The Darrow Enigma by Melvin L. Severy (best fiction novels of all time TXT) 📖
- Author: Melvin L. Severy
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generalisation is firmly established in the minds of all - all but
myself - no one will ever chance upon this particular experiment,
and it may not disprove my theory after all; better, much better,
that the floor there keep the secret of it all both from me and from
others!’ But even as he says this to himself he has taken a new
tube from the rack and crawled - ten years older for that last ten
minutes - to his chemical case. The lifelong habit of truth is so
strong in him that self-interest cannot submerge it. He repeats the
experiment, and confirms his fears. The battle between his life and
a few drops of liquid in a test-tube has been mercilessly fought,
and he has lost! The elasticity of the man is gone forever, and the
only indication the world ever receives of this terrible conflict
between a human soul and its destiny is some half a dozen lines in
Nature, giving the experiment and stating that it utterly refutes
its author’s previous conclusions. Half a dozen lines - the epitaph
of a dead, though unburied, life!”
My companion paused there, but I found myself unable to reply. He
had spoken with such intensity, such dramatic fervour, that I was
completely swept away by his eloquence; so much so, indeed, that it
did not even occur to me to ask myself why he should have burst out
in this peculiar strain. I have given you the incident in order
that you may see the strange moods into which Maitland occasionally
relapsed - at least, at that time. After a quick glance at me he
continued, in a quieter vein: “All of us men of science have felt
something, however little, of this, and I believe, as a class,
scientists transcend all other men in their respect for absolute
truth.” He cast another one of his searching glances at me, and
said quickly: “This is precisely why I am going to confide in you
and rely upon your assistance in a matter, the successful termination
of which would please me as much as the discovery of an absolute
standard of measurement.”
He then made the confession which I have already given you, and
ended by asking me to secure him an introduction to Miss Darrow.
I cheerfully promised to bring this about at the first opportunity.
He asked me if I thought, on account of his having met her so
frequently, she would be likely to think it was all a “put up job.”
“I do not know,” I replied. “Miss Darrow is a singularly close
observer. On the whole I think you had better reach her through
her father. Do you play croquet?” He replied that he was considered
something of an expert in that line. That, then, was surely the best
way. John Darrow was known in the neighbourhood as a “crank” on the
subject of croquet. He had spent many hundreds of dollars on his
grounds. His wickets were fastened to hard pine planks, and these
were then carefully buried two feet deep. The surface of the ground,
he was wont to descant, must be of a particular sort of gravel,
sifted just so, and rolled to a nicety. The balls must be of hard
rubber, and have just one-eighth inch clearance in passing through
the wickets, with the exception of the two wires forming the “cage,”
where it was imperative that this clearance should be reduced to
one-sixteenth of an inch - but I need not state more to show how he
came to be considered a “crank” upon the subject.
It was easy enough to bring Maitland and Darrow together. “My
friend is himself much interested in the game; he heard of your
superb ground; may he be permitted to examine it closely?” Darrow
was all attention. He would be delighted to show it. Suppose they
make a practical test of it by playing a game. This they did and
Maitland played superbly, but he was hardly a match for the old
gentleman, who sought to palliate his defeat by saying: “You play
an excellent game, sir; but I am a trifle too much for you on my own
ground. Now, if you can spare the time, I should like to witness a
game between you and my daughter; I think you will be pretty evenly
matched.”
If he could spare the time! I laughed outright at the idea. Why,
with the prospect of meeting Gwen Darrow before him, an absolute
unit of measure, with a snail’s pace, would have made good its
escape from him. As it is a trick of poor humanity to refuse when
offered the very thing one has been madly scheming to obtain, I
hastened to accept Darrow’s invitation for my friend, and to assure
him on my own responsibility, that time was just then hanging heavily
on Maitland’s hands. Well, the game was played, but Maitland was so
unnerved by the girl’s presence that he played execrably, so poorly,
indeed, that the always polite Darrow remarked: “You must charge
your easy victory, Gwen, to your opponent’s gallantry, not to his
lack of skill, for I assure you he gave me a much harder rub.” The
young lady cast a quick glance at Maitland, which said so plainly
that she preferred a fair field and no favour that he hastened to
say: “Your father puts too high an estimate upon my play. I did my
best to win, but - but I was a little nervous; I see, however, that
you would have defeated me though I had been in my best form.” Gwen
gave him one of those short, searching looks, so peculiarly her own,
which seem to read, with mathematical certainty, one’s innermost
thoughts, - and the poor fellow blushed to the tips of his ears.
- But he was no boy, this Maitland, and betrayed no other sign of
the tempest that was raging within him. His utterance remained as
usual, deliberate and incisive, and I thought this perplexed the
young lady. Before leaving, both Maitland and I were invited to
become parties to a six-handed game to be played the following week,
after the grounds had been redressed with gravel.
