University of Virginia Library

11. XI.

Major Gaston's door having closed upon him
did not open for himself again on that day or the
next. The storm had prevented further advance
with the great water-works which had employed
him; his servant brought him the black coffee on
which at that time he principally subsisted; Mrs.
Stanhope had a tiny French dinner faultlessly
served for him alone each day, and regretted that
he was too ill to enjoy it; she had feared he was
overworking himself, she said. She paid him a
visit; but the smoke-permeated atmosphere, the
fearful confusion of the apartments, the taciturnity
of the yellow Major, were combining influences
which caused the visit to be a short one,
and she felt herself excused from repeating it, by
sending the French dinner and the Doctor every
day in her stead.

“Hm — ahem!” uttered the sturdy Doctor, not
to be daunted by all the Majors in existence. “It

is plain that the air of Beaudesfords does not
agree with you — does not agree with you. And
the sooner you leave it the better.”

“I am not ill,” said the Major. “I wish you
and Mr. Beaudesfords would attend to your own
affairs. When I want a physician, I order
one.”

“Perhaps the physician wants you.”

“Well,” turning on him suddenly, “what does
he want of me?”

“Possibly to quit the place. Possibly such a
great healthy fellow hulking round is an eyesore,
— eh? Possibly, Gaston, possibly he takes a genuine
interest in your health, which is not, after
all, such alarming health, — you yellow fellow —
need sea-air, — and is sincere in advising you to
leave Beaudesfords.”

“Do you advise Mrs. Beaudesfords to leave it
too? or did you say him?” with a sneer worthy
of the father of sneers.

“That is not your affair. However, I fear I
may have to order her a warmer climate.”

“We might all go together then. A charming
party, Doctor!” As Gaston stood before the fire
in the room that was growing dark, a strange
glow came into his eyes, and illumined his bitter

smile. He looked more like a thing of evil than
he was.

“Let me have your pulse, sir,” said Dr. Ruthven,
possessing himself of it after the fashion
of medical men, before the patient knew how to
resist, and opening out his watch that had beat out
so many of its seconds over men's hearts. “Nervous
system highly wrought,” muttered Dr.
Ruthven. “Bromide of potassium — dessert-spoonful
every three hours. Nothing like it —
mere magic. Now your tongue.”

Gaston waited, before complying with this last
demand, which was apparently too humiliating to
be borne, till the Doctor had replaced his time-piece;
then he took him by the shoulder and
reseated him in his chair, so quietly but so
potently that there was no appeal.

“Now, sir!” said he, “I told you I was
not ill. I keep my quarters, being absolute
master of them, thanks to — not to you, Dr.
Ruthven!”

“No, sir! Not by the holy poker, sir! Not
to me, you may take your affidavit!”

“Life is not all play, even to me, Dr. Ruthven,”
continued Gaston, without noticing the
little man's outburst. “I draw my plans, clear

up my details. The guests survive without me.
I choose to be alone just now, sir, because I am
working out a problem! Good-morning!”

“Good-evening!” said the Doctor. “Don't
confuse the hours of the day, whatever you do.
I hope you will not forget the most important
quantity in your problem — one which people
laboring under high nervous excitement are apt
to overlook. I think you had better try the bromide,
though. Good-night!”

Then Gaston filled his huge pipe, and when
Beaudesfords came in, he could by no means
have discovered the whereabouts of his friend,
had it not been for the spark of fire glittering at
the mouth of the big bowl, and looking as much
like the single eye of some monster glowering
through the darkness as any thing that could
be imagined.

“Tartarus?” said he. “Or the Black Hole?
Ruthven said you were at work on your problems:
you must be extracting the root of all
darkness. Why haven't you rung for lights?”

“Let me alone, Beaudesfords. I love the
dark.”

“Because your deeds are evil? Well — land
at last — a glimmer in the grate, that is; anchored

— that's a chair. Now, what did Ruthven
think of you?”

“Thought I had better go away from Beaudesfords.”

“Go away!” cried Beaudesfords, starting to
his feet. “What! is the air unhealthy here? Is
it that ails Catherine?”

