it may
be long before he can claim it, and so your anxiety
may rest for some time, Mrs. Abbot. I have this
morning received a letter from my father. He
wishes me to join him in Australia. Next month
I shall sail, and it will probably be three or four
years before I return. Then, if Frank wishes me
to be his wife—if he says to me: ‘I will risk loss
of lands and love of parents for your sake,' I will
bid him take me, and carve out a way in the world
for himself.”
A weight was lifted from Mrs. Abbot's mind.


CHEWTON. ABBOT.
131
She caught the situation at once. Three or four
years' separation! What might not happen!
Although she strove to speak calmly as a great
lady should, she could not keep a certain eager-
ness out of her voice. “But will you not corre-
spond during that time?”
This was another important question. Again
Millicent paused, and considered her answer. “I
will neither write nor be written to. If, eventually,
I marry your son-if his love can stand the test
of absence and silence—at least you shall not say
I did not give him every opportunity of termin.
ating our engagement.”
Mrs. Abbot rose and assumed a pleasant man-
ner--so pleasant that, considering the respective
positions of herself and Miss Keene, it should
have been irresistible. “I am compelled to say
that such a decision is all I could expect. You
must forgive me if, with my views for my son's
career, I have said any thing hasty or unjust. I
will now wish you good-morning; and I am sure,
had we met under other circumstances, we might
have been great friends."
Whatever of dignity and majesty Mrs. Abbot
dropped as she put on the appearance of friendli-
ness was taken up by the girl. She took no
notice of her visitor's outstretched hand. She
rang the bell for the servant, and bowed coldly
and haughtily as Mrs. Abbot swept from the
room.


132
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
But bravely as she had borne herself under the
eyes of her inquisitor, when the rumble of the
carriage wheels died away from the quiet street,
Millicent Keene threw herself on the sofa and
burst into a flood of tears. “Oh, my love !" she
sobbed out. “It is hard; but it is right. It will
never be, I know! It is too long-too long to
wait and hope. Can you be true when every
thing is brought to bear against me? Will you
forget? Will the love of to-day seem but a boy's
idle dream? Shall I ever forget ?
.
CHAPTER II.
MRS. ABBOT drove home in her stately carriage
thinking deeply. Her mind was tolerably easy.
She knew there was little chance of a young man's
love living through years of absence and silence.
Frank would go into the great world, and gaze on
many a fair face during that time; till the beauti-
ful face of Millicent Keene—for even Mrs. Abbot
could not gainsay the girl's beauty-would gradu-
ally fade from his thoughts. He would taste
the cup of ambition; he would see what power and
station meant in the world, and would soon laugh
to scorn his boyish dream. He would very quickly
realize the difference between Abbot of Chew-
ton Hall and plain Frank Abbot, who had to earn
the bread to keep a wife, be she ever so charming.


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
133
In fact, the thoughts of Mrs. Abbot in her carriage
and Miss Keene on her sofa were almost identical,
although the words which expressed them differed.
Save for one thing, Mrs. Abbot's reflections
were very comforting. The drawback was that
she felt lowered in her own eyes. She had made
a mistake, and had been treated with contumely.
The victory was hers, but she had not won it her-
self. It was not her cleverness, but the girl's
right-mindedness which would bring about the
separation. She blamed herself for having mis-
read the girl's character, and found her honest in-
dignation at the imputation that her love for
Frank was influenced by his possessions, mortify-
ing to think of. Still, matters had turned out well.
She would have the satisfaction of telling her
husband that all was, or would be, at an end-
that the hope of the Abbots would not marry no-
body's daughter. So busy was she with these
thoughts, that she did not notice, when some
three miles outside the smoky town of Bristol, a
horseman approaching. Upon seeing him, her
coachman gathered up the reins preparatory to
stopping his horses; but, as the rider made a nega-
tive gesture, he simply touched his hat and drove
on; while Frank Abbot and his mother passed,
neither apparently noticing the other.
He was a handsome young fellow, and without
a cent to his name might have given many a wealthy
competitor long odds in the race for a girl's heart.


134
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
Tall and broad-shouldered-clever face, with deep-
set eyes, large chin, and firm lips, he sat his horse
gracefully, looking every inch a gentleman and an
Englishman. Not, one would say, the man to win
a woman's love, and throw it aside at the bidding
of father or mother. Not the man to do a thing
hastily and repent the deed at his leisure. Rather,
a man who, when once engaged in a pursuit, would
follow it steadfastly to the end, whatever that end
might be. It was scarcely right that Millicent
Keene should allow fear to mingle with her grief
at the approaching long separation from her lover.
She should have looked into that handsome,
powerful face and understood that years would
only mold the boy's intention into the man's de-
termination.
Naturally, he was at the present moment rather
down-hearted. His mother, having learned his
secret, had refused him sympathy or aid. Too
well he knew she was to be swayed neither by en-
treaty nor argument. He was now riding over to
Clifton to reiterate his love to Millicent, and to
consult as to future steps. As he passed the car-
riage, he wondered what had brought his mother
in that direction. She had not mentioned her in-
tention of going to the town, nor had she asked for
his escort as usual. Could it be possible that she
had driven over to visit Millicent? If so, he knew
it boded ill; so, pricking on as fast as he could, he
reached Clifton just as the girl had grown more


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
135
calm and had washed away the traces of her re-
cent tears.
Frank was terribly upset by her recital of the
events of the morning. Although she did not re-
peat the whole conversation, he knew his mother
well enough to be able to supply what Millicent
passed lightly over. The proposed separation was
a thunderstroke to him. In vain he entreated the
girl to reconsider her determination. The promise
was made, and her pride alone would insure her
keeping it. Of course Frank vowed, after the
usual manner of lovers, that love would grow
stronger in absence; and as he thoroughly be-
lieved what he vowed, his vows were very consoling
to the girl. He declared he also would go to
Australia; marry Millicent, and take to sheep-
farming, leaving the paternal acres to shift for
themselves. All this and many other wild things
the young fellow said ; but the end was a sorrow-
ful acquiescence in the separation, tempered by
the firm resolve of claiming her in four years'
time in spite of any home opposition. Having
settled this, the heir of the Abbots rode home in a
state of open rebellion against his parents.
This they were quite prepared for, and had, like
sensible people, made up their minds to endure
his onslaught passively. His mother made no
reply to his reproaches; his father took no notice
of his implied threats; but both longed for the
time to come when Miss Keene would sail to


136
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
distant shores and the work of supplanting her
might begin.
About one thing Frank was firm, and Millicent
perhaps, did not try to dissuade him from it.
Until they were bound to part, he would see her
every day. Mr. and Mrs. Abbot knew why his
horse was ordered every morning, and whence
that horse bore him at eve; but they said
nothing.
The fatal day came soon enough. Frank went
down to Plymouth to see the very last of his love;
and the mighty steamship Chimborazo bore away
across the deep seas one of the sweetest and
truest girls that ever won a man's heart. A week
after she sailed, Frank Abbot started on his con-
tinental tour.
“I don't care much about it," he said to himself,
dolefully enough; “but it may help to make some
of the time pass quicker. Four years, my darling!
How long it seems ! ”
“He will see the world,” said Mrs. Abbot, “and
learn that a pretty face is not every thing."
“He will fall in and out of love with a dozen
girls before he returns,” said Mr. Abbot cynically.
It has been before stated that for r any years
there had been little change in either the pos-
sessions or the position of the Abbots of Chewton-
Abbot ; but, like other people, they had occasional
windfalls. Some years after Mr. Abbot succeed-
ed to the estate, a new branch of a large railway


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
137
passed through an outlying part of his land, and
he who made it a boast of never selling or mort-
gaging a single acre, was compelled, by the de-
mands of public convenience and commerce, to
part with what the railway wanted. Of course he
obtained a good round sum as compensation. This
lay for a long time at his banker's, waiting for any
contiguous land which might come into the
market. After a while, as no fields which he
wished to add to his own were open to buyers, at
his wife's suggestion he sought for another and
more profitable investment, and in an evil hour
became the proprietor of fifty shares in a bank,
whose failure has now become historical. He
bought these shares at a premium ; while he held
them, they went to a much higher premium, but
no doubt the same tenacity which led him to cling
to his acres made him keep to the same invest-
ment. The high rate of interest also was very
useful, and kept another horse or two in the
stables.
We can all remember the astonishment we felt
that black day when the news of the stoppage of
that particular bank was flashed from end to end
of the kingdom, and how, afterward, the exposure
of the reckless conduct of its directors, and of the
rotten state in which the concern had been for
years, sent a cold shudder down the back of every
holder of bank stock.
Mr. Abbot was not a man of business. He did


138
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
not at once realize what being the registered own-
er of these fifty shares meant. He denounced the
roguery of the directors, and vowed that if ever
again he had money to spare, into land it should
go, nowhere else. He had an idea that no more
than the money which he had invested would be
lost; but when, after a few days, he gathered from
the newspapers the true meaning of unlimited
liability, his heart grew sick within him. The
rental of his estate was about six thousand a year;
so, when call after call was made on the share-
holders, William Abbot knew that he was a ruined
man, and lamented his folly for not having en-
tailed the estates. Lands, house, furniture, plate,
all came to the hammer; and so far as county
people and landed gentry, the Abbots were ex-
tinct. Mrs. Abbot had a jointure of some five
hundred a year, on which the unfortunate couple
were fain to live as best they could. They took a
house at Weymouth, and in that retired watering-
place mourned their woes in genteel obscurity.
So Frank Abbot came back from Switzerland
to begin the world on his own account, with noth-
ing but a college degree, a perfect constitution,
and a few hundred pounds scraped together by
the sale of his personal effects. How should he
earn his living ? He was sorely tempted to emi-
grate. He had the frame and muscles for hard
work, and outdoor life would suit him. Yet he
shrank from the idea of giving up as beaten in his


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
139
native land. Other men had made their way;
why should not he? He felt a consciousness of a
certain ability which necessity might force into
full play. His mother suggested the church. “A
clergyman of good family can always marry a rich
wife, and that you are bound to do now.” Frank
shrugged his broad shoulders, and thought sadly
of his promised wife, so many thousands of miles
away. Eventually, he decided to read for the bar.
He knew it would be slow work to win success
there—that for many years he must be prepared
to endure penury; but a career might be made.
If a hundred fail, one succeeds—why should he
not be that one?
Millicent must be told the bad news. He had
no right to keep a girl's love during all the years
which must elapse before he could offer her a
home. He must at least release her from her
vows. If—and as he believed it would be-she
refused to be released, they must wait and hope.
Now that the reality of marrying on nothing came
home to him, he saw what it meant—what misery
it must entail. Now that the earning his own
living, of which he had spoken so bravely when
there was no need of his doing so, was forced upon
him, he became quite aware of the sacrifices he
must make. He was no desponding coward, and
indeed had little doubt as to his ultimate success.
He felt that he could bear hardship himself; but
he could not bear it if Millicent must also share


140
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
it. At any rate it was right she should know the
change in his fortunes. So he wrote a few words:
“MY DARLING—We are all ruined. I am going
to try and make a living as a barrister. Of course
I must now release you from every promise." He
signed his name ; but before sealing the letter,
could not help adding: “But I love you more
than ever.” Then he sent the letter to Millicent's
aunt, and begged that it might be forwarded to
her niece.
That letter never reached its destination.
Whether it was mislaid or misdirected—whether
a mail-bag was lost either on the voyage or on
the long land journey–whether Miss Keene's
aunt, who had learned what reverses had befallen
the Abbots, simply threw it on the fire, will never
be known. All that can be said is, Millicent never
received it; and after months had passed, Frank,
who was looking eagerly for the overdue answer,
grew very miserable, and began to doubt the love
of woman.
.
Five long years have passed by Frank Abbot
is now a barrister of nearly three years' standing.
He works hard, is frequently on circuit, and if, as
yet, he has not achieved any brilliant forensic
triumph, he is neither briefless nor without hope.
Some small cases have been intrusted to him, and
he finds the number of these slowly but surely in-
creasing, and knows that if the opportunity comes,
and if, when it does come, he may be able to seizę


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
141
it and make the most of it, success may soon be
his. Even now he makes enough to supply the
modest wants to which he has tutored himself.
But for some time after the last of his little capital
had vanished, he had been hardly pressed. In-
deed, in order to live at all, he had been compelled
to accept some aid from his parents' reduced
means. They gave this readily enough, as, with
all their faults, they loved their son. Even to this
day, Frank looks back with a shudder upon one or
two years of his life.
The five years have changed him from a boy to
a man. He is handsome as ever, but his look is
more serious; his features express even more
character. He has given up all dreams of the
woolsack; but is conscious of possessing fair abili-
ties, a good address, a commanding presence, and
a great deal of ready self-confidence. He feels
that in a few years' time he may have a home to
share, if the woman he loves is still willing to share
it. He has not again written to her. He has
heard nothing from her, although the time by
which he promised to claim her has long passed.
He is, however, resolved that as soon as he sees
the future fairly promising, he will seek her, and
learn whether she is still true to him; or whether
the sweetest episode of his life must be linked
with the memory of a woman's faithlessness and
inconstancy. He sighs as he thinks of the time
which has elapsed since she waved him that last


142
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
farewell at Plymouth. “She may be married,
years ago," he says, “and have three or four children
by now." Then he thinks of her steadfast eyes,
and knows that he wrongs her-blames himself
for his mistrust. To sum up, Frank Abbot's con-
stancy remains firm; but he is obliged to do what
thousands of other men must do, hope for better
days, working, meanwhile, with might and main
to bring the dawn of those better days near.
Does he regret the loss of his fortune much? Of
course he does, being neither a fool nồr of a super-
human nature. Many a day, as he sits in wig and
gown in the stifling court, listening to learned
arguments on cases in which he has not the re.
motest interest, his soul longs for a day with the
pheasants, a run with the Duke's hounds, or a ride
round the home-farm; and he anathematizes all
joint-stock banks as roundly as his father may be
supposed to have done. But, nevertheless, Frank
is not a soured man. He is somewhat grave and
self-contained, but pleasant company enough to
the few men whom he chooses to call his friends.
He has not been near Chewton Hall since the
family downfall. It had been bought, with a great
part of the furniture, by a rich London merchant,
whose name, although he had heard it at the time
of the sale, had slipped from his mind. Frank
cared little who held it. He knew it is only in
romances that a ruined family regains possession
of its kingdom. Some day he intended to run down


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
143
and have a look at the old place which he had loved
so well; although he feared the sight would not
improve the tenor of his mind, or make him less
inclined to rail at Fortune.
Just about this time Frank made a new acquain-
tance. It was long vacation. The Lord Chief-
justice was yachting; his brother-judges, Queen's
Counsel, and learned leaders, were recruiting their
jaded energies as it best pleased them; gay juniors
had thrown their wigs into their boxes, and were
away on various holiday pursuits. Frank, how-
ever, who had recently succeeded in getting some
occasional work on a journal, and who hoped to
get more, was still in London. One morning, a
gentleman, who wished to see Mr. Abbot, was
shown into his chambers. The visitor was a tall,
middle-aged man, strongly built, well dressed, and
with pleasant features. He looked like one who
had led a hard life, and lines on his brow told of
trouble. His hands were large and brown-it
was evident they had not been idle in their day.
Not, perhaps, quite a gentleman, as we conven-
tionally use, or abuse, that word, but a noticeable,
out-of-the-common man. He gave Frank a sharp,
quick glance, as if trying to gauge his intellect and
powers. Apparently satisfied, he took the chair
offered him, and explained his errand. He had
a lawsuit pending, and wished Mr. Abbot to con-
duct the case. Frank interposed smilingly, and
told his new client that it was etiquette for his in-


144
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
structions to come through a solicitor. He ex-
plained that a barrister and the man whose cause
he pleaded must communicate through a third
party. His visitor apologized for his ignorance
about such matters, and said he would see his
solicitor. However, after the apology was ac-
cepted, instead of bowing himself out, Mr. John
Jones-for by that name he called himself-en-
tered into a general kind of conversation with
Frank. He spoke easily and pleasantly on a variety
of topics, and when at last he left the room, shook
hands most cordially with the young man, and
hoped he should meet him again soon.
“Wonder who he is ? ” said Frank, laughing over
the sudden friendliness this stranger had exhibited.
“Any way, I hope he will make his solicitors send
me that brief.”
However, no brief came; but for the next few
days Frank Abbot was always tumbling across
Mr. John Jones. He met him in the street as he
went to and from his chambers. Mr. Jones always
stopped him, shook hands, and as often as not,
turned and walked beside him. Frank began to
like the man. He was very amusing, and seemed
to know every country under the sun. Indeed,
he declared he was a greater stranger to London
than to any other capital. He was a great smoker;
and as soon as he found that Frank did not object
to the smell of good tobacco in his chambers,
scarcely a day went by without his paying him a.


