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THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM 
 
THE 
 
 PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 EUDOLPH LINDAU 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCCLXXXIII 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM : A TALE 
 
 FROM GERMANY, . . . .. 1 
 GORDON BALDWIN, . . . . - . 53 
 WEARINESS I A TALE FROM FRANCE, , 201 
 THE SEER I A TALE, . . . .237 
 " FRED I " A TALE FROM JAPAN, . . 309 
 
 490 
 
THE PHILOSOPHEE'S PENDULUM: 
 
 A TALE FROM GERMANY. 
 
 I. 
 
 DURING many long years Hermann Fabricius 
 had lost sight of his friend Henry Warren, and 
 had forgotten him. 
 
 Yet when students together they had loved 
 each other dearly, and more than once they had 
 sworn eternal friendship. This was at a period 
 which, though not very remote, we seem to have 
 left far behind us a time when young men 
 still believed in eternal friendship, and could 
 feel enthusiasm for great deeds or great ideas. 
 Youth in the present day is, or thinks itself, 
 more rational. Hermann and Warren in those 
 days were simple-minded and ingenuous; and 
 not only in the moment of elation, when they 
 
 A 
 
2 THE PHILOSOPHER S PENDULUM. 
 
 had sworn to be friends for ever, but even the 
 next day, and the day after that, in sober 
 earnestness, they had vowed that nothing should 
 separate them, and that they would remain 
 united through life. The delusion had not 
 lasted long. The pitiless machinery of life had 
 caught up the young men as soon as they left 
 the university, and had thrown one to the right, 
 the other to the left. For a few months they 
 had exchanged long and frequent letters ; then 
 they had met once, and finally they had parted, 
 each going his way. Their letters had become 
 more scarce, more brief, and at last had ceased 
 altogether. 
 
 It would really seem that the fact of hav- 
 ing interests in common is the one thing suf- 
 ficiently powerful to prolong and keep up the 
 life of epistolary relations. A man may feel 
 great affection for an absent friend, and yet 
 not find time to write him ten lines, while he 
 will willingly expend daily many hours on a 
 stranger from whom he expects something. 
 None the less he may be a true and honest 
 friend. Man is naturally selfish ; the instinct 
 of self-preservation requires it of him. Provided 
 he be not wicked, and that he show himself 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 3 
 
 ready to serve his neighbour after himself- 
 no one has a right to complain, or to accuse him 
 of hard-heartedness. 
 
 At the time this story begins, Hermann had 
 even forgotten whether he had written to 
 Warren last, or whether he had left his friend's 
 last letter unanswered. In a word, the corre- 
 spondence which began so enthusiastically had 
 entirely ceased. Hermann inhabited a large 
 town, and had acquired some reputation as a 
 writer. From time to time, in the course of 
 his walks, he would meet a young student with 
 brown hair, and mild, honest-looking blue eyes, 
 whose countenance, with its frank and youthful 
 smile, inspired confidence and invited the sym- 
 pathy of the passer-by. Whenever Hermann 
 met this young man he would say to himself, 
 " How like Henry at twenty 1 " and for a few 
 minutes memory would travel back to the 
 already distant days of youth, and he would 
 long to see his . dear old Warren again. More 
 than once, on the spur of the moment, he had 
 resolved to try and find out what had become 
 of his old university comrade. But these good 
 intentions were never followed up. On reach- 
 ing home he would find his table covered with 
 
4 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 books and pamphlets to be reviewed, and letters 
 from publishers or newspaper editors asking for 
 " copy " to say nothing of invitations to dinner, 
 which must be accepted or refused ; in a word, 
 he found so much urgent business to despatch, 
 that the evening would go by, and weariness 
 would overtake him, before he could make time 
 for inquiring about his old friend. 
 
 In the course of years, the life of most men 
 becomes so regulated that no time is left for 
 anything beyond "necessary work." And, in- 
 deed, the man who lives only for his own pleas- 
 ure doing, so to speak, nothing is rarely 
 better off in this respect than the writer, the 
 banker, and the savant, who are overburdened 
 with work. 
 
 One afternoon, as Hermann, according to his 
 custom, was returning home about five o'clock, 
 his porter handed him a letter bearing the 
 American post-mark. He examined it closely 
 before opening it. The large and rather stiff 
 handwriting on the address seemed familiar, 
 and yet he could not say to whom it belonged. 
 Suddenly his countenance brightened, and he 
 exclaimed, " A letter from Henry ! " He tore 
 open the envelope, and read as follows : 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 5 
 
 " MY DEAR HERMANN, It is fortunate that 
 one of us at least has attained celebrity. I 
 saw your name on the outside of a book of 
 which you are the author. I wrote at once to 
 the publisher ; that obliging man answered me 
 by return of post, and, thanks to these circum- 
 stances, I am enabled to tell you that I will 
 land at Hamburg towards the end of Sep- 
 tember. Write to me there, Poste Restante, 
 and let me know if you are willing to receive 
 me for a few days. I can take Leipzig on 
 my way home, and would do so most will- 
 ingly if you say that you would see me again 
 with pleasure. Your old friend, 
 
 HENRY WARREN." 
 
 Below the signature there was a postscript of 
 a single line : "This is my present face." And 
 from an inner envelope Hermann drew a small 
 photograph, which he carried to the window to 
 examine leisurely. As he looked, a painful im- 
 pression of sadness came over him. The por- 
 trait was that of an old man. Long grey hair 
 fell in disorder over a careworn brow ; the eyes, 
 deep sunk in their sockets, had a strange and 
 disquieting look of fixity ; and the mouth, sur- 
 
6 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 rounded by deep furrows, seemed to tell its own 
 long tale of sorrow. 
 
 " Poor Henry 1 " said Hermann ; " this, then, 
 is your present face ! And yet he is not old ; 
 he is younger than I am ; he can scarcely be 
 thirty -eight. Can I, too, be already an old 
 man ? " 
 
 He walked up to the glass, and looked atten- 
 tively at the reflection of his own face. No ! 
 those were not the features of a man whose 
 life was near its close; the eye was bright, 
 and the complexion indicated vigour and health. 
 Still, it was not a young face. Thought and 
 care had traced their lines round the mouth 
 and about the temples, and the general ex- 
 pression was one of melancholy, not to say 
 despondency. 
 
 "Well, well, we have grown old," said Her- 
 mann, with a sigh. " I had not thought about 
 it this long while; and now this photograph 
 has reminded me of it painfully." Then he 
 took up his pen and wrote to say how happy 
 he would be to see his old friend again as soon 
 as possible. 
 
 The next day, chance brought him face to 
 face in the street with the young student who 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 7 
 
 was so like Warren. " Who knows ? " thought 
 Hermann ; " fifteen or twenty years hence this 
 young man may look no brighter than Warren 
 does to-day. Ah, life is not easy I It has a 
 way of saddening joyous looks, and imparting 
 severity to smiling lips. 
 
 " As for me, I have no real right to complain 
 of my life. I have lived pretty much like 'every- 
 body a little satisfaction, and then a little dis- 
 appointment, in turns, and often small worries : 
 and so my youth has gone by, I scarcely know 
 how." 
 
 On the 2d of October Hermann received a 
 telegram from Hamburg announcing the arrival 
 of Warren for the same evening. At the ap- 
 pointed hour he went to the railway station to 
 meet his friend. He saw him get down from 
 the carriage slowly, and rather heavily, and he 
 watched him for a few seconds before accosting 
 him. Warren appeared to him old and broken- 
 down, and even more feeble than he had ex- 
 pected to see him from his portrait. He wore 
 a travelling suit of grey cloth so loose and wide 
 that it hung in folds on the gaunt and stoop- 
 ing figure ; a large wideawake hat was drawn 
 down to his very eyes. 
 
8 THE PHILOSOPHERS PENDULUM. 
 
 The new-comer looked right and left, seeking 
 no doubt to discover his friend ; not seeing him, 
 he turned his weary and languid steps towards 
 the way out. Hermann then came forward. 
 Warren recognised him at once; a sunny youth- 
 ful smile lighted up his countenance, and, evi- 
 dently much moved, he stretched out his hand. 
 
 An hour later, the two friends were seated 
 opposite to each other before a well-spread table 
 in Hermann's comfortable apartments. 
 
 Warren ate very little ; but, on the other 
 hand, Hermann noticed with surprise and some 
 anxiety that his friend, who had been formerly 
 a model of sobriety, drank a good deal. Wine, 
 however, seemed to have no effect on him. The 
 pale face did not flush ; there was the same cold 
 fixed look in the eye; and his speech, though slow 
 and dull in tone, betrayed no embarrassment. 
 
 When the servant who had waited at dinner 
 had taken away the dessert and brought in 
 coffee, Hermann wheeled two big arm-chairs 
 close to the fire, and said to his friend 
 
 " Now, we will not be interrupted. Light a 
 cigar, make yourself at home, and tell me all 
 you have been doing since we parted." 
 
 Warren pushed away the cigars. " If you do 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 9 
 
 not mind," he said, " I will smoke my pipe. I am 
 used to it, and I prefer it to the best of cigars." 
 
 So saying, he drew from its well-worn case 
 an old pipe, whose colour showed it had been 
 long used, and filled it methodically with moist, 
 blackish tobacco. Then he lighted it, and after 
 sending forth one or two loud puffs of smoke, 
 he said, with an air of sovereign satisfaction 
 
 " A quiet, comfortable room a friend a 
 good pipe after dinner and no care for the 
 morrow ; that's what I like." 
 
 Hermann cast a sidelong glance at his com- 
 panion, and was painfully struck at his appear- 
 ance. The tall, gaunt frame in its stooping 
 attitude ; the greyish hair, and sad fixed look ; 
 the thin legs crossed one over the other ; the 
 elbow resting on the knee and supporting the 
 chin, in a word, the whole strange figure, as it 
 sat there, bore no resemblance to Henry War- 
 ren, the friend of his youth. This man was a 
 stranger, a mysterious being even. Neverthe- 
 less, the affection he felt for his friend was not 
 impaired ; on the contrary, pity entered into 
 his heart. " How ill the world must have used 
 him," thought Hermann, " to have thus disfigured 
 him 1 " Then he said aloud 
 
10 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 "Now, then, let me have your story, unless 
 you prefer to hear mine first." 
 
 He strove to speak lightly, but he felt that 
 the effort was not successful. As to Warren, he 
 went on smoking quietly, without saying a word. 
 The long silence at last became painful. Her- 
 mann began to feel an uncomfortable sensation 
 of distress in presence of the strange guest he 
 had brought to his home. After a few minutes, 
 he ventured to ask for the third time, " Will you 
 make up your mind to speak, or must I begin ? " 
 
 Warren gave vent to a little noiseless laugh. 
 u I am thinking how I can answer your question. 
 The difficulty is that, to speak truly, I have 
 absolutely nothing to tell. I wonder now and 
 it was that made me pause how it has hap- 
 pened that, throughout my life, I have been so 
 much bored by nothing. As if it would not 
 have been quite as natural, quite as easy, and 
 far pleasanter, to have been amused by that 
 same nothing which has been my life. 
 
 "The fact is, my dear Hermann, that if I 
 have had no deep sorrow to bear, neither have 
 I been happy. 
 
 " I have not been extraordinarily successful, 
 and have drawn none of the prizes of life. But 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 11 
 
 I am well aware that, in this respect, my lot 
 resembles that of thousands of other men. 
 
 " I have always been obliged to work. I 
 have earned my bread by the sweat of my brow. 
 I have had money difficulties ; I have even had 
 a hopeless passion but what then ? every one 
 has had that. Besides, that was in bygone 
 days ; I have learned to bear it, and to forget. 
 What pains and angers me is, to have to confess 
 that my life has been spent without satisfaction 
 and without happiness." 
 
 He paused an instant, and then resumed, 
 more calmly " A few years ago I was foolish 
 enough to believe that things might in the end 
 turn out better. I was a professor with a very 
 moderate salary at the school at Elmira. I 
 taught all I knew, and much that I had to learn 
 in order to be able to teach it Greek and Latin, 
 German and French, mathematics and physical 
 sciences. During the so-called play-hours I 
 even gave music lessons. In the course of the 
 whole day there were few moments of liberty 
 for me. I was perpetually surrounded by a 
 crowd of rough, ill-bred boys, whose only object 
 during lessons was to catch me making a mis- 
 take in English. When evening came, I was 
 
12 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 quite worn out ; still I could always find time to 
 dream for half an hour or so with my eyes open 
 before going to bed. Then all my desires were 
 accomplished, and I was supremely happy. At 
 last I had drawn a prize 1 I was successful in 
 everything; I was rich, honoured, powerful 
 what more can I say? I astonished the world 
 or rather, I astonished Ellen Gilmore, who for 
 me was the whole world. 
 
 " Hermann, have you ever been as mad ? 
 Have you, too, in a waking dream, been in 
 turn a statesman, a millionaire, the author of 
 a sublime work, a victorious general, the head 
 of a great political party ? Have you dreamed 
 nonsense such as that \ I, who am here, have 
 been all I say in dreamland. Never mind ; 
 that was a good time. 
 
 " Ellen Gilmore, whom I have just men- 
 tioned, was the elder sister of one of my pupils, 
 Francis Gilmore, the most undisciplined boy 
 of the school. His parents, nevertheless, in- 
 sisted on his learning something ; and as I 
 had the reputation of possessing unwearying 
 patience, I was selected to give him private 
 lessons. That was how I obtained a footing in 
 the Gilmore family. Later on, when they had 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 13 
 
 found out that I was somewhat of a musician 
 you may remember, perhaps, that for an ama- 
 teur I was a tolerable performer on the piano 
 I went every day to the house to teach Latin 
 and Greek to Francis, and music to Ellen. 
 
 " Now, picture to yourself the situation, and 
 then laugh at your friend as he has laughed at 
 himself many a time. On the one side the 
 Gilmore side a large fortune and no lack of 
 pride ; an intelligent, shrewd, and practical 
 father; an ambitious and vain mother; an 
 affectionate but spoilt boy ; and a girl of nine- 
 teen, surpassingly lovely, with a cultivated 
 mind and great good sense. On the other hand, 
 you have Henry Warren, aged twenty-nine ; in 
 his dreams the author of a famous work, or the 
 commander-in-chief of the Northern armies, or, 
 it may be, President of the Eepublic in reality, 
 Professor at Elmira College, with a modest sti- 
 pend of seventy dollars a-month. Was it not 
 evident that the absurdity of my position as a 
 suitor for Ellen would strike me at once ? 
 
 " Of course it did. In my lucid moments, 
 when I was not dreaming, I was a very rational 
 man, who had read a good deal, and learned not a 
 little ; and it would have been sheer madness in 
 
14 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 me to have indulged for an instant the hope of 
 a marriage between Ellen and myself. I knew 
 it was an utter impossibility as impossible as 
 to be elected President of the United States ; 
 and yet, in spite of myself, I dreamed of it. 
 However, I must do myself the justice to add 
 that my passion inconvenienced nobody. I 
 would no more have spoken of it than of my 
 imaginary command of the Army of the Poto- 
 mac. The pleasures which my love afforded me 
 could give umbrage to no one. Yet I am con- 
 vinced that Ellen read my secret. Not that she 
 ever said a word to me on the subject ; no look 
 or syllable of hers could have made me suspect 
 that she had guessed the state of my mind. 
 
 " One single incident I remember which was 
 not in accordance with her habitual reserve in 
 this respect. I noticed one day tha.t her eyes 
 were red. Of course I dared not ask her why 
 she had cried. During the lesson she seemed 
 absent ; and when leaving she said, without 
 looking at me, 'I may perhaps be obliged to 
 interrupt our lessons for some little time ; I 
 am very sorry. I wish you every happiness/ 
 Then, without raising her eyes, she quickly 
 left the room. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHERS PENDULUM. 15 
 
 " I was bewildered. What could her words 
 mean ? And why had they been said in such 
 an affectionate tone ? 
 
 "The next day Francis Gilmore called to 
 inform me, with his father's compliments, that 
 he was to have four days 7 holidays, because his 
 sister had just been betrothed to Mr Howard, a 
 wealthy New York merchant, and that, for the 
 occasion, there would be great festivities at home. 
 
 " Thenceforward there was an end of the 
 dreams which up to that moment had made life 
 pleasant. In sober reason I had no more cause 
 to deplore Ellen's marriage than to feel aggrieved 
 because Grant had succeeded Johnson as Presi- 
 dent. Nevertheless you can scarcely conceive 
 how much this affair I mean the marriage- 
 grieved me. My absolute nothingness suddenly 
 stared me in the face. I saw myself as I was 
 a mere schoolmaster, with no motive for pride 
 in the past, or pleasure in the present, or hope 
 in the future." 
 
 Warren's pipe had gone out while he was 
 telling his story. He cleaned it out methodi- 
 cally, drew from his pocket a cake of Cavendish 
 tobacco, and after cutting off with a penknife 
 the necessary quantity, refilled his pipe and lit 
 
16 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 it. The way in which he performed all these 
 little operations betrayed long habit. He had 
 ceased to speak while he was relighting his pipe, 
 and kept on whistling between his teeth. Her- 
 mann looked on silently. After a few minutes, 
 and when the pipe was in good order, Warren 
 resumed his story. 
 
 " For a few weeks I was terribly miserable ; 
 not so much because I had lost Ellen a man 
 cannot lose what he has never hoped to possess 
 as from the ruin of all my illusions. During 
 those days I plucked and ate by the dozen of 
 the fruits of the tree of self-knowledge, and I 
 found them very bitter. I ended by leaving 
 Elmira, to seek my fortunes elsewhere. I knew 
 my trade well. Long practice had taught me 
 how to make the best of my learning, and I 
 never had any difficulty in finding employment. 
 I taught successively in upwards of a dozen 
 States of the Union. I can scarcely recollect 
 the names of all the places where I have lived 
 Sacramento, Chicago, St Louis, Cincinnati, 
 Boston, New York ; I have been everywhere 
 everywhere. And everywhere I have met with 
 the same rude schoolboys, just as I have found 
 the same regular and irregular verbs in Latin 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 17 
 
 and Greek. If you would see a man thoroughly 
 satiated and saturated with schoolboys and 
 classical grammars, look at me. 
 
 " In the leisure time which, whatever might 
 be my work, I still contrived to make for my- 
 self, I indulged in philosophical reflections. 
 Then it was I took to the habit of smoking so 
 much." . . . 
 
 Warren stopped suddenly, and looking straight 
 before him, appeared plunged in thought. Then, 
 passing his hand over his forehead, he repeated, 
 in an absent manner, " Yes, of smoking so much. 
 ... I also acquired another habit," he added, 
 somewhat hastily " but that has nothing to do 
 with my story. The theory which especially oc- 
 cupied my thoughts was that of the oscillations 
 of an imaginary instrument, to which, in my 
 own mind, I gave the name of the Philosopher's 
 Pendulum. To this invention I owe the quiet- 
 ude of mind which has supported me for many 
 years, and which, as you see, I now enjoy. 
 
 "I said to myself that my great sorrow 
 if I may so call it without presumption had 
 arisen merely from my wish to be extraordinarily 
 happy. When, in his dreams, a man has carried 
 presumption so far as to attain to the heights of 
 
 B 
 
18 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 celebrity or to being the husband of Ellen Gil- 
 more, it is not wonderful if, on awaking, he 
 sustains a heavy fall before reaching the depths 
 of reality. Had I been less ambitious in my 
 desires, their realisation would have been easier, 
 or, at any rate, the disappointment would have 
 been less bitter. Starting from this principle, 
 I arrived at the logical conclusion that the best 
 means to avoid being unhappy is to wish for as 
 little happiness as possible. This truth was dis- 
 covered by my philosophical forefathers many 
 centuries before the birth of Christ, and I lay 
 no claim to being the first finder of it ; but the 
 outward symbol which I ended by giving to this 
 idea is at least I fancy it is of my invention. 
 
 " Give me a sheet of paper and a pencil," he 
 added, turning to his friend, " and with a few 
 lines I can demonstrate clearly the whole thing." 
 
 Hermann handed him what he wanted with- 
 out a word. Warren then began gravely to 
 draw a large semicircle, open at the top, and 
 above the semicircular line a pendulum, which 
 fell perpendicularly and touched the circumfer- 
 ence at the exact point where on the dial of a 
 clock would be inscribed the figure VI. This 
 done, he wrote on the right-hand side of the 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 19 
 
 pendulum, beginning from the bottom and at 
 the place of the hours V, IV, III, the words, 
 Moderate Desires Great Hopes, Ambition 
 Unbridled Passion, Mania of Greatness. Then, 
 turning the paper upside down, he wrote on the 
 opposite side, where on a dial would be marked 
 VII, VIII, IX, the words, Slight Troubles 
 Deep Sorrow, Disappointment Despair. 
 Lastly, in the place of No. VI, just where the 
 pendulum fell, he sketched a large black spot, 
 which he shaded off with great care, and above 
 which he wrote, like a scroll, Dead Stop, Abso- 
 lute Repose. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDUIATM. 
 
 UNBRIDLED PASSION. 
 ANIA OF GREATNESS. 
 
 DEEP SORROW. Y\ L A/GREAT HOPES. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. \ AMBITION ' 
 
 MODERATE DESIRES. 
 
 DEAD STOP. 
 ABSOLUTE REPOSE. 
 
 Having finished this little drawing, Warren 
 laid down his pipe, inclined his head on one 
 side, and raising his eyebrows, examined his 
 work with a critical frown. " This compass is 
 not yet quite complete/' he said ; " there is 
 
20 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 something missing. Between Dead Stop and 
 Moderate Desires on the right, and Slight 
 Troubles on the left, there is the beautiful line 
 of Calm and Rational Indifference. However, 
 such as the drawing is, it is sufficient to demon- 
 strate my theory. Do you follow me ? " 
 
 Hermann nodded affirmatively. He was 
 greatly pained. In lieu of the friend of his 
 youth, for whom he had hoped a brilliant future, 
 here was a poor monomaniac I 
 
 " You see," said Warren, speaking collectedly, 
 like a professor, " if I raise my pendulum till it 
 reaches the point of Moderate Desires, and then 
 let it go, it will naturally swing to the point of 
 Slight Troubles, and go no further. Then it 
 will oscillate for some time in a more and more 
 limited space on the line of Indifference, and 
 finally it will stand still without any jerk on 
 Dead Stop, Absolute Repose. That is a great 
 consolation 1 " 
 
 He paused, as if waiting for some remark 
 from Hermann ; but as the latter remained 
 silent, Warren resumed his demonstration. 
 
 " You understand now, I suppose, what I am 
 coming to. If I raise the pendulum to the 
 point of Ambition or Mania of Greatness, and 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 21 
 
 then let it go, that same law which I have 
 already applied will drive it to Deep Sorrow or 
 Despair. That is quite clear, is it not ? " 
 
 " Quite clear," repeated Hermann, sadly. 
 
 "Very well," continued Warren, with perfect 
 gravity ; " for my misfortune, I discovered this 
 fine theory rather late. I had not set bounds 
 to my dreams and limited them to trifles. I 
 had wished to be President of the Eepublic, an 
 illustrious savant, the husband of Ellen. No 
 great things, eh ? What say you to my modesty? 
 I had raised the pendulum to such a giddy 
 height that when it slipped from my impotent 
 hands it naturally performed a long oscillation, 
 and touched the point Despair. 
 
 " That was a miserable time. I hope you have 
 never suffered what I suffered then. I lived in 
 a perpetual nightmare like the stupor of in- 
 toxication." He paused, as he had done before, 
 and then, with a painfully nervous laugh, he 
 added, " Yes, like intoxication. I drank." Sud- 
 denly a spasm seemed to pass over his face, he 
 looked serious and sad as before, and he said, 
 with a shudder, "It is a terrible thing to see one's 
 self inwardly, and to know that one is fallen." 
 
 After this he remained long silent. At last, 
 
22 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 raising his head, he turned to his friend and 
 said, " Have you had enough of my story, or 
 would you like to hear it to the end ? " 
 
 " I am grieved at all you have told me," said 
 Hermann ; " but pray go on ; it is better I 
 should know all." 
 
 " Yes ; and I feel, too, that it relieves me to 
 pour out my heart. Well, I used to drink. 
 One takes the horrid habit in America far easier 
 than anywhere else. I was obliged to give up 
 more than one good situation because I had 
 ceased to be respectable. Anyhow, I always 
 managed to find employment without any great 
 difficulty. I never suffered from want, though 
 I have never known plenty. If I spent too 
 much in drink, I took it out of my dress and 
 my books. 
 
 " Eighteen months after I had left Elmira, 
 I met Ellen one day in Central Park, in New 
 York. I was aware that she had been married 
 a twelvemonth. She knew me again at once, 
 and spoke to me. I would have wished to sink 
 into the earth. I knew that my clothes were 
 shabby, that I looked poor, and I fancied that 
 she must discern on my face the traces of the 
 bad habits I had contracted. But she did not, 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 23 
 
 or would not, see anything. She held out her 
 hand, and said in her gentle voice 
 
 '"I am very glad to see you again, Mr 
 Warren. I have inquired about you, but neither 
 my father nor Francis could tell me what had 
 become of you. I want to ask you to resume 
 the lessons you used to give me. Perhaps you 
 do not know where I live ? This is my ad- 
 dress/ and she gave me her card. 
 
 " I stammered out a few unmeaning words 
 in reply to her invitation. She looked at me, 
 smiling kindly the while; but suddenly the 
 smile vanished, and she added, ' Have you been 
 HI, Mr Warren ? You seem worn/ 
 
 " ' Yes/ I answered, too glad to find an ex- 
 cuse for my appearance ' yes, I have been ill, 
 and I am still suffering/ 
 
 " ' I am very sorry/ she said, in a low voice. 
 
 " Laugh at me, Hermann call me an in- 
 corrigible madman ; but believe me when I say 
 that her looks conveyed to me the impression 
 of more than common interest or civility. A 
 thrilling sense of pain shot through my frame. 
 What had I done that I should be so cruelly 
 tried ? A mist passed before my eyes ; anxiety, 
 intemperance, sleeplessness, had made me weak. 
 
24 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 I tottered backwards a few steps. She turned 
 horribly pale. All around us was the crowd 
 the careless, indifferent crowd. 
 
 " ' Come and see me soon/ she added hastily, 
 and left me. I saw her get into a carriage, 
 which she had doubtless quitted to take a walk; 
 and when she drove past, she put her head out 
 and looked at me with her eyes wide open 
 there was an almost wildly anxious expression 
 in them. 
 
 " I went home. My way led me past her 
 house it was a palace. I shut myself up in 
 my wretched hotel-room, and once more I fell 
 to dreaming. Ellen loved me ; she admired me ; 
 she was not for ever lost to me 1 The pendulum 
 was swinging, you see, up as high as Madness. 
 
 " Explain to me, if you can, how it happens 
 that a being perfectly rational in ordinary life 
 should at certain seasons, and, so to speak, 
 voluntarily, be bereft of reason. 
 
 " To excuse and explain my temporary in- 
 sanity, I am ready to admit that the excitement 
 to which I gave way may have been a symptom 
 of the nervous malady which laid hold of me a 
 few days later, and stretched me for weeks upon 
 a bed of pain. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 25 
 
 " As I became convalescent, reason and com- 
 posure returned. But it was too late. In the 
 space of two months, twenty years had passed 
 over my head. When I rose from my sick-bed 
 I was as feeble and as broken-down as you see 
 me now. My past had been cheerless and dim, 
 without one ray of happiness; yet that past 
 was all my life ! Henceforward there was no- 
 thing left for me to undertake, to regret, or to 
 desire. The pendulum swung idly backwards 
 and forwards on the line of Indifference. 
 
 " I wonder what are the feelings of successful 
 men of men who have been victorious generals, 
 prime ministers, celebrated authors, and that 
 sort of thing ! Upheld by a legitimate pride, 
 do they retire satisfied from the lists when 
 evening comes, or do they lay down their arms 
 as I did, disappointed and dejected and worn 
 out with the fierce struggle 1 Can no man with 
 impunity look into his own heart and ask him- 
 self how his life has been spent ? " 
 
 Here Warren made a still longer pause than 
 before, and appeared absorbed in gloomy thought. 
 At last he resumed in a lower tone 
 
 "I had not followed up Ellen's invitation. 
 But in some way she had discovered my address, 
 
26 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 and knew of my illness. Do not be alarmed, 
 my dear Hermann ; my story will not become 
 romantic. No heavenly vision appeared to me 
 during my fever ; I felt no gentle white hands 
 laid on my burning brow. I was nursed at the 
 hospital, and very well nursed too ; I figured 
 there as 'Number 380,' and the whole affair 
 was, as you see, as prosaic as possible. But on 
 quitting the hospital, and as I was taking leave 
 of the manager, he handed me a letter, in which 
 was enclosed a note for 500 dollars. In the 
 envelope there was also the following anony- 
 mous note : 
 
 "'An old friend begs your acceptance, as a 
 loan, of the enclosed sum. It will be time 
 enough to think of paying off this debt when 
 you are strong enough to resume work, and you 
 can then do it by instalments, of which you 
 can yourself fix the amount, and remit them to 
 the hospital of New York/ 
 
 "It was well meant/no doubt, but it caused 
 me a painful impression. My determination 
 was taken at once. I refused without hesita- 
 tion. I asked the manager, who had been watch- 
 ing me with a friendly smile while I read the 
 letter, whether he could give the name of the 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 27 
 
 person who had sent it. In spite of his re- 
 peated assurances that he did not know it, I 
 never doubted for a single instant that he was 
 concealing the truth. After a few seconds' re- 
 flection I asked if he would undertake to for- 
 ward an answer to my unknown correspondent; 
 and on his consenting to do so, I promised that 
 he should have my answer the next day. 
 
 " I thought long over my letter. One thing 
 was plain to me it was Ellen who had come 
 to my help. How could I reject her generous 
 aid without wounding her, or appearing un- 
 grateful ? After great hesitation I wrote a few 
 lines, which, as far as I can recollect, ran thus : 
 
 " ' I thank you for the interest you have 
 shown me, but it is impossible for me to accept 
 the sum you place at my disposal. Do not be 
 angry with me because I return it. Do not 
 withdraw your sympathy ; I will strive to re- 
 main worthy of it, and will never forget your 
 goodness.' 
 
 " A few days later, after having confided this 
 letter to the manager, I left New York for San 
 Francisco. For several years I heard nothing of 
 Ellen ; her image grew gradually fainter, and at 
 last almost disappeared from my memory. 
 
28 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 " The dark river that bore the frail bark 
 which carried me and my fortunes was flow- 
 ing smoothly and silently along towards the 
 mysterious abyss where all that exists is en- 
 gulfed. Its course lay through a vast desert ; 
 and the banks which passed before my eyes were 
 of fearful sameness. Indescribable lassitude took 
 possession of my whole being. I had never, 
 knowingly, done evil; I had loved and sought 
 after good. Why, then, was I so wretched \ I 
 would have blessed the rock which wrecked my 
 bark so that I might have been swallowed up 
 and have gone down to my eternal rest. 
 
 " Up to the day when I heard of Ellen's be- 
 trothal, I had hoped that the morrow would 
 bring happiness. The long-wished-for morrow 
 had come at last, gloomy and colourless, without 
 realising any of my vague hopes. Thenceforward 
 my life was at an end." 
 
 Warren said these last words so indistinctly 
 that Hermann could scarcely hear ' them ; he 
 seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to 
 his friend. Then he raised the forefinger of his 
 right hand, and after moving it slowly from 
 right to left, in imitation of the swing of a 
 pendulum, he placed it on the large black dot 
 
THE PHILOSOPHERS PENDULUM. 29 
 
 he had drawn on the sheet of paper exactly be- 
 low his pendulum, and said, "Dead Stop, Abso- 
 lute Repose. Would that the end were come ! " 
 
 Another and still longer interval of silence 
 succeeded, and at last Hermann felt constrained 
 to speak. 
 
 " How carne you to make up your mind/' he 
 said, " to return to Europe ? " 
 
 " Ah yes, to be sure," answered Warren, hur- 
 riedly ; " the story the foolish story is not 
 ended. In truth it has no end, as it had no 
 beginning; it is a thing without form or pur- 
 pose, and less the history of a life than of a 
 mere journeying towards death. Still I will 
 finish following chronological order. It does 
 not weary you \ " 
 
 " No, no ; go on, my dear friend." 
 
 "Very well. I spent several years in the 
 United States. The pendulum worked well. It 
 came and went, to and fro, slowly along the 
 line of Indifference, without ever transgressing, 
 as its extreme limits on either hand, Moderate 
 Desires and Slight Troubles. I led obscurely 
 a contemplative life, and I was generally con- 
 sidered a queer character. I fulfilled my duties, 
 and took little heed of any one. Whenever I 
 
30 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 had an hour at my disposal, I sought solitude in 
 the neighbouring woods, far from the town and 
 from mankind. I used to lie down under the 
 big trees. Every season in turn, spring and 
 summer, autumn and winter, had its peculiar 
 charm for me. My heart, so full of bitterness, 
 felt lightened as soon as I listened to the rust- 
 ling of the foliage overhead. The forest ! There 
 is nothing finer in all creation. A deep calm 
 seemed to settle down upon me. I was grow- 
 ing old. I was forgetting. It was about this 
 time that, in consequence of my complete in- 
 difference to all surroundings, I acquired the 
 habit of answering ' Very well ' to everything 
 that was said. The words came so naturally 
 that I was not aware of the continual use of 
 them, until one day one of my fellow-teachers 
 happened to tell me that masters and pupils 
 alike had given me the nickname of ' Very well/ 
 Is it not odd that one who has never succeeded 
 in anything should be known as ' Very well ' \ 
 
 " I have only one other little adventure to 
 relate, and I will have told all. Then I can 
 listen to your story. 
 
 " Last year, my journeyings brought me to 
 the neighbourhood of Elmira. It was holiday- 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 31 
 
 time. I had nothing to do, and I had in my 
 purse a hundred hardly earned dollars, or there- 
 about. The wish seized me to revisit the scene 
 of my joys and my sorrows. I had not set foot 
 in the place for more than seven years. I was 
 so changed that nobody could know me again ; 
 nor would I have cared much if they had. 
 After visiting the town and looked at my old 
 school, and the house where Ellen had lived, 
 I bent my steps towards the park, which is 
 situated in the environs a place where I used 
 often to walk in company of my youthful dreams. 
 It was September, and evening was closing in. 
 The oblique rays of the setting sun sent a red- 
 dish gleam through the leafy branches of the 
 old oaks. I saw a woman seated on a bench 
 beneath a tree on one side of the path. As 
 I drew near I recognised Ellen. I remained 
 rooted to the spot where I stood, not daring to 
 move a step. She was stooping forward with 
 her head bent down, while with the end of her 
 parasol she traced lines upon the gravel. She 
 had not seen me. 1 turned back instantly, and 
 retired without making any noise. When I had 
 gone a little distance, I left the path and struck 
 into the wood. Once there, I looked back cau- 
 
32 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 tiously. Ellen was still at the same place, and 
 in the same attitude. Heaven knows what 
 thoughts passed through my brain ! I longed 
 to see her closer. What danger was there ? . I 
 was sure she would not know me again. I 
 walked towards her with the careless step of a 
 casual passer-by, and iD a few minutes passed 
 before her. When my shadow fell on the path, 
 she looked up, and our eyes met. My heart 
 was beating fast. Her look was cold and in- 
 different ; but suddenly a strange light shot into 
 her eyes, and she made a quick movement, as if 
 to rise. I saw no more, and went on without 
 turning round. Before I could get out of the 
 park her carriage drove past me, and I saw her 
 once more as I had seen her five years before 
 in Central Park, pale, with distended eyes, and 
 her anxious looks fixed upon me. 
 
 " Why did I not bow to her ? I cannot say ; 
 my courage failed me. I saw the light die out 
 of her eyes. I -almost fancied that I saw her 
 heave a sigh of relief as she threw herself back 
 carelessly in the carriage ; and she disappeared. 
 
 " I was then thirty -six, and I am almost 
 ashamed to relate the schoolboy's trick of wh ; ?- ls 
 I was guilty. I sent her the following lines 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 33 
 
 1 A devoted friend, whom you obliged in former 
 days, and who met you yesterday in the park 
 without your recognising him, sends you his 
 remembrances/ I posted this letter a few min- 
 utes before getting into the train which was to 
 take me to New York ; and as I did so, my 
 heart beat as violently as though I had per- 
 formed an heroic deed. Great adventures, for- 
 sooth ! And to think that my life presents none 
 more striking, and that trifles such as these are 
 the only food for my memory ! 
 
 " A twelvemonth later I met Francis Gilmore 
 in Broadway. The world is small so small 
 that it is really difficult to keep out of the way 
 of people one has once known. The likeness of 
 my former pupil to his sister struck me, and I 
 spoke to him. He looked at me at first with 
 a puzzled expression ; but after a few moments 
 of hesitation he recognised me, a bright smile 
 lighted up his pleasant face, and he shook hands 
 warmly. 
 
 " ' Mr Warren/ he exclaimed, ' how glad I am 
 to see you 1 Ellen and I have often talked of 
 you, and wondered what could have become of 
 -/}" Why did we never hear from you ? ' 
 
 " ' I did not suppose it would interest you.' 
 c 
 
34 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 I spoke timidly ; and yet I owed nothing to the 
 young fellow, and wanted nothing of him. 
 
 " ' You wrong us by saying that/ replied 
 Francis ; * do you think me ungrateful ? Do 
 you fancy I have forgotten our pleasant walks 
 in former days, and the long conversations we 
 used to have \ You alone ever taught me any- 
 thing, and it is to you I owe the principles that 
 have guided me through life. Many a day I 
 have thought of you, and regretted you sin- 
 cerely. As regards Ellen, no one has ever filled 
 your place with her ; she plays to this day the 
 same pieces of music you taught her, and follows 
 all your directions with a fidelity that would 
 touch you.' 
 
 " ' How are your father and mother, and how 
 is your sister ? ' I inquired, feeling more deeply 
 moved than I can express. 
 
 " ' My poor mother died three years ago. It 
 is Ellen who keeps house now/ 
 
 " * Your brother-in-law lives with you, then ? ' 
 
 " ' My brother-in-law !' replied Francis, with 
 surprise ; ( did you not know that he was on 
 board the Atlantic, which was lost last year in 
 the passage from Liverpool to New York ? ' 
 
 " I could find no words to reply. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 35 
 
 " ' As to that/ added Francis, with great com- 
 posure ' between you and me, he was no great 
 loss. My dear brother-in-law was not by any 
 means what my father fancied he was when he 
 gave him my sister as a wife. The whole family 
 has often regretted the marriage. Ellen lived 
 apart from her husband for many years before 
 his death/ 
 
 " I nodded so as to express my interest in his 
 communications, but I could not for worlds have 
 uttered a syllable. 
 
 "' You will come and see us soon, I hope/ 
 added Francis, without noticing my emtotion. 
 ' We are still at the same place ; but to make 
 sure, here is my card. Come, Mr Warren 
 name your own day to come and dine with us. 
 I promise you a hearty welcome.' 
 
 " I got off by promising to write the next day, 
 and we parted. 
 
 "Fortunately my mind had lost its former 
 liveliness. The pendulum, far from being urged 
 to unruly motion, continued to swing slowly in 
 the narrow space where it had oscillated for so 
 many years. I said to myself that to renew 
 my intimacy with the Gilmores would be to run 
 the almost certain risk of reviving the sorrows 
 
36 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 and the disappointments of the past. I was 
 then calm and rational. It would be madness 
 in me, I felt, to aspire to the hand of a young, 
 wealthy, and much-admired widow. To venture 
 to see Ellen again was to incur the risk of see- 
 ing my reason once more wrecked, and the 
 fatal chimera which had been the source of all 
 my misery start into life again. If we are to 
 believe what poets say, love ennobles man and 
 exalts him into a demigod. It may be so, but 
 it turns him likewise into a fool and a madman. 
 That was my case. At any cost I was to guard 
 against that fatal passion. I argued seriously 
 with myself, and I determined to let the past 
 be, and to reject every opportunity of bringing 
 it to life again. 
 
 " A few days before my meeting with Francis, 
 I had received tidings of the death of an old 
 relative, whom I scarcely knew. In my child- 
 hood I had, on one or two occasions, spent my 
 holidays at his house. He was gloomy and 
 taciturn, but nevertheless he had always wel- 
 comed me kindly. I have a vague remem- 
 brance of having been told that he had been in 
 love with my mother once upon a time, and 
 that on hearing of her marriage he had retired 
 
THE PHILOSOPHERS PENDULUM. 37 
 
 into the solitude which he never left till the day 
 of his death. Be that as it may, I had not lost 
 my place in his affections, it seems : he had 
 continued to feel an interest in me ; and on his 
 deathbed he had remembered me, and left me 
 the greater part of his not very considerable for- 
 tune. I inherited little money ; but there was 
 a small, comfortably furnished country-house, 
 and an adjoining farm let on a long lease for 
 240 per annum. This was wealth for me, and 
 more than enough to satisfy all my wants. 
 Since I had heard of this legacy, I had been 
 doubtful as to my movements. My chance 
 meeting with Francis settled the matter. I 
 resolved at once to leave America, and to return 
 to live in my native country. I knew your 
 address, and wrote to you at once. I trusted 
 that the sight of my old and only friend would 
 console me for the disappointments that life has 
 inflicted on me and I have not been deceived. 
 At last I have been able to open my heart to a 
 fellow-creature, and relieve myself of the heavy 
 burden which I have borne alone ever since our 
 separation. Now I feel lighter. You are not a 
 severe judge. Doubtless you deplore my weak- 
 ness, but you do not condemn me. If, as I have 
 
38 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 already said, I have done no good, neither have 
 I committed any wicked action. I have been 
 a nonentity an utterly useless being ; ( one too 
 many/ like the sad hero of TourguenefFs sad 
 story. Before leaving, I wrote to Francis in- 
 forming him that the death of a relative obliged 
 me to return to Europe, and giving him your 
 address, so as not to seem to be running away 
 from him. Then I went on board, and at last 
 reached your home. Dixi ! " 
 
 Warren, who during this long story had taken 
 care to keep his pipe alight, and had, moreover, 
 nearly drained the bottle of port placed before 
 him, now declared himself ready to listen to his 
 friend's confession. But Hermann had been 
 saddened by all he had heard, and was in no 
 humour for talking ; he remarked that it was 
 getting late, and proposed to postpone any fur- 
 ther conversation till the morrow. 
 
 Warren merely answered, " Very well," 
 knocked the ashes out of his pipe, shared out 
 the remainder of the wine between his host and 
 himself, and raising his glass, said, in a some- 
 what solemn tone, " To our youth, Hermann ! " 
 After emptying his glass at one draught, he re- 
 placed it on the table, and said complacently, 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 39 
 
 "It is long since I have drunk with so much 
 pleasure ; for this time I have not drunk to 
 forgetf ulness, but to memory." 
 
 II. 
 
 Warren spent another week in Leipzig with 
 his friend. No man was easier to live with : to 
 every suggestion of Hermann's he invariably 
 answered, "Very well"; and if Hermann pro- 
 posed nothing, he was quite content to remain 
 seated in a comfortable arm-chair by the fireside, 
 holding a book which he scarcely looked at, and 
 watching the long rolls of smoke from his pipe. 
 He disliked new acquaintances ; nevertheless 
 the friends to whom Hermann introduced him 
 found in him a quiet, unobtrusive, and well- 
 informed companion. He pleased everybody. 
 There was something strange and yet attractive 
 in his person ; there was a " charm " about him, 
 people said. Hermann felt the attraction with- 
 out being able to define in what it consisted. 
 Their former friendship had been renewed un- 
 reservedly. The kind of fascination that Warren 
 exercised over all those who approached him, 
 
40 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 often led Hermann to think that it was not un- 
 likely that in his youth he had inspired a real 
 love in Ellen Gilmore. 
 
