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diff --git a/40312-8.txt b/40312-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index dad9113..0000000 --- a/40312-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6006 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Intoxicated Ghost, by Arlo Bates - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Intoxicated Ghost - and other stories - -Author: Arlo Bates - -Release Date: July 24, 2012 [EBook #40312] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INTOXICATED GHOST *** - - - - -Produced by sp1nd, eagkw and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - THE INTOXICATED GHOST - - - - - THE INTOXICATED GHOST - AND OTHER STORIES - - BY - ARLO BATES - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY - The Riverside Press, Cambridge - 1908 - - - - - COPYRIGHT 1908 BY ARLO BATES - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - _Published April 1908_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - The Intoxicated Ghost 1 - A Problem in Portraiture 43 - The Knitters in the Sun 85 - A Comedy in Crape 117 - A Meeting of the Psychical Club 145 - Tim Calligan's Grave-Money 177 - Miss Gaylord and Jenny 207 - Dr. Polnitzski 249 - In the Virginia Room 277 - - - - - THE INTOXICATED GHOST - AND OTHER STORIES - - - - -THE INTOXICATED GHOST - - -I - -It was not her beauty which made Irene Gaspic unusual, although she was -bewitchingly pretty; nor yet her wit, her cleverness, or her wealth, -albeit she was well endowed with all these good gifts: other girls were -pretty, and wise, and witty, and rich. It was something far more piquant -and rare which marked Irene as different from her mates, the fact being -that from her great-aunt on the mother's side, an old lady who for -nearly ninety years displayed to her fellow-mortals one of the most -singular characters possible, Irene had inherited the power of seeing -ghosts. - -It is so generally regarded as a weakness even to believe in disembodied -spirits that in justice to Irene it is but fair to remark that she -believed in them only because she could not help seeing them, and that -the power with which she was endowed had come to her by inheritance -quite without any wish on her part. Any fair-minded person must perceive -the difference between seeing ghosts because one is so foolish as to -believe in them, and believing in their existence because one cannot -help seeing them. It might be added, moreover, that the firmness which -Miss Gaspic had displayed when visited by some of the most unpleasant -wraiths in the whole category should be allowed to tell in her favor. -When she was approached during a visit to Castle Doddyfoethghw--where, -as every traveler in Wales is aware, is to be found the most ghostly -phantom in the three kingdoms--by a gory figure literally streaming with -blood, and carrying its mangled head in its hands, she merely remarked -coldly: "Go away at once, please. You do not alarm me in the least; -but to come into the presence of a lady in such a state of unpleasant -dismemberment is in shockingly bad taste." Whereat the poor wraith fell -all along the ground in astonishment and alarm, leaving a stain of -blood upon the stone floor, which may be seen to this day by any one -who doubts the tale enough to go to Castle Doddyfoethghw to see. - -Although Irene seldom referred to her inheritance, and professed, when -she did speak of it, to feel a lively indignation that her aunt Eunice -Mariamne should have thrust upon her such a bequest, she was too -thoroughly human and feminine to lack wholly a secret pride that she -should be distinguished by a gift so unusual. She had too good taste -openly to talk of it, yet she had not the firmness entirely to conceal -it; and her friends were pretty generally aware of the legacy and -of many circumstances resulting from its possession. Some few of -her intimates, indeed, had ventured to employ her good offices in -communicating with family wraiths; and although Irene was averse to -anything which savored so strongly of mediumship and other vulgar -trades, she could not but be pleased at the excellent results which -had followed her mediations in several instances. - -When, therefore, she one day received a note from her old school friend -Fanny McHugh, inviting her to come down to visit her at Oldtower, with -the mysterious remark, "I not only long to see you, dear, but there is -something most important that you can do for me, and nobody but you," -Irene at once remembered that the McHughs had a family ghost, and was -convinced that she was invited, so to say, in her professional capacity. - -She was, however, by no means averse to going, and that for several -reasons. The McHugh estate was a beautiful old place in one of the -loveliest of New England villages, where the family had been in the -ascendancy since pre-Revolutionary days; Irene was sufficiently fond of -Fanny; and she was well aware, in virtue of that intuition which enables -women to know so many things, that her friend's brother, Arthur McHugh, -would be at home at the time named for the visit. Irene and Lieutenant -Arthur McHugh had been so much to each other at one time that they had -been to the very verge of a formal engagement, when at the last moment -he drew back. There was no doubt of his affection, but he was restrained -from asking Irene to share his fortunes by the unpleasant though timely -remembrance that he had none. The family wealth, once princely for the -country and time, had dwindled until little remained save the ancestral -mansion and the beautiful but unremunerative lawns surrounding it. - -Of course this conduct upon the part of Lieutenant McHugh was precisely -that which most surely fixed him in the heart of Irene. The lover who -continues to love, but unselfishly renounces, is hardly likely to be -forgotten; and it is to be presumed that it was with more thought of the -young and handsome lieutenant in flesh and blood than of the Continental -major in ghostly attenuation who lurked in the haunted chamber that Miss -Gaspic accepted the invitation to Oldtower. - - -II - -Oldtower stands in a wild and beautiful village, left on one side by -modern travel, which has turned away from the turnpike of the fathers to -follow the more direct route of the rail. The estate extends for some -distance along the bank of the river, which so twists in its windings -as almost to make the village an island, and on a knoll overlooking -the stream moulders the crumbling pile of stone which once was a -watch-tower, and from which the place takes its name. - -The house is one of the finest of old colonial mansions, and is -beautifully placed upon a terrace half a dozen feet above the level of -the ample lawn which surrounds it. Back of the house a trim garden with -box hedges as high as the gardener's knee extends down to the river, -while in front a lofty hedge shuts off the grounds from the village -street. Miss Fanny, upon whom had largely devolved the care of the -estate since the death of her widowed mother, had had the good sense -to confine her efforts to keeping things in good order in the simplest -possible way; and the result was that such defects of management as were -rendered inevitable by the smallness in income presented themselves to -the eye rather as evidences of mellowness than of decay, and the general -effect remained most charming. - -Irene had always been fond of the McHugh place, and everything was in -the perfection of its June fairness when she arrived. Her meeting with -Fanny was properly effusive, while Arthur gratified her feminine sense -by greeting her with outward calmness while he allowed his old passion -to appear in his eyes. There were, of course, innumerable questions to -be asked, as is usual upon such occasions, and some of them were even of -sufficient importance to require answers; so that the afternoon passed -rapidly away, and Irene had no opportunity to refer to the favor to -which her friend's letter had made allusion. Her suspicion that she had -been summoned in her capacity of ghost-seer was confirmed by the fact -that she had been put in the haunted room, a fine square chamber in the -southeast wing, wainscoted to the ceiling, and one of the handsomest -apartments in the house. This room had been especially decorated and -fitted up for one Major Arthur McHugh, a great-great-uncle of the -present McHughs, who had served with honor under Lafayette in the -Revolution. The major had left behind him the reputation of great -personal bravery, a portrait which showed him as extremely handsome, -and the fame of having been a great lady-killer and something of a rake -withal; while he had taken out of the world with him, or at least had -not left behind, the secret of what he had done with the famous McHugh -diamonds. Major McHugh was his father's eldest son, and in the family -the law of primogeniture was in his day pretty strictly observed, so -that to him descended the estate. A disappointment in love resulted in -his refusing to marry, although urged thereto by his family and much -reasoned with by disinterested mothers with marriageable daughters. He -bequeathed the estate to the eldest son of his younger brother, who had -been named for him, and this Arthur McHugh was the grandfather of the -present lieutenant. - -With the estate went the famous McHugh diamonds, at that time the finest -in America. The "McHugh star," a huge stone of rose cut, had once been -the eye of an idol in the temple of Majarah, whence it had been stolen -by the sacrilegious Rajah of Zinyt, from whose possession it passed into -the hands of a Colonel McHugh at the siege of Zinyt in 1707. There was -an effort made, about the middle of the eighteenth century, to add this -beautiful gem to the crown jewels of France, but the McHugh then at the -head of the family, the father of Major McHugh, declared that he would -sooner part with wife and children than with the "McHugh star," an -unchristian sentiment, which speaks better for his appreciation of -jewels than for his family affection. - -When Major McHugh departed from this life, in 1787, the McHugh diamonds -were naturally sought for by his heir, but were nowhere to be found. -None of the family knew where they were usually kept--a circumstance -which was really less singular than it might at first appear, since the -major was never communicative, and in those days concealment was more -relied upon for the safety of small valuables than the strength which -the modern safe, with its misleading name, is supposed to supply. The -last that was known of the gems was their being worn at a ball in 1785 -by the sister-in-law of the owner, to whom they had been loaned for the -occasion. Here they had attracted the greatest attention and admiration, -but on their return to Major McHugh they seemed to vanish forever. -Search had of course been made, and one generation after another, -hearing the traditions, and believing in its own cleverness, had -renewed the endeavor, but thus far the mystery had remained unsolved. - - -III - -It was when the girls were brushing out their hair together in that hour -before retiring which is traditionally sacred to feminine confidences, -that Irene asked rather abruptly:-- - -"Well, Fanny, what is it that you want of me?" - -"Want?" replied her friend, who could not possibly help being femininely -evasive. "I want to see you, of course." - -"Yes," the guest returned, smiling; "and that is the reason you gave me -this room, which I never had before." - -The hostess blushed. "It is the handsomest room in the house," she said -defensively. - -"And one shares it," Irene added, "with the ghost of the gallant major." - -"But you know," protested Fanny, "that you do not mind ghosts in the -least." - -"Not so very much now that I am used to them. They are poor creatures; -and it seems to me that they get feebler the more people refuse to -believe in them." - -"Oh, you don't suppose," cried Fanny, in the greatest anxiety, "that the -major's ghost has faded away, do you? Nobody has slept here for years, -so that nobody has seen it for ever so long." - -"And you want me to assure it that you think it eminently respectable to -have a wraith in the family, so you hope it will persevere in haunting -Oldtower?" - -"Oh, it is n't that at all," Fanny said, lowering her voice. "I suppose -Arthur would be furious if he knew it, or that I even mentioned it, but -I am sure it is more for his sake than for my own. Don't you think that -it is?" - -"You are simply too provoking for anything," Irene responded. "I am sure -I never saw a ghost that talked so unintelligibly as you do. What in the -world do you mean?" - -"Why, only the other day Arthur said in joke that if somebody could only -make the major's--" she looked around to indicate the word which she -evidently did not care to pronounce in that chamber, and Irene nodded -to signify that she understood--"if only somebody could make it tell -where the McHugh diamonds are--" - -"Oh, that's it, is it?" interrupted Irene. "Well, my dear, I am willing -to speak to the major, if he will give me an opportunity; but it is not -likely that I can do much. He will not care for what I say." - -"But appeal to his family pride," Fanny said, with an earnestness that -betrayed the importance of this matter to her. "Tell him how we are -going to ruin for want of just the help those diamonds would give us. -He ought to have some family pride left." - -Miss Gaspic naturally did not wish to draw her friend into a -conversation upon the financial straits of the