I demurred a little. “And why do you require to do that?”
“Because I just love him!” Before I could recover from the agitating effect of this crystal ring my companion had continued: “Hasn’t there ever been any face that you’ve wanted to look into?”
How could I tell her so soon how much I appreciated the opportunity of looking into hers? I could only assent in general to the proposition that there were certainly for every one such hankerings, and even such faces; and I felt that the crisis demanded all my lucidity, all my wisdom. “Oh, yes! I’m a student of physiognomy. Do you mean,” I pursued, “that you’ve a passion for Mr. Paraday’s books?”
“They’ve been every thing to me, and a little more beside—I know them by heart. They’ve completely taken hold of me. There’s no author about whom I feel as I do about Neil Paraday.”
“Permit me to remark then,” I presently rejoined, “that you’re one of the right sort.”
“One of the enthusiasts? Of course I am!”
“Oh, there are enthusiasts who are quite of the wrong. I mean you’re one of those to whom an appeal can be made.”
“An appeal?” Her face lighted as if with the chance of some great sacrifice.
If she was ready for one it was only waiting for her, and in a moment I mentioned it. “Give up this crude purpose of seeing him. Go away without it. That will be far better.”
She looked mystified; then she turned visibly pale. “Why, hasn’t he any personal charm?” The girl was terrible and laughable in her bright directness.
“Ah, that dreadful word ‘personal’!” I exclaimed; “we’re dying of it, and you women bring it out with murderous effect. When you encounter a genius as fine as this idol of ours, let him off the dreary duty of being a personality as well. Know him only by what’s best in him, and spare him for the same sweet sake.”
My young lady continued to look at me in confusion and mistrust, and the result of her reflection on what I had just said was to make her suddenly break out: “Look here, sir—what’s the matter with him?”
“The matter with him is that, if he doesn’t look out, people will eat a great hole in his life.”
She considered a moment. “He hasn’t any disfigurement?”
“Nothing to speak of!”
“Do you mean that social engagements interfere with his occupations?”
“That but feebly expresses it.”
“So that he can’t give himself up to his beautiful imagination?”
“He’s badgered, bothered, overwhelmed, on the pretext of being applauded. People expect him to give them his time, his golden time, who would not themselves give five shillings for one of his books.”
“Five? I’d give five thousand!”
“Give your sympathy—give your forbearance. Two-thirds of those who approach him only do it to advertise themselves.”
“Why, it’s too bad!” the girl exclaimed, with the face of an angel. “It’s the first time I was ever called crude!” she laughed.
I followed up my advantage. “There’s a lady with him now who’s a terrible complication, and who yet hasn’t read, I am sure, ten pages that he ever wrote.”
My visitor’s wide eyes grew tenderer. “Then how does she talk———”
“Without ceasing. I only mention her as a single case. Do you want to know how to show a superlative consideration? Simply avoid him.”
“Avoid him?” she softly wailed.
“Don’t force him to have to take account of you; admire him in silence, cultivate him at a distance and secretly appropriate his message. Do you want to know,” I continued, warming to my idea, “how to perform an act of homage really sublime?” Then, as she hung on my words: “Succeed in never seeing him at all!”
“Never at all?” she pathetically gasped.
“The more you get into his writings the less you’ll want to; and you’ll be immensely sustained by the thought of the good you’re doing him.”
She looked at me without resentment or spite, and at the truth I had put before her with candor, credulity, pity. I was afterward happy to remember that she must have recognized in my face the liveliness of my interest in herself. “I think I see what you mean.”
“Oh, I express it badly; but I should be delighted if you would let me come to see you—to explain it better.”
She made no response to this, and her thoughtful eyes fell on the big album, on which she presently laid her hands as if to take it away. “I did use to say out West that they might write a little less for autographs (to all the great poets, you know) and study the thoughts and style a little more.”
“What do they care for the thoughts and style? They didn’t even understand you. I’m not sure,” I added, “that I do myself, and I dare say that you by no means make me out.” She had got up to go, and though I wanted her to succeed in not seeing Neil Paraday I wanted her also, inconsequently, to remain in the house. I was at any rate far from desiring to hustle her off. As Mrs. Weeks Wimbush, upstairs, was still saving our friend in her own way, I asked my young lady to let me briefly relate, in illustration of my point, the little incident of my having gone down into the country for a profane purpose and been converted on the spot to holiness. Sinking again into her chair to listen, she showed a deep interest in the anecdote. Then, thinking it over gravely, she exclaimed, with her odd intonation:
“Yes, but you do see him!” I had to admit that this was the case; and I was not so prepared with an effective attenuation as I could have wished. She eased the situation off, however, by the charming quaintness with which she finally said: “Well, I wouldn’t want him to be lonely!” This time she rose in earnest, but I persuaded her to let me keep the album to show to Mr. Paraday. I assured her I would bring it back to her myself. “Well, you’ll find my address somewhere in it, on a paper!” she sighed resignedly, at the door.
VIII
I BLUSH to confess it, but I invited Mr. Paraday that very day to transcribe into the album one of his most characteristic passages. I told him how I had got rid of the strange girl who had brought it—her ominous name was Miss Hurter, and she lived at an hotel; quite agreeing with him, moreover, as to the wisdom of getting rid with equal promptitude of the book itself. This was why I carried it to Albemarle Street no later than on the morrow. I failed to find her at home, but she wrote to me and I went again: she wanted so much to hear more about Neil Paraday. I returned repeatedly, I may briefly declare, to supply her with this information. She had been immensely taken, the more she thought of it, with that idea of mine about the act of homage: it had ended by filling her with a generous rapture. She positively desired to do something sublime for him, though indeed I could see that, as this particular flight was difficult, she appreciated the fact that my visits kept her up. I had it on my conscience to keep her up; I neglected nothing that would contribute to it, and her conception of our cherished author’s independence became at last as fine as his own conception. “Read him, read him,” I constantly repeated; while, seeking him in his works, she represented herself as convinced that, according to my assurance, this was the system that had, as she expressed it, weaned her. We read him together when I could find time, and