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
145
visit and having a long chat over a cigar. Frank
was bound to think that Mr. John Jones had taken
a great liking to him. Perhaps the man wanted
a friend. As he said, he knew no one in London,
and no one knew him.
So young Abbot drifted into intimacy with this
lonely man, and soon quite looked forward to the
sound of his cheerful voice and the fragrance of
those particularly good cigars he smoked. He
even, at Mr. Jones's urgent request, ran down to
the seaside for a couple of days with him, and
found the time pass very pleasantly in his
society.
Although the young man was very reticent on
the subject of his family's misfortune, Mr. Jones
had somehow arrived at the conclusion that he was
not rolling in wealth. He made no secret of the
fact that he himself was absurdly rich. “I say,
Abbot,” he remarked one day, “if you want any
money to push yourself up with, let me know.”
Perhaps Mr. Jones fancied that judgeships were
to be bought.
“I don't want any," said Frank shortly.
“Don't take offense. I said, if you do. Your
pride—the worst part of you. It's very hard a
man can only help a fellow like you by dying and
leaving him money. I don't want to die just
yet.”
Frank laughed. “I want no money left me. I
shouldn't take yours if you left it to me.”


146
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
“Well, you'll have to some day, you see.” Then
Mr. John Jones lighted another cigar from the
stump of the old one, and went his way; leaving
Frank more puzzled than ever with his new friend.
But the next day an event occurred which drove
Mr. John Jones, money, and every thing save one
thing, out of his head : Millicent Keene was in
England in London!
When he saw her letter lying on his table,
Frank Abbot feared it could not be real. It would
fade away like a fairy bank-note. No; before him
lay a few lines in her handwriting : “MY DEAR
FRANK-I have returned at last. I am at No. 4
Caxton Place.-Yours, MILLICENT KEENE."
Early as it was, he rushed out of his office,
jumped into a cab, and sped away to the address
she gave him.
We may pass over the raptures, the embraces,
the renewed vows, the general delicious character
of that long-deferred meeting. We may suppose
the explanation of the lost letter accounting for
the girl's silence; and we may picture her sym-
pathy with her lover's misfortunes, and her ap-
proval of the manly way in which he had gone to
work to retrieve them, in some degree. Let us
imagine them very, very happy, sitting hand in
hand in a room at No. 4 Caxton Place; Millicent,
by the by, looking more beautiful than ever, her
charms not lessened by the look of joy in her dark
eyes.


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
147
Their first transports are over. They have de-
scended to mundane things. In fact, Frank is
now telling her that he believes he can count on
so many hundreds a year. What does his darling
think?
Miss Keene purses up her pretty mouth and
knits her brows. To judge by appearances, she
might be the most mercenary young woman.
Frank waits her reply anxiously.
“I think we may manage,” she says. “I have
been accustomed to poverty all my life, you
know."
Frank would have vowed to work his fingers
to the bones before she should want any thing;
but remembering just in time that his profession
worked with the tongue instead of the hands,
checked himself. He thanked her with a kiss.
“When shall we be married ?” he said.
She looked up at him shyly. “Would you think
it very dreadful if I said the sooner the better?
In fact, Frank, I have come from Australia to
marry you. If you had forgotten me, I should
have gone straight back.”
“Next week?” asked Frank, scarcely believing
his own happiness. “Will next week be too soon?
One advantage of being poor and living in lodg-
ings is, that we can be married without any
bother about a house.'”
Millicent gave him to understand that next
week would do. She was staying with some dis-


148
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
tant relative. No one's consent had to be asked.
She had told her father all. The day Frank chose,
she would be his wife.
“How is your father? I forgot to ask,” said
Frank.
“Much the same as ever," answered Millicent
in a way which inferred that Mr. Keene's struggles
to redeem fortune were as great as before.
Then she dismissed Frank until to-morrow. He
went home walking on air, and, like a dutiful son,
wrote to Mrs. Abbot, telling her that Millicent
had returned, and next week would marry him.
Mrs. Abbot's reply may be given here;
“MY DEAR FRANK-I say nothing. I am too
much horrified. If any young man was ever called
upon to marry money and build up the fallen for-
tunes of a family, it is you. My last hope is gone.
The obstinacy of your character I know too well. If
I thought I could turn you from your purpose, I
would come and kneel at your feet. If I knew
Miss Keene's address, I would make one last ap-
peal to her. She, I believe, was a sensible young
woman.—Your affectionate MOTHER.”
Frank laughed at the idea of Mrs. Abbot kneel-
ing at his feet; and had not the least intention of
sending Millicent's address.
He saw little of any one for the next few days
except Millicent. His poor friend Mr. John Jones
called several times, but each time found him
absent.


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
149
“Your master is neglecting his business," he
said sternly to Frank's small clerk.
“Got something pleasanter to attend to," said
the youth with a wink. He was a sharp lad, and
able to form his own opinions.
One day toward the end of the week, Mr. Jones
did succeed in catching his young friend, and,
moreover, in smoking the whole of a long cigar
in his society. “Look here, Abbot," he said,
"what's up with you? Are you going to be
married ?"
“Yes," said Frank; “I am.”
“Thought so," said Mr. Jones. “When?
“Next Tuesday," answered Frank as laconically
as his strange friend.
“Girl got money ?”
“No; poorer than I am.”
“That's bad. Tell me all about it.”
Every man in Frank's plight likes a friend to
unburden his heart to; so Mr. Jones had the whole
history of his love affair, from the moment his
mother intervened down to the present happy
time. Frank waxed so eloquent, that his friend's
eyes glistened, and when the history was finished,
he grasped the young man's hand, and wished him
good wishes, which were certainly heartfelt.
“I have a favor to ask,” he said, in a very
humble way, quite different from his usual ener-
getic style of talking. “I haven't known you
long, so it's presumption on my part. But I've


150
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
grown very fond of you. May I come to the
church and see you married ?"
· “You may be best-man, if you like; or you can
give the bride away. It will save us having re-
course to the sexton.-Only on one condition,
though,” continued Frank, struck by a sudden
thought; "that is, you don't go making absurd
presents.”
“I must give you something."
“Give me a box of cigars, then.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Jones. “But you're dis-
gustingly proud.”
So it was settled. To Frank's great relief-for
he disliked paining the man by refusing any thing
-Mr. Jones brought him a box of his big cigars,
and on the Tuesday morning accompanied him to
the quiet town church, where in due time Millicent
appeared, accompanied by her distant relative.
Mr. John Jones acted in his twofold capacity with:
great decorum. Frank had laughingly told Milli-
cent of the strange arrangement he had made.
She raised no objection. “What does it matter,"
she said, “ so long as we are really married ?"
So, when the clergyman asked who gave this
woman, etc., Mr. Jones stepped forward and per
formed the office. When the ceremony was over,
and the happy pair stepped into the carriage,
thinking, no doubt, his services entitled him to
some reward, he kissed the bride on her forehead
-a proceeding which rather staggered Frank,


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
151
although, as Millicent did not seem annoyed, he
said nothing.
“That old Jones is a strange fellow," he said, as
Millicent, and he were safely ensconced in the
brougham.
“Yes. How long have you known him?"
“Only a week or two-quite a chance acquaint-
ance."
“Chance acquaintances are not to be depended
upon,” said Mrs. Frank Abbot sententiously.
Then, as was but natural, they talked of other
things, and dismissed Mr. John Jones from their
happy minds.
During the last week, they had held many de-
bates as to where they should spend the honey-
moon. As yet, they had only partially settled
the important point. By Millicent's express wish,
the first week was to be passed at Clifton. “Dear
old Clifton!” she said. “We met there first; re-
member that, sir!" Frank did not particularly
want to go to Clifton, but he yielded without a
murmur. Whether it should be Switzerland, Italy,
France, Scotland, or Ireland afterward, was to be
decided at their leisure. So the brougham drove
to Paddington, and Mr. and Mrs. Frank Abbot
took the train for the west.
They spent five happy days at Clifton ; although
they knew the scenery by heart, it looked more
beautiful than ever under the present auspices.
Then Frank began to talk about going elsewhere;


152
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
but Millicent seemed in no hurry to make a move.
“I wonder, Frank,” she said one evening, “you
don't go over and have a look at your old home.”
“ I haven't the heart to go,” sighed Frank. “I
might have gone by myself; but I can't stand it
with you. I shall be thinking all the while how
you would have graced it.”
“ Who lives there now ? ”
“ A Mr. Tompkinson-a London merchant."
“I should so like to see the place, Frank! Do
take me to-morrow.”
Frank, who, in truth, was longing to have a look
at the old place, consented. They decided to go
the next day. “We will have a carriage, and
drive," said Frank.
“What extravagance!” said Millicent.
“ Never mind. I shall only be married once.
When our honeymoon is over, we will go in for
strict economy.”
Millicent agreed to this. So a carriage was
hired the next morning, and they started for
Frank's ancestral home.
It was a lovely September morning; the air was
fresh and exhilarating. As soon as the dark, dusty
city was left behind, Millicent's spirits rose to a
mad pitch, which Frank, with all his newly mar.
ried adoration, fancied was not quite in keeping
with what was to him at least a sort of solemn
pilgrimage. She caught hold of his hands and
squeezed them, she laughed and talked; in fact,


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
155
ning, he could not overtake her. Arguing that a
man's running after a woman up a stranger's car-
riage-drive was not a dignified preparation to ask-
ing a favor, Frank followed his wife at a reason-
able pace; and when he came up to her, found her
standing at the door of the Hall in conversation
with an elderly woman, who was evidently a
housekeeper. Frank thought this good woman
eyed him very curiously and suspiciously.
“It's all right, Frank,” said Millicent, turning
her smiling face to him. “We may go over
the Hall. Mr. Tompkinson is not here at pres-
ent.”
“Please walk in,” said the housekeeper, drop-
ping a courtesy.
Millicent did so; and Frank followed her, sulk-
ily. He did not approve of the proceedings. As
his wife had forced him to the house, he had de.
termined to send his card up to Mr. Tompkinson,
trusting that his former connection with the place
would excuse the liberty he was taking. But he
did not like this going behind the man's back,
and felt sure that Millicent had been smoothing
the way with a bribe.
“That's the drawing-room--the dining-room-
library-billiard-room,” said the housekeeper,
jerking her finger at the doors in succession.
“ Please walk through them; and ring when you'd
like to go up stairs and see the view."
Therewith the woman vanished, after giving


156
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
Millicent a knowing look, which Frank felt sure
spoke of wholesale bribery.
"I say, Millicent,” said Frank, “we can't go
walking about a man's house alone in this fashion."
“My dear,” said Millicent very seriously, “I
pledged my honor we would pocket nothing."
Then she broke into an hysterical little laugh; and
Frank wondered what had come to his wife.
“Let us go to the drawing-room first,” she said,
recovering her gravity, and opening the door
pointed out by the housekeeper. :
Frank passed through the doorway, and for a
moment could think of nothing but how he should
keep himself from quite breaking down. The
room looked almost the same as when he last en-
tered it—the same as he had known it from his
earliest days. Every chair and table the same, or
apparently so. Then he remembered that the
purchaser of the house had also bought nearly all
the household furniture. At the time, he was glad
to think the old place would not be dismantled;
now he regretted it had not been. The presence
of the well-remembered Lares and Penates left the
old home unchanged in all-save that it was no
longer his home. There was the very stool on
which as a boy he used to sit at his mother's feet ;
there was the wonderful Japanese cabinet, with
dozens of little lackered drawers, which used to be
opened now and again as a great treat to him.
And herę was he standing in the middle of these


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
157
old household gods, by permission of another man's
servant. He wished he had been firm, and not
yielded to Millicent's whim.
His heart was too full for words. He turned
away from his wife, who was watching him earn-
estly, turned away, not willing she should see how
much he was affected. He opened the door of
the conservatory and passed out among the flow-
ers. Even the flowers looked the same. The red
stars of taxonia shone from the green clouds above
as of old. The large heliotrope against the wall
was in full blossom. The great center tree-palm
was still there. The fountain played as of old,
and splashed down on the goldfish swimming in
the basin. How well he remembered when his
great delight was to be lifted up to look at those
red and white carp! He could stand these mem-
ories no longer. Let him go away-out of the
house-never to come near it again. He went
back to the room to find Millicent. The room was
untenanted. He supposed his wife, taking ad-
vantage of the accorded permission, had extended
her researches. He looked in the dining-room.
As the old family portraits had been bought by
his own people, this room did not appeal to him
so much. He glanced round; Millicent was not
there. He walked across the hall and opened the
library door. He did not notice whether this
room was changed or not. He had eyes for one
thing only, and, perhaps, a more astonishing sight


158
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
was never seen by a six days' bridegroom. Here
was Millicent-his wife, her hat and mantle thrown
off, absolutely sitting on the knee of a gentleman;
moreover, with her arms twined round his neck,
her cheek resting against his, and so concealing
his features from her outraged husband, who no
doubt would have rushed to immolate his sup-
posed rival, had not Millicent, without changing
her position, looked at him with eyes so full of
love, tenderness, and triumph that Frank Abbot
stood rooted to the ground, and wondered why he
should be dreaming in broad daylight. Then he
grew very pale, all sorts of wild things rushing
into his head. He managed to take a step or two
forward; and Millicent, jumping off her human
perch, rushed to meet him, threw her arms round
his neck, sobbed and laughed, and all the while
ejaculated : “My darling-my darling! My own
love! To think it should be through me! My
own dear husband !”
She kissed him and embraced him in so fervent
a manner, that his attention could scarcely be
given elsewhere; but the impression grew upon
him that over her shoulder, sitting in the chair
from which she had sprung, was his chance ac-
quaintance, Mr. John Jones.
“What--does—it all mean?” gasped Mr. Abbot
as his wife subsided on his shoulder.-“Mr. Jones,
you here! What does it mean?”
Mr. Jones rose from his chair and held out his


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
159
hand. “Shake hands, Frank,” he said. “It means
this. I told you you'd have to take something
from me, proud as you were. You've taken my
daughter, at any rate.”
“But”-
“Yes; I know. I'm Keene, not Jones. That
girl of mine is a romantic, obstinate child. I'm
an old fool, and ought to be ashamed of myself ;
but it did me good to find she was going to marry
a man who thought she hadn't a penny piece to
her name. Shake hands, Frank.”
“But-here!” ejaculated Frank.
“Yes, here. In my house; or rather, in yours
and Millicent's. The truth is, when we landed in
England, the first paper Milly saw held an adver-
tisement, saying this place was for sale. She made
me go the next day and buy it, stock, lock, and
barrel. Now you know all.”
“Oh Frank !” interposed Millicent, "forgive me
-I had been in England four months before I
wrote to you! Do forgive me, Frank! They
were very long months.”
As Frank gave her a passionate kiss, she sup-
posed herself forgiven. Mr. Keene drew out his
cigar-case.
“Now all's settled,” he said, “I'll send and tell
your carriage to go back. You can drive into
Clifton this evening and fetch your luggage.”
“ Stop a moment!” said Frank. “Mr. Keene,
I am too bewildered to say all I want to; but it


160
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
must be clearly understood that I am not going
to be a dependent on your bounty.” -
“I always told you you were absurdly proud,”
growled Mr. Keene.
.“I will not. Had I known that you had pur-
chased my father's estate, I could not have married
Millicent. I would not have let the world call me
a fortune-hunter."
Mrs. Frank Abbot glanced at her father. “I
told you what he was, papa,” she said. Then
turning to Frank: “Will you kindly look at me,
sir, and tell me how I have changed so greatly
that people will think I am only worth marrying
for my money?”
To this challenge Frank made no reply in
words. Then he took his wife's hand. “Milllicent,"
he said, “shall it be clearly understood that you
are the wife of a poor man—that you will be
happy when I ask you to leave this and come to
London with me, while I work at my profession
as before?”
“Stuff and nonsense !” growled Mr. Keene.
But Millicent looked into her husband's face and
whispered : “My darling love, your wishes shall
be mine!”
Then Mr. Keene went out and sent the carriage
away.
It is a great temptation to describe the meeting
between Mrs. Abbot and her daughter-in-law. The
elder lady's surprise and joy simply beggar descrip-


CHEWTON-ABBOT.
161
tion. Loving her son as she really did, the re-
versionary restoration was as much a satisfaction
to her as if her own husband had been reinstated.
The meeting between the two ladies was embar-
rassing for both to look forward to; but it went
off to perfection. Mrs. Abbot, all smiles and
sweetness, embraced her daughter-in-law, and
said: “My dear, I told you that under other
circumstances we should be great friends. We
shall be so now—shall we not ?" It was a grace-
ful, if not an unworldly apology; and as Millicent
returned her kiss and begged her to forget what
had happened, Mrs. Abbot hung round the girl's
neck a diamond cross, which, being her own per-
sonal property, had survived the wreck; and after
this, a peace was established which as yet has not
been broken.
Did Frank Abbot continue to work as hard at
his profession as he had resolved to do? The
events above recorded are of comparatively recent
date. So I can say with truth that he is still a
working member of the bar, and is supposed to be
making a fair income. As Mr. Keene had not the
least intention of allowing his daughter to go
empty-handed to a husband, however quixotic he
might be, the young couple have always been far
away from the poverty which one of them was
continually harping upon. The last I heard about
them is that Mr. Keene, who, since his daughter's


162
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
marriage, has spent most of his time in London,
told Frank roundly, that unless he would bring
Millicent back to Chewton, throw his pride to the
winds, and live at the Hall as his forefathers had
lived-acting, if he liked, for conscience' sake, as
bailiff or manager of the estate-he, Mr. Keene,
would at once sell the place, and invest the pro-
ceeds in something more profitable than a large
house in which he could not live alone, or acres
about which he cared nothing.
Millicent, who thinks Frank looking pale and
fagged, and is quite sure that London air does not
suit the baby, seconds her father's appeals with
eloquent looks; and Frank, who has formed an
affectionate regard for Mr. Keene, and who finds
that, with such attractions at home, circuit-going
is dreary work, certainly wavers in his determin-
ation ; so it is more than likely that one day the
bar will lose what might have been a distinguished
ornament to it, and that Chewton Hall will once
more have a proper master and mistress.