family, and she therefore -managed to turn the conversation, only repeating her promise that if -the wraith of the major put in an appearance, she would do whatever -lay in her power to get from him the secret which he had kept for a -century. It was not long before Fanny withdrew, and, taking a book, -Irene sat down to read, and await her visitor. - -It was just at midnight that the major's spirit made its appearance. It -was a ghost of a conventional period, and it carefully observed all the -old-time conditions. Irene, who had been waiting for it, raised her eyes -from the book which she had been reading, and examined it carefully. The -ghost had the likeness of a handsome man of rather more than middle age -and of majestic presence. The figure was dressed in Continental uniform, -and in its hand carried a glass apparently full of red wine. As Irene -raised her eyes, the ghost bowed gravely and courteously, and then -drained the cup to its depth. - -"Good-evening," Miss Gaspic said politely. "Will you be seated?" - -The apparition was evidently startled by this cool address, and, instead -of replying, again bowed and again drained its glass, which had in some -mysterious manner become refilled. - -"Thank you," Irene said, in answer to his repeated salute; "please sit -down. I was expecting you, and I have something to say." - -The ghost of the dead-and-gone major stared more than before. - -"I beg your pardon?" he responded, in a thinly interrogative tone. - -"Pray be seated," Irene invited him for the third time. - -The ghost wavered into an old-fashioned high-backed chair, which -remained distinctly visible through his form, and for a moment or two -the pair eyed each other in silence. The situation seemed somehow to be -a strained one even to the ghost. - -"It seems to me," Irene said, breaking the silence, "that it would be -hard for you to refuse the request of a lady." - -"Oh, impossible," the ghost quavered, with old-time gallantry; -"especially of a lovely creature like some we could mention. Anything," -he added in a slightly altered tone, as if his experiences in ghostland -had taught him the need of caution--"anything in reason, of course." - -Irene smiled her most persuasive smile. "Do I look like one who would -ask unreasonable things?" she asked. - -"I am sure that nothing which you should ask could be unreasonable," -the ghost replied, with so much gallantry that Irene had for a moment -a confused sense of having lost her identity, since to have a ghost -complimenting her naturally gave her much the feeling of being a ghost -herself. - -"And certainly the McHugh diamonds can do you no good now," Miss Gaspic -continued, introducing her subject with truly feminine indirectness. - -"The McHugh diamonds?" echoed the ghost stammeringly, as if the shock -of the surprise, under which he grew perceptibly thinner, was almost -more than his incorporeal frame could endure. - -"Yes," responded Irene. "Of course I have no claim on them, but the -family is in severe need, and--" - -"They wish to sell my diamonds!" exclaimed the wraith, starting up in -wrath. "The degenerate, unworthy--" - -Words seemed to fail him, and in an agitated manner he swallowed two or -three glasses of wine in quick succession. - -"Why, sir," Irene asked irrelevantly, "do you seem to be always drinking -wine?" - -"Because," he answered sadly, "I dropped dead while I was drinking the -health of Lady Betty Rafferty, and since then I have to do it whenever I -am in the presence of mortals." - -"But can you not stop?" - -"Only when your ladyship is pleased to command me," he replied, with all -his old-fashioned elaborateness of courtesy. - -"And as to the diamonds," Irene said, coming back to that subject with -an abruptness which seemed to be most annoying to the ghost, "of what -possible use can they be to you in your present condition?" - -"What use?" echoed the shade of the major, with much fierceness. "They -are my occupation. I am their guardian spirit." - -"But," she urged, bringing to bear those powers of logic upon which she -always had prided herself, "you drink the ghost of wine, don't you?" - -"Certainly, madam," the spirit answered, evidently confused. - -"Then why can you not be content with guarding the ghost of the McHugh -diamonds, while you let the real, live Arthur McHugh have the real -stones?" - -"Why, that," the apparition returned, with true masculine perversity, -"is different--quite different." - -"How is it different?" - -"Now I am the guardian of a genuine treasure. I am the most considerable -personage in our whole circle." - -"Your circle?" interrupted Irene. - -"You would not understand," the shape said, "so I will, with your -permission, omit the explanation. If I gave up the diamonds, I should be -only a common drinking ghost--a thing to be gossiped about and smiled -at." - -"You would be held in reverence as the posthumous benefactor of your -family," she urged. - -"I am better pleased with things as they are. I have no great faith in -the rewards of benefactors; and the people benefited would not belong to -our circle, either." - -"You are both selfish and cynical," Irene declared. She fell to -meditating what she had better say to him, and meanwhile she noted with -satisfaction that the candle was burning blue, a fact which, to her -accustomed eye, indicated that the ghost was a spirit of standing most -excellent in ghostly ranks. - -"To suffer the disapproval of one so lovely," the remnant of the -old-time gentleman rejoined, "is a misfortune so severe that I cannot -forbear reminding you that you are not fully familiar with the -conditions under which I exist." - -In this unsatisfactory strain the conversation continued for some time -longer; and when at length the ghost took its departure, and Irene -retired to rest, she could not flatter herself that she had made any -especial progress toward inducing the spirit to yield the secret which -it had so long and so carefully guarded. The major's affections seemed -to be set with deathless constancy upon the gems, and that most powerful -of masculine passions, vanity, to be enlisted in their defense. - -"I am afraid that it is of no use," Irene sighed to herself; "and yet, -after all, he was only a man when he was alive, and he cannot be much -more than that now when he is a ghost." - -And greatly comforted by the reflection that whatever is masculine is to -be overcome by feminine guile, she fell asleep. - - -IV - -On the following afternoon Irene found herself rowing on the river -with the lieutenant. She had declined his invitation to come, and had -immediately felt so exultant in the strength of mind which had enabled -her to withstand temptation that she had followed the refusal with an -acceptance. - -The day was deliciously soft and balmy. A thin haze shut off the heat of -the sun, while a southerly breeze found somewhere a spicy and refreshing -odor, which with great generosity it diffused over the water. The river -moved tranquilly, and any one capable of being sentimental might well -find it hard to resist the influences of the afternoon. - -The lieutenant was as ardently in love as it is possible for a man to be -who is at once a soldier and handsome, and indeed more than would have -been expected from a man who combined such causes of self-satisfaction. -The fact that Irene had a great deal of money, while he had none, gave -to his passion a hopelessness from his point of view which much -increased its fervor. He gazed at his companion with his great dark eyes -as she sat in the stern, his heavy eyebrows and well-developed mustache -preventing him from looking as silly as might otherwise have been the -case. Miss Gaspic was by no means insensible to the spell of the time -and of the companionship in which she found herself, but she was -determined above all things to be discreet. - -"Arthur," she said, by way of keeping the talk in safe channels and also -of finding out what she wanted to know, "was search ever made for the -McHugh diamonds?" - -"Search!" he repeated. "Everything short of pulling the house down has -been tried. Everybody in the family from the time they were lost has had -a hand at it." - -"I do not see--" began Irene, when he interrupted brusquely. - -"No," he said; "nobody sees. The solution of the riddle is probably so -simple that nobody will think of it. It will be hit upon by accident -some day. But, for the sake of goodness, let us talk of something else. -I always lose my temper when the McHugh diamonds are mentioned." - -He relieved his impatience by a fierce spurt at the oars, which sent the -boat spinning through the water; then he shook himself as if to shake -off unpleasant thoughts, and once more allowed the current to take them -along. Irene looked at him with wistful eyes. She would have been so -glad to give him all her money if he would have it. - -"You told me," she said at length, with a faint air of -self-consciousness, "that you wanted to say something to me." - -The young lieutenant flushed, and looked between the trunks of the old -trees on the river-bank into the far distance. "I have," he responded. -"It is a piece of impertinence, because I have no right to say it to -you." - -"You may say anything you wish to say," Irene answered, while a vague -apprehension took possession of her mind at something in his tone. -"Surely we have known each other long enough for that." - -"Well," the other blurted out with an abruptness that showed the effort -that it cost him, "you should be married, Irene." - -Irene felt like bursting into tears, but with truly feminine fortitude -she managed to smile instead. - -"Am I getting so woefully old and faded, then, Arthur?" she asked. - -His look of reproachful denial was sufficiently eloquent to need no -added word. "Of course not," he said; "but you should not be going on -toward the time when--" - -"When I shall be," she concluded his sentence as he hesitated. "Then, -Arthur, why don't you ask me to marry you?" - -The blood rushed into his face and ebbed away, leaving him as pale as -so sun-browned a fellow could well be. He set his teeth together over -a word which was strangled in its utterance, and Irene saw with secret -admiration the mighty grasp of his hands upon the oars. She could be -proud of his self-control so long as she was satisfied of the intensity -of his feelings, and she was almost as keenly thrilled by the adoring, -appealing look in his brown eyes as she would have been by a caress. - -"Because," he said, "the McHughs have never yet been set down as -fortune-hunters, and I do not care to be the one to bring that reproach -upon the family." - -"What a vilely selfish way of looking at it!" she cried. - -"Very likely it seems so to a woman." - -Irene flushed in her turn, and for fully two minutes there was no sound -save that of the water lapping softly against the boat. Then Miss Gaspic -spoke again. - -"It is possible," she said, in a tone so cold that the poor lieutenant -dared not answer her, "that the fact that you are a man prevents you -from understanding how a woman feels who has thrown herself at a man's -head, as I have done, and been rejected. Take me back to the shore." - -And he had not a word to answer. - - -V - -To have proposed to a man, and been refused, is not a soothing -experience for any woman; and although the ground upon which Arthur had -based his rejection was one which Irene had before known to be the -obstacle between them, the refusal remained a stubborn fact to rankle in -her mind. All the evening she nursed her wounded feelings, and by the -time midnight brought her once more face to face with the ghost of the -major, her temper was in a state which nothing save the desire to shield -a lady could induce one to call by even so mild a word as uncertain. - -The spirit appeared as usual, saluting, and tossing off bumpers from its -shadowy wine-glass, and it had swallowed at least a dozen cups before -Miss Gaspic condescended to indicate that she was aware of its presence. - -"Why do you stand there drinking in that idiotic fashion?" she demanded, -with more asperity than politeness. "Once is quite enough for that sort -of thing." - -"But I cannot speak until I have been spoken to," the ghost responded -apologetically, "and I have to continue drinking until I have been -requested to do something else." - -"Drink, then, by all means," Irene replied coldly, turning to pick up a -book. "I only hope that so much wine will not go to your head." - -"But it is sure to," the ghost said, in piteous tones; "and in all my -existence, even when I was only a man, I have never been overcome with -wine in the presence of a lady." - -It continued to swallow the wraith of red wine while it spoke, and Irene -regarded it curiously. - -"An inebriated ghost," she observed dispassionately, "is something which -it is so seldom given to mortal to see that it would be the greatest of -folly to neglect this opportunity of getting sight of that phenomenon." - -"Please tell me to go away, or to sit down, or to do something," the -quondam major pleaded. - -"Then tell me where the McHugh diamonds are," she said. - -A look of desperate obstinacy came into the ghost's face, through which -could unpleasantly be seen the brass knobs of a tall secretary on the -opposite side of the room. For some moments the pair confronted each -other in silence, although the apparition continued its drinking. Irene -watched the figure with unrelenting countenance, and at length made the -curious discovery that it was standing upon tiptoe. In a moment more she -saw that it was really