Part 13 (1/2)

”As for me,” he returned, ”I confess it. That has happened which I thought never would happen. I am once more interested in life. The wish to live has come back. I am glad to be alive. Carl, your first case has been a success.”

”No thanks to me,” I said. ”Beyond seeing that you didn't displace the broken pieces of your thigh-bone, what have I done? Nothing. No one knows that better than you do.”

”That's your modesty--your incurable modesty.”

I shook my head, and went to stand by his couch. I was profoundly aware then, despite all the efforts of my self-conceit to convince myself to the contrary, that I had effected nothing whatever towards his recovery, that it had accomplished itself without external aid.

But that did not lessen my intense pleasure in the improvement. By this time I had a most genuine affection for Alresca. The rare qualities of the man--his serenity, his sense of justice, his invariable politeness and consideration, the pureness of his soul--had captured me completely. I was his friend. Perhaps I was his best friend in the world. The singular circ.u.mstances of our coming together had helped much to strengthen the tie between us. I glanced down at him, full of my affection for him, and minded to take advantage of the rights of that affection for once in a way.

”Alresca,” I said quietly.

”Well?”

”What was it?”

”What was what?”

I met his gaze.

”What was that thing that you have fought and driven off? What is the mystery of it? You know--you must know. Tell me.”

His eyelids fell.

”Better to leave the past alone,” said he. ”Granting that I had formed an idea, I could not put it into proper words. I have tried to do so.

In the expectation of death I wrote down certain matters. But these I shall now destroy. I am wiser, less morbid. I can perceive that there are fields of thought of which it is advisable to keep closed the gates. Do as I do, Carl--forget. Take the credit for my recovery, and be content with that.”

I felt that he was right, and resumed my position near the window, humming a tune.

”In a week you may put your foot to the ground; you will then no longer have to be carried about like a parcel.” I spoke in a casual tone.

”Good!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

”And then our engagement will come to an end, and you will begin to sing again.”

”Ah!” he said contemplatively, after a pause, ”sing!”

It seemed as if singing was a different matter.

”Yes,” I repeated, ”sing. You must throw yourself into that. It will be the best of all tonics.”

”Have I not told you that I should never sing again?”

”Perhaps you have,” I replied; ”but I don't remember. And even if you have, as you yourself have just said, you are now wiser, less morbid.”

”True!” he murmured. ”Yes, I must sing. They want me at Chicago. I will go, and while there I will spread abroad the fame of Carl Foster.”

He smiled gaily, and then his face became meditative and sad.

”My artistic career has never been far away from tragedy,” he said at length. ”It was founded on a tragedy, and not long ago I thought it would end in one.”

I waited in silence, knowing that if he wished to tell me any private history, he would begin of his own accord.