 One evening Hermann took his friend to the 
 theatre, where a comic piece was being per- 
 formed. In his young days Warren had been 
 very partial to plays of that kind, and his joyous 
 peals of laughter on such occasions still rang in 
 the ears of his friend. But the attempt was a 
 complete failure. Warren watched the perform- 
 ance without showing the slightest interest, and 
 never even smiled. During the opening scenes 
 he listened with attention, as though he were 
 assisting at some performance of the legitimate 
 drama; then, as if he could not understand 
 what was going on before his eyes, he turned 
 away with a wearied air and began looking at 
 the audience. When, at the close of the second 
 act, Hermann proposed that they should leave 
 the house, he answered readily 
 
 " Yes, let us go ; all this seems very stupid 
 we will be much better at home. There is a 
 time for all things, and buffoonery suits me no 
 longer." 
 
 There was nothing left in Warren of the friend 
 that Hermann had known fifteen years before. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 41 
 
 He loved him none the less ; on the contrary, 
 to his affection for him had been superadded 
 a feeling of deep compassion. He would have 
 made great sacrifices to secure his friend's hap- 
 piness, and to see a smile light up the immov- 
 able features and the sorrowful dulness of the 
 eye. His friendly anxiety had not been lost 
 upon Warren ; and when the latter took his 
 leave, he said with emotion 
 
 " You wish me well, my old friend. I see it 
 and feel it ; and, believe me, I am grateful. 
 We must not lose sight of each other again I 
 will write regularly." 
 
 A few days later, Hermann received a letter 
 for his friend. It was an American letter, and 
 the envelope was stamped with the initials 
 " E. H." They were those of Ellen Howard, 
 the heroine of Warren's sad history. He for- 
 warded the letter immediately, and wrote at the 
 same time to his friend " I hope the enclosed 
 brings you good news from America." But in 
 his reply Warren took no notice of this passage, 
 and made no allusion to Ellen. He only spoke 
 of the new house in which he had just settled 
 himself" to end," as he said, " his days " ; and 
 he pressed Hermann to come and join him. 
 
42 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 The two friends at last agreed to pass Christmas 
 and New Year's Day together ; but when De- 
 cember came, Warren urged his friend to hasten 
 his arrival. 
 
 " I do not feel well," he wrote, " and am often 
 so weary that I stay at home all day. I have 
 made no new acquaintances, and, most likely, 
 will make none. I am alone. Your society 
 would give me great pleasure. Come ; your 
 room is ready, and will be, I trust, to your 
 liking. There is a large writing-table and tol- 
 erably well-filled book -sh elves ; you can write 
 there quite at your ease, without fear of disturb- 
 ance. Come as soon as possible, my dear friend. 
 I am expecting you impatiently." 
 
 Hermann happened to be at leisure, and was 
 able to comply with his friend's wish, and to go 
 to him in the first week of December. He found 
 Warren looking worn and depressed. It was in 
 vain he sought to induce him to consult a phy- 
 sician. Warren replied 
 
 " Doctors can do nothing for my complaint. 
 I know where the shoe pinches. A physician 
 would order me probably to seek relaxation and 
 amusement, just as he would advise a poor 
 devil whose blood is impoverished by bad food 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 43 
 
 to strengthen himself with a generous diet and 
 good wine. The poor man could not afford to 
 get the good living, and I do not know what 
 could enliven or divert me. Travel ? I like 
 nothing so well as sitting quietly in my arm- 
 chair. New faces ? They would not interest 
 me yours is the only company I prefer to soli- 
 tude. Books \ I am too old to take pleasure in 
 learning new things, and what I have learned 
 has ceased to interest me. It is not always easy 
 to get what might do one good, and we must 
 take things as they are." 
 
 Hermann noticed, as before, that his friend 
 ate little, but that, on the other hand, he drank 
 a great deal. The sincere friendship he felt for 
 him emboldened him to make a remark on the 
 subject. 
 
 " It is true," said Warren, " I drink too much; 
 but what can I do ? Food is distasteful to me, 
 and I must keep up my strength somehow. I 
 am in a wretched state ; my health is ruined." 
 
 One evening, as the two friends were seated 
 together in Warren's room, while the wind and 
 sleet were beating against the window-panes, 
 the invalid began of his own accord to speak 
 about Ellen. 
 
44 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 " We now correspond regularly," he said. 
 " She tells me in her last letter that she hopes 
 soon to see me. Do you know, Hermann, that 
 she is becoming an enigma for me ? It is very 
 evident that she does not treat me like other 
 people, and I often wonder and ask myself what 
 I am in her eyes I What does she feel towards 
 me \ Love \ That is inadmissible. Pity, per- 
 haps 1 This, then, is the end of my grand 
 dreams to be an object of pity ? I have just 
 answered her letter to say that I am settled here 
 with the fixed intention of ending my useless 
 existence in quiet and idleness. Do you re- 
 member a scene in Henry Heine's ' Keisebilder,' 
 when a young student kisses a pretty girl, who 
 lets him have his own way and makes no great 
 resistance, because he has told her ' I will be 
 gone to-morrow at dawn, and I will never see 
 you again ' ? The certainty of never seeing a 
 person again gives a man the courage to say 
 things that otherwise he would have kept hidden 
 in the most secret depths of his being. I feel 
 that my life is drawing to a close. Do not say 
 no, my dear friend ; my presentiments are cer- 
 tain. I have written it to Ellen. I have told 
 her other things besides. What folly I All I 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 45 
 
 have ever done has been folly or chimera. I 
 end my life logically, in strict accordance with 
 my whole Past, by making my first avowal of 
 love on my deathbed. Is not that as useless a 
 thing as can be ? " 
 
 Hermann would have wished to know some 
 particulars about this letter; but Warren re- 
 plied, somewhat vaguely, " If I had a copy of 
 my letter, I would show it to you willingly. 
 You know my whole story, and I would not 
 be ashamed to lay before you my last act of 
 folly. I wrote about a fortnight ago, when I 
 felt sure that death was drawing near. I was 
 in a fever, not from fear Death gains but little 
 by taking my life but from a singular species 
 of excitement. I do not remember what were 
 the words I used. Who knows ? Perhaps this 
 last product of my brain may have been quite a 
 poetical performance. Never mind ! I do not 
 repent of what I have done ; I am glad that 
 Ellen should know at last that I have loved 
 her silently and hopelessly. If that is not dis- 
 interested, what is ? " he added with a bitter 
 smile. 
 
 Christmas went by sadly. Warren was now 
 so weak that he could scarcely leave his bed for 
 
46 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 two or three hours each day. Hermann had 
 taken upon himself to send for a doctor, but 
 this latter had scarcely known what to prescribe. 
 Warren was suffering from no special malady; 
 he was dying of exhaustion. Now and then, 
 during a few moments, which became daily 
 more rare and more brief, his vivacity would 
 return ; but the shadow of Death was already 
 darkening his mind. 
 
 On New Year's eve he got up very late. 
 " We will welcome in the New Year," he said 
 to Hermann. " I hope it may bring you hap- 
 piness ; I know it will bring me rest." A few 
 minutes before midnight he opened the piano, 
 and played with solemnity, and as if it had 
 been a chorale, a song of Schumann's, entitled, 
 " To the Drinking-cup of a departed Friend." 
 Then, on the first stroke of midnight, he filled 
 two glasses with some old Rhenish wine, and 
 raised his own glass slowly. He was very pale, 
 and his eyes were shining with feverish light ; 
 he was in a state of strange and fearful excite- 
 ment. He looked at the glass which he held, 
 and repeated deliberately a verse of the song 
 which he had just been playing, " The vulgar 
 cannot understand what I see at the bottom of 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 47 
 
 this cup." Then, at one draught, he drained 
 the full glass. 
 
 While he was thus speaking and drinking, 
 he had taken no notice of Hermann, who was 
 watching him with consternation. Kecovering 
 himself at length, he exclaimed, " Another glass, 
 Hermann I To friendship ! " He drained this 
 second glass, like the first, to the very last drop ; 
 and then, exhausted by the effort he had made, 
 he sank heavily on a chair. Soon after, Her- 
 mann led him like a sleepy child, to his bed. 
 
 During the days that followed, he was unable 
 to leave his room ; and the doctor thought it 
 right to warn Hermann that all the symptoms 
 seemed to point to a fatal issue. 
 
 On the 8th of January a servant from the 
 hotel in the little neighbouring town brought 
 a letter, which, he said, required an immediate 
 answer. The sick man was then lying almost 
 unconscious. Herman broke the seal without 
 hesitation, and read as follows : 
 
 " MY DEAR FRIEND, A visit to Europe 
 which my father had long planned, has at last 
 been undertaken. I did not mention it to you, 
 in order to have the pleasure of surprising you. 
 
48 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 On reaching this place, I learn that the illness 
 of which you spoke in your last letter has not 
 yet left you. Under these circumstances, I will 
 not venture to present myself without warning 
 you of my arrival, and making sure that you 
 are able to receive me. I am here with my 
 brother, who, like myself, would not come so 
 near to you without seeing you. My father has 
 gone on to Paris, where Francis and I will join 
 him in a few days. ELLEN." 
 
 Hermann, after one instant's thought, took up 
 his hat and dismissed the messenger, saying he 
 would give the answer himself. At the hotel 
 he sent in his card, with the words, " From Mr 
 Warren," and was immediately ushered into 
 Ellen's presence. 
 
 She was alone. Hermann examined her 
 rapidly. He saw an extremely beautiful wo- 
 man, whose frank and fearless eyes were fixed 
 on him with a questioning look. 
 
 Hermann had not frequented the society of 
 women much, and was usually rather embar- 
 rassed in their presence. But on this occasion 
 he thought only of his friend, and found no 
 difficulty in explaining the motive of his visit. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 49 
 
 He told her his friend was ill very ill dying 
 and that he had opened the letter addressed 
 to Warren. Ellen did not answer for some time; 
 she seemed not to have understood what she 
 had heard. After a while her eyes filled with 
 tears, and she asked whether she could see Mr 
 Warren. On Hermann answering in the affirm- 
 ative, she further inquired whether her brother 
 might accompany her. 
 
 "Two visitors might fatigue the invalid too 
 much," said Hermann ; " your brother may 
 come later." 
 
 "Are you not afraid that my visit may tire 
 him?" ' 
 
 " I do not think so ; it will make him very 
 happy." 
 
 Ellen only took a few minutes to put on her 
 hat and cloak, and they started. The short 
 journey was accomplished in silence. When 
 they reached the house, Hermann went in first 
 to see how the dying man was. He was lying 
 in his bed in the delirium of fever, muttering 
 incoherent sentences. Nevertheless he recog- 
 nised Hermann, and asked for something to 
 drink. After having allayed his thirst, he 
 closed his eyes, as if to sleep. 
 
 D 
 
50 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 "I have brought you a friend," said Her- 
 mann ; " will you see him ? " 
 
 " Hermann ? He is always welcome." 
 
 "No ; it is a friend from America." 
 
 " From America ? . . . I lived there many 
 years. . . . How desolate and monotonous 
 were the shores I visited 1 ..." 
 
 " Will you see your friend 1 " 
 
 " I am carried away by the current of the 
 river. In the distance I see dark and shadowy 
 forms ; there are hills full of shade and coolness, 
 . . . but I will never rest there." 
 
 Hermann retired noiselessly, and returned 
 almost immediately with Ellen. 
 
 Warren, who had taken no notice of him, 
 continued to follow the course of his wandering 
 thoughts. 
 
 " The river is drawing near to the sea. Al- 
 ready I can hear the roar of the waves. . . . 
 The banks are beginning to be clothed with 
 verdure. . . . The hills are drawing nearer. 
 ... It is dark now. Here are the big trees 
 beneath which I have dreamed so often. A 
 radiant apparition shines through their foliage. 
 ... It comes towards me. . . . Ellen ! " 
 
 She was standing beside the bed. The dying 
 
THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 51 
 
 man saw her, and without showing the least 
 surprise, said with a smile, " Thank God 1 you 
 have come in time. I knew you were coming." 
 
 He murmured a few unintelligible words, and 
 then remained silent for a long while. His 
 eyes were wide open. Suddenly he cried, 
 '< Hermann ! " 
 
 Hermann came and stood beside Ellen. 
 
 "The pendulum. . . . You know what I 
 mean ? " A frank childish smile the smile of 
 his student days lighted up his pallid face. 
 He raised his right hand, and tracing in the air 
 with his forefinger a wide semicircle, to imitate 
 the oscillation of a pendulum, he said, "Then." 
 He then figured in the same manner a more 
 limited and slower movement, and after repeat- 
 ing it several times, said, " Now." Lastly, he 
 pointed straight before him with a motionless 
 and almost menacing finger, and said, with a 
 weak voice, " Soon." 
 
 He spoke no more, and closed his eyes. The 
 breathing was becoming very difficult. 
 
 Ellen bent over him, and called him softly, 
 "Henry, Henry!" He opened his eyes. She 
 brought her mouth close to his ear, and said, 
 with a sob, " I have always loved you." 
 
52 THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM. 
 
 " I knew it from the first," he said, quietly 
 and with confidence. 
 
 A gentle expression stole over his countenance, 
 and life seemed to return. Once more he had 
 the confident look of youth. A sad and beauti- 
 ful smile played on his lips ; he took the hand of 
 Ellen in his, and kissed it gently. 
 
 " How do you feel now ? " inquired Hermann. 
 
 The old answer, " Very well." 
 
 His hands were plucking at the bed-clothes, 
 as if he strove to cover his face with them. 
 Then his arms stiffened and the fingers remained 
 motionless. 
 
 " Very well," he repeated. 
 
 He appeared to fall into deep thought. There 
 was a long pause. At last he turned a dying 
 look, fraught with tender pity and sadness, to- 
 wards Ellen, and in a low voice, which was 
 scarcely audible, he said these two words, with 
 a slight emphasis on the first "Perfectly 
 well." 
 
GOEDON BALDWIN. 
 
 GEORGE FORBES had spared neither time nor 
 money in furnishing his bachelor apartments 
 as handsomely as possible. He possessed some 
 experience, having seen many countries and 
 many people ; he was so rich, that even in 
 New York, from whence he came, men spoke 
 of his, " large fortune " ; moreover, he had 
 nothing to do but what gave him pleasure. 
 Under these circumstances it is not difficult 
 for a man particularly if he lives in Paris 
 to acquire among his friends the reputation of 
 being a man of taste. Forbes had secured the 
 assistance of a talented young artist ; he had 
 employed the best Parisian workmen for several 
 months ; and, lastly, he had given to his uphol- 
 sterer an almost unlimited credit. By this 
 
54 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 somewhat expensive but extremely simple and 
 convenient method, he had succeeded in fur- 
 nishing his house near the Champs Elyse'es 
 both elegantly and comfortably. 
 
 The paintings by Corot, Eousseau, Diaz, Rosa 
 Bonheur, and others, which adorned his drawing- 
 room, study, and dining-room, ranked among the 
 acknowledged masterpieces of those artists ; the 
 large Rubens in his bedroom was undoubtedly 
 genuine ; the chandeliers and clocks were mod- 
 els of French art ; and nowhere could be found 
 more comfortable easy-chairs and more luxuri- 
 ous sofas than in the cosy rooms of the " H6tel 
 Forbes " in the Rue Dumont d'Urville. 
 
 During one whole week after Forbes had 
 taken possession of his house, he had wandered 
 every morning with renewed delight through 
 the rooms of his new home, with a feeling of 
 pride, as though all the beautiful objects which 
 gave him so much pleasure had been the work 
 of his own hands. He had accepted, with a 
 self-satisfied smile, the compliments which all 
 his visitors paid him on his exquisite taste ; 
 but very soon he became as accustomed to his 
 pictures, his china, and his bronzes, as to his 
 comfortable chairs and his good cook ; and at 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 55 
 
 the time we make his acquaintance about four 
 years after he had settled in Paris all the 
 splendid works of art by which he was sur- 
 rounded in his own house could no longer 
 attract his attention even for an instant. 
 
 George Forbes was now thirty-three, and the 
 life he led was, in spite of much apparent 
 variety, a monotonous one. Seven months of 
 the year he spent in Paris, but, during the 
 summer, he went from one fashionable water- 
 ing-place to another. He might be seen at 
 Trouville, at Biarritz, or in the Pyrenees ; some- 
 times also he went to Baden-Baden or to Hom- 
 burg, where, at that time, the gaming-tables 
 were still to be found. Once he had returned 
 to the United States, and had shown his cold, 
 aristocratic, blase face in Newport and Saratoga. 
 In Paris, where he lived during the winter and 
 the spring, remaining till the end of May, he 
 took a ride regularly every morning in the Bois 
 de Boulogne, breakfasted at home, yawned for 
 an hour over the newspapers, his letters, or a 
 novel, and sometimes fell asleep over them ; 
 then he paid a few visits, or showed his beauti- 
 ful horses in the Avenue de I'lmpe'ratrice, and 
 at seven o'clock made his appearance at the 
 
56 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 Cafe Anglais or at Bignon's to dine. After 
 that he went to a theatre or to some reception 
 in the American colony. There, he was an 
 object of great interest to the mothers of grown- 
 up daughters, as also to young widows. He 
 frequently met, in this society, with men who, 
 thinking that the young millionaire might prove 
 a serviceable friend, spared no trouble to make 
 themselves agreeable to him. But Forbes was 
 not grateful for the kindness shown to him on 
 all sides, and not one of his numerous acquaint- 
 ance could boast of being on intimate or con- 
 fidential terms with him. In fact, he was sus- 
 picious. Many times, in former days, he had 
 been deceived a misfortune which may hap- 
 pen even to poor people in this world ; but he 
 had never forgotten nor forgiven it, and he 
 always feared that every one who approached 
 him in a friendly manner wanted his money. 
 Belief in unselfish kindness had never been 
 very strong with him, and such little trustfulness 
 as he had once possessed he had lost long ago. 
 Friendliness, as soon as it went beyond com- 
 monplace politeness, seemed to him interested 
 flattery, and made him doubly reserved and 
 cautious. In consequence, young and honour- 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 57 
 
 able men, who, under ordinary circumstances, 
 might have been his friends, felt themselves 
 repelled, and gradually withdrew from him; 
 and so it came to pass that, finally, his ac- 
 quaintance was mainly among men who richly 
 deserved his suspicious contempt for them. 
 
 Later in the evening the lonely man invari- 
 ably went to his club. He played high, and 
 often won considerable sums. He was a cool 
 and cautious player. When the luck was on 
 his side, he was ever ready to stake all his 
 winnings ; and he would put, with equal com- 
 posure, a few louis or a bundle of bank-notes 
 on the table. But when Fortune was not 
 favourable, he would only lose the money he 
 had with him a few thousand francs at the 
 outside ; then he would rise, with a yawn he 
 had a habit of yawning frequently go into the 
 reading-room, look over the evening papers, 
 and, at a late hour, drive home. He was a 
 dangerous, careful, unpopular player. You 
 might lose a fortune to him, but you could 
 never win from him more than he happened 
 to have in his pocket. He had never been 
 known to borrow money to go on playing. 
 
 One evening in the month of December 18 6-, 
 
58 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 Forbes came to his club, as usual, at about 
 eleven o'clock, and, after exchanging a few 
 words with his friends, took his seat at the 
 green table. He had won largely the night 
 before ; and a young man, who had been one 
 of the heaviest losers Henry Westmore asked 
 him in a friendly manner to take the bank him- 
 self. Forbes did not answer at once ; but when 
 Westmore repeated his request, he replied, care- 
 lessly, in an undertone, that it was not his 
 habit to consider a new game as the continua- 
 tion of a former one ; he was only beginning 
 to play, and he could not yet say whether it 
 would suit him on this occasion to take the 
 bank or to play against it. 
 
 " These are very convenient principles," said 
 Westmore, with a sneer. 
 
 Forbes looked at him long and steadfastly ; 
 then, after a painful pause, he said : "I can 
 only express my regret if you are vexed because 
 you lost yesterday. I cannot think for a moment 
 that you wish to pick a quarrel with me. You 
 have no right to dictate to me how I am to 
 play, nor do I imagine that you claim that 
 right. But if you believe that I owe you your 
 revenge, pray name the sum for which you wish 
 to play against me, and it will give me great 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 59 
 
 pleasure to place myself at your disposal." 
 Every one present felt for poor Westmore, who, 
 it was known, had borrowed with great difficulty 
 the money to pay his debt that evening, and 
 who, in his heart, was cursing his fortunate 
 and powerful adversary. But Forbes knew he 
 had the right on his side, while Westmore felt 
 that he stood alone, and that the wisest thing 
 he could do was to let the matter drop. He 
 muttered, with a touch of ill -humour, but 
 politely, nevertheless, " You take the thing 
 too seriously ; I did not mean it so.' ; Forbes 
 counted his money, played even more cautious- 
 ly than usual, lost a trifling sum, and went 
 home at about two o'clock. After he had left 
 the club, Westmore began again to complain of 
 him, and this time everybody sided with him. 
 
 " One thing comforts me," he said, in con- 
 clusion, " and that is, that Forbes never really 
 enjoys his game. I get vexed sometimes when 
 I lose ; but then I am all the better pleased 
 when I happen to win. Forbes is always bored; 
 and it serves the odious fellow right." 
 
 Forbes, on his way home, knew perfectly well 
 that at that very moment they were abusing 
 him at the club, and that not one of the 
 numerous acquaintances who were in the habit 
 
60 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 of meeting him with a friendly smile would 
 think of taking his part in his absence. 
 
 The next morning, while riding in the Bois 
 de Boulogne, he made some plans for travelling. 
 " I will go for a few weeks to Nice, Florence, 
 and Home," he said to himself ; " perhaps I may 
 amuse myself there a little more than I do here. 
 At any rate, I shall see some new faces, and not 
 always that fellow Westmore and the rest of 
 them. The whole set is insufferable." 
 
 When, an hour later, he returned home, his 
 servant handed him two letters, which had just 
 arrived. He put them, without even looking at 
 them, on the table ; and it was only after he had 
 dressed, and found that there was still a quarter 
 of an hour left before breakfast-time, that he 
 threw himself into an easy-chair before the fire, 
 and read them. The first was as follows : 
 
 " 94 AVENUE FRIEDLAND, 
 Wednesday. 
 
 "DEAR MR FORBES, It will give us much 
 pleasure if you will dine with us on Friday next, 
 at seven o'clock. Yours very sincerely, 
 
 "MARIE LELAND, 
 nee De Montemars." 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 61 
 
 " That woman never forgets to remind one 
 that she comes of a noble family, and that she 
 only married old Leland for his money. Nee 
 Montemars ! What do I care ? Anyhow, Jane 
 Leland is a handsome clever girl, and I have 
 nothing better to do on Friday ; Fll accept the 
 invitation." 
 
 The note was carefully replaced in its en- 
 velope, and laid aside. The second letter was 
 a longer one. As soon as Forbes had looked 
 at the address and recognised the writing, he 
 opened it with an angry frown, and then read 
 it with great attention : 
 
 " HAKODATE, Sept. 2, 186 . 
 
 "DEAR GEORGE, You must do me the 
 justice to admit that I have not troubled you 
 for a long time with news of myself. Nor would 
 I have written now, could I have avoided it. 
 I know my letters give you no pleasure, and, 
 as a natural consequence, I do not care much 
 to write to you. I have, however, nothing 
 unpleasant to say, and I beg you not to throw 
 this letter aside without reading it. 
 
 "When I arrived at Hakodate, four years 
 ago, I made the acquaintance of a young Eng- 
 
62 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 lishman, named Gordon Baldwin, Although 
 I had no claim upon him, he received me into 
 his house with the greatest kindness, and I was 
 his guest during several months. I had been 
 long unaccustomed to kind treatment. Bald- 
 win's goodness made a deep impression upon me, 
 and I felt very grateful towards him. I con- 
 ceived a great affection for him ; and he, seeing 
 this, I suppose, also took a liking for me. I had 
 so long been tossed about like a ship without 
 a rudder, finding neither peace nor safety, that 
 I scarcely dared to hope Fortune had led me at 
 last into a haven of rest. My intention being 
 to leave Hakodate in a few months, I was not 
 as reserved in my conversations with Baldwin 
 as I ought, perhaps, to have been. I meant no 
 harm by being communicative, and I did not 
 think myself bound to spoil the pleasure of 
 our friendly intercourse by a reticence which 
 might have seemed suspicious. I cannot boast 
 of possessing that calm reserve which distin- 
 guishes you. 
 
 "So I told Baldwin, during the long walks 
 we took together, something of my history. I 
 did not disclose my real name, for I would not 
 break the promise I had given you. I called 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 63 
 
 myself Graham. I told him that I had wealthy 
 relatives, from whom I was for ever separated, 
 through some misfortune which I could not 
 explain. I also spoke of you. You will think 
 this strange ; you would certainly never dream 
 of speaking of me. But then, it must be said, 
 we are very different. I said nothing but what 
 was good about you praising your prudence, 
 your, coolness, and your energy. I spoke of the 
 extraordinary success which has attended you 
 through life a success which you owe mainly 
 to your perspicacity and your determination. I 
 did not allude to the ties which unite us, and I 
 mentioned you merely as a friend of my youth. 
 
 "As you see, I did not commit any great 
 indiscretion. It can do you no harm that Bald- 
 win who is as simple and as trusting as a child 
 should think that, in times gone by, you once 
 did a good turn to a poor devil called Graham. 
 
 11 Hakodate lies out of the beaten track. Be- 
 sides the Japanese, there are only a few Eng- 
 lish, American, and German merchants living 
 here, and foreign travellers seldom find their 
 way to this place. For many years I saw noth- 
 ing that could remind me of the past, and I 
 felt as though I were gradually awaking to a 
 
64 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 new life. I was successful in the first small 
 speculations I attempted. Baldwin procured me 
 credit in Yokohama, Hong- Kong, and Shanghai, 
 and so gave me the means of trying my un- 
 hoped-for good luck on a greater scale. All 
 went well, and, at this present time, I possess 
 a moderate, well-earned fortune, and am a re- 
 spected member of the foreign community of 
 Hakodate. All this I owe to Gordon Baldwin. 
 But for him, I must have gone to ruin ; for my 
 means and my courage were equally exhausted 
 when I landed at Yesso. 
 
 "A few weeks ago Baldwin told me that, 
 having spent six years in China and Japan, he 
 now thought of taking a trip to Europe. While 
 discussing this plan, he mentioned your name, 
 which he unfortunately remembered, although 
 it had not passed my lips for some time. I 
 had told him formerly that you lived in Paris ; 
 and he asked me, without having a notion that 
 it might be unpleasant to me, to give him a 
 letter of introduction to you. I could not well 
 refuse without laying myself open to suspicion. 
 I might, indeed, have invented some excuse, 
 but I did not like to run the risk of your being 
 brought together by chance. I have therefore 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 65 
 
 given him a letter for you. Pray consider all 
 the circumstances of the case, and excuse the 
 liberty I have taken. Kemember how much I 
 owe to Baldwin, and receive him kindly. I 
 have given him to understand that it might be 
 painful to you to speak of my past life ; and I 
 feel perfectly sure that he will avoid any allu- 
 sion which might embarrass you. 
 
 " You will find my friend the best and noblest 
 of men. He is a few years younger than you 
 are, but his independent life in foreign lands has 
 made him prematurely old. He comes of a good 
 family, but all his near relations are dead, and 
 he stands pretty nearly alone in the world. He 
 is good-looking, well-informed, and well-bred. 
 To complete my sketch, I may add that he has 
 a handsome fortune, and that his business in 
 Hakodate the management of which he has 
 intrusted to me during his absence has, for 
 for some years past, brought him in from 20,000 
 to 25,000 dollars annually. 
 
 " And now, my dear George, I must say good- 
 bye/ I do not expect an answer to this letter, 
 and it is not likely that I will soon have occasion 
 to write to you again. With unchanged affec- 
 tion, yours, THOMAS." 
 
 E 
 
66 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 As Forbes finished reading this letter, his 
 servant entered the room to say breakfast was 
 ready. He slowly folded up the letter, put it 
 into the side-pocket of his coat, and with a 
 thoughtful air went into the dining-room. 
 
 II. 
 
 In one of the most fashionable cafes of the 
 Boulevard des Italiens, before a table which was 
 laid for two persons, sat a young man of between 
 twenty-five and twenty-eight years of age. His 
 appearance had already attracted the attention 
 of the waiters, the dame du comptoir, and 
 several of the guests ; for although one could 
 see at a glance that the stranger was a gentle- 
 man, yet in this room, so luxuriously furnished, 
 and among the elegantly dressed ladies and 
 gentlemen who were seated at the tables around 
 him, he did not seem to be quite in his right 
 place. He wore a faded travelling suit, which, 
 like himself, had evidently seen a good deal of 
 rough weather. He had straight light hair, 
 and clear grey eyes, one glance from which 
 caused the inquisitive looks of those who wished 
 to examine him to fall quickly and involuntarily. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 67 
 
 His nose and mouth were large but well-shaped ; 
 his forehead was high, and, as far as the hat had 
 protected it, remarkably fair. The remainder 
 of the thin, powerful face was much sunburnt, 
 and formed a strange contrast with the ivory- 
 white forehead, the fair hair, and the greyish- 
 blue eyes. A long tawny moustache fell low 
 over the finely cut mouth. The fearless, honest 
 look, the small round head, the broad shoulders, 
 the powerful chest, the large, well-shaped, sinewy 
 hands, and the long legs, presented altogether 
 an appearance which seemed to belong to times 
 long gone by. An iron helmet and a heavy 
 sword would have better suited the figure of 
 the stranger than the black silk hat and the 
 slender cane which the waiter had taken from 
 him on his entering the room. 
 
 The young man had looked at his watch 
 several times, and as soon as the clock struck 
 seven he beckoned to the wa^er. 
 
 " Give me a good dinner," he said. 
 
 " Does not monsieur wish to order anything 
 in particular ? " 
 
 " No, I leave that to you ; bring me a good 
 dinner." 
 
 " By your order, I laid covers for two." 
 
68 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 " Yes, but it seems my friend is not coming. 
 He may, perhaps, be late, and you can serve 
 him when he comes/' 
 
 The stranger spoke French fluently, but with 
 an unmistakable English accent. The experi- 
 enced waiter, who during ten years had seen 
 great and noble personages from all parts of the 
 world, at once classed the new guest under this 
 head : "A crazy lord who has been shooting 
 tigers in India, and wants now to beat the 
 Parisian preserves." 
 
 The supposed lord had finished his oysters, 
 soup, and patties, and was about to do justice 
 to a more substantial dish which had been set 
 before him, when the door opened, and George 
 Forbes, dressed with faultless elegance, entered 
 the room. He bowed to the lady at the comp- 
 toir, and went up to the sunburnt stranger, who 
 merely looked up, and, without allowing himself 
 to be disturbed in his dinner, said 
 
 " You are late. But, as you see, I did not 
 let that interfere with me/' 
 
 " One must be punctual with you, it seems," 
 replied Forbes, with a smile. 
 
 " No, I don't care about that, so long as I am 
 not expected to wait. Take a seat. I have 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 69 
 
 already ascertained that my appetite is better 
 than yours, and if you hurry a little, we may 
 reach dessert together." 
 
 Forbes did as he was told, and took up the 
 bill of fare, which he appeared to study care- 
 fully. 
 
 How was it that Baldwin, whom he had known 
 only five days, took liberties with him which 
 none of his Parisian acquaintances would have 
 attempted ? Every one of them would have 
 waited for him at least a quarter of an hour, or, 
 if they had not done so, would, at any rate, have 
 offered some excuse. Baldwin had not granted 
 him one minute's grace, and had never thought 
 of apologising. On the other hand, Forbes, 
 who, as a rule, paid no attention to the feelings 
 of others, and who was spoiled by the attentive 
 courtesy he met with on all sides, not only 
 thought Baldwin's conduct perfectly natural, but 
 even said, in an undertone, " I beg your pardon"; 
 while the other nodded good-humouredly, as 
 much as to say, " Never mind ; I forgive you." 
 
 Only six days before, Forbes had received the 
 following despatch from Havre: "Graham will 
 have informed you of my arrival. I will call 
 on you to-morrow morning. Gordon Baldwin." 
 
70 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 And, on the following day, Mr Gordon Baldwin, 
 in an old grey travelling suit and a soft felt hat, 
 but with faultless linen, had made his appear- 
 ance. 
 
 He had shaken Forbes's hand heartily, like 
 an old friend, and had begun talking at once 
 in such a quiet, sensible, comfortable way, that 
 Forbes, whose manner at first had been some- 
 what cold and constrained, had gradually 
 assumed a more friendly attitude, and had 
 become almost sociable. 
 
 An hour of pleasant conversation had passed 
 quickly. Baldwin sat in an easy-chair, and 
 talked about Japan, and Graham, and about his 
 business and plans. Now and then he indulged 
 in some humorous but always good-tempered 
 remark, and then his bright eyes laughed so 
 merrily that Forbes listened with a real, and, to 
 him, perfectly novel, sense of pleasure. When 
 breakfast was announced, he invited the stranger 
 to share it with him ; and after the meal was 
 over, he asked him to stop at his house during 
 the few days he intended to spend in Paris. 
 Baldwin accepted the invitation with the same 
 easy grace with which he had taken the 
 cigar his host had offered ten minutes before, 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 71 
 
 and which he was then smoking with visible 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Since then, Forbes and Baldwin had been 
 together from morning to night, almost with- 
 out interruption, and an intimacy of a peculiar 
 sort had sprung up between these two men 
 who were so totally unlike. Baldwin saw 
 nothing strange in this, and never gave the 
 matter a second thought, but Forbes was aston- 
 ished. He could not understand why it was 
 that, when he was with Baldwin, he felt him- 
 self to be a different and a better man than 
 his usual self. He could talk and joke unre- 
 servedly with the " Wild Man of Yesso," as he 
 called him ; and more than once he had caught 
 himself speaking to his new friend quite confi- 
 dentially. 
 
 Baldwin wanted absolutely nothing of Forbes. 
 There lay the secret of the pleasant impression 
 he had made on the suspicious rich man. He 
 desired neither his horses, nor his opera-box, nor 
 his money. He ignored thoroughly and sin- 
 cerely that his host was the " rich Mr Forbes." 
 He saw nothing in his new acquaintance but a 
 pleasant companion. Forbes was conscious of 
 this. It was a new and refreshing feeling for 
 
72 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 him to associate with a man who wanted no 
 favours of him with a man, indeed, on whom 
 he could confer no favours, even if he tried. 
 
 "Well, what have you ordered?" inquired 
 Forbes, after he had taken his seat opposite 
 to Baldwin. 
 
 " A good dinner." 
 
 " I hope you will get it. What is it to be ? " 
 
 "I do not know yet; but I have an excel- 
 lent appetite, and I am ready for any agreeable 
 surprise." 
 
 " Did you leave it to the waiter's choice ? " 
 
 "Entirely." 
 
 Forbes smiled. 
 
 " Can you make out this nonsense ? " con- 
 tinued Baldwin, taking up the bill of fare : 
 " Potage Parmentier, Filet de sole Joinville 
 why not Nemours or Montpensier ? Epi- 
 grammes d'agneau, Chaufroid de Volatile, &c., 
 &c. I really understand the language of the 
 Ainos of Yesso a great deal better than this 
 culinary jargon." 
 
 Forbes called the waiter ; and in a peremp- 
 tory tone, but with many detailed instructions, 
 ordered a choice dinner. Baldwin, evidently 
 amused, listened attentively. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 73 
 
 "You know everything," he said, with a 
 smile. " You must be my teacher here." 
 
 " With pleasure. By the by, have you been 
 to your tailor ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " When are you to have your things ? " 
 
 " To-morrow night." 
 
 " It is high time." 
 
 " Is it really ? " said Baldwin, quite unmoved. 
 Then he examined attentively the sleeves of his 
 coat, and added thoughtfully, "It is only a 
 couple of months since this suit cost me a small 
 fortune in San Francisco. True, it has seen 
 a deal of rough weather since then on the 
 Prairies and on the Atlantic ; but it seems to 
 me to be very good still. However, after to- 
 morrow I will appear before you in festive 
 garments only." 
 
 At about half-past seven an elderly, gentle- 
 man-like man, with an elegantly dressed and 
 handsome young lady, entered the restaurant, 
 and took their seats at a table near our two 
 friends. Forbes, who was seated with his back 
 to the new-comers, did not at first notice them ; 
 but the young lady quickly attracted the un- 
 obtrusively approving attention of Baldwin. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 This circumstance had not been unremarked 
 by her, and the eyes of the young Parisian and 
 the traveller met more than once. 
 
 After a while Forbes became aware that 
 something was going on behind his back, and 
 asked carelessly 
 
 " What are you looking at ? " 
 
 " At a pretty face." 
 
 Forbes turned round slowly ; then, colouring 
 slightly, he rose, bowed, and went up to the 
 table at which the old gentleman and his young 
 companion were seated. They received him in 
 the most friendly manner. 
 
 "I suppose Mrs Leland has not returned to 
 Paris," said Forbes. 
 
 " No, we expect her to-morrow," replied the 
 old gentleman ; " and you see that we are 
 taking undue advantage of our liberty. For 
 the last four days, we have not dined once 
 at home. Jane wants me to show her the 
 Parisian restaurants ; and I, like a well -trained 
 father, make it a point to obey her." 
 
 " Is that gentleman your friend of whom you 
 spoke yesterday ? " asked the young lady in a 
 whisper. 
 
 "Yes," replied Forbes in the same tone; and 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 75 
 
 smiling with some embarrassment, he added, 
 "You see I have not exaggerated; he comes 
 straight from the wilderness ; but in a few 
 days he will have a more civilised appearance, 
 and I will then take the liberty of introducing 
 him to you." 
 
 " Your friend will always be welcome," said 
 the old gentleman. 
 
 Forbes went back to his place opposite Bald- 
 win, and in that affectedly unconcerned manner 
 which we generally assume when speaking of 
 a person who we know is watching us, he told 
 him that the young lady was Miss Jane Leland, 
 the daughter of Mr Leland, a rich banker of 
 New York. 
 
 "Kich or poor," said Baldwin, "she is ex- 
 ceedingly pretty, and pleases me very much." 
 
 "You shall make her acquaintance," con- 
 tinued Forbes. " I have already spoken of you, 
 and will introduce you whenever you like." 
 
 Jane Leland knew very well that the two 
 young men were speaking of her ; but she was 
 accustomed to attract attention, and she man- 
 aged to look perfectly cool and unconscious. A 
 few minutes later, Baldwin and Forbes rose to 
 leave the restaurant. Forbes stepped up once 
 
76 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 more to Mr Leland's table to say good-bye, 
 while Baldwin passed on, with one of those 
 awkward half-bows which we sometimes make 
 to people whom we know without having been 
 introduced to them. 
 
 III. 
 
 A few days after Baldwin had seen Miss 
 Leland for the first time, he was formally pre- 
 sented to the young lady and her parents, and 
 in a very short time he became a frequent and 
 welcome visitor at the house of the American 
 family. In the beginning of March he had 
 gone to London on business ; but at the end 
 of a week, and much sooner than he was ex- 
 pected, he had returned : and now he had been 
 in Paris two months, without even alluding to 
 any intention of going away soon. 
 
 Forbes was more than satisfied with this state 
 of things he was truly delighted. His whole 
 mode of life had been most agreeably changed 
 by the presence of that cheerful unassuming 
 guest in his house. Already he began to look 
 forward with uneasiness to the time when this 
 pleasant intercourse must come to an end. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 77 
 
 Baldwin had said once, before his journey to 
 England, that towards the end of the year he 
 would return to Hakodate. 
 
 " Why do you not remain in Europe ? " said 
 Forbes. 
 
 "Because my business is in Japan, and my 
 money is invested there." 
 
 " Cannot you liquidate your business ? " asked 
 Forbes again. " You surely do not intend to 
 spend your whole life among those half-civilised 
 Japanese and those wild Ainos." 
 
 " Certainly not ; but I must bear it a little 
 longer, till I have earned enough to live in 
 Europe without the help of the income which 
 my Japanese business gives me at present." 
 
 " And how long will that take ? " 
 
 " About four or five years, with good luck ? " 
 
 " Five years if you are lucky I That is a 
 long time. And now, supposing you have no 
 such luck as you expect, what then ? " 
 
 " I never have given that a thought. I let 
 the morrow take care of itself." 
 
 " And when do you think of going back ? " 
 
 "There is no hurry about that probably 
 about the end of the year. If I am in Hako- 
 date by next spring, it will be time enough." 
 
78 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 The month of May had come, and Baldwin 
 had not spoken again of going away nor did 
 he seem to think about it. And, indeed, so it 
 was ; the thought of leaving Paris never came 
 to him. The beautiful eyes of Jane Leland had 
 cast a spell upon him. He was madly, hope- 
 lessly in love with her. He had been, in the 
 fullest sense of the word, bewitched by the 
 brown-eyed, golden-haired, graceful American 
 girl. All his thoughts, wishes, and hopes were 
 centred in her. This unspoken passion made 
 him as happy, as miserable, as light-hearted, as 
 melancholy, as generous, as cowardly, and as 
 silly as it does most people in the same enviable 
 condition. In one respect only, Baldwin dif- 
 fered from most lovers : he did not talk about 
 his love. He had not made a confidant of 
 Forbes, who, nevertheless, had long been aware 
 of his friend's state of mind. Jane, too to say 
 nothing of Mr and Mrs Leland had, without 
 much difficulty, guessed their new friend's secret. 
 
 Mrs Leland, nee De Montemars, was by no 
 means pleased at this discovery, but neither was 
 she made uneasy by it. She reposed the most 
 complete and well-justified confidence in her 
 prudent Jane. Mr Baldwin was not a son-in- 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 79 
 
 law according to her coldly calculating heart. 
 She had long ago selected the wealthy George 
 Forbes as a suitable husband for her daughter. 
 
 Old Mr Leland felt very kindly towards the 
 young Englishman, but he was not allowed to 
 have any voice in the matter. His wife, indeed, 
 had very quickly put a stop to his remarks when, 
 one evening, he had somewhat timidly alluded 
 to the amiable qualities of " the young man 
 from Japan." 
 
 Jane herself was not particularly proud of 
 her last conquest. She was accustomed to tri- 
 umph. She certainly did not dislike Baldwin, 
 but the thought of marrying him had never 
 once occurred to her. 
 
 She was now three-and-twenty, and during 
 the last four years she had been courted in the 
 most various ways. She numbered, in her col- 
 lection, sentimental, impassioned, melancholy, 
 witty, and even sensible admirers. Each in 
 turn had amused her for a while, and then had 
 gradually become uninteresting, if not tiresome. 
 
 Three of them had made her offers of mar- 
 riage, which she had declined unconditionally, 
 without a moment's hesitation. She really did 
 not quite know herself what were the qualities 
 
80 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 her future husband ought to possess in order to 
 please her. A great name, a brilliant position, 
 a large fortune, might have, if not conquered 
 her, at least made her hesitate. None of her 
 suitors had possessed these qualifications. Nor 
 had Baldwin an illustrious name or great riches 
 to command particular favour. The natural 
 simplicity of his manners amused her that was 
 his sole merit in her eyes. 
 
 The only man of her acquaintance who occu- 
 pied her thoughts was Forbes, and he did not 
 owe this distinction to his wealth. She cer- 
 tainly thought of it sometimes, and pictured to 
 herself how pleasant it would be to surpass all 
 her friends and acquaintances in splendour and 
 extravagance ; but* what attracted her most was 
 the aristocratic bearing and the indifference of 
 the young millionaire. 
 
