Moreton, the more he thought the matter over, grew surer and surer of the fact that he had discovered Reynolds, his long lost friend. They had been art students together in Paris, and had been companions in a rather wild eastern ramble during which some quite memorable adventures had befallen them. Finally they had separated, on account of a mild sort of quarrel over a sweetheart, Reynolds quitting the field most mysteriously, leaving Moreton free to press his suit, which at the last wholly failed. It does not matter here what was the extent or color of their disagreement, but it may be said that there was nothing violent or tragic in it. In fact it may all be summed up in the sentence: Reynolds disappeared; and so sudden and secret was his going that Moreton lost him quite as effectually as if he had died and been buried. Such a disappearance has in it an element of tragic mystery that burns into one's memory. Moreton really knew little of Reynolds, save that he was an American and a Southerner, a fascinating companion, and a genial, brave, liberal fellow. If their parting had been the ordinary one, such as must come at length to any traveling companions, perhaps a few months might have sufficed to obliterate all regrets connected with it. But the peculiar circumstances under which it had come about had served to fasten it with a rather fiery emphasis in Moreton's memory. He remembered Reynolds as a proud, peculiarly sensitive man, given to excess of sentiment, an extremist, running to great lengths of self-indulgence at times, and at other times a model of temperateness that bordered on utter self-denial. A man with a violent conscience, prone to brood over follies and indulge gloomy regret for sins about which most young men would unhesitatingly have made broad jokes, but yet a man given to unlimited pleasures. In person he was of noble proportions, quite a typical low-country Southerner, bearing in his high-bred face an air of fearlessness and obvious pride touched to a degree with something that suggested recklessness. He was reckless, indeed, now and again, always, however, suffering the extremest pangs of repentance after each lapse into excesses.
It had seemed to surprise Reynolds in the last degree when he discovered that Moreton had become his rival, and surprise had quickly blazed up into furious anger. For a time it had appeared as if there must be a fight, but before this could happen Reynolds controlled himself and the reaction came. Moreton appeared to be successful, and his rival, in a fit of gloom, disappeared from the scene. It is easy to understand how Moreton would be affected by such a turn of affairs, and when, a day or two after the events of the preceding chapter, Reynolds appeared at the hotel in Birmingham, the meeting was, of course, a very cordial one; for Moreton was in no mood to allow his friend any room to doubt his sincerity. He had not prospered with his suit after Reynolds' departure. Somehow he could not press it with that ardor which kept his heart on fire so long as a rival was in view. It may have been that the mystery of Reynolds' flight cast a damper on the feelings of the young lady as well as over his own spirit. It is even possible that in truth she preferred the impulsive, magnetic Southerner to the rather matter-of-fact Englishman. At all events, Moreton's wooing had languished with the ending of the rivalry, the young lady showing a decided willingness to have done with the affair on the shortest possible notice.
Such things may appear to conclude very easily and naturally, to the best satisfaction of those concerned; but usually a sting remains with one or more of the actors that time is slow to remove. Moreton had felt this sting from two sources. He had lost his friend, he had lost his sweetheart. His friendship had been deep and true, his passion for the girl had been strong, no matter if not rooted deeper than his fancy. At one point Conscience griped Moreton with bitter force: he had been ungrateful to Reynolds, who had not hesitated to risk his life for him in the most desperate exigency of his quite eventful career. And now Reynolds had added self-sacrifice to heroism.
So that it will be readily understood how Moreton easily fell into a state of mind that rendered him restless and self-accusing. His great wish that he might one day find his friend again, and in some way make reparation for the injury done him, was tinged with such sentimentality as the situation would naturally generate in a mind, which though quite practical and well-balanced, was somewhat given to visionary fancies.
They sat down to a good dinner, and, with due appreciation of its qualities, paused between its courses to let their conversation lightly circle around the point of their past trouble, without coming quite to it. Reynolds knew that Moreton was still a bachelor, he had caught this much from his friend's manner and talk. It flashed through his mind that, after all, he had, perhaps, done himself great wrong and Moreton no good by acting up to a standard of duty recognized by few men. But it was too late to consider the matter now. It was all over and the dead past must bury its dead. Besides, had he not long ago dashed aside the poor bauble he had once called love! The subject could not, would not be avoided, nevertheless, and when it had been reached and fully talked over, both felt relieved.
"She is married," said Moreton, "and is living in Florence. Her husband is Count somebody and she is an invalid, so I have heard."
"I give you my word, Moreton," responded Reynolds, after a moment's silence, "that I am sincerely glad she is married, and quite sorry that she has lost her superb health. Suppose we dismiss her forever from our minds and our lives."
"Done!" cried Moreton almost jocularly, extending his hand. "I have been deuced near proposing that for the last half hour. It takes a load off my breast and a cloud off my mind. Here's to a clear future, old fellow!"
He filled their glasses and they drank in a genial if not a jovial mood. It was a light way in which to dispose of so weighty a matter as this had once been considered by them; but then it is the tricksy summer breath that tranquilizes the sea after the tropic storm. They were both glad to unburden themselves of certain troublesome doubts as to the genuineness of the passion each had professed. This done, that episode in their lives seemed to remove itself to a vast distance in the dim past, so they fancied, and they dismissed it as a departed illusion of their youth. Moreton looked at his friend with more than the old admiration. Indeed Reynolds was a man of superb physique and his face was one to win men and charm women. With all his health and strength and what might be called weather-stain, there was in his dark gray eyes and in his low, rich voice, a suggestion of that nonchalance and indolence which have always been characteristic of the highest type of Southerners. Nearly six feet in stature, square shouldered, slender, compact, every inch an athlete, he gave one an idea of strength, both physical and mental, which needed to be roused into action.
"I think it deuced strange, don't you know, that I should have stumbled into your den here in the mountains," said Moreton. "It is like romance. They put such things in novels."