THE DEADLY AFFINITY.
A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.
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CHAPTER III. NIGHT AND DAWN.
A few days after my interview with Doctor Walstein and his daughter, I learned from Holdsworth that they had left London for their house in Wales. This did not surprise me, as I had expected their departure; but I thought it rather strange that the doctor had neither written nor sent any message to me. If Fred had ever been really smitten with the charms of Minna Walstein, he was no longer so. I think that he could never get over the idea that she was deeply versed in chemical science. At all events, he never blushed now when her name was mentioned, and he had even the temerity to taunt me with having a penchant in that direction myself. Notwithstanding my energetic denials, he persisted in his assertions, so that I could almost have been angry, if it had not been for his constant good humour.
Very gradually there came over me a peculiar feeling, for which I tried vainly to account. I had only seen Minna Walstein on two occasions; but both these interviews were associated in my mind with that strange, subtle perfume of geranium leaves. At first, when I began to allow my recollection to dwell upon this scent, I thought of it with dislike. Very gradually, however, this feeling wore away, and I began to think of it with a strange unrest, and at last with a fierce sort of pleasure. I dreamt of it at night; I seemed to inhale with it a vital atmosphere, necessary for my existence. I soon lost all interest in my studies, and longed to be alone, so that I could let loose the reins of imagination and fancy. I became more and more reserved, and my mind became more morbid every day.
Every one with whom I met noticed an alteration in my appearance, and I could see that Fred Holdsworth was very solicitous about my health. But I was impatient at all notice, and preferred being left alone to my thoughts. On one occasion, however, he made a remark that called up a vague apprehension, since it corroborated a mysterious sensation which I had lately experienced. After telling me how pale and thin I looked, he said that there was a peculiar expression in my eyes,—a sort of glittering, that reminded him of Doctor Walstein. The same idea had occurred to me of late, when looking at the mirror; but the glittering somehow reminded me more of the eyes of Minna Walstein. He saw by my manner that I was annoyed, and did not allude to the subject again; but I could not forget it: and this new fancy, added to my morbid thoughts concerning the perfume, harassed me almost beyond endurance. A longing to breathe once more that scented atmosphere took possession of me; it seemed now an absolute necessity