CHAPTER VI.
A LOVE CHAPTER.
SIX months had passed. To me it was one of the most eventful periods of my life. I had gone in for my degree. My honours were not so high as I had once hoped for, as my Paris adventure had thrown my reading back terribly. I took a second, however, and found some of the brilliant and fresh thoughts of my mysterious friend of value to me in the examination. "We have had to examine you for a first class, for some of your answers were so remarkable," said one of the examiners to me afterwards. "Where did you read these extraordinary ideas?"
"I never read them," I said, "I only heard them from a very singular and eccentric genius whom I met in Paris. I think they seemed true, though where he got them I cannot say.
****
After leaving Oxford, I went as private tutor to a young man called William Richardson, the son of a rich shoddy plutocrat, of Manchester, who wished his son to go, under an Oxford tutor, on a tour through Europe. As I knew France fairly already I was especially fit for this kind of work. Our tour, however, extended beyond France into Switzerland and Germany. We went to Strasburg, thence into the Schwarz Wald, where we took a charming walking tour for a few days. We took train at Freiburg for Bâle, whence we walked through the region of the Juras to Berne.
At Berne we met a charming family, a father, mother, and daughter,—the Christophersons—to whom I had introductions from some college friends. I found Mr. Christopherson a most agreeable acquaintance, and one who especially suited my tone of mind. We often took excursions in the mountains together with young Richardson, sometimes in the company of the two ladies, who drew out very pleasantly the intelligence of my young charge. I must say I was, at first, somewhat jealous of the notice Miss Christopherson took in Richardson, but I soon saw that she merely patronised the raw lad, whom I think she rather despised than admired, though, in kind good-temper, she sometimes brought him out.
Those walks and rides round Berne—in the sight of the glorious snowy Alps, or by the brawling Aar—I never shall forget. They are among the brightest parts of my life. Several times I referred to my mysterious friend and deliverer, Posela, from whom I had not received any letter or communication since he had left for America.
"I so wish you could meet him," I said one day, as we were walking on the hills near Berne, to Maud Christopherson. "Perhaps you could find out his mystery. They say ladies are sharper in detecting secrets than men are."
"I should, indeed," said Maud, "like to make the acquaintance of your mysterious friend. A man who can pass a friend out of Paris in the midst of the siege through the Prussian lines,—who has such wonderful powers of putting people to sleep when be wants,—who is so learned on every subject and yet so young,—such an admirable Crichton, who never will tell anything about his nation, or origin, is indeed a curious person worth meeting. I rather like eccentric people. Your friend seems like Joseph Balsamo of Dumas' novel; but I hope he is not such a rascal."
"No; I am almost sure, mysterious though he is, that he is no rascal. He seems religious in his way; though what his religion is I cannot detect. He speaks most reverently of every phase of Christianity, and appears in conduct to be quite consistent. His manner at St, Anselm's church was most devout, and as for the fashionable scepticism of the age he always spoke of it with ineffable contempt, as even more silly than wicked; for, again and again, he urged to me that piety was true wisdom."
"Perhaps he is a hypocrite," said Mr. Christopherson, breaking in on our talk. "I do not like these mysterious folk. He may be a Nihilist, or head-centre of the Fenians, or some such dreadful thing."
So we often talked over Posela, and the more I spoke the more the ladies seemed—excited by curiosity—to wish to meet this strange being, so different from everybody else.
****
One morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found a letter in a strange, but fine, hand on my table, addressed on from my college at Oxford. It bore the Bombay postmark. I broke the seal, and was both surprised and pleased to read the following:—
"Dear Hamilton,—I expect to be at Berlin at the entry of the Prussian troops in triumph, If you should be there, I should be glad to meet you. I shall be in the Unter den Linden, on the left side of the Brandenburg Gate. May God be with you.
I showed this strange epistle to the Christophersons. The ladies were charmed.
"Do let us go to Berlin," said Maud. "I should so like to see the entry of the Prussian troops. It will be a sight we can never see again. It will be seeing a great historical event, to be talked of ever after."
Although I suspect that the charm of the Prussian entry was only a part of their reason (for they had never talked of this long journey to Berlin before), yet their entreaties were so earnest that Mr. Christopherson yielded, and together we proceeded through Germany to Berlin, just reaching there the day before the triumphant entry.
****
I need not attempt to describe this splendid military spectacle, so often told by abler pens. Suffice it to say that it exceeded our expectations. We took our stand close to the Brandenburg Gate. The crowd was so dense that it seemed like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay to look for Posela there; but, as the Guards swept past in serried array, on lifting my eyes to a tree, I noticed there my singular, eccentric friend. He saw me also, and made a sign of recognition. Keeping my eyes fixed on him, I noticed, before the procession ended, that he let himself down, and was lost in the crowd. We remained where we were, and in a few minutes Posela elbowed his way to my side.
"I thought I should meet you here, although the crowd was so great. I am glad we have found each other."
"So am I," I said. "Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Christopherson. Come and dine with us at our hotel—the Hôtel de l'Europe."
Posela accepted, and we hurried through the crowd to the hotel. At dinner I put many questions to him about his journey. He had been round the world, and seemed to have seen everything. He had been in California, Peru, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, China, India, and Egypt. He had climbed Chimborazo and several Mexican mountains. He had sailed up the Hoang-ho and Yang-tze Kiang. He had visited Siberia, and had scaled the giant mountains Everest and Dwahghiri. At first, evidently, Mr. Christopherson was not agreeably struck by him. I saw that, as a man of the world, he suspected Posela of boastfulness and untruthfulness. In fact, he evidently did not believe he could have been in all these places, especially in so short a time. As for Mrs. Christopherson, she was certainly amused, and somewhat pleased to have a chat with so great a traveller. Our conversation naturally turned to the pageant of the day. I asked Posela what he thought of it.
"I never saw anything like it of the kind before. I do not admire it, for, as you know, I do not like war. And yet courage and endurance are virtues, and, perhaps, such pageants are needed to encourage men to be brave and enduring."
We stayed till late in the evening talking over many matters. As before,—indeed, more than ever,—I was struck with Posela's varied information, the freshness of his thoughts, his brilliancy, depth, and acumen. Many of the ideas he expressed I had never heard before.
"Will you give me a recommendation to some friend of yours in England," said Posela, "who is living in a country place? I want to have a little rest in quiet."
"Oh, yes. I am sure S, one of the fellows of my college, who is now Vicar of Trehyndra, in Cornwall, would be glad to know you. We often talked of you at Oxford, and he wishes much to make your acquaintance."
I wrote him a letter of introduction, which he took.
****
"What do you think of Posela?" I asked of Maud next morning.
"I do not altogether like him sometimes, and yet I think he ought to be liked. There is a something uncanny about him. Sometimes, really—do not laugh—he hardly seems like a human being at all. His eyes are so wonderful and uncanny, his voice so singular,—his marvellous learning,—his apparent youth. Really, he seems like the 'Wandering Jew ' or the 'Flying Dutchman,' or something else supernatural. I feel quite afraid of him."