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Updated: May 28, 2025
There reposed in these words a tone of mingled fear and humility, and Magde, much moved by the peculiar expression of Carl's countenance, replied: "Certainly, Carl, I would shed many, many tears, for I believe there are none who love you as I do."
It had followed him from the farm to Palm Beach and from Palm Beach to New York. There were half a dozen wild letters of gratitude from Wherry and a letter from the old doctor, Wherry's father, that brought a flush of genuine pleasure to Carl's face. "Wherry, too!" said he softly. "Of course. He stuck that other night. I've been too blind to see."
Sam J. Pitkins's celebrated lecture on "The Father of Lies," annually delivered at the I.O.O.F. Hall. Carl's father assured him in every letter that he was extravagant. He ran through the two dollars in practically no time at all.
They always take their revenge on me when I write to you, or when they discover any communication between us. I do thank Heaven that I everywhere find men who interest themselves in me; one of the most distinguished Professors in this University has in the kindest manner undertaken all that concerns Carl's education.
I laid out ham sandwiches, or sausages, or some edible dear to the male heart, and coffee to be warmed, and about midnight could be heard the sounds of banqueting from the kitchen. Three students told me on graduation that those Tuesday nights at our house had meant more intellectual stimulus than anything that ever came into their lives. One of these boys wrote to me after Carl's death:
Have you sounded yon Frank?" she says. "He is no Frank, but a Wessex thane and a hired man of Carl's; moreover, he is Ethelbert's friend." "Fool!" she says. "How far went you with him? What does he know or suspect?" "Naught," answers Gymbert stiffly. And with that he tells her what passed between us. "Come to me tomorrow early," Quendritha says, and goes her way.
No plaudits met them; no vivas rung in the air: but a Greek soldier filched Carl's valise, and on repairing to the commandant of the town, they were told that no redress could be afforded them.
Patsy was on the sofa, wrapped in Jennie's shawl. Pop was fanning him. Carl's wet handkerchief, the old man said, had kept the boy from suffocating. The crowd had begun to disperse. The neighbors and strangers had gone their several ways. The tenement-house mob were on the road to their beds.
It had clouded his brain, fired his blood to ugly resolve, blinded every finer instinct with its turbulent call, until the siren who beckons men onward through the marshland of passion had flung the gift at his feet in the haunted wilds. Staring at the tranquil, delicate face of the sleeper by the camp fire, a great horror of the scarlet hours behind him awoke suddenly in Carl's heart.
He pushed the surgeon away when he came forward with his needles. The Count was smiling as he put up his sword, his friends crowding around him, when Ebhardt cried out that his man could fight the second mensur, though the wound was three needles long. Then Kalbach cried aloud that he would kill him. But he had not seen Carl's eyes. Something was in them that made us think as we washed the cut.
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