HE broad hotel veranda commanded a view of the board walk, and across it to the horizon of the Pacific. It was after midnight, and the sauntering throngs had thinned out. The groups became detached, they gave place to single couples, and then to individuals, insignificant against the background of sea and sky.
The sky was cloudless, the sea glassy calm, except for the low undulations that scattered the image of the moon into a long-drawn dance of golden gleams. The romantic satellite was nearly twenty days old, and was keeping very late hours. She was dwindling, but what was left of her still retained the charm of her virgin youth and of her full maturity.
The last of the couples were passing by. They paused, and the voice of the girl said:
“Isn't that new moon sweet? I just love to see it rising over the wide ocean!”'
The man was lighting a cigarette, and his utterance was indistinct. We may assume that it conveyed a correction of the young lady's distorted astronomy. They passed on.
The board walk was now vacant. Vacant, too, was the hotel veranda, save for a couple of cushioned wicker chairs, drawn up close, and containing the two old gentlemen who had been sitting there for hours—almost since dinner was over. They were fitfully chatting and puffing at the butts of their final cigars.
“You see, Tom, a fellow like me, forty years in the profession, has seen a lot of queer things—things, I mean, that he can't explain; and this nephew of yours looks to me a case in point. We've got names for it, of course—hallucination, illusion. He sees what isn't there, and talks with 'em sometimes; but illusions are realities to the mind that conceives them, and may lead to concrete results. Take Mrs. Thingumbob at the tea fight yesterday, for instance, telling fortunes by teacup grounds, or cards, or palmistry.”
“She tells 'em, but they ain't so!” muttered Tom.
“No, but without the lines in your palm, or the tea grounds, or the cards, her faculty, or humbug, wouldn't operate; and her prediction may influence a man to lose a deal on the market, or a girl to listen to the young fellow with the dark hair, and those are realities. I'm not explaining, you know—only drawing an analogy.”
“I don't see the analogy. Jack sometimes thinks he sees the girl in the room, speaks to her, and gets mad because we don't notice her. He's not in an excited state, either. He lies around like a log—sleeps all night, the nurse says, and doesn't seem half awake in the daytime.”
“Inert outwardly, yes; but who's to tell what's going on inside?”
“The same as what goes on in a jelly-fish, I should say! Why, till this infernal thing happened, the boy was quite an athlete—running, tennis, polo, and so on. He won a swimming match over at Atlantic City this summer. Swimming—ah, I wish he'd never been near the water! That was how he met her, you know.”
“Do you know the girl? Have you seen her?”
“Oh, yes—she's easy to look at, as the boys say. For anything I know to the contrary, she may be straight enough morally, too; but after giving her the benefit of all doubts, the creature is utterly impossible for people of our sort. Why, she's a rank professional—competes in public matches—travels about the country with a gang of the same sort, giving 'exhibitions,' with expenses paid, of course! The sport editors of the papers run photographs of her in her swimming togs—and you know what they are—labeled 'champion lady swimmer and diver.' On the other hand, there's Jack, bred a gentleman, innocent as a baby, and only twenty. It's a plain case of infatuation. He doesn't know her in any right sense of the word. He doesn't know anything! Next year he'll be coming into an estate worth more than half a million, and I had intended, when I peg out, to let him have pretty nearly as much as that of my own; but I'm blessed if I'll give my good money to be splashed and scattered about by any little human porpoise like this girl! I've been hoping he'd get over it. I rushed him over to this side of the continent, on the 'out of sight out of mind' principle. That was three months ago, and he's as bad as ever, or worse. If she knew where he was—why, for half a million dollars, or for one-tenth of it, she'd undertake to swim across the Atlantic! Our best chance is that she may not locate him. I'd carry him over to Chinese Tartary, if it came to that! Possibly, though, knowing that I'm on guard, she'll understand that the jig is up; but I'm losing weight on it.”
“Have you arranged that they don't communicate by letter?”