rising, and that its feet from time to time left -the carpet entirely. Her first thought was a fear that it was about -to float away and escape, but upon looking closer she came to the -conclusion that it was endeavoring to resist the tendency to rise into -the air. Watching more sharply, she perceived that while with its right -hand it raised its inexhaustible wine-cup, with its left it clung to -the back of a chair in an evident endeavor to keep itself down. - -"You seem to be standing on tiptoe," she observed. "Were you looking for -anything?" - -"No," the wraith responded, in evident confusion; "that is merely the -levitation consequent upon this constant imbibing." - -Irene laughed contemptuously. "Do you mean," she demanded unfeelingly, -"that the sign of intoxication in a ghost is a tendency to rise into the -air?" - -"It is considered more polite in our circle to use the term employed by -the occultists," the apparition answered somewhat sulkily. "We speak of -it as 'levitation.'" - -"But I do not belong to your circle," Irene returned cheerfully, "and I -am not in sympathy with the occultists. Does it not occur to you," she -went on, "that it is worth while to take into consideration the fact -that in these progressive times you do not occupy the same place in -popular or even in scientific estimation which was yours formerly? You -are now merely an hallucination, you know, and there is no reason that -I should regard you with anything but contempt, as a mere symptom of -indigestion or of mental fatigue." - -"But you can see that I am not an hallucination, can you not?" quavered -the poor ghost of the major, evidently becoming dreadfully discouraged. - -"Oh, that is simply a delusion of the senses," Irene made answer in a -matter-of-fact way, which, even while she spoke, she felt to be basely -cruel. "Any physician would tell me so, and would write out a -prescription for me to prevent my seeing you again." - -"But he could n't," the ghost said, with pathetic feebleness. - -"You do not know the physicians of to-day," she replied, with a smile. -"But to drop that, what I wished to say was this: does it not seem to -you that this is a good opportunity to prove your reality by showing me -the hiding-place of the diamonds? I give you my word that I will report -the case to the Psychical Research Society, and you will then go on -record and have a permanent reputation which the incredulity of the age -cannot destroy." - -The ghost was by this time in a state of intoxication which evidently -made it able only with the utmost difficulty to keep from sailing to the -ceiling. It clung to the back of a chair with a desperate clutch, while -its feet paddled hopelessly and helplessly in the air, in vain attempts -once more to get into touch with the floor. - -"But the Psychical Research Society is not recognized in my circle," it -still objected. - -"Very well," Irene exclaimed in exasperation; "do as you like! But what -will be the effect upon your reputation if you go floating helplessly -back to your circle in your present condition? Is levitation in the -presence of ladies considered respectable in this society of whose -opinion you think so much?" - -"Oh, to think of it!" the spirit of the bygone major wailed with a -sudden shrillness of woe which made even Miss Gaspic's blood run cold. -"Oh, the disgrace of it! I will do anything you ask." - -Irene sprang to her feet in sudden excitement. - -"Will you show me--" she began; but the wavering voice of the ghost -interrupted her. - -"You must lead me," it said. "Give me your hand. I shall float up to the -ceiling if I let go my hold upon this chair." - -"Your hand--that is, I--I don't like the feeling of ghosts," Irene -replied. "Here, take hold of this." - -She picked up a pearl paper-knife and extended it toward the spirit. The -ghost grasped it, and in this manner was led down the chamber, floating -and struggling upward like a bird. Irene was surprised at the amount of -force with which it pulled at the paper-knife, but she reflected that it -had really swallowed an enormous quantity of its ghostly stimulant. She -followed the directions of the waving hand that held the wine-glass, -and in this way they came to a corner of the room where the spirit made -signs that it wished to get nearer the floor. Irene pulled the figure -downward, until it crouched in the corner. It laid one transparent hand -upon a certain panel in the wainscoting. - -"Search here," it said. - -In the excitement of the moment Irene relaxed her hold upon the -paper-knife. Instantly the ghost floated upward like a balloon released -from its moorings, while the paper-knife dropped through its incorporeal -form to the floor. - -"Good-by," Irene cried after it. "Thank you so much!" - -And like a blurred and dissolving cloud above her head the intoxicated -ghost faded into nothingness. - - -VI - -It was hardly to be expected that Irene, flushed with the proud delight -of having triumphed over the obstinate ghost of the major, could keep -her discovery to herself for so long a time as until daylight. It was -already near one in the morning, but on going to her window, and looking -across to the wing of the house where the lieutenant's rooms were, she -saw that his light was still burning. With a secret feeling that he was -probably reflecting upon the events of the afternoon, Irene sped along -the passage to the door of Fanny's chamber, whom she awakened, and -dispatched to bring Arthur. - -Fanny's characteristically feminine manner of calling her brother was to -dash into his room, crying:-- - -"Oh, Arthur, Irene has found the McHugh diamonds!" - -She was too incoherent to reply to his questions, so that there was -manifestly nothing for him to do but to follow to the place where Irene -was awaiting them. There the young couple were deserted by Fanny, who -impulsively ran on before to the haunted chamber, leaving them to -follow. As they walked along the corridor, the lieutenant, who perhaps -felt that it was well not to provoke a discussion which might call up -too vividly in Irene's mind the humiliation of the afternoon, clasped -her quite without warning, and drew her to his side. - -"Now I can ask you to marry me," he said; "and I love you, Irene, with -my whole heart." - -Her first movement was an instinctive struggle to free herself; but the -persuasion of his embrace was too sweet to be resisted, and she only -protested by saying, "Your love seems to depend very much upon those -detestable old diamonds." - -"Of course," he answered. "Without them I am too poor to have any right -to think of you." - -"Oh," she cried out in sudden terror, "suppose that they are not there!" - -The young man loosened his embrace in astonishment. - -"Not there!" he repeated. "Fanny said that you had found them." - -"Not yet; only the ghost--" - -"The ghost!" he echoed, in tones of mingled disappointment and chagrin. -"Is that all there is to it?" - -Irene felt that her golden love-dream was rudely shattered. She was -aware that the lieutenant did not even believe in the existence of the -wraith of the major, and although she had been conversing with the -spirit for so long a time that very night, so great was the influence -of her lover over her mind that she began at this moment to doubt the -reality of the apparition herself. - -With pale face and sinking heart she led the way into her chamber, and -to the corner where the paper-knife yet lay upon the floor in testimony -of the actuality of her interview with the wraith. Under her directions -the panel was removed from the wainscot, a labor which was not effected -without a good deal of difficulty. Arthur sneered at the whole thing, -but he yet was good-natured enough to do what the girls asked of him. - -Only the dust of centuries rewarded their search. When it was fully -established that there were no jewel-cases there, poor Irene broke down -entirely, and burst into convulsive weeping. - -"There, there," Arthur said soothingly. "Don't feel like that. We've got -on without the diamonds thus far, and we can still." - -"It is n't the diamonds that I'm crying for," sobbed Irene, with all the -naïveté of a child that has lost its pet toy. "It's you!" - -There was no withstanding this appeal. Arthur took her into his arms and -comforted her, while Fanny discreetly looked the other way; and so the -engagement was allowed to stand, although the McHugh diamonds had not -been found. - - -VII - -But the next night Irene faced the ghost with an expression of contempt -that might have withered the spirit of Hamlet's sire. - -"So you think it proper to deceive a lady?" she inquired scornfully. "Is -that the way in which the gentlemen of the 'old school,' of which we -hear so much, behaved?" - -"Why, you should reflect," the wraith responded waveringly, "that you -had made me intoxicated." And, indeed, the poor spirit still showed the -effects of its debauch. - -"You cannot have been very thoroughly intoxicated," Irene returned, "or -you would not have been able to deceive me." - -"But you see," it answered, "that I drank only the ghost of wine, so -that I really had only the ghost of inebriation." - -"But being a ghost yourself," was her reply, "that should have been -enough to intoxicate you completely." - -"I never argue with a lady," said the ghost loftily, the subject -evidently being too complicated for it to follow further. "At least I -managed to put you as far as possible on the wrong scent." - -As it spoke, it gave the least possible turn of its eye toward the -corner of the room diagonally opposite to that where it had disappeared -on the previous night. - -"Ah!" cried Irene, with sudden illumination. - -She sprang up, and began to move from its place in the corner an old -secretary which stood there. The thing was very heavy, but she did not -call for help. She strained and tugged, the ghost showing evident signs -of perturbation, until she had thrust the secretary aside, and then with -her lamp beside her she sat down upon the floor and began to examine the -wainscoting. - -"Come away, please," the ghost said piteously. "I hate to see you there -on the floor. Come and sit by the fire." - -"Thank you," she returned. "I am very comfortable where I am." - -She felt of the panels, she poked and pried, and for more than an hour -she worked, while the ghost stood over her, begging that she go away. It -was just as she was on the point of giving up that her fingers, rubbing -up and down, started a morsel of dust from a tiny hole in the edge of a -panel. She seized a hairpin from amid her locks, and thrust the point -into the little opening. The panel started, moved slowly on a concealed -hinge, and opened enough for her to insert her fingers and to push it -back. A sort of closet lay revealed, and in it was a pile of cases, -dusty, moth-eaten, and time-stained. She seized the first that came to -hand, and opened it. There upon its bed of faded velvet blazed the -"McHugh star," superb in its beauty and a fortune in itself. - -"Oh, my diamonds!" shrilled the ghost of Major McHugh. "Oh, what will -our circle say!" - -"They will have the right to say that you were rude to a lady," Irene -answered, with gratuitous severity. "You have wasted your opportunity of -being put on record." - -"Now I am only a drinking ghost!" the wraith wailed, and faded away upon -the air. - -Thus it came about that on her wedding-day Irene wore the "McHugh star;" -and yet, such is human perversity that she has not only been convinced -by her husband that ghosts do not exist, but she has lost completely the -power of seeing them, although that singular and valuable gift had come -to her, as has been said, by inheritance from a great-aunt on her -mother's side of the family. - - - - -A PROBLEM IN PORTRAITURE - - -I - -"It does not look like him," Celia Sathman said, moving aside a -little that the afternoon light might fall more fully upon a portrait -standing unfinished upon the easel; "and yet it is unquestionably the -best picture you ever painted. It interests me, it fascinates me; and -I never had at all that feeling about Ralph himself. And yet," she -added, smiling at her own inconsistency, "it _is_ like him. It is n't -what I call a good likeness, and yet--" - -The artist, Tom Claymore, leaned back in his chair and smiled. - -"You are right and wrong," he said. "I am a little disappointed that you -don't catch the secret of the picture. I knew Ralph would n't -understand, but I had hopes of you." - -A puzzled look came into Celia's face as she continued to study the -canvas. Her companion smoked a cigarette, and watched her with a regard -which was at once fond and a little amused. - -The studio was a great room which had originally been devoted to no less -prosaic an occupation than the painting of oil-cloth carpeting, great -splashes of color, which time and dust had softened into a pleasing -dimness, remaining to testify to its former character. It stood down -among the wharves of old Salem, a town where even the new is scarcely to -be distinguished from the old, and Tom had been delighted with its roomy -quiet, the play of light and shadow among the bare beams overhead, and -the ease with which he had been able to make it serve his purpose. -He had done comparatively little toward furnishing it for his summer -occupancy. He had hung a few worn-out seines over the high beams, and -placed here and there his latest acquisitions in the way of bric-à-brac, -while numerous sketches were pinned to the walls with no attempt at -order. On the door he had fastened a zither, of which the strings were -struck by nicely balanced hammers when the door was moved, and in the -still rather barn-like room, he had established himself to teach and to -paint through the summer months. - -"I cannot make it out at all," Celia said at last, turning away from -the easel and walking toward Claymore. "It looks older and stronger -than Ralph, as if-- Ah!" she interrupted herself suddenly, a new light -breaking in her face. "Now I see! You have been painting his -possibilities. You are making a portrait of him as he will be." - -"As he may be," Claymore corrected her, his words showing that her -conjecture was in truth the key to the riddle. "When I began to paint -Ralph, I was at once struck by the undeveloped state of his face. It -seemed to me like a bud that had n't opened; and I began at once to try -and guess what it would grow into. I did n't at first mean to paint it -so, but the notion mastered me, and now I deliberately give myself up to -the impulse. I don't know whether it's professional, but it is great -fun." - -Celia went back and looked at the picture once more, but she soon -returned to stand leaning upon the tall back of the chair in which her -betrothed was sitting. - -"It is getting too dark to see it," she remarked; "but your experiment -interests me wonderfully. You say you are painting what his face may be; -why not what his face must be?" - -"Because," the artist replied, "I am trying to get in the best of his -possibilities; to paint the noblest there is in him. How can I tell if -he will in life realize it? He may develop his worst side, you know, -instead of his best." - -Celia was silent a moment. The darkness seemed to have gathered quickly, -rising clouds cutting off the light of the after-glow which had followed -the sunset with delusive promise. She leaned forward and laid her -finger-tips lightly upon Tom's forehead with a caressing motion. - -"You are a clever man," she said. "It is fortunate you are a good one." - -"Oh," he returned, almost brusquely, though he took her hand and kissed -it, "I don't know that I can lay claim to any especial virtue. Are you -remembering Hawthorne's story of 'The Prophetic Pictures,' that you -think my goodness particularly fortunate in this connection?" - -Instead of replying, she moved across the studio with her graceful, firm -walk, which had won Tom's deep admiration before he knew even her name. -She took up a light old-fashioned silk shawl, yellow with time, and -threw it across her arm. - -"I must go home," she remarked, as if no subject were under discussion. -"I am sure I don't know what I was thinking of to stay here so late." - -"Oh, there is no time in sleepy old Salem," was his response, "so it -can't be late; but if you will go, I shall be proud to walk up with -you." - -He flung away the end of his cigarette, locked the studio, and together -they took their way out of the region of wharves, along the quaint old -dinginess of Essex Street. It is a thoroughfare full of suggestions of -the past, and they both were susceptible to its influences. Here of old -the busy life of Salem flowed in vigorous current, laden with interests -which embraced half the globe; here sailors from strange lands used to -gather, swarthy and bold, pouring into each other's ringed ear talk of -adventure wild and daring; here merchants walked counting their gains on -cargoes brought from the far Orient and islands of which even the names -had hardly grown familiar to the Western World. - -Hawthorne has somewhere spoken of the old life of New England as all too -sombre, and declared that our forefathers "wove their web of life with -hardly a single thread of rose-color or gold;" but surely the master was -misled by the dimness gathered from time. Into every old web of tapestry -went many a bright line of scarlet and green and azure, many a woof of -gold that time has tarnished and the dust of years dulled until all is -gray and faded. Along the memory-haunted streets of Salem, from the -first, went, side by side or hand in hand, the happy maiden and her -lover; stepped the bridal train; passed the young wife bearing under her -heart with fearful bliss the sweet secret of a life other than her own; -or the newly made mother bore her first-born son through a glory half -sunlight and half dreams of his golden future. In later days all the -romance of the seas, the teeming life which inspired the tongue of the -prophet's denouncing lyre to break into rhapsodies of poetry, the stir -of adventurous blood, and the boldness of daring adventurers have filled -these old streets with vivid and undying memories. - -The artist and his companion were rather silent as they walked, he -studying the lights and shadows with appreciative eye, and she -apparently absorbed in thought. At length she seemed to come in her -reverie to some doubt which she needed his aid to resolve. - -"Tom," she asked, rather hesitatingly, "have you noticed any change in -Ralph lately?" - -"Change?" repeated Claymore interrogatively, with a quick flash of -interest in his eyes despite the studied calmness of his manner. - -"Yes. He has n't been the same since--since--" - -"Since when?" the artist inquired, as she hesitated. - -"Why, it must be almost ever since we came home and you began to paint -him," Celia returned thoughtfully; "though I confess I have noticed it -only lately. Has n't it struck you?" - -Her companion, instead of replying directly, began carefully to examine -the carving on the head of his walking-stick. - -"You forget how slightly I knew him before," he said. "What sort of a -change do you mean?" - -"He has developed. He seems all at once to be becoming a man." - -"He is twenty-eight. It is n't strange that there should be signs of -the man about him, I suppose." - -"But he has always seemed so boyish," Celia insisted, with the air of -one who finds it difficult to make herself understood. - -"Very likely something has happened to sober him," Tom answered, with an -effort to speak carelessly, which prevented him from noticing that Celia -flushed slightly at his words. - -They had reached Miss Sathman's gate, and he held it open for her. - -"It was very good of you to come this afternoon," he told her. "When -will you take your next lesson?" - -"I can't tell," she replied. "I'll let you know. Won't you come in?" - -The invitation was given with a certain faint wistfulness, but he -declined, and lifting his hat, bade her good-night. She turned on the -doorstep and looked after him as his strong, resolute figure passed down -the street, and a sigh escaped her. - -"I wonder if Tom will seem to me so reserved and cold after we are -married," was her thought. - - -II - -People in general thought Tom Claymore's nature cold and reserved -because his manner was so. He was reticent perhaps to a fault, but -the reticent man who is cold is a monster, and Tom was far from being -anything so disagreeable as that. His was the shy artistic temperament, -and the circumstances of his rather lonely life had fostered a habit -of saying little while he yet felt deeply, and since he took life -seriously, he seldom found himself disposed to open his heart in -ordinary conversation. - -Even with his betrothed he had not yet outworn the reserve which every -year of his life had strengthened, and Celia, despite her betrothal, was -not wholly free from the common error of supposing that, because he did -not easily express his sentiment, he lacked warmth of feeling. She had -been his pupil in Boston, and it was for the sake of being near her -that he had established himself at Salem for the summer, making a -pretext of the fact that he had promised to paint the portrait of her -cousin, Ralph Thatcher. - -Tom Claymore could not have told at what stage of his work upon this -portrait he became possessed of the idea that he had been unconsciously -painting rather the possibilities than the realities of his sitter's -face. At first he smiled at the thought as a mere fanciful notion; then -he strove against it; but he ended by giving his inspiration, or his -whim, free rein, and deliberately endeavoring to portray the noblest -manhood of which Ralph Thatcher's face seemed to him to contain the -germs. He felt a secret impatience with the young man, who, with wealth, -health, and all the opportunities of life, seemed still too much a boy -properly to appreciate or to use them; and as the portrait advanced, the -belief grew in Claymore's mind that, when it was completed, some effect -might be produced upon Thatcher by its showing him thus vividly the -possibilities of character he was wasting. The artist did not, it is -true, attach much importance to this notion, but when once he had given -himself up to it, he at least found much interest in following out his -endeavor. The idea of a sitter's being influenced by a portrait is by -no means a novel one among painters, and Claymore took pains to have -Thatcher see the picture as soon as it got beyond its early stages. He -wanted it to have to the full whatever influence was possible, and he -was eager to discover how soon its departure from an exact likeness -would become apparent to the original. - -A curious complication followed. It was not long before it began to seem -to Tom that Ralph was growing up to the ideal the portrait showed. At -first he rejected the idea as utterly fanciful. Then he recalled an -experience a brother artist had related to him in Paris, where a girl -who had been painted in the dress of a nun worn at a fancy ball, came, -by brooding over the picture, to be so possessed with a belief in her -vocation that she ended by actually taking the veil. The cases were not -exactly parallel, but Claymore saw in them a certain similarity, in that -both seemed to show how a possibility might be so strongly expressed -on canvas as to become an important influence in making itself an -actuality. He became intensely interested in the problem which presented -itself. He had before this time remarked to Celia that Ralph only needed -arousing to develop into a noble man, and he began to speculate whether -it could be within his power to furnish the impulse needed--the filament -about which crystallization would take place all at once. He worked -slowly and with the utmost care, taking pains to have Thatcher at the -studio as much as possible even on days when he was not posing, so that -the picture might be constantly before his eyes; and of one thing at -least he was sure beyond the possibility of a doubt-- Ralph was -certainly developing. - -"_Post hoc sed non ergo propter hoc_," he said to himself, in the Latin -of his school debating-society days; but secretly he believed that in -this case the effect was no less "because" than "after." - -On the morning after Celia had talked with her betrothed about the -picture, Ralph gave the artist a sitting. The young man seemed so -preoccupied that Tom rallied him a little on his absence of mind, -inquiring if Thatcher wished his portrait to have an air of deep -abstraction. - -"I was not thinking of that confounded old picture at all," the young -man responded, smiling. "I was merely--well, I do not know exactly how -to tell you what I was doing. Do you ever feel as if the reflective part -of you, whatever that may be, had gone into its office for private -meditation and shut your consciousness outside?" - -"Yes," Tom answered; "and I always comfort myself for being excluded -by supposing that at least something of real importance must be under -consideration or it would n't be worth the trouble to shut the doors -so carefully." - -"Do you?" returned the sitter. "I had a jolly old clerical uncle who -used to lock the door of his study and pretend to be writing the most -awe-inspiring sermons, when he really was only having a well-fed nap. -I am afraid," he went on, with a sigh and a change of manner, "that -there is little of real importance has ever gone on in my mind. Do you -know, I am half inclined to hate you." - -The artist looked up in surprise. - -"Hate me?" he echoed. "Why should you hate me?" - -"Because you are everything that I am not; because you succeed in -everything and I never did anything in my life; because at this -poker-table of life you win and I lose." - -A strange tinge of bitterness showed itself in Ralph's voice, and -puzzled Claymore. It was not like Thatcher to be introspective, or to -lament lost possibilities. The artist rubbed his brush on his palette -with a thoughtful air. - -"Even if that were so," he said, "I don't see exactly why you should -vent your disappointment on me. I'm hardly to blame, am I? But of -course what you say is nonsense anyway." - -"Nonsense? It is n't nonsense. I've done nothing. I know nothing. I'm -good for nothing; and the worst of it is that the girl I've wanted all -my life realizes it just as well as I do. She is n't a fool; and of -course she does n't care a rap about me." - -The confession was so frankly boyish that Claymore had a half-impulse to -smile, but the feeling in it was too evidently genuine to be ignored. -One thing at least was clear: Ralph was at last beginning to be -dissatisfied with his idle, purposeless life. He had come to the -enlightenment of seeing himself as he might look to the eyes of the -woman he cared for. The reflection crossed Claymore's mind that some -disappointment in love might have brought about whatever change he had -observed in his sitter, and that any influence which he had ascribed -to the portrait had in reality come from this. The thought struck him -with a ludicrous sense of having befooled himself. It was as if some -gorgeous