Part 16 (2/2)

”Ruth is far from strong,” replied Mr. Denham, ”and my wife is almost morbidly quick to take alarm about her. In fact, we both are. Do you know how the trains run to Geneva? Is there anything earlier than the evening express?”

Lynde did not know.

”We will ascertain after breakfast,” continued Mr. Denham. ”Of course you have not breakfasted yet. You ought to be in appet.i.te by this time.

I am unusually late myself, this morning, and my friend, the doctor, is still later. We tired ourselves out yesterday in a jaunt to Fontainebleau. The doctor's an incorrigible sightseer. Ah, there he is!

Mr. Lynde, my friend, Dr. Pendegrast.”

Lynde did not start at hearing this unexpected name, though it pierced his ear like a sharp-pointed arrow. He was paralyzed for an instant; a blur came over his eyes, and he felt that his hands and feet were turning into ice However, he made an effort to rise and salute the elderly gentleman who stood at his side with a hand stretched out in the cordial American fas.h.i.+on.

Evidently Dr. Pendegrast did not recognize Lynde, in whose personal appearance three years had wrought many changes. The doctor himself had altered in no essential; he was at that period of man's life--between fifty and sixty--when ravaging time seems to give him a respite for a couple of l.u.s.trums. As soon as Lynde could regain his self-possession he examined Dr. Pendegrast with the forlorn hope that this was not HIS Dr. Pendegrast; but it was he, with those round eyes like small blue-faience saucers, and that slight, wiry figure. If any doubt had lingered in the young man's mind, it would have vanished as the doctor drew forth from his fob that same fat little gold watch, and turned it over on its back in the palm of his hand, just as he had done the day he invited Lynde to remain and dine with him at the asylum.

”Why, bless me, Denham!” he exclaimed, laying his ear to the crystal of the time-piece as if he were sounding a doubtful lung, ”my watch has run down--a thing that hasn't happened these twenty years.” As he stood with his head inclined on one side, the doctor's cheery eyes inadvertently rested upon Mr. Denham's face and detected its unwonted disturbance.

”Mr. Lynde has just come from Chamouni,” said Mr. Denham, answering the doctor's mute interrogation. ”It seems that Ruth is ill.”

Dr. Pendegrast glanced at Lynde and turned to Mr. Denham again.

”I imagine it is only a cold,” Mr. Denham continued. ”She was caught in a rain-storm on the mountain and got very wet. Mrs. Denham is of course worried about her, and Mr. Lynde has been kind enough to come all the way to Paris for us.”

”That WAS very kind in him.”

Dr. Pendegrast drew a chair up to the table and began questioning Lynde. Beyond satisfying such of the doctor's inquiries as he could, Lynde did not speak during the meal. He managed to swallow a cup of black coffee, which revived him; but he was unable to eat a mouthful.

The intelligence he had brought so occupied his companions that the young man's very noticeable agitation and constraint escaped them. In a few minutes Mr. Denham rose from his seat and begged the two gentlemen to finish their breakfast at leisure, while he went to consult the time-table at the bureau of the hotel.

”The doctor can give you a genuine Havana,” he remarked to Lynde. ”I will join you shortly in the smoking-room.”

While Dr. Pendegrast silently drank his coffee, Lynde pieced his scattered thoughts together. What course should he pursue? Should he take the doctor into his confidence, or should he let himself drift?

How could the doctor help him in the circ.u.mstances? Ruth had been insane. What could do away with that dreadful fact, the revelation of which now appalled him as if he had never suspected it. Ruth, Ruth--the very name was significant of calamity! Flemming's words rang in his ears: ”You would not marry her!” He had not replied to Flemming that night when the case was merely supposit.i.tious. But now--it seemed to Lynde that he had never loved Ruth until this moment. The knowledge of her misfortune had added to his love that great pity of which he had spoken to his friend. But could he marry her? He did not dare put the question squarely, for he dared not confess to himself that he could not give her up. This, then, was the key to Mrs. Denham's cold rejection of his suit; it explained, also, Ruth's unwillingness to have him speak to her of his love. How poignant must have been her anguish that day on Montanvert if she cared for him! She loved him--how could he doubt it?--but she had accepted the hopelessness of the position. In his own mind he had accused her of coquetry in their walk at the cascade of Nant d'Arpenaz. He saw through it all now; the scales had fallen from his eyes. She was hiding her misery under a smooth face, as women will. A sudden reflection sent a chill over Lynde; what if she had recognized him that first day at dinner in Geneva and had been playing a part all the while! Then she was the most subtile actress that ever lived, and the leading lady of the Theatre Francais might indeed go and take lessons of her, as Flemming had said. The thought gave Lynde a shock. He would not like to have the woman he loved such an actress as that. Had Ruth revealed everything to the aunt, and was she too playing a part? In her several allusions to Dr. Pendegrast Mrs.

Denham had called him ”the doctor” simply, or ”an old friend of our family,” and never once p.r.o.nounced his name. ”Was that accidental or intentional?” Lynde wondered. ”It was inevitable that he and I should meet sooner or later. Was she endeavoring to keep the knowledge of Dr.

Pendegrast from me as long as possible? The exigency has unmasked her!”

”Now, Mr. Lynde, I am at your service.”

Lynde gave a start, as if the doctor had suddenly dropped down at his side from out of the sky.

Dr. Pendegrast pushed back his chair and led the way across the quadrangle, in which a number of persons were taking coffee at small tables set here and there under oleander-trees in green-painted tubs.

The smoking-room was unoccupied. Lynde stood a moment undetermined in the centre of the apartment, and then he laid his hand on the doctor's shoulder.

”You don't remember me?”

”Ah, then I HAVE seen you before!” exclaimed Dr. Pendegrast, transfixed in the act of drawing a cigar from his case. ”Your name and your face puzzled me, but I could not place you, so I didn't mention it. You must pardon an old man's bad memory. I am confused. When and where have I had the pleasure of seeing you?”

”It was scarcely a pleasure,” said Lynde, with bitterness.

”Indeed! I cannot imagine that; it is a pleasure now,” returned the doctor courteously. ”It was three years ago, at your asylum. As you will recollect, I was brought there by mistake the day the patients”--

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