The Darlington news. (Darlington, S.C.) 1875-1909, October 26, 1893, Image 3
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CHAPTER VI
I am more of a wizard than I had my-
aelf imagined.
When I told Sinflre three day* since
that 1 expected Henry to be here in a few
days, I told her a white fib; at least I ex
pected him no more than I hare done
any time doling the last three or four
years. He might come, of conrse, bnt the
chances were about 10,000 to 1 that he
would not The troth is I was merely
trying an experiment Various more or
less ragne indications—some of them
trifles light -a air—had suggested to my
mind the notion that Sinflre and Henry
had already met perhaps in India, and
that their meeting had not been without
an effect upon them both. What sort of
an effect! I cannot pretend to say. But
taking into oansideration Sinflre's beauty
and Henry's Incorrigible susceptibility
and the power of fascination of both of
them it did not seem altogether unlikely
that they might have fallen desperately
• in lore with each other.
So far, so'good; there would be no par
ticular harm done. It was the sequel
that was questionable, for if it were prob
able that they had come together it was
certain that they were together no long
er. They had separated, and the fickle
ness of Henry’s disposition made me sur
mise that Sinflre had not been the one to
blame. In other words, I feared that he
had abandoned her. Whether his wrong
had stopped there I had no means of
knowing. I could only hope—and be
lieve in lack of proof to the contrary—
that be had not shown himself a villain.
Yet there was that in Sinflre's bearing-
assuming my theory to have some foun
dation—that seemed to point to an ex
perience much deeper and more tragic
than the mere jilting of a handsome girl
by a thoughtless fellow.
Her misfortune, if she had been unfor
tunate at all, could have been no trivial
one. Her self possession, her reserve, the
very transparency—so to call it—of her
. expression, which, like the transparent
sky, concealed within its depths all mys
teries—these things, and still more her
abrupt and practically unexplained ap
pearance among ns, impressed me as tes
timony to her being the victim bnt not
the resigned victim of some grave injus
tice. She purposed to right herself, or if
that could not be to avenge herself, and
to that end had she come to Cedarcliffe.
Such was my line of argument. And
there was something more. 1 did not
believe that Sinflre was the daughter of
my uncle. I believed her to be of gypsy
blood. How she came to know anything
of my uncle's affairs, and how she came
by his letter, I could only conjecture,
but the problem was not insolnble. It
was harder to account for her cultiva
tion, her perfect manners and her famil
iarity with the ways of society, bnt great
natural tact and intelligence, joined to
an unfaltering purpose, can accomplish
miracles, and, moreover, there might be
(and indeed must be) circumstances in
her past life, of which I know nothing
at present, that would partly explain it
Still there is an enigma here that I don't
pretend to fathom. But let us recapitu
late,the situation as 1 conceive it at pres
ent
Sinflre is a gypsy who at some time,
in some way. has been brought into re
lations with polite society and learned
its ways. Either before or after this
time she met my brother Heary. and
they fell in love with each other. After
the affair had gone a certain length, be
it more or less, Henry deserted her. Her
acquaintance with him had brought her
into contact wttb my uncle, whom Hen
ry perhaps was staying with. After
Henry left her she attached herself to
my uncle, he being childless, or having
lost his children, and a widower, and won
his confidence.
At Us death he left her what small
property he had and gave her the letter
which she brought to ns, be being
prompted thereto, let us say, by a knowl
edge of the wrong done her and a desire
to see it righted. She eame to us, ex
mat was oennmoing me. Is it me nrat
faint prick of the goad that I feel now,
or am I about to relapse into a torpor
more deathlike than before? One thing
or the other will happen, I am sure, but
standing here at the parting of the ways
I can hardly say which course I incline
to take.
Why should I bother my head about
It? When the time comes, although I shall
seem to make a free choice, I shall do
as has been predestined from the begin
ning. The conditions and events of one's
past life determine his present action.
What has been steers one round toward
what is to be. In this sense we are crea
tures of fate.
Nevertheless the future remains un
known. And that fact, which seems a
disadvantage to us, is in reality our sole
weapon against blind necessity, for if
we saw all beforehand we should be de
feated before the struggle began, but as
it is the surprise of the unforeseen may
sometimes stimulate us to act above our
selves.
Then I stood in the dining room door and
taw Henry sitting at the table.
Well, then, I will cease to prophesy
what may happen during the next few
days or weeks. But I set out to record
a piece of news which has an important
bearing on the situation. The other
evening as I entered the house by the
veranda I heard a masculine voice talk
ing in the dining room. It was not
John's voice. 1 felt myself grow hot and
cold. And then 1 stood in the dining
room door and saw Henry sitting at the
table.
