Appearances are Apt to Deceive.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 976, 14 November 1890, Page 10

Appearances are Apt to Deceive.

‘ My dear little woman, you are too silly in making such a fuss about it. What can it matter ?’ ‘ I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it, Bertram. Of course I’m not jealous—you don’t suppose that—but it annoys me. The girls even are laughing about it, and I hate to see her sitting all through luncheon with those great saucer eyes of hers fixed upon you, drinking in every word you say, and, in short, openly worshipping you. It’s such bad taste, you know — 1 ' Thank you! I’m not quite sure whether that is complimentary either to yourself or me, is it ?’ ‘ Don’t laugh, Bertram. You know well, enough what I mean. Of course I want every one to admire you and think you handsome and charming, just as I do myself. But I’m sure I never looked at you as she does, even in the days when I was so desperately in love with you, and never dreamt of your caring twopence about me. I don’t call it nice of her at all, and the girls say that she’s always going on in the schoolroom about your wonderful eyes, and the Sehnsucht of your expression, and says she’s sure you’ve had some tragische Begebenheit in your life, or seen a ghost, or done something which haunts your memory, and has left you reuevoll Andenken which you can’t get rid of, and all sorts of rubbish of that sort. It isn’t true, is it ? I don’t believe it one bit, and always laugh when they talk about it; but at the same time I feel uncomfortable, and hate to think of her making such suggestions.’ Bertram St. John laughed. ‘ AndenJcen sind langweilig,' he said, ‘and I’m afraid I can’t help my eyes, which I probably inherit from my Spanish grandmother.’ Then he added, ‘ But my dear little wife must not worry herself about such absurdities. Listen, Eva. Before I asked you to marry, I told you of the one and only folly—it doesn’t deserve the name of romance—of my life. I fancied I had been deeply wounded, and that my wound was incurable. When I met you, and grew to love you, I discovered that only a scar remained, and, thanks to you and your affection, even that has now completely disappeared. Believe me, darling, I could never have asked you to join your bright young life to my gray hairs had there been any tragedy or remorseful memory connected with my past, or anything which an innocent girl like you would shrink from the knowledge of. As for ghosts and such like bogey visitors, I have never possessed sufficient imagination even to fancy I saw them, and I do not flatter myself by thinking that I am of sufficient importance in the woild for them to trouble what brains their ghostly state may allow them about me. Eraulein is a silly gushing young woman, like many of her sex , in all nations, and she is foolishly making a romance out of the fact that an elderly man has married a young wife, as she would have done

just the same had I been as young! a* you are, or even had you been as old 2 } aT ?' . fc fcrouble your pretty little head about it. You will see that she will get over it before your visit comes to an,end, and will very likelv be din. apppmted to find what a commonplace individual lam after all. ’ 1 ■

‘ Now, Bertram, tell us a! story ’ vy„ always make people tell us a story when they come to schoolroom tea, don’t w Praulein ?’ ’ atwe f ‘And Fraulein says she’s sure there s something romantic in y our ‘She didn’t say romantic, she said tragic, Gerry.’ ; ‘ Silence, children! I shall request Sir Bertram to go away if you do not behave properly.’ ‘ * ‘Well, you know you did say-so Fraulein; and you said— ’ ’ ‘Never mind now, Gerry, people often forget exactly what they’ve heard I’ll tell you a story if you like. What shall it be about ?’ ‘O, something won derful. Have you ever had any very great adventure V * Have you ever seen a ghost ?’ ‘ Did you ever kill a man ?’ ‘ Have you ever seen a murderer ?’ ‘ Stop, stop! I can’t answer all your questions at once. You must give me time to think. Now, let me see. I will tell you about what happened in the train as I was coming from Spain to Biarritz, where I first met Eva two years ago. ‘ I was leaving Seville by the ni«ht mail, which starts between eight and nine o’clock. I was early at the station, and having put my rugs and dressing-bag into a compartment, I walked up and down the platform, watching the arrivals, and wondering whether the train would be crowded or whether I should have enough room to lie down. 1 ‘ There happened to be very few passengers that night, and no one came to my compartment; but I saw some people arranging their goods and chattels in the next one, and when they came out I was at once struck by their appearance. They were a young couple, I imagine husband and wife. The man was what I suppose most persons would have called extremely handsome, but to my mind he possessed one of the most disagreeable faces I have ever seen—a very pale, almost sallow, complexion, with dark eyes and jet black hair, eyebrows which nearly met and were very strongly marked, and a hard cruel expression which, even when he smiled, gave him in my eyes the appearance of a fiend. * His companion, on the contrary," ' was fair and lovely, with a sweet sad face, and when he spoke angrily about something that had been left behind or misplaced she shrank from him and looked so frightened that I felt quite sorry for her, and began to weave a sensational story in my own mind about them and their doings. ‘ Well, we started, and I was left the sole occupant of my compartment; they, too, were alone in theirs. I smoked a cigar, and then drew the curtain over the light, rolled myself in a rug, and then went to sleep. How long I slept I know not, but I suddenly woke with* start, and a feeling as though something were amiss. Why or wherefore I cannot tell, but this eerie feeling came unbidden the recollection of the beautiful girl in the next compartment and her evil-looking companion. Perhaps I had been dreaming—l do not know —- but anyhow, the impression of , that some sinister agency was at work next door was so strong that I got up and > locked through the triangular piece of gliss which, as you know, is like a little window between the compartments in foreign railway-carriages. My fellow-travellers had, like myself, darkened the lamp, but there was just a glimmer of light from it in the carriage, and also a faint gleam from the moon outside. 1 could not distinguish things very cleai’ly at first, but could see that the girl was sitting with her back to me, just under the little window, and the man on the seat opposite. They appeared to be talking, and presently I saw the man, stoop down and apparently seek something on the floor, or perhaps in a bag at his feet. I watched him intently, having a firm though quite unaccountable conviction that something terrible was abouto take place. In a moment or two no raised himself, and I saw something glitter as he moved his hand; then ® bent forward close to her, and rais his arm. There was a momentary flash, and even above the rattle of . . train I heard a scream, and, saw 1 t I man fling himself upon the,, giri

the s irl , down Ji ll her 7 ° i W as horror-struck, and for a C seconds felt paralysed; but recovering tny wits, I turned and drew back the shade from the lamp in order to !Ll the directions for communicating 2th the guard. When I again looked through the window I saw—now shall t tell you what I saw, this evening! or =hall I wait till to-morrow morning, and tell you in the daylight V t jLch n noi7i Gotti 6s zst schreoTcnch! shuddered the Fraulein. ‘Well, when I turned round and looked again, I saw that they too had uncovered the lamp. The man was lighting a cigarette, having already lighted the girl’s, and they were both laughing merrily as she ruefully examined the hole burnt in her pretty frock by the head of the first match, which had flown off when he struck It! i There, that’s the nearest approach I can give you to any sensational episode in which I have been concerned. And wasn’t it lucky I didn’t call the guard and stop the train ?’ ■ i oh —h—h !’ chorused the children, while the Fraulein drew herself up with an air of injured dignity. ‘Bertram, you’re a darling! I shall never be uncomfortable about Fraulein any more. You did it beautifully; and the girls say that she is quite angry about it, and didn’t even scold them for talking slang when they called it a regular sell, and has been preaching upon the folly of judging by appearances ever since. You have come down with a crash from her pedestal, but mine has now grown so high that I shall soon want a telescope to see you at the top of it! I never knew you could tell a story so well.’ ‘Thank you, my dear. Another doubtful compliment!’—The World.