treacherous climate of England had made inroads on her health. I said that from the slight glance I had had, his daughter did not appear delicate.
“Ah,” said he, “that is one of the deceptions practised by that fiend Consumption in this country, when he has made sure of his victim.”
Was it reality, or was it fancy on my part, that made me think there was a grim smile on the old man’s face as he said these words? His eyes belied it, and his beard concealed it—but most assuredly I thought that he smiled. I know, however, that I felt rather faint at the time, for there was a strange perfume in the air, like the faint scent of geranium leaves. I glanced round the room, but could not see any flowers. Gradually the perfume died away.
“You may think it unfeminine,” the Doctor continued, “but my daughter is well versed in our favourite science—if you will allow me to call it so; from her earliest years she has been my companion, and as she showed a taste for the study of chemistry, I encouraged it, and in many of my researches and discoveries she has been my copartner, and often, indeed, my guide and director.
I was astonished at what he said, but I remarked that the influence of a loving daughter and a kind voice must go far to cheer the dark and intricate paths of science which he was following.
“You are right, my young friend—you are right,” he said, with a seemingly broken voice. But again I saw, or fancied I saw, a grim smile playing about his features.
The evening passed away pleasantly enough for me. The Doctor’s great experience, the number of countries he had visited, and the varied universities in which he had studied, together with the unusual direction in which his studies had tended, held me entranced while listening to him. I may divide the topics of our conversation, or rather of his instruction, into three parts. First, the subject which seemed to afford him the greatest pleasure and interest—namely, the mysterious principle of life—the vis vitæ. Secondly, he touched lightly but lucidly upon a subject which he knew interested me—the mutual and reciprocal laws which govern the animal, vegetable, and mineral worlds. Lastly, he astounded but charmed me by almost confessing that he was no unsubstantial believer in the theories of the alchemists, both in regard to the elixir of life and the transmutation of metals.
It was late when I left Doctor Walstein, but I did not do so without promising to visit him on the following evening. Holdsworth was disappointed that I could give him so little information about Miss Walstein, and looked very sceptical when I told him that she was conversant with the science of chemistry, declaring that it was utterly unnatural and impossible.
I went to the Doctor’s house the next evening—in fact, I was there every night for a week, and became more and more attracted by my new acquaintance on every visit. Let me be understood: I neither liked nor respected the old man. He treated every subject of morality or virtue that I had been in the habit of reverencing with the utmost levity. But I fancied that I saw my danger, and thought myself secure. The desire for his acquaintance was intellectual, not moral—it was a friendship of the head, and not of the heart.
About a week had passed away, and I went as usual to Albemarle Street. I had received through the post that morning from Cousin Polly a rose-bud which had bloomed out freshly after being placed in water. This rose-bud I had placed in the breast of my coat before my visit. The servant at the door told me that Doctor Walstein had not yet returned, but that he had requested me to wait for him. I had noticed one peculiarity about the Doctor’s household, which was that there seemed to be only one servant, and that was the evil-faced man in black who opened the door. I never saw any female domestic about the establishment, and the evil-faced man only admitted me, he never entered the apartments.
I went up-stairs alone, and passed into the drawing-room. Miss Walstein was sitting on a sofa near the window. I knew her in an instant, although I had only seen her hurriedly on the night of my first visit. Lovely as she had then appeared in that momentary glance, she appeared even more so now in the softened twilight. Her light golden hair, which was very luxuriant, was drawn back from her forehead, and clustered gracefully round her beautifully formed head. Her features were small and regular, and her complexion was absolutely brilliant. Her large blue eyes, which were fixed upon me, seemed however to be lighted up with the same strange fire that rendered her father’s so remarkable. She wore a rich silk dress trimmed with white fur round the throat and also round the sleeves, out of which her small perfectly shaped hands peeped, rivalling the down itself in their whiteness. She rose slightly, pointing to a chair at some distance from where she was, and begged me to be seated.
“My father purposes to leave London in a few days, and has many arrangements to make before leaving. You will therefore have to put up with my company this evening, Mr. Haughton, until he returns.”
Of course I expressed the pleasure I had in meeting her, and congratulated her on her recovery. She said that her father was always imagining that she was unwell, but that she considered that it was only the effect of the confined London air. As soon as she got into Wales again she would be certain to recover. After that, we spoke upon many subjects. I found that she had read considerably, was well acquainted with the topics of the day, and could sustain a conversation with spirit. But another circumstance at this time began to attract my attention.
When I first entered the room I perceived that the air was faintly perfumed with a scent like that of geranium leaves. I recognised it as being the same perfume which had pervaded the inner room on my first visit, and, as before, I looked round vainly for any trace of flowers, except the rose-bud in my breast. While I remained in the