Morton, upon this, grew so restless, that he could not refrain from going to the railroad station, a little before the train was to come in. And here his worst fear was realized; for he beheld, slowly pacing along the platform, the hated form of Horace Vinal. Morton retreated unseen, went into a neighboring hotel, and seated himself, a little withdrawn from a window, where he could see all that passed. The train arrived; and soon after Vinal appeared, conducting Miss Leslie to a carriage, with an air, as Morton thought, of the most anxious devotion. He grasped his walking stick, and burned with a feverish longing to break it across his rival's back.
He saw Miss Leslie on the next day, and thus added fuel to a flame which already burned high enough. In short, he found himself in that most profoundly serious and profoundly ridiculous of all conditions, the condition of being over head and ears in love,—and his zeal for science was merged utterly in a more engrossing devotion. By one means or another, he contrived to keep pace with the course of things at Matherton, and learned from day to day that Mrs. Leslie was worse,—that she seemed to revive a little,—that she was on the point of death,—that she was dead. By the time this sad climax was reached, he had been starving a fortnight from the sight of his mistress, having the consolation to know that meantime his rival had made at least four visits to Matherton.
One morning Morton was pacing the street in an abstracted mood, his looks bent on the bricks, when, chancing to look up, he saw those very eyes which his fancy had been that moment picturing, employed in guiding their owner's steps over a crossing towards him. As Edith Leslie stepped upon the sidewalk, she saw him for the first time. He bowed, joined her, spoke a few bungling words of condolence, and walked on at her side. After the fashion of those who are peculiarly anxious to appear at their best advantage, he appeared at his worst. And when his companion bade him good morning on the steps of her father's house, she left him in a most unenviable mood, muttering maledictions against himself and his fate, and brought, indeed, to the borders of despair. This depression, however, was not long in producing its reaction, under the influence of which, adopting his usual panacea against mental ailments, he mounted his horse, and spurred into the country.
Here, about sunset, he beheld a horseman, slowly pacing along the road in front. On this, he drew rein, and began to look about him for the means of escape; for in the person of the rider he recognized his classmate Wren, to whose society he was far from partial. Neither lane nor by-road was to be seen.
"At the worst," he thought, "it is but a mile or two;" and, setting forward at a trot again, he was in a moment at his classmate's side.
"How are you, Wren?"
"Ah, Morton, good evening," exclaimed Wren, with a graceful wave of his hand. "I'm delighted to see you. A charming evening—isn't it?"
"Charming."
"That's a fine horse you have."
"Tolerably good."