 Now and then, in America, one meets with 
 descendants of German or English immigrants in 
 whom every trace of their origin has been oblit- 
 erated, after a few generations, by the influences 
 of climate and of a new mode of life. The 
 ancestral type of features has entirely disap- 
 peared. They have small refined features, a 
 peculiarly delicate complexion, large, intelligent, 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 81 
 
 bright eyes, small well-shaped hands and feet, 
 and long slender limbs. Their bearing is bold 
 and dignified ; their movements are graceful 
 and self-assured. They look more like the heirs 
 of ancient and noble names than the descendants 
 of square-shouldered thick-set farmers and work- 
 men driven by want and misery from their old 
 homes. One even often learns with surprise 
 that they themselves have, in their youth, car- 
 ried on some trade or business which in Europe 
 is only followed by the lower and poorer classes. 
 Forbes was one of these, so to speak, unjus- 
 tifiably aristocratic - looking men. His grand- 
 father had been a poor farmer ; his father had 
 dug a fortune out of the Californian mines ; yet 
 the slenderly built George Forbes moved about 
 with remarkable dignity, and thoroughly gen- 
 tleman-like self-possession. His great wealth 
 threw a sort of artificial halo around him. He 
 rode and drove the best horses ; he won and 
 lost large sums at play with perfect equanimity; 
 he never asked a service, nor even the smallest 
 favour, of anybody; he was no respecter of 
 persons or of things ; he was polite, and at the 
 same time regardless of others ; lastly, he knew 
 how to dress plainly but in perfect good taste. 
 
82. GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 Jane saw all this, and admired it. In her 
 heart she even overrated the value of the mani- 
 fold recommendations of her wealthy com try- 
 man, while at the same time she was conscious 
 that her beautiful eyes had no great power over 
 him, and that his serenity was not disturbed for 
 one moment by her presence. She felt this 
 more bitterly than any one could imagine far 
 more bitterly than she liked to own to herself. 
 
 "If only he were not so rich," she often 
 thought, " I would show him at least that he 
 pleases me more than the silly, tiresome men 
 who surround me ; but I scarcely dare to be 
 friendly with him, lest he should fancy that I 
 am thinking of his money, like those girls that 
 iiirt with him and those men that flatter him. 
 If he could only lose a good part of his fortune, 
 then he would find out who are his true friends." 
 She treated Forbes with far greater reserve than 
 any of her other acquaintances ; and for Bald- 
 win especially, she had always a pleasant smile 
 and a friendly greeting. Forbes noticed this, 
 and laughed at it inwardly. "She wants to 
 make me jealous of poor Baldwin," he said to 
 himself. The son of the gold-digger did not 
 cherish many illusions ; he had no very exalted 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 83 
 
 opinion of mankind in general, or of Jane Leland 
 in particular. He was not so easy to decoy and 
 tame as the " Wild Man of Yesso." 
 
 On one occasion, when Forbes came home 
 from his club at one o'clock in the morning, 
 having left Baldwin two hours before in Mrs 
 Leland' s drawing-room, he noticed that there 
 was a light still burning in his friend's room. 
 He opened the door, and found Baldwin walk- 
 ing up and down, apparently in deep thought. 
 
 " Why, what keeps you up so late ? " 
 
 " Sit down/' said Baldwin ; " I want to speak 
 to you." 
 
 " My advice is : Don't/' 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Don't marry ! " 
 
 Baldwin looked up in surprise. 
 
 " Who told you that I wished to marry ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Why, you have told me so yourself," re- 
 plied Forbes, laughing. " Do you really think 
 it is a secret, for any one who knows you, that 
 you are in love with Miss Leland ? " 
 
 Baldwin was silent for some time. At last 
 he said, " You spare me the trouble of a preface 
 and a confession, arfd I am thankful for that. 
 
84 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 I will tell you at once what Las happened to- 
 night : Soon after you left us, I unexpectedly 
 found an opportunity of speaking to Miss Leland 
 alone. Mr Leland was at the whist-table, his 
 wife was talking to some ladies, and Jane was 
 left alone in the little room where tea had been 
 served. There I joined her. I do not know 
 how it happened that I came to speak of my 
 love ; but before I knew it myself, I had told 
 her all I had kept hidden so long in my heart. 
 At the very moment when I was expecting her 
 answer, there was a moving of chairs in the 
 drawing-room; the visitors were preparing to 
 go. Jane rose quickly and went into the next 
 room. The guests took leave, and a few minutes 
 later I found myself alone with Mr and Mrs 
 Leland. Jane had disappeared. My heart was 
 so full of what I had said to her, that I was 
 determined to come to an explanation. I re- 
 lated in a few words what had taken place be- 
 tween Jane and myself, and I begged them 
 to grant me the hand of their daughter. Old 
 Mr Leland looked embarrassed, and said, ' You 
 must settle that with my wife/ He then went 
 to the whist-table arid busied himself in putting 
 up the counters and the cards. Mrs Leland, 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 85 
 
 who had remained near the fireplace, and did 
 not ask me to sit down, made a long speech in 
 a low voice to this effect : She had heard from 
 you and from myself that I intended returning 
 to Japan, and she could not give her consent to 
 a marriage which would separate her from her 
 only child. I found nothing to say in reply; 
 the whole affair had assumed suddenly such a 
 totally prosaic aspect. I became embarrassed, 
 and I scarcely remember what I answered. 
 While I was speaking to her, she looked at me 
 in a cold, unsympathetic way ; old Leland was 
 still busy with his cards and counters ; but I 
 could not, and would not, consider myself 
 beaten. Jane had not accepted my offer, but 
 neither had she refused it. I might still hope 
 for the best. So, at last, I said to Mrs Leland 
 that I could not accept her answer as final; 
 that I entreated her to speak to her daughter ; 
 and that I would take the liberty of calling 
 to-morrow afternoon for a reply. I cannot tell 
 you how painful was the hard, business-like tone 
 in which this conversation was carried on. Mrs 
 Leland said, ' I will speak to my daughter. 
 Your visits will always be welcome ; but I will 
 never consent to separate from my only child, 
 
86 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 in order to let her go to a part of the world 
 where she would, in fact, be lost to me/ 
 
 " There followed a long pause, during which 
 her eyes remained fixed on me with that same 
 unfriendly expression. I did not fully realise 
 my position. I felt as if I were in a dream. 
 Everything seemed so strange, so entirely unex- 
 pected. I had gone to the Lelands that evening, 
 as I had done for weeks past, in the hopes of see- 
 ing Jane, but without any positive intention of 
 declaring my love. And now I had spoken, and 
 had not even obtained an answer from Jane ! 
 Now I was called upon, in this formal, business- 
 like manner as if it were a mere everyday 
 question to resign all the happiness I had 
 hoped for ! I felt that I could not collect my 
 thoughts. I had just enough self-possession and 
 judgment left to see that one inconsiderate word 
 might hopelessly ruin all my chances. I took 
 my hat and said once more, 'Speak to your 
 daughter, and allow me to call for your decision 
 to-morrow.' A few seconds later, I found my- 
 self in the street, and for the last hour I have 
 been here. You see I am quite cool, and yet 
 I do not know what to do. Help me, Forbes ! 
 What ought I to do ? If Mrs Leland repeats 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 87 
 
 to-morrow what she has said to-night, what 
 then? Help me, I say!" 
 
 Baldwin spoke calmly, but his eyes shone 
 with a feverish light ; his look was unsteady 
 and his voice sounded hoarse. 
 
 Forbes walked leisurely up to the fireplace, 
 looked at the clock, admired himself in the glass, 
 and smoothed his beautiful curly hair. Baldwin 
 never took his eyes off him. 
 
 " Do you think," said Forbes at last, very 
 quietly, "that you have Miss Leland on your 
 side ? " 
 
 "How can I know?" replied Baldwin, im- 
 patiently ; " have I not told you that she left 
 me without giving me any answer?" 
 
 " Well, my dear fellow, then I really do not 
 know what to advise." He relighted his cigar, 
 which had gone out, and then added slowly, 
 " Wait till to-morrow ; let us see what Mamma 
 Leland has to say to you." 
 
 " But if she simply repeats what she said 
 this evening ? " 
 
 "Well, if I were you, I would wait, any- 
 how." 
 
 " Have you nothing else to say to me ? " 
 
 " I really have not." 
 
88 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 " Then I am no wiser than I was." 
 
 Forbes made no replv Baldwin, who was 
 seated, remained staring into vacancy, while he 
 whistled softly to himself. At last he said 
 
 "Very well; I will wait till to-morrow." 
 Then he passed his hand across his forehead and 
 eyes, and said, " I am tired to death." 
 
 Forbes wished him good-night and left the 
 the room. A quarter of an hour afterwards he 
 was lying in bed reading the evening papers, 
 as was his habit before going to sleep. After a 
 very little while he dropped the paper on the 
 floor, extinguished the light, and was soon sound 
 asleep. 
 
 The next morning, Baldwin, who had passed 
 a sleepless night, was sitting in his room, pale 
 and down-hearted, when the following letter from 
 Mr Leland was brought to him : 
 
 "AVENUE FRIEDLAND, 
 Monday morning. 
 
 "MY DEAR MR BALDWIN, After you left 
 us last night I had a long conversation with my 
 wife and my daughter, and it is my duty to 
 inform you of the decision we have come to. 
 I regret sincerely that I cannot give you better 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 89 
 
 news. Jane is our only child, and you will 
 readily understand that we do not wish to separ- 
 ate from her. She is very grateful for the offer 
 you have made her, and is much flattered by it, 
 but she will not oppose the express wish of her 
 parents. Under these circumstances it would 
 be painful for yourself, and for us, were you to 
 repeat your offer to-day, as was your intention 
 last night. Our decision is irrevocable. I wish 
 you every happiness, with all my heart. I hope 
 that in after-years we may meet again, and re- 
 new, under different circumstances, an acquaint- 
 ance which has been very agreeable to me. My 
 wife sends her best regards ; and I remain, my 
 dear Mr Baldwin, yours very truly, 
 
 "FREDERICK LELAND." 
 
 Baldwin, after reading this letter, sat for a 
 long while motionless, and apparently petrified. 
 At twelve the servant came to announce break- 
 fast, and to say that Mr Forbes was waiting for 
 him in the dining-room. Baldwin replied that 
 he would come immediately; but he forgot 
 what he had said, and a quarter of an hour 
 later, Forbes himself came to find out what kept 
 him in his room. Baldwin, without saying a 
 
90 ' GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 word, handed him the letter, on which Forbes 
 bestowed merely a passing glance. 
 
 " We will talk about this after breakfast/' he 
 said; " come down, it is half-past twelve." 
 
 Baldwin followed his host as in a dream, and 
 for half an hour he sat opposite to him at the 
 breakfast-table without speaking. Forbes had 
 taken a long ride in the morning, and was 
 blessed with an excellent appetite. When he 
 had satisfied his hunger, however, he was ready 
 to listen to the love-affairs of his best friend. 
 
 " Give me that letter again," he said, when 
 he was seated with Baldwin in the smoking- 
 room ; "I want to read it over carefully before 
 I give you my opinion." 
 
 He lighted a cigar very leisurely, threw him- 
 self into an easy-chair, putting his legs up on 
 another chair, and when he had made himself 
 thoroughly comfortable, and had even examined 
 for a moment, with evident satisfaction, his 
 small, well-made boots, he began to read. 
 
 " That letter has been dictated by Mamma 
 Leland," he said, when he had reached the sig- 
 nature. " The old gentleman would never have 
 written it I know his style ; and she has taken 
 pains, too, to make it look awkward and natural. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 91 
 
 Her own little notes have a much finer finish. 
 But the letter is not bad of its kind. The ' nee 
 De Montemars ' has anticipated any new attack 
 which you might attempt, and has defeated it 
 beforehand." 
 
 " Forbes, will you do me a favour ? " 
 
 " With pleasure/' 
 
 " Go to Mrs L eland ; speak a kind word for 
 me. ;; 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, what could I say 1 
 Father, mother, and daughter unanimously reject 
 your offer. Follow my advice and let the mat- 
 ter drop." 
 
 Baldwin looked at him in astonishment, but 
 did not answer. Forbes felt that in his desire 
 to get rid of the whole affair which did not 
 interest him very much he had perhaps acted 
 somewhat awkwardly ; so, with some hesitation 
 in his tone and manner like one who is trying 
 to get out of a difficulty, and hopes to find a 
 way while he is speaking he said, 
 
 " Put yourself in that woman's place. . . . 
 After all, she is not so very much in the wrong. 
 . . . She does not wish to separate from her 
 daughter. ... If you had an only daughter, 
 would you like her to go and live among the 
 
92 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 Ainos \ . . . Cannot you make a new offer on 
 a different basis 1 ... Cannot you say you 
 would remain in Europe ? ... By that means, 
 perhaps, everything might be pleasantly arranged. 
 But go and plead your cause yourself, and don't 
 take an outsider into the business. That might 
 make an unfavourable impression. Qui veut, 
 va ; qui ne veut pas, envoie." 
 
 " No, I must return to Japan," replied Bald- 
 win ; " my interests would suffer too much were 
 I to remain here now." 
 
 " Well, make up your mind to a sacrifice." 
 
 " If it were only that ! " exclaimed Baldwin. 
 " I would gladly give every penny I have if it 
 would make Mrs Leland change her mind. But, 
 as a poor man, I could not presume to offer 
 myself as a husband for Jane." 
 
 He stopped suddenly, and walked up and 
 down the room in deep thought ; then, speaking 
 to himself- rather than to his companion, he 
 said 
 
 " There is perhaps one way of arranging every- 
 thing." 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " If I could find somebody to buy a share of 
 my business, which is really a sound and good 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 93 
 
 one." He stopped again and cast a timid glance 
 at Forbes. 
 
 " How could that be done ? " 
 
 "I cannot see my way quite clearly in the mat- 
 ter at present," replied Baldwin ; " I will think 
 it over, and talk to you about it this evening." 
 
 "Yes, do," said Forbes, in a careless tone. 
 Then he looked at his watch, and added, "I 
 have a few calls to make. I will dine at seven 
 at the Cafe Anglais, and you can meet me there 
 if you like. At any rate, I will be here at about 
 nine." And he left the room. " I see what 
 you are after, Master Baldwin," he said to him- 
 self as soon as he was outside ; " always the 
 same old story 1 " 
 
 Baldwin had no idea of what was passing in 
 Forbes's mind. He worked the whole afternoon 
 to draw up a statement of his financial position. 
 He happened to have some documents with him 
 which enabled him to prove the correctness of his 
 estimates by facts and figures. He could show 
 that he possessed a fortune of nearly 150,000 
 dollars. In order to arrive at this figure, he 
 had, however, thought himself justified in put- 
 ting down at a fair sum his flourishing business 
 in Japan. He stated that any one who would 
 
94 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 take a share in the concern, bringing with him 
 50,000 dollars, would make a safe and profit- 
 able investment, and that on these conditions, 
 he was ready to take his friend Graham of 
 Hakodate into partnership. Of Graham's con- 
 sent he felt sure beforehand. The 50,000 dol- 
 lars with which Graham would enter the firm 
 would enable them to extend the business, and 
 found a branch establishment in Europe. The 
 management of this European branch Baldwin 
 would undertake himself. 
 
 These were the heads of his statement. . In 
 an accompanying letter, Baldwin asked For- 
 bes to lend these 50,000 dollars to his friend 
 Graham. As an additional guarantee, he pro- 
 posed to mortgage his own and Graham's landed 
 property in Hakodate, to secure Forbes. Thus 
 the risk to be incurred in granting the loan 
 would be reduced to a minimum. 
 
 Baldwin worked hard for several hours to 
 finish his calculations and his letter. He had 
 been much excited ; but as he read over his 
 work when it was done, he felt satisfied with it, 
 and that calmed him a little. He had written 
 with perfect honesty. He had not tried to 
 represent his circumstances as better than they 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 95 
 
 were. A stranger, indeed, might perhaps raise 
 objections but then Forbes was no stranger. . . . 
 
 Baldwin knew that Forbes possessed a large 
 fortune, and he took it for granted that he 
 would be ready to do this thing to oblige, not 
 only him, but also Graham, who had been the 
 friend of his youth. 
 
 He looked at his watch and saw that it was too 
 kte to go to the Cafe Anglais. So he took a hasty 
 dinner at a restaurant in the Champs Elyse'es 
 and rushed home immediately afterwards. 
 
 Forbes was not punctual ; it was nearly ten 
 when he made his appearance. He said some- 
 thing by way of excuse, to which his friend 
 paid no attention. He was evidently in a bad 
 humour when he followed Baldwin into his room. 
 
 " Here," said Baldwin, handing him the long, 
 carefully written statement, " read this first." 
 
 Forbes had not taken off his hat, and alto- 
 gether looked like a man who has not much 
 time to spare. He turned over quickly the 
 closely written pages, and soon came to the end 
 of the memorandum which had cost poor Bald- 
 win so many hours of conscientious labour. 
 
 " I do not see yet what is the drift of this/' he 
 said, without lifting his eyes off the manuscript, 
 
96 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 " but I can point out at once one great mistake 
 which may fatally weaken your whole argument. 
 ... I, too, am a man of business," he added, 
 somewhat pettishly, as if in answer to some 
 implied remark from Baldwin, who had not said 
 a word, and who stood looking at him in anxious 
 suspense. 
 
 "You estimate your fortune at 150,000 dol- 
 lars. That cannot be correct, to begin with, 
 since you are willing to sell one-half for 50,000 
 dollars. By your own showing, therefore, you 
 are only worth 100,000 dollars. But even from 
 that sum, Leland, who is a cautious man, would 
 deduct one-half, as your money is invested in 
 a business which may be good to-day and bad 
 to-morrow. Again, you are ready, you say, 
 to become joint security with Graham for the 
 50,000 dollars you wish to raise; but should 
 you be unfortunate in your business a contin- 
 gency which must certainly be taken into 
 account you might be utterly ruined. This 
 alone will cause old Leland to consider your 
 statement as resting upon a very weak founda- 
 tion, and consequently to reject it." 
 
 He had assumed, while speaking, a certain 
 look of superiority, as though he Lad discovered 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 9 "7 
 
 something very pleasant, and he repeated slowly, 
 " Yes, reject it." After a short pause he con- 
 tinued 
 
 "But, even supposing that Leland were to 
 accept your calculations which, I am convinced, 
 he will not your statement will by no means 
 satisfy him. I see you reckon upon a certain 
 income of 12,000 dollars. You mention that 
 sum as a mininum. Leland will not suppose 
 for a moment that you have undervalued your 
 property, and he will set down that sum as 
 a maximum. But, my dear fellow, what are 
 12,000 dollars a-year for a spoilt child like Jane 
 Leland 1 In her father's house more than 
 double that sum is spent, and they do not think 
 themselves rich enough. With 12,000 dollars, 
 or about 2500 a-year, one cannot do much in 
 Paris. For instance, you could not think of 
 keeping your own carriage and horses ; and just 
 imagine Jane Leland in a cab 1 Impossible ! 
 . . . Believe me, my dear Baldwin, it won't do ; 
 better give it up." 
 
 " Here, read this," replied Baldwin, gloomily, 
 and he handed Forbes the letter in which he 
 was asked to advance the 50,000 dollars to 
 Graham. Forbes looked at it for a moment. 
 
 G 
 
98 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 " You think me richer than I am," he said. 
 " I cannot dispose of 50,000 dollars as easily as 
 you fancy. But even if I could, what would be 
 the use ? I repeat, Leland is far too practical a 
 man to accept your offer. Believe me, Baldwin, 
 the best thing you can do is to give up the 
 whole thing." 
 
 " Then you will not help me ? " 
 
 " I will help you with pleasure, if it is 
 possible. I will see what I can do. But I 
 can make no positive promise ; and I repeat 
 again, I do not think my help would do you 
 any good." 
 
 "What am I to do, then?" 
 
 " Well, how can I know ? " 
 
 " May I tell Leland that I think I can make 
 arrangements to remain in Europe, if on that 
 condition he will give me his daughter ? " 
 
 " Certainly, tell him so ; that can do no harm ; 
 but . . . but ... as I said before, I do not 
 know yet whether I can get that money for you. 
 I would have to borrow it. 50,000 dollars is 
 a large sum a quarter of a million of francs 
 a very large sum. ... If you only knew 
 how many claims are made on me from all 
 sides. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 99 
 
 Baldwin looked at Forbes with an expression 
 so peculiar, so bitter, and at the same time so 
 pitying, that the poor millionaire was suddenly 
 silenced. 
 
 " Let us say no more about it," said Baldwin, 
 gently; "I have been mistaken." 
 
 A feeling of shame and anger took possession 
 of Forbes. He felt that Baldwin was looking 
 down upon him, as from some lofty eminence. 
 But had he a right to do so ? What did it all 
 amount to ? Always the same old story. He, 
 Forbes, was to give money. Was he good for 
 nothing else in this world than to pay, in order 
 to get other people, strangers, out of their diffi- 
 culties ? Who had ever helped him ? Nobody. 
 He wanted nothing of Baldwin ; what right had 
 Baldwin to ask a favour of him ? He had taken 
 a liking to the stranger, because he seemed un- 
 selfish and disinterested. But after all, Baldwin 
 was just like the other people with whom he 
 had come in contact. Baldwin, like the rest, 
 wanted to get something out of him. " I will 
 riot always let everybody make use of me, and 
 get the better of me," he said to himself. "The 
 friendship of that man is not worth 50,000 
 dollars. Not a penny will I give for it, if I have 
 
100 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 to pay for it. It was only of value so long as 
 it was not venal." 
 
 "You judge me unfairly," he said aloud; 
 "but it would be of no use to try and clear 
 up this misunderstanding. . . . Good night, 
 Baldwin." 
 
 " Good night." 
 
 A few minutes later, Baldwin heard the roll 
 of the carriage which took Forbes to his club. 
 There he played as usual, but, if possible, with 
 even less interest than was his wont. His 
 reason furnished him with a hundred arguments 
 to justify his conduct towards Baldwin ; but his 
 heart, cold as it was, told him that he had acted 
 meanly and ungenerously. No : Baldwin was 
 no common schemer who wanted to take advan- 
 tage of him. And by his side there stood an- 
 other man, whose image Forbes could not drive 
 away a man with a prematurely aged face, 
 with a sad look, and a sorrowful smile on his 
 lips Thomas 1 Baldwin, a perfect stranger, 
 had shown him kindness. " I owe it to Baldwin 
 that I have not gone quite to ruin," Thomas had 
 written to Forbes. This thought gnawed at the 
 heart of the rich man, and his conscience smote 
 him. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 101 
 
 " He shall have the money," he said to him- 
 self, suddenly, and a genial feeling of warmth, 
 which he had not known for years, filled his 
 heart. 
 
 " Va bangue!" he said aloud, and pushed a 
 heap of gold pieces and bank-notes into the 
 middle of the table. He lost. It took a long 
 time to count the money. He waited impa- 
 tiently, and had to pay a considerable sum. 
 Then he rose and drove home. 
 
 He looked up at Baldwin's windows, and saw 
 no light in them. "He is gone to bed," thought 
 Forbes. He went into his own room, but he 
 was excited, and it was long before he fell asleep. 
 At a late hour the next morning, his servant 
 brought him a letter. He recognised Baldwin's 
 handwriting, and, tearing open the envelope, he 
 read* 
 
 " DEAR FORBES, Accept my best thanks for 
 the kindness with which you have received me. 
 I have made up my mind to go to London. 
 Your servant tells me that you are still asleep, 
 and I do not wish to disturb you. Very faith- 
 fully yours, GORDON BALDWIN." 
 
102 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 IY. 
 
 Four years had gone by quickly. Baldwin was 
 now thirty-two, and Forbes was not far from 
 forty. Mrs Leland was dead, and had not seen 
 the fulfilment of the great wish of her heart, 
 the union of her daughter Jane with George 
 Forbes. 
 
 Jane was still young and beautiful, but she 
 was discontented and bitter at heart. This was 
 shown by the thin compressed lips of her firmly 
 set mouth, by the sharp look of her dark eyes, 
 and by the almost stern expression of her coun- 
 tenance. Life, with her, had not kept its fair 
 promise. The years of her first fresh youth had 
 gone by. Her friends and companions many 
 of them less beautiful and less wealthy than her- 
 self had married, and now held a position in 
 society from which they seemed to look down 
 upon Jane, whose superiority they had formerly 
 acknowledged without difficulty. There had 
 been numerous suitors for her hand during all 
 these years, but she had rejected them all. She 
 knew why she had done so. The only man who 
 could make her heart beat faster and whose hom- 
 age would have flattered her, George Forbes, 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 103 
 
 seemed not to care for her. Quite impercep- 
 tibly, the circle of her admirers had dwindled. 
 She felt lonely since the death of her mother. 
 She still was to be seen in the American colony 
 of Paris, where' her great beauty and wealth gave 
 her a prominent position, but she seemed isolated 
 there. The young unmarried girls were afraid 
 of her sharp tongue ; and the young men felt 
 embarrassed when they were subjected to the 
 cold looks of Jane Leland. 
 
 Sometimes George Forbes would sit down by 
 her side. Then her eyes would brighten with a 
 tender reproachful expression, which remained 
 unnoticed by the millionaire. He sat there per- 
 fectly cool and indifferent ; and while Jane was 
 looking at him to impress the image of the loved 
 face deeper and deeper into her heart, he would 
 criticise with impertinent coolness the dresses of 
 the ladies, or make some sneering remark about 
 the " young people." He treated Jane like a 
 contemporary an old friend of many years' 
 standing. Towards midnight, when every one 
 was bright and cheerful, when the youthful faces 
 were flushed with pleasure and excitement, he 
 would rise with a scarcely suppressed yawn to 
 go to his club and gamble there for an hour or 
 
104 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 two. He was little changed since the last four 
 years. There was still the same slight graceful 
 figure, the same handsome face which was so 
 familiar to the habitues of the Boulevards, the 
 Bois de Boulogne, and the premieres representa- 
 tions. 
 
 Forbes had felt the loss of Baldwin very much 
 for a short time, and had even gone to London 
 in the hopes of finding him. He had also writ- 
 ten to him, but had received no answer. Then 
 he had forgotten him. He had to think of so 
 many other things, of himself, for instance. 
 From time to time, at intervals which grew 
 more and more distant, the remembrance of 
 the " wild man " rose up in his heart. Then he- 
 would feel ashamed and humbled, and would 
 pass his hand impatiently across his brow, as if 
 to drive away a painful vision. Sometimes he 
 would try and justify himself in his own eyes, 
 and stifle the sense of mortification. " Well, I 
 have at any rate saved fifty thousand dollars ! " 
 he would say to himself; but he knew well 
 enough that he did not believe it. He knew 
 that the money Baldwin had asked him to lend, 
 would not have been lost, and that he had missed 
 an opportunity, which might never occur again 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 105 
 
 in his monotonous useless life, to do a good deed 
 to a good man. Of Thomas Graham, he had 
 heard nothing more. " He may be dead for 
 aught I know," Forbes said to himself. A gloomy 
 feeling came over him when he remembered 
 that the last request that Thomas had made had 
 not been granted, and that the kindness shown 
 to him by Baldwin had not been repaid, as he 
 had begged. 
 
 Baldwin had spent those four years in Japan. 
 Fortune had smiled upon him and he had be- 
 come a rich man. Graham, his true and faithful 
 friend, had been his partner for the last three 
 years. Baldwin had proposed that he should 
 go to Europe and give himself a good long holi- 
 day ; but the quiet melancholy man had refused 
 very gently but with great determination. 
 "Here in Hakodate, I have at last found peace," 
 he said, " and here I will stay. I want nothing, 
 I desire nothing more than what I have. Go to 
 Europe yourself. I wish you, from my heart, 
 all the happiness you can find at home. I hope 
 all your wishes will be realised. As for me, I 
 expect nothing more from the world out there, 
 and I shall stay here." 
 
 Baldwin had told Graham what had taken 
 
106 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 place in Paris, and he had also mentioned, but 
 without any bitterness, the mean behaviour of 
 Forbes. Graham had turned pale when he had 
 heard it. " George is cold-hearted and suspi- 
 cious/ 5 he had said, "but I do not think him 
 bad. I am sorry that his distrust has misled 
 him. I would have forgiven him everything 
 all that I think I have to reproach him with 
 if he had rendered you a great service." 
 
 Baldwin had noticed that any allusion to 
 Forbes was painful to his friend ; the recollec- 
 tions of Paris were sad also for himself. The 
 two, by tacit agreement, never spoke again of 
 Baldwin's unfortunate journey to Europe. 
 
 In time, the remembrance of Jane grew fainter 
 in Baldwin's heart. His love for her became 
 calmer, colder, and so disappeared gradually. 
 His anger towards Forbes cooled down in like 
 manner. The small-minded man, whom he had 
 at first heartily despised, became an object of 
 indifference. He thought of him seldom and 
 without bitterness. Time destroys everything. 
 
 In the last days of the year 186- Baldwin 
 once more said good-bye to Graham, to make a 
 new trip to Europe. Nothing had been defi- 
 nitely settled about his return to Japan. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 107 
 
 "Kemain at home as long as you like," 
 Graham had said ; " I am happy to think that 
 you are going to enjoy yourself. You are too 
 young to bury yourself out here, as I have done. 
 If you care to remain in England or in France, 
 let no thought of me prevent you. I am con- 
 tent to stay some years longer in Japan. If at 
 any time I should wish to get away from here 
 which is not likely I shall know it in time to 
 ask you to take my place for a while, or I will 
 be able to settle our business so that it may be 
 carried on without either your presence or mine. 
 Do not trouble yourself about me. I can get 
 on very well alone. Enjoy yourself, and good- 
 bye," 
 
 And now Baldwin was once more in Europe 
 a quiet, serious man, older in heart and in 
 looks than in years ; but full of confidence, and 
 inspiring confidence in others, as before. He 
 had arrived at Marseilles two or three days 
 before, in a steamer of the Messageries Imperi- 
 ales, and had been in Paris a few hours. He 
 had gone to an hotel in the Kue de la Paix, 
 where he intended to remain a week before he 
 went on to London. It was the month of 
 March. 
 
108 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 As soon as he had landed on French soil, 
 Baldwin had felt a great wish to see Paris once 
 more. He could not have explained what at- 
 tracted him. He did not hope to see Jane again, 
 he did not even wish it. He had never inquired 
 after her, and thought she must have married 
 long ago. For him she was lost dead. But 
 he wished to revisit the place where his warm 
 young heart had dreamed a brief and beautiful 
 dream. He thought longingly of the place as 
 one thinks of a spot where a beloved friend lies 
 buried. A sorrowful memory of his younger 
 days drew him towards Paris. 
 
 He slowly changed his dress and went to the 
 cafe where he had dined years ago on his first 
 arrival. The Boulevards appeared strangely 
 familiar. It was like the meeting of old friends. 
 
 o 
 
 He recognised in the shop-windows the same 
 photographs which he had noticed four years 
 before. It seemed to him that he had been 
 absent only a few days. Everything was in the 
 old place ; nothing seemed changed but him- 
 self. He had grown so different so much older, 
 so much poorer in hope, so much sadder ! 
 
 He sat down at the same table where he used 
 to sit with Forbes, and lo ! the same waiter, 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 109 
 
 with apparently the same white apron, the same 
 white neck -tie, and the same patent-leather 
 shoes, came up to him and inquired, in the 
 well-known indifferent tones, what " Monsieur " 
 would like to have for dinner ? 
 
 "Give me a good dinner," said Baldwin. 
 
 The waiter started slightly, and looked more 
 closely at the sunburnt stranger with the white 
 forehead. A faint ray of recollection passed 
 over his sleek pallid face and glistened in his 
 dark cunning eyes. He went to order the 
 dinner, and then returned and remained stand- 
 ing near Baldwin. And suddenly he went close 
 up to him, and leaning over the table with polite 
 familiarity, he asked, " Does Monsieur expect 
 Mr Forbes?" 
 
 Baldwin looked up with a smile and said, 
 " You have a good memory." 
 
 " I never forget my customers," replied the 
 man, evidently flattered. 
 
 He went again to the kitchen, and when he 
 came back he said to Baldwin, " I have changed 
 the bill of fare a little. I remember that Mon- 
 sieur likes highly seasoned dishes, and I have 
 ordered a curried fowl." 
 
 A few minutes later, Forbes entered the room. 
 
110 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 The waiter went up to him and said, " Monsieur 
 is expected." Forbes looked towards the table 
 which the waiter had pointed out, and a sud- 
 den deep flush covered his face. He hesitated 
 for a second, and then walked up to Baldwin. 
 Baldwin rose from his seat, and for one short 
 moment, the two men stood face to face in great 
 embarrassment. Baldwin was the first to hold 
 out his hand, which Forbes seized eagerly and 
 pressed with earnest warmth. 
 
 " I am truly delighted to see you again," he 
 said. " I had no idea that you were in Paris. 
 When did you arrive ? " 
 
 " A few hours ago." 
 
 " And where have you put up ? " 
 
 Baldwin gave the name of his hotel. 
 
 The waiter had taken Forbes's hat and over- 
 coat, and was waiting for further orders. " Give 
 me the same dinner as Mr Baldwin," Forbes 
 said, to get rid of the man. Then he sat down, 
 arranged his cover and unfolded his napkin to 
 fill up a short pause. At last he bent forward, 
 and with greater warmth than was usual with 
 him, he said 
 
 " There has been a misunderstanding between 
 us, Baldwin, and I am sorry for it. I tried to 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. Ill 
 
 find you after you left me so suddenly, but I 
 did not succeed. I also wrote you a letter, 
 addressed to the care of your banker in London, 
 but I received no answer." 
 
 "Let bygones be bygones," said Baldwin. 
 "All that was forgotten long ago." 
 
 " No ; I must beg to be allowed to give an 
 explanation. I give you my word that on that 
 same evening when I saw you last, I had made 
 up my mind to place the sum which you wanted 
 at your disposal." 
 
 " You came a little too late with your friendly 
 intentions." 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and I have often regretted it. 
 I regret it to this day. Believe me, I would 
 like to have been of service to you." 
 
 "I believe you." It was the same quiet 
 deep voice which Forbes had liked to listen 
 to years ago, and which had inspired him 
 with confidence and affection ; but the faithful 
 honest eyes that were now looking at him, and 
 whose steady light he could not endure, were 
 no longer bright and full of life as of yore ; 
 they had a serious, almost sad, expression now. 
 A feeling of shame and remorse he had never ex- 
 perienced before filled the heart of the rich man. 
 
112 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 He would have liked to beg Baldwin's forgive- 
 ness. He would willingly have given a far 
 larger sum than that which he had refused to 
 lend four years ago, if he could thereby have 
 effaced his mistake. 
 
 i regretted your sudden departure very 
 much," he repeated. 
 
 " I believe you. Let the matter rest. Tell 
 me what you are doing." 
 
 Forbes told him that the last four years had 
 gone by in a dull monotonous way, devoid of 
 any interesting incident. Suddenly he inter- 
 rupted the story of his own life to inquire after 
 Graham. 
 
 " He has become my partner," replied Bald- 
 win. " He is quite well. He is a good honest 
 man ; and I have a great affection for him. I 
 only regret that nothing seems to give him 
 pleasure. He is always the same : quiet, friend- 
 ly, kind-hearted, and sad." 
 
 " When you write to him," said Forbes, after 
 a pause, " say that I inquired after him, and 
 that I am glad to hear good news of him." 
 
 "Why don't you write to him yourself? I 
 am sure a letter from you would give him 
 pleasure." 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 113 
 
 Forbes made no reply, and changing the con- 
 versation, he asked abruptly, " What did you 
 say to Mrs Leland's death \ " 
 
 " I did not know she was dead," replied Bald- 
 win with surprise. " And how is Mr Leland ? " 
 
 he continued with some embarrassment 
 
 " and Miss Jane ? " 
 
 The old pain awoke in him with the recollec- 
 tion of the old time. But it was pain without 
 bitterness. Jane, in his mind, belonged to a 
 far-distant time which, with all its beautiful 
 hopes, had gone by long ago. 
 
 " Mr Leland is just the same/' said Forbes. 
 " Indeed I think that his wife's death has made 
 him grow younger. He is once more his own 
 master which had not been the case with him 
 for the last thirty years. The death of that un- 
 comfortable woman was no great loss to any- 
 body. As for Miss Leland, you will find her 
 but little changed. Well, she is no longer 
 a child ; she must be about twenty-seven now, 
 and the first bloom of youth is certainly gone. 
 Girls grow old faster than married women. But 
 Miss Leland is still remarkably handsome the 
 handsomest girl of the whole American colony, 
 which can boast of many a lovely face. It is 
 
 H 
 
114 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 strange she is not married. There has been no 
 lack of suitors, but she has refused them all/' 
 
 Baldwin was struck dumb. A thousand 
 thoughts rushed through his brain. Jane was 
 still free! How was that? After all, he had 
 never received a refusal from herself. Her pa- 
 rents alone had spoken. Was it possible that 
 she loved him 1 Was it too late to ask her for a 
 definite answer ? Should he try once more and 
 seek his happiness where, years ago, he had 
 hoped to find it ? What if she loved him ? . . . 
 His heart throbbed fast at the very thought. . . . 
 And if she did not love him ? Well, that would 
 be no loss. The wound he had received four 
 years ago was healed. He was able to look 
 forward with equanimity to meeting Jane. He 
 hoped indeed little ; but he had nothing to fear. 
 His feeling towards her could hardly be called 
 love ; it was rather a peculiar and intense curi- 
 osity. How would she behave when she saw 
 him again ? Would she be astonished, or joy- 
 fully moved, or indifferent 1 He wanted to be 
 sure about it. 
 
 Forbes perhaps guessed what was going on 
 in Baldwin's mind, for he asked, "Are you 
 going to call on the Lelands ? " 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 9 115 
 
 " I don't know yet," replied Baldwin ; " but 
 I think I would like to see them again." 
 
 " You may have that pleasure this very even- 
 ing. Come with me to the opera : you will find 
 Mr and Miss Leland in my box/' 
 
 Baldwin hesitated. " Shall I call for you ? " 
 urged Forbes, who was anxious to make him- 
 self agreeable to his former friend. " I will be 
 at your hotel in half an hour, just in time for 
 the opera. It is nearly eight now." 
 
 Baldwin consented, and they left the restau- 
 rant. When they entered Forbes's box an hour 
 later, it was empty ; but very soon Mr Leland 
 and Jane made their appearance. Jane recog- 
 nised Baldwin at once, and started back with a 
 little exclamation of surprise. But in an instant, 
 and without any apparent effort, she recovered 
 her self-possession. She had never cared for 
 Baldwin. She had not thought of him for 
 years. He was an acquaintance of former days, 
 an old lover whom she had rejected nothing 
 more. He had gone down in the stream of 
 Time, and had been forgotten without being 
 even regretted. What was it to her that he had 
 turned up again ? She gave him calmly her 
 small gloved hand, nodded to him with a 
 
116 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 friendly smile, and passed on to take her seat 
 in the front of the box. 
 
 Baldwin had to be introduced again to Mr 
 Leland ; but no sooner did the old gentleman 
 recollect the " young man from Japan " than he 
 showed genuine pleasure at meeting him again. 
 He inquired after his health and his circum- 
 stances, and testified his satisfaction at the 
 prosperity of an old friend, by exclaiming half- 
 a-dozen times, " Delighted ! delighted ! " He 
 insisted on making Baldwin sit in front, next to 
 his daughter, while he remained standing at the 
 back of the box with Forbes, who had to tell 
 him everything he knew about his newly found 
 friend. 
 
 As to Baldwin, he was almost choked with 
 emotion. He had wellnigh forgotten Jane dur- 
 ing the last four years, but now the blissful con- 
 fusion which he had always felt in her presence 
 took hold of him again. Jane appeared to him 
 more beautiful than ever. She was dressed 
 plainly, like a young girl, but to Baldwin's eyes 
 she shone forth like a queen in her simple toilet. 
 She looked carelessly round the house to see if 
 she recognised any acquaintances, and Baldwin 
 was thus able to admire her without meeting 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 117 
 
 her eyes. The outline of her features had be- 
 come more sharply defined than before, and this 
 gave still greater refinement to her beauty ; her 
 complexion, too, was paler ; and it seemed to 
 Baldwin that her countenance wore an expres- 
 sion of gentle sadness, instead of the former 
 proud consciousness of victory. For one short 
 moment her eyes met his. He felt himself turn 
 pale. Those eyes had lost the triumphant look 
 of pride which once beamed from them ; they 
 were wearied, regretful, almost appealing for 
 help. Jane certainly was more beautiful than 
 ever. 
 
 The curtain fell, and put an end to Baldwin's 
 mute admiring contemplation. And now she 
 turned towards him and asked him kindly how 
 he had been, and when he had left Japan, and 
 whether he intended to remain in Europe. 
 
 Baldwin completely forgot that an hour before 
 he had only been curious to see what impres- 
 sion their meeting would produce on Jane. Now 
 his inexperienced large heart yearned towards 
 her with all its might. A delightful pain, made 
 up of mingled hope and sorrow, filled his breast. 
 It was with great difficulty he could retain his 
 self-command. And Jane saw it all, as with an 
 
118 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 enchanting smile, and a kind trustful expres- 
 sion, she looked up at him. 
 
 Baldwin went back with Forbes to his hotel 
 after the theatre, silent and abstracted. 
 
 " You do not seem to hear what I am saying 
 to you," remarked Forbes, with a smile. 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; I am a little tired from 
 my journey. You asked me where we should 
 dine to-morrow. It is all the same to me 
 wherever you like." 
 
 " At our old restaurant, then, at seven. After- 
 wards I go to the Sands's for an hour. Shall I 
 introduce you ? You may find some old friends 
 there ; at any rate you will meet the Lelands. 
 Mrs Sands is an old friend of mine, and I can 
 introduce you without ceremony." 
 
 Baldwin accepted the offer, and the two sepa- 
 rated for the night. On his way home, Forbes 
 debated with himself whether he would ask 
 Baldwin to stay again at his house. But he 
 feared a refusal, and without settling the ques- 
 tion in his own mind, he went to bed and was 
 soon fast asleep. Jane dreamed that night that 
 Forbes had, at last, declared his love. Bald- 
 win's fatigue had entirely disappeared, and for a 
 long time he walked up and down his room in 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 119 
 
 great excitement. And once more, as it had 
 been four years ago, all his thoughts were with 
 Jane Leland. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Baldwin met many old acquaintances at Mrs 
 Sands's. They all invited him, and he accepted 
 their invitations ; and thus it came to pass that 
 very soon after his arrival in Paris, he went out 
 to parties every evening and almost invariably 
 met Jane. He had now been four weeks in 
 Paris. He delayed his departure from day to 
 day, and easily found pretexts for remaining 
 where he could see her. 
 
