greet the guests, asked in a bewildered manner, “What was that? Where is Gilmore?”
But none of us, of course, could tell her. I shut the front door and we went into the parlor for tea. Once Victor was settled
in front of the parlor fire she asked him how he came to know the man, Mrs. Frazer's servant, but Victor professed as much
bewilderment as the rest of us and said that, inasmuch as he had observed the man in the doorway, whom he had taken to be
a carpenter employed from outside the household, he had no idea who he was.
“A mystery indeed,” Mrs. Downey remarked, pouring the tea. “Yet he knew your name, Victor. Is that not curious?” Lucy Feltham
persisted, but Mrs. Downey, seeing her guest to be uncomfortable and knowing him to be barely recovered from a serious illness,
capably turned the conversation in other directions and under her agreeable guidance the short visit passed off well. Victor,
though subdued, seemed in a little better spirits. Later we prevailed on Mrs. Downey, who played and sang charmingly, to entertain
us all.
Nevertheless, after our guests had taken themselves off, Mrs. Downey, having ascertained from the maid that Gilmore had not
returned, looked at me gravely and began to speculate about why he had run away. “My sister will be most upset if he does
not come back,” she said, “for he has been with her since boyhood. His father, an Orkney boatman, was drowned at sea when
Donald was twelve years old and as his mother was also dead the village sent him off to his only surviving relative, my sister's
butler. Mrs. Frazer found some work for him, helped, I believe, with his education, which was utterly lacking when he came,
and he has been with the household ever since.” And then each of us repeated the same thing to each other several times—I,
“How can it be that this young man who spent most of his time in the wilds of Scotland, could have come across Victor Frankenstein?”
and she, “Young Donald is the steadiest fellow in the world. What can have prompted such behavior?”
When Mrs. Frazer returned she was very astonished and put out by Gilmore's disappearance. She could not account for her servant's
recognizing Victor, or understand why the sight of him could have caused him such fear. Next day, we concluded, if the man
had not returned we must try to find him, but when we retired that night Gilmore had still not come back to the house.
However, the following morning at breakfast a maid reported she had earlier let the shivering Gilmore in, though, she added,
he had not been prepared to enter the house until she had assured him that the man he called “the doctor” was not inside.
“I would rather walk back to Scotland,” he had said.
I suggested we have the man up and ask him together what all this was about. Poor Gilmore, summoned, came into the room twisting
his hat in his hands. He was a short, stalwart, red-haired young man, ordinarily cheerful and good-humored, but less so now.
Mrs. Frazer opened the proceedings by telling him roundly he had behaved very badly in running off without permission and
staying out all night. She told him she knew him to be a most reliable and honest young man but did not understand what had
come into him. She could not have him running the city streets at night and very much required an explanation. He replied
without confidence, but respectfully, that she must forgive him—he could not give her the explanation she desired.
Mrs. Frazer's color rose. She had, she said, requested an explanation, now she demanded one. Gilmore looked at the carpet
and then met her eyes, “Madam—I cannot.”
Stirrups and reins were rapidly being lost. I saw Gilmore's dismissal by an angry mistress looming when he looked towards
me and appealed, “Sir,—it is a dreadful story unfit for the cars of ladies. This is why I cannot speak. It is a horrid tale
I have not told before, not even to my uncle
But none of us, of course, could tell her. I shut the front door and we went into the parlor for tea. Once Victor was settled
in front of the parlor fire she asked him how he came to know the man, Mrs. Frazer's servant, but Victor professed as much
bewilderment as the rest of us and said that, inasmuch as he had observed the man in the doorway, whom he had taken to be
a carpenter employed from outside the household, he had no idea who he was.
“A mystery indeed,” Mrs. Downey remarked, pouring the tea. “Yet he knew your name, Victor. Is that not curious?” Lucy Feltham
persisted, but Mrs. Downey, seeing her guest to be uncomfortable and knowing him to be barely recovered from a serious illness,
capably turned the conversation in other directions and under her agreeable guidance the short visit passed off well. Victor,
though subdued, seemed in a little better spirits. Later we prevailed on Mrs. Downey, who played and sang charmingly, to entertain
us all.
Nevertheless, after our guests had taken themselves off, Mrs. Downey, having ascertained from the maid that Gilmore had not
returned, looked at me gravely and began to speculate about why he had run away. “My sister will be most upset if he does
not come back,” she said, “for he has been with her since boyhood. His father, an Orkney boatman, was drowned at sea when
Donald was twelve years old and as his mother was also dead the village sent him off to his only surviving relative, my sister's
butler. Mrs. Frazer found some work for him, helped, I believe, with his education, which was utterly lacking when he came,
and he has been with the household ever since.” And then each of us repeated the same thing to each other several times—I,
“How can it be that this young man who spent most of his time in the wilds of Scotland, could have come across Victor Frankenstein?”
and she, “Young Donald is the steadiest fellow in the world. What can have prompted such behavior?”
When Mrs. Frazer returned she was very astonished and put out by Gilmore's disappearance. She could not account for her servant's
recognizing Victor, or understand why the sight of him could have caused him such fear. Next day, we concluded, if the man
had not returned we must try to find him, but when we retired that night Gilmore had still not come back to the house.
However, the following morning at breakfast a maid reported she had earlier let the shivering Gilmore in, though, she added,
he had not been prepared to enter the house until she had assured him that the man he called “the doctor” was not inside.
“I would rather walk back to Scotland,” he had said.
I suggested we have the man up and ask him together what all this was about. Poor Gilmore, summoned, came into the room twisting
his hat in his hands. He was a short, stalwart, red-haired young man, ordinarily cheerful and good-humored, but less so now.
Mrs. Frazer opened the proceedings by telling him roundly he had behaved very badly in running off without permission and
staying out all night. She told him she knew him to be a most reliable and honest young man but did not understand what had
come into him. She could not have him running the city streets at night and very much required an explanation. He replied
without confidence, but respectfully, that she must forgive him—he could not give her the explanation she desired.
Mrs. Frazer's color rose. She had, she said, requested an explanation, now she demanded one. Gilmore looked at the carpet
and then met her eyes, “Madam—I cannot.”
Stirrups and reins were rapidly being lost. I saw Gilmore's dismissal by an angry mistress looming when he looked towards
me and appealed, “Sir,—it is a dreadful story unfit for the cars of ladies. This is why I cannot speak. It is a horrid tale
I have not told before, not even to my uncle
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