CHAPTER VII
My chief regret is that I was not pres
ent when Henry and Sinflre met To
one who knew what to look for, as I did,
that could not have failed to reveal
something. Bnt when 1 came in the
meeting had already taken place, and
Sinflre had retired to her room. “She is
always so thoughtful—so much tact,”
mother remarked. "She fancied we
could talk more freely with Henry if she
were not present, though really 1 look
upon her as quite a member of the fain
fly, apart from her being my niece.”
All the time that Henry and I were
exchanging our greetifl^s and congratu
lations and our first questions and an
swers I was speculating about him and
Sinflre. He has been changed, improved
and also in some respects injured by his
life in the world, but on the whole he
appears more improved and less injured
than might have been anticipated. His
being 80 years old instead of 26 is enough
of itself to account for a great deal. The
youthful outlines of his face have ma
tured. It is the face of a good humored
man of the world, somewhat unprincipled
and reckless perhaps, but what is called
a thorough good fellow, and then there
is that gleam of genius in his eyes and in
some of his unconscious manifestations
that must always mark a difference be-
pecting thaf sooner or later Henry would , tween him and the type to which he
return and that she would then be able , otherwise belongs.
to force him to come to terms—either to
many her or to account to her in some
manner. She would even be capable of
stabbing him through the heart if it
should come to that Such was the as
pect of my theory at the time of our in
terview in the laboratory.
The result of that interview, so far as
It had any result, was to confirm me in
the leading points of my theory that
she was a gypsy and that Henry was no
stranger to her. —It was not conclusive,
hut it was certainly not contradictory of
these hypotheses. It would involve the
disappointment of John's hopes, and it
would complicate my own attitude to
ward Sinflre. Ought I to expose her *<
an adventuress? No. For two reasons—
first, that it ■ not absolutely certain that
she is one: econdly, that even if she be
all I imagine she still has human rights
bf her own, and the affair is Henry's
rather than mine. If it came to an open
trial, I could almost bring myself on
general principles to espouse her cause
against Henry, my best beloved brother
though he is.
But here Is another point She must
be aware of my suspicions of her. Will
she refuse to allude to them, or will she
speak to me openly? If she does speak,
trusting to my friendship for her, what
should I do? I must either brutally cast
her off or become Involved in her intrigue
against the rest of the family. That
would be a strange predicament for a re
tiring, unaggressive man of science like
myself, and there is no telling where it
might land us. I greatly prefer to stick
to my time honored role of onlooker.
Bnt If I do intend to expose her It would
be much easier to do ao now, before any
irrevocable words have passed between
os, titan after she has thrown herself on
my honor. If she surrenders me her
sword, 1 cannot turn it against her.
And yet, if not against her. it must be
for her.
What is the matter with me? My
will as well as my judgment seems par
alysed. I can adopt neither the active
nor the passive course. 1 feel bj if
changes were going on within me or
were at hand. A few weeks ago, I reool-
r longing was for an awakening—
t to goad me out of tfas tenor
circumstances coma ne tts gouty or s
low bred or vulgar manifestation. And
pot he could forsake a woman.
Sinflre being out of the room, John
tramped restlessly up and down smok
ing a cigar (which of lata ha has substi
tuted for his pipe) and putting an occa
sional word into the conversation, while
mother sat by looking more like a Rem
brandt than ever, listening, inquiring
and complacent, with a bit of embroidery
In her hands. Henry sat in an easy chair,
carelessly but faultlessly dressed, talking, i
easily and picturesquely, addressing him
self now to one, now to another, making
scene after scene rise before ns, often
yielding to that delicious laugh. But 1
could not help wondering all the time
whsther his thoughts were with us at all
or with what he was saying. Were they
not with that dark haired girl up stairs,
and was he glad or sorry or apprehen
sive? Surprised I was sure he must be,
and I did not believe he could be indif
ferent
It got to be late. Mother rose at last
and bade us good night, giving Henry
both her cheeks to kiss. John sat for a
while longer, doggedly yawning the top
of his head off, hut finally he, too, suc
cumbed and went off. Henry was al
ways a late bird, and now he seems to
think that night was made for anything
but sleep. So in order to be more at our
ease he and I went over to my apart
ment and disposed ourselves comforta
bly in the library.
“Did you notice that pretty cousin of
ours, Henry?” said I
"Rather. A thoroughbred beauty, 1
call her. A bit reserved, though, but
thatTl soon wear off. You and Jack are
both in love with her, of course?"
