One evening, early in April, Overtop and Maltboy observed a peculiar expression of sadness on the face of their friend. He had eaten nothing at dinner, but had drunk more than his usual allowance of sherry. He had kept his eyes fixed on the table as in a revery, and had scarcely spoken a word. Miss Wilkeson, in her solemn state opposite the boiled chickens, was hardly less social.

After dinner, Marcus took to his pipe with a strange sullenness, and smoked furiously. His two friends, closely regarding him, saw that he was unhappy, but wisely forbore to make him more unhappy still by obtruding their condolence on him. The day had been rainy and cold. They knew that Marcus's spirits were barometrically sensitive to the weather, like those of most persons who look at it through a window.

They had noticed, as they came home, that he was reading that sweetest of elegies, the "In Memoriam" of Tennyson. And the two friends thought that the melancholy weather and the melancholy poem together fully accounted for the gloom on his brow.

Marcus sat for some minutes meditating. Then he heaved a sigh, which was distinctly audible to his two friends. Then he left the room without saying a word, and went up stairs.

Presently he was heard to come down; but, instead of returning to the little parlor, he went into the street, and closed the door with a sharp slam. At the same moment, the cold rain of the April night beat noisily against the window.

"Sly old fellow!" said Maltboy.

"Up to something, depend on it," said Overtop.

Marcus walked rapidly toward the inventor's house. "My fate is decided to-night," he muttered.

His long strides soon brought him to the house. The old building wore a gloomy look. He did not speculate on the reason of this. It was probably because there was no light visible in any of the front windows, and very little light in the street lamps. The gas burned low and blue, and flickered in the wind.

Ringing the bell, Marcus was admitted by one of the numerous children belonging to somebody in the house (Marcus could never determine to whom), and walked up to the inventor's room. His heart beat with strange emotion as he rapped at the door. For a moment he was sorry that he had come.

"Come in," said the inventor, in a voice more sepulchral than usual.

Marcus entered the apartment. The inventor received him with a feeble shake of the hand, bearing no resemblance to the hearty one which he used to bestow in the early days of their acquaintance. Marcus noticed that Mr. Minford's hand was hot. He also observed that his eyes were preternaturally l.u.s.trous, and that the circles under them were deep and dark. His cheeks were deathly pale, saving a little red spot in the centres. He looked like a man in a state of fearful mental exaltation and nervous excitement.

Marcus was not in the habit of worrying people upon the subject of their ill health; but the inventor looked so palpably bad, that Marcus could not forbear to say, in a tone of anxiety, "You are unwell, sir."

"Oh, no! Quite well, I a.s.sure you," said the inventor, with a weary smile. "Though I should be sick, perhaps, but for the glorious hope that bears me up. I have not eaten, or slept, for forty-eight hours."

"But, my dear sir, this is trifling with your health."

"I acknowledge it. But we must make sacrifices, if we would master the UNKNOWN. Newton lived on bread and water when he wrote his immortal Principia. He condemned himself to the coa.r.s.e fare of a prison, in order that his intellect might soar untrammelled to the stars. I have improved on Newton--I eat nothing. As for sleep, I grudge a single hour of it which comes between me and the completion of my great work."

"But how long can you stand this dreadful strain upon your powers?"

"Till daylight to-morrow, with safety. By that time I shall have overcome the last obstacle. Of this I am confident. Then, ho! for unbounded wealth and undying fame. The toil has been severe, but the reward will be glorious."

"I congratulate you," said Marcus, "on the near approach of your final triumph. And, in order that I may not delay you a single moment, I will bid you 'good-night.'" Marcus rose, but he hoped that the inventor would ask him to stay.

The inventor did so. "Pray don't hurry, Mr. Wilkeson; I would like to have a brief conversation with you. A few minutes only." He drew a chair to the side of Marcus, and seated himself.

