"I know,--I have seen that. In the East it is thought that insanity can be caused by mesmerism, or something like it."
"It is not impossible," answered the scientist. "We do not deny that some very extraordinary circ.u.mstances can be induced by sympathy and antipathy."
"I suppose you do not believe in actual mesmerism, do you?"
"I neither affirm nor deny,--I wait; and until I have been convinced I do not consider my opinion worth giving."
"That is the only rational position for a man of science. I fancy that nothing but experience satisfies you,--why should it?"
"The trouble is that experiments, according to the old maxim, are generally made, and should be made, upon worthless bodies, and that they are necessarily very far from being conclusive in regard to the human body. There is no doubt that dogs are subject to grief, joy, hope, and disappointment; but it is not possible to conclude from the conduct of a dog who is deprived of a particularly interesting bone he is gnawing, for instance, how a man will act who is robbed of his possessions.
Similarity of misfortune does not imply a.n.a.logy in the consequences."
"Certainly not. Otherwise everybody would act in the same way, if put in the same case."
The professor"s conversation was interesting if only on account of the extreme simplicity with which he spoke of such a complicated subject. I was impressed with the belief that he belonged to a cla.s.s of scientists whose interest in what they hope to learn surpa.s.ses their enthusiasm for what they have already learned,--a cla.s.s of scientists unfortunately very rare in our day. For we talk more nonsense about science than would fill many volumes, because we devote so much time to the pursuit of knowledge; nevertheless, the amount of knowledge actually acquired, beyond all possibility of contradiction, is ludicrously small as compared with the energy expended in the pursuit of it and the noise made over its attainment. Science lays many eggs, but few are hatched.
Science boasts much, but accomplishes little; is vainglorious, puffed up, and uncharitable; desires to be considered as the root of all civilization and the seed of all good, whereas it is the heart that civilizes, never the head.
I walked by the professor"s side in deep thought, and he, too, became silent, so that we talked little more until we were coming home and had almost reached the house.
"Why has Patoff never been in England before?" I asked, suddenly.
"I believe he has," answered Cutter.
"He says he has not."
"Never mind. I believe he was in London during nearly eighteen months, about four or five years ago, as secretary in the Russian emba.s.sy. He never went near his relations."
"Why should he say now that he never was in the country?"
"Because they would not like it, if they knew he had been so near them without ever visiting them."
"Was his mother with him? Did she never write to her people?"
"No," said Cutter, with a short laugh, "she never wrote to them."
"How very odd!" I exclaimed, as we entered the hall-door.
"It was odd," answered my companion, and went up-stairs. There was something very unsatisfactory about him, I thought; and then I cursed my own curiosity. What business was it all of mine? If Paul Patoff chose to tell a diplomatic falsehood, it certainly did not concern me. It was possible that his mother might have quarreled with her family,--indeed, in former years I had sometimes thought as much from their never mentioning her; and in that case it would be natural that her son might not have cared to visit his relations when he was in England before. He need not have made such a show of never having visited the country, but people often do that sort of thing. And now it was probable that since Madame Patoff had been insane there might have been a reconciliation and a smoothing over of the family difficulties. I had no idea where Madame Patoff might be. I could not ask any one such a delicate question, for I supposed she was confined in an asylum, and no one volunteered the information. Probably Cutter"s visit to Carvel Place was connected with her sad state; perhaps Patoff"s coming might be the result of it, also.
It was impossible to say. But of this I was certain: that John Carvel and his wife had both grown older and sadder in the past two years, and that there was an air of concealment about the house which made me very uncomfortable. I have been connected with more than one odd story in my time, and I confess that I no longer care for excitement as I once did.
If people are going to get into trouble, I would rather not be there to see it, and I have a strong dislike to being suddenly called upon to play an unexpected part in sensational events. Above all, I hate mystery; I hate the mournful air of superior sorrow that hangs about people who have a disagreeable secret, and the constant depression of long-protracted anxiety in those about me. It spoiled my pleasure in the quiet country life to see John"s face grow every day more grave and Mary Carvel"s eyes turn sadder. Pain of any sort is unpleasant to witness, but there is nothing so depressing as to watch the progress of melancholy in one"s friends; to feel that from some cause which they will not confide they are losing peace and health and happiness. Even if one knew the cause one might not be able to do anything to remove it, for it is no bodily ill, that can be doctored and studied and experimented upon, a subject for dissertation and barbarous, semi-cla.s.sic nomenclature; quacks do not pretend to cure it with patent medicines, and great physicians do not write nebulous articles about it in the reviews. There is little room for speculation in the matter of grief, for most people know well enough what it is, and need no Latin words with Greek terminations to express it. It is the breaking of the sea of life over the harbor bar where science ends and humanity begins.