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
DURING the course of my professional career.
D I have met with many strange things. The
strangest, the most incomprehensible of all, I am
about to narrate.
Its effect upon me was such, that, without paus-
ing for investigation or inquiry, I turned and fled
from the town—even from the country in which I
witnessed it. It was only when I was some thou-
sands of miles away that I recovered from my terror
sufficiently to think calmly over what had hap-
pened. Then I vowed a self-imposed vow that for
many years I would mention the matter to no
one. My reasons for secrecy were these :
In the first place I was, as I am now, a doctor.
Now I am fairly well-to-do, and have little anxiety
about the future. Then I was struggling hard to
make a living. Such being the case, I argued that
the telling of an incredible, monstrous tale—the
truth of which, however, I should be bound to up-
hold in spite of every thing and every body--would


PAUL VARGAS: À YSTERY. 165
But had all these features been irregular and un-
pleasing, the eyes alone would have redeemed the
face from plainness. More luminous, eloquent,
expressive eyes I have never seen. Their dark
beauty was enhanced by a distension of the pupil,
seldom met with when the sight is perfect as was
Vargas's. They possessed in a remarkable degree
the power of reflecting the owner's emotions.
Bright as they always were, they sparkled with his
mirth, they glittered with his scorn, and when he
seemed trying to read the soul of the man he
looked at, their concentrated gaze was such as few
could bear with perfect ease.
This is a description of Paul Vargas as I remem-
ber him when first we met. I may add that in age
he was two years my senior; in intellect a hun-
dred.
Of Vargas's family and antecedents his fellow-
students knew nothing. That he was of foreign
extraction was clearly shown by his name and
general appearance. It was supposed that Jewish
blood ran in his veins, but this was pure conjec-
ture; for the young man was as reticent concern-
ing his religious opinions as he was about every
thing else connected with his private history.
I can not say he was my friend. Indeed, I be-
lieve he had no friends, and I think may add, no
enemies. He was too polite and obliging to make
foes; although there was usually a calm air of
superiority about all he said and did, which at


• PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
167
moreover, had the valuable knack of extracting
the gist of the matter, while throwing aside any
worthless lumber which surrounded it. From my
average intellectual station I could but admire
and envy his rapid and brilliant flights.
He made my visits to him pleasant ones. Our
work over for the evening, it was his custom to
keep me for an hour or two smoking and chatting;
but our talk was not the confidence between two
friends. Indeed, it was little more than scientific
gossip, and the occasional airing of certain theo-
ries ; for Vargas, if silent about himself and his
private affairs, at least expressed his opinions on
the world in general openly and freely.
He had resolved to become a specialist. He
poured out the vials of his scorn on the ordinary
general practitioner—the marvelous being who,
with equal confidence, is ready to grapple with
fever, gout, consumption, blindness, deafness,
broken bones, and all the other ills and accidents
which afflict mankind.
“It is absurd !” he said. “As well expect the
man who made the lenses for that microscope to
make the brass work also—as well ask the author
of this treatise to print and bind it! I tell you one
organ, one bit of the microcosm called man,
demands a life's study before the cleverest dare to
say he understand it.”
Certainly the organ selected by Vargas for his
special study was the most complex and unsatis-


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
169
country—one of those periodical waves, which,
whether called mesmerism, clairvoyance, electro-
biology, spiritualism, or thought-reading, rise,
culminate, and fall in precisely the same manner.
Paul Vargas, although ridiculing the new craze,
read every thing that touched upon it, even down
to the penny-a-liner's accounts of mysterious occur-
rences.
“The truth may be found any where,” he said;
“if there is a diamond in the ground the most
ignorant boor may, unwittingly, dig it out.”
One night I found him in a strange, pre-occu-
pied mood. He did his work mechanically, and
I could see that his thoughts kept straying away.
We finished earlier than usual, and for a while he
sat opposite to me in silence. Then he raised his
eyes and asked me a question.
What the question was I have never been able
to remember. I have racked my brain again and
again, but have never recalled the purport of it.
All I know is, it was, from a scientific point of
view, so supremely ridiculous that I burst into a
peal of laughter.
For a moment Paul Vargas's eyes positively
flamed. Feeling that our relations were not
friendly enough to excuse the indiscretion on my
part, I hastened to apologize. He was himself
again directly, and, with his calm, superior smile
on his lips, assured me I had done nothing which
demanded an apology. He then changed the con-


170
PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
versation, and during the remainder of my stay
talked as rationally and instructively as the most
methodical old lecturer in the schools.
He bade me good-night with his usual polite-
ness, and sent me away glad that my ill-timed
mirth had not offended him. Yet the next morn-
ing I received a note saying he had decided to
discontinue that particular series of researches in
which I had given him such invaluable assistance.
I was somewhat nettled at this summary dis-
missal. Vargas asked me to his rooms no more,
and he was not the man to call upon uninvited.
So, except in the schools and in the streets, I saw
nothing more of him.
It was predicted by those who should know
best that Paul Vargas would be the scholar of the
year. I alone dared to doubt it. In spite of his
great talents and capacity for work, I fancied there
was that in his nature which would defeat these
high hopes. There was something wrong-some-
thing eccentric about him. In plain English, I
believed, if not mad now, Vargas would end his
days in a madhouse.
However, he never went up for his last exam-
ination. He had a surprise in store for us. Just
before the final trial in which he was to reap such
laurels he vanished. He went without a word of
warning-went bag and baggage. He left no
debts behind him. He defrauded no one. He
simply, without giving any reason for his depart-


172
PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
ing through the streets, I came face to face with
Paul Vargas.
Although he wore the fez and was in appear.
ance more Turkish than English, I knew him at
once and accosted him by his name. Surprised as
he looked at my salutation, he had evidently no
wish to deny his identity. As soon as he recog-
nized me he greeted me cordially, and having
learned what brought me to Constantinople, in-
sisted that I should pay him a visit. I willingly
consented to do so. I was most curious to ascer-
tain why he had thrown up the profession so sud-
denly. The day being still young I started then
and there with him for his home.
Naturally, almost my first question was why he
left us so mysteriously.
“I had my reasons,” he said. "
“ They must have been powerful ones.”
He turned his dark eyes full upon me.
“They were,” he said. “I grew sick of the
life. After all, what did it mean? Work, work,
work, only to find out how little one really knew
or ever could know by study. Why, in one half-
hour I learned more by pure chance than any one
else has yet dreamed of.”
I questioned him as to the meaning of his arro-
gant assertion, but he evaded me with all his old
adroitness; then we reached his house, and I for-
got all save admiration.
His house was just outside the city. House! it


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY. 173
might be called a small palace. Here he lived in
true Oriental luxury. Judging from the profusion
which surrounded him, and from the lavish scale
on which his establishment was conducted, I felt
sure that the report of his having inherited a for-
tune was quite correct. All that money could
buy, all that an intellectual Sybarite could desire,
seemed to be his. Books, paintings, statuary,
costly furniture, rich tapestries, the choicest
dishes, and the rarest wines. Only a man in the
enjoyment of a princely income could live in such
style and splendor.
He led me from room to room, until he opened
the door to one more beautifully garnished than
any of the others. A girl was sitting at the win-
dow. As we entered she sprang forward with
a cry of joy, and threw her arms round Vargas.
He returned her passionate embrace; kissed
her, whispered some words of love in a strange,
musical language, then gently disengaging him-
self, said,
"Myrrha, welcome an old friend of mine, an
Englishman.”
She turned toward me. Her beauty absolutely
dazzled me. She was tall and majestic ; coil upon
coil of jet black hair crowned her well-poised
queenly head. Her cheek had the clear brown
tinge of the south. Her eyes were glorious.
Never before had I seen such a splendid creature.
The perfection of her form, the look of splendid


174
PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
health and glowing vitality would have been
enough to make her an object of the greatest
interest to any one of my own profession.
The bright colors of her rich dress well became
her. Although in years she was but a girl, the
gold and jewels which covered her hands, arms, and
neck, seemed quite in keeping with her beauty.
As I looked at her I felt that Paul Vargas's earthly
paradise ought to be complete.
She came forward with unembarrassed grace,
smiled a bright smile, and giving me her hand,
bade me welcome in English, correct enough,
although tempered by a slight foreign accent.
After a little while Vargas suggested that I
should walk round the gardens with him. As we
left the room, the look that passed between him
and the girl was quite enough to show the com-
plete love they bore each other.
“Your wife, I suppose?” I said, when we were
alone. “She is very beautiful."
“My love, my life, my very soul!” he exclaimed
passionately. “But not my wife in your sense of
the word.”
I said no more, feeling the subject was a deli.
cate one to handle. Who Myrrha was, or why
she should live, unmarried, with him, was none of
my business.
I had not been long in his society before I dis-
covered that Paul Vargas was, in some ways, much
changed—I may say improved. He seemed alto-


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
175
gether a better sort of fellow than the man I had
known of old. No less polite, but more natural.
His invariably charming manners were enhanced
by the addition of something like friendliness.
In an hour's time I felt that I had made more
progress with him than I had in the whole
of our previous intercourse. I attributed this
change to the power of love, for, wife or no wife,
it was plain that the man loved his beautiful com-
panion with all the force of his strong nature.
Yet it shocked me to discover that all the old
ambition was dead. I mourned that such a
highly-gifted man could at his age withdraw com-
pletely from the battle-field, and seem only to
strive to make life as soft and sensuous as it
might be possible for wealth to make it. I spoke
once or twice to this effect, but the darkness of
his brow and the shortness of his answers told me
I trod on forbidden ground. For his own sake I
hoped that the day would come when he would
weary of his voluptuous existence and long for the
bracing tonics of hard work and the struggle for
success.
I was detained in Constantinople three days
longer. Vargas pressed me to take up my abode
with him. It was not worth while to do this, as
at any moment I might be ordered away. But I
spent several hours of each day with him. He
was always glad to see me. Perhaps the sweet-
ness of his seclusion was already beginning to pall


· 176
PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
upon him, and the occasional sight of a coinmon-
place, work-a-day face was a welcome one..
The route came at last. I bade my friend
good-by, and sighed as I thought how grimly the
scenes of death and misery to which I was about
to pass would contrast with the Elysium I was
quitting. Vargas accompanied me to the steamer
by which the first part of the journey was to be
made.
“Do you mean to live here all your life?” I
asked.
“No, I shall grow weary of it—very soon, I
expect.”
“And then ?”
“Then I shall sell every thing and try another
land."
“You must be rich to live as you do."
“I was rich. I had sixty thousand pounds-
but in the last year or two I have spent two-thirds
of my fortune.”
“Two-thirds of your capital ! What folly!”
He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled that old
superior smile. Then a deep gloom settled on his
handsome face.
“I have plenty left-plenty to last my time,"
he said.
“What nonsense you talk ! What do you mean
by your time ?"
He leaned toward me, placed his hand on my
arm, and looked at me with an expression in his
eyes which thrilled me.


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY. 177
“I mean this,” he said, slowly. “I could, if I
chose, tell you the exact day—if not the exact hour
at which I shall die. You see how I live, so can un-
derstand that if I have money to last my time,
that time is short.”
“My dear fellow!” I exclaimed,“ have you any
complaint-any secret malady ?”
“None—I am hale and sound as you. Never-
theless I shall die as I have said.”
His absolute conviction impressed me more than
I cared to show. “ A man must die of some-
thing specific,” I said. “If you can predict
your illness, can you not take steps to prolong
your life?"
“ Prolong my life!” he echoed as one in a
dream. “ Yes, I can prolong my life—but I will
not.”
I could only conclude that Paul Vargas medi-
tated self-destruction.
" Why should you not care to live?” I urged.
“Care to live ?” he cried bitterly. “Man, I
revel in life! I have youth, strength, love-fame I
could have if I wished for it. Yet it is because I
may have fewer temptations to prolong my life
that I am squandering my wealth-that I let am-
bition beckon in vain—that, when the moment
draws near, I shall forsake the woman I love."
It was as I guessed years ago, Paul Vargas was
mad!
He sank into moody silence, broken only


178 PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
when the moment of my departure came. Then
he roused himself, shook hands with me and bade
me good speed.
“ We shall meet again some day," I said cheer-
fully.
His dark eyes gleamed with all the old scorn
they were wont to express when any one, whose
words were not worth listening to, opposed him in
argument.
“We shall meet no more," he said, curtly and
coldly, turning away and retracing his steps.
He was wrong. We met again!
I worked through the cholera : saư many aw.
ful sights: gained much experience and a certain
amount of praise. On my way home I inquired
for Vargas, and found he had disposed of his house
and its entire contents, departing no one knew
whither.
Two years went by: I was still unsettled; still
holding roving commissions. I blush to say that
I had been attacked with the gold fever, and in my
haste to grow rich had lost, in mining, nearly all I
possessed. I cured myself before the disease grew
chronic, but ashamed to return all but penniless
to England, I sojourned for awhile in one of those
mushroom towns of America-towns which spring
up almost in a night, wherever there is a chance
of making money.
I rather liked the life. It was rough but full of
interest. The town held several thousand inhabi.


180
PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
bling hell, and lodging-house. Its patrons were not
of the most select class, and the scuffles and rows
that went on there made the house a disgrace
even to New Durham. By this time I was too
well known to fear insult even in the lowest den
of infamy, so I entered boldly and asked to be
conducted to Dr. Jones's patient.
A blowsy, sodden-faced, vicious looking woman
led me up stairs and turned the handle of a door.
“He ought to be dead by now," she said. “If
the doctor can't cure him, or he don't die in two
days, out he bundles."
I walked into the room, taking no notice of the
brutal threat. There, on a wretched apology for
a bed—with a look of heartrending despair in his
large dark eyes, lay Paul Vargas !
I thought I must be dreaming. The man I had
seen little more than two years ago, lapped in ab-
surd luxury—spending money like water to gratify
every taste, every desire—now lying in this
wretched den, and if Jones's view of the case was
correct, dying like a dog! I shuddered with hor-
ror and hastened to his side.
He knew me. He was conscious. I could tell
that much by the light which leaped into his eyes
as I approached.
“Vargas, my poor fellow," I said, “what does
this mean?”
As I spoke I remembered how he had predicted
his own death. He must have remembered it too,


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
181
for although he made no reply, and lay still as a
log, there was a look in his eyes which might
express the satisfaction felt by a successful prophet,
when one who has laughed at his forecast is
bound, at last, to realize its correctness.
I addressed him again and again. Not a word
did he answer; so at last I was compelled to think
that his power of speech was gone. Then I went
to work to thoroughly inspect him and ascertain
the nature of his complaint.
I sounded him, tested every organ, examined
every limb; but like my colleague was utterly un-
able to find the cause of his illness. Of course I
labored under the great disadvantage of being un-
able to get a word of description of his pains from
the patient himself. I satisfied myself that he
had absolutely lost the power of moving his limbs.
This utter helplessness made me fancy the spine
might be broken, but it was not so. Paralysis
suggested itself, but the obviously clear state of the
mind as shown by those eloquent eyes was suffi-
cient to send this idea to the background. At
last I gave up, fairly baffled. I could give no
name to his ailment—could fix no seat for it.
His bodily weakness was great; but weakness
must be caused by something. What was that
something? So far as my knowledge went there
was no specific disease; yet I was as certain as
Dr. Jones that Paul Vargas, if not dying, was
about to die.