"Mr. Wilkeson," he said, in a deliberate voice, as if he were repeating carefully-considered words, "it is unnecessary for me to say that I have the highest opinion of you. Providence seems to have sent you to me at a time when I was in the greatest need. You saved me from starving. The world will be as much indebted to you for my grand invention, as it was to the generous patronage of Queen Isabella for the discovery of America."

"Pooh!" interrupted Marcus, blushing.

"The praise is none too high," continued the inventor. "It is true, I have repaid your advances of money tenfold, by giving you an interest in my future but certain fortune. But that does not diminish my grat.i.tude."

Marcus knew that this flattering exordium meant something serious. It was a favorite theory of his, that danger, or any kind of antic.i.p.ated, disagreeable thing, was best met halfway. So he said, with a feeble attempt at a smile:

"I infer from this ominous opening that you have received another lying anonymous letter about me. If I am right, Mr. Minford, be good enough to let me see it at once, according to your promise."

"You have guessed correctly, Mr. Wilkeson. I have received a second anonymous letter, which I intended showing to you after a further brief explanation. But I can readily appreciate your anxiety to read it without delay. Here it is." He drew forth a letter, and handed it to Marcus.

Marcus immediately recognized the envelope and the address as similar to those of the first letter, which he still had in his possession.

He pulled the letter nervously from its yellow sheath, and read as follows:

MR. MINFORD:

DEAR SIR,--Pardon me for intruding on you a second time. But, as a friend of virtue, I must warn you of continued danger to your daughter from the acquaintance of Mr. Wilkeson, your pretended benefactor. If you are any longer in doubt as to the vile intentions of this man, conceal yourself from observation within sight of Miss Pillbody's school, any fair afternoon, about half past two o'clock, and watch his actions. If his suspicious conduct, at that time and place, does not give a sufficient significance to my warnings, then take the trouble to go to ----, Westchester Co., where he was born, and search into his infamous history. Take heed--I warn you again--lest, in your devotion to science, you forget that you are a father.

ONE WHO WOULD SHIELD THE INNOCENT.

While reading this letter, Marcus was conscious that the eyes of the inventor were fixed piercingly upon him. That consciousness caused his head to bow, and his cheeks to crimson with shame. It is the curse of this morbid sensibility, that righteous indignation at a foul slander upon one's good name springs up only after the victim has shown all the accepted evidences of guilt.

There was one reason why a man much less sensitive than Marcus should have been thrown off his balance by this letter. It was a fact that every afternoon, at half past two o'clock, rain or shine, with bachelor-like punctuality, he pa.s.sed up and down in front of Miss Pillbody's school, and looked sentimentally at the closed blinds, thinking unutterable things. He was also addicted to standing at the hydrant on the corner, and gazing hard at the house, wishing that he could see through its brick walls. Then he would cross the street, and pace up and down on that side, taking views of the house at every variety of angle. This was precisely what the boy Bog did daily about an hour and a half later. Now, although Marcus felt, in his heart, that these pedestrian exercises--absurd to everybody but a lover--were perfectly harmless in their purpose and effect, he was aware that, to a man like Mr. Minford, looking at them suspiciously, they would appear to be connected with some stealthy and base design.

As to the imputations upon his former history, Marcus could freely challenge the closest scrutiny; which is more than most men can do into that long record of juvenile frailties and escapades which ushers in the sober book of manhood. But here again the devil of sensitiveness a.s.serted his supremacy. Marcus had had a twin brother (who died years before), a duplicate of himself in all respects but two. Marcus was quiet, studious, honest, and frank; while Aurelius was quiet, studious, less honest, and infinitely crafty. Marcus had, on several occasions in his boyhood, been accused of petty offences which Aurelius had committed, but which that cunning youth had unblushingly denied. These, so far as Marcus supposed, were nothing more serious than robbing orchards or melon patches. Still it was possible that some graver wrong--more worthy of the t.i.tle "infamous"--committed by his wild, shrewd brother, might be brought to light by some deep explorer among the traditions of his native village, and charged upon himself. This possibility, and the difficulty of refuting a serious accusation under such circ.u.mstances, brought a second flush of guilt to the face of Marcus Wilkeson as he read the letter.

