"By the way," I said, as I turned to take my leave, although my question was "by the way" of nothing at all, "who was that tall, fair man who just now entered the office?"
"Oh, that fellow?" was the indifferent reply; "a Captain Campbell, or Canton, or some such name; I forget what. He is gone in before the board-insured his wife's life-and she is dead; comes for a settlement, I suppose."
There was nothing more to be gained, and so I[190] left the office. As soon as I came without into the scorching sunlight, again the same feeling of cold, again the same voice-"Wait!" Was I going mad? More and more the conviction forced itself upon me that I was decidedly a monomaniac already. I felt my pulse. It was agitated and yet not feverish. I was determined not to give way to this absurd hallucination; and yet, so far was I out of my senses, that my will was no longer my own. Resolved as I was to go, I listened to the dictates of that voice and waited. What was it to me that this Campbell or Canton had insured his wife's life, that she was dead, and that he wanted a settlement of his claim? Obviously nothing; and I yet waited.
So strong was the spell on me that I had no longer any count of time. I had no consciousness whether the period was long or short that I stood there near the door, heedless of all the throng that passed, gazing on vacancy. The fiercest of policemen might have told me to "move on," and I should not have stirred, spite of all the terrors of the "station." The individual came forth. He paid no heed to me. Why should he? What was I to him? This time I needed no warning voice to bid me follow. I was a madman, and I could not resist the impulses of my madness. It was thus, at least I reasoned with myself. I followed into Regent Street. The object of my insensate observation lingered, and looked around as if in expectation. Presently a fine-looking woman, somewhat extravagantly dressed, and obviously not a lady, advanced toward him on the pavement. At the sight of her he quickened his step, and joined her[191] rapidly. I shuddered again, but this time a sort of dread was mingled with that strange shivering. I knew what was coming, and it came. Again that voice in my ear. "Look and remember!" it said. I passed the man and woman as they stopped at their first meeting!
"Is all right, George?" said the female.
"All right, my girl," was the reply.
I looked. An evil smile, as if of wicked triumph, was on <ins class="translit" title="original has the the">the</ins> man's face, I thought. And on the woman's? I looked at her, and I remembered. I could not be mistaken. Spite of her change in manner, dress, and appearance, it was Mary Simms. This woman some years before, when she was still very young, had been a sort of humble companion to my mother. A simple-minded, honest girl, we thought her. Sometimes I had fancied that she had paid me, in a sly way, a marked attention. I had been foolish enough to be flattered by her stealthy glances and her sighs. But I had treated these little demonstrations of partiality as due only to a silly girlish fancy. Mary Simms, however, had come to grief in our household. She had been detected in the abstraction of sundry jewels and petty ornaments. The morning after discovery she had left the house, and we had heard of her no more. As these recollections passed rapidly through my mind I looked behind me. The couple had turned back. I turned to follow again; and spite of carriages and cabs, and shouts and oaths of drivers, I took the middle of the street in order to pass the man and woman at a little distance unobserved. No; I was not mistaken. The woman was Mary Simms, though without any trace[192] of all her former simple-minded airs; Mary Simms, no longer in her humble attire, but flaunting in all the finery of overdone fashion. She wore an air of reckless joyousness in her face; and yet, spite of that, I pitied her. It was clear she had fallen on the evil ways of bettered fortune-bettered, alas! for the worse.
I had an excuse now, in my own mind, for my continued pursuit, without deeming myself an utter madman-the excuse of curiosity to know the destiny of one with whom I had been formerly familiar, and in whom I had taken an interest. Presently the game I was hunting down stopped at the door of the Grand Café. After a little discussion they entered. It was a public place of entertainment; there was no reason why I should not enter also. I found my way to the first floor. They were already seated at a table, Mary holding the cartein her hand. They were about to dine. Why should not I dine there too? There was but one little objection,-I had an engagement to dinner. But the strange impulse which overpowered me, and seemed leading me on step by step, spite of myself, quickly overruled all the dictates of propriety toward my intended hosts. Could I not send a prettily devised apology? I glided past the couple, with my head averted, seeking a table, and I was unobserved by my old acquaintance. I was too agitated to eat, but I made a semblance, and little heeded the air of surprise and almost disgust on the bewildered face of the waiter as he bore away the barely touched dishes. I was in a very fever of impatience and doubt what next to do. They still sat on, in evident enjoyment of their[193] meal and their constant draughts of sparkling wine. My impatience was becoming almost unbearable when the man at last rose. The woman seemed to have uttered some expostulation, for he turned at the door and said somewhat harshly aloud, "Nonsense; only one game and I shall be back. The waiter will give you a paper-a magazine-something to while away the time." And he left the room for the billiard-table, as I surmised.