 Baldwin was a quiet man, full of sound com- 
 mon-sense. Life in foreign lands had given 
 him a self-reliance and a determination of char- 
 acter which people who remain at home, sur- 
 rounded by relatives and friends, seldom acquire 
 in the same degree. But his heart, which for a 
 long time had fed upon his first love in Paris, 
 the heart of the " wild man/' as Forbes had 
 called him, had never been touched since, and 
 was still young and inexperienced as a child's. 
 He loved with the strength of a man and with 
 
120 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 the ingenousness of a boy with all his heart 
 and with all his soul. And Jane was no longer 
 quite indifferent to the passion she inspired. 
 She resented bitterly the loneliness in which she 
 had lived latterly ; and she missed the circle of 
 admirers who used to surround her. She had 
 exercised mercilessly the privilege of refusing all 
 offers, and she did not regret that she had done 
 so ; but she noticed with mortification that no- 
 body now seemed to seek her favour, and that 
 she had, apparently, lost that power over the 
 hearts of men which she had used with so little 
 pity. At times she felt really sad almost sen- 
 timental. Even cold heartless people can pity 
 themselves sometimes very sincerely. Could 
 she not reach the goal which so many of her 
 companions had attained? Was she not -more 
 beautiful, richer, more intelligent than any of 
 them \ If she chose to employ the arts and the 
 manoeuvres that they had resorted to, she might 
 triumph even now. But she would not. Her 
 pride rebelled at the thought that she, the beau- 
 tiful Jane Leland, should ask for love. If she 
 had cared to do that, she might have conquered 
 the heart of George Forbes years ago. She had 
 always been proud and reserved, even to him. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 121 
 
 Nobody could know, and nobody should ever 
 know, what was passing in her breast, George 
 Forbes least of all. She wanted to be loved, 
 and then, by her own free will, to give her vir- 
 gin heart as a priceless boon to him whom she 
 could love in return. But now no one seemed 
 to care for the precious gift. And here was 
 Baldwin I She well knew how superior he was 
 to the affected young dandies who surrounded 
 him. How noble and fearless was the glance of 
 those large clear eyes ! All other eyes quailed 
 before them. How true and honest was the 
 ring of that deep voice ! How serious, calm, 
 and earnest was his speech I But the proud 
 look softened when it met hers ; his voice sank 
 to a tender whisper when he spoke to her ; and 
 his words, which scarcely dared to hint at what 
 filled his heart, told her with touching bashful 
 simplicity that he loved her as she had never 
 been loved before. 
 
 Yes ; Gordon Baldwin was a man upon whom 
 she could rely. Every drop of his life's blood 
 belonged to her if she required it. She need 
 not beg for his love as for that of the cold sus- 
 picious Forbes. No ; in Baldwin's eyes her love 
 was an invaluable treasure. 
 
122 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 One evening when Baldwin met Jane at the 
 house of a mutual friend, he told her that he 
 could not stay in Paris much longer, and that 
 he would go to London in a few days. 
 
 "I hope you will soon return to Paris," she 
 said. 
 
 " Perhaps," he replied ; and after a pause he 
 added, in a low voice, " Will you let me see 
 you to-morrow to say good-bye?" 
 
 " Certainly, with pleasure," she answered, 
 smilingly. 
 
 " Miss Leland . . ." began Baldwin. Then 
 he stopped. She looked at him with some 
 surprise, but kindly and encouragingly. " To- 
 morrow, then," he added, " I will have the plea- 
 sure of calling on you at five." 
 
 The next day, a few minutes before the 
 appointed time, Baldwin entered the same room 
 where, four years before, he had been a suitor 
 for Jane Leland's hand. Mr Leland had gone 
 out, and Jane was alone. Miss Leland was an 
 independent young lady, who, even during her 
 mother's lifetime, had enjoyed a great deal of 
 liberty, and who, having now been for more 
 than a year quite uncontrolled by her father, 
 could receive anybody she wished to see alone. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 123 
 
 On his way from his hotel to the Avenue 
 Friedland, Baldwin had tried to think of what 
 he should say to Jane. He would once more 
 declare his love that was his settled purpose ; 
 but he could not determine in his own mind 
 how to do it. He dared not picture to himself 
 all that might happen. What if Jane were to 
 refuse him, as her mother had refused him years 
 ago in her name ? How would he thank her if 
 she accepted him ? He shook his head as if to 
 drive away the confused thoughts which tor- 
 mented him. He closed his eyes, so to speak, 
 to all the possibilities of his case, and half 
 hopeful, half despairing, he went to meet his 
 fate. It was a leap in the dark, and he would 
 take it. 
 
 Jane was reading in the drawing-room when 
 Baldwin entered. She took a few steps forward 
 to meet him, and offered him her small, slender 
 hand. He kept it in his own and looked 
 anxiously round the large room, like one who 
 seeks for help or is in fear of danger. She 
 sought gently to withdraw her hand, but he 
 detained it firmly, and said 
 
 " Miss Leland, years ago I stood before you, 
 as at this moment, to ask a question which you 
 
124 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 have never answered. . . . Jane . . . trust 
 yourself to me ... Jane . . ." 
 
 He looked at her imploringly, unable to utter 
 another word. Infinite sadness, love, devotion, 
 were in his eyes. Her heart beat faster. Why 
 should she reject the great love which was now 
 offered to her ? Forbes ? The image of the 
 man she loved appeared for one short moment 
 before her the scornful mouth, the cold criti- 
 cising eyes, the proud wearied face. The vision 
 vanished and she saw Baldwin honest, earnest 
 Baldwin with his truthful face in which 
 everything spoke of love for her. She did 
 not withdraw her hand. Her eyes fell ; she 
 did not lean towards him, but he drew her 
 gently to his heart, and she resisted no longer. 
 Before she was aware of it, her head rested on 
 his breast. She wept softly, over the great 
 love which she inspired ; over the happiness she 
 hoped for confusedly but yet sincerely ; and 
 over the sudden but now irrevocable loss of all 
 the cherished dreams of her heart. He kissed 
 her pure brow and said tremulously, " My whole 
 life will bless you for the happiness which you 
 give me." He led her to the window, where, 
 half unconscious, she sank into a seat. He was 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 125 
 
 once more master of himself, and though deeply 
 moved, he was able to speak to her quietly. 
 "Would she tell her father what had taken 
 place, or should he do so ? " She did not 
 answer. "Did she think her father would 
 object to their marriage ? " " Oh no," she said, 
 in a scarcely audible whisper. 
 
 " Well, then, we have nothing more to fear : 
 all will be well." 
 
 "Yes, all will be well." 
 
 But she could not look into his eyes. Only 
 yesterday she had been the mistress whose smile 
 or whose frown could make Baldwin happy or 
 miserable ; now she felt weak and disarmed. 
 She had shot her last arrow ; she had made her 
 choice ; she had sealed her fate. It was very 
 different from what she had hoped. She looked 
 at Baldwin stealthily, as if she saw him for the 
 first time. Could she be proud of him ? He 
 had nothing of that peculiarly aristocratic bear- 
 ing which had attracted her in Forbes, but he 
 was a noble - looking man nevertheless. She 
 need not fear that the world would laugh at 
 him or at her. Her friends would be astonished 
 at her choice; after all, she had not won a 
 great prize. Had she been so fastidious, and so 
 
126 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 exacting, to give, at last, her hand to a man 
 who had neither a great name nor a large for- 
 tune ? If she had married George Forbes, every- 
 body would have thought her conduct natural. 
 She would have waited long, but she would have 
 won a great prize. But who was Gordon Bald- 
 win ? A man whom nobody knew, for whom 
 nobody cared. A sigh escaped her. She heard 
 indistinctly, as in a dream, what Baldwin told 
 her. He spoke of his life in Japan since he had 
 left her ; how unhappy he had been ; how he 
 had thought he could kill his sorrow by hard 
 work ; and how, at last, he had found rest, but 
 no happiness. He spoke .of the longing which 
 had drawn him back to Paris, although he had 
 come there without hope ; of the surprise, min- 
 gled with fear, with which he had learned from 
 Forbes that all was not yet lost ; of their meet- 
 ing at the opera, where she had appeared to 
 him so sad and so beautiful ; of the revival of 
 his love, which had never been really dead ; and 
 now of the indescribable happiness of knowing 
 himself beloved. 
 
 She smiled sadly. Her heart was ready to 
 burst. He could not know that it was full of 
 despair for the loss of her once hoped-for hap- 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 127 
 
 piness. The tear that fell on her pale marble 
 cheek, the sigh which made her bosom heave, 
 the smile which glorified the beloved counte- 
 nance, only seemed to tell him that she loved him. 
 
 The large clock struck loudly and slowly 
 seven. Baldwin looked up in astonishment. 
 Two hours had gone by like a few minutes. 
 She felt wearied and wretched, like a beaten 
 soldier fleeing from the enemy, and longing for 
 darkness and solitude. He rose ; she gave him 
 her hand, but remained seated. He bent down 
 and kissed her once more on her forehead. 
 
 " Good-bye, till we meet again this evening, 
 my own, my beloved." 
 
 " Until we meet again," she repeated, mechan- 
 ically. And now, at last, she was alone. She 
 remained motionless in the same attitude for a 
 few minutes, staring straight before her. Then 
 she rose, and slowly, noiselessly, as in a dream, 
 she went up to her own room. 
 
 This, then, was the end of her ambition ! 
 She was to live and die Mrs Gordon Baldwin I 
 She did not repent of what she had done. No 1 
 she felt a bitter scornful joy as she thought of 
 it. " Now Mr Forbes will see at last that I did 
 not care for his miserable money." Her greatest 
 
128 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 wish at that moment was that he should feel 
 this, and that it should give him pain. " Will 
 he, now that I am lost to him, regret that he 
 never sought my love 1 " She shook her head 
 in despair, " I have never been anything to him." 
 Oh, how bitter, how very bitter was that 
 thought I Should she try her chance once 
 more ? Her cheek flushed, her eyes shone at 
 the thought. Should she write to Baldwin and 
 say that she had been mistaken, that she had 
 deceived him, that she begged his forgiveness, 
 and wanted to take back her promise ? Baldwin 
 would do anything for her, she was quite sure 
 of that. She rose and went slowly to her writ- 
 ing-table. But there she sank into a chair, and 
 covering her face with her hands, burst into 
 tears. Of what use would her freedom be to 
 her ? She had been free all these years, and 
 Forbes had never looked at her with love. No, 
 thank God 1 she had not fallen so low as to beg 
 for his love. She hated him she was not going 
 to mourn all her life for his sake. She would 
 not give him the satisfaction of seeing her grow 
 old in solitude. He had once said to her, 
 " Baldwin is the best man I know." He should 
 see that the best of men was happy to devote 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 129 
 
 himself entirely to her. She bathed her face in 
 cold water to efface the trace of her tears. She 
 had suddenly grown calm. The icy coldness of 
 those who have lost all that was dearest to them, 
 and who have conquered that loss, had taken 
 possession of her. In a few minutes she had 
 grown much older. She had done with all the 
 hopes and all the dreams of youth. She went 
 up to the glass to arrange her hair : a pale face, 
 with burning eyes, met her gaze. She nodded 
 to the vision with a gloomy smile, " Good-bye, 
 Jane Leland," she said. Then she went down 
 to the drawing-room, where her father had been 
 waiting for her to go to dinner. 
 
 The relations between Mr Leland and his 
 daughter were not of a kind to make Jane feel 
 any embarrassment in telling him of what had 
 taken place during the afternoon. She did it 
 after dinner in a calm unconcerned manner. 
 
 " How do you like Mr Baldwin ? " she asked, 
 after she had poured out coffee for her father, 
 who was enjoying a cigar a liberty he would 
 never have taken in the drawing-room during 
 the lifetime of Mrs Leland, ne De Montemars. 
 
 " A charming man a very charming young 
 
 man." 
 
130 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 " Would he suit you as a son-in-law ? " 
 
 " What \ What do you say 1 " 
 
 Jane repeated the question. Mr Leland nearly 
 dropped the cup he was holding ; he put it 
 quickly on the table, and with a trembling hand 
 laid down his cigar ; then he bent over to his 
 daughter and looked at her in mute astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Mr Baldwin has asked me this afternoon to 
 be his wife." 
 
 " Well \ " 
 
 " He will ask you for your consent this even- 
 ing." 
 
 " And I will give it him with all my heart. 
 I would never have refused it. ... My 
 darling child ! I am so happy ! . . . I am 
 an old man, and I may die any day. The 
 thought that I would have to leave you alone 
 has embittered these last years of my life. Now 
 I can live and die in peace. Baldwin is a noble- 
 hearted and good man. I have always liked 
 him, and I have often regretted that your dear 
 mother refused his offer. My dear Jane 1 my 
 only child ! my own dear daughter 1 " 
 
 He embraced her tenderly, and was much 
 more affected than she was so much more that 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 131 
 
 her coldness did not strike him. He begged 
 her to tell him how it had all happened ; and 
 she had already begun to do so in a very busi- 
 ness-like way when the door opened and Mr 
 Baldwin was announced. 
 
 Mr Leland, beaming with joy, went forward 
 to meet him. He pressed his hand and could 
 only say, " Welcome, my dear son ; " then he 
 sat down trembling and was quite unable to 
 utter another word. 
 
 Baldwin was as much moved as the old man. 
 Jane observed them almost contemptuously. 
 She had fought her battle ; she was tired and 
 longing for rest. Why all this excitement ? She 
 listened with indifference to the plans which her 
 father and her lover made for the future. She 
 nodded, or said " Yes " when a look or a word 
 seemed to ask for her consent. She cared for 
 nothing. Sometimes it seemed to her as though 
 she were not concerned in what was going on 
 before her. It was like a dream. Everything 
 appeared dark and confused. Was it redly her 
 own future life they were discussing? Could 
 those two men dispose of her? Was she no 
 longer free ? Was Forbes lost to her for ever ? 
 Once more the desperate resolution which had 
 
132 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 tempted her in her own room recurred to her. 
 Should she rise and call out, " Stop I you are 
 mistaken ! I have deceived you I love an- 
 other ! " But then Forbes appeared before her, 
 smiling scornfully. No ; anything was better 
 than to be sneered at by that man, perhaps to 
 be pitied by him ! And Baldwin was a good 
 noble-hearted man. She would learn to love 
 him. All might yet be well. 
 
 It was settled that the more intimate ac- 
 quaintances should be informed of the engage- 
 ment on the morrow, and that in two months' 
 time in July the wedding should take place. 
 
 " Where shall we live in Paris or in Lon- 
 don ? " said Baldwin. 
 
 " Wherever you like," was Jane's reply. 
 
 " In Paris, of course," exclaimed old Leland. 
 "Nowhere in the world can a young married 
 couple live as pleasantly as in Paris. Besides, I 
 am accustomed to this life, and I would find it 
 difficult at my age to adopt any other. Then 
 you have so many good old friends here, the 
 Lingards, the Kellys, the Sandses, Forbes, and 
 many others. . . ." 
 
 ' Very well, let it be Paris then," said Jane, 
 and this ended the conversation. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 133 
 
 VI. 
 
 Miss Iceland's engagement to Gordon Baldwin 
 was for many days the principal topic of con- 
 versation among the American residents in 
 Paris. The girls and the young married women 
 talked about it very much in the spirit which 
 Jane had foreseen. They were in no way jealous 
 of her conquest, and there was a touch of sar- 
 casm in their remarks. The young men were 
 indifferent. They had no claims on Jane, and 
 were inclined to consider the stranger from 
 Yesso a bold man. They expressed the hope 
 that he would have energy enough to tame the 
 proud spirit of his bride. Some predicted that 
 he would follow in the footsteps of his father-in- 
 law, who had been the pattern of obedient hus- 
 bands. Others remarked that he did not look 
 like a man who would consent to be led by any 
 one not even by an adored wife. As for the 
 old ladies and gentlemen who had long given 
 up all idea of Jane or Baldwin for their unmar- 
 ried sons or daughters, they were perfectly satis- 
 fied with the arrangement. 
 
 Forbes alone, though he had long been aware 
 of the affection of his former friend for Jane 
 
134 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 Leland, was astonished when he heard of the 
 marriage. He had never made up his mind to 
 ask her to become his wife ; he did not love 
 her; but he could see that in beauty and in 
 intellect she far surpassed all the other American 
 girls of his acquaintance. Nor had Jane's pref- 
 erence for himself escaped his notice, though she 
 always treated him with great reserve. Men 
 are as quick-sighted as women in this respect, 
 and have a great liking for those whom they 
 please. Forbes had said to himself more than 
 once that if ever he did marry, he would take 
 Jane Leland. He thought of her as he would 
 have thought of a precious work of art for his 
 house, which he could acquire at great cost, but 
 which would give him proportionate pleasure. 
 " She would look well," he said to himself, " as 
 the mistress of my house, at a large dinner- 
 party, or at a ball, or, again, by my side in an 
 open carriage." The thought had never struck 
 him that he might not be able to secure this 
 " precious thing" when he wanted it, just as he 
 never doubted that he could buy a beautiful 
 picture which he liked. The only question was 
 to pay the price. Up to the present time he 
 had thought Jane Leland a little too expensive 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 135 
 
 for him. She was not worth just yet the 
 sacrifice of all the enjoyments of a free bachelor 
 life. * But he had never quite given her up. In 
 his mind she was " marked " as it were in a 
 sale catalogue as a desideratum, and he was 
 only waiting for an opportunity, or for a favour- 
 able frame of mind, to conclude the bargain. 
 
 He had never thought it possible that Jane 
 could escape him ; he had never really feared 
 any of her numerous suitors, and Baldwin even 
 less than two or three of those that the proud 
 beauty had refused. The "wild man" was a 
 good honest fellow, but that would be no great 
 recommendation in the eyes of his practical 
 countrywoman. He possessed a fair fortune ; 
 but according to Forbes' s ideas, he could not 
 even be called rich. Why should Jane treat 
 him differently and better than her other ad- 
 mirers ? And yet so it was : Gordon Baldwin 
 was the affianced husband, and she was lost to 
 Forbes. 
 
 At first he did not feel much grieved; he 
 only felt a peculiar unpleasant restlessness. He 
 knew that henceforward something would be 
 wanting in his life. Many things he had not 
 thought of for a long time now came to mind 
 
136 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 suddenly with painful distinctness. He noticed 
 that he was no longer young, and that his 
 acquaintances began to treat him like an old 
 bachelor. "When he went to parties, the lady 
 of the house no longer asked him whether he 
 would dance, but the host inquired in a friendly 
 whisper whether he would take a hand at whist. 
 He remembered that all his wealth had not pur- 
 chased for him a single friend, and that this 
 ]onely life which had never oppressed him 
 before was, after all, very unsatisfactory. The 
 remembrance of Thomas Graham, to whom, for 
 a long while, he had not given a thought, came 
 back to him. If they had been together he 
 would not now feel so lonely. But between 
 Thomas and him there was a great gulf they 
 could never meet again. He thought over all 
 the marriageable girls of his acquaintance, but 
 among them there was not one who could fill 
 Jane Leland's place. He felt angry with her. 
 It seemed to him that she had treated him 
 badly, unfairly. For years there had existed a 
 peculiar kind of intimacy between them ; she 
 ought to have " given warning " when she meant 
 to break off. He had thought better of her 
 than to suppose that she would throw herself 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 137 
 
 away on the first stranger she met ! But it was 
 now too late to complain ; he had to make the 
 best of it. He went to Baldwin's hotel, and 
 congratulated him with, apparently, genuine 
 pleasure ; from thence he went to the Avenue 
 Friedland, where he left his card, upon which 
 he had written in pencil, "My best wishes." 
 Then he went home and tried to persuade him- 
 self that nothing particular had happened. He 
 yawned more than usual over the papers ; found 
 his dinner abominable, and declared to the waiter 
 that he would not come again if he were not 
 better served ; thought that the piece played by 
 the best actors of the Palais Eoyal was uncom- 
 monly tedious and silly, and remained only a 
 short time at his club. Contrary to his habit, 
 he walked home to enjoy the fresh air on the 
 quay, and to tire himself by exercise. 
 
 The broad beautiful walk along the Seine 
 from the Pont-Royal to the Pont de 1'Alma is 
 at a late hour almost deserted. Forbes could 
 indulge in his thoughts undisturbed, and for 
 more than an hour he walked up and down. 
 He was pleased with the loneliness of the place, 
 and from, that day he often found his way to it. 
 A great change must have taken place when he, 
 
138 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 who had never been inclined to reverie, found 
 pleasure in this quiet walk. Now he too had 
 his dreams, just like other less cold-hearted 
 people. He had found out at last that his life 
 might have been better than it promised to be, 
 and that one cannot despise unselfish affection 
 without suffering for it. For Thomas Graham, 
 for Gordon Baldwin, for Jane Leland he had 
 been something more than merely " the rich 
 George Forbes " ; yet in them, too, he had sus- 
 pected selfish motives. And it was now too 
 late to correct his mistake. Too late ! Again 
 and again he repeated the bitter words. He 
 well knew that Baldwin had never met him 
 again with the old friendly confidence of former 
 days, and that Jane could never be to him what 
 she had once been. " After all," he said to him- 
 self, " I possess very little in this world though 
 I am a rich man." 
 
 Summer was come. Most of the friends of 
 the Leland family had either left, or were pre- 
 paring to leave Paris, to go to some watering- 
 place or other. Forbes, like the rest, had made 
 his plans for the summer, and would have been 
 away already if he had had the courage to refuse 
 Baldwin's invitation to the wedding. He gener- 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 139 
 
 ally found no difficulty in giving a refusal ; but 
 on this occasion he accepted, less to please Bald- 
 win than to avoid the appearance of being in 
 any way vexed at the marriage. 
 
 Both Forbes and Jane acted their parts before 
 the world so as to deceive everybody except 
 themselves. Forbes affected a friendly desire 
 to make himself useful, and offered many little 
 services to promote the future comfort of the 
 young people. Jane never seemed more satisfied 
 with her fate than when Forbes was present. 
 But sometimes when their eyes met, they ex- 
 changed a bitter reproachful glance. The young 
 bride- elect would often think of it at night in 
 her own room, and enjoy the painful triumph 
 of knowing that Forbes, now it was too late, 
 repented of what he had done, or rather of what 
 he had left undone. And when Forbes, with 
 his hands thrust in his pockets and his head 
 bowed in deep thought, walked up and down 
 the solitary quay, he repeated to himself with 
 regretful pride that, had it been his pleasure, he 
 might for years past have occupied that place 
 by Jane's side for which Baldwin had to fight 
 so hard. 
 
 Baldwin and old Mr Leland were the best of 
 
140 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 friends and perfectly happy. Not a shadow of 
 suspicion crossed their contented minds. Jane 
 had accepted Baldwin's offer : for these two 
 simple-minded men that was a convincing proof 
 that she loved him. They did not know how 
 to solve psychological problems, and suspected 
 no secret. Jane, in her intercourse with Bald- 
 win, certainly did not show that devotion and 
 confidence which, in theory, he might have 
 expected from his betrothed; but he thought 
 that her coldness was only the result of maidenly 
 reserve, and he admired her all the more for it. 
 Old Leland was not naturally very clear-sighted, 
 and his wife had certainly not spoiled him by 
 great demonstrations of affection. Jane's be- 
 haviour to her future husband seemed to him 
 perfectly natural and becoming. 
 
 The interval of two months between the en- 
 gagement and the wedding had quickly gone 
 by, and at last the eventful day came and 
 passed like other days. The marriage was cele- 
 brated with great splendour. Many of Jane's 
 friends came up to Paris on purpose to see 
 " the beautiful Miss Leland " on her wedding- 
 day. She was indeed very lovely on that occa- 
 sion. It was noticed that she was very pale, 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 141 
 
 and that her eyes remained so obstinately fixed 
 on the ground during the ceremony, that not 
 one of the wedding-guests could obtain a look. 
 
 Only a few intimate friends were invited to 
 the breakfast among these was George Forbes. 
 His eyes sought again and again those of the 
 bride, but not once did they meet. She would 
 see nothing, and she saw nothing, of all that 
 went on around her. 
 
 After the breakfast, the newly married couple 
 disappeared in that mysterious manner which 
 fashion prescribes, and were not seen again for 
 some months. 
 
 Forbes shortly after the wedding went to 
 America, where, he said, important business 
 required his presence. Old Leland went to 
 Trouville, where he found many of his friends, 
 to whom he confided at intervals varying from 
 eight to ten days that he had the very best 
 news from the young couple, who were making 
 a wedding-tour in Norway and Sweden, and 
 were as happy as two newly married lovers 
 could be. 
 
142 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Mr and Mrs Gordon Baldwin returned to 
 Paris after their wedding-tour, and established 
 themselves in their new residence in the Avenue 
 de llmpe'ratrice. They led a very retired life, 
 and, with the exception of Forbes, received only 
 a few of their former acquaintances. Nobody 
 was surprised at this, for the young couple were 
 in deep mourning. A few days before their 
 return to Paris, they had received news of the 
 sudden illness, and almost immediately after, of 
 the death of Mr Leland. He had been a weak, 
 kind-hearted gentleman, and his loss was sin- 
 cerely mourned by all who knew him. 
 
 Mrs Gordon Baldwin, his only child, inherited 
 the greater part of his large fortune ; but several 
 distant relatives, as well as a few friends and 
 acquaintances, had been remembered in his will. 
 The old banker had to the last carefully kept 
 the management of his wealth in his own hands, 
 and had expressed his wishes respecting the 
 disposal of it after his death in a clear and busi- 
 ness-like manner. His son-in-law, Mr Gordon 
 Baldwin, and Mr George Forbes of New York, 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 143 
 
 now resident in Paris, son of his late friend 
 Richard Forbes, were appointed executors. 
 
 One passage in the will had particularly 
 struck Baldwin, and had been listened to by 
 Forbes with evident embarrassment : 
 
 " . . . Further, I bequeath the sum of ten 
 thousand dollars to Mr Thomas Lansdale, half- 
 brother to Mr George Forbes, my executor, and 
 son of Major Thomas Lansdale of Baltimore, 
 and of Mary Lansdale his wife, who, after his 
 death, married Richard Forbes of San Francisco 
 and New York. This sum of ten thousand 
 dollars is to be handed over to Mr Thomas 
 Lansdale, with the assurance that, under all 
 circumstances, I have remained his true and 
 faithful friend." 
 
 While this passage was being read, Baldwin 
 looked inquiringly at Forbes; but the latter 
 kept his eyes steadily cast down. 
 
 Half an hour later, when they were driving 
 home together from the American Consulate, 
 where the will had been read, Baldwin said, " I 
 did not know that you had a brother/' 
 
 "We will talk about that some other time," 
 said Forbes ; " my brother's story is a long and 
 
144 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 not a particularly pleasant one. I do not feel 
 inclined to tell it to-day." 
 
 On the whole, since his return from America, 
 Forbes seemed little inclined to be communica- 
 tive. He had always been very reticent ; and 
 since Jane's marriage he had become still more 
 so. The voyage to America, which he had 
 undertaken immediately after the wedding, had 
 not made him more cheerful. His countrymen 
 struck him as uncultivated ; many of them as 
 ill-bred. He thought the men conceited and 
 full of unjustifiable pride ; he was shocked at 
 the bold and noisy manner of the women in 
 their intercourse with the other sex. Formerly, 
 he had found it a pleasant pastime to laugh and 
 flirt with his pretty countrywomen ; now, he 
 thought their behaviour forward, almost vulgar. 
 He remained only one month in the United 
 States and then returned to Europe. 
 
 It seemed to him as though the ten days' 
 passage from New York to Liverpool would 
 never come to an end. He longed for a storm, 
 merely for the sake of a change ; but the sky 
 remained clear and blue all through the day, 
 the nights were wonderfully bright, and the 
 ocean, with its overwhelming immense monot- 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 145 
 
 ony, lay before him like a colossal mirror. He 
 liked to sit alone at the furthest end of the 
 deck, away from the rest of the passengers, and 
 to watch the white dancing furrows of foam 
 which marked the track of the vessel. He had 
 no distinctly sorrowful thoughts, and he was 
 not continually grieving that the only friends 
 he had had in the world were now lost to him. 
 It was only dimly that the vision of Thomas, 
 of Gordon, of Jane, passed before him. But a 
 peculiar gloomy uneasiness, like a presentiment 
 of approaching misfortune, oppressed him. 
 " What is the matter with me ? " he asked 
 himself angrily. " Do I not possess everything 
 to make me happy ? I am rich ; I am still 
 young. Have I not the means of enjoying life ? 
 What ails me ? " He could find no answer to 
 his questions, but his heart was heavy, and the 
 dark dismal thoughts could not be banished. 
 There was the fruitless past and the barren 
 future ; a joyless life, and a hopeless one. 
 
 The summer was not quite over when Forbes 
 landed in England. London and Paris, where 
 he remained a few days only, seemed to him 
 deserted and insupportably dull. In Paris he 
 prolonged his stay for two days longer than he 
 
 K 
 
146 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 had intended, for the special purpose of care- 
 fully examining and finally buying a large pic- 
 ture which had attracted his attention in the 
 shop of a dealer. It was brought to his house, 
 and hung up in the place of the beautiful 
 Kubens, which for years had been the ornament 
 of his bedroom. 
 
 It was an ugly picture, on which his eyes 
 now fed morning and evening. It represented 
 Seneca entering the bath dripping with blood, 
 and uttering with his dying breath words of 
 wisdom, which a weeping disciple was writing 
 down. Beneath this ghastly image was written 
 " Tcedet tamdiu eadem fecisse." Forbes had 
 caused this sentence to be translated to him ; 
 and when he understood its meaning, his eyes 
 lighted up, and he said approvingly, " That is a 
 good picture and a good sentiment ; " and with- 
 out another word, he paid the high price which 
 the dealer asked for the wretched daub. 
 
 Forbes went from Paris to several watering- 
 places. He found everywhere the same well- 
 dressed men, the same elegant women, the 
 same carriages and boats, the same lackeys, 
 waiters, drivers, and boatmen. It seemed to 
 him that everything which he had hoped to 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 147 
 
 leave behind in one place followed him wher- 
 ever he went. At the railway stations he met 
 the same well-known officious porters; at the 
 hotels he was received by the stereotyped head- 
 waiter, with the stereotyped bow; and when 
 recognised thanks to his luggage and servants 
 as a rich visitor, he was conducted into the 
 well-known showy room with its pretentious 
 mahogany furniture, and its velvet chairs and 
 curtains. In the reading-room there was the 
 same ragged - looking number of ' Figaro/ the 
 same copy of the ' Times/ with its stains of tea 
 and coffee, which he had seen at the last water- 
 ing-place. " It is tedious always to see, to hear, 
 and to do the same thing," he said to himself. 
 
 He returned to Paris in October, but he mixed 
 in society much less than he used to do. He 
 neglected his club altogether, and every night 
 between ten and twelve o'clock he might be 
 seen on the solitary quay beside the Seine, 
 where he slowly walked up and down, with 
 his head bowed down, and his hands behind 
 his back. 
 
 One night, shortly after the reading of old 
 Leland's will, Forbes was overtaken by Baldwin 
 in his lonely walk. 
 
148 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 "What are you doing here at this hour'?" 
 said Baldwin. 
 
 Forbes replied that this walk by the river- 
 side had almost become a necessity to him 
 before going to bed. " In all Paris," he said, 
 " there is no quieter place than this after 
 eleven o'clock. One is as much alone here 
 as if one were a hundred miles away from 
 the noisy city ; and yet he need only walk a 
 few steps to be again in the midst of bright 
 teeming life. I like the contrast. It pre- 
 pares me, in a way, for the solitude which 
 awaits me on my return to my bachelor home. 
 But this is no place for a young husband. 
 What are you doing here this stormy evening \ " 
 
 Baldwin made an evasive reply, and rather to 
 turn the conversation than to gratify a feeling 
 of curiosity, he said 
 
 " You still owe me an answer to my question 
 about your brother. Do you feel inclined to 
 speak about him to-night ? I do not wish to be 
 importunate, but you must, at any rate, give me 
 his address, as I have to inform him that my 
 father-in-law has left him ten thousand dollars." 
 
 "You know Thomas Lansdale's address as 
 well as I do." 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 149 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Thomas Lansdale and Thomas Graham are 
 one and the same person." 
 
 Baldwin was much surprised, but he remained 
 silent. He could well imagine that something 
 very painful must have occurred to induce his 
 partner in Hakodate to assume a feigned name, 
 and to keep secret his relationship to Forbes. 
 But Baldwin felt no anxiety to have the mys- 
 tery explained. Whatever might have taken 
 place between the two brothers, he felt sure that 
 Graham, whom he had now known eight years, 
 was worthy of his confidence. 
 
 " It is a sad story," continued Forbes, after 
 a pause. He stopped again, and then, with 
 an assumed tone of indifference, he proceeded: 
 " My brother and my father could never agree. 
 My father was very severe. Thomas, when I 
 knew him, was wild and reckless. There were 
 frequently violent scenes between them. Dur- 
 ing my mother's lifetime she acted as peace- 
 maker; but soon after her death Thomas was 
 obliged to leave the house. He ran into debt, 
 not so much for himself, as to assist a set of 
 low sharpers who had got about him. And that 
 was not the worst. He married, without my 
 
150 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 father's knowledge, a woman who deceived him, 
 and whom the credulous fool took for a saint. 
 She did much mischief. She died, many years 
 ago, in poverty and wretchedness. The less 
 said about her the better. When my father 
 heard of the marriage he became frantic with 
 rage. He was a violent man, and was not 
 master of himself when he was angry. He 
 went to Chicago, where my brother was living, 
 to force him to give up his wife. Thomas wor- 
 shipped the unworthy creature. My father's 
 threats exasperated him. . . . It is a fearful 
 story. . . ." 
 
 Forbes paused for a moment to collect his 
 thoughts. He had completely lost the com- 
 posure with which he had begun his narative. 
 His tremulous voice betrayed deep emotion. 
 
 " You must bear in mind that there was no 
 actual relationship between Thomas and his 
 stepfather. . . . He was a strong man. . . . 
 He had kept, from his old Californian life, the 
 habit of going about armed. ... In those 
 days at Chicago there was hardly a man who 
 had not always his revolver ready to hand. . . . 
 My father had been stung to the quick by 
 Thomas. . He had shown him the door. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 151 
 
 he had laid hands on him. . . . Well I My 
 brother was wounded not dangerously, God be 
 praised ! but still he was wounded. The un- 
 fortunate affair was hushed up, and only a few 
 intimate friends old Leland among the num- 
 ber knew of it. Thomas Lansdale recovered ; 
 but he went from bad to worse ; his wife dragged 
 him lower and lower down. Yet he would not 
 consent to what we all asked him to do with so 
 much reason : he would not separate from that 
 woman. My father died without having seen 
 him again, and without forgiving him. Then 
 Thomas addressed himself to me. What could 
 I do ? I could not declare my father to have 
 been in the wrong. He had done no wrong. 
 . . . Then I heard nothing more of Thomas 
 Lansdale for a long time till you, five years 
 ago brought me news of him. . . . That is 
 my brother's story." 
 
 Baldwin had not once interrupted Forbes, 
 and remained silent now. 
 
 "You think I have done wrong," said the 
 suspicious man ; " you consider that I have 
 acted harshly ? " 
 
 "I do not think that I could have been 
 angry with a brother so long," replied Baldwin, 
 
152 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 with great earnestness. " Thomas Graham is 
 a good man ; every one who knows him loves 
 him." 
 
 " He was not always as quiet and good as 
 you have known him. He was wild and dis- 
 orderly. My father paid his debts over and 
 over again." 
 
 " He was your brother." 
 
 They had arrived at a part of the quay where 
 their way lay in different directions. Baldwin 
 wished his companion " good-night," and turned 
 off quickly. 
 
 Forbes went home slowly. His magnificent 
 rooms appeared to him unutterably sad and 
 lonely. He went into his study, and from 
 among a heap of papers and documents which 
 he kept locked up in a box, he took a large 
 envelope on which was written in his own hand, 
 " Letters from T. L. ; to be burned unread after 
 my death." He read the letters through, very 
 carefully. The stern features of his cold face 
 relaxed, as he read, into a gentler and sadder 
 expression. How had he been able to resist 
 these touching complaints and supplications 
 which now so painfully moved his heart ? He 
 put down the papers with a heavy sigh, and 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 153 
 
 remained for a long time motionless and in deep 
 thought. 
 
 " He was my brother," he said at last, uncon- 
 sciously repeating Baldwin's last reproachful 
 words. "He was my brother, and strangers have 
 saved him from ruin." And now the past rose 
 up before him. He remembered, as if it were 
 yesterday, the evening when Thomas had said 
 good-bye to him in his bedroom, before leaving 
 the house after their mother's death. He saw 
 him, as he stood before him then, with his pale 
 face, his long fair hair, his large blue eyes, with 
 their startled timid look the eyes of their dead 
 mother I "George," he had said, "you must 
 not tell your father that I have come to you. 
 He forbade me to do so. But I wanted to say 
 good-bye to you, as to my brother, and he would 
 not have allowed it. Good-bye, George ; think 
 of me kindly." And then he had embraced him, 
 and Forbes had felt his hot tears upon his 
 cheek ; and Thomas had noiselessly stolen away. 
 
 " He was my brother ; he was my brother," 
 repeated Forbes. 
 
 He had seen him again, many years after, in 
 a street of New York. He looked wretched and 
 poor then. It was a cold wet night. He wore 
 
154 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 thin shabby clothes and seemed to be shivering 
 in them. " For the last three days I have been 
 waiting here every evening for you," he said. 
 " Oh, George, listen to me ! save me ! I am 
 lost 1 " And he, Forbes, had had the courage to 
 repel him. " Have you separated from your 
 wife ? _ She is ill, George, help me ! " " Will 
 you promise me to separate from your wife ? " 
 " George ! help me ! help me ! " Those words 
 now, after long years, cut deep into his heart. 
 " He was my brother I " The remembrance of 
 that meeting weighed on him like a hideous 
 nightmare. A hopeless sadness enveloped him 
 as in the folds of a dark shroud. He might 
 have had a brother, a friend, a loving wife : 
 Thomas, Baldwin, Jane. And now he had lost 
 all, lost for ever ! What remained ? A large 
 fortune ! And what could he do with it ? 
 Always the same thing always I " Tcedet 
 
 tamdiu eadem fecisse." 
 
 i 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When Forbes had alluded to his married life, 
 Baldwin had quickly turned the conversation. 
 It was a subject he did not care to talk about. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 155 
 
 His was not, strictly speaking, an unhappy 
 marriage ; but the felicity of which he had 
 dreamed, he had certainly not found. Jane, as 
 a wife, remained as cold and as unimpassioned 
 as she had appeared before marriage. She 
 showed no ill-humour or petulance, and gave 
 her husband no cause for complaint ; but she 
 never smiled, and she went about quietly and 
 silently, as if some secret sorrow oppressed her. 
 Baldwin felt this bitterly. He had endeavoured, 
 by perfect candour, by watchful tenderness, and 
 by entire devotion, to win her confidence ; but 
 all his efforts had been unavailing. After a time 
 his pride rebelled at this state of things to 
 offer love where he received nothing but dutiful 
 politeness in return. Sometimes his blood would 
 boil with indignation when he longed to clasp 
 this icy creature to his heart, and yet could feel 
 plainly that there was no response to his tender- 
 ness ; but he mastered those passionate emo- 
 tions, and only sighed as he released the delicate 
 little hand she had carelessly yielded to him, 
 and which she now as listlessly let drop by her 
 side. 
 
 Why was not Jane happy 1 Baldwin did 
 everything he could to make her so. She did 
 
156 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 not seem to care for his efforts, or even to notice 
 them. Her face never lighted up with an ex- 
 pression of gratitude ; no kindly word passed 
 those firm lips, and her cold eyes looked without 
 interest on all that surrounded her. Baldwin 
 grew uneasy and dispirited. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, my dear 
 Jane ? " he asked, one evening when they were 
 seated alone before the fire. " Are you ill \ " 
 
 "Nothing is the matter with me," she an- 
 swered, wearily. 
 
 " You are hiding something from me ; what 
 is it ? You know that I have only one great 
 wish, and that is to see you happy/' 
 
 " I want nothing," she repeated. She was 
 staring at the fire with wide-open eyes, and 
 Baldwin could see that in them two big tears 
 were shining, which, after a while, rolled slowly 
 down her pale cheeks. 
 
 He went up to her and took her in his arms, 
 and with the tenderness of a mother who is 
 trying to soothe a suffering child, he said, 
 " Speak to me, my beloved speak ! " but she 
 pushed him away gently, and only said 
 
 " I am a little tired. I do not know what is 
 the matter with me. Let me alone." 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 157 
 
 He looked anxiously at her. " I will send for 
 a doctor ; you are ill." 
 
 She only shook her head in silence. Her 
 tears came faster, but not a word escaped her 
 lips. 
 
 " Will you not answer me ? " he asked once 
 more, tenderly and softly. 
 
 " What can I answer ? " she exclaimed, pas- 
 sionately. " Have you anything to reproach 
 me with ? Do I not readily obey every wish of 
 yours ? What more do you want ? Do not 
 torment me ! " 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment, and said 
 gently, " I am very unhappy/' He then rose 
 and left her to go to his own room, which was 
 at the further end of their apartment, but he 
 could not bear to remain there. He took up 
 his hat and left the house to quiet his excited 
 nerves in the fresh open air. 
 
 Baldwin was a sensible practical man, who, 
 in his life, had encountered many difficulties, 
 and who had learned that one cannot overcome 
 them by sitting down quietly and letting events 
 take their course. A threatening danger, a great 
 misfortune, only strengthened his moral facul- 
 ties. He could clearly discern and carefully 
 
158 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 examine every way out of a perilous position ; 
 but against the grief which now filled his heart, 
 he knew no remedy. He walked helplessly up 
 and down in the dimly lighted avenue, asking 
 himself again and again how he could improve 
 the unsatisfactory relations existing between his 
 wife and himself. 
 
 Jane had remained seated in the same place. 
 She had wiped the tears from her cheeks, and 
 continued to stare into the blazing fire. 
 
 For a little while, immediately after her mar- 
 riage, she had done her best to love Baldwin. 
 She had not succeeded at once, and had quickly 
 abandoned the attempt. And now she disliked 
 her husband. She thought him ill-mannered 
 and uncultivated. His heavy step in the room 
 made her nervous ; his voice was too loud ; his 
 tender attentions, which she did not dare to 
 reject, were irksome to her. " Why will he not 
 leave me alone ? " she said to herself, angrily ; 
 " why does he torment me with his love ? " 
 During her whole life she had never thought of 
 anything but her own comfort and happiness ; 
 and even when she had made that feeble at- 
 tempt to love Baldwin, she had only considered 
 her own interest. She knew that it would be 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 159 
 
 more pleasant to live with a man whom she 
 could love than with one for whom she did not 
 care. For the welfare of others of strangers 
 she felt very little concern. Baldwin was a 
 stranger to her. He was her husband more 
 was the pity ! She cursed the hour when, in a 
 fit of irritation and of weak despondency, she 
 had permitted him to clasp her in his arms. He 
 had been short-sighted enough, when she was 
 weeping on his shoulder, to believe in her love. 
 Her love ! He had no idea how she could 
 love. He became every day more displeasing 
 in her eyes. She had to close her lips tightly to 
 refrain from an expression of anger when he 
 noisily opened the door and she heard his step 
 in the room. She shrank when he threw him- 
 self heavily into a chair. She felt weak, tired, 
 miserable ; he was strong and healthy. She felt 
 irritated even at this. "Forbes gave him his 
 right name," she said to herself; "he is a wild 
 man, and he ought to have married a savage." 
 What a difference between him and Forbes ! 
 As to Forbes, she wished to hate him ! He 
 was the cause of all her misery. She would 
 have liked to give him some magic potion in 
 which he would have imbibed that same dumb, 
 
160 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 heavy wretchedness which crushed her heart. 
 And yet she recognised his light step as soon as 
 he approached her, and his soft soothing voice 
 sounded like music in her ears. She reproached 
 herself bitterly, not because in her heart she 
 was faithless to her husband, but because her 
 pride could not cure her of her love. " I wish 
 he were dead, and I too, and then all would be 
 over," she said to herself. 
 
 A ring at the door roused her from her gloomy 
 reverie. It was nine o'clock. Who could come 
 at that hour ? She had heard Baldwin go out, 
 but she knew that he always had the key of the 
 house with him. " George Forbes ! " she mur- 
 mured. He was the only one of their acquaint- 
 ances who, since her father's death, paid them 
 evening visits ; but she had never been alone 
 with him, and she did not wish to be alone with 
 him now. She hastily rose to leave the room. 
 At the same moment, the servant opened the 
 door and announced Mr Forbes. 
 
