A Strange Discovery | Page 8

lives of thousands," must abstract, as
best he might, a few minutes from the onerous duties entailed by the
exacting wishes of his many invalid patrons.
Later in the day, I made arrangements for a little luncheon to be served
that evening in my rooms. There was something about this Bainbridge
that impelled me to know him better. I had already made up my mind
that I should like him: his were those clear blue eyes that calmly
seemed to understand the world around--truth-loving eyes. He had to
my mind the appearance of a person with large capacity for physical
pleasure, yet that of one who possessed complete control over every
like and dislike of his being. I at first took him to be extremely reticent;
but later I learned, that, when the proper chord of sympathy was
touched, he responded in perfect torrents of spoken confidence. So I
that evening sat in the larger of my rooms--my "sitting-room"--in
momentary expectation of the arrival of one or both of my invited
guests.

The THIRD

Chapter
The hour was about eight. I had written a letter or two after our six
o'clock supper, and was now idle. By my side, in the centre of the room,
stood a table on which lay several periodicals--monthly and weekly,

English and American--a newspaper or two, and a few books. A rap
came at my door, and on opening it I found Doctor Bainbridge standing
in the hallway. He wore a black "Prince Albert" coat, a high silk hat,
and, the evening having blown-up chilly, a summer overcoat. I received
him perhaps a little more warmly than was in the best of taste,
considering that we had not before exchanged more than a dozen words.
But I had, as I have said, frequently seen him from my window; he was
almost as much of a stranger in the town as was I, and I received him
cordially because my feelings were really cordial. I assisted him to
remove his coat, and in other ways did all in my power to make him
comfortable. He was of slightly more than medium height, of rather
delicate build, with a fair, almost colorless complexion. His movements,
his language, his attire, indicated the gentleman--this I should have
conceded him in my club at home, or in my own drawing-room, quite
as readily as here, alone, in an obscure hotel in the State of Illinois. As
we sat conversing, I was much surprised to find in him a considerable
degree of culture. He seemed to possess that particular air which we are
accustomed to think, and generally with reason, is not to be found apart
from a familiarity with metropolitan life on its highest plane. I did not
on that evening, nor did I later, think him thoroughly schooled, except
in his profession. He was, however, fairly well educated, and his
opinions seemed to me from my own stand-point to be sound. I had
observed, in a history of the county just from the press, which lay on a
table in the office of the hotel, that in 1869 he had been graduated from
an educational institution somewhere in Pennsylvania; and, in 1873,
from the Medical Department of Columbia University. Later, I learned
from himself, that, from the age of seven to the age of eleven, he had
been instructed at home by a sister who was some nine or ten years his
senior.
I seated him with the large centre-table between us, and immediately
opened the conversation on some topic of local interest. It is probable
that of the many persons whom I know and continue to like, that I liked
nine out of ten of them from our first meeting. Doctor Bainbridge had
not been long in my presence before I knew that my first impressions
of him were not deceptive; and I felt that his impression of myself was
certainly not unfavorable.

It appeared to me as we talked through the evening, that he had read
about all that I had read, and much besides. He talked of English and
French history with minute familiarity. Not only had he read English,
French, and German literature, with such Spanish, Russian, and Italian
works as had been translated into English; but he shamed me with the
thoroughness of his knowledge of Scott, Dickens, Bulwer, Thackeray,
and others of our best writers of fiction. Goethe he particularly admired.
Of Cervantes he thought with the rest of us: He had read "Don
Quixote," for the first time, when he was eighteen, and during a severe
illness accompanied with intense melancholia; and he had laughed
himself out of bed, and out of his melancholy. "Don Quixote" was, he
said, the only book which he had ever read in solitude--that is, read to
himself--which