182
PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
And underneath us was the din of drunken men
and unsexed women. Ribaldry and blasphemy,
oaths and shrieks, laughter and shouts, rose and
penetrated the frail planks which bounded the
small, dirty room in which the sufferer lay. At all
cost he must be moved to more comfortable quar-
ters.
I went down stairs and questioned the Webbers
as to how he came there. All they knew was that
late one night the man entered the house and
asked for a bed. He was accommodated with
one, and for two days no one troubled about him.
Then some one looked him up and found him in
his present deplorable state. One of the inmates
who had a grain of kindness left fetched Dr. Jones.
That was all they knew of the affair.
I managed to secure the assistance of four
strong and almost sober men. I paid what reck-
oning was due at Webber's, then set about re-
moving the poor fellow. He was carried carefully
down stairs, laid on an extemporized stretcher,
and borne to my house, which fortunately, was
only a few hundred yards away. During the transit
he was perfectly conscious, but he spoke no word,
nor, by any act of his own, moved hand or foot.
I saw him safely installed in my own bed, and
having satisfied myself that no immediate evil was
likely to result from the removal, went out to
look for some one to nurse him.
I was obliged to seek extraneous aid, as my


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY. 185
room, and in a minute was fast asleep. After I
had slept for about three hours a knocking at my
door aroused me. I opened it and found the nurse
standing outside. Her bonnet and cloak were
on, and by the light of the lamp she carried with
a tremulous hand I saw that her face was ghastly
pale, but nevertheless, wearing a defiant, injured
look.
“ What's the matter?” I asked.
“ I am going home,” she said, sullenly.
“Going home! Nonsense! Go back to the
sick room. Is the man worse?”
"I wouldn't go back for a hundred pounds-
I'm going home."
Thinking some sudden whim had seized her I
expostulated, and commanded, and entreated.
She was inflexible. Then I insisted upon know-
ing the meaning of such extraordinary conduct.
For a while she refused to give me any explana-
tion. At last, she said she had been frightened
to death. It was the man's eyes, she added, with
a shiver. He had opened them and stared at her.
The moment I heard this I ran to his room, fear-
ing the worst. I found nothing to excite alarm;
Vargas was quiet, apparently sleeping. So I
returned to the stupid woman, rated her soundly,
and bade her go back and resume her duties.
Not she! Horses would not drag her into that
room again-money would not bribe her to re-en-
ter it. The man had looked at her with those


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
189
“When you recover I will have a full explan-
ation of the jugglery you have practiced upon
me."
I resumed my seat, fearing his strange power
no longer. Now that I knew he wielded it I
was armed against it. I flattered myself that
only by attacking me unawares could he influence
me in so mysterious a manner. When next he
opened his eyes I did not shun them. I might
well have done so—their expression was one of
anguish and horror-the expression one might
imagine would lurk in the eyes of a conscience-
stricken man to whom had just come the knowl-
edge that he had committed some awful crime.
Every now and then they turned to me in wild,
beseeching terror, but they bore no trace of that
strange mesmeric power.
Paul Vargas, if he was to die, seemed doomed
to die a lingering death. For some ten days
longer he lay in that curious state-his symp-
toms, or rather absence of symptoms, driving
Jones and myself to our wits' end. We tried all
we could think of without beneficial results.
Every day he grew a little weaker-every day his
pulse was rather feebler than on the preceding
day. Such stimulant and nutriment as I could
force down his throat seemed to do no good.
Slowly-very slowly-his life was ebbing away,
but so surely that I was fain to come to the sad
conclusion that in spite of all our efforts he would


190 PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
slip through our fingers. By this time he had
grown frightfully emaciated, and although I am
convinced he suffered little or no bodily pain, the
look of anguish in his staring dark eyes was pos-
itively painful to encounter.
I had obtained the services of another nurse,
and was thankful to find that, to her, the dying
man was not an object of dread; although after
my own experiences, I could not blame her pre-
decessor.
Hour after hour, day after day, Paul Vargas lay,
unable to move or speak; yet I felt sure in full
possession of his mental faculties. Several times
I noticed when the door was opened, a look of
dread come into his eyes. He breathed freerer
when he saw that the new-comer was either the
nurse or myself. This puzzled me, for if, as I
suspected, he had willed that I should write a letter
and send it to the proper place, his look should
have been one of hope and expectancy, instead of
its displaying unmistakable signs of fear.
Although Vargas often gave me the impression
that he was trying to subject me again to that
strange influence, it was only once more that he
attained any thing like success. One day, grown
bold at finding I had as yet avoided a repetition
of my thraldom, and, perhaps, egged on by curios-
ity, I met his strange fixed gaze half-way and
defied him to conquer me. In a moment or two
I found I had miscalculated my powers, and


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
191
although I blush to say it-I felt that in another
second I must yield to him, and as before, do all
he wished. At that critical moment the nurse
entered the room and spoke to me. Her voice
and presence broke the spell. Thank God, it was
so; Vargas was sending an impulse into my mind-
urging me in some way which I knew would be
irresistible-to perform, not some harmless task,
but to go to my medicine chest and fetch a dose
of laudanum heavy enough to send him to sleep
forever.. And I say, without hesitation, that had
the woman not entered the room at that very
moment, I should have been forced to do the
man's bidding.
Yet I had no wish to cut his few last days short.
If I had given him that poison, it would have been
suicide, not murder!
Although he had predicted his own death, why
was Paul Vargas so anxious to die that he had
endeavored to make me kill him ? Unless their
tortures are unbearable, few dying persons seek
to precipitate matters ; and this one, I am sure,
suffered little or no pain. His death was linger-
ing and tedious, but not painful.
After this fresh attempt to coerce me I was al-
most afraid to leave him alone with the nurse. I
even took the precaution of being present when
Dr. Jones, out of professional curiosity, paid
him an occasional visit.
The tension on my nerves grew unbearable.


192
PAUL VARGAS; A MYSTERY.
I prayed fervently for the man's recovery, or, if
recovery was out of the question, for his death.
At last the time came when the latter seemed
to be drawing very, very near-so near that
Jones, whose interest in the case was unabated,
said, as he left me in the evening-
“He will die to-night, or before tomorrow is
over. I believe he has only kept himself alive
the last few days by sheer force of will and de-
termination not to die.”
I assented gloomily, wished my colleague good-
night, and went to rest.
Next morning, just after breakfast, I heard a
rap at my door. I opened it, and found myself
face to face with a woman. She was. tall, and
even the long black cloak she wore did not hide
the grace and symmetry of her figure. A thick
veil covered her face. Thinking she had come
for advice, I begged her to enter the house.
I led her to my sitting-room. She raised her
veil and looked at me. I knew her in a moment.
She was the lovely girl who had shared with
Vargas that luxurious eastern paradise—the girl
whom he called Myrrha.
She looked pale and weary, but still very beau-
tiful. Her somber attire could not diminish her
charms. My one thought as I gazed at her was,
how any man, of his own free will, could tear
himself from such a creature. Yet, for some
unknown reason, Paul Vargas had done so.


194
PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
I asked her to follow me. She threw off her
long cloak, and I saw that her dress beneath it
was plain black. No ribbon, jewel, or ornament
broke its sable lines. With a look of ineffable
joy on her face she followed me to Vargas's
room.
“Let me go first and prepare him," I said.
“No," she replied, sternly. “Let me pass.'
She laid her hand on the door, opened it, and
preceded me into the room.
Paul Vargas's eyes were turned—as, indeed,
they had for the last few days been mostly turned
-toward the door; yet the look which leaped into
them was not one of joy and welcome. It was a
look of woe-of supreme agony. A convulsive
shudder ran across his face, and I expected his
next breath would be his last.
Why should the advent of his beautiful visitor
so affect him ? Had he treated this woman so
evilly, that he dreaded lest she came to his death-
bed to heap reproaches on his head? Yet he him-
self had summoned her—brought her from afar-
by the letter which he had willed me to write.
Injured or not, Myrrha came to console, not
reproach. My doubts on this point were at once
set at rest. With a cry of passionate grief she
threw herself on her knees beside the bed, clasped
the poor wasted hand in hers, and covered it with
kisses. In a strange tongue, one unknown to me,
she spoke words which I knew were words of fer-


196
PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
I hesitated. I wanted to see the end. But I
could not dispute the sacred claims of love and
grief, or help sympathizing with the girl in her
desire to be alone with the dying man. My duties
were ended. I had done all I could, but death in
his present mysterious garb had conquered me.
The man must die. How could he die better
than in the arms of the woman he loved ?
I motioned to the nurse to leave the room. I
followed her through the door; then turned to
take my last look at Paul Vargas.
He was lying apparently unconscious. Myrrha
had thrown herself on the bed by his side. His
poor pale face was drawn close to her full, red lips.
Her bosom beat against his. Her arms were
wreathed around him, holding him to her. The
contrast between life and death-between the
rich, strong, glowing life of the young girl, and
that of the man now ebbed away to its last few
sands, was startling. I closed the door reverently.
My eyes filled with tears, and I sighed for the
sorrow which was about to fall on the devoted,
passionate creature. How would she bear it !
Then I went about my duties, knowing that when
I returned home I should have a patient the less.
I rode a few miles into the country, to see a
miner who had met with an accident which would
most likely prove fatal. Just as I reached his
cabin my horse fell suddenly lame. I led him the
rest of the way, and, having done all I could for


PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY. 197
the injured man, started to return home. There
was nothing for it but to leave my horse to be
fetched the next day, and walk back to New Dur-
ham.
I strode on as briskly as the nature of the track
would allow. As I trudged along I thought of
Myrrha and Paul Vargas, and wondered if by any
chance I should find him alive on my return. I
was so pre-occupied with these thoughts that, not
until I was close to him, did I notice a man lying
on the side of the track.
At first I thought it was one of the common
sights of the neighborhood, a man dead drunk;
but as I stood over him I found, for a wonder, it
was not so. The man's back was toward me; his
face was buried in the herbage; but I could hear
him sobbing as if his heart was about to burst.
As he lay there he threw his arms out with wild
gestures of despair—he dug his fingers into the
ground, and tore at it as one racked by an unbear-
able torture. He was evidently a prey to some
fearful bodily or mental distress. Whichever it
might be, I could not pass without proffering my
assistance.
His agitation was so great that he had no idea
of my proximity. I spoke, but my words fell un-
heeded. Sob after sob burst forth from him.
I stooped and placed my hand on his arm.
“ My poor fellow,” I said, “what is the matter ?”
At my touch he sprang to his feet. God of


198 PAUL VARGAS: A MYSTERY.
Heaven! shall I ever forget that moment? Be.
fore me stood Paul Vargas, well and strong, as
when we parted some years ago in Constanti-
nople!
What saved me from fainting I can not tell.
The man stood there before me—the very man
I had left an hour or two ago at his last gasp !
He stood there and cast a shadow. He did not
fade away or disappear as a vision or hallucination
should do. There was life and strength in every
limb. His face was pale, but it was with the
pallor of grief: for, even now the tears were run-
ning from his eyes, and he was wringing his hands
in agony.
Speak! I could not have fashioned a word. My
tongue clave to my palate. My lips were parched
and dry. All I could do was to stare at him, with
chattering teeth, bristling hair, and ice-cold blood.
He came to my side. He grasped my arm.
He was still flesh and blood. Even in that
supreme moment his strong convulsive clutch
told me that. He spoke. His voice was as the
voice of a living man, yet as the voice of one from
whom all joy of life has departed.
“Go home!” he said. “Go home, and learn
how the strongest may tremble at death-at what
a cost he will buy life—how the selfish desire to
live can conquer love. You asked me once if I
could not prolong life. You are answered. You
brought her to me--you yielded then, but not the


A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
IMAGINATIVE beings who invent marvelous
I tales may take what license they please, but
a simple narrator is nothing if not accurate; so,
before beginning this, I looked up old correspond-
ences and various memoranda made at the time
when the following things occurred. The first
paper upon which I put my hand was a letter. I
may as well open with a copy of it:
“ DEAR OLD BOY,-I have met her at last-my
fate-the one woman in the world for me. Noth-
ing is settled as yet; but I should not write this
unless hope were a certainty. You must wish me
joy, although she is a widow and an American-
two qualifications which I know you will find fault
with. No matter ; when you see her you will re-
cant and be envious. Yours ever,
“CLAUD MORTON.”
The writer was my brother—I was going to say
my only brother, but I had another once, although


A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
201
the less said about him the better. Nearly every
family has its black sheep.Ours had been a pe-
culiarly sable one. When he died, some years
ago, I passed a sponge over his long list of de-
linquencies, and tried to think of him as kindly as
possible. He died a disgraced man, far away from
home.
I call this black sheep, Stephen, my brother,
not Claud's, the fact being that Claud can scarcely
be said to have known him. I stood in age mid-
way between the two. Claud was sixteen years
younger than Stephen, so that when the latter
was shipped off as irreclaimable, the former was a
little golden-haired fellow of seven.
The above letter made me feel both glad and
sorry. I was glad that the boy—he was still the
boy to me, although his age was seven-and-twenty
-was going to be married; but I was sorry that
his choice had not fallen on one of his own coun-
trywomen, and one who could have given him
her first love. Still, all this was his own peculiar
business. No doubt he had made a suitable choice,
and the only thing left for me to do was to write
him a cheerful letter of congratulation, and hope
that his love affairs would soon be happily
settled.
A week went by; then came a long letter from
him. He had proposed in orthodox form, and
had been duly accepted. His letter lies before
me at this moment, and I feel sad as I read again


202
A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
the two pages covered with the lover's usual rap-
tures.
I am not a mercenary man, but I own I felt
somewhat disappointed on learning that she was
poor. Somehow one associates wealth with an
American widow who is sojourning in England.
But, so far as I could gather from Claud's letter,
Mrs. Despard, or Judith, as he called her, was not
well off. He spoke of her as being all alone in
London, which fact, he added, would necessarily
hasten his marriage. It would take place, he
hoped, in a week or two. In conclusion he pressed
me to run up to town in order to make the
acquaintance of my future sister-in-law.
I was very busy at the time-I may say, in
passing, that my business is to cure people's ail-
ments, not to tell stories-nevertheless I managed
to pay a flying visit to town, and was duly pre-
sented to Claud's betrothed.
Yes, she was handsome-strikingly handsome.
Her whole appearance was much out of the com,
mon. She was tall, superbly built, on a large scale,
perhaps, yet graceful as a panther in every move-
ment. Her face gave evidence of much char-
acter, power, and determination, and of passion
also, I decided. Her rich dark beauty was at that
time in full bloom, and although I saw at a glance
that she was some years older than my brother, I
was not at all inclined to blame Claud for his
' rapturous expressions. So far as personal charms


A DEAD MAN’S FACE.
203
went, I could find no fault with Judith Despard.
For the rest it was easy to see that she was pas-
sionately in love with Claud, and for the sake of
this I gladly overlooked all my fanciful objections
to his choice, and congratulated him heartily on
having won so beautiful a creature.
Yet, strange to say, in the midst of his new-
found happiness my brother seemed any thing but
his usual cheerful self. He, the merriest and
most talkative of men, seemed taciturn, moody
and preoccupied. The curious thing was that his
changed manner struck me particularly while we
were in Mrs. Despard's company. He spoke and
behaved in the most affectionate and lover-like
way, but there was in his general bearing some-
thing which puzzled me altogether. It seemed
to me that he might perhaps be nervous as to
what impression his fair friend might make upon
the elder brother whom he so reverenced and re-
spected.
This theory of mine was strengthened by the
fact that when, at night, we found ourselves alone
and I was able to freely express my admiration of
Mrs. Despard's good looks, he brightened up con-
siderably, and we sat until a very late hour, and
talked over the past, the present and the future.
“When do you mean to be married?” I
asked.
“In a fortnight or three weeks. There is noth-
ing to wait for. Judith is living alone in lodgings.