 On a table in the centre of the large drawing- 
 room a lamp was burning, whose light, subdued 
 by a shade, was thrown exclusively on the table. 
 Beyond that narrow illumined circle, a soft twi- 
 light reigned in the room. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 161 
 
 Forbes approached Jane with apparent com- 
 posure and sat down in a chair by her side. 
 He inquired after Baldwin. She answered that 
 he had just gone out. Then the conversation 
 dropped. The pause became painful, and Jane 
 tried in vain to find something to say. At 
 last Forbes spoke : there was a peculiar hoarse 
 sound in his voice. 
 
 " I am glad at last to have an opportunity of 
 speaking to you alone and undisturbed, as in old 
 times. I have to ask you for an explanation." 
 
 She made no answer, but continued to look 
 fixedly before her. 
 
 " Mrs Baldwin," continued Forbes, gently and 
 deliberately, " may I ask by what fault of mine 
 I have incurred your displeasure ? " She looked 
 at him stealthily without raising her head or 
 moving. He could not see her face, which re- 
 mained in shadow. After a few seconds, as she 
 made no reply, he went on 
 
 " We have been good friends for many years 
 at least I always thought so. What have I 
 done to forfeit your friendship ? Since your 
 marriage, you have treated me like a stranger 
 nay, worse than a stranger. I have tried my 
 best to retain your good opinion, or to win it 
 
 L 
 
162 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 back, and I know too well that I have failed. 
 It has grieved me very much, I can assure you. 
 My acquaintances generally, I am aware, con- 
 sider me cold and heartless. I owe this repu- 
 tation to the circumstance that I do not allow 
 everybody to get the better of me. It is not 
 easy, I admit, to win my confidence. I am not 
 in the habit of opening my heart to others. This 
 is the first time in my life that I speak about 
 myself, and I do so because I wish you to know 
 me. As a rule, I do not approve of confidential 
 communications, and I generally mistrust those 
 who want to tell me their secrets. Experience 
 has taught me that those who have taken me 
 into their confidence, have usually wanted to 
 borrow money immediately afterwards. People 
 know that I have grown suspicious in this 
 respect, and very few now attempt to approach 
 me. But precisely because I have so few friends, 
 I set a great value on the good opinion of those 
 who favour me with their friendship. I used 
 to reckon you among those few. Have I been 
 mistaken ? That would be a greater misfortune 
 than you can imagine greater than I dare to 
 tell you." 
 
 His voice had become subdued, gentle, tender 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 163 
 
 as Jane had never heard it before. Her blood 
 was rushing like fire through her veins. Her 
 heart was almost bursting. How did that man 
 dare to speak to her like that? He had ne- 
 glected her when she was free, and when she 
 would willingly have given herself to him if he 
 had asked her to be his. He had been the cause 
 of all her misery ; he had driven her to despair. 
 What did he mean now ? Was he laughing at 
 her ? or did he despise her, and did he wish 
 to take advantage of her nameless misery, to 
 degrade her into an object of contempt to 
 herself and to him \ 
 
 She did not answer. She could only preserve 
 an appearance of self-control by remaining 
 silent. 
 
 "Will you not speak to me, Mrs Baldwin ? . . . 
 Jane . . ." He bent forward; she felt his breath 
 upon her cheek, he was going to take her hand. 
 
 She sprang to her feet, pale as death ; she 
 raised her hand, and with outstretched arm and 
 a gesture full of majesty, without saying a word, 
 she pointed to the door. He rose in utter con- 
 fusion and attempted to speak. " Mrs Baldwin 
 . . ." he began ; her glowing eyes looked at him 
 with such an expression of passionate wrath and 
 
164 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 contempt that he dared not proceed. Unspeak- 
 ably humiliated, he moved towards the door 
 slowly. She remained like a marble statue in 
 the same haughty, menacing attitude, and it 
 was only after the door had closed behind him 
 that she sank fainting into a chair. 
 
 Forbes rushed down the avenue like a mad- 
 man. Not far from Baldwin's house he was 
 met by a tall man, who, having recognised him 
 by the light of a street lamp, turned round to 
 look after him in astonishment, and then slowly 
 went on his way. 
 
 " Has Forbes been here ? " inquired Baldwin 
 when, a few minutes later, he entered his own 
 drawing-room. 
 
 Jane, who was sitting in front of the fire 
 with her back towards him, did not answer. 
 He went up to her. She had fallen back in her 
 chair, with half-opened eyes and white lips like 
 a corpse. He took her up in his arms as if she 
 had been a child, and carried her into another 
 room, where he laid her on a bed. He had 
 often seen sick and dying people, and he did 
 not for a moment lose his presence of mind. 
 He saw at once that Jane had fainted, and by 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 165 
 
 the help of a few simple restoratives she soon 
 recovered. She slowly opened her eyes and 
 looked strangely at him. " The wretch 1 " she 
 murmured. 
 
 "What has happened?" inquired Baldwin, 
 anxiously. 
 
 She recognised her husband, closed her eyes, 
 and turned her head away, as if she wanted to 
 sleep. 
 
 Baldwin remained for a short time at the 
 bedside without speaking ; then he asked again 
 what had happened. She answered, scarcely 
 audibly, "I am tired I cannot speak let me 
 rest." Against this weakness, real or feigned, 
 he felt himself powerless. He called his wife's 
 maid, gave her some instructions, and went into 
 his own room. But he only remained there a 
 few minutes. Anger, suspicion, and jealousy 
 tormented him. He had seen Forbes rush past 
 him in the street in a wild, excited manner, and 
 immediately afterwards he had found his wife 
 in a fainting state. What had taken place 
 between those two \ He must know it, and at 
 once. His wife could not, or would not, give 
 him an explanation ; Forbes, at any rate, should 
 give him an answer. 
 
166 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 It was a mild evening in March. The street 
 door was open, and the concierge was standing 
 a few yards off, talking with a neighbour. Bald- 
 win left the house unperceived. He walked 
 quickly to Forbes's house, and from the outside 
 examined carefully the windows of the room 
 where Forbes usually sat when he was at home 
 in the evening. When he saw that all was 
 dark he turned away. A few minutes later he 
 was on the quay. The place seemed even more 
 deserted than usual. Not a step was to be 
 heard. The dark, turbid waters of the river, 
 swollen by the spring rains, rushed gloomily 
 along on his right. Countless lights from the 
 opposite shore and from the bridges were re- 
 flected in long tremulous lines in the water. 
 On his left were the old trees of the GOUTS la 
 Reine, casting a dark shadow around. In the 
 distance was heard the heavy unceasing roll of 
 carriages. 
 
 When Baldwin had reached about half-way 
 between the bridge of the Alma and the bridge 
 of the Invalides, he noticed, at a short distance 
 in front of him, the figure of a man, who had 
 been hidden, up to that time, by the surround- 
 ing darkness. He was leaning over the low 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 167 
 
 stone parapet of the quay, and seemed to be 
 looking down into the gloomy river. Baldwin 
 recognised the man he was seeking. Forbes, 
 hearing the quick, heavy step, looked up, and in 
 a moment the two men stood face to face. A 
 street lamp near them gave sufficient light to 
 enable them to distinguish each other's features 
 clearly. Forbes was very pale; Baldwin, excited 
 by his quick walk and the tempest of passion 
 which was raging within his breast, stood be- 
 fore him with burning cheeks and flashing eyes. 
 
 " What have you been doing in my house '( " 
 he said. He spoke with an ominous tremor in 
 his voice. 
 
 Forbes looked at him in confusion, without 
 answering. 
 
 " What have you done in my house \ " re- 
 peated Baldwin, in a louder tone. A short 
 pause. " Will you not answer, Forbes ? Do 
 you hear me ? Will you answer \ " 
 
 " You are too excited," replied Forbes, regain- 
 ing some composure ; " come home with me. 
 Be quiet, I can explain everything." 
 
 " I will not cross the threshold of your house 
 again. You shall answer me now here at 
 once ! " 
 
168 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 Forbes stepped back involuntarily. Baldwin 
 caught hold of him by the shoulder. 
 
 " You shall not escape me. Answer I an- 
 
 swer ! " 
 
 Baldwin was a powerful man, and his passion 
 gave him the strength of a giant. He shook 
 Forbes like a light lifeless body. " Answer ! " 
 he cried again, with blind fury. 
 
 For the space of the tenth part of a second he 
 saw before him a ghastly pale face, out of which 
 a pair of large black eyes stared at him in 
 wild terror ; then he saw Forbes, whom he had 
 pushed violently away, fall backwards against 
 the sharp edge of the low wall ; he heard his 
 head, with a dull heavy thud, strike against the 
 stones; a fearful groan; then all was still. 
 Forbes was lying on the pavement, close to the 
 wall, and Baldwin was leaning over him, look- 
 ing anxiously into the convulsed face. 
 
 " Forbes ! " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 The eyes of the dying man opened once more 
 in his last agony a horrible rattling sound in 
 his throat a short convulsive writhing of his 
 body and then suddenly complete repose the 
 repose of death. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 169 
 
 Baldwin looked wildly around. For a few 
 seconds lie stood irresolute ; then that cool 
 self-possession which always came to his aid in 
 the hour of danger, awoke him. He recognised 
 his perilous position with perfect lucidity. He 
 heard the roll of a heavy carriage, and saw to 
 his right, only some hundred paces off, the red 
 light of an omnibus. With a few strides he 
 crossed over to the other side of the quay, and 
 was hidden beneath the shadow of the trees of 
 the Cours la Reine. 
 
 The omnibus went by without stopping ; 
 but from the Invalides two men were coming 
 towards him. The night was so still that 
 Baldwin could distinctly hear what they said. 
 
 "What's this?" exclaimed one, as they came 
 up to the body. 
 
 "A drunken man." 
 
 They both stooped down. 
 
 " Call a policeman ; I'll stop here ; this man 
 is dead!" 
 
 One of the two men ran towards the Place de 
 la Concorde. Baldwin took the opposite direc- 
 tion, and, hurrying as much as he could without 
 attracting the attention of those he overtook in 
 his way, he reached his own house. Scarcely 
 
1*70 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 half an hour had elapsed since he had left it. 
 The concierge was smoking a pipe, and walking 
 up and down before the open door. Baldwin 
 recognised him from afar, and managed to enter 
 the house without being seen by him. He 
 walked noiselessly up-stairs, and reached his 
 own room unnoticed. He quickly took off his 
 overcoat, and threw himself into a chair by 
 the fire. Then, and only then, when he had 
 effaced every trace of his deed, when he had 
 escaped the most pressing and immediate dan- 
 ger, did he begin to reflect on what had taken 
 place. 
 
 A thousand thoughts pressed upon him, but 
 not in wild confusion. Things passed before 
 him in logical sequence, and he could calmly 
 consider and weigh every circumstance : Forbes 
 had insulted his wife ; she had alluded to him, 
 and to no other, in that exclamation, "Wretch! " 
 He was fully justified in demanding an explan- 
 ation of what had taken place. Jane would 
 not give it ; he had gone to Forbes for it. 
 Forbes, too, had refused to answer. He had 
 wanted to force him to speak, and had grown 
 angry; but even in his wrath he had never in- 
 tended to kill Forbes. Without knowing what 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 171 
 
 he was doing, he had pushed him violently. 
 But Forbes was dead; and who could now stand 
 up and bear witness to Baldwin's innocence I 
 If he gave himself up as the author of this in- 
 voluntary crime, he would have to submit to 
 strange suspicious judges, who would consider 
 his truthful testimony as mere lying and per- 
 jury, and who would treat and perhaps condemn 
 him -an innocent man like a common male- 
 factor. Nothing obliged him to expose himself 
 to such a risk. His conscience reproached him 
 with nothing ; he had meant no harm. Should 
 he accuse himself? Should he stand forward 
 and say, " That man died by my hand " ? 
 Should he deliver over his good name to mali- 
 cious comments and suspicions \ No ! he would 
 not do that. He would, on the contrary, do 
 everything in his power to avert such an unde- 
 served misfortune. 
 
 He called to mind every circumstance which 
 had immediately preceded or followed the acci- 
 dent. Nobody had seen him go out; nobody 
 had seen him return home ; he had been absent 
 only a short time. It was impossible that any 
 suspicion should attach to him. "Nobody 
 knows what I have done," he said to himself, as 
 
172 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 he weighed every point over and over again ; 
 " and nobody shall know it." 
 
 At this moment he heard a violent ring at 
 the door-bell, followed by loud talking in the 
 ante-room. His quick ear caught repeatedly 
 the name of Forbes. He placed the lamp, which 
 was covered with a shade, on a low table, so 
 that his face might remain in darkness, and 
 waited a few seconds in intense anxiety. The 
 door of his room was thrown open violently, and 
 Forbes's old servant entered. Baldwin's servant 
 followed, but remained standing at the door. 
 
 "Well I what is it ?" 
 
 " They have brought home my master dead ! 
 He has been murdered." 
 
 With easily feigned surprise, Baldwin sprang 
 to his feet to follow the messenger of woe. He 
 addressed several questions to the servant, as he 
 would have done if he had had no knowledge of 
 all that had happened, and in a few minutes 
 they reached Forbes's house. The door stood 
 wide open, and was guarded by two policemen. 
 Baldwin and his companion were, however, at 
 once admitted, and entered the bedroom without 
 being questioned. 
 
 There, on a bed, lay the half-undressed body 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 173 
 
 of the dead man. Three persons were in the 
 room, who in a few words introduced them- 
 selves as the doctor, the chief police officer of 
 the district, and his assistant. The officer, at 
 whose request Baldwin had been sent for as a 
 friend of the deceased, told him all he knew of 
 the case. About three-quarters of an hour be- 
 fore, two gentlemen, accompanied by a sergent 
 de mile, had come to the police station and had 
 given information that they had found the dead 
 body of a man on the quay, between the bridge 
 of the Alma and the bridge of the Invalides. 
 The identity of the deceased had soon been 
 ascertained, as a pocket-book with his address 
 and a large sum of money had been found on 
 his person. The officer wished now to know if 
 Mr Baldwin, whom the servant had designated 
 as an intimate friend of the deceased, could give 
 any information likely to throw light on the 
 tragic end of the unfortunate gentleman. 
 
 No ; he knew nothing. 
 
 "When did you see Mr Forbes for the last 
 time ? " inquired the officer. 
 
 " A few hours ago. I came home at about 
 nine o'clock, and I met him close to my house 
 where he had called to see me." 
 
174 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 "What did he say to you?" 
 
 " He did not speak to me. He did not recog- 
 nise me in the darkness, and walked quickly 
 past me. I had seen him during the day, and 
 had nothing particular to say to him. I did 
 not stop him." 
 
 " Did he leave any message for you with your 
 servant '? " 
 
 " No ; if he had, I would have received it." 
 
 " With whom did he speak in your house ? " 
 
 "With my wife." 
 
 " What did he say to her ? " 
 
 " I do not know. My wife was not very well 
 when I got home, and in attending to her I 
 forgot to ask about Forbes. He was a frequent 
 visitor at my house, and there was nothing 
 strange in his calling." 
 
 The conversation assumed the shape of a 
 regular examination. Baldwin noticed this, and 
 began to be careful. He determined to answer 
 every question truthfully, and to conceal only 
 what nobody but himself could know, and what 
 nobody else was ever to know. Not once did 
 he contradict himself; the officer was far from 
 suspecting him, and finally closed the conversa- 
 tion by saying that Mr and Mrs Baldwin, as 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 175 
 
 well as the servant who had opened the door for 
 Mr Forbes, would probably be examined on the 
 morrow by a police magistrate. Baldwin merely 
 bowed assent, and turned to the doctor to ask 
 him what had been the immediate cause of 
 death. He listened attentively to the learned 
 explanation of the physician, and was able to 
 look on the corpse without any outward sign of 
 emotion. All his energies were directed to the 
 one object of not betraying himself by word, 
 look, or deed. All else was of secondary im- 
 portance for the time being. When he would 
 be alone he would reflect upon it all. Now, 
 there was no time for reflection. The first thing 
 was, that he should not be suspected by that 
 intelligent, shrewd police officer. He felt 
 vaguely that he could not yet realise all the con- 
 sequences of his deed ; that misfortune was 
 threatening him as the natural result of such 
 an event ; that blood calls for blood. All these 
 thoughts rushed through his brain indistinctly, 
 but he managed to keep them under control. 
 For the present, all he had to do was to secure 
 his retreat. While he was thinking of this he 
 heard the officer say to his assistant that two 
 policemen would keep watch in the house until 
 
176 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 everything had been officially sealed. Then he 
 asked Baldwin if he knew where the deceased 
 was in the habit of keeping his money and 
 papers of value. Baldwin pointed out a box in 
 which Forbes usually kept his cash and any 
 important papers. This box was opened with a 
 key which had been found in the dead man's 
 pocket, and a considerable sum in gold and 
 bank-notes was discovered. While the police 
 officer was busy counting the money in the 
 presence of witnesses, Baldwin noticed in the 
 strong-box a carefully sealed envelope. He took 
 it out and read the address : 
 
 "GORDON BALDWIN, Esq. 
 (of Hakodate), 
 
 PARIS. 
 " To be opened after my death." 
 
 " This may contain some useful information," 
 he said to the police officer. " Do you not think 
 it would be well to open it at once ? " 
 
 The officer assented, but added that the let- 
 ter must be communicated to the magistrate. 
 Baldwin offered no objection. He opened the 
 letter and began to read, while all present 
 observed him with curiosity. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 177 
 
 PARIS, February 26th. 
 
 MY DEAR BALDWIN, I have made up my 
 mind to put an end to my life, and when you 
 receive this, I will have carried out my inten- 
 tion." 
 
 Baldwin uttered an exclamation of surprise, 
 and read these first lines aloud. 
 
 " That is very strange," remarked the officer. 
 " From the doctor's report I would have thought 
 it impossible that your friend had committed 
 suicide." 
 
 Baldwin continued : 
 
 " I tell you this in order to prevent all erron- 
 eous conjectures and inquiries as to the cause of 
 my death. I have always disliked sensational 
 excitement, and it is my last wish to leave this 
 world as quietly and as noiselessly as possible. 
 I have made arrangements to facilitate, as far as 
 I can, the fulfilment of my wish. 
 
 " My will has been deposited at the American 
 Consulate, and has been drawn up by an expe- 
 rienced lawyer in such a manner that it cannot 
 possibly be disputed after my death. 
 
 " The reason why I kill myself is a very 
 simple one : I am weary of life. A Frenchman 
 
 M 
 
178 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 would say it in fewer words : Je m'ennuie. In 
 your opinion, this can hardly be called a mis- 
 fortune. You cannot conceive how insupport- 
 able ennui may become with time Tcedet 
 tamdiu eadem fecisse. This is the only Latin 
 sentence I know, but this one I understand 
 better than any scholar : it is tedious to have 
 always the same things to do ; to know that as 
 long as we live we always will have to do the 
 same things, and to feel that those things are 
 wearisome and unprofitable. 
 
 " I have often regretted that I did not render 
 you the service which you asked of me years 
 ago. I beg you to forgive me. Use your in- 
 fluence with Thomas to make him forgive me 
 likewise. I have never knowingly done your 
 wife any wrong. I hope she will sometimes 
 think of me kindly. 
 
 " When I have said farewell to you, to your 
 wife, and to my brother, I will have done with 
 the world. How poor I have been I, the rich 
 man ! You, Baldwin, were my best friend, and 
 how little were you my friend I Thomas was 
 my only brother, and for years he has been dead 
 and lost to me ! Jane Leland is your wife. A 
 woman who is another man's wife, a brother 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 179 
 
 who is lost, a friend who is indifferent that is 
 all I possessed. It was not enough. 
 
 "At this moment I am neither excited nor 
 cast down. A feeling of profound rest, such as 
 I have not felt for a long time, fills my breast. 
 The thought that I can lay down the burden of 
 life whenever I please gives me new courage. 
 Only a quarter of an hour ago, when I began to 
 write to you, it was my intention to kill myself 
 to-night. Now that I know to a certainty that 
 I shall kill myself, now that I have made every 
 preparation for the last act of my life, and am 
 assured of being able to carry out my intention 
 whenever I please, I feel courage to try the ex- 
 periment of living a few days longer. Perhaps 
 something new may happen to me. I can wait 
 quietly. I have nothing more to lose, nothing 
 to fear. Satiated, even to nausea, I stand on 
 the boundary of life ; when you read this I will 
 have overstepped it. GEORGE FORBES." 
 
 While Baldwin was reading this letter, the 
 officer had sealed up the money arid other 
 valuables. He then carefully drew on his 
 gloves, remarked that it was late, gave his 
 assistant some further directions, and left the 
 
180 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 house with Baldwin. He bade him good-night 
 at the door, requesting him to come again early 
 the next morning. Then he pulled up his coat- 
 collar, put his hands into his pockets, and 
 trotted briskly home. Baldwin walked slowly 
 down the avenue. He remained a few minutes 
 lost in thought in front of his own house ; then 
 he rang the bell and was admitted. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The last wish which Forbes had expressed in 
 his letter to Baldwin was fulfilled. He was 
 buried very quietly. Parisian papers only 
 alluded discreetly to the tragic affair. All the 
 inquiries of the police proved fruitless. The 
 evidence of the doctors showed, it is true, that 
 the hypothesis of suicide could not be admitted ; 
 but, on the other hand, it was difficult to believe 
 in a murder, as a large sum of money had been 
 found on the person of the deceased, and as 
 Forbes was not known to have a single enemy. 
 
 Baldwin's servant deposed that on the fatal 
 evening Mr Forbes had paid a short visit to 
 Mrs Baldwin. He had noticed nothing pecu- 
 liar in Mr Forbes's manner. Mrs Baldwin 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 181 
 
 declared that, after she had told Forbes that 
 her husband was not at home, he had not stayed 
 long with her. She, too, had noticed nothing 
 extraordinary in his behaviour, nor had he said 
 anything that could lead her to believe that he 
 was threatened by any danger. 
 
 The evidence of the two gentlemen who found 
 the body showed that Forbes had died between 
 ten and half -past ten o'clock. A policeman who 
 was on duty near the bridge of the Alma, said 
 that, about ten o'clock, he had seen an open 
 carriage driven by at a furious rate ; he could 
 not say whether it was a private carriage or 
 a cab. The doctors, the chief officer of police, 
 and the police magistrate came unanimously to 
 the conclusion that Forbes must have been in 
 that carriage, and that in his fear when the 
 horses ran away, he had jumped out and so 
 caused his own death. This explanation satis- 
 fied everybody, and the fatal event was very 
 soon all but forgotten. Only between Baldwin 
 and his wife it stood like a dark shadow. 
 
 Baldwin was conscious that, whenever he was 
 alone with Jane, her eyes followed anxiously 
 and suspiciously all his movements, as if she 
 were afraid of him. Even the sham familiarity 
 
182 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 which up to that time had existed between 
 them, disappeared. They lived together in 
 gloomy, oppressive silence each with a secret 
 and a suspicion at heart. Baldwin had never 
 dared to ask his wife again what had taken place 
 between Forbes and herself at that last meeting. 
 The words seemed to choke him whenever he 
 tried to utter, in her presence, the name of the 
 man who had died by his hand. His peace was 
 gone, and he knew that he could never again 
 find it. Henceforward he had to live under 
 a heavy burden, and only death could bring 
 repose. Fear a feeling which he had never 
 known before took hold of him. If his secret 
 were discovered 1 If his dark deed were brought 
 to light ? He shuddered at the very thought. 
 He would leave Paris ; he would seek occupa- 
 tion ; hard work might drive away those terrible 
 thoughts, might give him peace, would tire him 
 at least and bring back sleep, which had fled 
 since that terrible night. He longed to go back 
 to Yesso, among the simple-minded islanders, 
 who had confidence in him, who knew nothing 
 of what had happened in Paris, who would never 
 know it. He would escape from his wife's 
 searching, hostile looks, which watched and tor- 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 183 
 
 mented him. He had never in all his life cast 
 down his eyes before any human being, and now 
 he did not dare to look up in presence of his 
 wife. It was unbearable. 
 
 Immediately after the death of Forbes, Bald- 
 win had written to Thomas to inform him of his 
 brother's sudden end, and to urge him to take 
 possession of the large fortune which had been 
 left to him. Baldwin now resolved to go to 
 Hakodate and take charge of the business during 
 Graham's absence. He was, in fact, as much 
 afraid of Thomas as of Jane. He pictured to 
 himself a meeting with his old friend. How 
 could he look at him, while he told him the 
 story of his brother's death? He fancied he 
 could see Graham's eyes looking with full trust 
 and affection into his own. Would he be able 
 to dissemble and to lie under the light of those 
 honest eyes ? No ! he could even better bear 
 Jane's suspicions than Thomas's trustfulness. 
 He would start at once for Hakodate. By that 
 means he was almost sure to avoid seeing his 
 friend, who, in all probability, had sailed for 
 Europe immediately on hearing of his brother's 
 death. 
 
 Having carefully weighed every consideration, 
 
184 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 he made up his mind one day to speak to Jane 
 without further delay. He only waited till it 
 was dark. He felt ashamed and humbled in 
 his own eyes to take such a precaution, but he 
 was forced to it he could not help it. When 
 the lamp was brought in, he placed himself with 
 his back to the light. Jane sat opposite to him, 
 pale, silent, and indifferent. 
 
 "Thomas Lansdale will have left Hakodate 
 on receipt of my letter," he began ; " one of us 
 must be out there to take care of our business. 
 I will return to Japan shortly. Will you go 
 with me, or do you prefer to remain here 1 " 
 
 She did not reply to his question, but said 
 
 " You are going to leave Paris \ " 
 
 " I am obliged to go." 
 
 " I thought so." 
 
 He tried to appear surprised, and asked, 
 " What made you think so \ " 
 
 She merely shrugged her shoulders con- 
 temptuously." 
 
 "What made you think so?" he repeated. 
 He made an effort, and looked straight into her 
 face as he spoke. 
 
 " Do not ask me ; you know it." 
 
 Her voice had a peculiar threatening accent. 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 185 
 
 He felt humiliated, but he dared not press for 
 an explanation. He repeated his question, 
 " Will you go with me to Japan ? " 
 
 " No " and after a pause she added care- 
 lessly, " I expect a letter from my aunt Alice in 
 a few days. I have made up my mind to live 
 with her in future." 
 
 It had come to this ! She knew that he 
 had no longer any power over her, and that he 
 would not dare to assert his rights. " I do not 
 understand you," he said gently, "but I will 
 not hinder you from doing what you wish. 
 Since I have known you, I have had but one 
 thought, and that was to make you happy." 
 
 He said these last words in a voice of inde- 
 scribable sadness, and he felt the tears rising to 
 his eyes. What had he done to deserve the 
 misery which he had to endure ? If any one 
 was answerable for this horrible fate it was Jane, 
 whose coldness had first awakened his suspi- 
 cions, and whose unconsciously uttered exclama- 
 tion about Forbes had excited his anger. The 
 thought that some wrong had been done to his 
 wife had maddened him when he laid hands on 
 Forbes. She, above all others, ought to forgive 
 him, and to comfort him and she alone tor- 
 
186 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 mented him ! He covered his face with his 
 hands and wept. He had become another man 
 since Forbes's death. All his former energy had 
 forsaken him. Now he was weak and irritable. 
 Jane saw his tears and his sufferings unmoved. 
 She sat there cold and pitiless like a stone image, 
 her distrustful eyes fixed steadily upon him. 
 At last he rose and said, " You are hard and 
 unjust towards me, but I will not complain. 
 The time may come when you will regret that 
 you have rejected my love. When that day 
 comes, call me and I will return to you. Now 
 I will go." 
 
 He left the room slowly. She followed him 
 with her eyes ; her mute lips moved, and with- 
 out uttering a sound she breathed the word 
 " Murderer ! " 
 
 Baldwin felt sure that he had not betrayed 
 himself to his wife. She could know nothing 
 of the dark deed ; but he felt sure now that she 
 had guessed it. He knew, however, that his 
 peace was gone, even if Jane had not suspected 
 him. Her undeserved confidence would have 
 been less bearable even than her suspicions. One 
 thing only could have reconciled him to his fate. 
 If he could have taken his wife into his confi- 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 187 
 
 dence, if she had acknowledged his innocence, 
 pitied his misfortune, and shared it with him ; 
 yes, then he would have found comfort and 
 peace in her presence. But Jane's looks sternly 
 forbade any approach, and he must bear alone 
 the heavy burden of his secret. 
 
 Baldwin spent the next day in putting his 
 affairs in order. He made every preparation for 
 his departure, without interference on Jane's 
 part, by word or deed. She looked on, as if 
 she were deaf and dumb. Two days after their 
 last conversation, he went into her room to say 
 good-bye. He had dreaded that moment, but 
 it was soon over. His heart was so overwhelmed 
 with grief that he hardly noticed Jane's coldness. 
 She did not offer him her hand, and when he 
 leant forward to kiss her, she drew back in 
 silence. 
 
 " Farewell, Jane ! " he said; and in a tone of 
 entreaty he added, "Let us meet again." She 
 bowed her head without saying a word. He 
 hesitated for an instant ; but when he saw no 
 sign of relenting in that cold face, he turned 
 away. It would have been better for him to 
 stand before the most severe judge than to 
 face that woman who had never loved him, who 
 
188 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 saw in him the cause of her unhappiness, and 
 who now hated and dreaded him. She had 
 heard him on that fatal evening when she was 
 lying ill on her bed ; she knew when he had 
 gone out and when he had come back. She 
 knew that he must have been in the street at 
 the very time of Forbes' s death. The fact that 
 he had concealed this circumstance had first 
 aroused her suspicions ; his gloominess, his con- 
 fusion, had confirmed her in her belief. Since 
 their last conversation, when that strong man 
 had wept in her presence, she had felt absolute- 
 ly sure of his guilt. " He is a murderer," she 
 said to herself; but, nevertheless, she would 
 not stand forth as his accuser. She, too, had 
 a secret to keep ; and her secret was more safe 
 if she remained silent. 
 
 A few days after Baldwin's departure, Jane's 
 aunt, Mademoiselle Alice de Monte'mars, arrived 
 in Paris. She was a poor and elderly maiden 
 lady, the sister of Jane's mother. Aunt Alice 
 saw at a glance that she might secure a com- 
 fortable home for the rest of her days if she 
 made herself agreeable to her wealthy niece. 
 She spared no pains to make herself not only 
 pleasant, but useful and even indispensable ; and 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 189 
 
 she succeeded, after a few weeks, in persuading 
 Jane to go with her to her home, and to settle 
 in a cheerful watering-place in the south of 
 France. 
 
 X. 
 
 Baldwin had accomplished the greater part 
 of his journey, and was in San Francisco await- 
 ing the departure of the Pacific mail-steamer 
 for Japan. He intended to go by that line to 
 Yokohama, where he was sure to find easily an 
 opportunity for Hakodate. 
 
 In New York, in Chicago, and in San Fran- 
 cisco, he had inquired after Thomas Lansdale, 
 or Thomas Graham for he did not know under 
 which name his friend was travelling but he 
 could learn nothing about him. " He must 
 have gone by way of China, India, and Egypt," 
 he said to himself. " So much the better 1 Now 
 I am quite sure not to meet him." His heart 
 ached when he thought that henceforth he 
 would have to avoid those two, whom he loved 
 best in the world Jane and Thomas. But he 
 strove hard to accustom himself to the idea, and 
 he now felt more able to bear his fate. He had 
 become calmer and stronger since he had lefc 
 
190 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 Jane. He knew that she was well taken care 
 of, and he felt no anxiety on her account. If 
 she had loved him, she would have followed 
 him; but she did not love him, she never had 
 loved him. She had been false from the begin- 
 ning when she had given him her hand, when 
 she had promised solemnly to " love and cherish 
 him," and to be his " for better, for worse." His 
 misfortune should not have estranged her from 
 him. He had every reason to resent her con- 
 duct ; she had nothing to reproach him with 
 he had done her no wrong. It was a comfort 
 to feel himself innocent, at any rate, so far as 
 she was concerned. His account with her was 
 closed, and the balance was in his favour. He 
 was her creditor, and he forgave her her debt. 
 But it was different with Thomas. Against 
 Thomas he had sinned, and he dared not face 
 him at least not now. Perhaps he might be 
 able to do so in years to come. It was well 
 that Thomas had gone by way of India ; he need 
 not fear to meet him. 
 
 Baldwin left San Francisco on the 1st of July, 
 and, twenty-two days later, he arrived at Yoko- 
 hama. Those three weeks of peaceful rest on 
 the great Pacific Ocean had acted like a heal- 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 191 
 
 ing balm on his wounded heart. He was still 
 incapable of cheerful thoughts, but the gnaw- 
 ing anxiety which had tormented him in Paris 
 had disappeared. In Yokohama he was wel- 
 comed by some old acquaintances. They all 
 asked him, as soon as they saw him, what ailed 
 him, and what had turned his hair so grey. He 
 replied that he had been ill, and then quickly 
 changed the conversation. Here, again, he in- 
 quired after Graham. There had been no news 
 from Hakodate for the last two months, he was 
 told, and nobody could say whether Graham 
 had gone to Hong-Kong or Shanghai. The 
 steamer Osakka was to leave in a few days for 
 Hakodate, and would bring back letters from 
 the North. 
 
 The captain of the Osakka was willing to take 
 Baldwin as a passenger, and he was thus able to 
 continue his voyage after only a few days' delay 
 at Yokohama. On the 3d of August he arrived 
 at Hakodate. 
 
 While the steamer was steering about the har- 
 bour to find a suitable anchorage, a number of 
 small boats filled with Chinese and European 
 merchants came alongside to get the letters and 
 news she had brought. 
 
192 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 Baldwin soon recognised his own house-boat, 
 carrying a young Englishman named Howell, 
 who for some time had been in his employ 
 as book-keeper. Baldwin went to meet him at 
 the gangway. Howell started with surprise at 
 seeing his chief so unexpectedly. He shook 
 hands warmly, and then inquired immediately, 
 with evident anxiety, whether Mr Baldwin had 
 been ill, and if he were still unwell. Baldwin 
 gave the same answer he had given to his friends 
 at Yokohama, and then asked in his turn when 
 Mr Graham had left for Europe. 
 
 " Mr Graham is in Hakodate, and you will 
 see him in a quarter of an hour. A few weeks 
 ago he received a letter from you, and deter- 
 mined to go to Europe ; but just before the de- 
 parture of the steamer he changed his mind. He 
 has written to you twice since then ; his letters 
 must have crossed you on the sea, and have 
 reached London about a month ago." 
 
 Howell went away to look after his employer's 
 luggage, and this gave Baldwin time to collect 
 his thoughts. The meeting with Graham was 
 now unavoidable there was no help for it. He 
 could do nothing for the present but wait and 
 see what course matters would take. With 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 193 
 
 assumed composure he got into the boat, and 
 in a few minutes he was landed on the quay. 
 Many of the Japanese, among whom Baldwin 
 had lived for several years, welcomed him back 
 with true heartiness ; but all those who knew 
 him well enough to speak to him put the same 
 question, " Have you been ill, Mr Baldwin ? " 
 
 Graham was seated in his room reading. He 
 jumped up with an exclamation of joyful sur- 
 prise when the door opened, and Baldwin's 
 well-known voice called out, " How do you do, 
 Thomas 1" But no sooner had he looked at his 
 friend than he started back and said anxiously, 
 " Some misfortune has befallen you, Baldwin I 
 For God's sake, tell me what is the matter ?" 
 
 Baldwin felt something rise in his throat 
 which kept him speechless for a few seconds, 
 then he said, " I have had a hard time of it, 
 Graham ; but we will speak about that presently. 
 Tell me first how it is that you are here? I 
 thought you were on your way to Europe, and 
 I have come out here to fill your place." 
 
 But Graham could not take his eyes off Bald- 
 win's face, which he scanned with the anxious 
 tenderness of a mother looking at her sick child 
 which has been brought home to her. 
 
 H 
 
194 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 "Gordon, what is the matter?" he asked 
 again, with an imploring voice. " I cannot rest 
 till I know all." 
 
 He took Baldwin's right hand between his 
 two hands, and looked at him steadily. There 
 was the old confiding look of which Baldwin had 
 been afraid ! 
 
 " I have been obliged to part from my wife," 
 he said at last, without raising his eyes. 
 
 " My poor friend 1 " 
 
 Then followed a long pause. Baldwin covered 
 his face with his bands. 
 
 " My poor friend I " repeated Graham. 
 
 Suddenly Baldwin became conscious that in 
 order to extricate himself he had inadvertently 
 exposed his wife to suspicion. No ! that must 
 not be. His unfortunate deed had cost him all 
 his happiness he did not complain ; blood will 
 have blood but his honour, his self-respect, 
 must not be sacrificed. He would not, by an 
 act of cowardice, throw the burden upon Jane 
 and injure her fair name. He said, in a low 
 inquiring tone 
 
 " Graham, you are my friend ? " 
 
 "Yes, indeed I am. I have no one in the 
 wide world but you. You may confide to me 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 195 
 
 all that weighs on your mind, and I will do all 
 in my power to help you." He paused for a 
 moment, and then added solemnly, " So help 
 me God ! " 
 
 Beneath the window of the room where the 
 two friends were seated lay the broad harbour 
 of Hakodate. Heavy junks with brown square 
 sails, and numberless fishing-boats, glided gently 
 on the white-crested waves of the dark -blue sea. 
 Baldwin kept his eyes fixed on this grand pic- 
 ture ; and, without looking once at his friend, 
 in low passionless accents, he told his miserable 
 story. He did not accuse Forbes he did not 
 even know that he had been guilty neither 
 did he try to exculpate himself. He had been 
 angry and excited; he had, without knowing 
 what he was doing, pushed away Forbes, who 
 had stumbled and had fallen. . . . "I bent 
 over him, and saw him dying ; killed by my 
 hand. I see him at this moment. . . ." 
 
 He stopped, and for the first time looked 
 anxiously into his friend's face. Graham, pale 
 as death, kept his eyes bent on the ground. 
 
 " Nobody but you knows what has happened," 
 continued Baldwin ; "I owed this confession to 
 no one but to you. To you I have given up 
 
196 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 my secret and myself; you can do with me 
 what you like, I am in your hands. If I am 
 guilty, I am ready to bear any punishment that 
 may be imposed on me ; but if I am innocent, 
 then acquit me and release me from the tor- 
 ments which I can bear no longer. See how 
 wretched I am, Thomas ! Have pity on me I 
 I have suffered terribly." 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 " I have nobody in the world but you," 
 said Thomas, at last. 
 
 In his eyes shone all the old confidence, the 
 old love, and Baldwin could look into them 
 without fear. Now as with Jane, his debtor 
 his account was settled with Thomas, his 
 creditor, who had forgiven him, likewise, his 
 trespasses. He drew a long deep breath. Once 
 more he was a free man. 
 
 Jane lives alternately in the south of France 
 and in Paris a young, rich widow. She has 
 become very pious. Her piety is of that frigid 
 sort which causes those who practise it to be 
 venerated by the public at large, and feared by 
 their friends. Her house is kept with exem- 
 plary order. Her servants though she never 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 197 
 
 scolds them tremble before her. No beggar 
 ever approaches her doors, but the name of Mrs 
 Gordon Baldwin figures with large sums on the 
 lists of every public charity. Her beneficence 
 is, however, as free from vanity as from compas- 
 sion. She does not endow schools, hospitals, 
 and asylums, to hear her name quoted and 
 praised, but because she thinks it her duty to 
 be charitable ; and she can only fulfil this duty 
 by placing large sums of money in the hands of 
 professional philanthropists. She finds it im- 
 possible to take an interest in the sufferings of 
 individuals. She can think only of her own sor- 
 row ; and to alleviate that, she gives to suffering 
 humanity. She is not wicked ; she has never 
 done anything positively wrong nor anything 
 unselfishly good. She has never cared much 
 for those about her. Nature has denied her that 
 faculty. She certainly cannot be admired; she 
 can hardly be blamed. Kind people and there 
 are some in this world will pity her. 
 
 Thomas Lansdale has settled in New York. 
 Hundreds among the poor bless his name. 
 Whoever is in want and can appeal to him 
 leaves his door comforted and relieved. The 
 last misfortune which has befallen him Bald- 
 
198 GORDON BALDWIN. 
 
 win's death has made the kind, tender-hearted 
 man more charitable than ever. He often gives 
 to the undeserving, but he continues to do good, 
 to the best of his knowledge. His simple heart 
 knows no suspicion. It is better to be deceived 
 by some and to help many, than to mistrust all 
 and to stand alone. 
 
 Soon after his return to Hakodate, Gordon 
 Baldwin died the death of a hero. While swim- 
 ming to carry a rope, in order to save from 
 certain death the crew of a foundering vessel, he 
 was dashed against a rock and frightfully crushed. 
 He lived about six hours long enough to learn 
 that the crew had been saved, and that his life 
 had not been sacrificed in vain long enough to 
 know that Forbes's death had been expiated and 
 atoned for. The members of the foreign com- 
 munity surrounded his house during the hours 
 of his agony. Thomas Lansdale closed his eyes. 
 His loving, faithful look, of which Baldwin had 
 once been afraid, was the last consolation of the 
 dying man. 
 
 And so they are all provided for. Forbes and 
 Baldwin are dead, and have found rest. Only 
 two people, Jane and Thomas, think of them, 
 and feel that with them is buried something 
 
GORDON BALDWIN. 199 
 
 that belonged to their own life and happiness, 
 and that can never be replaced. Otherwise, it 
 would be as though they had never been. 
 Thomas has never got over his grief for the loss 
 of his friend ; but he is not unhappy. He is 
 deceived by some ; honoured and loved by many. 
 He continues to do good, and will continue till 
 the end. Jane lives retired, lonely and cold, 
 high above all her surroundings, as on some 
 frozen pinnacle amid eternal snows, and is in a 
 fair way of earning the reputation of a saint. 
 
WEAEINESS: 
 
 A TALE FKOM FKANCE. 
 
 MONSIEUR CASIMIR VINCENT, the old and very 
 wealthy Lunel banker, had been for more than 
 thirty years the regular and honoured frequenter 
 of the Cafe de 1'Esplanade. There he might be 
 seen twice a-day without fail : in the afternoon 
 about one o'clock, after his breakfast, to take his 
 cup of coffee, glance over the newspapers, and 
 exchange a few words with his old acquaint- 
 ances ; and again towards eight in the evening, 
 after his dinner, to play his game of piquet, 
 which generally lasted till about eleven. 
 
 Every one at Lunel knew M. Vincent. He 
 was a small thin man, with marked features, 
 large dark eyes, short thick hair that was turn- 
 ing grey, and a calm indifferent expression of 
 
202 WEARINESS. 
 
 countenance. M. Vincent was of a taciturn 
 nature, and when he spoke it was slowly and 
 thoughtfully. Notwithstanding his unmixed 
 southern blood, he was sober in gesture, and 
 nothing in his movements betrayed the prover- 
 bial vivacity of his countrymen. He dressed 
 simply and very carefully, and paid particular 
 attention to his linen, which was always of 
 dazzling whiteness. 
 
 M. Vincent's story was as well known to the 
 inhabitants of the town as his appearance or his 
 mode of living. His grandfather, during the 
 first Eevolution, had been the founder of the 
 house of Casimir Vincent. There were old men 
 living who still remembered him, and spoke of 
 him as a man who had possessed no common 
 share of intelligence and energy. In a short 
 time he had amassed a large fortune by his 
 banking business, and also as an army con- 
 tractor. His son had carried on the business 
 under the Empire and the Kestoration. In his 
 turn, the Casimir Vincent of our story, who had 
 been brought up in the paternal school, after 
 having spent a few years in Bordeaux, Mar- 
 seilles, and Paris, settled at Lunel in the year 
 1840. His steadiness inspired his father with 
 
WEARINESS. 203 
 
 such confidence that he at once admitted him to 
 partnership. The firm was thenceforward styled 
 "Casimir Vincent & Son/' 
 
 Vincent junior was then about thirty. He 
 was considered a dandy, and the young beaux 
 of his little town copied his dress, and asked 
 him for the addresses of his tradesmen. 
 
