I soon discovered that he was, I may say, afflicted by a peculiarly sensitive nature. Although strong and apparently in good health, the very changes of the weather seemed to affect him almost to the same extent as they affect a flower. Sweet as his disposition always was, the tone of his mind, his spirits, his conversation, varied, as it were, with the atmosphere. He was full of imagination, and that imagination, always rich, was at times weird, even grotesquely weird. Not for one moment did he seem to doubt the stability of the wild theories he started, or the possibility of the poetical dreams he dreamed being realized. He had his faults, of course; he was hasty and impulsive; indeed to me one of the greatest charms about the boy was that, right or wrong, each word he spoke came straight from his heart.
So far as I could judge, the whole organization of his mind was too highly strung, too finely wrought for every-day use. A note of joy, of sorrow, even of pity vibrated through it too strongly for his comfort or well-being. As yet it had not been called upon to bear the test of love, and fortunately—I use the word advisedly—fortunately he was not, according to the usual significance of the word, a religious man, or I should have thought it not unlikely that some day he would fall a victim to that religious mania so well known to my professional brethren, and have developed hysteria or melancholia. He might even have fancied himself a messenger sent from heaven for the regeneration of mankind. From natures like Carriston’s are prophets made.
In short, I may say that my exhaustive study of my new friend’s character resulted in a certain amount of uneasiness as to his future—an uneasiness not entirely free from professional curiosity.
Although the smile came readily and frequently to his lips, the general bent of his disposition was sad, even despondent and morbid. And yet few young men’s lives promised to be so pleasant as Charles Carriston’s.
I was rallying him one day on his future rank and its responsibilities.
“You will, of course, be disgustingly rich?” I said.
Carriston sighed. “Yes, if I live long enough; but I don’t suppose I shall.”
“Why in the world shouldn’t you? You look pale and thin, but are in capital health. Twelve long miles we have walked to-day—you never turned a hair.”
Carriston made no reply. He seemed in deep thought.