He smiled--a little mechanically, I thought. 'It is very delicate of you,' said he, 'but quite need-less. Really, this is the only room in the tower, and no one is there. At least--' He left the sentence incomplete, rose, and threw up a window, the only opening in the wall from which the sound seemed to come. 'See.'
Not clearly knowing what else to do I followed him to the window and looked out. A street-lamp some little distance away gave enough light through the murk of the rain that was again falling in tor-rents to make it entirely plain that 'no one was there.' In truth there was nothing but the sheer blank wall of the tower.
Dampier closed the window and signing me to my seat resumed his own.
The incident was not in itself particularly mys-terious; any one of a dozen explanations was pos-sible (though none has occurred to me), yet it im-pressed me strangely, the more, perhaps, from my friend's effort to reassure me, which seemed to dig-nify it with a certain significance and importance.
He had proved that no one was there, but in that fact lay all the interest; and he proffered no explana-tion. His silence was irritating and made me resentful.
'My good friend,' I said, somewhat ironically, Ifear, 'I am not disposed to question your right to harbour as many spooks as you find agreeable to your taste and consistent with your notions of com-panionship; that is no business of mine. But being just a plain man of affairs, mostly of this world, Ifind spooks needless to my peace and comfort. I am going to my hotel, where my fellow-guests are still in the flesh.'
It was not a very civil speech, but he manifested no feeling about it. 'Kindly remain,' he said. 'I am grateful for your presence here. What you have heard to-night I believe myself to have heard twice before. Now I know it was no illusion. That is much to me--more than you know. Have a fresh cigar and a good stock of patience while I tell you the story.'
The rain was now falling more steadily, with a low, monotonous susurration, interrupted at long intervals by the sudden slashing of the boughs of the trees as the wind rose and failed. The night was well advanced, but both sympathy and curiosity held me a willing listener to my friend's monologue, which I did not interrupt by a single word from be-ginning to end.
'Ten years ago,' he said, 'I occupied a ground-floor apartment in one of a row of houses, all alike, away at the other end of the town, on what we call Rincon Hill. This had been the best quarter of San Francisco, but had fallen into neglect and decay, partly because the primitive character of its domes-tic architecture no longer suited the maturing tastes of our wealthy citizens, partly because certain pub-lic improvements had made a wreck of it. The row of dwellings in one of which I lived stood a little way back from the street, each having a miniature garden, separated from its neighbours by low iron fences and bisected with mathematical precision by a box-bordered gravel walk from gate to door.
'One morning as I was leaving my lodging I ob-served a young girl entering the adjoining garden on the left. It was a warm day in June, and she was lightly gowned in white. From her shoulders hung a broad straw hat profusely decorated with flowers and wonderfully beribboned in the fashion of the time. My attention was not long held by the exqui-site simplicity of her costume, for no one could look at her face and think of anything earthly. Do not fear; I shall not profane it by description; it was beautiful exceedingly. All that I had ever seen or dreamed of loveliness was in that matchless living picture by the hand of the Divine Artist. So deeply did it move me that, without a thought of the im-propriety of the act, I unconsciously bared my head, as a devout Catholic or well-bred Protestant un-covers before an image of the Blessed Virgin. The maiden showed no displeasure; she merely turned her glorious dark eyes upon me with a look that made me catch my breath, and without other recog-nition of my act passed into the house. For a moment I stood motionless, hat in hand, painfully conscious of my rudeness, yet so dominated by the emotion inspired by that vision of incomparable beauty that my penitence was less poignant than it should have been. Then I went my way, leaving my heart behind. In the natural course of things I should probably have remained away until nightfall, but by the middle of the afternoon I was back in the little garden, affecting an interest in the few foolish flowers that I had never before observed. My hope was vain; she did not appear.
'To a night of unrest succeeded a day of expec-tation and disappointment, but on the day after, as I wandered aimlessly about the neighbourhood, Imet her. Of course I did not repeat my folly of un-covering, nor venture by even so much as too long a look to manifest an interest in her; yet my heart was beating audibly. I trembled and consciously coloured as she turned her big black eyes upon me with a look of obvious recognition entirely devoid of boldness or coquetry.
'I will not weary you with particulars; many times afterward I met the maiden, yet never either addressed her or sought to fix her attention. Nor did I take any action toward making her acquaintance.
Perhaps my forbearance, requiring so supreme an effort of self-denial, will not be entirely clear to you.
That I was heels over head in love is true, but who can overcome his habit of thought, or reconstruct his character?