 The wealthy citizens who had marriageable 
 daughters used to get up parties and picnics in 
 his honour. 
 
 On two occasions there had been rumours of 
 Monsieur Vincent's marriage. Soon after his 
 return to Lunel he had paid his addresses to 
 Mademoiselle Coule, and his proposals had been 
 joyfully received by her family. All the gossips 
 of the place were already busy reckoning up the 
 large fortune that the young couple would have, 
 when bright, pretty, joyous Caroline Coule 
 suddenly fell ill, and almost immediately died. 
 Casimir Vincent wore no mourning for his affi- 
 anced bride, but her death grieved him deeply. 
 For several years he remained in strict retire- 
 ment, entirely, occupied with his father's busi- 
 ness. The old man died in 1844, leaving by 
 his will " all he possessed to his only and well- 
 beloved son Casimir Vincent." 
 
204 WEARINESS. 
 
 Three years after this event, Vincent came 
 forward as a suitor for the hand of Mdlle. 
 Jeanne d'Arfeuille. He was then thirty-six, but 
 looked much older ; his hair was turning grey, 
 and the lonely life he had led since Caroline's 
 death had made him taciturn and gloomy. It 
 was not, therefore, very surprising that a girl of 
 eighteen should look upon him as an old man. 
 Jeanne d'Arfeuille uttered a scream of affright 
 when her mother, all radiant with joy, announced 
 to her that the wealthy banker had done her the 
 honour to make her an offer of marriage. She 
 declared at once that she would rather die or 
 shut herself up in a convent, than marry " that 
 ugly, little, old man." 
 
 " He might be my father," added she, burst- 
 ing into tears. " I shall never love him, and I 
 won't marry him." 
 
 At first the mother tried her eloquence to 
 convince her daughter that it was madness to 
 refuse the best match of the department; but 
 as Jeanne persisted in crying, and rejected all 
 idea of yielding, Madame d'Arfeuille at last 
 lost patience, and ended the debate by exclaim- 
 ing, " I order you to marry him, and marry 
 him you must." 
 
WEARINESS. 205 
 
 Something, however, occurred on the occasion 
 of M. Vincent's first official visit at Madame 
 d'Arfeuille's that ruined all the plans which that 
 lady had formed. Vincent noticed the red eye- 
 lids and downcast air of the girl he was to wed, 
 and, leading her up to the window, spoke to her 
 for a few minutes in whispered tones. Madame 
 d'Arfeuille, who was seated at a little distance, 
 saw with secret anxiety her daughter burst into 
 tears, and heard M. Vincent, to her intense sur- 
 prise, say in a gentle, serious voice 
 
 " Calm yourself, my dear child I only wish 
 for your happiness ; I was mistaken." 
 
 Then going up to the mother with his usual 
 slow, steady step, he said, in a tone which im- 
 parted singular dignity to his small stature 
 
 " I must thank you, Madame, for the honour 
 which you have done me ; and it is with sin- 
 cere regret that I relinquish the hand of your 
 daughter." 
 
 So saying, he bowed low to the mother and 
 daughter and went away, leaving them both in 
 amazement at what had happened. 
 
 Madame d'Arfeuille, as was her custom when 
 she found herself in an awkward position, began 
 by fainting ; then, coming to herself, she got 
 
206 WEARINESS. 
 
 into a violent passion with Jeanne. When at 
 last she recovered her composure, she hastened 
 to the banker's, and vowed that there was in all 
 this merely a deplorable misunderstanding, and 
 that her daughter would be proud and happy to 
 become Madame Vincent. But the little man 
 had some peculiar notions of his own, especially 
 on the subject of matrimony. He let Madame 
 d'Arfeuille speak as long as she liked without 
 interrupting her, though he caused her no little 
 embarrassment by looking at her steadfastly all 
 the time. When at last she came to a stop, 
 after stammering out for the tenth time, " What 
 a deplorable misunderstanding!" Vincent mere- 
 ly repeated the words he had uttered an hour 
 before 
 
 " I have to thank you, Madame, for the 
 honour you intended me ; and it is with sin- 
 cere regret that I relinquish the hand of your 
 daughter." 
 
 Madame d'Arfeuille could not believe her 
 ears ; for one moment she had a mind to faint 
 again, but the icy deportment of the banker 
 deterred her from that bit of acting. She dis- 
 played great cleverness in trying to alter M. 
 Vincent's resolve; she even stooped to entreaty. 
 
WEARINESS. 207 
 
 But it was of no avail ; M. Vincent remained 
 unmoved, and looked more gloomy than ever. 
 Then Madame d'Arfeuille flew simply and 
 frankly into a rage ; she accused the banker of 
 having caused the misery of a poor innocent 
 girl, and of striving to bring shame on her 
 mother. Vincent remained as insensible to her 
 fury as he had been to her prayers ; till at last, 
 at the end of half an hour, thoroughly worn out 
 and defeated, she retreated from the field where 
 she had thought herself sure to achieve victory. 
 A few months later, pretty Jeanne d'Arfeuille 
 married a young country gentleman of a neigh- 
 bouring department, who was both well-born 
 and wealthy. Her mother was delighted at a 
 marriage which realised all her fondest wishes : 
 
 O 7 
 
 but she retained a bitter resentment against the 
 banker who had offended her, and never forgave 
 him. Her southern imagination enabled her to 
 fabricate, in respect of this affair, a whole story, 
 which she repeated so often to her friends that 
 she ended by believing it herself. According to 
 this version, M. Vincent, whom she styled "a 
 vulgar, forward parvenu and money-lender," 
 had had the " audacity " to aspire to the hand 
 of an Arfeuille. " Fortunately/' she would add 
 
208 WEARINESS. 
 
 with magnificent dignity, " my daughter had 
 been too well brought up not to know how 
 to teach a fellow like that his proper place. 
 Then he came to supplicate me to intercede with 
 Jeanne on his behalf, and I really thought I 
 would never be able to shake him off." 
 
 This strange story was repeated on all sides 
 by Madame d'Arfeuille's family and friends, and 
 came at last to M. Vincent's ears. He took no 
 trouble to contradict it, and merely shrugged 
 his shoulders. Some one, more curious than the 
 rest, ventured to ask him point-blank whether 
 there was any truth in it. He answered quietly, 
 " You are at liberty to believe this story, if you 
 like ; as for me, I have something better to do 
 than to trouble myself about gossip." 
 
 After Mdlle. d'Arfeuille's marriage, Vincent 
 appeared to have given up all thoughts of seek- 
 ing a wife. Some proposals were made to him, 
 for there was no lack in Lunel of good and pru- 
 dent mothers who would willingly have given 
 their daughters to the rich banker. But he 
 avoided rather than sought opportunities of 
 associating with unmarried women. When his 
 friends expressed their regret, he would say, " I 
 am no longer young ; I have nothing to offer to 
 
WEARINESS. 209 
 
 a young woman but my fortune, and I would 
 not care for a wife who took me for that. If 
 ever I become foolish enough to imagine that I 
 may be loved for my own sake, you may perhaps 
 see me come forward in the character of a suitor. 
 In the meantime, I hold myself satisfied with 
 the two failures I have experienced, and I mean 
 to try and get accustomed to the life of an old 
 bachelor." 
 
 Many years went by ; Vincent became an old 
 man, and it entered nobody's head to think of 
 him as a marriageable man. 
 
 M. Vincent's mode of life was simple and un- 
 varied. He rose very early, shaved and dressed 
 at once, and started in his cabriolet for a small 
 estate in the neighbourhood of the town, which 
 he had inherited from his father. He was no 
 agriculturist, and did not affect to be one : his 
 visits to the Mas de Vincent so his property 
 was called had no practical object ; but he had 
 taken so thoroughly the habit of this daily ex- 
 cursion, that, summer or winter, in rain or in 
 sunshine, he never failed to make it. His coach- 
 man, old Guerre, who sat beside him in the 
 cabriolet, was a morose man, who never opened 
 his lips except to answer laconically his master's 
 
 o 
 
210 WEARINESS. 
 
 questions. Such a companion was no restraint 
 on the banker, who could indulge in his own 
 thoughts during the whole journey. These 
 must have been of a serious kind, for the coun- 
 tenance of the old bachelor always preserved the 
 same cold expression of reserve. 
 
 On arriving at the Mas, he would unbend a 
 little. The manager of the estate came out to 
 meet him, asked news of his health in a few 
 words always the same, and then conducted 
 him to the place where the work was going on. 
 Paire Dufour 1 was a clever fellow, who knew 
 how to interest his master by telling him some- 
 thing new every day. On this hillside the 
 vines were prospering ; on that other they were 
 attacked by disease. The silk - worms were 
 thriving, while those of the neighbours were 
 merely vegetating. Sheep had been sold at 
 Beziers ; and it had been found necessary to 
 purchase mules at the fair of Sommieres. To 
 all this Vincent listened attentively, and made 
 no objections. As a rule, the paire did exactly 
 what he liked; and all his equals and fellow- 
 managers round about considered him the most 
 
 1 In the south of France, paire is the name given to the fore- 
 most workman on a farm, and often to the manager himself. 
 
WEARINESS. 211 
 
 independent and fortunate man of the whole 
 district. 
 
 M. Vincent returned to Lunel about eleven 
 o'clock. He went into his office, where an old 
 clerk handed him the letters which had come 
 by that day's post, and took his orders concern- 
 ing the answers. It was not a long business, 
 for the firm of Vincent & Son had been estab- 
 lished on solid foundations, and all went on 
 with perfect regularity. The business of the 
 bank was chiefly with the wealthy landowners 
 and farmers of the neighbourhood of Lunel, who, 
 from father to son, had had dealings with the 
 firm for the last half-century. They used the 
 agency of the bank to discount the bills they 
 drew on the manufacturers and merchants of 
 Cette, Marseilles, Lyons, and St Etienne, in 
 exchange for their oil, wines, or cocoons. These 
 bills were always " duly honoured"; or if, by 
 a very rare mischance, they were " protested," 
 the drawers always took them back without 
 difficulty. Legal proceedings and lawyers' strife 
 were things unknown, or only known by name, 
 to the firm of Vincent & Son. As the head of 
 this respected house, M. Casimir Vincent had 
 large profits and little trouble. In the space of 
 
212 WEARINESS. 
 
 one hour, between eleven and twelve, he gen- 
 erally found time to do all his business. He 
 then breakfasted almost always alone ; and, 
 after that simple repast, went to the Cafe* de 
 1'Esplanade. 
 
 That establishment was the rendezvous of the 
 best Lunel society. It was situated on the pro- 
 menade and occupied the ground-floor and first 
 storey of a rather large house. Jacques Itier, 
 the master of the cafe, lived on the second floor 
 with his wife Mariette and his numerous family. 
 Jacques Itier was a very sharp fellow. He had 
 not been the proprietor of the cafS very long 
 before he perceived that he could extend the 
 custom of his establishment considerably by 
 dividing it into two distinct portions. So he 
 induced his more " eminent " customers to form 
 a cercle, or club, by placing the whole first 
 floor at their disposal. Admittance to the club 
 was not absolutely forbidden to strangers ; but 
 a chance intruder would not be likely to remain 
 there long, so unmistakably would the demean- 
 our of the habitual guests show him that he was 
 not in his proper place. 
 
 On the other hand, the wealthy citizens and 
 merchants of the town, and the principal land- 
 
WEARINESS. 213 
 
 owners of the environs, felt themselves quite at 
 home at the " Cercle de 1'Esplanade." Every 
 one had his accustomed corner, chair, table, and 
 newspaper. For smokers, there was a little 
 grated closet, with lock and key, from whence 
 every man could extract his own particular pipe 
 on arriving ; the billiard-players had their par- 
 ticular cues marked, and it was a settled and 
 acknowledged thing that at certain hours the 
 table belonged to a particular set. One would 
 often hear exclamations like this: " Make haste! 
 It is nine o'clock, and M. Yidal and M. Coule' 
 are waiting to play their game." The waiter 
 who attended on the first floor was called by 
 his Christian name of " Francois " ; and he did 
 not confine himself to merely answering, "Yes, 
 Monsieur," but would say, " Yes, M. Vidal ; 
 Yes, M. Vincent," &c., according as the notary, 
 the banker, or any other personage called to 
 him. 
 
 The members of the club were mostly middle- 
 aged or old men, and three or four young men 
 only had managed to obtain admittance. These 
 were the sons of deceased members, and they 
 did not seem out of place in this exclusive 
 society. Among these young men, the foremost 
 
214 WEARINESS. 
 
 was Rene Sabatier, whose father had been a 
 goldsmith. Rene was a good honest fellow of 
 four-and-twenty, very talkative and very famil- 
 iar, who used to treat the old gentlemen of the 
 " club " as if they had been his comrades. No- 
 body took offence, for he was a general favour- 
 ite. He owed this kind of popularity to his 
 conduct during the war, when he had joined 
 the army as a volunteer, and done his duty 
 bravely. He was considered as the chief of the 
 young Legitimist party in Lunel ; and all the 
 members of the "Cercle de 1' Esplanade" were 
 fierce Royalists. 
 
 On the ground-floor, where the real public 
 cafe was, republicanism prevailed. The young 
 men of the town met there, and strangers often 
 dropped in. The two waiters who rushed from 
 table to table were merely garpons for the cus- 
 tomers, and no man cared to inquire what their 
 Christian names were. Madame Itier, who pre- 
 sided at the bar, exercised the strictest control, 
 in order to preserve the reputation of respecta 
 bility enjoyed by her establishment : now such 
 vigilance, if displayed on the first floor, would 
 have been utterly purposeless. 
 
 Jacques Itier was to be seen alternately in 
 
WEARINESS. 215 
 
 the upper and in the lower rooms. On the first 
 floor, he went respectfully from table to table 
 inquiring, in an obsequious tone, whether " the 
 gentlemen " had all they required ; the gentle- 
 men, on their part, treated him somewhat 
 haughtily and allowed of no familiarity. On 
 the ground-floor it was the reverse, and there 
 the master of the cafe was almost a personage. 
 He was on the best terms with many of his 
 customers : would play his game of piquet with 
 one or another ; order refreshments for his own 
 consumption, and strip off his coat for a game 
 of billiards. The political opinions of Jacques 
 Itier took the colour of the place where he was. 
 On the first floor he adored the Comte de Cham- 
 bord ; below, he swore by Gambetta. He was 
 a man without political prejudices. The Bona- 
 partists of Lunel congregated at another cafe ; 
 had they come to his establishment he would no 
 doubt have found something pleasant to say 
 about the Prince Imperial. Casimir Vincent 
 had frequented and patronised the Cafe de 1'Es- 
 planade for many years. He was already con- 
 sidered as an old habitue when the establish- 
 ment passed into Jacques Itier's hands. That 
 was fifteen years ago ; and since then, scarcely 
 
216 WEARINESS. 
 
 a day had gone by in which the little man had 
 not been there both in the afternoon and in the 
 evening. Vincent clung to his habits ; his visits 
 to the cafe were as much a part of his existence 
 as his morning excursions to the Mas de Vin- 
 cent. Every day he met the same faces at the 
 club : old Coule, who had remained his friend 
 ever since Caroline's death; M. Vidal, the notary, 
 in whose office were the deeds of half the pro- 
 perty in the town ; Rene Sabatier, who was bold 
 enough to apostrophise the banker as "Papa 
 Vincent " ; Bardou, the corn-merchant ; Coste, 
 the doctor ; Count de Rochebrune and the Baron 
 de Villaray, large landowners, &c. By all those 
 Vincent was highly considered : he was known 
 to be a rich man, a Legitimist, and the descend- 
 ant of an old family of the town. All these 
 things entitled him to honour. 
 
 Yet no one could boast of intimacy with the 
 old bachelor. Vincent's habitual reserve kept 
 curiosity at a distance, and he neither encour- 
 aged nor bestowed confidence. He never spoke 
 of himself or his concerns, and wore on all oc- 
 casions a serious countenance, with a tinge of 
 sadness even. Some people asserted that he 
 had never recovered the death of his fair Caro- 
 
WEARINESS. 217 
 
 line, and that solitude weighed on his heart. 
 They quoted expressions which he had let drop 
 from time to time, in which he alluded to a 
 monotonous life " without either sorrow or 
 
 joy." 
 
 As soon as M. Vincent entered the club after 
 breakfast, Francois, the waiter, hastened to 
 bring him his demi - tasse, and a tumbler of 
 water ; while Itier presented the ' Gazette de 
 France/ and the ' Messager du Midi/ Vincent 
 would acknowledge these civilities silently by 
 a nod, sip his coffee and slowly smoke a cigar. 
 He would read the Parisian newspaper all 
 through, cast a look on the quotations of the 
 Bourse as given in the ' Messager/ and then 
 take his seat on the divan which ran all round 
 the billiard-room to hear the small news of the 
 day from some obliging neighbour. He himself 
 scarcely ever spoke. When his cigar was finished, 
 he walked back slowly to his office, where he 
 worked till five o'clock. Then, in obedience to 
 a habit he had contracted during his travels, he 
 dressed for dinner and took his solitary repast. 
 Now and then he invited a few friends. On 
 those occasions the old family plate shone on 
 the table ; and the best wines, the most delicate 
 
218 WEARINESS. 
 
 dishes, delighted the palates of the provincial 
 epicures. But when Vincent dined alone, the 
 fare was of the most simple description. An 
 old woman waited on him ; he read during his 
 dinner, and scarcely noticed what was set before 
 him. 
 
 After dinner, Vincent went to the cafe, as 
 we have said, for the second time. In a few 
 minutes he never failed to find a partner for a 
 game of piquet. At the neighbouring tables 
 the other members of the club played cards 
 likewise. The play was not high, but was 
 nevertheless carried on with the greatest ardour. 
 Conversation went on in low tones, such was 
 the custom. Any stranger whom chance or 
 curiosity led into the club-room soon felt awk- 
 ward and intrusive amid this company of old 
 men, all busy shuffling cards, marking points, 
 or exchanging the whispered remarks which the 
 course of the game called forth. The members 
 of the " Cercle de TEsplanade " were accounted 
 first-rate players in all Lunel. At half-past ten 
 the games had generally come to an end, and 
 by eleven o'clock the great room was empty. 
 Casimir Vincent would then go home. 
 
 When the weather was fine, he took two or 
 
WEARINESS. 219 
 
 three turns on the Esplanade, and by half-past 
 eleven was in his sitting-room. A large lamp 
 with a shade burned on the table ; the evening 
 papers and the letters of the last delivery were 
 laid out beside it. Vincent read for about half 
 an hour, and then passed into his bedroom. In 
 summer, before undressing, it was his custom to 
 stand for a while at the window, from whence 
 he could see a park which lay behind the house. 
 The rustling murmur of the trees seemed to 
 have a peculiar charm for him. He would stay 
 listening to it attentively for a long time, though 
 his countenance betrayed no emotion, and re- 
 mained calm and serious as ever. But he would 
 often heave a deep sigh as he turned away from 
 the window. In the winter time he would 
 spend that last half-hour in front of the fire, his 
 eyes fixed on the dying embers, while his fea- 
 tures preserved that same look of thoughtful 
 contemplation with which he listened in sum- 
 mer to the last hushed sounds of nature. Ad- 
 vancing years had made Casimir Vincent a 
 singularly thoughtful, serious, and taciturn 
 man. 
 
 When the war with Germany broke out, M. 
 Vincent shared the fever of patriotism which 
 
220 WEARINESS. 
 
 took possession of all France. From morning 
 to night he read the papers ; drew up plans 
 for the campaign, and discussed the conditions 
 which should be imposed on the vanquished 
 enemy. He had recovered the enthusiasm of 
 his youth, and took the liveliest interest in all 
 the burning questions of the day. 
 
 The first defeats produced a sort of stupefac- 
 tion, though they did not shake his confidence. 
 
 " We will take our revenge," he said ; " and 
 woe to the northern invaders who have dared 
 to pollute the sacred soil of France I " 
 
 But after the disasters of Forbach and Keich- 
 shoffen, after the bloody battles of Mars-la- 
 Tour and Gravelotte, came the fearful news of 
 the catastrophe of Sedan ; and then, one follow- 
 ing another, resounded the terrible blows under 
 which France was crushed by the fortune of 
 war Strasbourg, Metz, Paris, fell into the 
 power of the enemy. Whole armies were anni- 
 hilated or led into captivity ; new armies were 
 raised, and were overtaken by the same fate; 
 the northern and eastern provinces of France 
 were like a vast cemetery, drenched with the 
 noblest blood of the country. In the south, in 
 the neighbourhood of Lunel, there was fury or 
 
WEARINESS. 221 
 
 despair, and in some cases a still more harrow- 
 ing feeling of resignation. Casimir Vincent 
 went about his business with the air of a 
 ghost, and his dumb, pent-up sorrow was 
 pitiable to witness. Still, just as before the 
 war, he never failed to go every morning to 
 the Mas, and to show himself twice a-day 
 at the club. 
 
 After peace had been concluded, everything 
 resumed its accustomed aspect in the little town, 
 which was far removed from the seat of military 
 events. Vincent, who had sustained no loss of 
 fortune or of position, appeared almost to have 
 forgotten the misfortunes which had befallen 
 his country. He scarcely ever spoke of the war, 
 and never joined in the general clamour for 
 revenge which arose on all sides. But he grew 
 daily more gloomy, more sad, more taciturn, till 
 his best friends admitted that " old Vincent had 
 become quite impracticable." 
 
 Vincent, however, continued to follow the 
 political questions of the day : he subscribed to 
 some of the leading Paris newspapers, and spent 
 the better part of the day in reading them. 
 
 In October 1873, when the news spread that 
 the Comte de Chambord was going to ascend the 
 
222 WEARINESS. 
 
 throne of his ancestors, the old Legitimist had a 
 last burst of enthusiasm. 
 
 " I would die happy," he said, " if it were 
 given to me to see Henry V. at the head of the 
 country." 
 
 The letter by which the Comte de Chambord 
 annihilated the hopes of the so-called " fusion- 
 ists" caused the banker a great shock. 
 
 " The king is right," he said ; " he always is 
 right : but what can be said of a country where 
 the foremost citizens dare to propose to their 
 legitimate sovereign to attain, by devious and 
 crooked paths, the throne which God Himself 
 gave him \ Poor France ! " 
 
 Kene' Sabatier, who had always been a fa- 
 vourite with the banker, and who, in his turn, 
 felt a real affection for him, became anxious at 
 last, seeing him so completely dispirited. One 
 night he accompanied him home, and took 
 advantage of the opportunity to question his 
 old friend on his sadness. 
 
 " You are not well ; you seem tired. What 
 is the matter? Why do you not consult the 
 doctor?" 
 
 "The doctor can do nothing for me," replied 
 Vincent. " I am bored, that's all." 
 
WEAKINESS. 223 
 
 " Travel ; try a change." 
 
 " I am as well at Lunel as I should be any- 
 where else. Here, at least, I am surrounded by 
 well-known faces, and I have my regular occu- 
 pations, which make the days seem less insup- 
 portably long." 
 
 " Go to Paris. It is my dream to go there. 
 Ah ! if I were rich and free like you, I would 
 start this very night." 
 
 " Paris 1 Thanks for the advice. No ! any- 
 where rather than there ! Paris is the ruin of 
 France ! Paris is the birthplace of the evils of 
 which we are all dying ! The Revolution, the 
 Empire, the war, the Commune, all came from 
 Paris ! Paris has killed France ! Curse it ! " 
 
 " Softly, softly, Papa Vincent," replied Saba- 
 tier ; "do not fly into such a passion. What- 
 ever you may say, Paris is the finest town in 
 the world. Paris has its vices, I admit; but 
 its brilliant qualities make it the capital of 
 civilisation." 
 
 " Pray, spare me your Victor Hugo phrases ! 
 Yes, Paris is verily the most civilised town in 
 the world, if by civilisation you mean the re- 
 verse of all that is natural and true. Shall I 
 tell you what you, a provincial stranger, will 
 
224 WEARINESS. 
 
 find in Paris'? The first tailors and the first 
 shoemakers in the world ; the best hairdressers 
 and fencing-masters ; the greatest coquettes and 
 the most profligate women ; the most cheating 
 hotel-keepers, the most selfish politicians, and 
 the most wonderful actors. That is all that you, 
 as a stranger, will see ; as to the Paris of work 
 and self-denial, it will be hidden from you. 
 The honest folks of Paris and, thank Heaven ! 
 there are some left do not frequent the places 
 where you go to seek excitement and see sights. 
 Busy with their work, and ashamed of the ener- 
 vating pleasures that strangers rush to so greedily, 
 they know how to respect their mourning coun- 
 try. Their houses would be closed to you, nor 
 would they be thrown open to me. No, no, I 
 will not go to Paris. Lunel is a dull town, I 
 confess ; I am weary of the life I lead here ; it 
 weighs me down, and I long to have done with 
 it : still, I prefer it to life in Paris." 
 
 He paused for a minute and bent his head as 
 if he were absorbed in painful reflections, then 
 he resumed slowly in a low voice, as though he 
 were speaking to himself, "Ay, indeed, life in 
 Lunel is dull and colourless, . . . life in Paris 
 is repugnant to me. . . . Life is unbearable 
 
WEARINESS. 225 
 
 everywhere in France. . . . Formerly it was 
 not so, and life then had an object ; men lived, 
 men died at least for something. But what can 
 I do now ? Fold my arms, and impotently wit- 
 ness the ruin of my country. . . . All is going, 
 perishing, falling to pieces, . . . and I am but 
 a weak old man." 
 
 A long silence followed, which Sabatier dared 
 not break till the two friends reached the 
 banker's door. 
 
 " Monsieur Vincent," Sabatier then said, in a 
 respectful tone, " I wish you good-night ; try 
 and sleep well." 
 
 " Good-night, my dear KeneY' said the old 
 man. He was holding the door still ajar, when 
 he suddenly turned round and said abruptly to 
 the young man 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 " I am four-and-twenty." 
 
 " Well, follow the advice of an old bachelor : 
 marry. A life full of cares is better than a life 
 which is utterly void. Woe to the man who is 
 alone in the world ! . . . Take a wife. . . . 
 Man was not made to live alone. . . . Solitude 
 begets unwholesome thoughts. . . . Good-night, 
 Sabatier ! " 
 
 p 
 
226 WEARINESS. 
 
 The next day Vincent appeared at the usual 
 hour at the cafe of the Esplanade, and in a few 
 minutes he was seated opposite to Sabatier, ap- 
 parently absorbed in the intricacies of a game 
 of piquet. 
 
 "You have just thrown away ninety," re- 
 marked Sabatier. 
 
 " Have I ? " said Vincent. He took up the 
 cards he had discarded, looked at them, and 
 said quietly, "You are right; here's my knave 
 of clubs." 
 
 There was another deal. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter with you to-day? " 
 cried Sabatier. " You have not reckoned your 
 quint.'' 
 
 " You are right again, young man," said the 
 banker ; " I had forgotten it. I do not know 
 what I am thinking of." So saying, he pushed 
 away the cards. 
 
 " Go and play with Coule," he added ; " it 
 amuses me no longer." 
 
 He got up and placed himself near another 
 table, where two other men were playing. Old 
 Vidal came up and proposed a game of bezique. 
 Vincent assented willingly, and they seated them- 
 selves at a vacant table. Vincent won the game. 
 
WEARINESS. 227 
 
 " Bezique is child's play," he said : " I prefer 
 piquet." He got up and apologised for not 
 going on. " I will give you your revenge to- 
 morrow," he said. He remained half an hour 
 longer in the club-room, going from one group 
 to another, and exchanging a few brief sen- 
 tences . with his friends ; but he went home 
 somewhat earlier than usual. No sooner had 
 he left the room than every one began to talk 
 about him. 
 
 "Old Vincent looks very ill. What is the 
 matter with him ? " 
 
 " He did not know his cards, and threw out 
 his best. I never saw him like that." 
 
 " How are his affairs ? Are they all right ? " 
 
 " That they are. He bought largely into the 
 funds only last week." 
 
 " Then, what ails him ? " 
 
 "Nothing he is bored." 
 
 " Has he ever been anything else for the last 
 thirty years \ " 
 
 "No. But apparently he has found out at 
 last that it is not amusing to be bored." 
 
 While remarks were being exchanged at the 
 club, Vincent was walking slowly homewards. 
 More than once he stopped on his way, and stood 
 
228 WEARINESS. 
 
 plunged in deep thought, stroking his chin the 
 while as was his wont. Once he took off 
 his hat, brushed his hair back with a slow and 
 regular movement, and then pressed his hand 
 on his temple as though he had felt a sharp 
 and sudden pain. His cravat seemed to choke 
 him ; once or twice he passed his finger be- 
 tween his throat and his shirt - collar, and 
 breathed hard like a man who has been mak- 
 ing some violent effort. 
 
 On entering his apartment he found every- 
 thing in its accustomed place ; there was the 
 lamp, and beside it the papers and a few letters. 
 He glanced at these ; and recognising the writ- 
 ing on the addresses, laid them aside without 
 opening them. Even the papers had not the 
 power to interest him ; he opened one, and 
 after looking through the leading article he 
 crumpled it up in his hand and threw it on 
 the ground. 
 
 " Always the same twaddle 1 " he exclaimed. 
 The clock of a neighbouring church struck 
 eleven. Vincent took up a candlestick and 
 went into his bedroom. As he stood before the 
 chimney his eyes fell on the large mirror. He 
 remained motionless and gazed long at his 
 
WEARINESS. 229 
 
 own image ; it was that of an old man, bent 
 under the weight of years, with a yellow, 
 shrivelled-up face, dim eyes, and a despondent 
 countenance. 
 
 "I never would have believed," he said, 
 speaking very slowly, " that a life as long as 
 mine could have been so joyless. To eat, to 
 drink, to sleep, to read letters and newspapers, 
 to shuffle and deal out cards, to be of no use 
 for anything or to anybody, ... to care for 
 nothing, to care for nobody, . . . and to be 
 bored." 
 
 He walked up to the open window and looked 
 out into the night a soft balmy night of spring. 
 Above were the cloudless, starry heavens 
 below, the old plane-trees seemed to slumber ; a 
 solemn silence reigned all around. 
 
 " What fearful silence ! " he said ; " a death- 
 like silence, . . . without and within myself." 
 He shuddered and closed the window. 
 
 The next morning he went as usual to the 
 Mas de Vincent. The pavre came out to meet 
 him at the gate. 
 
 " A fine morning, Monsieur Vincent. I hope 
 I see you well. See how everything is getting 
 on ; one could not wish for better. If Provi- 
 
230 WEARINESS. 
 
 deuce only sends us a little rain, and we have 
 no frost or hail, this year's crop will be 
 splendid." 
 
 "We have no reason to complain," replied 
 Vincent ; " the Mas has always made a capital 
 return." 
 
 " Ah, you are a fortunate man, sir. All you 
 touch seems to turn to gold. The Mas is worth 
 double what it was in your father's time. One 
 may indeed call you a fortunate man." 
 
 When, half an hour later, Vincent was driving 
 back in his cabriolet, he more than once re- 
 peated to himself, " Yes, yes, I am a fortunate 
 man." But his countenance was not that of a 
 fortunate man. 
 
 He scarcely tasted his breakfast; at dinner, 
 he ate little or nothing. His old servant, 
 Martha, became anxious, and inquired if her 
 master was ill. 
 
 " No, I am not ill, but I have no appetite. 
 To-morrow I will be better." 
 
 At the club he refused to play. As on the 
 preceding evening, he wandered from one table 
 to the other, looking on and stroking his chin 
 without saying a word. 
 
 " Why don't you play 7 ? " inquired Sabatier. 
 
WEARINESS. 231 
 
 " I have played piquet thirty years long. Is 
 it very surprising that I should be weary of the 
 game?" 
 
 " Play bezique." 
 
 " Bezique is child's play." 
 
 " Whist, then ? " 
 
 " I don't know whist." 
 
 " You will learn." 
 
 "lam too old." 
 
 " Oh, Papa Vincent, you are hard to please 
 to-night." 
 
 " Very hard to please, verily. It is of course 
 unconscionable to expect from life something 
 more than the pleasure of playing cards for 
 halfpenny points." 
 
 Sabatier did not reply, and at the end of an 
 hour Vincent left the club without having ex- 
 changed another word. 
 
 When he reached his own door, he stood irres- 
 olute, and looked right and left as though he 
 expected somebody. He whistled softly, and, 
 as on the previous day, took off his hat to press 
 his hand upon his forehead. At that moment a 
 poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, 
 went by. 
 
 "For God's sake, my good gentleman," she 
 
232 WEAKINESS. 
 
 said, in a supplicating tone, "give me some- 
 thing for this poor child ! " 
 
 Vincent drew out his purse, and looked into 
 it for an instant, as though he were searching 
 for small coin. Finding none, he took a five- 
 franc piece and gave it to the woman. 
 
 " Mercy ! " she exclaimed, almost in a 
 tone of fear. " How can I thank you, sir ? 
 May God preserve you and yours, and return 
 to you in blessings what you have done for 
 me!" 
 
 She moved on, and Vincent's eyes followed 
 her. " Holloa 1 here, woman ! " he called out, 
 abruptly. 
 
 The beggar-woman looked round and hesi- 
 tated. She feared to turn back lest the banker 
 should have made a mistake and wish to take 
 back his alms. 
 
 " Come back, I say," repeated Vincent. " No 
 one wants to harm you ; on the contrary. But 
 make haste ; I have no time to lose." 
 
 The poor woman came up. 
 
 "Here," said Vincent, "take all," and he 
 poured the contents of his purse into her hand. 
 The woman was struck dumb with surprise for 
 a few seconds. When she recovered her speech, 
 
WEARINESS. 233 
 
 and began to stammer forth her thanks, Vincent 
 had disappeared. 
 
 Guerre, the coachman, had been waiting more 
 than an hour. At last he grew impatient. 
 
 " Martha ! " he cried, " is not Monsieur up ? 
 It is nearly eight." 
 
 The servant went to the kitchen door and 
 glanced up at the bedroom windows. The cur- 
 tains were still drawn. 
 
 " This is very strange," she said, " for Mon- 
 sieur always gets up at six. I'll go up and see 
 what has happened." 
 
 In a few minutes she came down again, 
 scared, pale, and trembling. 
 
 " Guerre," she said, in a hoarse whisper, 
 " come quick. Our master She could 
 say no more, but the old coachman understood 
 that some misfortune had happened. He came 
 into the house and ran up-stairs as fast as his 
 old legs would carry him. Martha followed. 
 The two servants stopped at the entrance of 
 the sitting-room, and Martha pointed silently 
 to the bedroom door. Guerre went in with 
 faltering steps. 
 
 The bright sunshine lighted up the room in 
 
234 WEARINESS. 
 
 spite of the curtains and the blinds. On the 
 table stood two candlesticks, in which the lights 
 had burned down to the sockets. Between 
 them, placed so as to catch the eye at once, 
 Guerre saw a paper, on which a few lines were 
 written ; and in front of the hearth, lying in a 
 pool of blood, the corpse of Casimir Vincent. 
 Guerre picked up an open razor, smeared with 
 blood, and placed it, with a shudder, on the 
 table. He then took up the paper which he 
 had noticed on entering the room, and read as 
 follows : 
 
 " Weary of life, I have sought death. My 
 affairs are in good order. My will is in the 
 hands of M. Vidal, the notary. 
 
 " CASIMIR VINCENT." 
 
 The funeral took place quietly the next day. 
 All the members of the " Cercle de TEsplanade " 
 attended. 
 
 A portion of the banker's wealth went to dis- 
 tant relatives. Eend Sabatier, however, had a 
 large legacy, and a still more considerable sum 
 was bequeathed to the town of Lunel for the 
 foundation of a charitable institution. The 
 
WEARINESS. 235 
 
 clergy offered no opposition to the burial of the 
 suicide in consecrated ground ; and Kene Saba- 
 tier, remembering the last remarks of his un- 
 happy friend, caused a stone to be placed on his 
 grave, with the following inscription : 
 
 " A MAN, WEARY OF LIFE, 
 
 HAS SOUGHT REPOSE HERE : 
 
 PRAY FOR HIM ! " 
 
THE SEEE 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 THE fast train from London to Paris, vid Folke- 
 stone and Boulogne, stops for a few minutes 
 at Verton an unimportant station where pas- 
 sengers are rarely set down or taken up. In 
 general, the engine merely renews its supply 
 of water, and the train proceeds on its way. 
 
 We were seven in the same carriage one 
 fiercely hot day in July, and we had been 
 grumbling, ever since we left Boulogne, at the 
 parsimony of the company which, in order to 
 avoid adding a carriage, had thus crowded us, 
 when suddenly, at Verton, just as the train 
 was moving off, the door of our carriage was 
 hastily opened, and an eighth and most un- 
 
238 THE SEER. 
 
 welcome fellow - traveller made his appear- 
 ance. 
 
 I occupied a corner near the door by which 
 he entered. On my right an Englishman was 
 .sleeping soundly ; and in front of him was the 
 only vacant seat. It was filled with rugs, um- 
 brellas, and other articles which we had all 
 thrown there. Next to this unoccupied place, 
 and opposite to me, sat a young man of about 
 twenty-five, as to whose nationality I had en- 
 tertained some doubts, until he drew from his 
 pocket a cigarette-case in solid silver, filled 
 with Russian papyros. He selected one of 
 these, squeezed it gently between his fingers, 
 and lighted it by means of a long match 
 attached to the case. He then inhaled the 
 smoke with a deep breath, and afterwards ex- 
 haled it, with a peculiar look of enjoyment, 
 through his fine and well-cut nostrils. 
 
 This young Russian, who wore a fashionable 
 travelling suit, seemed out of health. His 
 manners were those of a gentleman. He was 
 very tall and thin, and, from the olive hue of 
 his complexion, he might have been mistaken 
 for a Spaniard or a Brazilian. The long, slen- 
 der fingers of his well - shaped hand seemed 
 
THE SEER. 239 
 
 endowed with strange flexibility, and were con- 
 stantly stroking the long moustache which 
 covered his upper lip. His small, regular, 
 well-set teeth were of dazzling whiteness. His 
 dark-brown hair was short and very thick ; it 
 grew low down upon the forehead and upon 
 the back of the neck, covering the narrow, elon- 
 gated cranium, as with a dark fur cap. The 
 youthful mouth, with its full ruddy lips, be- 
 trayed a nervous temperament, a kind, weak, 
 and irresolute nature, and served to render 
 attractive a countenance which otherwise might 
 have appeared uninteresting, and even, to a 
 certain degree, repellent. But the most strik- 
 ing feature in the face of my vis-d-vis was 
 his eyes, which were round, black, set wide 
 apart, and of exceeding brightness. They were 
 restless to an almost wearying degree wander- 
 ing from one subject to another, though from 
 time to time they would be riveted on one or 
 other of his fellow-travellers with curious per- 
 tinacity. I had, in my turn, been subjected 
 to this strange examination, and had been dis- 
 agreeably impressed by it. It was a suspici- 
 ous, disquieting, inquisitorial look, and one felt 
 strongly tempted to reply to it by a direct 
 
240 THE SEER. 
 
 question : " Do you know me 1 Why do you 
 look at me thus ? What are you seeking 
 to discover?" This uncomfortable stare of 
 the young Kussian seemed the more strange 
 from its being in complete contradiction with 
 his otherwise polite and even courteous man- 
 ners. It was a searching look, taking no ac- 
 count of those on whom it rested a bold look, 
 which I am tempted to compare to that of a 
 police detective who, being in quest of a male- 
 factor, is inclined to suspect that every new- 
 comer is the man he wants. 
 
 The other end of the carriage was occupied 
 by four Frenchmen who seemed to know each 
 other, and who discussed the topics of the day. 
 
 All with the exception of the Englishman, 
 who continued to sleep imperturbably glanced 
 reproachfully at the intruder; but he seemed 
 to take little heed of our ill-humour. " If you 
 please/' he said sharply, pointing to the heap of 
 things which encumbered the vacant seat ; upon 
 which, each of us, with more or less good grace, 
 hastened to select the articles which belonged to 
 him, and stowed them away, either in the net 
 or under the seat. One railway rug, however, 
 remained its owner, the Englishman, being 
 
THE SEER. 241 
 
 fast asleep. The new-comer waited an instant ; 
 then he unceremoniously bundled it up and 
 kicked it under the seat. I could not help won- 
 dering at the free-and-easy way in which he 
 treated another man's property. The train 
 started at once, and then I examined atten- 
 tively our new fellow-traveller. 
 
 His appearance was coarse and repulsive the 
 appearance of a rough, low-lived man in his 
 Sunday clothes. His linen was rumpled and 
 soiled with perspiration ; his clothes and boots 
 were ill-made and covered with dust. His age 
 may have been about thirty, and he showed 
 every sign of great bodily strength. He was 
 short and thick-set ; bull-throated, with round, 
 massive shoulders, thick red hands, swollen with 
 the heat, and flat hard nails; muscular wrists, 
 and short, clumsy legs. A man with straw- 
 coloured hair, cut short and brushed forward on 
 the temples, bushy whiskers, and no moustache ; 
 the sunburnt complexion of one who has led 
 an outdoor life ; a low forehead, a thick nose, 
 a wide mouth, with thin tight lips, and a pro- 
 minent jaw ; bright, sharp, wicked eyes, which 
 glanced stealthily and yet defiantly around. 
 Such was the new-comer. 
 
 Q 
 
242 THE SEER. 
 
 He was no sooner seated than he took a rapid 
 survey of his fellow-travellers. It was appar- 
 ently satisfactory, for he pulled out of his pocket 
 a large coloured check handkerchief, and breath- 
 ing loudly, he wiped the moisture from his 
 brow. I then noticed that the first and second 
 fingers of his right hand were bound up with 
 fine cambric apparently a woman's pocket- 
 handkerchief. In the palm of the hand there 
 was a large stain of clotted blood. Those two 
 fingers had evidently received a wound. After 
 a few minutes he loosened his long black neck- 
 tie, and drew a deep breath, like one who has 
 gone through some violent bodily exercise, and 
 is about to seek repose. Throwing off his round 
 black hat with a jerk, he stretched out his legs, 
 placed his two hands on his thighs, and, with 
 his head bent forward and his eyes staring 
 straight before him, remained apparently plunged 
 in deep thought. 
 
 The young Russian had not failed to bestow 
 on the new arrival that scrutinising look with 
 which, a short time before, he had examined 
 me. This man seemed to interest him in a 
 peculiar degree ; for, whereas a single glance had 
 sufficed for me, he now turned round towards 
 
THE SEER. 243 
 
 his left-hand neighbour, and looked at him with 
 strange fixedness, as though he sought to en- 
 grave those vulgar and repulsive features on his 
 memory. 
 
 The man who was the object of this persist- 
 ent scrutiny was not aware of it for some time; 
 he was too absorbed in his own reflections to 
 notice what was going on around him. But 
 suddenly, as the train slackened speed on near- 
 ing Abbeville, he raised his head to look out, 
 and his eyes met those of the Russian. This 
 latter seemed painfully embarrassed, while the 
 new-comer, with an angry frown, and an in- 
 flamed countenance, turned upon him, and said 
 roughly 
 
 " Why are you looking at me ? Do you 
 know me ? What do you want with me? " 
 
 I could not but consider these questions as 
 quite justifiable ; for I had been on the point, 
 a short time before, of putting them to my 
 opposite neighbour. The tone in which he re- 
 plied, however, impressed me favourably. 
 
