Part 10 (1/2)
After the reading of this paper, much curiosity was shown as to who the person spoken of as the ”Literary Celebrity” might be. Among the various suppositions the startling idea was suggested that he was neither more nor less than the unexplained personage known in the village as Maurice Kirkwood. Why should that be his real name? Why should not he be the Celebrity, who had taken this name and fled to this retreat to escape from the persecutions of kind friends, who were p.r.i.c.king him and stabbing him nigh to death with their daggers of sugar candy?
The Secretary of the Pansophian Society determined to question the Interviewer the next time she met him at the Library, which happened soon after the meeting when his paper was read.
”I do not know,” she said, in the course of a conversation in which she had spoken warmly of his contribution to the literary entertainment of the Society, ”that you mentioned the name of the Literary Celebrity whom you interviewed so successfully.”
”I did not mention him, Miss Vincent,” he answered, ”nor do I think it worth while to name him. He might not care to have the whole story told of how he was handled so as to make him communicative. Besides, if I did, it would bring him a new batch of sympathetic letters, regretting that he was bothered by those horrid correspondents, full of indignation at the bores who presumed to intrude upon him with their pages of trash, all the writers of which would expect answers to their letters of condolence.”
The Secretary asked the Interviewer if he knew the young gentleman who called himself Maurice Kirkwood.
”What,” he answered, ”the man that paddles a birch canoe, and rides all the wild horses of the neighborhood? No, I don't know him, but I have met him once or twice, out walking. A mighty shy fellow, they tell me.
Do you know anything particular about him?”
”Not much. None of us do, but we should like to. The story is that he has a queer antipathy to something or to somebody, n.o.body knows what or whom.”
”To newspaper correspondents, perhaps,” said the interviewer. ”What made you ask me about him? You did n't think he was my 'Literary Celebrity,'
did you?”
”I did not know. I thought he might be. Why don't you interview this mysterious personage? He would make a good sensation for your paper, I should think.”
”Why, what is there to be interviewed in him? Is there any story of crime, or anything else to spice a column or so, or even a few paragraphs, with? If there is, I am willing to handle him professionally.”
”I told you he has what they call an antipathy. I don't know how much wiser you are for that piece of information.”
”An antipathy! Why, so have I an antipathy. I hate a spider, and as for a naked caterpillar,--I believe I should go into a fit if I had to touch one. I know I turn pale at the sight of some of those great green caterpillars that come down from the elm-trees in August and early autumn.”
”Afraid of them?” asked the young lady.
”Afraid? What should I be afraid of? They can't bite or sting. I can't give any reason. All I know is that when I come across one of these creatures in my path I jump to one side, and cry out,--sometimes using very improper words. The fact is, they make me crazy for the moment.”
”I understand what you mean,” said Miss Vincent. ”I used to have the same feeling about spiders, but I was ashamed of it, and kept a little menagerie of spiders until I had got over the feeling; that is, pretty much got over it, for I don't love the creatures very dearly, though I don't scream when I see one.”
”What did you tell me, Miss Vincent, was this fellow's particular antipathy?”
”That is just the question. I told you that we don't know and we can't guess what it is. The people here are tired out with trying to discover some good reason for the young man's keeping out of the way of everybody, as he does. They say he is odd or crazy, and they don't seem to be able to tell which. It would make the old ladies of the village sleep a great deal sounder,--yes, and some of the young ladies, too,--if they could find out what this Mr. Kirkwood has got into his head, that he never comes near any of the people here.”
”I think I can find out,” said the Interviewer, whose professional ambition was beginning to be excited. ”I never came across anybody yet that I could n't get something out of. I am going to stay here a week or two, and before I go I will find out the secret, if there is any, of this Mr. Maurice Kirkwood.”
We must leave the Interviewer to his contrivances until they present us with some kind of result, either in the shape of success or failure.
XI. THE INTERVIEWER ATTACKS THE SPHINX.
When Miss Euthymia Tower sent her oar off in flas.h.i.+ng splinters, as she pulled her last stroke in the boat-race, she did not know what a strain she was putting upon it. She did know that she was doing her best, but how great the force of her best was she was not aware until she saw its effects. Unconsciousness belonged to her robust nature, in all its manifestations. She did not pride herself on her knowledge, nor reproach herself for her ignorance. In every way she formed a striking contrast to her friend, Miss Vincent. Every word they spoke betrayed the difference between them: the sharp tones of Lurida's head-voice, penetrative, aggressive, sometimes irritating, revealed the corresponding traits of mental and moral character; the quiet, conversational contralto of Euthymia was the index of a nature restful and sympathetic.
The friends.h.i.+ps of young girls prefigure the closer relations which will one day come in and dissolve their earlier intimacies. The dependence of two young friends may be mutual, but one will always lean more heavily than the other; the masculine and feminine elements will be as sure to a.s.sert themselves as if the friends were of different s.e.xes.
On all common occasions Euthymia looked up to her friend as her superior. She fully appreciated all her varied gifts and knowledge, and deferred to her opinion in every-day matters, not exactly as an oracle, but as wiser than herself or any of her other companions. It was a different thing, however, when the graver questions of life came up.
Lurida was full of suggestions, plans, projects, which were too liable to run into whims before she knew where they were tending. She would lay out her ideas before Euthymia so fluently and eloquently that she could not help believing them herself, and feeling as if her friend must accept them with an enthusiasm like her own. Then Euthymia would take them up with her sweet, deliberate accents, and bring her calmer judgment to bear on them.