A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
205
When I reflected how little I really knew about
Mrs. Despard, I felt abashed and guilty. How-
ever, Claud was a full-grown man, and no fraternal
counsel was likely to turn him aside from his
desire.
In the course of a few days he wrote me that
he was to be married on the 5th of the next
month. I made arrangements which would enable
me to go to the wedding ; but three days before
the date named I heard again from him. The
wedding was postponed for a fortnight. He gave
no reason for the delay; but he said he was anx-
ious to see me, and to-morrow he should run down
to my home.
He came as promised. I was aghast when I
saw him. He looked worn, haggard, wretched.
My first thought was that business had gone
wrong with him. His looks might well be those
of a man on the brink of ruin. After the first
greeting I at once took him to my study in order
to be put out of suspense. Just as I was about
to begin my anxious questions he turned to me.
“Frank, old fellow," he said, imploringly, and
with a faint attempt at a smile, “don't laugh at
me.”
Laugh! That was the last thing I was likely
to do. I pressed his hand in silence.
“You won't believe me, I know," he continued.
“I can't believe it myself. Frank, I am haunted.”
“Haunted !” I was bound to smile, not from


206
A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
any disposition toward merriment, but in order to
show the poor boy the absurdity of his idea.
“Yes, haunted. The word sounds ridiculous,
but I can use no other. Haunted.”
“What haunts you?”
He came close to me and grasped my arm. His
voice sank to a hoarse whisper.
“A horrible, ghastly, grewsome thing. It is
killing me. It comes between me and my happi-
ness. I have fought and struggled against this
phantom terror. I have reasoned calmly with
myself. I have laughed my own folly to scorn.
In vain-in vain. It goes, but it comes again.”
“Overwork,” I said, “insomnia, too many
cigars, late hours; and had you been a drinking
man I should add, too much stimulant, too little
food, anxiety, perhaps. Have you any thing on
your mind -any special worry?”.
“Of course I have,” he said, pettishly. “Did
I not tell you it is killing me?”
“What is killing you?”
He rose and paced the room excitedly ; then
suddenly he stopped short, and once more
clutched my arm.
“A face,” he said, wildly—“a man's face; a
fearful white face that comes to me; a horrible
mask, with features drawn as in agony-ghastly,
pale, hideous! Death or approaching death,
violent death, written in every line. Every feat-
urę distorted. Eyes starting from the head,


208
A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
with this. At last it has conquered me. Send
it away, or I shall go mad!”
“ I'll send it away, old boy, never fear. Tell me:
can you see it now?”
“No; thank God, not now."
“Have you seen it to-day ?”
“No; to-day I have been free from it."
“Well, you'll be free from it to-morrow, and
the next day, and the next. It will be gone for-
ever before you leave me. Now come and see
Mary and the babies. I haven't even asked you
how Mrs. Despard is.”
A curious look crossed his face. “I think she
grows more beautiful every day," he said. Then
he seized my hand. “Oh, Frank,” he exclaimed,
“rid me of this horror, and I shall be the hap-
piest man in the world.”
“All right," I answered, perhaps with more
confidence than I felt.
Although I made light of it to my patient, his
state greatly alarmed me. I hastened to put him
under the strictest aud most approved treatment.
I enforced the most rigid sumptuary laws, made
him live on plain food, and docked his consump-
tion of tobacco unmercifully. In a few days I
was delighted to find that my diagnosis of the
case was correct. Claud was rapidly recovering
tone. In a week's time he seemed restored to
health.
The days went by. As yet Claud had said


210
A DEAD MAN’S FACE.
“Yet why do I dread London so? Well, never
mind. I will go up by the night mail on Wed-
nesday—then I need only be there for a few
hours. Will you do this for me-go up on Wed-
nesday morning, see Judith, and explain how it
is that I shall not see her until we meet in the
church?”
“Certainly, if you wish it. But you had better
write as well."
“Yes, I shall do that. There are several other
little things you must see to for me. The license
I have, but you must let the clergyman know.
You had better go and see my partners. They
may think it strange if I marry and go away with-
out a word.”
Thinking it better that he should have his own
way, I promised to do as he wished. Upon
my arrival in town on Wednesday afternoon I
went straight to Mrs. Despard's. I was not sorry
to have this opportunity of seeing her alone. I
wished to urge upon her the necessity of being
careful that Claud did not again get into that
highly wrought nervous state, from which my
treatment had so happily extricated him.
She was not looking so well as when last I saw
her. At times her manner was restless, and she
seemed striving to suppress agitation. She made
no adverse comments on her lover's strange whim
of reaching town to-morrow only in time for the
ceremony. Her inquiries as to his health were


212
A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
my wife's accusation, that when first I met Judith
Despard I had been carried away by the glamour
of her beauty, and thought of nothing else. As
I walked to Claud's rooms, which I occupied for
the night, I almost regretted that he had been so
hasty-certainly I wished that we knew more of
his bride. But it was now too late for regrets or
wishes.
I called for Mrs. Despard at the appointed
hour, and found her quite ready to start. Her
dress was plain and simple-I can not describe it;
but I saw that in spite of her excessive pallor she
looked very beautiful. In the carriage on our
way to the church she was very silent, answering
my remarks with monosyllables. I left her in
peace, supposing that at such a moment every
woman must be more or less agitated. -
When the carriage drew up at the church door,
the bride laid her hand upon my arm. I could
feel that she was trembling. “Claud will be
here ?” she asked. “Nothing will stop him?”.
“Nothing. But I may as well step out and see
that he is waiting.”
Yes, Claud was in the church waiting for us.
We exchanged greetings. The old sexton sum-
moned the curate; and Judith Despard, my
brother, and myself walked up to the altar rails.
Claud looked very well that morning; a little
fagged perhaps, but the long night journey would
account for that. He certainly looked proud and


214
A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
the woman to the priest. He joined the hands of
Claud and Judith.
After having played my little part I had not
moved back to my former station. I was now
close to the bride, and as Claud turned to
her, could see his face to advantage. It was posi-
tively distorted with suppressed emotion of some
kind. His mouth was set, and I could see that
· his teeth were closed on his under lip. He did
not look at his fair bride. His gaze passed over
her shoulder. In fact, he seemed almost oblivious
to her presence. I was dreadfully frightened.
The clergyman's voice rang out: “I, Claud,
take thee, Judith, to my wedded wife.” Then,
hearing no echo of his words, he paused.
“Repeat after me," he prompted. Again he
began, “I, Claud—”.
But his voice was drowned in a louder one,
which rang through the empty church. With a
fierce cry, as of inexpressible rage, Claud had
thrown the bride's hand from him, and was point-
ing and gesticulating toward the wall, upon which
his eyes had been riveted.
"Here !—even here!” he almost shrieked.
“That cursed, white, wicked, dying face! Whose
is it! Why does it come between me and my
love! Mad! Mad! I am going mad!”
I heeded not the clergyman's look of dismay,
or the bride's cry of distress. I thought of noth-
ing but my unfortunate brother. Here, at the


216
A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
face was more terrible than ever it could be to
Claud.
I gazed in horror. I felt my eyes growing riv-
eted to the sight as his own. I felt my whole
frame trembling. I knew that in another mo-
ment I should be raving as wildly as he raved.
Only his hoarse whisper recalled me to my senses.
“You see?” he asked, or rather asserted.
Horror forced the truth from me. “I see, or
fancy I see," I answered.
With a wild laugh Claud broke from me. He
rushed down the church and disappeared. As
he left me, the face, thank Heaven! faded from
the wall, or from my imagination.
I turned to my companions. Judith Despard
was lying in a dead swoon on the altar steps; the
curate with trembling hands was loosening the
throat of her dress. I called for water. The sex-
ton brought it. I bathed the poor woman's tem-
ples, and in a few minutes she sighed, opened her
eyes, and then shuddered. I took her in my arms
and staggered to the church door. The curate
removed his surplice and followed me. I placed
my almost senseless burden in the carriage.
“For Heaven's sake, see her home,” I said to
the curate. “I must go and look after my brother.
As soon as I have seen him I will come round to
Mrs. Despard's. Get her home quickly. The
coachman knows where to go."
The brougham drove off. I threw myself into


A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
217
a cab, and drove toward Claud's rooms. I hoped
he might have gone straight there.
To my great relief, when I reached his house he
was on the door-step. We entered his room to-
gether; he sank wearily into a chair, and buried
his face in his hands. I was scarcely less agitated
than himself, and my face, as I caught its reflec-
tion in the mirror, was as white as his own. I
waited for him to speak.
Presently he raised his head. “Go to her," he
said. “Ask her why that face comes between us.
You saw it--even you. It can be no fancy of
mine. Tell her we can meet no more."
“ I will wait until you are calmer before I go."
“Calm! I am myself now. The thing has
left me, as it always does. Frank, I have hidden
from you one peculiarity of my state. That
awful face never shows itself to me unless I am
in her company. Even at the altar it came be-
tween us. Go to her; ask her why it comes."
I left him, but did not quit the house for some
time. I went into an adjoining room and tried to
collect my thoughts; for, as I said, my mind was
more troubled than even Claud's could be.
I am ashamed to re-assert it; I am willing to
own that excitement, my brother's impressive
manner, superstition which I did not know I
possessed many thing that may bear a natural
explanation-may have raised that vision. But
why should that phantom, gathering and growing


218
A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
from nothing until it attained to form, or at least
semblance, have been the face of one I had known?
Why should the features distorted in deadly
agony have been those of my brother Stephen ?
For his was the dreadful face which Claud's
prompting or my own imagination had raised.
Almost like one in a dream I went to do Claud's
bidding. I was thankful, upon reaching Mrs.
Despard's, to find that she had gone to her room,
and left word that she could see no one to-day.
This gave me time to consider the position.
Acting on a sudden impulse, I went to the tele-
graph office, and sent instructions to my wife to
forward to me, by passenger train, a small box in
which I kept old letters and papers. Then I went
back to Claud, and after some persuasion induced
him to leave town at once. I told him I would
arrange every thing on the morrow. He was
better away.
In the morning my box arrived. In it I found
what I wanted. After the calming effects of a
night's rest I felt ashamed of my weakness as I
drew from old letters a photograph of my brother
Stephen-one taken about two years before the
report of his death reached us. Nevertheless I
put the portrait in my pocket, and about noon
went to Mrs. Despard's.
I was at once admitted, and in a few minutes
she came to me. She looked worn and haggard,
as if sleep had not visited her for nights. Dark


220
A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
“If he is ill, I will nurse him," she cried. “I
will wait for years if he will give me hope. Dr.
Morton, I love Claud as I never before loved a
man.”
She clasped her hands and looked imploringly
into my face. In a mechanical way I drew the
portrait of my dead brother from my breast. She
saw the action.
“His likeness !” she cried, joyfully. “He sends
it to me! Ah, he loves me!”
I handed her the photograph. “Mrs. Despard,”
I asked, “ do you know—”
I did not finish the question, yet it was fully
answered. Never, I believe, save then did a
human face undergo such a sudden, frightful
change. The woman's very lips grew ashen, her
eyes glared into mine, and I saw them full of
dread. She staggered—all but fell.
“Why is it here—who is it?” she gasped out.
I was a prey to the wildest excitement. To
what revelation was this tending? what awful
thing had I to learn ?
“Listen," I said, sternly. “Woman, it is for
you to answer the question. It is the face of this
man, his dying face, that comes between you and
your lover.”
“Tell me his name.” I read rather than heard
the words her dry lips formed.
“The name he was once known by was Stan-
ley."


A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
223
for him. I could banish the face with which he
strove to haunt me. I could forget. I could
love. I could have been happy. Yet he has
conquered at last. Not me he could not con-
quer me—but the one I love. Oh, the coward is
avenged !.”
In spite of my feeling of abhorrence, I gazed
on the speaker in amazement. Her words were
not those of one who had committed a black
crime, but of one who had suffered wrong. The
strange, fanciful idea that the dead man had been
trying to haunt her, but had been kept at bay by
her strong will, was in my experience unprece-
dented. As I saw the agony of mind under which
she was laboring, the thought came to me that
perhaps her words were true, that my brother's
death was this day avenged. I resolved to leave
her. I could gain no good by prolonging the
painful scene.
She was still pacing the room in fierce passion.
Suddenly she stopped short, and in thrilling ac-
cents began to speak. It seemed as if she had
forgotten my presence.
“See,” she cried, “the river-bank—the dark
rushing stream. Ah, we are all alone, side by
side, far away from every one. Fool! if you
could read my heart, would you walk so near to
the giddy brink? Do you think the memory of
the old love will stay my hand when the chance
comes? Old love is dead: you beat it, cursed it


A DEAD MAN'S FACE.
225
gestures, all these combined to bring the very
scene before my eyes. I stood spell-bound, and
even, as she described it, seemed to see the un-
fortunate man battling for dear life in the rushing
stream, growing every moment weaker and weaker.
As the woman's last wild exclamation—"Gone
forever! I am free!”-rang through the room, I
seemed to hear the cry of despair drowned as the
waves closed over the wretched man's head. I
knew every detail of my brother's fate.
I turned to leave the room. I longed to get
away, and if possible to banish the events of the
day from my mind. It was not given to me to be
Stephen Morton's avenger.
My hand was on the door, when the woman
sprang to my side. She grasped my arm and
drew me back into the room.
.“ Look!” she whispered. “Do you see it!
There! The face—that awful face! It has come
at last to me. The dead man has conquered.
There! look! His eyes glaring, his mouth
mocking. Now it has once come, I shall see it
always—always. Look !”
No, I was not doomed again to see or to fancy
I saw that face. Its mission, so far as I was con-
cerned, was at an end. But the look of concen-
trated horror which Judith Despard cast at the
wall of the room beggars description. Then with
a piteous cry she fell at my feet, and seemed to
strive to make me shield her from something she


JULIAN VANNECK.
IT may be these things were but the result of
I pure chance. It may be that a man's strange
idiosyncrasy and superstition must bear the blame
of what had happened. It may be that my tale
is one which must either be lightly pooh-poohed,
or classed with matters inexplicable.
If I myself have ever formed any decided opin-
ion on the subject I reserve it, and am content to
play the simple part of a narrator.
On the roth of December, 186-, I was at
Maidstone. I can fix the exact date, because on
that day I defended a man who was tried for
murder. The case was one of the last on the
calendar—the last in which I had any part. As
soon as the verdict was given it was my intention
to return to town. The evidence told so fearfully
against the prisoner that long before the judge
finished his summing up I knew the wretched man
was doomed. Indeed, it was a matter of surprise
to me that the jury were absent more than five
minutes.
But they staid away much longer than I ex-


JULIAN VANNECK.
229
According to Robert Harley's account this
Vanneck was a man well worth meeting. He was
wonderfully handsome and very wealthy. He
could talk half a dozen languages. He could
paint, play, and sing. His witty sayings were
worthy of Talleyrand. His whist was up to the
form of Deschapelles or Cavendish. But then
Harley was young and apt to wax enthusiastic
about the merits of a new friend. Yet, taking
due discount off his praises, enough remained to
make me wish to meet Julian Vanneck.
Harley had made his acquaintance at Homburg
-an acquaintance which soon became intimacy.
My friend was so much taken with Vanneck that
he made him promise to visit him whenever he
might chance to come to London.
My train reached town punctual to the minute.
I dashed off in a cab to my own rooms, jumped
into evening clothes, and was at Harley's cham-
bers in Jermyn Street just at the time I had pre-
dicted.
“You sit on Mr. Harley's left, sir," said the
waiter as I slipped quietly into the room.
At first my advent seemed scarcely noticed.
Every one at the table seemed to be in an ecstasy
of mirth. Harley, as I took my seat, could
hardly inaster his laughter sufficiently to give me
a suitable greeting. I felt quite uncomfortable.
There is nothing more annoying than to hear peo-
ple laughing at some jest which one has missed.


230
JULIAN VANNECK.
However, the merriment promised well for a
pleasant evening.
Still chuckling, Harley turned to me. “I wish
you'd come five minutes earlier, Vane.”
" I wish I had. What is it?”
“ Something Vanneck told us. Oh, so good!
Best thing I ever heard. Ah, by the by-Van-
neck."
The man on his right looked up.
“Let me introduce you to my friend Vane.
What the deuce I shall do between the two of
you I can't think. My sides will ache to-morrow."
Rightly or wrongly, I, too, had a certain repu-
tation for wit and conversational powers. Under
the present circumstances I felt I was about to be
put upon my mettle. No doubt our companions
expected something from the meeting between
Vanneck and myself.
As Harley named me I bowed, and looked at
my opposite neighbor with much curiosity. He
met my glance with a pleasant smile, and said a
few conventional words expressive of his pleasure
at meeting such an intimate friend of Robert
Harley's. Even while he spoke a wonderful
change came over his face.
A gradual, not a sudden change. The eyes
were still fixed on mine, but the smile died away,
to be succeeded by a sickly expression, which
deepened into what, absurd as it seems, I can only
call a look of absolute terror. His very lips grew


234
JULIAN VANNECK.
have been a funeral one. My conscience told
me that Harley was justified in saying almost
pettishly, to his right and left-hand supporters :
“What fellows you two are! I was selfish
enough to put you next me for the sake of your
talk. Now neither of you will say a word.”
I made another effort to do my duty; but it
failed and languished. Vanneck made no sign at
all. Harley grumbled out another complaint.
“ Perhaps they won't show off before each
other,” said the man on my left.
"I don't know what it is,” said Harley ; then
speaking to his brother, who sat at the bottom of
the table, “ James, tell the fellows round you to
speak up so that I may hear them. Vanneck and
Vane are gone dumb.”
“And how much they look alike,” said James,
laughing. “We have all been noticing the
resemblance."
We started, and, of course, looked at each other.
Curiously enough, now that the thing was sug-
gested, I saw we were not unlike. Although no
one would have ventured to put my looks on a
par with those of Vanneck, who was a remark-
ably handsome man, we were not unlike. He was
dark. I was fair-sandy, my detractors said-yet
there was a resemblance. Moreover, our ages
must have been about the same, and there was a
great similarity about our build. All Harley's
guests agreed that a likeness existed.


