The Tracer of Lost Persons Part 43

She smiled mournfully; this was another symptom of a morbid state. She turned, unconsciously, to page 379 to verify her observation.

"See here, Miss Hollis," he broke out, "haven't I any chance to convince you that I am not ill? I want to be honest without involving a--a friend of mine. I can't endure this deception. Won't you let me prove to you that these symptoms are--are only significant of something else?"

She looked straight at him, considering him in silence.

"Let us begin with those dark circles under my eyes," he said desperately. "I found some cold-cream in my room and--look! They are practically gone! At any rate, if there is a sort of shadow left it's because I use my eyes in my profession."

"Dr. Lamour says that the dark circles disappear, anyway," said the girl, unconvinced. "Cold-cream had nothing to do with it."

"But it _did_! Really it did. And as for the other symptoms, I--well, I can't help my pulses when y-you t-t-touch me."

"Please, Mr. Carden."

"I don't mean to be impertinent. I am trying my hardest to tell the truth. And my pulses _do_ gallop when you test them; they're galloping now! This very moment!"

"Let me try them," she said coolly, laying her hand on his wrist.

"Didn't I say so!" he insisted grimly. "And I'm turning red, too. But those symptoms mean something else; they mean _you_!"

"Mr. Carden!"

"I can't help saying so--"

"I know it," she said soothingly; "these sentimental outbursts are part of the disease--"

"Good Heavens! _Won't_ you try to believe me! There's nothing in the world the matter with me except that I am--am--p-p-perfectly f-f-fascinated--"

"You must struggle against it, Mr. Carden. That is only part of the--"

"It isn't! It isn't! It's you! It's your mere presence, your personality, your charm, your beauty, your loveliness, your--"

"Mr. Carden, I beg of you! I--it is part of my duty to observe symptoms, but--but you are making it very hard for me--very difficult--"

"I am only proving to you that it isn't Lamour's Disease which does stunts with my pulses, my temperature, my color. I'm not morbid except when I realize my deception. I'm not depressed except when I think how far you are from me--how far above me--how far out of reach of such a man as I am--how desperately I--I--"

"D-don't you think I had better administer a s-s-sedative, Mr. Carden?"

she said, distressed.

"I don't care. I'll take anything you give me--as long as _you_ give it to me. I'll swallow pint after pint of pills! I'll fletcherize 'em! I'll luxuriate in poison--anything--"

She was hastily running through the pages of the ninth volume to see whether the symptoms of sentimental excitement ever turned into frenzy.

"What can you learn from that book?" he insisted, leaning forward to see what she was reading. "Anyway, Dr. Lamour married his patient so early in the game that all the symptoms disappeared. And I believe the trouble with his patient was my trouble. She had every symptom of it until he married her! She was in love with him, that is absolutely all!"

Rosalind Hollis raised her beautiful, incredulous eyes.

"What do you mean, Mr. Carden?"

"I mean that, in my opinion, there's no such disease as Lamour's Disease. That young girl was in love with him. Then he married her at last, and--presto!--all the symptoms vanished--the pulse, the temperature, the fidgets, the blushes, the moods, the whole business!"

"W-what about the strangely curious manifestations of physical beauty--superhuman symmetry, Mr. Carden?"

"Do you notice them in _me_?" he gasped.

"A--yes--in a m-modified measure--"

"In _me_?"

"Certainly!" she said firmly; but the slow glow suffusing her cheeks was disconcerting her. Then his own face began to reflect the splendid color in hers; their eyes met, dismayed.

"There are sixteen volumes about this disease," she said. "There _must_ be such a disease!"

"There is," he said. "I have it badly. But I never had it before I first saw you in the Park!"

"Mr. Carden--this is the wildest absurdity--"

"I know it. Wildness is a symptom. I'm mad as a hatter. I've got every separate symptom, and I wish it was infectious and contagious and catching and fatal!"

She made an effort to turn the pages to the chapter ent.i.tled "Manias and Illusions," but he laid his hand across the book and his clear eyes defied her.

"Mr. Carden--"

Her smooth hand trembled under his, then, suddenly nerveless, relaxed.

With an effort she lifted her head; their eyes met, spellbound.

"_You_ have _every_ symptom," he said unsteadily--"every one! What have you to say?"

Her fascinated eyes held his.

"What have you to say?" he repeated under his breath--"you, with every symptom, and your heavenly radiant beauty to confirm them--that splendid youthful loveliness which blinds and stuns me as I look--as I speak--as I tell you that I love you. That is my malady; that is the beginning and the end of it; love!"

She sat speechless, immovable, as one under enchantment.

"All my life," he said, "I have spent in painting shadows. But the shadows were those dim celestial shapes cast by your presence in the world. You tell me that the world is better for my work; that I have offered my people beauty and a sort of truth, which they had never dreamed of until I revealed it? Yet what inspired me was the shadow only, for I had never seen the substance; I had never believed I should ever see the living source of the shadows which inspired me. And now I see; now I have seen with my own eyes. Now the confession of faith is no longer a blind creed, born of instinct. You live! You are you! What I believed from necessity I find proved in fact. The occult no longer can sway one who has seen. And you, who, without your knowledge or mine, have always been the one and only source of any good in me or in my work--why is it strange that I loved you at first sight?--that I worshiped you at first breath?--I, who, like him who raises his altar to 'the unknown G.o.d,' raised my altar to truth and beauty? And a miracle has answered me."

She rose, the beautiful dazed eyes meeting his, both hands clasping the ninth volume of Lamour's great monograph to her breast as though to protect it from him--from him who was threatening her, enthralling her, thrilling her with his magic voice, his enchanted youth, the masterful mystery of his eyes. What was he saying to her? What was this mounting intoxication sweeping her senses--this delicious menace threatening her very will? What did he want with her? What was he asking? What was he doing now--with both her hands in his, and her gaze deeply lost in his--and the ninth volume of Lamour on the floor between them, sprawling there, abandoned, waving its helpless, discredited leaves in air--discredited, abandoned, obsolete as her own specialty--her life's work! He had taken that, too--taken her life's work from her. And in return she was holding nothing!--nothing except a young man's hands--strong, muscular hands which, after all, were holding her own imprisoned. So she had nothing in exchange for the ninth volume of Lamour; and her life's work had been annihilated by a smile; and she was very much alone in the world--very isolated and very youthful.

After a while she emerged from the chaos of attempted reflection and listened to what he was saying. He spoke very quietly, very distinctly, not sparing himself, laying bare every deception without involving anybody except himself.

He told her the entire history of his case, excluding Mr. Keen in person; he told her about his aunt, about his birthday, about his determination to let the legacy go. Then in a very manly way he told her that he had never before loved a woman; and fell silent, her hands a dead weight in his.

She was surprised that she could experience no resentment. A curious inertia crept over her. She was tired of expectancy, tired of effort, weary of the burden of decision. Life and its problems overweighted her.

Her eyes wandered to his broad young shoulders, then were raised to his face.

"What shall we do?" she asked innocently.

Unresisting, she suffered him to explain. His explanation was not elaborate; he only touched his lips to her hands and straightened up, a trifle pale.

After a moment they walked together to the door and he took his hat and gloves from the rack.