in the spring of 1865 i went down to bournemouth to see, for the last time, an old friend who was dying of consumption. during a great part of the journey down i had for a travelling companion a well-dressed gentlemanly man of about forty years of age. we were alone in the compartment, and after interchanging some small civilities, such as the barter of newspapers, slid into conversation. my fellow-traveller seemed to be an intellectual man, and well posted up in the doings of the day. he talked fluently and easily on various topics, and judging by his talk must have moved in good society. although i fancied his features bore traces of hard living and dissipation, he was not unprepossessing in appearance. the greatest faults in his face were the remarkable thinness of the lips, and his eyes being a shade closer together than one cares to see. with a casual acquaintance such peculiarities are of little moment, but for my part i should not choose for a friend one who possessed them without due trial and searching proof.

at this time the english public were much interested in an important will case which was then being tried. the reversion to a vast sum of money depended upon the testator’s sanity or insanity. like most other people we duly discussed the matter. i suppose, from some of my remarks, my companion understood that i was a doctor. he asked me a good many technical questions, and i described several curious cases of mania which had come under my notice. he seemed greatly interested in the subject.

“you must sometimes find it hard to say where sanity ends and insanity begins,” he said thoughtfully.

“yes. the boundary-line is in some instances hard to define. to give in such a dubious case an opinion which would satisfy myself i should want to have known the patient at the time he was considered quite sane.”

“to mark the difference?”

“exactly. and to know the bent of the character. for instance, there is a friend of mine. he was perfectly sane when last i saw him, but for all i know he may have made great progress the other way in the interval.”

then without mentioning names, dates, or places, i described carriston’s peculiar disposition to my intelligent listener. he heard me with rapt interest.

“you predict he will go mad?” he said.

“certainly not. unless anything unforeseen arises he will probably live and die as sane as you or i.”

“why do you fear for him, then?”

“for this reason. i think that any sudden emotion—violent[214] grief, for instance—any unexpected and crushing blow—might at once disturb the balance of his mind. let his life run on in an even groove, and all will be well with him.”

my companion was silent for a few moments.

“did you mention your friend’s name?” he asked.

i laughed. “doctors never give names when they quote cases.”

at the next station my companion left the train. he bade me a polite adieu, and thanked me for the pleasure my conversation had given him. after wondering what station in life he occupied i dismissed him from my mind, as one who had crossed my path for a short time and would probably never cross it again.

although i did not see charles carriston i received several letters from him during the course of the year. he had not forgotten our undertaking to pass my next holiday together. early in the autumn, just as i was beginning to long with a passionate longing for open air and blue skies, a letter came from carriston. he was now, he said, roughing it in the western highlands. he reminded me of last year’s promise. could i get away from work now? would i join him? if i did not care to visit scotland, would i suggest some other place where he could join me? still, the scenery by which he was now surrounded was superb, and the accommodation he had secured, if not luxurious, fairly comfortable. he thought we could not do better. a postscript to his letter asked me to address him as cecil carr, not charles carriston. he had a reason for changing his name; a foolish reason i should no doubt call it. when we met he would let me know it.

this letter at once decided me to accept his invitation.[215] in a week’s time my arrangements for leave of absence were complete, and i was speeding northward in the highest spirits, and well equipped with everything necessary for my favorite holiday pursuit. i looked forward with the greatest pleasure to again meeting carriston. i found him at callendar waiting for me. the coach did not follow the route we were obliged to take in order to reach the somewhat unfrequented part of the country in which our tent was pitched, so my friend had secured the services of a primitive vehicle and a strong shaggy pony to bear us the remainder of the journey.

so soon as our first hearty greetings were over i proceeded to ascertain how the last year had treated carriston. i was both delighted and astonished at the great change for the better which had taken place in his manner, no less than his appearance. he looked far more robust; he seemed happier, brighter; although more like ordinary humanity. not only had he greeted me with almost boisterous glee, but during our drive through the wonderful scenery he was in the gayest of spirits and full of fun and anecdote. i congratulated him heartily upon the marked improvement in his health, both mentally and physically.

“yes, i am much better,” he said. “i followed a part of your advice; gave up moping, tried constant change of scene, interested myself in many more things. i am quite a different man.”

“no supernatural visitations?” i asked, anxious to learn that his cure in that direction was complete.

his face fell. he hesitated a second before answering.

“no—not now,” he said. “i fought against the[216] strange feeling, and i believe have got rid of it—at least i hope so.”

i said no more on the subject. carriston plunged into a series of vivid and mimetic descriptions of the varieties of scotch character which he had met with during his stay. he depicted his experiences so amusingly that i laughed heartily for many a mile.

“but why the change in your name?” i asked, when he paused for a moment in his merry talk.

he blushed, and looked rather ashamed. “i scarcely like to tell you; you will think my reason so absurd.”

“never mind. i don’t judge you by the ordinary standard.”

“well, the fact is, my cousin is also in scotland. i feared if i gave my true name at the hotel at which i stayed on my way here, he might perchance see it, and look me up in these wild regions.”

“well, and what if he did?”

“i can’t tell you. i hate to know i feel like it. but i have always, perhaps without cause, been afraid of him; and this place is horribly lonely.”

now that i understood the meaning of his words, i thought the boy must be joking; but the grave look on his face showed he was never further from merriment.

“why, carriston!” i cried, “you are positively ridiculous about your cousin. you can’t think the man wants to murder you?”

“i don’t know what i think. i am saying things to you which i ought not to say; but every time i meet him i feel he hates me, and wishes me out of the world.”

“between wishing and doing there is a great difference. i dare say all this ’s fancy on your part.”

“perhaps so. any way, cecil carr is as good a name up here as charles carriston, so please humor my whim and say no more about it.”

as it made no difference to me by what name he chose to call himself i dropped the subject. i knew of old that some of his strange prejudices were proof against anything i could do to remove them.

at last we reached our temporary abode. it was a substantial, low-built house, owned and inhabited by a thrifty middle-aged widow, who, although well-to-do so far as the simple ideas of her neighbors went, was nevertheless always willing to add to her resources by accommodating such stray tourists as wished to bury themselves for a day or two in solitude, or artists who, like ourselves, preferred to enjoy the beauties of nature undisturbed by the usual ebbing and flowing stream of sightseers.

as carriston asserted, the accommodation if homely was good enough for two single men; the fare was plentiful, and our rooms were the picture of cleanliness. after a cursory inspection i felt sure that i could for a few weeks make myself very happy in these quarters.

i had not been twenty-four hours in the house before i found out one reason for the great change for the better in charles carriston’s demeanor; knew his step was lighter, his eye brighter, his voice gayer, and his whole bearing altered. whether the reason was a subject of congratulation or not i could not as yet say.

the boy was in love; in love as only a passionate, romantic, imaginative nature can be; and even then only once in a lifetime. heedless, headstrong, impulsive,[218] and entirely his own master, he had given his very heart and soul into the keeping of a woman.