JULIAN VANNECK.
235
“Do you see it?” said Vanneck, turning to our
host, and speaking, I thought, nervously.
“ Plainly. Give me that likeness on the man-
tle-piece," added Harley, speaking to one of the
servants.
The man brought it to him. It was a photo-
graph which I had given my friend some time
ago. It was inclosed in a morocco case. Harley
opened it and handed it to Vanneck.
“The difference of complexion doesn't show so
much in a photograph,” he said.
Vanneck examined it eagerly, then returned it
to Harley, who passed it to me. After comparing
the representation of myself with the man oppo-
site me, I agreed with the general verdict.
“I wish I had seen that photograph before,”
said Vanneck, like one thinking aloud.
“Why?” asked Harley, with a shade of surprise
in his voice.
Vanneck made no reply, and the matter passed
by.
Dinner was over at last. The wines were
placed on the table, and the servants left the
room. Rare though our host's vintages were,
they had no salutary effect upon those in his im-
mediate neighborhood. Vanneck scarcely spoke.
I grew more and more depressed. Even Harley
caught the infection, which also seemed to be
spreading down the table. It is curious what an
amount of evil can be wrought by two unsociable
men,


236
JULIAN VANNECK.
“I say," exclaimed our host suddenly, “ let us
have the things cleared away and get to whist.
We can keep the wine."
This proposal gave universal satisfaction. The
order was issued. We rose from our chairs, and,
walking about the room, admired the pictures and
bric-à-brac. I was looking at a little sea-piece of
which Harley was justly proud, when I heard a
soft voice say,
“I must apologize if I gave you any offense
during dinner, Mr. Vane."
"I am sure you meant none, Mr. Vanneck," I
said, disarmed by his evidently sincere manner.
“I meant none. Yet I can not explain. You
will accept my apology?"
“If an apology were needed I would; but none
is."
He continued to stand at my side, and said
something in praise of the picture. Then he
asked me if I was of Flemish extraction.
The question would have been absurd save for
the fact that there was a tradition in our family
that many years ago our ancestors came from the
Low Countries. The name Vane, of course, be-
lied it ; but the tradition existed all the same.
Julian Vanneck appeared to wait my answer
with great eagerness.
I told him all I knew about the matter, and
was surprised to see the same ashen look which
I had at first noticed steal over his face. What


JULIAN VANNECK.
237
difference could it make to him if my people came
from Flanders or Timbuctoo? Still it was strange
he should have asked the question.
"I think it must be a mistake,” I continued ;
“Vane is not a Flemish name."
“ Names get mutilated, changed, Anglicized
Van Eck, Vanneck, Vann, Vane.”.
I laughed.
“You are trying to account for the likeness they
talked about?”
He made no reply. I began to wonder whether
he held any property which really belonged to
another branch of his family, of which he feared I
was the representative. But the idea was far-
fetched, and would not account for his agitation
when first our eyes met.
Just then Harley clapped me on the shoulder.
“Come along, you pair of wet blankets,” he
said, “the tables are ready.”
Julian Vanneck told him he could not stop to
play whist. He began to bid the party farewell.
But our friends would listen to no excuse.
They simply said he should not go. Harley,
although he did not raise such vociferous objec-
tions as his merry guests, looked greatly annoyed.
Perhaps Vanneck noticed this. Any way, he
yielded and consented to stay.
There were, as I have said, ten of us-a nice
number for two whist tables. Whist at that time
was—I may as well say it now-a passion of mine,


238
JULIAN VANNECK.
Then I thought I knew something of the game-
a common error with youngish men. The
“call,” the “echo," the “penultimate" were not
at that time the property of every one; so that,
given an intelligent partner with modern views, I
believed I could hold my own against the best I
might meet in general society. I responded
readily enough to Harley's invitation, and hoped
that in the combinations of the noble game I
might get rid of my low spirits.
We started to sort ourselves at the tables, Van-
neck and I choosing different ones.
“Hullo!” cried Harley, “that won't do. You
two clever ones must play in the same rubber.”
I made no objection, but Vanneck seemed to
hesitate.
“Let us draw cards,” he said. “The five high-
est at one table, the lowest at the other.”
We did so. Vanneck and I each drew a two.
We must have played at least a dozen rubbers.
The curious thing was that on every occasion
when we were in together Vanneck and I cut as
partners. Stranger still, we lost every rubber we
played together. Yet there was no question as to
the superiority of our play over that of our
antagonists. Although the stakes were nothing
ruinous, the run of ill-luck cost me quite as much
as I could afford to lose. I was not a gambler,
and began to think of stopping. Besides, our
çards were so wretched that I felt little pleasure


JULIAN VANNECK.
239
in the game, and, moreover, my fit of blue devils
continued unchanged.
“ You two are doomed to bring each other bad
luck,” said one of our antagonists, with all the
gayety of a winner.
“Yes,” said Vanneck, with queer solemnity,
“ we will play no more.”
I echoed his resolution, and the table was broken
up. The other table had suffered from desertions,
and it looked as if the party was coming to an end.
But Harley still seemed determined to pit Van-
neck and myself against each other.
“I should like to have seen you two play on
opposite sides," he said.
“To find out which is the bringer of bad luck ? "
I asked.
Julian Vanneck was sitting in a listless attitude.
He seemed to wake up at my words.
“Will you play double-dummy, Mr. Vanemor,
better still, piquet?”.
I did not like to refuse. “Piquet," I said.
He began sorting out the cards with feverish
rapidity.
“Do we play evenly, Harley ?” he asked.
“I should think as evenly as two men can
play."
“Very well. Let the luck be determined by
piquet. What shall we play for, Mr. Vane? Five,
ten, twenty, a hundred, or more ? ”
I told him that ten pounds was quite enough.


240
JULIAN VANNECK.
“Enough to make you play your best?” he
asked, but not offensively
“Certainly. It is a large stake for me."
“Then to insure your playing your very best I
will lay you thirty pounds to twenty."
In spite of these absurd odds I declined to in-
crease my stake. We cut-the deal' fell to me.
Vanneck's eyes brightened at the first evidence of
luck being against me. Then we settled down to
work.
The game was slow and tedious. Vanneck
played his cards with great care and deliberation,
but it vexed me to see the feverish way in which
he picked up each fresh hand, and the workings
of his face when fortune seemed at all inclined to
lean toward me.
I grew sorry I had accepted his challenge, and
I was much mystified at the anxiety displayed by
a man of such reputed wealth, to win what to him,
although not to me, must have been a paltry
stake.
Our friends stood or sat around us, watching
the play and betting on the players. One of them
offered to bet with me.
Before I could answer, Vanneck laid his hand
upon my arm.
“ Please don't;" he said almost beseechingly.
“Let me entreat you to have no bet with an out-
sider. If you wish the stakes increased I will
accommodate you."


JULIAN VANNECK.
241
But I did not want them raised; the game went
on, without pique or capote, so slowly that I
thought it would never end; but the time did at
last come when the next deal would settle the
matter.
The deal-a disadvantage in itself-was with
Vanneck: but then he was some forty points
ahead of me, and wanted only five or six to win.
He dealt the cards carefully, and as the last two
fell from his hands I caught his eyes, and saw them
full of wild delight and triumph.
Then, suddenly, a strange unaccountable feeling
seized me. For the time it seemed as if every
thing in this world and the next depended upon
my winning this particular game of cards—and,
the score notwithstanding, I felt certain I should
win it.
I sorted my cards. Vanneck watched me with-
out touching his own. I made the discard with
great care, and upon refilling my hand, saw, with
a joy I could not explain, that it would need
something approaching a miracle to stop me from
running clean out. So I laid my hand down and
calmly awaited my antagonist's pleasure.
My face may have announced my impending
vietory. Vanneck's lips tightened. I saw the
perspiration break out on his brow.
Twice he laid his hand on his cards—twice
removed it. The men around us looked at him
curiously. Harley's face showed blank astonish-


242
JULIAN VANNECK.
ment. He knew that no trumpery loss would so
affect his friend.
Then a queer accident occurred. The youngest
of our party-perhaps he had been too severe
upon his host's wines—rose to light his cigar,
stumbled, fell, caught at the table, and pulled it
over, cards and all. Vanneck's hand, my hand,
and the spare cards were jumbled together, face
up, face down, and altogether higgledy-piggledy.
What was to be done? I knew my hand by
heart, but my opponent had not looked at his.
By Harley's suggestion, the game was declared
drawn. I was glad of it. With the game absolutely
in my hands, ready to read off, I could not have
agreed to a fresh deal, although I was willing to
call it a draw.
With this the card-playing came to an end. A
few minutes afterward Vanneck drew near me.
“Would you have won?" he whispered.
“Now the matter is arranged, yes. I had an
eight sequence and a quatorze of aces."
He turned away and sank into a chair. I felt
sure it was not for the money he had set his heart
upon beating me.
Then cigars and pipes were lighted and prepara-
tions made for departing. As we were all standing
together, some of the youngsters, as youngsters
will, began doing feats of strength, picking chairs
up by one leg, and other useful accomplishments.
Some one took up Harley's dumb-bells, for Harley


244
JULIAN VANNECK.
I wrote down the name of his hotel; then,
bidding my friends good-night, went back to my
own quarters.
But not, as a sensible man should have done, to
go at once to bed. I sat for more than an hour
thinking over the events of the evening—my fit
of blue-devils, Vanneck's emotion when I entered
the room, the likeness which had been discovered
between us, his hint that we belonged to the same
family, our evil luck at cards, the unparalleled ex-
citement raised in my mind, and in his, by the last
game, the accident which so nearly brought about
homicide, his nervous fear and sudden flight-all
these gave me plenty of food for thought. No
wonder, when at last I sought my bed, I dreamed
for the rest of the night of Julian Vanneck; no
wonder I awoke in the morning thinking of
him.
I resolved to call upon him as soon as possible.
As I was breakfasting a letter was brought. I
opened it carelessly, and, the writing being strange,
glanced at the signature. It was that of the man
I proposed visiting. The letter ran so :
“I do not attempt to explain the meaning of
last night's events. Suffice it to say that from the
moment I set eyes upon you I knew that we were
destined to work each other ill through life. That
there is a probability of our having sprung from
the same stock strengthens my presentiment.
“ You will call this madness or superstition, but


JULIAN VANNECK.
245
,
ugh, to us. Even vill writ
my madness is sane enough, my superstition
strong enough, to make me wish to put thousands
of miles between us. Even as you read this I am
on my way to America. I will write you occasion-
ally as to my whereabouts, and as a favor beg that
should any thing lead you in my way you will
apprise me, so that I may be able to avoid all
chance of our meeting.”
“The man is as mad as a hatter!” I exclaimed,
as I finished reading this extraordinary letter.
Mad or not, he had really left town. Harley
told me so the same day. Some feeling of delicacy
or compassion restrained me from showing him
Julian Vanneck's letter, but I asked him if his
friend's wits were all they should be.
“He's an awfully clever fellow," said Harley.
“Yes; so he may be. But there is something
queer about him!”
“Hang it, Vane! If you go and shy twenty-
five pounds of iron at a fellow's head he may well
look queer.”
“I don't mean that. Is he more superstitious
than others?”
“As you mention it, he is. Believes in unlucky
days, destiny, fortune-telling, ancestral curses, and
rot of that sort. I used to chaff him about it.
But he's no end of a good fellow, and I hope we
shall soon see him back.”
I asked no more questions. I pitied a man who
could let his superstition put him to so much


246
JULIAN VANNECK.
inconvenience; and after a while I ceased to trouble
about the matter.
I did not forget it. At least every three months
it was brought to my mind by the receipt of a
letter from Vanneck. These communications
came regularly for several years. They came from
New York, Boston, Washington, Chicago, San
Francisco, or wherever he had temporarily pitched
his tent. They were very short, simply stating
the length of time he purposed to stay in each
place. There was no reason why I should feel
any particular interest in Julian Vanneck, but I
did write him once or twice, urging him not to let
such an idiosyncrasy as his to interfere with his
life; or begging him, at least, to give me some
logical reason for his fears. Then, as he did not
reply to my letters, I left the-matter alone. It was
too ridiculous to talk or trouble about !
Some five years after our meeting a great change
for the better took place in my life. I took unto
myself a wife. I was now making a good income
at the bar, so could well afford such a luxury. As
this is not a love tale, I need not dilate upon the
perfections of the girl whose love I was fortunate
enough to win. She was an Anglo-American-
that is, her father and mother were English peo-
ple who had emigrated many years ago, and had
just returned, with ample means, to their native
land. My wooing went on smoothly enough ; but
when our engagement was a reality, and the full-


JULIAN VANNECK.
249
in one of the largest American towns. My qualm
of superstition had long since passed away. I
could only look at the affair from the ridiculous
side. It was no business of mine, but the idea of
a man keeping away from England, perhaps even
from Europe, because he dreaded to meet such a
harmless being as myself, was, to say the least,
comical.
After having for so many years seen his letters
with American stamps in the corner, it was quite
a surprise to receive one with our Queen's head
upon it, and post-marked Liverpool. It told me
the writer had been suddenly called to England.
Nothing, it said, but a matter of life and death
would have brought him here. He knew he had
no claim on my indulgence, but if for the next fort-
night I would go on the Continent, his gratitude
would be unbounded. He knew also that my going
without due preparation must subject me to great
pecuniary loss. Would I accept the inclosed as
compensation? If he had valued my time too
low he would, upon hearing from me to that effect,
fully satisfy me.
The “inclosed” was a check for five hundred
pounds! No wonder I repeated my former ejac-
ulation, “ Mad as a hatter."
Of course, I could not accept his money,
although, had circumstances permitted, I might
have complied with his request; but at that
moment compliance was a sheer impossibility. I


250
JULIAN VANNECK.
was retained in a case so important, that the
deputing of my part to another might have
damaged me immensely. So I returned Julian
Vanneck's check, and, while regretting my
inability to oblige him, once more ventured to
remonstrate with him as to the absurdity of his
behavior. He did not reply to my letter.
I heard from my old friend Harley that he was
in London. Harley had met him by pure chance,
and from his manner fancied that matters had
gone awry with him.
“He isn't a bit the same splendid fellow," he
said ; "he's as moody as an undertaker-won't go
out any where-seems afraid to meet any one.”
“Remember," I said. “I never saw him any
thing but moody."
“No. You only met him that night you tried
to kill him. Perhaps he's afraid you're waiting to
chuck another dumb-bell at his head.”
A few days after this conversation I had occa-
sion to run down to Oxford. I was alone in a
first-class carriage, and was searching my bag for
some papers which I meant to peruse on the
journey. The train had just started when, defiant
of by-laws, a late passenger opened the carriage
door and jumped in. He closed the door behind
him, then turned toward me. It was Julian
Vanneck!
Would he know me? Yes, at the first glance
he recognized mę. A look of sheer terror sprang


JULIAN VANNECK.
251
into his eyes. Without a word he staggered back
against the carriage door. He could not have
secured it properly. To my horror it flew open,
and the man disappeared. The train was not
going at full speed, but too fast for any one to fall
from it with impunity. I grew quite cold as I
rushed to the window and looked out. We had
just cleared Paddington. I saw Vanneck lying
helpless on the network of rails. I saw two or
three men run toward him, lift him, and bear him
away, for all I knew, dead !
· From the first station at which we stopped, I
telegraphed. Although in no way to blame, I felt
very miserable until I received an answer. I was
then much relieved at hearing that the damage
sustained amounted to no more than a broken
leg. So much, I was half inclined to think, the
man deserved for his folly.
Upon my return to town I made inquiries
respecting him. He had been carried to the Great
Western Hotel, and was progressing favorably.
Save for the fractured limb he was uninjured.
Although, after this, I did not venture to make
any more inquiries in person, I heard of him from
time to time through Harley, who, like a good
fellow, often went to keep him company. At
last I learned he was quite cured. Then I received
a letter saying he was about to return to America.
On his arrival he would write and let me know
where he had taken up his abode. After a while