“Not in the least. He spoke merely in relation
to myself. Life is too pleasant for me here. It
is time I was up and away on my rounds, like
the outcast Jew.”

“Fie, fie, old fellow! Don't put on your
misanthropes. Ruthven is only a good, pottering
soul — fancies you rusting out. You never shall
leave Beaudesfords with my consent. See, we
are going to have a railway laid to the bay now.
The straight line, you know, lies across as many
pretty difficulties as anybody wants to overcome
in a summer's day. When the water-works are
opened and done with, you will have your contract
to lay it out. What say to that? Headquarters
at Beaudesfords, and a year's job if a
day's. Some of our directors were here to see
me this morning about it. No danger for you of
rusting, even at Beaudesfords. It is I who should
rust without you. In fact, Gaston, though I

wonder what existence would be to me without
Catherine, I wonder quite as often what it would
be to me without you! I couldn't say it,” added
Beaudesfords, like a girl, “if it wasn't as dark
as your pocket!”

Poor Beaudesfords! He could not have said it
at all, had Catherine ever given him the bliss of
being loved in return with the decimal of that
devotion which he lavished on herself. But he
was an effusive nature, and, having broken the ice
on the night of the great snow-storm by a tantamount
assurance, it was necessary for him to
attest the fact again, and yet again, lest it were
only deemed the impulse of a moment.

But as for Gaston, he answered not a word.
And the two sat there silent in the darkness;
Beaudesfords a little despondent about his wife,
but not positively unhappy, turning over a thousand
things in his mind; but Gaston, chafing
with hateful thoughts, finding it impossible to
speak, and yet every instant of the prolonged
silence getting more unbearable than the last.
Suddenly he was upon his feet, had snatched both
of Beaudesfords' hands and wrung them, crying,
“What should such fellows as I do, crawling between
earth and heaven!” had pushed him back

again, found his own hat, and stalked from the
room.

“That was just like Gaston!” said Beaudesfords
to Catherine, when he was detailing to her
the conversation and its close, on the same evening,
alone with her in her own sitting-room.
“To sit mulling over my words, when I had forgotten
all about them, and suddenly to burst out
in such a blaze! What a soul he is! Noble
from heart to lip! One of those men that wear
the purple, — that were born in it, — porphyrogene!
When was there ever such a man before?
It is no wonder that I love him, Catherine! You
are not jealous of him, eh?” with a smiling side-long
glance.

“Jealous of Gaston!”

“Ah! true. How is it possible? I think you
are better to-night, Mrs. Beaudesfords,” gazing at
her again a moment as he spoke. “There is such
a color on your cheeks, such a light in your eyes,
that I have half the mind to bring him up here
to tea.”

Catherine looked at herself in the great glass
as he spoke: it was an image but little like a sick
woman's that she saw there, with that triumphant
flush and brilliance which had risen as she had

heard Gaston praised, as she had felt that he was
not altogether vicious, — a short-lived rapture on
such false foundation. If he were not vicious,
why did he linger here?

“You seem so much improved indeed,” continued
Beaudesfords.

“No, no, no!” cried Catherine, hastily. “I
mean the Doctor said,” she added, “that I must
see no one, — that” —

“He was right,” interrupted Beaudesfords. “I
am an idiot. Happiness makes a man lose his
senses, they say; and since I see you look so well,
I feel like snapping my fingers at fate.”

“Do not talk so, Beaudesfords,” said Catherine.
“Read to me. There are the new books that
came to-night. I had them brought on purpose,
because you like to open them so, and I like to
see you.” And Beaudesfords, cutting the leaves
of one at random, plunged into poetry of such
bewildering waste of passion and power, such
mad melody and rhythm, that, seeing Catherine
fall asleep, worn out with all the emotions
that had their battle-ground every day in her
heart, he stole softly from the room, and then
took the great staircase at three leaps, with the
book in hand, that he might break in upon Gaston's

quarters, and waking him from his black
apathy revel there with Swinburne, in a symposium
of splendid image and luxurious music
till midnight.