palace of fancy, carefully built up and elaborated, had come -tumbling in ruins about his head. He made a gesture, half comic, half -deprecatory, and laid down his palette. - -"The light has changed," he said. "I can't paint any more to-day." - - -III - -Claymore was intensely imaginative, and he possessed all the sanguine -disposition of the artistic temperament, the power of giving himself up -to a dream so that it for the time being became real. Matters which the -reason will without hesitation allow to be the lightest bubbles of fancy -are to such a disposition almost as veracious fact; and often the life -of an imaginative man is shaped by what to cold judgment is an untenable -hypothesis. The artist had not in the least been conscious how strong a -hold the idea of awakening Ralph Thatcher had taken upon his mind, until -the doubt presented itself whether the portrait had in reality possessed -any influence whatever. He was not without a sense of humor, and he -smiled inwardly at the seriousness with which he regarded the matter. He -reasoned with himself, half petulantly, half humorously; sometimes -taking the ground that his theory had been merely a fantastic absurdity, -and again holding doggedly to the belief that it was founded upon some -fragment at least of vital truth. He recalled vaguely a good many scraps -of modern beliefs in the power of suggestion; then he came back to the -reflection that if Ralph was in love, no suggestion was needed to cause -a mental revolution. - -Wholly to disbelieve in its own inspirations is, however, hardly -within the power of the genuinely imaginative nature. Whatever his -understanding might argue, Tom, in the end, would have been false to his -temperament had he not remained convinced that he was right in believing -that to some degree, at least, the picture he was painting had -influenced his sitter. Without any consciously defined plan, he got out -a fresh canvas, and occupied himself, when alone in the studio, by -copying Ralph's head, but with a difference. As in the other picture he -had endeavored to express all the noblest possibilities of the young -man's face, in this he labored to portray whatever potentiality of evil -might be found there. Every introspective person has experienced the -sensation of feeling that a course of action is being followed as if by -some inner direction, yet without any clear consciousness of the reason; -and much as might have come a hint of the intentions or motives of -another person, came to Tom the thought that he was painting this second -portrait that its difference from the first might show him upon what -foundations rested his fanciful theory. He wished, he told himself, at -least to see how far he had expressed a personality unlike another -equally possible. - -As a faint shade on the artist's inner consciousness rested, however, a -feeling that this explanation was not completely satisfactory. He would -have been shocked had he even dreamed of the possibility that artistic -vanity, aroused by the doubt that it possessed the power of moulding -the life and destiny of Ralph, had defiantly turned to throw its -influence into the other scale, to prove by its power of dragging the -sitter down that its dominance was real. Had any realization of such a -motive come to Claymore, he would have been horrified at a thought so -evil; yet he failed to push self-investigation far enough to bring him -to an understanding of his real motives. - -The painter worked steadily and with almost feverish rapidity, and -before the end of the week he was able to substitute the second portrait -for the first when Ralph, who had been out of town for a few days, came -for his next sitting. Tom was not without a good deal of uneasy secret -curiosity in regard to the effect upon Thatcher of the changed picture. -He appreciated how great the alteration really was, a difference so -marked that he had lacked the courage to carry out his first intention -of exhibiting the new canvas to Celia. He excused himself for hesitating -to show her the portrait by the whimsical pretext that it would not be -the part of a gentleman to betray the discreditable traits of character -he believed himself to have discovered as among the possibilities of her -cousin's nature. What Ralph would himself say, the painter awaited with -uneasy eagerness, and as the latter, after the customary greetings, -walked up to the easel and stood regarding his counterfeit presentment, -Tom found himself more nervous than he would have supposed possible. - -Ralph studied the picture a moment in silence. - -"What in the devil," he burst out, "have you been doing to my picture?" - -"What is the matter with it?" the artist asked, stepping beside him, and -in turn fixing his gaze on the portrait. - -"I'm sure I don't know," Ralph replied, with a puzzled air; "but somehow -or other it seems to me to have changed from a rather decent-looking -phiz into a most accursedly low-lived one. Do I look like that?" - -"I suppose a mirror would give a more disinterested answer to that -question than I could." - -Claymore glanced up as he spoke, and hardly repressed an exclamation of -surprise. Ralph's whole expression was changing to correspond with that -of the portrait before him. Who has not, in looking at some portrait -which strongly impressed him, found in a little time that his own -countenance was unconsciously altering its expression to correspond with -that portrayed before him; and the chances that such a thing will occur -must be doubly great when the picture is one's own image. - -A portrait appeals so intimately to the personality of the person -represented, human vanity and individuality insist so strongly upon -regarding it as a part of self, that it stands in a closer relation to -the inner being than can almost any other outward thing. It is, in a -sense, part of the original, and perhaps the oriental prejudice against -being portrayed, lest in the process the artist may obtain some sinister -advantage, is founded upon some subtle truth. It can hardly be possible -that, with the keen feeling every man must have in regard to his -portrait, any one should fail to be more or less influenced by the -painter's conception of him, the visible embodiment of the impression he -has made upon another human mind; and since every picture must contain -something of the personality of the artist, it follows that a -portrait-painter is sure to affect in some degree the character of his -sitters. It would rarely happen that this influence would be either -intentional or tangible, but must it not always exist? - -Claymore stood for a little time watching Ralph's face; then he walked -away, and returned with a small mirror which he put in the latter's -hand. Thatcher looked at the reflection it offered him, and broke into -a hard laugh. - -"By George!" he said; "it does look like me. I never realized before -that I was such a whelp." - -"Fiddlesticks!" Claymore rejoined briskly, taking the glass from him. -"Don't talk nonsense. Take your place and let's get to work." - - -IV - -On the afternoon of the same day Celia came into the studio with her -face clouded. She received her lover's greetings in an absent-minded -fashion, and almost before the musical tinkle of the zither on the door -which admitted her had died away, she asked abruptly:-- - -"What in the world have you been doing to Ralph?" - -"I? Nothing but painting him. Why?" - -"Because he came down here this morning in a perfectly heavenly -frame of mind. He has been in Boston to see about some repairs on his -tenement-houses at the North End that I've been teasing him to make -ever since the first of my being there last winter; and he came in -this morning to say he thought I was right, and he was going to take -hold and do what I wanted." - -"Well?" questioned Tom, as she broke off with a gesture of impatience. - -"And after he 'd been down here for his sitting, he came back so cross -and strange; and said he'd reconsidered, and he did n't see why he -should bother his head about the worthless wretches in the slums. I -can't see what came over him." - -"But why should you hold me responsible for your cousin's vagaries?" - -"Oh, of course you are not," Celia replied, with a trace of petulance in -her tone; "but I am so dreadfully disappointed. Ralph has always put the -whole thing off before, and now I thought he had really waked up." - -"Probably," Claymore suggested, "it is some new phase of his ill-starred -love affair." - -Miss Sathman flushed to her temples. - -"I do not know why you choose to say that," she answered stiffly. "He -never speaks to me of that now. He is too thoroughly a gentleman." - -"What!" Tom burst out, in genuine amazement. "Good heavens! It was n't -you?" - -Celia looked at him in evident bewilderment. - -"Did n't you know?" she asked. "Ralph has been in love with me ever -since we were in pinafores. I did n't speak of it because it did n't -seem fair to him; but I supposed, of course, that was what you meant -when you spoke. I even thought you might be jealous the least bit." - -Claymore turned away and walked down the studio on pretense of arranging -a screen. He felt as if he had stabbed a rival in the back. Whether by -his brush he had really an influence over Thatcher, or the changes in -his sitter were merely coincidences, he had at least been trying to -affect the young man, and since he now knew Ralph as the lover of Celia, -his actions all at once took on a different character, and the second -portrait seemed like a covert attack. - -"Ralph is so amazingly outspoken," Celia continued, advancing toward the -easel and laying her hand on the cloth which hung before her cousin's -portrait, "that I wonder he has not told you. He is very fond of you, -though, he naively says, he ought not to be." - -As she spoke, she lifted the curtain which hid the later portrait of -Ralph. She uttered an exclamation which made Claymore, whose back had -been turned, spring hastily toward her, too late to prevent her seeing -the picture. - -"Tom," she cried, "what have you done to Ralph?" - -The tone pierced Claymore to the quick. The words were almost those -which Celia had used before, but now reproach, grief, and a depth of -feeling which it seemed to Tom must come from a regard keener than -either gave them a new intensity of meaning. The tears sprang to Miss -Sathman's eyes as she looked from the canvas to her lover. - -"Oh, Tom," she said, "how could you change it so? Ralph does not look -like that." - -"No," Claymore answered, his embarrassment giving to his voice a certain -severity. "This is the reverse of the other picture. This is the evil -possibility of his face." - -He recovered his composure. Despite his coldness of demeanor, there was -a vein of intense jealousy in the painter's nature, which tingled at -the tone in which his betrothed spoke of her cousin. He had more than -once said to himself that, despite the fact that Celia might be more -demonstrative than he, his love for her was far stronger than hers for -him. Now there came to him the conviction, quick and unreasonable, that -although she might not be aware of it, her deepest affection was really -given to Ralph Thatcher. - -"Why did you paint it, Tom?" Celia pursued. "It is wicked. It really -does not in the least resemble Ralph. I suppose you could take any face -and distort it into wickedness. Where is the other picture?" - -Without a word Tom brought the first portrait and set it beside the -second. Celia regarded the two canvases in silence a moment. Her color -deepened, and her throat swelled. Then she turned upon Claymore with -eyes that flashed, despite the tears which sprang into them. - -"You are wicked and cruel!" she said bitterly. "I hate you for doing -it." - -Tom turned pale, and then laughed unmirthfully. - -"You take it very much to heart," he remarked. - -The tears welled more hotly in her eyes. She tried in vain to check -them, and then with a sob she turned and walked quickly from the studio, -the zither tinkling, as the door closed after her, with a gay frivolity -that jarred sharply on Tom Claymore's nerves. - - -V - -It was nearly a fortnight before Tom saw Celia again. For a day or two -he kept away from her, waiting for some sign that her mood had softened -and that she regretted her words. Then he could endure suspense no -longer and called at the house, to discover that she had gone to the -mountains for a brief visit. He remembered that he had been told of this -journey, and he reflected that Celia might have expected him to come and -bid her good-by. His mental attitude toward her had been much the same -as if there had been some actual quarrel, and now he said to himself -that, after all, there had been nothing in their last interview to -justify this feeling. He alternately reproached himself and blamed her, -and continually the condition of things became more intolerable to him. - -His temper was not improved when Ralph, at one of the sittings, which -continued steadily, mentioned in a tone which seemed to the artist's -jealous fancy rather boasting, that he had received a letter from his -cousin. Tom frowned fiercely, and painted on without comment. - -Claymore was working steadily on the second portrait, which was rapidly -approaching completion. He said to himself that if his theory was -right, and the reflection of his worst traits before a man's eye could -influence the original to evil, he would be avenged upon Ralph for -robbing him of Celia, since this portrait of Thatcher was to have a -place in the young man's home. He also