The Impostor by Edgar Saltus

From mingling faces; from forms and features that appeared, disappeared, reappeared; from these and from tumults of farewells, Camille awoke.

Through the open window, she could see the sky, an unprecised gray that hesitantly would become blue, bluer, still bluer. As yet it was gray. It must be very early, she thought. Then at once she remembered. Mike was dead.

The fact stood out and hurt her. Over it, the night before, she had cried a little. Now again her eyes were wet.

During his mysterious absence, she had missed him, though not poignantly nor yet impatiently, for she had felt that he must return. Now he never could, and when he had been with her, she had treated him like a dog that is overattentive and therefore in the way. She wished that she had been less hard with him. His appearance had been distressing, but custom had so familiarized her with it that she had accepted it, as one may get to accept a rhinoceros in the back yard, provided the brute is there long enough.

She dried her eyes and, in a sort of retrograde vision, reviewed the incidents of the night before -- Glendenning's effort to show that if Mike were not a criminal, he would have returned; then the news of his death, the eclipse of Glendenning, and the brief afterwhile, during which she had learned from Revell what little there was to know.

That little, now that she reviewed it, seemed, like the sky, unprecised. Like the sky, there were voids in it, great stretches of nothing over which silence was spread. But then, in ten minutes, who can be exhaustive? And had there been as many as ten? Five, perhaps; six at most. Yet, during them, she had realized that, in addition to the appearance of this man, who looked as if he had stepped from a canvas signed "Murillo" -- some canvas that pictured a young grandee -- she realized that, in addition to this, which in itself is surely a lot, she liked the man himself. With the stranger, she had felt at home. This man, whom she had never seen before, had made her want to see him again. It was very extraordinary.

Love at first sight always is. Of the presence of that psychosis she was unaware. If she had been and had been cross-questioned regarding it, she certainly would not have blushed herself to death, but quite as certainly she would have lied. She had no Victorian ideals, but she knew what is nice and what is not and that, perhaps, is better.

Meanwhile, the sky had deepened. Through the window came the radiance of the April day. Later, when, in breeches and boots, she had breakfasted and was about to go for a run, Glendenning was announced.

Camille made a face. But, accepting the situation, she went into the drawing room where he stood, and where, for a superior young man, he looked very ugly.

"See here, Camille," he at once threw at her. "Did that chap tell you how he did for Mike?"

Camille flicked with her crop at her boots.

"What chap?"

"Don't beat about the bush. You know perfectly well that I mean Revell."

"Oh," said Camille slowly. "Mr. Revell, is it? Well, no, he didn't say anything at all about himself -- which is more than I can say for some people."

Glendenning caught it and tossed it back.

"Some people, at least, are honest."

Camille twirled her crop.

"Last night Mike was an outlaw. Now I suppose Mr. Revell is a cutthroat. Why, what is the matter with you, Arthur?"

Glendenning snorted.

"Matter? Matter enough! The matter is that we have got to fight him. He told you, didn't he?"