Concerning Isabel Carnaby

by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler

"Did she seem very much ashamed?" he asked.

"Not at all. That was the most painful part of that most painful scene. The careless young thing was as callous as she was illiterate. She merely laughed, as if it were nothing more than a joke, and called my dear friend 'a silly boy'. It struck me, and it strikes me still, as a most unseemly epithet for any right-minded woman to apply to her husband, especially when he was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, and one of the greatest Greek scholars of his day."

"Where is your friend now?"

Miss Dallicot sighed. "I grieve to say that his earthly career was closed some years ago. His wife was taken first, and he survived her only for the space of a few months. Some persons, not intimately acquainted with the parties concerned, said that his death was due to sorrow for hers; but I think this statement must have been incorrect, as so uneducated and frivolous a woman could never have been a thoroughly congenial companion to so erudite and wise a man. Therefore I conjecture that the approximation in the respective dates of his and her demise was merely a coincidence."

Paul did not feel so sure of this; he could imagine that a world depopulated of Isabel would be quite too desolate for human habitation. But all he said was: "It is an interesting little story."

So it was; but the interesting part of it was the part that poor little Miss Dallicot was incapable of seeing. People who tell us a story often tell far more than they intend, and, in fact, far more than they themselves know. They open the door that we may have a peep into their back-garden, and they have no idea that to us that peep includes a distant and extensive view, which their shortsighted eyes have never beheld.

"My friend was a most fascinating individual," continued Miss Drusilla dreamily, "endowed with unusual natural gifts, which were perfected by most assiduous study. He was withal the most modest man I have ever met. In person, my dear Paul, you strongly resemble him; it seems, perchance, strange for so trifling a detail to remain in one's mind for a period of over forty years, yet I can still vividly recall the colour of his hair, which was precisely of the same shade as yours."

Then Paul said good-bye to the little spinster, as she was growing too tired to talk any more. And he never saw her again.

A fortnight after his visit to Chayford Miss Drusilla died, and when her will came to be read it was found that she had left her entire fortune—amounting to some thirty thousand pounds—to Paul Seaton.