Maitland looked forward to this second meeting with Miss Darrow
with an eagerness which made every hour seem interminably long, and
he was in such a flutter of expectancy that I was sure if
“We live … in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial
We should count time by heart-throbs,”
he must have passed through a period as long as that separating the
Siege of Troy from the “late unpleasantness.” The afternoon came at
last, however. The party consisted, besides Darrow and his daughter,
Maitland and myself, of two young gentlemen with whom personally I
had but a slight acquaintance, although I knew them somewhat by
reputation. The younger one, Clinton Browne, is a young artist whose
landscapes were beginning to attract wide attention in Boston, and
the elder, Charles Herne, a Western gentleman of some literary
attainments, but comparatively unknown here in the East. There is
nothing about Mr. Herne that would challenge more than passing
attention. If you had said of him, “He is well-fleshed, well-groomed,
and intellectually well-thatched,” you would have voiced the opinion
of most of his acquaintances.
This somewhat elaborately upholstered old world has a deal of mere
filling of one kind and another, and Mr. Herne is a part of it. To
be sure, he leaves the category of excelsior very far behind and
approaches very nearly to the best grade of curled hair, but, in
spite of all this, he is simply a sort of social filling.
Mr. Browne, on the other hand, is a very different personage. Of
medium height, closely knit, with the latent activity and grace of
the cat flowing through every movement and even stagnating in his
pose, he is a man that the first casual gaze instantly returns to
with sharpened focus. You have seen gymnasts whose normal movements
were slowly performed springs, just as rust is a slow combustion and
fire the same thing in less time. Well, Clinton Browne strongly
suggested that sort of athlete. Add to this a regularly formed,
clearly cut, and all-but-beautiful face, with a pair of wonderfully
piercing, albeit somewhat shifty, black eyes, and one need not marvel
that men as well as women stared at him. I have spoken of his gaze
as “somewhat shifty,” yet am not altogether sure that in that term
I accurately describe it. What first fastened my attention was this
vague, unfocussed, roving, quasi-introspective vision flashing with
panther-like suddenness into a directness that seemed to burn and
pierce one like the thrust of a hot stiletto, His face was
clean-shaven, save for a mere thumbmark of black hair directly
under the centre of his lower lip. This Iago-like tab and the
almost fierce brilliancy of his concentrated gaze gave to his
countenance at times a sinister, Machiavellian expression that was
irresistible and which, to my thinking, seriously marred an otherwise
fine face. Of=20course due allowance must be made for the strong
prejudice I have against any form of beard. However, I’d wager a
box of my best liver-pills against any landscape Browne ever painted,
- I don’t care if it’s as big as a cyclorama, - that if he had known
how completely Gwen shared my views, - how she disliked the
appearance of bewhiskered men, - that delicately nurtured little
imperial would soon have been reduced to a tender memory, - that is
to say, if a physician can diagnose a case of love from such symptoms
as devouring glances and an attentiveness so marked that it quite
disgusted Maitland, who repeatedly measured his rival with the
apparent cold precision of a mathematician, albeit there was warmth
enough underneath.
This singular self-poise is one of Maitland’s most noticeable
characteristics and is, I think, rather remarkable in a man of such
strong emotional tendencies and lightning-like rapidity of thought.
No doubt some small portion of it is the result of acquirement, for
life can hardly fail to teach us all something of this sort; still
I cannot but think that the larger part of it is native to him.
Born of well-to-do parents, he had never had the splendid tuition
of early poverty. As soon as he had left college he had studied law,
and had been admitted to the bar. This he had done more to gratify
the wishes of his father than to further any desires of his own, but
he had soon found the profession, so distasteful to him that he
practically abandoned it in favour of scientific research. True,
he still occasionally took a legal case when it turned upon
scientific points which interested him, but, as he once confessed
to me, he swallowed, at such times, the bitter pill of the law
for the sugar coating of science which enshrouded it. This legal
training could, therefore, it seems to me, have made no deep or
radical change in his character, which leads me to think that the
self-control he exhibited, despite the angry disgust with which I
know Browne’s so apparent attentions to Gwen inspired him, must,
for the most part, have been native to him rather than acquired.
Nothing worthy of record occurred until evening; at least nothing
which at the time impressed me as of import, though I afterward
remembered that Darrow’s behaviour was somewhat strange. He
appeared singularly preoccupied, and on one occasion started
nervously when I coughed behind him. He explained that a
disagreeable dream had deprived him of his sleep the previous night
and left his nerves somewhat unstrung, and I thought no more of it.
When the light failed we were all invited into
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