“Of course. But she hasn't returned
our passion yet. Perhaps her heart was
touched before she came here."
“■When 1 settle down, 1 should like to
marry a girl like her. Bnt fancy old Un
cle Ned having raised such a paragon! It
seems too good to be true.”
“Yon met him while you were abroad,
I suppose - ?”
“If I had known the kind of family he
had, I should have made a point of look
ing him up. But as it was I missed him.
I must have been within reach of him
several times when I was in India. He
held some position under the govern
ment, I believe, and it obliged him to
travel about a good deal But—well,
there were o*her circumstances. It would
have been awkward. Things don't al
ways come out just right when one
knocks about the world as 1 do. But
then few people are such fools as I am!”
Here Henry shook his head, unscrewed
his flask and took a pull after offering
it to me. *‘My last friend!” he said,
with a laugh, as he returned it to his
pocket.
“It is a wonder to me, though,” he
went on after awhile, “how you man
age to exist in the way you do here,
Frank. I al ways thought and I say now
that yon are the man of the family
John is a good fellow, but be has no
brains. I have brains, but I’m a good
for nothing. You have braina and tb“
practical element too. Father made a
great mistake with that primogeniture
craze of his. You ought to have been
the heir of the Mainwaringa. Think
what might be done in this country with
(60,000 a year! And what is Jack doing
with it, I'd like to know. If you had his
chance, you’d make yourself honored and
remembered for a hundred years to coma
A man with yonr pale, square face and
big black eyes can do anything, only givs
him a start. You could marry Cousin
—what's her name?—Sinflre?—odd name,
isn’t it?—and breed a race that America
would be proud to own. If you can get
rid of John, Til make you a present of
my birthright.” he added. laughing again
as he lighted a cigar.
“The brandy would hurt you lees if
you didn't smoke so much, Harry,” aaid I
“No hygiene for me, thank you, doc
tor," he replied cheerfully. “I shall live
long enough, do what I will. Besides
however go -d order you might keep m
in while I'm here, 1 should relapse agaii
the moment 1 got away.”
"You’re not thinking of leaving us
eurely?"
“I don’t think of it, but I shall be off
before long just the same. I know my
own frailties. Many a time have 1 come
to a place that seemed to be all that the
heart of man could desire and have laid
to myself that l would ne/er leave it
But after a few days or weeks, as the case
might be, I found myself somewhere else.
‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in the
but in myself, that I'm a vaga-
idf
[to bz coktixuxd.]
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The Darlington Shoe Store
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Yet it in eaay to see that his physical
and social nature—the life of the sensei,
and external faculties—has been too
much for his genius. His spiritual intui
tions have never gained control of him
He has done nothing but “hare a goud
time" or aim to have it. The pictures he
might have painted, the books ho migh,
have written, the wrude he might have
composed, are all in the limbo of the un
born. It is a great pity, though I don't
think Henry himself is oppressed by any
regrets on that score. He probably
thinks he could set to work, if he chose,
mid produce a masterpiece at any mo
ment. But the time for that possibility
is gone by. He has taken his final direc
tion, though he may not know it.
In some respects he is already an older
man than either John or 1. There are
lines about his mouth and at the corners
of his eyes that tell a tale in a man of
80. And dnring the 24 hours that he has
been with ns I notice that he not only
■mokes constantly, hut that he drinks
altogether too much. He does not drink
as John dots—until he is drunk and done
with It. He is never drunk, but he is al
ways taking “nips” of brandy from his
pocket flask, and I fancy be empties it at
least twice a day. Nevertheless, barring
a little nervous disorder . kis health seems
fairly sound. The congenital cheexfnl-
ness of his disposition is doubtless a
great sanative agency.
Meantime he is as handsome as the
heart of woman could desire. If his
traits of either mind or body were a bit
leas masculine than they are, he would
be too handsome—a mere lady's man.
But whatever else may he said about
Henry, he is a man—a thorough male
creature. There is not a feminine fiber
in him. Even the tenderness that ever and
anon informs his tone and manner is of
a wholly masculine quality. His votes
is a sort of muffled bass as uncommon as
it is winning, and his laugh is Irresistibly
humorous and contagious. I wish nature
had given me such a laugh.
In figure he is well set up—not too tall- j
but one can see he is leas athletic than company in the
he was four years ago. In every aspect
he has distinction—the mark of a gentle
man. One feels certain as soon as one
■eta ayte on him that under % MtaiUe
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th day of October,
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