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Updated: June 19, 2025
Why does not Maxwell present himself, and urge his infamous proposals?" "I know not, unless it be that De Guy is the more artful of the two." Let us change the scene to the next day, at the abode of Mr. Faxon. Dalhousie and his wife, by the kind attentions of their host, were restored to a comparatively healthy state.
At the end of the avenue the long house loomed through trees, its principal bulk dark but one wing sending out a ray of welcome; and the next moment Faxon was receiving a violent impression of warmth and light, of hothouse plants, hurrying servants, a vast spectacular oak hall like a stage setting, and, in its unreal middle distance, a small concise figure, correctly dressed, conventionally featured, and utterly unlike his rather florid conception of the great John Lavington.
Lavington continue; and as Rainer's face lit up, the face behind his uncle's chair seemed to gather into its look all the fierce weariness of old unsatisfied hates. That was the thing that, as the minutes laboured by, Faxon was becoming most conscious of. The watcher behind the chair was no longer merely malevolent: he had grown suddenly, unutterably tired.
Dalhousie sought his room, and, scarcely heeding the salutation of his wife, he seated himself, and drew forth the packet. Removing the blank envelope, he found it was a letter, directed to "Emily Dumont," with a request to Mr. Faxon that it might be delivered to her after the writer's decease.
His friend was patient and considerate, and they travelled slowly and talked little. At first Faxon had felt a great shrinking from whatever touched on familiar things. He seldom looked at a newspaper and he never opened a letter without a contraction of the heart. It was not that he had any special cause for apprehension, but merely that a great trail of darkness lay on everything.
Lavington's glance was politely bent on him, but with a loosening of the strain about his heart he saw that the figure behind the chair still kept its gaze on Rainer. "Do you think you've seen my double, Mr. Faxon?" Would the other face turn if he said yes? Faxon felt a dryness in his throat. "No," he answered. "Ah? It's possible I've a dozen. I believe I'm extremely usual-looking," Mr.
Grisben, who seemed the spokesman of the two, ended his greeting with a genial "and many many more of them, dear boy!" which suggested to Faxon that their arrival coincided with an anniversary. But he could not press the inquiry, for the seat allotted him was at the coachman's side, while Frank Rainer joined his uncle's guests inside the sleigh.
This species, so recently added to our summer fauna, proves to be not uncommon in the mountainous parts of New England, though apparently confined to the spruce forests at or near the summits. I found it abundant on Mount Mansfield, Vermont, in 1885, and in the summer of 1888 Mr. Walter Faxon surprised us all by shooting a specimen on Mount Graylock, Massachusetts.
I answer, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER!" H.W. Faxon. "They will join our expedition." Anon. "Go in on your muscle." President Buchanan's instructions to the Collector of Toledo. "Westward the hoe of Empire Stars its way." George N. True. "Where liberty dwells there is my kedentry." C.R. Dennett.
The gallery was empty, the doors down its length were closed; but Rainer had said: "The second to the left," and Faxon, after pausing for some chance enlightenment which did not come, laid his hand on the second knob to the left. The room he entered was square, with dusky picture-hung walls. In its centre, about a table lit by veiled lamps, he fancied Mr.
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