I know I should; it would be the fascination of habit. The only way, therefore, to wander to my rope's end is to leave the letter unread.""In your place," I said, "curiosity would make me open it."He shook his head. "I have no curiosity! For a long time now the idea of my marriage has ceased to be a novelty, and I have contemplated it mentally in every possible light. I fear nothing from that side, but I do fear something from conscience. I want my hands tied. Will you do me a favour? Pick up the letter, put it into your pocket, and keep it till I ask you for it. When I do, you may know that I am at my rope's end."I took the letter, smiling. "And how long is your rope to be? The Homburg season doesn't last for ever.""Does it last a month? Let that be my season! A month hence you will give it back to me.""To-morrow if you say so. Meanwhile, let it rest in peace!" And Iconsigned it to the most sacred interstice of my pocket-book. To say that I was disposed to humour the poor fellow would seem to be saying that I thought his request fantastic. It was his situation, by no fault of his own, that was fantastic, and he was only trying to be natural. He watched me put away the letter, and when it had disappeared gave a soft sigh of relief. The sigh was natural, and yet it set me thinking. His general recoil from an immediate responsibility imposed by others might be wholesome enough; but if there was an old grievance on one side, was there not possibly a new-born delusion on the other? It would be unkind to withhold a reflection that might serve as a warning; so I told him, abruptly, that I had been an undiscovered spectator, the night before, of his exploits at roulette.
He blushed deeply, but he met my eyes with the same clear good-humour.
"Ah, then, you saw that wonderful lady?"
"Wonderful she was indeed. I saw her afterwards, too, sitting on the terrace in the starlight. I imagine she was not alone.""No, indeed, I was with her--for nearly an hour. Then I walked home with her.""Ah! And did you go in?"
"No, she said it was too late to ask me; though she remarked that in a general way she did not stand upon ceremony.""She did herself injustice. When it came to losing your money for you, she made you insist.""Ah, you noticed that too?" cried Pickering, still quite unconfused.
"I felt as if the whole table were staring at me; but her manner was so gracious and reassuring that I supposed she was doing nothing unusual. She confessed, however, afterwards, that she is very eccentric. The world began to call her so, she said, before she ever dreamed of it, and at last finding that she had the reputation, in spite of herself, she resolved to enjoy its privileges. Now, she does what she chooses.""In other words, she is a lady with no reputation to lose!"Pickering seemed puzzled; he smiled a little. "Is not that what you say of bad women?""Of some--of those who are found out."
"Well," he said, still smiling, "I have not yet found out Madame Blumenthal.""If that's her name, I suppose she's German.""Yes; but she speaks English so well that you wouldn't know it. She is very clever. Her husband is dead."I laughed involuntarily at the conjunction of these facts, and Pickering's clear glance seemed to question my mirth. "You have been so bluntly frank with me," I said, "that I too must be frank. Tell me, if you can, whether this clever Madame Blumenthal, whose husband is dead, has given a point to your desire for a suspension of communication with Smyrna."He seemed to ponder my question, unshrinkingly. "I think not," he said, at last. "I have had the desire for three months; I have known Madame Blumenthal for less than twenty-four hours.""Very true. But when you found this letter of yours on your place at breakfast, did you seem for a moment to see Madame Blumenthal sitting opposite?""Opposite?"
"Opposite, my dear fellow, or anywhere in the neighbourhood. In a word, does she interest you?""Very much!" he cried, joyously.
"Amen!" I answered, jumping up with a laugh. "And now, if we are to see the world in a month, there is no time to lose. Let us begin with the Hardtwald."Pickering rose, and we strolled away into the forest, talking of lighter things. At last we reached the edge of the wood, sat down on a fallen log, and looked out across an interval of meadow at the long wooded waves of the Taunus. What my friend was thinking of I can't say; I was meditating on his queer biography, and letting my wonderment wander away to Smyrna. Suddenly I remembered that he possessed a portrait of the young girl who was waiting for him there in a white-walled garden. I asked him if he had it with him. He said nothing, but gravely took out his pocket-book and drew forth a small photograph. It represented, as the poet says, a ****** maiden in her flower--a slight young girl, with a certain childish roundness of contour. There was no ease in her posture; she was standing, stiffly and shyly, for her likeness; she wore a short-waisted white dress; her arms hung at her sides and her hands were clasped in front; her head was bent downward a little, and her dark eyes fixed.
But her awkwardness was as pretty as that of some angular seraph in a mediaeval carving, and in her timid gaze there seemed to lurk the questioning gleam of childhood. "What is this for?" her charming eyes appeared to ask; "why have I been dressed up for this ceremony in a white frock and amber beads?""Gracious powers!" I said to myself; "what an enchanting thing is innocence!""That portrait was taken a year and a half ago," said Pickering, as if with an effort to be perfectly just. "By this time, I suppose, she looks a little wiser.""Not much, I hope," I said, as I gave it back. "She is very sweet!""Yes, poor girl, she is very sweet--no doubt!" And he put the thing away without looking at it.
We were silent for some moments. At last, abruptly--"My dear fellow," I said, "I should take some satisfaction in seeing you immediately leave Homburg.""Immediately?"
"To-day--as soon as you can get ready."
