The Veiled Man by Ambrose Pratt — Read

The veiled man received the joyful tidings with an outburst of gladness so spontaneous and transparently sincere, that Cawthorne spent an hour thereafter remorsefully chiding himself because he was still unable in spite of all he could do, to reciprocate the warm affection that his cousin evidently entertained for him. As child and boy as well as man, it had been the same. True it was that ever since the dreadful night on which his cousin had saved his life, he had profoundly pitied him, respected him, even reverenced him, but he had not liked him. And yet they were friends, the truest, most intimate of friends. It was very strange. What could be the cause of the vague unconquerable antipathy that kept his heart sealed to the encroachment of the other's fondness.

For a long while he had been inclined to believe himself lacking in some part of the proper equipment of man. But when he began to mix with the world he was forced to abandon that theory. And he could now scarcely number the people whom he regarded warmly. Was it an instinct that prevented him liking the veiled man? He hated to think himself so foolishly unreasonable, and yet an instinct would explain the matter best. But if an instinct, what then? Surely that would argue some warp in his mind; for who but a mentally unbalanced person could help but love his kindest and most devoted benefactor, the man who had given up more than his life for his friend? Cawthorne was fighting an oft-fought battle anew, and the issue of the struggle seemed as bafflingly indeterminate as ever. He came to the old conclusion--the mystery was incapable of solution; and the old decision--he was utterly unworthy of the affection lavished upon him--an insensate clod, a cold-hearted ingrate! He could not find a grain of comfort in the memory of all the services he had rendered to his cousin. They should have been the spontaneous offerings of grateful love, and they had been consciously inspired by an always wakeful and calculating sense of duty. It seemed to him that he had wronged the other unforgivably even in the act of caring for his welfare, and the worst part of his shame consisted in the fact of his deceit. He had not been honest; to have told the veiled man that he did not like him was impossible, and it would have been cruel as well. But he had always acted in such a fashion as to induce his cousin to believe him fond, and it was a painful thing to think that if John Deen knew the truth he would probably have spurned his gifts and scorned his friendship.