reflected that in no way else -could he so surely wean Celia from an affection for her cousin, as by -bringing out Ralph's worst side. He despised himself for what he was -doing, but as men sullenly yield to a temptation against which all their -best instincts fight, he still went on with his work. - -He naturally watched closely to see what effect the portrait was already -having on his sitter. Whether from its influence or from other causes, -Ralph had grown morose and ungracious after Celia's departure, and Tom -was certainly not mistaken in feeling that he was in the worst possible -frame of mind. Even the fact that his cousin had written to him did -little to change his mood, a fact that Tom, sore and hurt at being left -without letters, noted with inward anger. - -The two men were daily approaching that point where it was probable that -they would come into open conflict. Ralph began to devise excuses for -avoiding the sittings, a fact that especially irritated the artist, who -was anxious to complete the work. The whole nature of their relations -toward each other had undergone a change, and all frankness and -friendliness seemed to have gone out of it. Sometimes Claymore felt -responsible for this, and at others he laughed at the idea that he had -in any way helped to alter Ralph. He was uneasy and unhappy, and when a -couple of weeks had gone by without a word from Celia, he resolved that -he would follow her to the mountains, and at least put an end to the -suspense which was becoming intolerable. - -He sent word to Thatcher that he was going out of town for a few days, -packed his valise, and went down to his studio to put things to rights -for his absence. He arranged the two or three matters that needed -attention, looked at his watch, and found that he had something over -an hour before train time. He started toward the door of the studio, -hesitated, and then turned back to stand in front of the easel and -regard the nearly completed portrait of Ralph Thatcher. - -It was a handsome face that looked out at him, and one full of -character; but in the full lips was an expression of sensuality almost -painful, and the eyes were selfish and cruel. The artist's first feeling -was one of gratified vanity at the cleverness with which his work had -been done. He had preserved the likeness, and scarcely increased the -apparent age of his sitter, while he had carried forward into repulsive -fullness the worst possibilities of which he could find trace in the -countenance of the original. As he looked, a cruel sense of triumph grew -in Claymore's mind. He felt that this portrait was the sure instrument -of his revenge against the man who had robbed him of the love of his -betrothed. He considered his coming interview with Celia, and so -completely was he possessed of the belief that he had lost her, that -he looked forward to the meeting as to a farewell. - -At the thought a sudden pulse of emotion thrilled him. He saw Celia's -beautiful, high-bred face before him, and there came into his mind a -sense of shame, as if he were already before her and could not meet her -eyes. The sting of the deepest humiliation a high-minded man can know, -that of standing condemned and degraded in his own sight, pierced his -very soul. - -"It is myself and not Ralph that I have been harming," ran his thought. -"It has never occurred to me that, even if I was dragging him down, I -had flung myself into the slime to do it. Good heavens! Is this the sort -of man I am? Am I such a sneak as to lurk in the dark and take advantage -of the confidence he shows by putting himself into my hands! Celia is -right; she could not be herself and not prefer him to the blackguard I -have proved myself." - -However fanciful his theory in regard to the effect of the portrait upon -Thatcher might be, Tom was too honest to disguise from himself that -his will and intention had been to do the other harm, and to do it, -moreover, in an underhanded fashion. Instead of open, manly attack upon -his rival, he had insidiously endeavored to work him injury against -which Ralph could not defend himself. - -"The only thing I have really accomplished," groaned poor Tom to -himself, "is to prove what a contemptible cur I am." - -He took from his pocket his knife, opened it, and approached the -canvas. Then that strong personal connection between the artist and -his work which makes its defense almost identical with the instinct -of self-preservation, made him pause. For an instant he wavered, moved -to preserve the canvas, although he hid it away; then with desperate -resolution, and a fierceness not unlike a sacred fury, he cut the canvas -into strips. So great was the excitement of his mood and act that he -panted as he finished by wrenching the shreds of canvas from the -stretcher. - -Then he smiled at the extravagance of his feelings, set the empty -stretcher against the wall, and once more brought to light the original -portrait. - -"There," he said to himself, as he set the picture on the easel, "I can -at least go to her with a decently clean conscience, if I am a fool." - - -VI - -It was well on toward sunset when Claymore reached the mountain village -where Celia was staying with a party of friends. All the hours of his -ride in the cars he had been reviewing his relations toward her. With -his imaginative temperament he was sure to exaggerate the gravity of the -situation, and he was firmly convinced that by the destruction of the -portrait he had virtually renounced his betrothed. He recalled jealously -the many signs Celia had given of her interest in her cousin, and he -settled himself in the theory that only Ralph's boyishness and apparent -want of character had prevented her cousin from winning her love. -Looking back over the summer and recalling how Thatcher had advanced -in manliness, how his character had developed, and Celia's constant -appreciation of his progress, Claymore could not but conclude, with an -inward groan, that although she was pledged to him, her affection was -really given to his rival. - -Whether Celia was aware of the true state of her feelings, Tom could not -determine. Her silence of the last fortnight had perplexed and tormented -him; and he felt sure that in this time she could not have failed to -reflect deeply upon the situation. He believed, however whimsical such a -theory might seem, that his only chance of holding her was by bringing -home to her the dark side of Ralph's character, as he was convinced he -had been the means of showing her the best traits of her cousin. The -effect of the portraits had become to him a very real and a very -important factor in the case, and although he was at heart too good to -regret that he had destroyed the second picture, he was not without a -feeling of self-pity that fate had forced upon him the destruction of -his own hopes. The logical reflection that, if his ideas were true, he -had himself chosen to take up the weapon by which he was in the end -wounded, did not occur to him, and would probably have afforded him -small consolation if it had. - -A servant directed him down a wood-path which led to a small cascade, -where he was told he should find Miss Sathman. As he came within sound -of the falling water, he heard voices, and pressing on, he was suddenly -brought to an abrupt halt by recognizing the tones of Ralph Thatcher. -What the young man was saying Tom did not catch, but the reply of Celia -came to his ears with cutting distinctness. - -"And does it seem to you honorable, Ralph," she said, "to follow me here -and talk to me in this way, when you know I am engaged to another man, -and he your friend?" - -"No man is my friend that takes you away from me!" Thatcher returned -hotly. "And besides, I happen to know you have quarrelled with him. You -have n't written to him since you came here." - -"I have not quarrelled with him," Celia answered. "Oh, Ralph, I have -always believed you were so honorable." - -"Honorable! honorable!" repeated the other angrily. "Shall I let you go -for a whimsical fancy that it is not honorable to speak to you? I have -loved you ever since we were children, and you--" - -"And I," Miss Sathman interrupted, "have never loved anybody in that way -but Tom." - -The woodland swam before Claymore's eyes. Instinctively, and hardly -conscious what he was doing, he drew himself aside out of the path into -the thicket. What more was said, he did not know. He was only aware that -a moment or two later Ralph went alone by the place where he lay hidden, -and then he rose and went slowly toward the cascade and Celia. - -She was sitting with her back toward him, but as she turned at the sound -of his footsteps, the look of pain in her eyes changed suddenly into a -great joy. - - -VII - -It was nearly a year before Tom told Celia the whole story of the two -portraits. The temptation and the effects of his paltering with it were -so real in his mind that he could not bring himself to confess until he -had made such effort as lay in his power at reparation. He finished the -original picture without more sittings, for Ralph, much to the artist's -relief, kept away from the studio. Then he left Salem, saying to himself -that his presence there might drive Ralph from home, where Tom wished -him to remain, that the influence of the face, if it really existed, -might help him. - -"I do not know," Celia said thoughtfully, "whether the changes in Ralph -came from the pictures or from his disappointment; but in either case I -can see how real the whole was to you, and I am glad you stood the test; -although," she added, smiling fondly upon her husband, "I should have -known from the first that you would n't fail." - -"But you must acknowledge," Tom responded, replying to the latter -portion of her remark by a caress, "that Ralph has come out splendidly -in the last year--since he has had that portrait to look at." - -"Yes," she replied musingly, "and he is fast growing up to the -picture." - - - - -THE KNITTERS IN THE SUN - - _The spinsters and the knitters in the sun._ - _Twelfth Night_, ii, 4. - - -The mellow light of the October sun fell full upon the porch of the -stately old Grayman house, and the long shadows of the Lombardy poplars -pointed to the two silvery haired women who sat there placidly knitting. - -The mansion dated back to colonial times. That it had been erected -before public sentiment was fully settled in regard to the proper site -of the village might be inferred from its lonely position on the banks -of the river which flowed through the little town a mile away. The -funereal poplars, winter-killed and time-beaten now in their tops, -had been in their prime half a century ago, yet they were young when -compared to the house before which they stood sentinel. From the -small-paned windows of this dwelling Graymans whose tombstones where -long sunken and rusted with patient moss had seen British vessels -sailing up the river with warlike intent, and on the porch where the -women sat knitting peacefully, Captain Maynard Grayman had stood to -review his little company of volunteers before leading them against the -redcoats, and had spoken to them in fiery words of the patriots whose -blood had but a week before been shed at Lexington. The place had still -the air of pre-Revolutionary dignity and self-respect. - -As the poplars had steadily cast their sombre shadows upon the Graymans, -father and son and son's son, as generation after generation they lived -and died in the old mansion, so had the Southers no less constantly -remained the faithful servants of the family. They had seen the -greatness of the masters wane sadly from its original splendors, the -family pride alone of all the pristine glories remaining unimpaired; -they had striven loyally against the fate which trenched upon the wealth -and power of the house; and they had seen money waste, reputation fade, -until now even the name was on the verge of extinction, and the family -reduced to a bed-ridden old man querulously dwelling in futile dreams of -vanished importance and the lovely and lonely daughter who wore out her -life beside him. - -As the Graymans diminished, the Southers, perhaps from the very energy -with which they strove to aid the fallen fortunes of their masters, had -waxed continually. The change which keeps from stagnation republican -society, abasing the lofty and exalting the lowly, could not have had -better illustration than in the two families. It was from no necessity -that old Sarah was still the servant of the house; a servant, in truth, -with small wage, and one who secretly helped out the broken revenues of -her master. Dollar for dollar, she could have out-counted the entire -property of her employers; and might have lived where and as she -pleased, had she been minded to have servants of her own. In old Sarah's -veins, however, flowed the faithful Souther blood, transmitted by -generations of traditionary adherents of the Grayman family; and -neither the persuasions of her children, who felt the quickening -influence of the new order of things, nor the amount of her snug account -in the village savings bank, could tempt the steadfast creature from her -allegiance. When long ago she had married her cousin, an inoffensive, -meek man, dead now a quarter of a century, she had made it a condition -that she should not abandon her service; and her position in the Grayman -mansion, like her name, had remained practically unchanged by matrimony. - -She was a not uncomely figure as she sat in the October sunlight -knitting steadily, her hair abundant although silvery, and her