 " I beg your pardon/' he said, in a gentle and 
 deprecating voice. " Believe me, I had no inten- 
 tion of annoying you." 
 
 The man from Verton muttered something 
 
244 THE SEER. 
 
 between his teeth. He then got up, and with 
 a scarcely audible " By your leave," leaned for- 
 ward between the Kussian and myself to look 
 out towards the station we were rapidly approach- 
 ing. After a moment he sat down again ; but 
 the train had scarcely stopped when he jumped 
 out of the carriage, and, with his right hand 
 thrust into the side-pocket of his coat, where 
 he seemed to be holding something, he looked 
 impatiently right and left. The platform was 
 empty. Besides a few railway officials, there 
 was only one gendarme, who walked slowly and 
 unconcernedly along the train, looking into each 
 carriage as he passed it. It chanced that he 
 lingered a little in front of ours, and I then dis- 
 tinctly saw our fellow-traveller's hand take a 
 tighter hold of the unseen article in his pocket. 
 The gendarme passed on. When the train started 
 again, the man got in ; but he stood for some 
 time between the Russian and myself, and only 
 resumed his seat when we had left the station 
 behind us, and were going at full speed. 
 
 The Russian had opened a book, and tried to 
 assume the appearance of an unobservant reader ; 
 but his thoughts were not with his book and 
 now and again I saw him steal a glance at his 
 
THE SEER. 245 
 
 neighbour. His countenance betrayed great per- 
 plexity, as though he were seeking the solution 
 of some difficult problem. Once our eyes met. 
 His look seemed to ask assistance from me, and 
 to say, " Help me, if you can, to understand." 
 I was beginning to feel rather puzzled at what 
 was going on around me ; so, at Amiens, find- 
 ing myself near the Kussian at the buffet, I 
 asked him whether he thought he recognised 
 the traveller from Verton, as he watched him so 
 perseveringly. 
 
 " No, I do not know him," he answered politely, 
 and in a tone which seemed to encourage further 
 conversation ; " but the man has something about 
 him which attracts me." 
 
 " Well, really," I answered, smiling, " I was 
 not prepared for that answer. For my part, I 
 must confess that his face has no attractions for 
 me. It strikes me as peculiarly repulsive. The 
 man looks like an escaped convict." 
 
 " An ugly face, truly, a repulsive face, 
 quite a strange face." 
 
 The Russian, as he spoke, shuddered nerv- 
 ously. 
 
 " Will you excuse my giving you a piece of 
 advice ? " I added. 
 
246 THE SEER. 
 
 " Pray do." 
 
 "Well, then, I think you would do wisely 
 not to pay further attention to your neighbour. 
 Without wishing it, you might get embroiled in 
 a quarrel. He seems a rough customer, and, at 
 any rate, is a very ill bred man. You must 
 have noticed the rude, free-and-easy manner in 
 which he thrust himself between you and me to 
 look out of the carriage-window : he did it at 
 Amiens, as well as at Abbeville. I felt angry, 
 but held my tongue from prudence. With a 
 man like that, I fancy, there would be little 
 space between a word and a blow, and the 
 idea of coming to fisticuffs with him does not 
 tempt me/' 
 
 From Amiens to Creil we continued to con- 
 verse. I found him a well-bred, agreeable com- 
 panion, and we soon discovered that we had 
 some acquaintances in common, both in Paris 
 and in St Petersburg. He handed me his card, 
 and, in my turn, I told him who I was. His 
 name was Count Boris Stachowitch, and he 
 lived in Paris, Avenue Friedland. 
 
 " How small the world is I " said my new 
 friend. " Have you noticed that no man of a 
 certain age, if he has seen something of the 
 
THE SEER. 247 
 
 world, can ever meet any one with whom he is 
 not connected by some anterior link ? Half an 
 hour ago you were a perfect stranger to me. 
 The few words we have exchanged have shown 
 me that one of my cousins is a friend of yours, 
 and that I was at school with one of your rela- 
 tions. That does not surprise me ; it is always 
 so. I would wager that if I talked to your 
 neighbour there who is snoring so sweetly, I 
 would find out that he and I have something 
 in common. Oh, what a little world it is ! I 
 have often wondered how anybody can manage 
 to hide in it. I had, not long ago, a very in- 
 teresting conversation on that very subject with 
 one of the heads of the Secret Police. He was 
 a man of wide experience, who could reckon by 
 hundreds the thieves and murderers he had 
 helped to capture. Among other things, he 
 told me : ' Many crimes are never discovered 
 at all, and those who have committed them of 
 course elude justice ; but scarcely one criminal 
 out of a thousand, when once known, can long 
 escape the grasp of the law. Sooner or later, 
 whatever disguise he may have assumed, in 
 whatever hole he may have taken refuge, we 
 find him out. The trace of blood is never 
 
248 THE SEER. 
 
 effaced. Once on the track we are pretty sure 
 never to lose it. The world is 
 
 Here our conversation was interrupted sud- 
 denly. Stachowitch had been speaking loud 
 enough for every word of his to be overheard 
 by his neighbour, the man from Verton. This 
 latter got up hastily, and, as at Abbeville and 
 at Amiens, pushed forward between us to look 
 out. All at once, before we could offer any 
 opposition, he opened the door rapidly and 
 stepped down on the narrow ledge which runs 
 along the carriages. 
 
 We looked at each other in mute surprise. 
 The next instant the man had leaped out on 
 the line. I leant forward and saw him rebound 
 forwards, and then, with outstretched arms, fall 
 flat upon his face. In a few seconds he was hid- 
 den from view by the wall of a garden which 
 skirted the line. 
 
 The Kussian had turned very pale. The four 
 Frenchmen ceased their talking, and looked 
 anxiously towards us. The Englishman was 
 awake at last, and was looking for the railway 
 rug the Verton man had thrust under the seat. 
 
 " What does it all mean ? " said Stachowitch. 
 
 I could only shrug my shoulders, for I could 
 
THE SEER. 249 
 
 not make it out myself. We were soon to be 
 enlightened. 
 
 We were drawing near to Paris and the train 
 was beginning to slacken its speed. About a 
 hundred yards from the terminus it came to 
 a stand-still. Two railway officials, who had 
 been waiting for us on either side of the line, 
 jumped on to the train, and passing along the 
 carriages, said in a loud voice, while the engine 
 began to move on, " Keep your places, gentle- 
 men, if you please." 
 
 A minute later we entered the station. The 
 place was empty. Then from the superintend- 
 ent's office there came out two gentlemen, fol- 
 lowed by one of the higher officials of the rail- 
 way one of them wore the ribbon of the Legion 
 of Honour. They walked quickly up to the 
 train, and stopped for a few seconds before each 
 carriage. At last they came to ours. The gen- 
 tleman with the red ribbon looked in, and cast 
 a scrutinising glance on each of us in turn. 
 
 " Has any one left this carriage since Verton 
 station ? " he asked. 
 
 He spoke to me as being the nearest to him ; 
 but one of the Frenchmen cut in before me, and 
 related rapidly all he knew about the eighth 
 
250 THE SEER. 
 
 traveller namely, that he had joined us at 
 Verton, and had jumped from the train before 
 it reached St Denis. " This gentleman," he 
 added, pointing to me, " can, no doubt, indicate 
 the precise spot, for it was on his side that the 
 man a villanous-looking fellow escaped." 
 
 The police agent as we had rightly judged 
 him to be requested me then to describe the 
 missing passenger. I was able to answer accu- 
 rately, for I had examined the man closely. 
 
 While I spoke the agent nodded repeatedly, 
 as in assent. 
 
 " No doubt," he said, when I had concluded 
 my description, " that is the man. Please, sir, 
 to follow me." 
 
 I gathered up my wraps and got down. 
 Stachowitch followed. The railway guards 
 shouted, " Paris," and while the platform was 
 filling with passengers and porters, Stachowitch 
 and I entered the office of the Special Commis- 
 sary of Police. The order was given for an 
 engine to be placed at our disposal, and a few 
 minutes later I found myself seated in a luggage- 
 van, in company with the police agent, his 
 attendant a vigorous and apparently agile man 
 of about thirty two gendarmes, and lastly, the 
 
THE SEER. 251 
 
 young Kussian, who had obtained leave to come 
 with us, after he had related to the agent the 
 altercation which had taken place between the 
 Verton stranger and himself. I had already 
 described the spot where the man had jumped 
 out, and had added that I felt confident of 
 being able to point it out exactly. 
 
 On the way I learned from the police agent 
 that the Baronne de Massieux, who lived with 
 her daughter on a property near Boulogne-sur- 
 Mer, had been murdered on the previous night, 
 and that her coachman, Bechouard, was strongly 
 suspected of being the author of the crime. 
 
 " The description of the man was telegraphed 
 to us barely an hour ago," he added, " and we 
 would have been in time to arrest him on the 
 arrival of the train, if he had not thought fit 
 to make off, before reaching Paris. But that 
 won't avail him much. He can't be far, and 
 we will soon overtake him. A murderer can 
 no more be lost in the world, than a needle in 
 a bundle of hay. All that's wanted, in either 
 case, is patience to look for them." 
 
 Stachowitch nodded to me, as much as to 
 say, " You see, I was right ; the world is too 
 small to hide in." But there was no time for 
 
252 THE SEER. 
 
 further conversation. We had passed St Denis, 
 and we were now moving on slowly, in order to 
 give me time to point out the spot. 
 
 " I know that house again," I said ; " and this 
 is the garden wall. Here is the place ; but see ! 
 the man is there still he has not moved. He 
 is dead ! " 
 
 We all got down. And there, just beyond 
 the rails, flat on his face, lay the poor wretch we 
 were seeking. His left arm was doubled beneath 
 his chest, but the right arm was stretched out 
 forwards, and was covered with earth. The 
 cambric handkerchief had come undone in the 
 violence of the fall, and from the reopened 
 wound it had concealed a few drops of blood 
 had trickled. The body lay motionless. 
 
 The police agent's assistant, who had been the 
 first to jump out, sprang upon the prostrate 
 form with the eagerness of a blood-hound on the 
 track. He stooped down, and taking hold of a 
 shoulder and a leg, with a dexterity which be- 
 trayed professional practice, he turned the body 
 slowly over. Sure enough ! the man was dead. 
 The face was uninjured. At the corners of the 
 mouth there was a slight foam of a reddish tint, 
 and a few drops of blood which had gushed 
 
THE SEER. 253 
 
 from the nostrils stood clotted on the upper lip. 
 The wide-open eyes, of which only the whites 
 were visible, were horrible to see. Stacho witch, 
 who had leant over my shoulder to look at the 
 corpse, uttered a loud cry, and fell senseless to 
 the ground. 
 
 II. 
 
 The murder of the Baronne de Massieux was 
 soon forgotten by the general public. The judi- 
 cial inquiry had established that the crime had 
 been committed by Bechouard alone : he had 
 not long eluded punishment, and was dead. 
 Human justice had obtained satisfaction : the 
 case offered no particular interest, and people 
 ceased to talk about it. Two persons only 
 thought of it often, Madame de Massieux's 
 young daughter Marie, who mourned the loss of 
 a beloved mother, and Boris Stachowitch, whose 
 life appeared to have been deeply influenced by 
 that tragic event. 
 
 It was December, and six months had gone 
 by since I had made the young Russian's ac- 
 quaintance on the railway. We saw a good 
 deal of each other. We lived in the same part 
 
254 THE SEER. 
 
 of the town, had man} 7 common intimates, dined 
 at the same restaurant, and rarely spent a day 
 without meeting. My new friend interested me. 
 Stacho witch, on many subjects had original, and 
 even wildly eccentric, ideas ; but it was evident 
 that with him there was no affectation either 
 in speech or thought. I soon discovered many 
 excellent qualities both of heart and mind in 
 the young Kussian ; he was truthful, charitable, 
 generous, and singularly gentle; he was eager 
 for information, and, considering his age and 
 position, had read and learned much. He was, 
 in the true sense of the word, amiable. I should 
 add, that I felt pity for him. Stachowitch, it 
 was evident, was unhappy, but I found it impos- 
 sible to discover the cause of his secret sorrow. 
 He never complained, and when I ventured to 
 question him discreetly, his answers were so 
 evasive, and his embarrassment so evident, that, 
 for fear of offending, I soon desisted from any 
 inquiry as to the cause of his constant and 
 gloomy preoccupation. His apartments were 
 splendid ; he had carriages and horses, and was 
 reckless of expense : evidently it was no want 
 of money that troubled him. Nor could his 
 health give him cause for anxiety. True, he 
 
THE SEER. 255 
 
 always seemed languid and depressed ; but he 
 enjoyed an excellent appetite : and during an 
 excursion we had made together, I had had 
 opportunities of ascertaining that he was not 
 only an indefatigable walker and a bold rider, 
 but also that he could indulge in the most 
 violent bodily exercise without any apparent 
 effort. 
 
 He was a capital fencer, and was known as 
 such in all the fencing - schools of Paris. He 
 was considered eccentric, but he was a general 
 favourite, and people were disposed to be indul- 
 gent to his peculiarities. For instance, there 
 were men belonging to the club with whom he 
 positively declined to fence, without giving any 
 reason for his refusal. It was certainly no fear 
 of defeat or loss of reputation for dexterity which 
 actuated him, for he bore being beaten with very 
 good grace ; and, moreover, some of those with 
 whom he refused to measure himself were noto- 
 riously less expert than he was. 
 
 Apparently, in the choice of his adversaries 
 he followed his caprice, for which he always 
 offered some polite excuse, but no frank or suffi- 
 cient reason. 
 
 I was present on one occasion when this pecu- 
 
256 THE SEER. 
 
 liarity of his was shown in a very characteristic 
 way. 
 
 " I say, Stacho witch/' said the young Vicomte 
 de Drieux to him one day, " take your foil ; I 
 want to try my strength with you." 
 
 " Excuse me, my good fellow," replied Stacho- 
 witch ; " you know very well that I will not 
 fence with you." 
 
 " But why not ? Do be rational. You don't 
 fear, I suppose, that I will run you through?" 
 
 "Not a bit; only I would rather not have 
 you for an adversary." 
 
 Drieux placed himself in front of Stacho witch, 
 and said with mock gravity 
 
 " There must be an end of this, Count Stacho- 
 witch. I must know why you hold my doughty 
 sword in such respect. I am resolved to fight 
 you ; and if you refuse me satisfaction here, in 
 the fencing-school, I insist that you do me the 
 honour of killing me on other ground." 
 
 " Pray, do not make those jokes, my dear 
 Drieux. You do not know what pain you give 
 
 me." 
 
 Drieux and I looked at each other in mute 
 astonishment: Stachowitch had turned pale. 
 " What a queer fellow you are I " said Drieux, 
 
THE SEER. 257 
 
 laughingly ; but noticing the gloomy expression 
 of the Kussian's countenance, he added, more 
 seriously, " I value your friendship too much, 
 Stachowitch, not to yield in this matter. So 
 that is settled : I never will ask you again to 
 fence with me. But on your part, pray satisfy 
 my curiosity, and tell me what is your objection/' 
 
 " Do not be angry/' replied Stachowitch, " and 
 believe me when I say this is not mere caprice. 
 I have a presentiment that you would come to 
 grief if you fought against me. Your hand, 
 Drieux. We are friends, are we not ? " 
 
 "To be sure we are. But that does not pre- 
 vent your being the queerest and most incom- 
 prehensible of men." 
 
 Stachowitch, who seemed to have a strong 
 liking for me, and was disposed to be confidential 
 on most subjects, never referred again to this 
 incident when we were alone. For some time 
 past, it must be added, we had matters of greater 
 importance to discuss. I had fathomed with no 
 great difficulty the cause of the strong aifection 
 the young Eussian had conceived for me ; and 
 I had easily found out why, in spite of the dif- 
 ference in our ages, I was, of all his friends, the 
 one with whom he liked best to talk. The fact 
 
 R 
 
258 THE SEER. 
 
 was that I was the only person with whom he 
 could speak of Marie de Massieux. 
 
 His theory of the " smallness " of the world 
 had received new and striking confirmation. 
 Very soon after the death of Madame de Mas- 
 sieux he had learned that his sister, the Countess 
 de Villiers, married to a Frenchman, had known 
 the murdered lady; and, moreover, that his 
 friend Drieux, whom he met daily at his club 
 and elsewhere, was related to the Massieux. 
 Since she had become an orphan, Marie de 
 Massieux had lived with her aunt, Madame de 
 Baudy, in the Faubourg St Honore, in the very 
 same house as Madame de Villiers. 
 
 Stachowitch was delighted when he made 
 these discoveries ; for several days he recurred 
 to the subject continually, talking to me inces- 
 santly of the " small, small world." 
 
 " Just ride out daily for a fortnight," he said, 
 "and you will know every horseman and horse- 
 woman of Paris : only follow a course of con- 
 certs for a month, and you will know every 
 amateur of music in the town. And you call 
 that a great capital ! About the size of a play- 
 house, my good fellow. Well, maybe a little 
 larger, but not much. If you would only take 
 
THE SEER. 259 
 
 the trouble, in a month you might know all 
 who live in it ; and when you did, you would 
 find out that hardly ten in the whole number 
 are complete strangers to you. One has written 
 a book that you have read; another has said 
 something that you have heard; this one you 
 know from meeting him every day at the same 
 hour on the boulevard ; that other is in love 
 with some woman you know. Indeed, you may 
 notice that there is general and instinctive dis- 
 trust felt of any one who has no link with some- 
 thing or somebody that is known. The world is 
 very, very small, I tell you. One can discover 
 nothing in it that was quite unknown before." 
 
 Stachowitch, who frequently went to see his 
 sister, had one day met at her house Madame 
 de Baudy and Marie de Massieux. He had 
 been introduced, and Marie had from the first 
 felt a painful interest in him, having heard that 
 he was the last person to whom her mother's 
 murderer had spoken. 
 
 "What induced you to notice that man so 
 particularly ? " she asked one day, when he had 
 told her that he had been very near having a 
 quarrel with B^chouard. " Had you any notion 
 that he was a murderer ? " 
 
260 THE SEER. 
 
 " I neither knew nor guessed anything about 
 him, but his face was strange and horrible. 
 Curiosity and fear attracted me towards him. 
 He had upturned eyes the eyes of a dead man, 
 white eyes. And Stacho witch shuddered as 
 he spoke. 
 
 " White eyes ! " repeated Marie with surprise. 
 " What do you mean ? I knew the man ; he 
 had wicked grey eyes I think I see them now." 
 
 Stachowitch made no reply, and turned the 
 conversation into another channel. In a few 
 minutes Vicomte de Drieux was announced. 
 He cast a not very friendly look towards the 
 Eussian, said a few words to his cousin, and 
 then sat down near Madame de Baudy, at whose 
 house for the last few months he had been in 
 the habit of meeting Stachowitch almost daily. 
 This latter, for whom time passed quickly when- 
 ever he could talk with Marie, became sudden- 
 ly aware that he had paid an unconscionably 
 long visit, and took his leave at once. From 
 Madame de Baudy's he came straight to my 
 house, and I had to listen for the hundredth 
 time to the recital of the first chapters of his 
 love for Marie. If I did not always lend a very 
 attentive ear, at any rate I heard him with 
 
THE SEER. 261 
 
 friendly sympathy. And thus it was that I 
 became his dearest friend, from whom he was 
 constantly seeking advice and encouragement. 
 
 " Take heart," I said, " all is going on well. 
 You are timid, that's all. You seem to ex- 
 pect that the girl is to declare her feelings of 
 her own accord. It is asking too much. I 
 cannot understand your hesitation. From what 
 your sister has told you, you have reason to feel 
 sure that Madame de Baudy does not object to 
 your paying your addresses to her niece. In- 
 deed, any looker-on can see as much as that. 
 If she did, would she allow you to see Mademoi- 
 selle de Massieux every day, and talk to her 
 as much as you please ? The aunt is on your 
 side. That of itself is a capital card in your 
 hand. Your rival, Drieux, inspires me with 
 no apprehension. He is a charming fellow, I 
 admit ; but he does not realise the ideal which 
 the poetical heart of your beloved has doubtless 
 formed for itself. I have noticed that she is 
 always joking with M. de Drieux, and that, with 
 him, she never launches into one of those grand 
 philosophical subjects which, strangely and 
 comically enough, form the favourite theme of 
 conversation between true and virtuous lovers. 
 
262 THE SEER. 
 
 Drieux tells his pretty cousin many amusing 
 stories, and I have no doubt that she finds 
 time pass very pleasantly in his company. She 
 learns from him what plays are being acted, 
 who are the best dressed women in Paris, and 
 the name of the favourite for the ' Grand Prix 
 de Paris/ All this is very useful knowledge for 
 a young lady who hopes to be at the head of 
 a salon of her own before many winters have 
 gone by ; but it is the subject that interests her 
 and not the teller. If her aunt would but allow 
 her to read the 'Figaro/ she would find in it 
 ample compensation for the loss of her cousin's 
 conversation. Drieux succeeds in making Made- 
 moiselle de Massieux laugh very often. That's 
 an excellent sign for you, for a man who makes 
 a young girl laugh is not a dangerous rival. 
 He may be successful with older women, but 
 never with a young girl. In very young people 
 love does not manifest itself under a smiling 
 aspect. Love in their case is a sentimental 
 comedy, which must be played very seriously. 
 For the more mature spectator, who has gone 
 through it all, and who, alas ! will never go 
 through it again, there is something at once 
 laughable and touching in such seriousness. 
 
THE SEER. 263 
 
 Well ! you and Mademoiselle de Massieux are 
 both quite perfect in your lover's parts. She 
 tells you of her passion for flowers ; she plays 
 Chopin's music for you, for Drieux she plays 
 waltzes : and lastly, I have heard her describe 
 to you with gentle melancholy her moonlight 
 walks under the old trees of the park at Mas- 
 sieux. All this is as it should be, and the charm- 
 ing girl will, I have no doubt, be some day an 
 excellent mistress of a well-ordered household. 
 You, on your part, recommend good books to 
 her ; you read verses to her, and you lead her 
 out on the balcony to make her admire the 
 glorious constellations of the firmament Orion, 
 Cassiopeia, and Ursa Major. This is as inno- 
 cent as it is instructive, and it serves to imbue 
 her with profound admiration for your bound- 
 less knowledge. You teach her the elements 
 of geology ; she does not understand, but she 
 listens with scrupulous attention. You explain 
 to her the beauties of a Murillo, the deep and 
 hidden meaning of Don Quixote ; you are ready 
 to initiate her into the music of Wagner or the 
 philosophy of Kant. All this, as I said, is just 
 as it ought to be. Go on, my young friend, 
 you are in the right way. Take heart, and ask 
 
264 THE SEER. 
 
 for the hand of Mademoiselle de Massieux : you 
 will obtain it, I warrant you/' 
 
 Poor fellow ! He listened to these and simi- 
 lar speeches with every wish to believe what 
 I said, but I could not induce him to follow 
 my advice. Something he would not tell me 
 weighed upon his heart, and prevented his put- 
 ting an end to the doubts which tormented him. 
 
 One evening, after a long silence, Stachowitch 
 asked me suddenly whether, in my opinion, a 
 man who had not long to live was justified in 
 marrying. 
 
 The question took me by surprise. I got up, 
 and standing in front of him, examined him 
 attentively. He had grown thin; he looked 
 ill and weary, and there was an unusual bright- 
 ness in his eyes, which wandered restlessly from 
 one object to another. 
 
 "Stachowitch, you grieve me," I said in a 
 fatherly tone. " Come now, man, look me full 
 in the face." 
 
 His wild look gave place at once to a serene 
 and friendly expression. 
 
 " You look like a kind and venerable grand- 
 father," he said ; "it does me good to look at 
 you." 
 
THE SEER. 265 
 
 I could not help laughing. " You do me too 
 much honour, and I do not ask as much as that. 
 I am your senior by nearly fifteen years, it is 
 true, but that is no reason for speaking of me 
 as a grandfather. But never mind me ; let us 
 speak of yourself. What now ? Do you fancy 
 you are going to die ? What does it all mean? 
 This is really pushing eccentricity too far. Even 
 your love affords no excuse. And pray, what 
 will it please you to die of ? of heart-disease, 
 or of consumption 1 Any other illness, I sup- 
 pose, you would not think sufficiently poetical. 
 What do you complain of ? " 
 
 " I do not complain." 
 
 " Then why did you ask me that absurd 
 question as to whether a man who was soon 
 to die had a right to marry ? " 
 
 " I am wretched. Nobody knows, nobody 
 can suspect, how much I suffer." 
 
 He spoke with sorrowful resignation, staring 
 fixedly at the fire which was burning in the 
 grate. I saw tears gather slowly under his 
 eyelids, and trickle silently down his wan 
 cheeks. I laid my two hands on his shoul- 
 ders, and this time I spoke seriously : 
 
 " You are a malade imaginaire, my dear 
 
266 THE SEER. 
 
 Stachowitch. Yours is not an exceptional case, 
 and certainly not one that is considered incur- 
 able by the faculty. Promise me to see a 
 doctor." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Do it to please me," I said. 
 
 " What good can a doctor do me ? " 
 
 " More than you fancy ; and I must insist 
 upon your consulting one. You have reposed 
 confidence in me, and I am your friend. This 
 imposes duties upon me which I am ready to 
 fulfil, and gives me privileges which I mean to 
 exercise. To-morrow, at one, I will call for you, 
 and take you to a doctor whose opinion you 
 may trust. You must go with me, or tell me 
 why you refuse to do so." 
 
 He turned to me and replied very gently, 
 " I will go with you quite willingly. I am 
 grateful for the interest you take in me; but, 
 believe me, it is of no use. Do not be angry 
 with me, and, above all, do not give me up. 
 I am miserable." 
 
 The doctor's opinion was most satifactory. 
 He pronounced my friend to be apparently in 
 good health ; heart, lungs, and all essential 
 organs were in good working order. As to 
 
THE SEER. 267 
 
 the nervous excitement to which I called his 
 attention, he could not be brought to attach 
 much importance to it, as he felt convinced 
 that it would yield to the regimen which he 
 prescribed. He dismissed us, saying to Stacho- 
 witch 
 
 " You are constituted to live a hundred years, 
 my dear sir. Above all, do not disquiet your- 
 self about your health." 
 
 When we got out into the street, Stachowitch 
 shrugged his shoulders despondingly. 
 
 "What?" said I; "are you not satisfied? 
 What do you want ? Do you wish to live to 
 a hundred and fifty ? " 
 
 " I knew beforehand," he replied, " that this 
 visit would be of no use." 
 
 And indeed there was no amendment in his 
 sad condition : on the contrary, his melancholy 
 increased daily to a disquieting degree. I had 
 almost made up my mind to return alone to 
 the doctor's and ask for further directions, when 
 an unforeseen occurrence changed the whole 
 position of affairs. 
 
268 THE SEER. 
 
 III. 
 
 Winter was over, and we were in March. 
 I had been obliged to accept many invitations, 
 and, for the first time since I had made Stacho- 
 witch's acquaintance, some days had gone by 
 without our meeting. 
 
 One night as I was going home, at about 
 eleven, I chanced to pass before his door. 
 Glancing up at his window and seeing a light, 
 I went up and found him busy writing. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you," he said, coming 
 forward to meet me. " I have a favour to ask 
 of you." 
 
 He begged me to sit down, and took a chair him- 
 self in front of me. I noticed at once that he was 
 labouring under great and painful excitement. 
 
 " What has happened ? " I asked. 
 
 Stachowitch rose and walked up and down 
 the room with a hurried step. Then stopping 
 before me, he said abruptly 
 
 " Do you think me a coward ? " 
 
 " Decidedly not," I answered. " What do 
 you mean?" 
 
 " I have been insulted grievously insulted, 
 and I cannot fight the man." 
 
THE SEER. 269 
 
 " Hem ! it's awkward. There are men who 
 will not fight from principle. It is a question 
 of conscience or of taste. There is no dis- 
 cussing it, but 
 
 " You are mistaken," said Stacho witch, quick- 
 ly. "I have fought more than one duel in my 
 life, and I may fight again. But it is Drieux who 
 has insulted me He appeared to hesitate. 
 
 " Well," said I, to encourage him to proceed, 
 " Drieux or another, what does it matter ? " 
 
 "I cannot fight him." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 "I cannot; I must not." He spoke with 
 great animation. 
 
 "My good fellow," I said, rising from my 
 seat, " I am quite at your service ; but on one 
 condition : you must give up speaking in riddles, 
 and you must tell me clearly what has occurred." 
 
 " Drieux has insulted me." 
 
 " You have told me that three times already." 
 
 " I am entitled to demand satisfaction." 
 
 " We will see about that when you have been 
 good enough to give me all the particulars of 
 this business. Drieux is a man of honour, and 
 he will not refuse you satisfaction if you have 
 a right to demand it." 
 
270. THE SEER. 
 
 " But I cannot fight him." 
 
 I was beginning to lose patience. 
 
 " I will come back to-morrow," I said. " I 
 trust you will be sufficiently calm by that time, 
 to be able to speak intelligibly. Good-night." 
 
 " Stop, I beseech you. Do not leave me I 
 Help me!" 
 
 "So be it. I remain. Now be calm; give 
 me a light. Thanks I And now, please, light 
 your cigarette. All right ! Are you ready ? 
 Well, then, tell me now why you will not fight 
 Drieux." 
 
 He looked fixedly at me, and his staring, 
 wide-open eyes assumed an expression of un- 
 speakable horror. 
 
 " Because I will not be his murderer," he said 
 at last slowly, emphasising each word. 
 
 " You grow more and more mysterious." 
 
 " Because I am sure to kill him if we fight." 
 
 With an undisguised gesture of impatience, 
 I answered somewhat crossly : " Enough of all 
 this ; we can talk about it later. Tell me what 
 has taken place. Until I know, I do not see 
 that my interference can be of any use." 
 
 The story Stachowitch told me at last was 
 commonplace enough. The good feeling that 
 
THE SEER. 271 
 
 had formerly existed between Drieux and him- 
 self had for some time past undergone a grad- 
 ual change. The two young men had become 
 jealous rivals, and had watched each other 
 with distrust whenever they met at Madame de 
 Baudy's. Drieux had proposed to Marie, and 
 had been refused. Since then he had ceased to 
 visit at his aunt's house. His pride had been 
 nearly as much wounded as his affections. He 
 felt sore and angry with every one, but more 
 especially with Stacho witch. When they met, 
 Drieux bowed stiffly, and with an aggrieved air. 
 The Eussian, feeling sure that he meant to pick 
 a quarrel, avoided him as much as he could. In 
 the afternoon of that very day they had met 
 again at the fencing-school. There Drieux had 
 asked Stacho witch abruptly whether he would 
 do him the honour of a match with him. 
 
 " I refused," continued Stachowitch, " and I 
 feel certain that I did so in the most courteous 
 terms ; but Drieux would not be put off, and it 
 became evident that he had an object in view. 
 He insisted in such an aggressive tone, that I 
 might well have considered myself affronted, 
 had I not been resolved to avoid a quarrel by 
 every possible means. Some members of the 
 
272 THE SEER. 
 
 club who witnessed the painful scene tried to 
 interfere. They pointed out to Drieux how irra- 
 tional this outburst of anger was ; they reminded 
 him that they had all made up their minds 
 long ago to put up with my apparent caprice 
 in the choice of my adversaries, that nobody 
 took offence at it, and that Drieux, by acting 
 differently, seemed to be reading them a lesson. 
 Nothing could pacify him : on the contrary, 
 raising his voice still more, he apostrophised me 
 in such an offensive tone, that I was obliged at 
 last to break through my self-imposed restraint, 
 and to request him to explain or to retract his 
 words. He merely laughed, saying that his 
 words were intelligible enough to require no 
 commentary ; that he had no reason to retract 
 them, and that it rested with me either to 
 accept them or to demand satisfaction. That 
 is how the matter stands. What do you 
 advise ? " 
 
 I replied that the first thing was to try all 
 means of conciliation. " I will see your op- 
 ponent to-morrow morning. He may have got 
 good advice from his pillow. I will try and 
 make him understand that he is committing 
 himself foolishly by his obstinacy in this matter. 
 
THE SEER. 273 
 
 Do not worry yourself unnecessarily. Happen 
 what may, your honour is safe in my hands." 
 
 Early next morning I called on Drieux. He 
 evidently expected my visit. At my very first 
 words he stopped me, and giving me the names 
 of two of his friends, begged that I would settle 
 the matter with them. I tried in vain to obtain 
 an explanation from him. He listened polite- 
 ly, and his behaviour was unobjectionable ; but 
 to all my remarks he merely replied, that his 
 friends having kindly consented to conduct this 
 business, it was no longer any concern of his, 
 and that he felt quite satisfied that they would 
 do what was right. I took leave of him without 
 having made the slightest impression, and went 
 to see his friends. 
 
 Drieux had taken care to select two very 
 young men, who did not belong to our club, and 
 who, being duly impressed with the importance 
 of their functions as seconds, would probably 
 have been disappointed if they had not had 
 to play a part in an " affair of honour." With 
 them, likewise, I was completely unsuccessful. 
 
 " But," they argued, " why should we hinder 
 those two gentlemen from fighting if they wish 
 it ? A hostile meeting between them is un- 
 
274 THE SEER. 
 
 avoidable, unless your friend gives up demand- 
 ing satisfaction. The Vicomte de Drieux has 
 declared positively to us that he will make no 
 apology. He has requested us to be his seconds, 
 and we have accepted : nothing remains now 
 but to settle the conditions of their meeting, if 
 Count Stachowitch considers that any repara- 
 tion is due to him. We admit his claim, and 
 we are at your orders." 
 
 I made an appointment with these hot-brained 
 young fellows, and returned to Stachowitch to 
 give an account of my mission, and to inform 
 him that all my attempts at conciliation had 
 failed. 
 
 " I knew as much beforehand," he said ; " but 
 now my conscience will not reproach me. I 
 have done all I could to avoid this unfortunate 
 duel, and the blood that will be shed will be on 
 the head of the aggressor." 
 
 Stachowitch spoke calmly, but in a tone of 
 despondency which few men in his situation 
 would have cared to exhibit. 
 
 " You take too tragical a view of the matter," 
 I said. " A man has insulted you ; you de- 
 mand satisfaction, and he agrees to fight with 
 you ; this is no very unusual occurrence. You 
 
THE SEEK. 275 
 
 have right on your side, and temper too ; that 
 is the essential point." 
 
 The duel took place at daybreak the next 
 morning, in the wood of Vincennes. I had felt 
 some apprehension lest Stachowitch should not 
 behave becomingly on the ground, for the day 
 before he had given way to his intense anxiety, 
 quite regardless of my presence. But when the 
 morning came, and we were in the carriage to- 
 gether, he took care to reassure me. 
 
 " You seem to fear that I may betray weak- 
 ness in presence of my adversary. Make your- 
 self easy on that score : I know what I have to 
 do, and will give you no cause to be ashamed 
 of me." 
 
 And, indeed, he bore himself excellently. He 
 was serious, dignified, and collected. When 
 he had laid aside his coat and waistcoat, and 
 loosened his neck-tie, and I saw him standing, 
 sword in hand, in front of Drieux, I could not 
 help admiring his noble presence, his supple and 
 vigorous frame. 
 
 Drieux attacked him impetuously. At first 
 Stachowitch seemed content to parry the furious 
 thrusts of his adversary ; but after a while he 
 warmed to the work, and attacked in his turn. 
 
276 THE SEEK. 
 
 More than once I fancied that I had seen the 
 point of his sword graze the breast of his adver- 
 sary, but he never touched him. All at once 
 he lowered his weapon and stepped back. We 
 ran towards him ; he had been wounded rather 
 seriously in his right arm. Further fighting 
 was pronounced impossible. Drieux gloomily 
 and slowly prepared to depart, while his seconds 
 eagerly offered their assistance. I declined it 
 with thanks, and they too, bowing low, retired. 
 
 I then turned to Stacho witch, whom I had 
 left in the hands of the doctor. I was struck 
 with the expression of his countenance, which 
 was radiant with delight. 
 
 " Heaven be praised ! " he cried. " It is well 
 over. If you knew what a weight has been 
 lifted from my heart ! " 
 
 I was rather surprised at this overflowing joy 
 on the part of a wounded man, and I rejoined 
 
 " I would rather Drieux had got that wound, 
 but as you seem so delighted with it, I have no 
 business to complain." 
 
 When the doctor had dressed and bandaged 
 the wound he left us, and Stachowitch and I 
 drove back alone to the Avenue Friedland. 
 
 On the way the Kussian could not restrain 
 
THE SEER. 277 
 
 the expression of his joy. At times he appeared 
 absorbed in his own thoughts ; but these must 
 have been of a pleasant nature, for his face, 
 which I had always seen so sad and anxious, 
 was lighted up by a smile of intense satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 " I feel as if I had come out of a bad dream/' 
 he said. " Here am I awake, and I now know 
 that all that troubled me was only a chimera. 
 I, too, may hope to be happy. This very day I 
 will go to Madame de Baudy's and make my 
 offer. I feel confident that I will be accepted. 
 I have been miserable so long. My turn to be 
 happy has come at last. Yes, I will succeed. 
 Good-bye ! Congratulate me ; I'm so happy ! " 
 
 I could not understand this exultation ; but 
 as I did not wish to damp his joy, I took leave 
 of Stachowitch at the door of his own apart- 
 ment, well pleased at heart that this duel, 
 which I had dreaded, had not had more serious 
 consequences. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Stachowitch's proposal had been well received 
 by Madame de Baudy and her niece, and my 
 
278 THE SEER. 
 
 friend was the happiest of men. He was trans- 
 formed. The unaccountable sadness of former 
 days had given place to a joy so exuberant, 
 that I had some trouble in getting accustomed 
 to it. 
 
 After all, I could see nothing very extraor- 
 dinary in what had happened to Stacho witch. 
 Marie de Massieux was no doubt a charming 
 girl, and to a certain point his satisfaction 
 seemed natural enough : still, with a little clear- 
 sightedness, he might have known beforehand 
 that he would be accepted, and I could not 
 comprehend why he was so strangely surprised 
 at his own good fortune. 
 
 " I am the happiest of men," he kept repeat- 
 ing; to which I would reply, "I am delighted 
 to hear it ; but really, my good fellow, it is your 
 own fault if you were not as happy as this three 
 months ago." 
 
 Upon this, Stachowitch would look at me 
 wistfully, as though he were deliberating with 
 himself whether he would confide something to 
 me or not. But he kept silent, and left his 
 exceeding happiness as unexplained as his 
 former sadness had been. 
 
 Drieux had left Paris immediately after the 
 
THE SEER. 279 
 
 duel, and I learned by chance that he was 
 travelling in Greece. 
 
 " I wish him well, with all my heart," said 
 Stachowitch, when I told him this. " I owe him 
 all the happiness of my life." 
 
 * ' At your riddles again ! " I exclaimed. " What 
 possible connection can there be between Drieux 
 and your happiness ? " 
 
 Stachowitch smiled mysteriously, as if to say, 
 " I alone know, but I am not mistaken." 
 
 This conversation ended as many others had 
 ended before ; and when Boris Stachowitch left 
 me, I could not help wondering whether there 
 was not something disordered in the state of his 
 mind. 
 
 This doubt recurred with greater force some 
 days later, under the following circumstances. 
 One evening, towards ten o'clock, I went to see 
 Stachowitch by appointment. We were to go 
 together to spend the evening with the Countess 
 de Yilliers. The servant who opened the door, 
 knowing how intimate I was with his master, 
 let me go in alone. The drawing-room was 
 empty. I crossed it noiselessly, thanks to the 
 thick carpet which covered the floor, and I was 
 on the point of entering the bedroom, when, on 
 
280 THE SEER. 
 
 the very threshold, my steps were arrested by 
 the strangest sight. 
 
 Two lighted candelabra stood on the chimney- 
 piece, and were brilliantly reflected in a large 
 mirror; and in front of that mirror stood 
 Stacho witch, indulging in the most singular 
 grimaces. First he looked at himself with 
 that deep, searching gaze, which reminded me 
 involuntarily of the way in which he had 
 looked at the murderer Be'chouard in the rail- 
 way carriage ; then he drew back a few paces, 
 without taking his eyes off his own image in the 
 glass which naturally at that distance became 
 less distinct. After a while he began to screw 
 up his eyes, draw down the corners of his 
 mouth, wrinkle up his brow, and, in short, try 
 to impart to his face a wearied and dejected 
 expression. When he had performed these 
 tricks for a few seconds, he once more drew 
 near to the mirror, and, to my intense astonish- 
 ment, I saw him take up a crayon, and, like an 
 actor about to play the part of an old man, 
 trace with it wrinkles on his forehead and round 
 his mouth. 
 
 I looked on in mute and painful surprise. 
 Here was I, the unexpected witness of a dismal 
 
THE SEER. 281 
 
 farce of an act of madness ! I retreated on 
 tiptoe to the door of the drawing-room, and 
 after waiting a minute to recover my compo- 
 sure, I opened the door, closed it again noisily, 
 and from the entrance called out to Stacho witch. 
 
 " I will be with you in an instant," he an- 
 swered, from the inner room, with no apparent 
 emotion in his -voice; "read the paper, to take 
 patience." 
 
 He closed the door of the bedroom without 
 showing himself, and, after leaving me alone for 
 a few minutes, he appeared, with the smiling, 
 cheerful countenance which he had worn ever 
 since his duel with Drieux. 
 
 I was sorely tempted to question him about 
 the strange scene of which I had been an in- 
 voluntary spectator, but the fear of appearing 
 obtrusive kept me silent. 
 
 We went out together. At the corner of 
 Avenue Friedland and of the Faubourg St 
 Honore* we took a cab. 
 
 " Here's a good number," I said, glancing at 
 the little ticket which the coachman had given 
 me, "No. 1107." 
 
 "Why should that number be better than 
 another ? " inquired Stachowitch. 
 
282 THE SEER. 
 
 " Because it can be divided by nine." 
 Stachowitch looked at me interrogatively. 
 " I make it a rule," I said, " to read attentively 
 the number of every cab I take, and every house 
 
 I go to. If the sum total produced by adding 
 up all the figures of which the number is com- 
 posed can be divided by nine, I call it a good 
 number, and I am pleased. If, on the contrary, 
 the addition of the figures gives me thirteen as 
 a result as, for instance, in the case of No. 643 
 I feel uncomfortable. I like to go and see 
 friends whose houses are luckily numbered; 
 whereas I live in dread of quarrelling with 
 people who live at Nos. 49, 67, &c. &c. For- 
 tunately, there are not many such. Now, for 
 example, I like your street, because there is no 
 No. 13 in Avenue Friedland. The houses on 
 the side of the odd numbers follow thus : No. 
 11, No. 11 Us, No. 15. The owner of that No. 
 
 II bis is a wise man. I do not know him, but 
 I cannot but respect him." 
 
 Stachowitch listened to me with deep atten- 
 tion. 
 
 " Seriously, do you believe in such things ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 As I scarcely knew whether he was in earnest 
 
THE SEER. 283 
 
 or only joking, I answered, gravely, " Of course 
 I do." 
 
 " Then I suppose you have likewise a fear of 
 Friday, and would not choose that day for set- 
 ting out on a journey ? " 
 
 " Oh ! oh I " I replied, keeping up the same 
 serious tone, " that would be sheer superstition. 
 To take account of No. 9 and No. 13 is quite 
 another thing. It is a habit one may cultivate 
 and cherish till it develops into a full-blown 
 mania. One may indulge in it, quite harm- 
 lessly, twenty times a-day ; and, for my part, I 
 find that it adds considerably to the enjoyment 
 of life." 
 
 " Take care/' exclaimed Stachowitch, sharply ; 
 "you are playing a dangerous game. Believe 
 me, I speak as one who knows by sad experi- 
 
 ence." 
 
 " Are you speaking seriously ? " 
 
 " Quite seriously." 
 