Now was my opportunity. After a little hesitation, I rose, and planted myself abruptly on the vacant seat before the woman.
"Mary," I said.
She started, with a little exclamation of alarm, and dropped the paper she had held. She knew me at once.
"Master John!" she exclaimed, using the familiar term still given me when I was long past boyhood; and then, after a lengthened gaze, she turned away her head. I was embarrassed at first how to address her.
"Mary," I said at last, "I am grieved to see you thus."
"Why should you be grieved for me?" she retorted, looking at me sharply, and speaking in a tone of impatient anger. "I am happy as I am."
"I don't believe you," I replied.
She again turned away her head.
"Mary," I pursued, "can you doubt, that, spite of all, I have still a strong interest in the companion of my youth?"
She looked at me almost mournfully, but did not speak. At that moment I probably grew pale; for suddenly that chilly fit seized me again, and my[194] forehead became clammy. That voice sounded again in my ear: "Speak of him!" were the words it uttered. Mary gazed on me with surprise, and yet I was assured that shehad not heard that voice, so plain to me. She evidently mistook the nature of my visible emotion.
"O Master John!" she stammered, with tears gathering in her eyes, reverting again to that name of bygone times, "if you had loved me then-if you had consoled my true affection with one word of hope, one look of loving-kindness-if you had not spurned and crushed me, I should not have been what I am now."
I was about to make some answer to this burst of unforgotten passion, when the voice came again: "Speak of him!"
"You have loved others since," I remarked, with a coldness which seemed cruel to myself. "You love himnow." And I nodded my head toward the door by which the man had disappeared.
"Do I?" she said, with a bitter smile. "Perhaps; who knows?"
"And yet no good can come to you from a connection with that man," I pursued.
"Why not? He adores me, and he is free," was her answer, given with a little triumphant air.
"Yes," I said, "I know he is free: he has lately lost his wife. He has made good his claim to the sum for which he insured her life."
Mary grew deadly pale. "How did you learn this? what do you know of him?" she stammered.
I had no reply to give. She scanned my face anxiously for some time; then in a low voice she added, "What do you suspect?"
[195]I was still silent, and only looked at her fixedly.
"You do not speak," she pursued nervously. "Why do you not speak? Ah, you know more than you would say! Master John, Master John, you might set my tortured mind at rest, and clear or confirm those doubts which willcome into my poor head, spite of myself. Speak out-O, do speak out!"
"Not here; it is impossible," I replied, looking around. The room as the hour advanced, was becoming more thronged with guests, and the full tables gave a pretext for my reticence, when in truth I had nothing to say.
"Will you come and see me-will you?" she asked with earnest entreaty.
I nodded my head.
"Have you a pocketbook? I will write you my address; and you will come-yes, I am sure you will come!" she said in an agitated way.
I handed her my pocketbook and pencil; she wrote rapidly.
"Between the hours of three and five," she whispered, looking uneasily at the door; "heis sure not to be at home."
I rose; Mary held out her hand to me, then withdrew it hastily with an air of shame, and the tears sprang into her eyes again. I left the room hurriedly, and met her companion on the stairs.
That same evening, in the solitude of my own room, I pondered over the little event of the day. I had calmed down from my state of excitement. The living apparition of Mary Simms occupied my mind almost to the exclusion of the terrors of the ghostly voice which had haunted me, and my own fears of coming insanity. In truth, what was that[196] man to me? Nothing. What did his doings matter to such a perfect stranger as myself? Nothing. His connection with Mary Simms was our only link; and in what should that affect me? Nothing again. I debated with myself whether it were not foolish of me to comply with my youthful companion's request to visit her; whether it were not imprudent in me to take any further interest in the lost woman; whether there were not even danger in seeking to penetrate mysteries which were no concern of mine. The resolution to which I came pleased me, and I said aloud, "No, I will not go!"