Poor John! It needed something strong indeed to sadden his cheerfulness and leaden his energy. That evening I talked with Hermione in the drawing room. She looked more lovely than ever dressed all in white, with a single row of pearls around her throat. Her delicate features were pale and luminous, and her brown eyes brighter than usual,--a mere girl, scarcely yet gone into the world, but such a woman! It was no wonder that Paul glanced from time to time in admiration at his cousin.
We were seated in Chrysophrasia"s corner, Hermione and I. There was nothing odd in that; the young girl likes me and enjoys talking to me, and I am no longer young. You know, dear friend, that I am forty-six years old this summer, and it is a long time since any one thought of flirting with me. I am not dangerous,--nature has taken care of that,--and I am thought very safe company for the young.
"Tell me one of your stories, Mr. Griggs. I am so tired this evening,"
said Hermione.
"I do not know what to tell you," I answered. "I was hoping that you would tell me one of yours, all about the fairies and the elves in the park, as you used to when you were a little girl."
"I do not believe in fairies any more," said Hermione, with a little sigh. "I believed in them once,--it was so nice. I want stories of real life now,--sad ones, that end happily."
"A great many happy stories end sadly," I replied, "but few sad ones end happily. Why do you want a sad story? You ought to be gay."
"Ought I? I am not, I am sure. I cannot take everything with a laugh, as some people can; and I cannot be always resigned and religious, as mamma is."
"The pleasantest people are the ones who are always good, but not always alike," I remarked. "It is variety that makes life charming, and goodness that makes it worth living."
Hermione laughed a little.
"That sounds very good,--a little goody, as we used to say when we were small. I wonder whether it is true. I suppose I have not enough variety, or not enough goodness, just at present."
"Why?" I asked. "I should think you had both."
"I do not see the great variety," she answered.
"Have you not found a new relation to-day? An interesting cousin who has seen the whole world ought to go far towards making a variety in life."
"What should you think of a man, Mr. Griggs, whose brother has not been dead eighteen months, and whose mother is dangerously ill, perhaps dying, and who shows no more feeling than a stone?"
The question came sharply and distinctly; Hermione"s short lip curled in scorn, and the words were spoken through her closed teeth. Of course she was speaking of Paul Patoff. She turned to me for an answer, and there was an angry light in her eyes.
"Is your cousin"s mother very ill?" I asked.
"She is not really dying, but she can never get well. Oh, Mr. Griggs,"
she cried, clasping her hands together on her knees, and leaning back in her seat, "I wish I could tell you all about it! I am sure you might do some good, but they would be very angry if I told you. I wonder whether he is really so hard-hearted as he looks!"
"Oh, no," I answered. "Men who have lived so much in the world learn to conceal their feelings."
"It is not thought good manners to have any feeling, is it?"
"Most people try to hide what they feel. What is good of showing every one that you are hurt, when n.o.body can do anything to help you? It is undignified to make an exhibition of sorrow for the benefit of one"s neighbors."
"Perhaps. But I almost think aunt Chrysophrasia is right: the world was a nicer place, and life was more interesting, when everybody showed what they felt, and fought for what they wanted, and ran away with people they loved, and killed people they hated."
"I think you would get very tired of it," I said, laughing. "It is uncomfortable to live in constant danger of one"s life. You used not to talk so, Miss Carvel; what has happened to you?"
"Oh, I do not know; everything is happening that ought not. I should think you might see that we are all very anxious. But I do not half understand it myself. Will you not tell me a story, and help me to forget all about it? Here comes papa with Professor Cutter, looking graver than ever; they have been to see--I mean they have been talking about it again."
"Once upon a time there was a"---- I stopped. John Carvel came straight across the room to where we were sitting.
"Griggs," he said, in a low voice, "will you come with me for a moment?"
I sprang to my feet. John laid his hand upon my arm; he was very pale.
"Don"t look as though anything were the matter," he added.
Accordingly I sauntered across the room, and made a show of stopping a moment before the fire to warm my hands and listen to the general conversation that was going on there. Presently I walked away, and John followed me. As I pa.s.sed, I looked at the professor, who seemed already absorbed in listening to one of Chrysophrasia"s speeches. He did not return my glance, and I left the room with my friend. A moment later we were in his study. A student"s lamp with a green shade burned steadily upon the table, and there was a bright fire on the hearth. A huge writing-table filled the centre of the room, covered with papers and pamphlets. John did not sit down, but stood leaning back against a heavy bookcase, with one hand behind him.
"Griggs," he said, and his voice trembled with excitement, "I am going to ask you a favor, and in order to ask it I am obliged to take you into my confidence."