 " Then, my good fellow, let me tell you, no 
 less seriously, that you are once more becoming 
 incomprehensible. I would like to know what 
 harm can accrue to me or to any one else from 
 my preference for cab No. 999 over cab No. 13 ? 
 Or why should I not, when selecting an apart- 
 
284 THE SEER. 
 
 ment for friends or for myself, be attracted by 
 No. 27 rather than by No. 85 ?" 
 
 " Every mania is dangerous. Mania, Mani- 
 acus are terrible words, my dear friend. Any 
 one who leaves the path of reason is on his way 
 to madness." 
 
 I did not care to continue the conversation, as 
 the serious turn it had taken seemed to me, con- 
 sidering the subject, rather absurd. I therefore 
 merely replied by an " Oh yes I of course ; quite 
 true, quite true ! " knowing by experience that 
 unconditional assent generally puts an end to 
 all argument. Then we talked of other things. 
 I must add that I felt disinclined to go on with 
 the joke. The remembrance of the scene before 
 the mirror, which I had just witnessed, made me 
 feel uncomfortable when I heard Stachowitch 
 speak of madness. 
 
 The painful impression produced by that scene 
 wore away quickly enough. The behaviour of 
 my young Kussian friend during the days that 
 followed was, as far as I could see, perfectly 
 rational, and the remembrance of what I had 
 seen was fast being effaced. I tried to think 
 of it as a mere childish freak. 
 
 There are many men, and women too, for 
 
THE SEER, 285 
 
 whom their own image reflected in a mirror has 
 strange and peculiar fascination. Not only do 
 they find pleasure in looking at themselves con- 
 stantly a thing which seems scarcely explicable 
 by any rational motive but I have known, and 
 still know, not a few who smile and make eyes 
 at themselves, and who, for their sole and pri- 
 vate satisfaction for they are always ashamed 
 when surprised in the act assume in turn 
 pensive, cheerful, sad, or angry airs. I per- 
 suaded myself that Stachowitch had indulged 
 in this innocent foolery. It made him a little 
 ridiculous in my eyes, but did not impair my 
 friendship for him ; and I did my best to for- 
 get his grimaces before the mirror. 
 
 His marriage was fixed for the 8th of June. 
 The last days of May were come. Stachowitch 
 dined almost every day at Madame de Baudy's, 
 returning home about ten. I had formed the 
 habit of going to him at that hour, and we used 
 generally to wind up the evening those pleas- 
 ant evenings of the end of May by sauntering 
 down the Champs Elysees together. 
 
 One evening I called at his house at the 
 accustomed hour, and was told that he was out, 
 but that he requested me particularly to wait 
 
286 THE SEER. 
 
 for him, as he had something important to com- 
 municate. I imagined that it was some com- 
 mission relative to his marriage that he wanted 
 me to execute for him ; and having nothing 
 better to do, I settled myself in an arm-chair, 
 and began to read. The evening was beautiful. 
 From the windows I could see the trees of the 
 avenue, and I could hear the roll of the passing 
 carriages. There was nothing in my surround- 
 ings likely to produce lugubrious or fantastic 
 ideas. 
 
 Suddenly I started up with a cry of terror. 
 Before me, pale as death, with wild and flashing 
 eyes, stood the tall and spectre-like form of 
 Stachowitch. 
 
 " Eead that ! read that ! " he cried, in a hoarse 
 voice, without giving me time to speak, and 
 thrusting a crumpled newspaper before my eyes. 
 
 Instead of looking at the paper, I surveyed 
 Stachowitch with surprise. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " I inquired. 
 
 "Eead, read!" he repeated. "You will see 
 how right I was ! Oh my terrible forebod- 
 ings!" 
 
 I took the paper, and read the paragraph to 
 which he pointed with an unsteady finger. It 
 
THE SEER. 287 
 
 was a despatch of the Agence Havas in these 
 words : 
 
 "We learn from Athens that Vicomte de 
 Drieux has been murdered by brigands during 
 an excursion he had undertaken in the neigh- 
 bourhood of this town. The identity of the 
 victim has been established by the French Con- 
 sul. M, de Drieux was stabbed in the heart 
 with a dagger. The police are making active 
 search to discover the authors of the crime." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " I said. " This is, indeed, sad 
 news, and I am truly sorry." 
 
 " I knew, I knew that Drieux: would die so ! " 
 exclaimed Stacho witch. 
 
 This exclamation struck me as strange. It 
 occurred to me suddenly that Stachowitch had 
 shown great reluctance to fight with Drieux be- 
 cause he felt sure that he would kill him. In 
 spite of myself I felt a queer sensation of awe 
 creep over me ; but I did my best to overcome 
 it, saying to myself that, after all, it could only 
 be a strange coincidence, and that my duty was 
 to recall Stachowitch by argument to reality and 
 sober reason, instead of following him in the 
 fanciful theories and imaginings which seemed 
 to have taken hold of him. I therefore urged 
 
288 THE SEER. 
 
 him strongly to tell me what it was that troubled 
 him. 
 
 His excitement was so great that he was 
 thrown off his guard, and he could no longer 
 maintain the reserve he had so long imposed 
 upon himself. After a while he consented to 
 give me an explanation, but even then his agi- 
 tation did not subside. He walked up and 
 down the room, speaking in a loud voice, and 
 gesticulating vehemently. His speech was so 
 disconnected, and touched on so many points 
 in quick succession, that for some minutes I 
 could scarcely understand what he was saying. 
 Gradually, however, he became more intelli- 
 gible, and when he had done speaking I was 
 in full possession of his sad story. 
 
 I cannot transcribe it here as he told it ; but, 
 in substance, this is what has remained engraved 
 on my memory. 
 
 Y. 
 
 The story of my friend Count Boris Stacho- 
 witch was as follows : " One day I was seated 
 near a beautiful girl at a large dinner-party. 
 Her figure was faultless. I do not remember 
 
THE SEER. 289 
 
 to have ever seen such lovely shoulders, or such 
 a perfect hand and arm. Her large, blue, liquid 
 eyes beamed with intelligence ; her mouth was 
 fresh and rosy. The line of the eyebrow was 
 exquisite, and the long, thick eyelashes lent 
 inexpressible charm to her enchanting counte- 
 nance when she looked down. I was literally 
 bewitched by such a combination of beauty ; 
 and, so long as the dinner lasted, I was exclu- 
 sively occupied with my neighbour. She listened 
 with flattering attention when I spoke to her : 
 at times she smiled with good-humoured famil- 
 iarity, as though we had been old friends; at 
 others she assumed a grave and almost solemn 
 expression, as if all I wa^ saying were worthy 
 of her most serious attention. From time to 
 time she raised her eyes to heaven, and seemed 
 absorbed in a gentle reverie ; and then again 
 she would cast them down, and veil them for 
 a few seconds with the magnificent fringe of 
 her eyelashes. The more I looked at her, the 
 more beautiful she appeared to me. 
 
 " After dinner our hostess begged her to give 
 us some music. She required no pressing, and 
 executed some difficult pieces of music with the 
 precision and taste of a master. Then she sang. 
 
 T 
 
290 THE SEER. 
 
 Her voice was powerful, and wonderfully culti- 
 vated. Never in my whole life had I met with 
 so accomplished a being. She was at once sur- 
 rounded and assailed with compliments, and to 
 every one in turn she replied in a few words of 
 graceful and becoming modesty. My eyes fol- 
 lowed her wherever she went. Suddenly I saw 
 her go with timid steps up to a middle-aged 
 lady who had been seated in front of the piano, 
 and whom nobody appeared to have noticed. 
 
 " The face of the lady was not quite new to 
 me, and yet I tried in vain to recollect where 
 I had seen it before. I examined her atten- 
 tively. She was not ugly, and yet there was 
 something in her appearance which was singu- 
 larly repellent. It was a harsh, cold, and even 
 cruel countenance. She was tall and thin, and 
 wore a plain, dark-coloured dress. Her hands, 
 which were encased in black shiny gloves, were 
 singularly small. Her thin hair, black as jet, 
 was dressed simply and unpretendingly. Her 
 skin, of the colour of wax, was dried up like 
 that of a mummy, and her eyes, which seemed 
 to take heed of all that was passing around, 
 were deep sunk in their sockets. Her lips were 
 thin and colourless. 
 
THE SEER. 291 
 
 " ' What an odious creature ! ' I said to myself. 
 ' That woman must have a heart of stone/ 
 
 " Just then she raised her eyes to the ceiling. 
 
 " ' Where have I seen that face before ? ' I 
 asked myself again. 
 
 " Her eyelids drooped slowly, and closed as 
 if in slumber. I felt more and more convinced 
 that she was no stranger to me. 
 
 " ' Do you know the lady to whom Mademoi- 
 selle Olga M. is speaking ? ' I inquired of an old 
 family friend, who was also very intimate with 
 our host. 
 
 "'She is Countess M., the mother of your 
 neighbour at dinner.' 
 
 " ' What ! Can it be possible that so lovely 
 a being has such a mother 1 ' 
 
 " The old gentleman smiled. 
 
 " ' I knew the Countess before her marriage,' 
 he said. * We used to call her " the fair Nathalie." 
 She was incomparably handsomer than her 
 daughter Olga ; and moreover, so clever I so 
 amusing ! Every man who approached her 
 was captivated. There was no resisting the 
 witchery. I, too, was madly in love with her ; 
 and as to your father, Boris, he nearly died of 
 love for " the fair Nathalie." Ah me ! she was 
 
292 THE SEER. 
 
 a girl who knew how to make the most of her 
 charms. She talked, she laughed, she danced, 
 she sang like a siren. But neither your father 
 nor myself was what she wanted. Her choice 
 had fallen on Count M., a very rich man; and 
 of course she managed to make him marry her. 
 In the course of five years she bore him three 
 daughters, and by the sixth year she had killed 
 him by her cold, cruel wickedness. Two of her 
 daughters are married ; the youngest, Olga, is 
 still free. But if you will listen to good advice, 
 my young friend, you will have nothing to do 
 with that dangerous beauty. Olga reminds me 
 of her mother at eighteen. The smile is the 
 same, and she knows how to call up that same 
 soft look her witch of a mother had. Just look 
 at them both raise their eyes and drop them 
 again in the same fashion ; they have the same 
 hands and feet, the same forehead and the same 
 mouth. All that is angular and sharp in the 
 Countess is rounded and soft in her daughter ; 
 that is the effect of time. Years will transform 
 your fair Olga as they have transformed my 
 fair Nathalie : thirty years hence the one will 
 be the living image of what the other is now. 
 Experto crede Roberto. Good -night, Boris. 
 
THE SEER. 293 
 
 Do not dream of Olga. Eather, if you needs 
 must dream, let it be of that young girl you 
 see yonder in the pink frock, who is seated 
 quietly and shyly near her mamma, as smiling 
 and as blooming as herself. Just look I she has 
 taken hold of her mother's dress, as if she were 
 afraid of losing her. Olga has no fear of that 
 sort ; she knows how to stand alone/ 
 
 " I withdrew into a corner of the room to 
 think over what I had heard. I am gifted with 
 good eyesight, and at the distance I was from 
 Olga, I could distinguish every feature as plainly 
 as if I had been at her side. Yes, it was true, 
 she resembled her mother, not at first sight, 
 but only when you stripped her features of the 
 charm of youth. What cold hard looks those 
 eyes might dart ! How forbidding that mouth 
 appeared, when, in fancy, I extinguished the 
 lovely smile that was playing round it ! ' This, 
 then, is what Olga will be thirty years hence/ 
 I said to myself, as I looked at her mother. 
 All at once, I felt afraid of the girl who 
 had captivated me an hour before. I cannot 
 say why, my thoughts suddenly reverted to my 
 grandmother and an old great-aunt of mine, 
 both of whom were alive at that time. There 
 
294 THE SEER. 
 
 was an extraordinary likeness between the two 
 sisters; and yet my father had often told me 
 that his mother, in her youth, had been a 
 beauty ; while his aunt, on the contrary, had 
 been a plain girl. A whole train of ideas rushed 
 through my brain concerning the immutable 
 stability of the typical lines in each individual, 
 lines that external accidents youth, ease, 
 misfortune, illness, or good health may dis- 
 semble as under a veil for a given time, but 
 which, towards the close of life, stripped of 
 all accidental circumstance or artifice, reveal 
 the original plan, so to speak, upon which 
 the individual was constructed, ' That original 
 structure/ I said, ' is the true man ; all else 
 is but a semblance/ Having come to that 
 conclusion, I left my nook and mingled once 
 more with the crowd. Chance brought me 
 again near Olga. Her expressive look spoke 
 a flattering welcome. 
 
 " * What a meditative air, Sir Philosopher ! ' 
 she said. ' What can you be thinking of ? Give 
 me your arm and take me out of this furnace. 
 I am suffocated here.' 
 
 " I led her into another room ; we went up 
 to a window, and, still leaning on my arm, 
 
THE SEER. 295 
 
 she raised her beautiful eyes to the starry 
 sky. There was an expression of gentle mel- 
 ancholy on her countenance. I could feel the 
 regular beating of her heart, and a deep sigh 
 upheaved her maiden bosom. . . . And I 
 knew with absolute certainty I knew that 
 her whole being was a lie : a lie, the dreamy 
 eye ; a lie, the smiling mouth and tender words ; 
 a lie, each throb of that stony heart ! As 
 she stood there, mute and motionless by my 
 side, like a beautiful statue, I saw her, not as 
 she seemed to be, but as she would be thirty 
 years hence. I could perceive distinctly her 
 real, her typical features. They were those of 
 her mother, the woman with the wicked stern 
 eyes and the cruel mouth. I let go her arm 
 and drew away. 
 
 " ' What is the matter*?' she said with surprise. 
 ' You are quite pale/ 
 
 "No commonplace excuse was at my com- 
 mand ; I was under the spell of truth. ' You 
 are horrible/ I faltered out. She burst into a 
 merry laugh, supposing, doubtless, that some 
 joke was intended ; but without heeding her, I 
 fled from the house. 
 
 " From that day a new life began for me. 
 
296 THE SEER. 
 
 My former light-heartedness was gone for ever. 
 I could not help scrutinising every new face 
 with peculiar attention. Young people especi- 
 ally interested me. Whenever I met them in 
 company of their parents, I could not take my 
 eyes off them until I had succeeded in metamor- 
 phosing their young and blooming faces, and 
 had given them the weary, furrowed, care-worn, 
 harsh, resigned, or desponding countenance as 
 the case might be of their father or mother. 
 The youthful complexion faded, so to speak, 
 under my gaze ; the skin seemed to wither, and 
 either to pucker into wrinkles, or to distend 
 itself in flabby folds over the blurred and bloated 
 outline ; the turned - up corners of a smiling 
 mouth were drawn down ; the liquid lustre of 
 the eye was extinguished. My passionate desire 
 to discover the real face of the future under the 
 visage actually before me became a real mania. 
 It often got me into trouble, for strangers have 
 more than once asked me what I meant by my 
 inquisitorial looks. I resolved a hundred times 
 to conquer this unfortunate habit, but it soon 
 overmastered my will. At theatres, in concert- 
 rooms, I was constantly seeking problems to 
 solve. I looked out for some unknown youth- 
 
THE SEER. 297 
 
 ful face, and then, in fancy, I made it grow old. 
 When this was effected, there was no stratagem 
 to which I would not have recourse to get at 
 the father and the mother of the individual I 
 had studied. At first I was frequently obliged 
 to recognise that I had been mistaken ; the 
 parents bore no resemblance to the image my 
 fancy had conjured up. I would then seek the 
 cause of my error, and, generally, I was success- 
 ful in discovering it. At last I ascertained the 
 true laws, the fixed rules in obedience to which 
 each essential feature was to be transformed in 
 the course of years, so as to return to its typi- 
 cal form ; and soon I became proficient in the 
 useless, unprofitable, and painful art to which I 
 had devoted myself. One glance was sufficient 
 for me to discover the future under the present 
 visage. 
 
 " The period which I may term my appren- 
 ticeship did not last long, as I have said ; but 
 no sooner had I perfected myself in the art of 
 observation, and acquired the certainty that I 
 could unmistakably discover the typical face 
 under its temporary disguise, than I was struck 
 with the fact that some faces remained, so to 
 speak, refractory under my process. It was in 
 
298 THE SEER. 
 
 vain that I applied to them all the rules that I 
 had drawn up in order to reduce them to their 
 original type ; I found it impossible to make 
 them grow old. 
 
 " One of these refractory faces was that of my 
 own brother ; another was that of a friend of 
 my sister's, a young girl whom I saw daily at 
 home, and whom I secretly worshipped. 
 
 " ' Why is it/ I would often ask myself, ' that 
 I am unable to transform those two ? ' I would 
 then bury my face in my hands and think it 
 over and over again. When I did that, Alexis 
 and Sophie used to appear to me, pale, with 
 closed eyes, but still bearing the stamp of youth 
 upon their features. Soon after I saw their two 
 corpses looking just as they had appeared to my 
 mind's eye. In an excursion on the lake, the 
 boat in which they were together capsized, and 
 both were drowned. 
 
 " The deep grief I felt at the loss of my 
 brother and. of the girl I loved, to which was 
 added the painful certainty I had now acquired 
 of my power to discern the signs of early death 
 on any countenance, nearly drove me mad. I 
 fell dangerously ill, and for many weeks my life 
 was despaired of. In time I recovered from the 
 malignant fever which had attacked me, but the 
 
THE SEER. 299 
 
 horrible visions that had haunted me during 
 two years remained. 
 
 " I retired to a family estate in Southern 
 Kussia, and for a whole year I lived in nearly 
 absolute seclusion. My servants were old, 
 good and simple people whom I had carefully 
 selected from among my father's peasants. No 
 one else was allowed to approach me. 
 
 " One day the mortal ennui to which I was 
 a prey begat the unfortunate idea of subjecting 
 my own face to the process which I had been in 
 the habit of applying to others. I discovered 
 that it belonged to the refractory class ; it was 
 impossible to make it grow old. I saw myself, 
 pale, with bright eyes and sunken cheeks, but 
 still young young as I had seen Alexis and 
 Sophie. 'I shall die soon/ I said to myself, and 
 the thought was almost a relief to me. Life 
 had become a burden, and yet I was barely two- 
 and-twenty ! When winter came round for the 
 second time, the oppressive solitude to which I 
 had condemned myself became unbearable. I 
 went to Moscow for a few days, and from thence 
 proceeded to Paris. I thought I would try to 
 enjoy the few days I had still to live. More- 
 over, I wished to see my sister, the Countess de 
 Villiers, once more before I died. 
 
300 THE SEER. 
 
 "During my journey I resumed my experi- 
 ments. It had become impossible for me to see 
 a human face under any other form than that of 
 the future the typical form. I got used to it. 
 I lived, as it were, in company of old people 
 who wore the mask transparent for me alone 
 of youth. I easily recognised the real person 
 beneath the disguise. Some pleased me, and I 
 sought to make friends of them ; others appeared 
 hideous, and I avoided them. People set me 
 down as eccentric and queer I let them talk. 
 
 " My illness for that it was an illness I well 
 knew was soon to make great and fearful pro- 
 gress. I had proof of this, for the first time, 
 during the journey to Paris. 
 
 " When the train in which I was had passed 
 the Belgian frontier, and entered French terri- 
 tory, a railway employe got into our carriage to 
 examine the tickets. He had a refractory face. 
 I was looking with interest and pity at one who 
 I knew was fated to die young, when I sud- 
 denly perceived a red line crossing his forehead 
 like the trace of some fearful wound. I could 
 not take my eyes off him as long as he remained 
 near our carriage, and I watched him at every 
 station when the train stopped. Wherever we 
 
THE SEER. 301 
 
 passed he seemed to find friends, with whom he 
 exchanged greetings. He never appeared in a 
 hurry. He would quietly let the train start, 
 and then, running after it, he would jump on 
 the step of his carriage with an adroitness which 
 denoted long habit, and so get in. At St 
 Quentin he delayed too long. I was watching 
 him out of the carriage-window. It was only 
 by running as fast as he could that he managed 
 to get up to the last carriage. I saw him leap 
 on to the step ; I saw his feet touch it ; his 
 hand sought a hold and found none ; he stag- 
 gered and fell. ... I heard a cry which was 
 soon drowned in the shriek of the engine. The 
 guard had noticed the accident and stopped the 
 train. Some of the officials jumped on the line, 
 and ran towards the spot where their comrade 
 lay. When they reappeared they were carrying 
 a corpse. The poor fellow had fallen head- 
 foremost on the metals, and had fractured his 
 skull. On the forehead there was a terrible 
 wound. 
 
 " Could I still believe that all this was only 
 the creation of a diseased brain ? No. That was 
 no longer possible, though my reason rebelled 
 against the notion of admitting the supernatural 
 
302 THE SEER. 
 
 as positive truth. Could it be chance that had 
 shown me in imagination three living beings 
 under the aspect that they were to wear in 
 reality after death 1 No. Others might believe 
 it others might call my second-sight hallucina- 
 tion, and try to explain it by saying that my 
 over -excited brain created images with such 
 vague outlines, that I could fancy I had already 
 seen certain things, which in reality I was per- 
 ceiving for the first time. But I could not rest 
 satisfied with such explanations. I was con- 
 strained to acknowledge, on the contrary, that 
 fearful and mysterious as it was I possessed 
 the baleful gift of recognising those who were 
 fated to die young, and of even discerning in 
 certain cases the peculiar marks foreshadowing 
 their mode of death. Thus, I had seen Alexis 
 and Sophie ; thus, when he was seated beside 
 me, I had seen the murderer Bechouard with 
 upturned eyes the eyes of a corpse ; and in 
 like manner again, whenever I looked at Drieux, 
 I saw the mark on his heart of a mortal wound. 
 " After my duel with our poor friend, I felt 
 new life return. I had been possessed by the 
 idea that I would kill him if ever I encountered 
 him, sword in hand. We had met, we had 
 
THE SEER. 303 
 
 fought, and he it was who had wounded me. 
 I blessed him for it. I persuaded myself that 
 since I had been mistaken once, that was a 
 proof that my second-sight was not infallible. 
 Why should I not be mistaken a hundred times \ 
 Why not always ? That fatal gift, which I had 
 fancied mine, was not real ; it was an offspring 
 of my diseased imagination, a fearful dream 
 that time and experience were dispelling. Thus 
 I argued, and felt relieved. I was eager for 
 happiness ; life once more seemed so attractive ! 
 I hoped to be able to enjoy it in peace. Yester- 
 day, this morning nay, a few hours ago, I 
 hoped still. Now it is all over. ... I know 
 that Drieux has been murdered ; that he died 
 as I had foreseen ; that I was not mistaken ; 
 that I cannot, alas ! be mistaken. . . . And 
 I know, with absolute certainty, that I too must 
 die soon. I have nothing more to hope for in 
 life. All is lost, irrevocably lost ! " 
 
 As he said these last words, Stachowitch sank 
 back in his chair, and, burying his face in his 
 hands, burst into tears. In vain I sought to 
 quiet him. At last, finding all argument use- 
 less, I cal]ed in his servant. The old man began 
 
304 THE SEER. 
 
 to talk to him gently in Eussian, and at last 
 prevailed upon him to go to bed. I ran to the 
 doctor, who was an old acquaintance of mine. 
 I had some difficulty in gaining admittance to 
 him at that ]ate hour, but at my urgent entreaty 
 he at last consented to return with me to Stacho- 
 witch's bedside. This latter lay in a troubled 
 sleep ; the doctor discovered all the symptoms 
 of a violent fever, and after prescribing some 
 remedies to be applied immediately, left us, pro- 
 mising to return early the next morning. 
 
 I passed the greater part of the night at my 
 friend's bedside. At .daybreak, feeling myself 
 overcome by sleep, and seeing, moreover, that 
 Stachowitch was sleeping calmly, I went home, 
 after charging the Eussian servant not to leave 
 the room. 
 
 It was rather late when I woke the next 
 morning. I dressed hurriedly and hastened to 
 Stachowitch's house. The porter stopped me at 
 the foot of the stairs. 
 
 "There is nobody up-stairs," he said; "the 
 Count and his servant left this morning at 
 
 seven." 
 
 " What ! Gone i Where are they gone ? " 
 " I cannot say. The Count passed before my 
 
THE SEER. 305 
 
 loge without even looking at me ; the servant, 
 who carried a small portmanteau, said, ' We are 
 going away for a few days/ That's all I 
 know ; not much, as you see ; but then, if every 
 lodger " 
 
 I did not wait for more, but went at once 
 to Stachowitch's sister. " Madame la Comtesse 
 is not at home," I was told. There was nothing 
 left for me to do, but to go on to Madame de 
 Baudy's. I was admitted at once, and before I 
 could utter a word, she asked me in an agitated 
 voice, " Have you come to explain what tjiis 
 means ? " 
 
 At the same time she handed me an open 
 letter which contained only a few hurried 
 lines : 
 
 " I am obliged to forego the happiness of all 
 my life. Do not accuse me ; I am innocent. 
 Pity me ; I am unhappy. Comfort Marie. 
 
 " BORIS STACHO WITCH." 
 
 What was the use of explanations \ The only 
 excuse I could offer for my poor friend was to 
 confess that I thought him mad. That would 
 have done him no good, nor would it have com- 
 
 u 
 
306 THE SEEK. 
 
 forted Madame de Baudy or her niece. I did 
 not care to cut off Stachowitch from all hope. 
 Who could tell? Matters might be arranged 
 perhaps. I merely said, therefore, that he had 
 been seized with violent fever the day before, 
 and had left Paris that same morning. I 
 pointed out that his letter bore evident traces of 
 great excitement, and that too much importance 
 should not be attached to it. Finally,. I en- 
 treated Madame de Baudy not to condemn her 
 niece's future husband without hearing from him 
 mqre fully. Having thus discharged my duty 
 as a peace-maker, I took my leave, to avoid fur- 
 ther questioning or useless recrimination. 
 
 Time passed, and I heard nothing more of 
 Boris Stachowitch. I called several times on the 
 Countess de Villiers, and was invariably informed 
 that she was not at home. I came at last to the 
 conclusion that it was painful to her to speak of 
 her brother's illness, and I ceased my visits ; 
 but as I felt a deep interest in the young Kus- 
 sian, I wrote to the Countess to ask news of 
 him. She answered at once, but her letter told 
 me nothing new. 
 
 " My brother is ill," she wrote, " and by the 
 advice of his physicians he has gone to reside on 
 
THE SEER. 307 
 
 one of my father's estates in Southern Russia. 
 He seems to be progressing, if not rapidly at 
 any rate uninterruptedly, towards recovery. It 
 will give me great pleasure to communicate 
 again with you, as soon as I have better news 
 to tell. I hope it may be soon." 
 
 Years have gone by since then. Madame de 
 Villiers has not " given herself the pleasure " of 
 communicating with me. Probably she had no 
 good news to write, and thought it needless to 
 communicate bad tidings. I do not know what 
 has been the fate of poor Stachowitch. Had he 
 recovered, he would have written to me. If he 
 is still alive, we may meet again in this " small 
 world" of ours. Perhaps he is dead, and an- 
 other of his strange forebodings has thus been 
 realised. 
 
 Marie de Massieux did not die of grief after 
 the disappearance of her affianced husband. She 
 consoled herself, on the contrary, very quickly 
 and in my opinion she was quite right. To 
 make up one's mind to an irreparable loss is a 
 proof of courage as well as of good sense, and in 
 all ages the advice to do so has been embodied 
 in words of wisdom. As a rule, and for the 
 majority of human beings, life in this world is a 
 
308 THE SEEK. 
 
 delusion a long catalogue of unkept promises. 
 Fortunate are those who, having secured a certain 
 amount of happiness and ease, are wise enough 
 to enjoy it without fears for the future or re- 
 grets for the past. Marie de Massieux must be 
 numbered among these favoured few. She is 
 married to an honest country gentleman, and 
 her household seems prosperous. I met her, not 
 long ago, in the Champs Elyse'es, where she was 
 walking with two pretty little children. She 
 looked smiling, proud, and satisfied. It seemed 
 as if nothing could ruffle her placid happiness, 
 and that at eighty she would wear the same ex- 
 pression of goodness and serenity that she had 
 now. Our eyes met, but I saw by her look that 
 she did not recognise me. Devoted to her pres- 
 ent duties, she lives forgetful of the past, care- 
 less of the future. Hers is true wisdom. I 
 deemed it needless to recall the remembrance of 
 a painful period, and I passed on without even 
 bowing to her. 
 
"FEED:" 
 
 A TALE FROM JAPAN. 
 
 FRED was a stray dog whose origin and whose 
 name even were shrouded in mystery. In 1861 
 he had landed in Yokohama from an English tea- 
 clipper, in the company of a melancholy travel- 
 ler. Nobody, of course, took any notice of the 
 dog at the time, and he, on his part, avoided all 
 familiarity with strangers, having, apparently, 
 eyes and ears only for his master, whom he fol- 
 lowed everywhere. 
 
 This master, Mr Alexander Young, was a 
 rather mysterious character. Nobody knew 
 whence he came or whither he was bound. 
 The captain of the Georgina had made his 
 acquaintance in Java, and had given him a pas- 
 sage to Japan on very moderate terms. During 
 the voyage, Alexander Young or Sandy, as he 
 
310 "FRED. 
 
 was commonly called spoke very little, but 
 drank a good deal. The captain, who, when 
 at sea, made it a rule never to take anything 
 stronger than water, was not at all disinclined, 
 when ashore, to indulge in an extra bottle or so. 
 In consequence, he treated the weakness of his 
 companion with compassionate fellow-feeling, 
 and even felt, on that very account, a sort of 
 sympathy for him, which showed itself in many 
 little kindnesses. Sandy was very grateful ; 
 and in his sad, dreamy, blue eyes there was a 
 tender and friendly expression whenever they 
 rested on the rugged, weather-beaten features 
 of the captain. 
 
 Fred was Sandy's constant companion, and 
 the dog's nose was never many inches distant 
 from his master's heels. 
 
 "Fred is a curious name for a dog," said 
 the captain, one evening ; " why did you call 
 him so ? " 
 
 Sandy was silent for fully a minute, and then 
 answered slowly, " Because he was a present 
 from my cousin Louisa." 
 
 The captain was much impressed by this un- 
 expected explanation; but as he was himself 
 accustomed to clothe his ideas in most enigmat- 
 
"FRED." 311 
 
 ical language, he made no doubt that Sandy's 
 reply had some deep hidden meaning ; and with- 
 out indulging in indiscreet questions, he made 
 many and fruitless efforts to solve the problem 
 unaided. From that time Sandy rose in his 
 esteem. Neither Sandy nor he ever recurred to 
 the subject; but when, at a later period, the 
 captain was asked why Mr Young's dog was 
 called "Fred," he answered, authoritatively, 
 " Because the dog was a present from his cousin 
 Louisa." 
 
 Fred was a thorough-bred bull-terrier, snow- 
 white, with one black round spot over his left 
 eye. His fore-legs were bowed, his chest was 
 broad and powerful, his head wide and flat as 
 a frog's. His jaws were armed with a set of 
 short, uneven, sharp teeth, which seemed strong 
 enough to crunch a bar of iron. His eyes were 
 set obliquely in his head, Chinese fashion ; never- 
 theless there was an honest and trustworthy 
 expression in them. One could see that Fred, 
 though he was a dangerous was not a savage 
 or a wicked beast. 
 
 Fred could smile in his grim way, if his 
 master showed him a bone and said, " Smile ! " 
 But, as a rule, he was as grave and serious as 
 
312 "FRED." 
 
 Young himself. He was no bully or street- 
 fighter. Confident in his own strength, he 
 looked with contempt on the small curs who 
 barked and yelped at him. But if a large dog, 
 a worthy adversary, attacked him, he fought 
 with mute, merciless fury. He neither barked 
 nor growled on such occasions, but the quick 
 deep breathing under which his broad chest 
 heaved, betrayed his inward fury. His green 
 eyes shone like emeralds, and he fastened his 
 fangs into his enemy with such mad violence 
 that it was a matter of great difficulty to make 
 him loose his hold. 
 
 During six months Sandy and Fred led a 
 quiet life at Yokohama. Sandy was known, it 
 is true, to consume in private an incredible 
 amount of spirits ; but in public, his behaviour 
 was unexceptionable, and no one had ever seen 
 him intoxicated. A few days after his arrival, 
 he had bought one of the rough ugly little 
 ponies of the country. Those who, for some 
 reason or another, strayed from the beaten paths 
 usually frequented by foreign residents at Yoko- 
 hama, declared that they had met Young, the 
 pony, and Fred in the most unlooked-for places. 
 The lonely rider, the horse, and the dog ap- 
 
"FRED." 313 
 
 peared, they said, equally lost in deep reverie. 
 Young smoked ; the pony, with the reins hang- 
 ing loose on its neck, walked with his head 
 down, as though it were studying that road of 
 which its master took no heed ; while Fred fol- 
 lowed close behind, with his dreamy half-closed 
 eyes fixed on the horse's hoofs. Young never 
 addressed anybody, but returned every salute 
 politely, and, so to speak, gratefully. The Eu- 
 ropeans at Yokohama wondered at their quiet 
 fellow - exile ; and the Japanese called him 
 kitchingay crazy. 
 
 Young rarely remained in town when the 
 weather was fine. He would leave the settle- 
 ment in the early morning with his two four- 
 footed companions, and not return from his ride 
 till dusk. But if it rained and blew hard, one 
 might be sure to meet him on the bund the 
 street which leads from the European quarter to 
 the harbour. On such occasions Sandy, with 
 his hands behind his back, walked slowly up and 
 down the broad road, with Fred at his heels as 
 usual ; though it was evident that the poor 
 drenched animal did not share his master's 
 enjoyment of bad weather. At intervals Sandy 
 would stop in his walk arid watch with appa- 
 
314 
 
 rent interest the boisterous sea and the vessels 
 that were tossing on it. Whenever this hap- 
 pened, Fred immediately sat upon his haunches 
 and fixed his blinking eyes on his master's 
 countenance, as though he were trying to dis- 
 cover some indication that he was going to 
 exchange the impassable street for the comfort- 
 able shelter of his lodgings. If Young stayed 
 too long, Fred pushed him gently with his 
 nose as if to wake him out of his day-dream. 
 Sandy would then move on again ; but he 
 never went home till the storm had abated 
 or night had set in. This strange aimless 
 walking up and down gave him the appearance 
 of a man who has missed his railway train, 
 and who, at some strange uninteresting station, 
 seeks to while away the time till the next 
 departure. 
 
 Young must have brought some money with 
 him to Yokohama, for he lived on for several 
 weeks without seeking employment. At the 
 end of that time, however, he advertised in the 
 ' Japan Times ' to the effect that he had set up 
 in business as public accountant. In this capa- 
 city he soon got some employment. He was a 
 steady, conscientious worker, rather slow at his 
 
"FRED." 315 
 
 work, and evidently not caring to earn more 
 than was required for his wants. In this way 
 he became acquainted with Mr James Webster, 
 the head of an important American firm, who, 
 after employing Young on several occasions, at 
 last offered him an excellent situation as assist- 
 ant bookkeeper in his house. This offer Sandy 
 declined with thanks. 
 
 " I do not know how long I may remain out 
 here," he said. " I expect letters from home 
 which may oblige me to leave at once." 
 
 Those letters never came, and Sandy grew 
 paler and sadder every day. One evening he 
 went to call on James Webster. A visit from 
 Sandy Young was such an unusual occurrence 
 that Webster, who, as a rule, did not like to be 
 disturbed, came forward to greet his visitor. 
 But Sandy would not come in ; he remained at 
 the entrance, leaning against the open door. 
 His speech and manner were calm and even 
 careless ; and Webster was consequently some- 
 what surprised to hear that he had come to 
 take leave. 
 
 " Sit down, man," said Webster, " and take a 
 soda-and-brandy and a cheroot." 
 
 " No, thank you," replied Young. " I leave 
 
316 "FRED." 
 
 early to-morrow morning ; and I have only just 
 time to get my things ready." 
 
 " So you are really going away ? " said Web- 
 ster. "Well, I am sorry you would not stay 
 with us. As it is, I can only wish you good 
 luck and a prosperous voyage." 
 
 He held out his hand, which Young pressed 
 so warmly that Webster looked at him with 
 some surprise ; and as he looked, it seemed to 
 him that there was moisture in Sandy Young s 
 eyes. 
 
 " Why won't you stay ? " continued Webster, 
 who felt a curious interest in the sad, quiet man. 
 " The place I offered you the other day is still 
 there." 
 
 Young remained silent for a few moments. 
 Then he shook his head, and said gently, "No, 
 thanks. You are very kind, but I had better 
 go. ... What should I do here \ Japan is a 
 fine country ; but it is so very small always 
 the same blue sea, the same white Fusyyama, 
 and the same people riding the same horses and 
 followed by the same dogs. I am tired of it 
 all. . . . You must admit, Mr Webster, that 
 life is not highly amusing out here." 
 
 There was a short pause, after which Sandy 
 
"FRED." 317 
 
 resumed, but speaking more slowly and in still 
 lower tones, " I think there must be a typhoon 
 in the air ; I feel so weary. ... I do not 
 think, Mr Webster, that you can ever have felt 
 as tired as I do. I thought we were going to 
 have a storm this morning. It would perhaps 
 have done me good. This has been a very close, 
 heavy day. . . . Well, good-night. I did 
 not like to leave Yokohama without bidding 
 you good-bye, and thanking you for all your 
 friendliness." 
 
 He moved away with hesitating steps ; and 
 when he had gone a few paces he turned round 
 and waved his hand to Webster, who was follow- 
 ing him with his eye. 
 
 " I thank you again, Mr Webster," he repeated 
 with almost pathetic earnestness. " I wish you 
 a very good-night." And so he disappeared into 
 the darkness. 
 
 That night a terrific storm burst over Yoko- 
 hama, but it came too late to revive poor weary 
 Sandy. He was found dead in his bedroom the 
 next morning, having hanged himself during the 
 night. On the table lay a large sheet of paper 
 with the following words, written in a bold 
 hand, " Please take care of Fred." 
 
318 "FRED." 
 
 Nothing was found in Sandy's trunk but some 
 shabby clothes and a bundle of old letters which 
 had evidently been read over and over again. 
 They were without envelopes, dated from Lim- 
 erick, 1855 and 1856, and merely signed " Lou- 
 isa." They were examined carefully in the hope 
 that they might furnish some clue to Sandy's 
 parentage and connections ; but they were love- 
 letters mere love-letters and contained noth- 
 ing that could interest any one but poor Sandy 
 himself. There was frequent mention of a father 
 and a mother in these letters, and it was clear 
 that they had not been favourable to the lovers ; 
 but who this father and mother were did not 
 appear. Other persons were mentioned, as 
 "Charles," " Edward," " Mary," and " Florence," 
 but their Christian names only were given. In 
 the last letters of October, November, and Decem- 
 ber 1856, there was constant reference to a cer- 
 tain Fredrick Millner, a friend of Sandy's, whom 
 he had, apparently, introduced to his cousin and 
 lady-love. In the first of these letters, Louisa 
 wrote that her mother was much pleased with Mr 
 Millner, who was a most agreeable and charming 
 companion. In course of time, Mr Millner be- 
 came " Frederick Millner," then " Fred Millner/' 
 
"FRED." 319 
 
 "F. M.," and at last he was simply "Fred." 
 Fred had accompanied Louisa and her mother to 
 Dublin, where they had all been much amused. 
 Fred was a capital rider, and at the last meet he 
 had taken the big stone wall behind Hrachan 
 Park, in a style which had excited the admiration 
 of all present. Fred accompanied Louisa fre- 
 quently on horseback, and she had never had 
 such capital riding -lessons as from him : he 
 understood horses better than anybody, and that 
 ill-tempered " Blackbird " that Sandy had never 
 dared to ride, was as gentle as a lamb with Fred. 
 At the last athletic sports, got up by the officers 
 of the 19th, Fred had thrown the hammer farther 
 than anybody ; and would certainly have won 
 the foot hurdle-race likewise, if he had not fallen 
 at the last hurdle. Fred had a beautiful voice; 
 Fred danced well ; Fred here, Fred there, Fred 
 everywhere. In the last letter it was said how 
 " poor daring Fred had fallen with ' Blackbird ' 
 at the last steeple -chase and had broken his 
 collar-bone. Yet he did not give up the race, 
 and came in third 1 Mother has insisted on 
 his remaining here to be nursed by us till he 
 gets well. He sends his best love, and will 
 write as soon as he is able." 
 
320 "FRED." 
 
 These letters were sealed up and deposited in 
 the archives of the British consulate at Yoko- 
 hama. Inquiry was made officially at Limerick 
 whether a Mr Alexander Young and a Mr Fred- 
 erick Millner had been known there in 1855 and 
 1856. In due course of time the reply came, 
 but brought no satisfactory answer to the ques- 
 tions. Alexander Young was quite unknown. 
 A young man, called Frederick Millner, had 
 lived at Limerick at the date mentioned. After 
 bringing shame and sorrow to the daughter of 
 an honoured family, he had left the town in 
 secret and had never been heard of since. 
 
 As Alexander Young left no property of any 
 value, no further inquiries were made, and he 
 was soon forgotten. He was buried very quiet- 
 ly; and James Webster, the constable of the 
 English consulate, and Fred, alone accompanied 
 him to the grave. 
 
 After the funeral the dog returned to Yoko- 
 hama. For several days he searched anxiously 
 for his master in his old lodgings and near the 
 new-made grave ; but he soon became convinced 
 of the fruitlessness of his endeavours, and thence- 
 forward he became, as a Californian called him, 
 " an institution of Yokohama." 
 
"FEED." 321 
 
 Sandy's last wish, " Please take care of Fred," 
 was faithfully attended to. Many of the resi- 
 dents of Yokohama showed themselves ready 
 to adopt the dog ; but Fred did not seem in- 
 clined to acknowledge a new master, and testi- 
 fied little gratitude for the caresses bestowed on 
 him. He visited first one and then another of 
 his numerous patrons, and did not object to ac- 
 company any of them in turn during a walk or 
 a ride ; but no one could boast that Fred was 
 his dog. His favourite resort was the club, 
 where, in the evening, all his friends met, and 
 where he usually remained till the last guest 
 left. Then he took up his quarters for the night 
 with one or other of his friends ; and hospitality 
 was readily extended to him, for he was both 
 watchful and well-behaved. 
 
 A year had thus gone by, when the Georgina 
 once more arrived in Yokohama harbour. The 
 captain walking on the bund one day, recog- 
 nised his former passenger Fred, and called to 
 the dog. Fred snuffed at him deliberately, 
 drooped his head, and appeared for a few mo- 
 ments to meditate profoundly. But suddenly 
 he showed the wildest delight, leaped up at the 
 captain and licked his hands, barking and smil- 
 
 x 
 
322 "FRED. 
 
 ing ; then started down the street at full speed, 
 and at last returned to take his old place at the 
 heels of his new master. The captain, we have 
 said, was a philosopher : he accepted the adop- 
 tion as a decree of fate to which he bowed 
 submissively. 
 
 One evening, not long after this, the captain 
 was attacked by a party of drunken Japanese 
 officers. Fred sprang at the throat of one of 
 the assailants and would have strangled him, if 
 another of the Japanese had not cut him down 
 with a stroke of his sword. The captain escaped 
 with a slight wound and took refuge in the 
 club, from whence he sallied forth with a party 
 of friends to give chase to his foes and try to 
 save his dog. But his brave friend and de- 
 fender was dead. He was buried in the yard 
 of the club-house of Yokohama, where a stone, 
 with the inscription, "Fred, 1863," still marks 
 the place where poor Sandy's faithful compan- 
 ion lies. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 
 
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WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 21 
 
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WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 23 
 
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