CHAPTER XXII. THE LETTER.

hatinme—didyou,Lucy?” “Indeed—indeed—whenyouwereamereboyIusedtoseeboth:farmorethenthannow—fornowyouarestrong,andstrengthdispenseswithsubtlety.Butstill,—Dr.John,youhavewhattheycallinthiscountry‘unairfin,’thatnobodycan,mistake.MadameBecksawit,and—” “Andlikedit,”saidhe,laughing,“becauseshehasitherself.But,Lucy,givemethatletter—youdon’treallycareforit.” TothisprovocativespeechImadenoanswer.Grahaminmirthfulmoodmustnotbehumouredtoofar.Justnowtherewasanewsortofsmileplayingabouthislips—verysweet,butitgrievedmesomehow—anewsortoflightsparklinginhiseyes:nothostile,butnotreassuring.Irosetogo—Ibidhimgood-nightalittlesadly. Hissensitiveness—thatpeculiar,apprehensive,detectivefacultyofhis—feltinamomenttheunspokencomplaint—thescarce-thoughtreproach.HeaskedquietlyifIwasoffended.Ishookmyheadasimplyinganegative. “Permitme,then,tospeakalittleseriouslytoyoubeforeyougo.Youareinahighlynervousstate.Ifeelsurefromwhatisapparentinyourlookandmanner,howeverwellcontrolled,thatwhilstalonethiseveninginthatdismal,perishingsepulchralgarret—thatdungeonundertheleads,smellingofdampandmould,rankwithphthisisandcatarrh:aplaceyouneveroughttoenter—thatyousaw,orthoughtyousaw,someappearancepeculiarlycalculatedtoimpresstheimagination.Iknowthatyouarenot,noreverwere,subjecttomaterialterrors,fearsofrobbers,&c.—Iamnotsosurethatavisitation,bearingaspectralcharacter,wouldnotshakeyourverymind.Becalmnow.Thisisallamatterofthenerves,Isee:butjustspecifythevision.” “Youwilltellnobody?” “Nobody—mostcertainly.YoumaytrustmeasimplicitlyasyoudidPèreSilas.Indeed,thedoctorisperhapsthesaferconfessorofthetwo,thoughhehasnotgreyhair.” “Youwillnotlaugh?” “PerhapsImay,todoyougood:butnotinscorn.Lucy,Ifeelasafriendtowardsyou,thoughyourtimidnatureisslowtotrust.” Henowlookedlikeafriend:thatindescribablesmileandsparkleweregonethoseformidablearchedcurvesoflip,nostril,eyebrow,weredepressedreposemarkedhisattitude—attentionsoberedhisaspect.Wontoconfidence,ItoldhimexactlywhatIhadseen:erenowIhadnarratedtohimthelegendofthehouse—whilingawaywiththatnarrativeanhourofacertainmildOctoberafternoon,whenheandIrodethroughBoisl’Etang. Hesatandthought,andwhilehethought,weheardthemallcomingdown-stairs. “Aretheygoingtointerrupt?”saidhe,glancingatthedoorwithanannoyedexpression. “Theywillnotcomehere,”IansweredforwewereinthelittlesalonwhereMadameneversatintheevening,andwhereitwasbymerechancethatheatwasstilllingeringinthestove.Theypassedthedoorandwentontothesalle-à-manger. “Now,”hepursued,“theywilltalkaboutthieves,burglars,andsoon:letthemdoso—mindyousaynothing,andkeepyourresolutionofdescribingyournuntonobody.Shemayappeartoyouagain:don’tstart.” “Youthinkthen,”Isaid,withsecrethorror,“shecameoutofmybrain,andisnowgoneinthere,andmayglideoutagainatanhourandadaywhenIlooknotforher?” “Ithinkitacaseofspectralillusion:Ifear,followingonandresultingfromlong-continuedmentalconflict.” “Oh,DoctorJohn—Ishudderatthethoughtofbeingliabletosuchanillusion!Itseemedsoreal.Istherenocure?—nopreventive?” “Happinessisthecure—acheerfulmindthepreventive:cultivateboth.” Nomockeryinthisworldeversoundstomesohollowasthatofbeingtoldtocultivatehappiness.Whatdoessuchadvicemean?Happinessisnotapotato,tobeplantedinmould,andtilledwithmanure.HappinessisagloryshiningfardownuponusoutofHeaven.Sheisadivinedewwhichthesoul,oncertainofitssummermornings,feelsdroppinguponitfromtheamaranthbloomandgoldenfruitageofParadise. “Cultiv