252
JULIAN VANNECK.
his letters came with their usual monotonous
regularity.
In the course of the next year my wife's father
died. At his death he still held considerable
property in America, in the realization of which
troublesome complications threatened to arise. It
was thought necessary for some one to go to the
United States to look after the interests of the
widow and daughter. I was undoubtedly the
most fitting person to do so. The long vacation
was at hand; so I resolved to spend my holiday
in America. Then I thought of Julian Vanneck.
It was, to say the least, curious that circum-
stances should at last compel me to visit the con-
tinent in which he had taken refuge from what
could only be the mal occhio he believed I
exercised over him. I did not trouble much
about the superstitious side of the matter. Dur-
ing the short time I purposed being in the
States it was a most unlikely chance that we
should meet. Nevertheless, after the scores
of letters he had written me, it was an act
of courtesy incumbent upon me to let him know
that I was about to cross the Atlantic. I wrote
to him-gave him, in fact, an outline of my
intended travels, so that if he wished to do so he
might fly to Baffin's Bay or Cape Horn in order to
gratify his whim in keeping out of my way.
Yet, for myself, I should have been glad to have
encountered the man, if only to once more strive


JULIAN VANNECK.
253
to convince him of his folly. I must confess that
after the things which had occurred I felt a certain
amount of interest in Julian Vanneck. Any one
must feel interested in a man who would willingly
fly to the ends of the earth to avoid him!
So, a few days before I sailed, I wrote my letter.
I purposely left it as late as possible because I was
not certain but what American matters might,
after all, arrange themselves without the necessity
of my intervention. I gave this letter, with the
rest of my general correspondence, to my clerk, to
copy and dispatch. I may here say that by
some fatality he directed it to an English town
bearing the same name as Julian Vanneck's last
place of abode. For a week or two it kicked
about in the post office, eventually coming back
through the dead letter office. By the time it
returned to my chambers I was in New York.
My wife did not accompany me. She hated
the sea, and was not very fond of America. Still
she would have come had I wished it, but my
journey was to be such a busy, hurried affair that
I thought she was much better at home taking
care of the children.
My late father-in-law had been a shrewd but a
speculative man. A great portion of his wealth
had been acquired by buying land near to what he
judged would be rapidly-growing towns. In many
instances his judgment had been at fault, but
whenever it was right the immense rise in price


254
JULIAN VANNECK.
more than compensated for many other failures.
His properties—valuable and worthless—were
much scattered about, and it was part of my plan
to visit each one, and, after taking the best local
advice, to decide whether it should be kept, or
sold for what it would fetch in open market. So
it was my travels took me to several towns seldom
visited by the ordinary tourist.
Japhetstown was one of these. Here my father-
in-law had made a very bad investment. Some
score of years ago Japhetstown had sprung into
life, and in a precocious infancy had boasted of
some day doing great things. But it grew to a
certain size, then grew no more ; began, rather, to
dwindle. The particular branch of industry which
had called it into life did not ramify and increase,
as it should have done. Japhetstown had been
given its chance, and had failed. I quickly
decided that the land about here should be turned
into cash as soon as possible.
The person to whom I had been recommended
to apply for information respecting this locality
was a farmer. I spent the best part of one day
with him, going over the ground and getting a
general idea of the place. He was a clever, hard-
headed, and, I believe, honest old fellow. He
was hospitable, and insisted that I should partake
of his good cheer before we parted. His farm
was close by—not more than three miles from the
town. I accepted his hearty invitation, and early
evening found me in his house.


JULIAN VANNECK.
255
Strange, ked by low or annoy,
Strange! The moment I crossed the threshold
I was attacked by low spirits. Yet I had nothing
whatever to trouble or annoy me. I was in
splendid health. True, I was almost famishing,
but my hunger was a healthy hunger. This sud-
den invasion of blue fiends called to my mind
my state when first I met Julian Vanneck.
The farmer opened the door of a sitting-room.
He asked me to step in; he would join me in a
minute. Through the open door I saw reflected
in a mirror which hung on one wall the figure of
a man who was apparently deeply engaged in the
perusal of a book. I started back. In spite of
the precautions I had taken, Julian Vanneck and
I were under the same roof.
My first impulse was to leave the place unseen;
but reflection told me that such a course would
be simply childish. Now that chance had brought
us together, let me seize the opportunity of set-
ting the man's mind at ease. And another
thought struck me. There was no reason why
he should recognize me. I now differed much in
appearance from the man he had seen on two
previous occasions. I was roughly clad, and
tanned by the sun and wind. Last year, having
suffered from a weakness of the throat, my doctor
had advised me to grow a beard. I had done so,
although, greatly to my disgust, it had appeared
streaked with gray, and so made me look old
enough to grace the bench, if fortune would but


256
JULIAN VANNECK.
place me there. What an admirable ending to
all Vanneck's absurd fears if he spent a few hours
in my company without recognizing me! I
closed the door, and turned to my host.
“A gentleman is in there," I said.
“He's boarding a bit with me. Writin' a book
on American scen'ry, and doing his own pictures,
After all, 'twould take a lot to beat the scen'ry
round Japhetstown.”
This was true; the country about here was
unusually picturesque.
.“Kindly call me by some other name," I said.
“Mr. Jones will do. I don't want the object of
my errand here known to every one."
The farmer gave me a knowing smile. Open-
ing the door once more, he accompanied me into
the room, and told the man inside I was Mr.
Jones, from England. Vanneck laid down his
book, and bowed with great politeness.
I was delighted to find he showed no signs of
recognition. He looked very well, and remark-
ably handsome. There was something of the
artist in his general appearance. I disguised my
voice as well as I could, and we carried on an easy
conversation. All seemed to promise well for the
success of my plot.
An ample meal was soon spread upon the table.
I did full justice to it. Vanneck, although he ate
nothing, still kept up the talk. He asked me
questions about England. He spoke of painting,


JULIAN VANNECK.
257
music, politics, literature. He was, certainly, a
well-read man, and I quite looked forward to the
morrow, when I meant him to know that he had
unwittingly met and conversed with me. My low
spirits in a great measure vanished. I dare say
the success of my stratagem dispelled them.
When dinner, supper, or whatever the meal may
be called, was over, Vanneck, with a courteous
bow to me, left the room.
For some time longer I sat talking to the farmer
on matters of business; then I begged that my
horse might be saddled. It was night, but the
moon made every thing as light as day; so I
firmly declined the offer of an escort to the town.
I felt sure I could find my own way. I lingered a
little while in the hope that Julian Vanneck would
again show himself. He did not do so, and, at
last, bidding my host a hearty adieu, I struck off
in the direction of Japhetstown.
Then happened to me what often happens to
persons who are convinced of their own powers of
remembering a road once trodden. I did not
exactly lose my way, but for awhile I stood
uncertain at a fork in the track, wondering
whether I should go to the right or to the left
I settled the matter by tossing up a dollar. After
all, it mattered but little. I could not be very far
from the town, and if I did go a mile or two out
of my way, need only retrace my steps and take
the other path. So on I went, as the coin told
me to go.


258
JULIAN VANNECK.
But, before I had ridden very far, I knew I was
astray. I was just thinking of trying back when,
on a small plot of land to my right, I saw by the
strong light of the moon a man on horseback-
horse and rider standing motionless as a bronze
equestrian group.
I had no reason for thinking Japhetstown any
thing but a peaceable, God-fearing place, but I
must own the sight somewhat startled me. It
looked unpleasantly like a highwayman waiting
my arrival. However, a man must be considered
innocent until he is proved guilty, and the worst
mistake I could make was to show fear. More-
over, I wanted to make certain that I had strayed
from my right road.
So I trotted on, and reined up close to the
motionless figure. I confess it gave me a shock
to find that the horseman was Julian Vanneck.
His brows were knitted. His face, as I saw in
the white moonshine, was pale and stern. There
was a strange air of solemnity about him. He
looked at me, and that look gave me such a sen-
sation that I wished I could summon up enough
cowardice to turn and ride away. As it was I
accosted him cordially:
“You here, Mr. Vanneck! You can tell me if
I am on the right road.”
“You have broken your promise,” he said, in
bitter accents, and which at once dispelled my
belief that I had escaped recognition.


JULIAN VANNEĆK. , 259
I thought it better to accept the situation with-
out any further attempt at deception.
“What promise ? " I asked.
“To let me know if ever you visited this coun-
try. Heaven knows I have done my share in
keeping away from you!”.
“Did I promise ? I think not. Any way, I
wrote you, naming every place I intended visiting.
I could do no more.”
He seemed to shudder. “Fate!" I heard him
whisper. “Fate!” Then he turned to me
fiercely-
“Why did you enter that house while I was
there?”
“It was pure accident. I did not wish to annoy
you. May I not in my turn ask why you wait for
me here?”
“I came here thinking to avoid all chance of
meeting. I did not know whither you were going
-east, west, north,, or south, but nothing I
thought could bring you this way, and yet you
come.”
“I did not think you recognized me,” I said.
“Recognized you! I felt your presence before
I saw you.”
- “Look here, Mr. Vanneck," I said, with busi-
ness-like sharpness, “now that we have met can
you not talk like a rational being--at least give
me your reasons for your strange avoidance of me,
and explain why— "


JULIAN VANNECK.
261
I saw the futility of arguing with him. His
disease was incurable.
“Well, Mr. Vanneck," I said, “I am sorry for
your own sake you hold such strange ideas. I
regret that I intruded upon you. Now, I think,
we had better separate.”
“Yes,” he said, “it is time that we separated.”
I was just about to wheel my horse round.
Something indefinable in Vanneck's accent made
me glance at him. I was just in time. Even as
the last word left his lips I saw something gleam
in the moonshine, and knew that my strange com-
panion was covering me with a revolver. With-
out any clear idea of what was best to do, I drove
my spurs into my horse's sides and pulled wildly
at the rein. The brute reared on high. Vanneck
fired at that moment, and I felt sure that his
bullet passed close to my horse's neck. In another
second I had thrown myself from my saddle.
The madman was preparing for another shot.
In wild desperation I rushed straight at him. My
sudden charge may have disconcerted him. I saw
the flash-heard the report; yet I lived, and my
arms were round his waist. I put every pound of
my strength into that clutch. I tore him from the
saddle and threw him heavily on the ground; then
-perhaps the best thing I could have done-I
fell on top of him.
We were both strong men in the prime of life,
but my hand was on his throat, my knee on his


262
JULIAN VANNECK.
pistol arm, so he was comparatively at my mercy.
Yet I had no wish to kill the man outright. Even
with my own life at stake, I did not consider him
accountable for his actions. Trivial things intrude
themselves on moments the most supreme, and my
old phrase, “Mad as a hatter,” came to my lips;
so I set to work to choke Vanneck into subjection
or insensibility.
He made fierce efforts to free his right hand,
but my knee was just on the elbow joint, and
crushing it into the earth. I felt certain I could,
if needful, hold him for an hour like this. No
doubt the sense of strangulation which I was
effectually bringing about made the fingers of his
right hand convulsively pull the trigger of the
pistol and discharge another chamber.
The shot harmed me as little as the preceding
ones; but I heard a wild whinny of pain. Sud-
denly a dark body seemed to hover for half a
second over us. Something struck me on the
shoulder and hurled me to a considerable distance;
but even as I was torn from my antagonist I
heard a horrible, sickening sound--a crunch-a
crash of bone. I heard one deep groan, and then
-silence.
I staggered to my feet. My arm hung helpless
at my side; the breath was completely beaten out
of my body. A renewal of the struggle would
on my part have been a sheer impossibility.
*
*
*
*
* *


JULIAN VANNECK.
263
There was no need to renew it. Julian Vanneck
lay on the ground still and dead, his skull shat-
tered to pieces by the hoof of the wounded brute
which had leaped so wildly over our struggling
forms!
Was it chance? Was it fulfillment?


THE “BICHWA.”
(A CLERGYMAN'S TALE).
CHAPTER I.
ALTHOUGH this tale is little more than the
A barest statement of facts, believe me I hesi-
tated long before I could make up my mind
to give it to the public. Writers of pure fiction
are often blamed if a distinct and beneficial pur-
pose does not underlie their imaginative efforts,
so that to one of my own calling the conscious-
ness that he has written any thing which can do
the reader no good, and which by no ingenuity
can be twisted to a moral aim, should be, at least,
a subject of self-reproach. Indeed, I feel that the
only excuse I can make to myself for yielding to
the temptation of playing a narrator's part, is that
human nature compels a man to wish to retail to
his fellows any strange and out-of-the-common
events which he may have witnessed.
Nevertheless, I doubt if this excuse would have
removed my scruples had I not felt sure that nine


THE “ BICHWA."
265
readers out of every ten would, by the theory of
coincidence, excited sentiment, overwrought
imagination, innate superstition, or what not, be
able to explain and account for occurrences
which, I am almost ashamed to own, have ever
been to me more than mysterious.
If the exigencies of my story permitted, I would
willingly conceal my identity. Not from the dread
of ridicule ; not that I am ashamed to confess that
I am a clerk in holy orders; but from the fear
that I may be supposed to expect more credence
for a clergyman's word than for that of another
man. However, I who tell this tale am William
Denys, now and for many years rector of Bart-
field, in the county of Dorsetshire.
In the year 1860 I was a young curate with
somewhat unsettled views. My High Church
friends called me Evangelical; my Evangelical
friends called me Ritualistic. Which I eventually
became is a matter only concerning myself, my
parishioners, and my bishop.
But besides my views, my future in 1860 was
also unsettled. I had been for some months out
of employment. Perhaps, if the truth be told, I
was, having a small income of my own, rather fas-
tidious as to what curacy I accepted ; and, more-
over, a few months' holiday was by no means a
time of weariness to me. I had many friends,
and utilized my leisure by paying a series of pleas-
ant and long-promised visits.


270
THE “BICHWA.”
weapons. “Hold this in your hand,” he said,
giving me a long, bright dagger. “ Don't you feel
that you would like to stick it into some one.”
“ I am thankful to say I do not."
“ Any way, I can quite imagine that the first
thought of a savage who had acquired such a
treasure as this must be to use it. I quite sympa.
thize with the old warriors in their affection for
their pet swords. There may have been some
hidden virtue in those old dwarf-forged brands of
the vikings which drove the owners baresark.”
“ You are jesting, of course."
“No, I am not. The old metal workers had
secrets of their own. They may have known how
to make blades the very sight of which threw a
man into a fighting rage. Hence the peace-strings
which in quiet times bound the blade to the scab-
bard.”
Collectors are generally enthusiastic and full of
theories respecting their acquisitions, so I con-
tented myself by expressing a simple difference of
opinion. Mr. Hood looked at me thoughtfully.
“I should like to try a little experiment,” he
said : “I wonder if I am much stronger than you.”
“You can try if you like," I said, laughing. I
was rather proud of my strength. He came to
my left side, passed his right arm under my arm-
pit, and grasped my right forearm. He then
placed his left hand on my left arm. “ Can you
move ?” he said, suddenly tightening his. grip,


272
THE "BICHWA."
“I showed you one or two others of the same
shape. This one is nearly a thousand years old.”
I looked at the little weapon with more rever-
ence, and turning it in my hand asked the mean-
ing of the inscription on the handle. Seven of
the facets were inscribed, the eighth was blank.
“They are men's names,” said my host, “men
of eminence. I have taken immense pains to
identify them. This one, the first inscribed,
carries us back to the time of the house of
Ghizni, which first established the Mahommedan
rule in India. This one, the last, is compara-
tively of to-day. It is the name of a high placed
English official, whose cruelty and extortions
made his name hateful through the province he
ruled.”
“ There is a wide space between the two."
“Yes; but the Brahmins lived before Mahmud,
and they live now. This dagger was one of their
sacred treasures. No matter how it came into my
possession. There it is, and now you shall
examine it more fully.”
He took a small chisel and pried open one of
the links of the chain which went round the
handle of the historical weapon. He handed it
to me, and to my surprise placed himself in the
same position as when we tested our respective
strength; the only difference being that his
fingers rested softly on my arms instead of grasp-
ing them.


