An Unknown Friend
When Yee Kee announced lunch, the artist, the novelist, and the dog were settled in their new home. In the afternoon, the painter spent an hour or two fussing over portfolios of old sketches, in his studio; while Conrad Lagrange and Czar lounged on the front porch.
Once, the dog rose quietly, and, walking sedately to the edge of the porch toward the west, stood for some minutes gazing intently into the dark green mass of the orange grave. At last, as if concluding that whatever it was it was all right, he went calmly back to his place beside the novelist's chair.
"Do you know,"--said the artist, as they sat on the porch that evening, with their after-dinner pipes,--"I believe this old place is haunted."
"If it isn't, it ought to be," answered the other, contentedly--playing with Czar's silky ears. "A good ghost would fit in nicely here, wouldn't it--or he, or she. Its spookship would travel far to find a more delightful place for spooking in, and--providing, of course, she were a perfectly respectable hant--what a charming addition to our family he would make. When it was weary of moping and mowing and sobbing and wailing and gibbering, she could curl up at the foot of your bed and sleep; as Czar, here, curls up and sleeps at the foot of mine. A good ghost, you know--if he becomes really attached to you--is as constant and faithful and affectionate and companionable as a good dog."
"B-r-r-r," said the artist. And Czar turned to look at him, questioningly.
"All the same"--the painter continued--"when I was out there in the studio, I could feel some one watching me--you know the feeling."
Conrad Lagrange returned mockingly, "I trust your over-sensitive, artistic temperament is not to be so influenced by our ghostly visitor that you will be unfitted for your work."
The other laughed. Then he said seriously, "Joking aside, Lagrange, I feel a presentiment--I can't put it into words--but--I feel that I am going to begin the real work of my life right here. I"--he hesitated--"it seems to me that I can sense some influence that I can't define--it's the mystery of the rose garden, perhaps," he finished with another short laugh.
The man, who, in the eyes of the world, had won so large a measure of the success that his friend desired; and whose life was so embittered by the things for which he was envied by many; made no reply other than his slow, twisted smile.