My mother came in. For some moments I was busy protesting my health. But it was useless; it wasn't until I had partaken of a few of the old nostrums that I could placate her.
“Work, work, work, my boy,” said my father, “nothing but work. It really won't do. You're a shadow. You must take a vacation. Go to the mountains; forget your practice for a short time.”
I didn't tell them. Why should I? I decided right then it was my own battle. It was enough for me without casting the worry upon others. Yet I could not see Charlotte without calling on my parents.
As soon as possible I crossed the street to the Fentons'. Someone had seen me in town. Charlotte was waiting. She was the same beautiful girl I had known so long; the blue eyes, the blonde, wavy mass of hair, the laughing mouth and the gladness. But she was not glad now. It was almost a repetition of what had happened at home, only here a bit more personal. She clung to me almost in terror. I didn't realise I had gone down so much. I knew my weariness; but I hadn't thought my appearance so dejected. I remembered Watson. He had been wan, pale, forlorn. After what brief explanation I could give, I proposed a stroll in the moonlight.
It was a full moon; a wonderful night; we walked down the avenue under the elm trees. Charlotte was beautiful, and worried; she clung to my arm with the eagerness of possession. I could not but compare her with Nervina. There was a contrast; Charlotte was fresh, tender, affectionate, the girl of my boyhood. I had known her all my life; there was no doubt of our love.
Who was the other? She was something higher, out of mystery, out of life—almost—out of the moonbeams. I stopped and looked up. The great full orb was shining. I didn't know that I spoke.
“Harry,” asked Charlotte, “who is the Nervina?”
Had I spoken?
“What do you know about the Nervina?” I asked.
“She has been to see me. She told me. She said you would be here tonight. I was waiting. She is very beautiful. I never saw anyone like her. She is wonderful!”