274
THE “BICHWA."
took possession of me. It was more than an
impulse—it was an overpowering necessity. My
fingers grasped the handle of the dagger con-
vulsively, and I felt that something absolutely
compelled me to bury that flame-shaped blade in
my heart. I felt no wish to destroy myself, but
on the other hand I felt no fear of death or horror
at the crime of self-destruction. It simply seemed
an unavoidable act. I was not a free agent. The
dagger seemed turning slowly toward my breast,
and something told me that when it pointed there
fully I should be bound to strike. At that criti-
cal moment I felt Hood's iron grip upon my
arms.
From the instant I first became engrossed in
the examination of the Bichwa till now I had
entirely forgotten that I was not alone. In fact,
I believe I had forgotten where I was. But
Hood's grasp, which brought back the knowledge
that he was with me, did not banish the jugglery,
or whatever it was. It simply changed the work-
ing of the spell. The feeling that the dagger
must be used was as paramount as before, but now
it must be used on another. I made a frantic
effort to free my hands. I felt my companion's
bony fingers slide down my arm and grasp my
wrist with such immense force that my fingers
were compelled to unclose, and let the dagger fall
from them. As it left my hand the homicidal
mania-I can call it by no other name-passed


276
THE “BICHWA.”
rible to me. I felt I had been the victim to some
trick, but in what the trickery lay I could not deter-
mine. Any way, I no longer experienced any pleas-
ure in my host's society; so, as soon as I could,
bade him a cold adieu.
I never saw him again. Some time afterward
I made inquiries about him, and learned that he
had left his house near Liverpool and had gone
no one knew where.
CHAPTER II.
I MUST now pass over twenty years, and begin
what may be called my story. Although the
curious episode connected with Mr. Hood and his
collection of arms made at the time a great, even
painful, impression upon me, this at last wore off,
and as years passed, if I thought at all about the
matter, I was quite able to satisfy myself that
some strange mental freak would amply account
for the sanguinary feelings which had taken pos-
session of me. Nevertheless, the incident was
not one to be entirely forgotten, and I am sure
that, although so many years have elapsed, my
description of what occurred is strictly accurate.
In 1880 my health began to give way. Not only
had I for many years borne the strain of admin-
istering to the wants of a large and poor parish,
but a terrible bereavement had rendered me all


THE “BICHWA."
277
but incapable of fulfilling my duties. I was no
longer a young man, full of hope, work, and
energy, but a heartbroken and childless widower.
So prostrated I felt, that I am ashamed to say I
contemplated resigning my living. My kind
friends and parishioners would not hear of this.
With a generosity and delicacy too seldom exer-
cised, they subscribed enough money to pay a
clergyman to take my place for a twelvemonth;
then bade me try what rest and change of scene
would do toward restoring me to health and peace
of mind.
I went abroad for a while; then I returned and
wandered about England. At times I spent a few
days with old friends, at times I went where
chance or inclination led me, staying at one place
or another until I grew tired and willing to turn
elsewhere.
My wanderings at last led me to the delightful
gray old town of Winchester. One morning,
thinking I should like to explore the neighbor-
hood, I hired a horse and started off. I rode sev-
eral miles out of the town, and while I was jog-
ging along, deep in saddened thought, my horse
shied and threw me. A thousand stars flashed
before my eyes, and then all was darkness.
When consciousness returned, I seemed to be in
a dream. I knew I was lying on some kind of an
improvised ambulance, and that men were carry-
ing me.


278
THE “BICHWA."
“Bring him to my house-it is the nearest," I
heard some one say. Then I became once more
unconscious.
I awoke, and found myself in a bedroom, and
surrounded by every comfort, including a surgeon,
who was sponging my head and making prepara-
tions for sewing up the nasty cut which had been
the result of my own negligence or my horse's
vice. The operation having been skillfully per-
formed, I soon felt well enough to inquire for and
thank the good Samaritan who had picked me up,
a wounded stranger, on the roadside.
Fortunately, the damage I have described was
all I sustained. After a couple of days' rest I
was well enough to leave my room. I should, of
course, at once have relieved my charitable host
of my presence, but he so courteously insisted
upon my remaining that I could not refuse.
He was a man of about five-and-thirty, tall,
thin, and of quiet, gentlemanly demeanor. He
paid me every attention, and during the time
while I was confined to my room frequently sat
with me and talked on various topics. The con-
sequence was that when I was able to rise from my
bed and proclaim my convalescence, we were all
but friends, and he begged me to remain as his
guest for so long as I found it convenient.
His name was Fraser — Maurice Fraser. I
gathered that he was a man of some property.
He was married, but his wife was away at present


THE “BICHWA."
279
on a visit. He expected her back in the course
of a few days, and said he looked forward to the
pleasure of making his new friend, myself, known
to her.
The house was a small, unostentatious country
house, with a fine garden and shrubbery. It was
situated in one of the most charming parts of
Hampshire, and its owner and occupier should
have been a happy, contented man.
The more I saw of my host the more I liked
him. He was well read and intelligent. His
tastes were studious and literary. He was for the
time alone in his house—like myself, he had no
children – so when I found his kind invitation
was really meant, I took him at his word and staid
on.
Early in the next week Mrs. Fraser returned.
I had grown rather curious to see her—the more
so as I had a kind of fancy that Mr. and Mrs.
Fraser were not a very attached couple. To my
rather old-fashioned notions it seemed strange
that a wife should leave her husband alone while
she paid protracted visits. But people tell me
that such separations between husband and wife
are nowadays by no means uncommon. If so, so
much the worse for domestic happiness.
Mrs. Fraser came back, and so far as I could
see, the greeting between the two was affection-
ate, if undemonstrative. I was presented, and
found the husband's welcome to me indorsed


THE “BICHWA.”
281
Nevertheless he did not use his library much. I
soon found it was his custom to take the book
upon which he was engaged to a seat in a se-
cluded part of the shrubbery, which, however,
commanded a fine view. Here, weather permit-
ing, he sat for hours. As soon as I discovered
this habit of his, in spite of polite protests, I left
him to himself, and amused myself as best I could.
I dare say I was as fond of solitude as my host,
so the arrangement worked very well.
Of Mrs. Fraser I saw little, except at meal
times and in the evening. Somehow she seemed
too young a companion for me—too young I
sometimes thought for her quiet and studious
husband.
The expected guest, Mr. Brandon, arrived in
due course. A tall, well-dressed, and I suppose I
must say, handsome man. Curiously enough,
before he had been in the house five minutes I
received the impression that my presence there
was by no means welcome to him. I had no
reason for this fancy, but I could not divest my-
self of it.
Although Maurice Fraser and his new guest
appeared to be on terms of easy intimacy, it was
- not a hard matter to see that Brandon was Mrs.
Fraser's friend far more than he was her hus-
band's. I can not stop now to write of trivial
details, or tell how my suspicions that Brandon
was wronging Fraser as cruelly as ever one man


282
THE “ BICHWA."
wronged another were first aroused. Suffice it to
say, that before three days had gone by, I had
damning evidence that friendship did not describe
the relationship between Gabrielle Fraser and the
man who, by her invitation, was beneath her hus-
band's roof. It was to me a painful discovery.
This was how I made it.
One morning I was sitting in the conservatory,
one door of which opened into the drawing-room.
I think I was half asleep, or, at any rate, far
away in thought. Suddenly I heard voices in the
drawing-room-heard them plainly, for the glass-
door was half opened. I heard Brandon say, in
deep, stern accents, “Gabrielle, the time has come
to end all this."
There was a pause and a sigh. “What can I
do ? " said the woman softly.
“Do! Fly with me at once. Leave the book-
worm to his musty books. He will forget you in
a week.”
"I can not! I can not! I will not! Think
what it means—think of my future."
“I thought you loved me," said the man slowly
and distinctly.
“Love you! Ah, Heavens-you know I love
you !”
I heard the sound of a kiss. I heard whispered
words of passion. Then I rose from my seat, and
with a heart aching for the man whom I now
called my friend, passed quietly out of the door


THE “BICHWA."
283
into the garden, and strove to decide how I was
called upon to act—what was the right and the
best thing to do.
Ought I to go to Fraser and tell him all I had
learned? I was the man's guest. I had eaten
his bread and salt. I could not shut my eyes to
what was passing beneath his roof. Nevertheless,
by communicating what I had unwittingly heard
to him, I should create a breach which might
never be closed. I might force a woman to take
that desperate step from which I could not help
hoping and thinking she recoiled. Still, I was
bound to do something. I could not help, for
once in my life, wishing that I had more worldly
wisdom by which to shape my course. I wanted
to act in a way which would save my friend from
the grief which overhung him, and save his wife
from the sin she was about to commit, and the
attendant shame and remorse. I did not, could
not believe she had gone too far to be saved.
So I resolved, rightly or wrongly, that before
making Fraser acquainted with the treachery, I
would appeal to his wife, and I would let Brandon
know that his guilty secret was mine. But the
price of my keeping the secret must be the man's
leaving the house at once. My task was a painful
one, but I dared not shrink from it. It should be
done at once.
However, I could not begin it until late that
night. Fraser joined me shortly after I had


THE “BICHWA."
285
"I will go before the end of the week. If that
does not suit you, go and tell that fool Fraser all.
I don't care much which way it is.”
I left him. After all, his going was not the
greatest point. My hope was that the appeal
which I intended to make to-morrow to the erring
woman would be successful. Her I meant to
exhort and entreat, not threaten. That night
before I went to rest I prayed long and earnestly
that my efforts might be successful.
The morning was a glorious one, but my sad
thoughts made the sunshine seem incongruous.
I took a stroll round the garden before breakfast,
and to my surprise, encountered Brandon. He
was generally the last down. He looked white
and ill, and I was not sorry to think that his night
had been a troubled one. He gave me a curt nod,
and entered the house. Through the dining.
room window I saw him go to the spirit case
which stood on the side-board, pour out a glass of
neat brandy, and drink it. I waited in the gar-
den a few minutes, fearing that Mrs. Fraser was
somewhere about and had taken this opportunity
of meeting the man who was working her ruin.
But no, she came down stairs with her husband,
and it was evident this was her first appearance.
The breakfast was a dull affair, although Mrs.
Fraser's manner toward me showed me that as yet
Brandon had found no opportunity for letting her
know that I had discovered the intrigue. Perhaps


286
THE “BICHWA."
he had risen early in hopes of doing so. Gabrielle
looked very fair and beautiful in her spotless
white morning gown. Poor girl ! she was but a
girl, and my heart was sad for her as I looked at
her and thought how she was hovering on the
brink of a precipice.
Breakfast over, we three men went outside the
house and sat on the garden-seat. Brandon
lighted one of his large cigars. As he did so, I
noticed that the hand holding the match trembled
like that of a man with the palsy. Maurice Fraser
and I kept up a desultory conversation, but
Brandon smoked in gloomy silence. Fraser
rallied him on his unsociable behavior, Ah, he
little knew to what cause it was due !
I kept a sharp look-out for the chance of seeing
Mrs. Fraser alone. Presently I saw her in the
conservatory, cutting withered blooms from the
plants. I rose from my seat, entered the con-
servatory, and to insure against interruption took
the liberty of locking the garden door. Gabrielle
greeted me with a pleasant smile. “Have you
come to help me, Mr. Denys ?" she said.
“Yes," I said, taking her hand, “ in God's mercy
I have come to help you.”
My solemn accents told her every thing. A
flood of crimson rushed to her face and neck. She
strove to speak. I checked her and led her into
the drawing-room. From the window I could see
her husband sitting by his false friend, and I could


288
THE “ BICHWA."
and if you can ask his pardon, ask it. Believe
me, there is no time like the present.”
I pleaded earnestly. She hesitated, and hung
her head. Then she turned away and went to-
ward the door. “Yes, I will go at once," she
said. I opened the door and saw her go up stairs,
no doubt to her room, to remove traces of dis-
tress.
Then with a lighter heart I went into the gar-
den and sat down by the side of Brandon. I was
determined he should not interfere and wreck
every thing. He took little or no notice of me.
His face, I remarked, was very pale, and his eyes
were fixed on Maurice's vanishing figure. Long
after it had disappeared in the shrubs, Brandon
gazed in that one direction. Presently he started
to his feet. Gabrielle was crossing the lawn and
making for the entrance to the shrubbery.
“Where is she going?" she asked hastily.
I could not resist the triumph of right over
wrong, “She is going," I said, “ to her husband,
to endeavor to undo such mischief as you have
wrought. May heaven go with her!".
He paid no heed to my words. “Mrs. Fraser,
Gabrielle,” he cried, “stop! I want to speak to
you."
She turned for a moment at the sound of his
voice. Then shaking her head, went on toward
the shrubbery, and vanished from our sight. With
a fierce oath Brandon ran across the lawn after her.


290
THE “BICHWA."
he seemed to be examining something attentively.
I could see Gabrielle walking slowly toward him,
and I rejoiced at the sight.
I saw her reach him, lay her hand softly on his
shoulder. I saw Maurice turn round suddenly as
he felt her touch. I saw him raise his hand. I
saw something glitter in the sunshine. I saw his
hand fall, and in a moment, with a shriek of pain,
Gabrielle Fraser fell a dead heap at her husband's
feet.
I heard another cry, and knew that Brandon
was behind me, and had seen all. I rushed for-
ward. My first glance was given at the fallen
woman. Her life blood was streaming down her
white dress. Even as she fell she must have
plucked the weapon from the wound. It lay by
her side, and in spite of the horror of that moment
I knew it. I knew the flame-shaped tapering
blade. I knew the dull green jade handle with
the inscribed facets. It was the accursed Bichwa
—the dagger which twenty years ago I had
handled with such strange results.
I was beside myself with grief and horror.
Impulsively, I seized the fatal weapon, and hurled
it far away into the wood. Then I kneeled down
by the poor girl, and tried to staunch the flow of
blood.
It was no use. Her eyes were closing fast. I
rose to my feet, and after glancing at Frazer, who
stood like a statue or a man stupefied, I rushed to


THE “BICHWA.”
291
the house and gave the alarm. When I returned
to the fatal spot I found the murderer standing
just as I left him, but Brandon, regardless of his
presence, was on his knees and embracing and
kissing the poor dead creature. I tore him off :
my brain was in too great a whirl to work out the
problem, but I knew that in some way he was
answerable for the horrible deed.
And all the while Maurice Fraser stood as mo.
tionless as his victim. Ever and anon I heard
him mutter like a man in a dream, “What have
I done? Why did I do it?” He followed me
passively to the house, where he went off into a
dead faint.
As for Brandon, I never saw him after I tore
him from Gabrielle's body. He went straight
away, heaven only knows where. He was sought
for, but never traced. His absence gave rise to
strange reports, and was freely commented upon.
I can not bring myself to describe the inquest,
and the arrest and trial of Maurice Fraser. The
whole case was, so far as the public was concerned,
wrapped in impenetrable mystery. But the broad
fact that Maurice Fraser had killed his wife was
clear as daylight. Wrong as it may have been to
do so, I held my tongue about many things. Had
I, for instance, spoken of Brandon's guilty passion
for Gabrielle, a motive for the murder might have
been established which would have ruined the
plea of insanity set up on behalf of the accused.


292
THE “BICHWA."
I justified my silence by the conviction I felt that
Fraser knew nothing of what I had learned, and so
had really no motive for the crime.
If ever a true plea of insanity was urged it was
in this case. The poor fellow seemed to have
sunk into a merciful oblivion as to what had taken
place. He was acquitted, but ordered to be con-
fined during her Majesty's pleasure.
The dagger was sought for, but never found. I
was severely censured for my thoughtless conduct
in hurling it away. Indeed, in summing up, the
judge said the case was one of the most unsatis-
factory he had ever known.
Unsatisfactory indeed-wrapped in utter mys-
tery to all save me. And yet, had I stood up in
court and stated all that I knew, the mystery
would have been greater, or I should have been
jeered at as a madman.
Can I at the end of this story give any elucida-
tion? As to the central mystery—the occult dia-
bolical power proved to me beyond doubt as pos-
sessed by that old world weapon-none. As to
the way in which human hands directed this
power, I have the following scraps of evidence.
Upon making inquiries as to whom Brandon
was, I found him to be a man of fortune, who had
inherited his wealth from a distant relative named
Hood.
Poor Fraser died some months ago. I was
with him at the end. Just as life was quitting,


THE “BICHWA."
293
reason returned. He grasped my hand, and,
speaking a hoarse, strange whisper, said, “Who
put that devil's dagger on the seat for me to find ?
Was it Brandon ?" Before I could answer him
he was dead.
But I answer him here. I say that the man to
whom that dagger passed knew its powers. I say
that on the morning after I had threatened him
with exposure, he laid it where Fraser would see
it and handle it. I say, moreover, that my well.
meant efforts to save her from sin and shame sent
Gabrielle Fraser to receive the blow which, fallen
a minute before, would have made her a widow
and free for her lover to wed.
And I say that the guilt of her death and of her
husband's madness and miserable end lies on
Ralph Brandon, and will one day be requited to
him.
There is my tale. A tale which I have been
tempted to tell, but which, I fear, I shall hereafter
regret having told.





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