These hara.s.sing thoughts, which fill so much s.p.a.ce, written out, are but a small part of those which were suggested with electric suddenness.

Marcus's first impulse was to say: "I love your daughter, Mr. Minford, with my whole heart and soul. It is my first and my only love, singular though this confession may sound from the lips of a man of thirty-six years. The proudest and happiest day of my life would be that on which I could marry her, with her dear love and your fatherly consent. This love, which is as pure as the angelic creature upon whom it is lavished, fully explains my visits here, and whatever else is mysterious in my conduct. But, before declaring myself to your daughter, or asking her hand of you, I have desired to see whether it were possible to inspire her with love for a man so much older than herself. For, much as I love her, I would not seek to marry her without a return of love--not mere respect, esteem, or grat.i.tude. That is the problem I have been waiting to solve."

A confession to this effect was on the tip of his tongue. To have made it, would have been like tearing open his breast and showing his heart.

But he would have made it, whatever the pain, if, on looking nervously up from the letter, which he had now finished, he had not met the cold, searching eyes of the inventor. He instantly shut his lips upon the outcoming confession, and said, with as much indifference as he could awkwardly a.s.sume:

"I hope, sir, you have taken the trouble to investigate these ridiculous charges." But Marcus inwardly hoped he had not.

"I have sir," responded the inventor, gravely. "Had the accusations been vague, like those in the first letter from this unknown person, I should have dismissed them from my mind with a laugh. But they were so specific, and the truth or falsity of them was so easily ascertained, that I thought it my duty, in justice to my daughter, yourself, and to me, to look into them. It was a painful task, but I have done it."

"And what have you learned?" asked Marcus, making a transparent feint to look at ease.

"I will tell you frankly; though I wish to say, in advance, that my discoveries, though they might justify some suspicion, do not prejudice me in the least against you. I have no doubt that you will be able to explain everything." But so spoke not the eyes of the inventor.

"Well, then, to make a short story of this unpleasant affair, I have watched your promenades in front of Miss Pillbody's school three afternoons in succession. I will spare you the details, though, so clearly are your movements back and forth imprinted on my memory, that I could recount them all to you, if necessary. It is sufficient to say, that I am forced to believe that my daughter is the magnet which draws you to that neighborhood, and keeps your eyes riveted on that house.

This is all I have to say on the first point in the letter."

CHAPTER II.

IN VAIN--IN VAIN.

This was Marcus Wilkeson's golden opportunity, and he manfully determined to seize it. But, as he was on the point of blurting out the stifled secret, that cold, pale face--which resembled marble in all but the drops of sweat upon the brow--chilled him again. At the same moment, the hopeless absurdity of love and marriage between a girl of seventeen and a man of thirty-six, occurred to him in all its force. Stupidly sensitive being that he was, he thought that this icy, intellectual Mr.

Minford would laugh at him.

"I confess, sir, that these wanderings seem 'singular,' as you term them. But all the habits of old bachelors are regarded as singular, I believe. Now, it has been my daily habit, since I retired from business, to lay down my book at two o'clock, and take a little out-door exercise.

Miss Pillbody's school is not far from my house; the street is pretty clean for New York, and the sidewalks are tolerably dry. Therefore I select that neighborhood for my daily walk--my--my 'const.i.tutional,' as they call it. If, in so doing, I should occasionally cast my eyes--in fits of absent-mindedness, I may say--on Miss Pillbody's school, that is not strange, considering--considering the interest that I take in your daughter's education. It strikes me, my dear sir, that this seeming suspicion is easily cleared up." Marcus smiled to think how adroitly he had extricated himself.

But there was no smile on the shroud-colored face of the inventor.