A.V. Laider | Page 4

his request. He posted me to her the
day after his return to London. I looked forward to being torn open by
her. I was very sure she would wear me and my contents next to her
bosom. She was gone. She had left no address. She never returned. This
I tell you, and shall continue to tell you, not because I want any of your
callow sympathy,--no, THANK you!--but that you may judge how
much less than slight are the probabilities that you yourself--
But my reader has overheard these dialogues as often as I. He wants to
know what was odd about this particular letter-board before which I
was standing. At first glance I saw nothing odd about it. But presently I
distinguished a handwriting that was vaguely familiar. It was mine. I
stared, I wondered. There is always a slight shock in seeing an envelop
of one's own after it has gone through the post. It looks as if it had gone
through so much. But this was the first time I had ever seen an envelop
of mine eating its heart out in bondage on a letter-board. This was
outrageous. This was hardly to be believed. Sheer kindness had
impelled me to write to "A. V. Laider, Esq.," and this was the result! I
hadn't minded receiving no answer. Only now, indeed, did I remember
that I hadn't received one. In multitudinous London the memory of A.
V. Laider and his trouble had soon passed from my mind. But--well,
what a lesson not to go out of one's way to write to casual

acquaintances!
My envelop seemed not to recognize me as its writer. Its gaze was the
more piteous for being blank. Even so had I once been gazed at by a
dog that I had lost and, after many days, found in the Battersea Home.
"I don't know who you are, but, whoever you are, claim me, take me
out of this!" That was my dog's appeal. This was the appeal of my
envelop.
I raised my hand to the letter-board, meaning to effect a swift and
lawless rescue, but paused at sound of a footstep behind me. The old
waiter had come to tell me that my luncheon was ready. I followed him
out of the hall, not, however, without a bright glance across my
shoulder to reassure the little captive that I should come back.
I had the sharp appetite of the convalescent, and this the sea air had
whetted already to a finer edge. In touch with a dozen oysters, and with
stout, I soon shed away the unreasoning anger I had felt against A. V.
Laider. I became merely sorry for him that he had not received a letter
which might perhaps have comforted him. In touch with cutlets, I felt
how sorely he had needed comfort. And anon, by the big bright fireside
of that small dark smoking-room where, a year ago, on the last evening
of my stay here, he and I had at length spoken to each other, I reviewed
in detail the tragic experience he had told me; and I simply reveled in
reminiscent sympathy with him.
A. V. LAIDER--I had looked him up in the visitors'-book on the night
of his arrival. I myself had arrived the day before, and had been rather
sorry there was no one else staying here. A convalescent by the sea
likes to have some one to observe, to wonder about, at meal-time. I was
glad when, on my second evening, I found seated at the table opposite
to mine another guest. I was the gladder because he was just the right
kind of guest. He was enigmatic. By this I mean that he did not look
soldierly or financial or artistic or anything definite at all. He offered a
clean slate for speculation. And, thank heaven! he evidently wasn't
going to spoil the fun by engaging me in conversation later on. A
decently unsociable man, anxious to be left alone.

The heartiness of his appetite, in contrast with his extreme fragility of
aspect and limpness of demeanor, assured me that he, too, had just had
influenza. I liked him for that. Now and again our eyes met and were
instantly parted. We managed, as a rule, to observe each other
indirectly. I was sure it was not merely because he had been ill that he
looked interesting. Nor did it seem to me that a spiritual melancholy,
though I imagined him sad at the best of times, was his sole asset. I
conjectured that he was clever. I thought he might also be imaginative.
At first glance I had mistrusted him. A shock of white hair, combined
with a young face and dark eyebrows, does somehow make a man look
like