figure -still alert and erect. From her dark print gown to the tips of her snowy -cap-strings she was spotlessly neat, while an air of mingled energy and -placidity imparted a certain piquancy to her bearing. Her active fingers -plied the bright needles with the deftness of long familiarity, and from -time to time her quick glance swept in unconscious inspection over the -row of shining tin pans ranged along the porch wall, over the beehives -in their shed not far away, robbed now of their honey, over the -smooth-flowing river beyond, and over her sister who knitted beside her. -She had the air of one accustomed to responsibility and used to watching -sharply whatever went on about her. She bestowed now and then a brief -look upon the yellow cat asleep at her feet with his paws doubled under -him, and one instinctively felt that were he guilty of any derelictions -in relation to the dairy, her sharp eye would have detected it in some -tell-tale curl of his whiskers. She scanned with a passing regard of -combined suspicion and investigation the ruddy line of tomatoes gaining -their last touch of red ripeness on the outside of the window-ledge, her -expression embodying some vague disapproval of any fruit of which the -cultivation was so manifestly an innovation on good old customs. In -every movement she displayed a repressed energy contrasting markedly -with the manner of the quiet knitter beside her in that strange fashion -so often to be found in children of the same parents. - -The second woman was little more than a vain shadow from which whatever -substance it had ever possessed had long since departed. Hannah West was -one of those ciphers to which somebody else is always the significant -figure. In her youth she had been the shadow of her sister, and when -her husband departed this life, she had merely returned to her first -allegiance in becoming the shadow of Sarah Souther once more. She was a -tiny, faded creature, who came from her home in the village to visit her -sister upon every possible occasion, much as a pious devotee might make -a pilgrimage to a shrine. She believed so strongly and so absolutely in -Sarah that the belief absorbed all the energy of her nature and left her -without even the power of having an especial interest in anything else. -What Sarah Souther did, what she thought, what she said, what were the -fortunes and what the opinions of her children, with such variations -as could be rung on these themes, formed the subject of Mrs. West's -conversation, as well as of such transient and vague mental processes -as served her in place of thought. The afternoons which she passed in -aimless, placid gossip with her sister were the only bits of light and -color in her monotonous existence, to be dwelt upon in memory with joy -as they were looked forward to with delight. - -"I d' know," Hannah remarked, after an unusually long interval of -silence this afternoon, "what's set me thinkin' so much 'bout George -and Miss Edith as I hev' lately. Seems ef things took hold o' me more -the older I get." - -A new look of intelligence and alertness came into Sarah's face. She -knit out the last stitches upon her needle, and looked down over the -river, where a little sail-boat was trying to beat up to the village -with a breeze so light as to seem the mere ghost of a wind. The story of -the hapless loves of her son and Edith Grayman was sure to be touched -upon some time in the course of every afternoon when she and Hannah sat -together, and she was conscious of having to-day a fresh item to add to -the history. - -"I had a letter from George yesterday," she said, approaching her news -indirectly that the pleasure of telling it might last the longer. - -"Did you?" asked Hannah, almost with animation. "I want to know." - -"Yes," Sarah answered, a softer look coming into her bright gray eyes. -"Yes, and a good letter it was." - -"George was always a master hand at writin'," Hannah responded. "He is a -regular mother's son. He would n't tell a lie to save his right hand." - -"No," Sarah responded, understanding perfectly that this apparently -irrelevant allusion to the veracity of her son had a direct bearing upon -the difficulties which had beset his wooing; "when Mr. Grayman asked him -if he had been makin' love to Miss Edith, he never flinched a mite. He -spoke up like a man. There never was a Souther yet that I ever heard of -that 'u'd lie to save himself." - -She laid her knitting down upon her lap and fixed upon the little boat a -regard which seemed one of the closest attention, yet which saw not the -white sloop or the dingy sail with its irregular patch of brown. Some -tender memory touched the eternally young motherhood in her aged bosom, -and some vision of her absent son shut out from her sense the view of -the realities before her. - -"He would n't 'a' been his mother's son if he had 'a' lied," Hannah -remarked, with a sincerity so evident that it took from the words all -suspicion of flattery. - -"Or his father's either," Sarah said. "I never set out that Phineas had -much go to him, but he was a good man, and he was as true as steel." - -"Yes," her sister assented, as she would have assented to any -proposition laid down by Mrs. Souther, "yes, he was that." - -They sat for a moment in silence. Sarah resumed her knitting, and once -more became conscious of the lagging sloop. - -"That's likely Ben Hatherway's boat," she remarked. "If he don't get on -faster, he'll get caught in the turn of the tide and carried out again." - -Hannah glanced toward the boat in a perfunctory way, but she was too -deeply interested in the theme upon which the talk had touched to let it -drop, and her mind was hardly facile enough to change so quickly from -one subject to another. - -"What did George say?" she asked. "You said it was a good letter." - -"Yes," the mother answered, "it was a regular good letter, if I do say -it that had n't ought. He's comin' home." - -"Comin' home?" echoed Hannah, in a twitter of excitement. "I want to -know! Comin' home himself?" - -"I dunno what you mean by comin' home himself," Sarah replied, with a -mild facetiousness born of her joy at the news the letter had brought; -"but 't ain't at all likely he'll come home nobody else. He's comin', 't -any rate. It'll be curious to see how him and Miss Edith 'll act. It'll -be ten years since they said good-by to one another, and ten years is -considerable of a spell." - -"Happen he'll be changed," Hannah observed. "Ten years does most usually -change folks more or less." - -"Happen," Sarah responded, in a graver and lower tone, "he'll find her -changed." - -As if to give opportunity for the testing of the truth of this remark, -the slight figure of Edith Grayman at that moment appeared at the head -of the steep and crooked stairway which led from the chambers of the old -house into the kitchen close by the porch door. She was a woman whose -face had lost the first freshness of youth, although her summers counted -but twenty-seven. Perhaps it was that the winters of her life had been -so much the longer seasons. There was in her countenance that expression -of mild melancholy which is the heritage from generations of ancestors -who have sadly watched the wasting of race and fortune, and the even -more bitter decay of the old order of things to which they belong. -She was slender and graceful in shape, with a stately and gracious -carriage, and the air of the patrician possibly a faint shade too marked -in her every motion. - -As she came slowly down the time-stained stairway, her fair hair twisted -high upon her shapely head, her lips slightly pressed together, and her -violet eyes pensive and introspective, Edith might have passed for the -ghost of the ancestress whose rejuvenated gown of pale blue camlet she -wore. - -The long shadows of the lugubrious Lombardy poplars had already begun -to stretch out in far-reaching lines, as if laying dusky fingers on the -aged mansion, and the sun shone across the river with a light reddened -by the autumn hazes. The knitters, as they turned at the sound of -Edith's footfall, shone in a sort of softened glory, and into this they -saw her descend as she came down the winding stair. - -"Father is asleep," Miss Grayman said, stepping into the porch with a -light tread. "I am going down to the shore for a breath of air before -the night mist rises. You will hear father's bell if he wakes." - -She moved slowly down the path which led toward the river, and the -regards of the two old women followed her as she went. - -"She is a born lady," Sarah said, not without a certain pride as of -proprietorship. - -"She is that," Hannah acquiesced. "Does she know he's comin'?" - -"I just ain't had the sconce to tell her," was the response. "Sometimes -'t seems just as though I'd ought to tell her, and then agen 't seems if -'t would n't do no kind or sort of good. Two or three times she's sort -of looked at me 's if she had an idea something was up, but even then I -could n't bring it out." - -"When 's he comin'?" - -"Any day now. He was in Boston when he wrote, and he's likely to be on -the boat 'most any day." - -Hannah laid down her knitting for a moment in the breathless excitement -of this announcement. The romance of young George Souther and Edith -Grayman had thrilled her as nothing in her own experience could have -done, so much more real and so much more important were these young -people to her mind than was her own personality. For ten years the tale, -brief and simple though it was, had for her been the most exciting of -romances, and the possibility of the renewal of the broken relations -between the lovers appealed to her every sense. - -The story of the ill-starred loves of the young couple was really not -much, although the two gossips knitting in the sun had spun its length -over many a summer's afternoon. Young, lovely, and lonely, Edith Grayman -had responded to the love of the manly, handsome son of her nurse as -unconsciously and as fervently as if the democratic theories upon which -this nation is founded had been for her eternal verities. She had been -as little aware of what was happening as is the flower which opens its -chalice to the sun, and the shock of discovery when he dared to speak -his passion was as great as if she had not felt the love she scorned. -Indeed, it is probable that the sudden perception of her own feelings -aroused her to a sense of the need she had to be determined, if she -hoped to hold her own against her lover's pleading. She was beset within -and without, and had need of all her strength not to yield. - -"She gave in herself ten years ago," Sarah commented, following the -train of thought which was in the mind of each of the sisters as they -watched Edith's graceful figure disappear behind a thicket of hazel -bushes, turning russet with the advance of autumn. "She stood out till -that night George was upset in that sail-boat of his and we thought he -was never comin' to. It makes me kind o' creepy down my back now to -recollect the screech she give when she see him brought in; an' mercy -knows I felt enough like screechin' myself, if it had n't 'a' been for -knowin' that if I did n't get the hot blankets, there wa'n't nobody to -do it. She could n't deny that she was in love with him after that." - -"But she sent him off," interposed Hannah, in the tone of one repeating -an objection which persistently refused to be explained to her -satisfaction. - -"Yes," Sarah returned; "that's what you always say, when you know as -well 's I do that that was to please her father; and there he lies -bed-rid to-day just as he did then, and just as sot in his way as ever -he was." - -The pair sighed in concert and shook their gray heads. Of the real -significance of the romance which lay so near them they were almost as -completely ignorant as was the great yellow cat, who opened his eyes -leisurely as Hannah let fall her ball of yarn, and then, considering -that upon the whole the temptation to chase it was not worth yielding -to, closed the lids over the topaz globes again with luxurious slowness. -Themselves part of the battle between the old order and the new, the -good creatures were hardly aware that such a struggle was being waged. - -"She said," Sarah murmured, bringing forward another scrap of the story, -"that she never 'd marry him 's long 's her father objected, and if I -don't know that when once Leonard Grayman 's sot his mind on a thing to -that thing he 'll stick till the crack o' doom, then I don't know -nothin' about him; that's all. She won't go back on her word, and he -won't let her off, and that's just the whole of it." - -"No," Hannah agreed, sniffing sympathetically, "they won't neither of -'em change their minds; that you may depend upon." - -"He'd object if he was in his coffin, I do believe," Sarah continued, -with a curious mixture of pride in the family and of personal -resentment. "The Graymans are always awful set." - -"George must be considerable rich," Hannah observed, in a tone not -without a note of reverence; "he's sent you a power o' money, first and -last, ain't he?" - -"Considerable," the other replied, with conscious elation. "I never used -none of it. He kept sendin' till I told him it wa'n't no manner o' -mortal use; the family would n't let me use it for them, and I had more -'n I knew what to do with anyway. I've got more 'n 'nough to bury me -decenter 'n most folks." - -"Yes, I s'pose y' have," Hannah assented. - -The knitters sat silent a little time, perhaps reflecting upon the -thoughts which the mention of the last rites for the dead called up in -their minds. The shadows were growing longer very fast now, and already -the afternoon had grown cooler. - -Suddenly a step sounded on the graveled walk, and a firmly built, -handsome man of thirty-two or three came around the house and neared the -porch where the old women sat. - -"George!" cried old Sarah, so suddenly that the cat sprang up, startled -from his dreams of ancestral mice. "Where on earth did you come from?" - -"I want to know!" Hannah exclaimed, rather irrelevantly, in her -excitement dropping a stitch in her knitting. - -She was instantly aware of the misfortune, however, and while the mother -and son exchanged greetings after their ten years' separation, Hannah -occupied herself in endeavors to pick up the loop of blue yarn which her -purblind eyes could scarcely see in the dimming light. When the stitch -had been secured, she proffered her own welcome in sober fashion, being, -in truth, somewhat overcome by this stalwart and bearded man whom she -remembered as a stripling. The two women twittered about the robust -newcomer, who took his seat upon the porch steps, pouring out each in -her way a flood of questions or exclamations to which he could hardly be -expected to pay very close attention. - -After a separation of ten years the greetings were naturally warm, but -the Southers were not a folk given to demonstrativeness, and it was not -to the surprise of Mrs. Souther that before many minutes had passed her -son said abruptly:-- - -"Where is she?" - -"There, there," his mother said, in a tone in which were oddly mingled -pride, remonstrance, and fondness, "ain't you got over that yet?" - -"No," he responded briefly, but laying his hand fondly on that of his -mother. "Where is she?" - -"Like as not she won't see you," his mother ventured. - -"She sent for me." - -The two women stared at him in amazement. - -"Sent for you?" they echoed in unison, their voices raised in pitch. - -"Yes," he said, rising and throwing back his strong shoulders in a -gesture his mother remembered well. "I don't know why I should n't tell -you, mother. She said she had been proud as long as she could bear it." - -The situation was too overwhelmingly surprising for the women to grasp -it at once. Their knitting lay neglected in their laps while they tried -to take in the full meaning of this wonderful thing. - -"It is n't her pride," old Sarah said softly. "'T 's his; but she would -n't say nothin' against her father if she was to be killed for it." - -"Is she in the house?" he asked. - -"No; she 's down to the shore," his mother answered, with a gasp. - -At that moment sounded from the house the tinkle of a bell. The two -women started like guilty things surprised. - -"Oh, my good gracious!" ejaculated Hannah under her breath. - -"What is that?" demanded George. - -"That's his bell," Mrs. Souther answered. "He wants me. You need n't -mind." - -"But he must have heard--" began Hannah breathlessly. Then she stopped -abruptly. - -"Do you think he heard me?" George asked. - -"Oh, he 'd wake up about this time anyway," his mother said. "Besides," -she added, with a novel note of rebellion in her voice, "what if he did? -You have a right to come to see me, I should hope." - -Again the bell tinkled. Old Sarah turned to go into the house. - -"You'll find her down to the shore," she repeated. - -He turned away at her word, and with long, rapid strides took the path -which Miss Edith had taken earlier. The mother paused to look at him -from the threshold. Hannah knitted on with a feverish haste and a -frightened countenance. For a third time the bell called, now more -imperatively, and Sarah mounted the crooked stairway followed by the -frightened gaze of her sister. - -In the cool and shaded chamber into which Sarah went, a chamber fitted -with high-shouldered old mahogany furniture, the youngest piece of which -had known the grandfathers of the withered old man who lay in the carved -bed, the air seemed to her electric with dreadful possibilities. Mr. -Grayman was sitting up in bed, his scant white locks elfishly disheveled -about the pale parchment of his face, his eyes unnaturally bright. - -"Where have you been?" he demanded, with fierce querulousness. "Why did -n't you come when I rang?" - -She did not at first reply, but busied herself with the medicine which -it was time for him to take. - -"Whose voice did I hear?" the old man demanded, as soon as he had -swallowed the teaspoonful of liquid she brought him. - -"Hannah is here," she answered briefly. - -"But I heard a man's voice," he continued, his excitement steadily -mounting. "I know who it was! I know who it was!" - -"Lie down," his nurse said sternly. "You know the doctor said your heart -would n't stand excitement." - -"It was George!" he exclaimed shrilly. "He's an impudent--" A fit of -gasping choked him, but he struggled fiercely to go on. "If she speaks -to him, if she looks at him even, I'll curse her! I'll curse her! I'll -come back from my grave to--" - -A convulsive gasping ended the sentence. He tore at his throat, at his -breast, he struggled dreadfully. Old Sarah supported him in her arms, -and tried to aid him, but nothing could save him from the effect of that -paroxysm. With one tremendous final effort, the old man threw back his -head, drew in his breath with a frightful gasp, then forced it out -again in the attempt to utter a last malediction. - -"Curse--" The shrill word rang through the chamber, but it was followed -by no other. A strong, wrinkled hand, a hand that for a lifetime had -worked faithfully for him and his, was pressed over his mouth. He -choked, gasped, and then the male line of the Grayman family was -extinct. - -In the meantime Hannah had been sitting on the porch, knitting like an -automaton, and staring at the yellow cat with eyes full of dazed terror. -She heard the disturbance in the chamber above, but it came to her very -faintly until that last shrill word rang down the ancient stairway. Then -she dropped her knitting in complete consternation. - -"Oh, goodness!" she said aloud. "Oh, goodness gracious me!" - -She was swept away completely by the sudden turmoil which had come to -trouble the peaceful afternoon. With the leveling tendencies of modern -days Hannah had become in a way familiar, as she had for a time lived -at a distance in a town of some size, and of late years in the village, -where the unruffled existence of the old Grayman place might almost seem -as remote as the life of another century. But Hannah never made any -application of modern principles to "the family." The Graymans were an -exception to any rules of social equality or democratic tendency. The -presumption of her nephew in raising his eyes to Miss Edith had always -been all but incredible to the simple old soul; and to understand that a -lady of the Grayman stock could for a moment have entertained feelings -warmer than those of patronage for a Souther was utterly beyond Hannah's -power. She had heard George say that Miss Edith had sent for him; but -she had understood it no more than she would have understood a vision -of the Apocalypse. The slow steps by which the girl had come to be -in revolt against the family traditions, to be ready to abandon her -heart-breaking resolutions, and to summon her lover, could have been -made credible to old Hannah only on the theory of madness. She sat -there in the silence which had followed that shrill cry from the -chamber of death, dazed and half cowering, unable to think or to move. - -At last she saw George Souther returning alone by the river-path. The -brightness was gone from his face, and his lips were contracted sternly. - -"She 's sent him away again," Hannah West said within herself. "She had -to." - -The universe seemed to her to be righting itself again. Some monstrous -aberration might for a moment have come upon Miss Grayman, but the stars -in their courses were not more steadfast than the principles of the -blood. Hannah breathed more freely at the sight of her nephew's drawn -face. She wished him no ill, but she could not regard this desire of his -as not unlike that of a madman who would pluck the moon from the sky. -She instinctively accepted his evident failure as a proof that sanity -still existed in the world, and that the moral foundations of society -were still undestroyed. - -"Where is mother?" George asked abruptly, as he came upon the porch. - -"She ain't come down yet," Hannah answered, her thin hands going on with -the knitting like a machine. - -"I don't think I'll wait," he said simply. "She'll understand." - -But at that instant the figure of his mother appeared on the stairway. -She came out upon the porch, bent, gray, cowering. As her eye caught the -face of her son, however, she straightened herself and a new look came -into her eyes. - -"Where is Miss Edith?" she asked abruptly. - -George came to her and took her hand gently. - -"Mother," he said, "you must n't blame her. She can't break her father's -heart. She has sent me away again." - -His mother looked at him quietly, but with eyes that shone wildly. - -"You need n't go," she announced calmly. "He is dead." - -"Dead!" echoed her son. - -"Dead!" cried Hannah shrilly. - -"Yes," Sarah responded, with increasing calmness. "He had one of his -paroxysms. The doctor said he'd go off in one of them. You'd better go -to Miss Edith and tell her." - -Hannah rose from her chair as if the feebleness of age had come upon her -suddenly. - -"The doctor said he must n't be excited," she quavered. "Did he know -George was here?" - -The son, who had half turned away, wheeled back again. - -"Was that what killed him?" he demanded. - -Old Sarah straightened herself with a supreme effort. The very strain -of uttering a falsehood and of the dreadful secret which must darken -her soul for the rest of her life gave to her words an added air of -sincerity. - -"He did n't know," she said. "He went off as peaceful as a child." - -Her son waited for nothing more, but once more hastened down the -river-path. Hannah stood as if transfixed. - -"But, Sarah," she said, "I heard--" - -Sarah looked at her with a wild regard. For a moment was silence. - -"No," she said, "you heard nothing. He did not say it!" - -She leaned against the doorpost and looked at her right hand strangely, -as if she expected to see blood on it. Then she stood erect again, -squaring her shoulders as if to a burden accepted. - -"Be still," she said. "They're coming." - -Mechanically old Hannah, bowed and bewildered, began to do up her -knitting in the fading autumnal afternoon. - -"It is growing chilly," she muttered shiveringly. - - - - -A COMEDY IN CRAPE - - -"For my part," observed Mrs. Sterns stoutly, turning the seam of the -flannel shirt she was making for some unknown soldier, "I don't believe -any one of the three was ever really engaged to Archie Lovell. He went -round with all of them some, of course; but that was n't anything--with -him." - -A murmur from the group about her told at least of sympathy with her -point of view, and assent showed itself in the remark with which Mrs. -Small continued the conversation. - -"It's awful easy for a girl to put on mourning when a man's dead, and -say she's been engaged to him; but if any one of 'em had been engaged to -Archie Lovell while he was alive, she'd have bragged enough of it at the -time." - -The murmur of assent was more pronounced now, and one or two of the -members of the Soldiers' Aid Society expressed in word their entire -agreement of this opinion. The ladies who made up the society usually -improved the opportunities afforded by their meetings to discuss all the -gossip of Tuskamuck, and the matter which they were now talking over in -the corner of Dr. Wentworth's parlor was one which had caused much -excitement in the little community. It was in the days of the Civil -War, and anything connected with the soldiers aroused interest, but a -combination of romance and gossip with a tragedy in the field contained -all the elements of the deepest sensation. News had come after the -battle of Chickamauga of the death of Archie Lovell, and although this -was followed by a vague rumor that he might perhaps be among the missing -rather than the killed, it had never been really disproved. As time had -gone on without tidings of the missing man, his death had been accepted, -and even his aunt, Old Lady Andrews, whose idol he had been, and who -clung to hope as long as hope seemed possible, had given him up at -last. She had ordered a memorial stone to be placed in the village -graveyard, and the appearance of the marble tablet seemed in a way to -give official sanction to the belief that Archie Lovell would never -again carry his bright face and winning smile about the village streets, -and that nevermore would he drive the gossips of Tuskamuck to the -verge of desperation by flirting so markedly with a dozen girls that -they could by no means keep track of him or decide what his real -preference--if he had one--might be. - -Whatever loss the gossips sustained by his death, however, was soon made -up, for no sooner was the news of his loss known than three girls, one -after the other, announced their engagement to the dead hero, and one -after the other donned widow's weeds in his memory. So many girls had -been the recipients of Archie's multifarious attentions that it would -have been easy for almost any one of Tuskamuck's maidens to bring -forward such a claim with some show of probability; but unfortunately, -by the end of 1863 too many damsels had done this sort of thing for the -posthumous announcement of an engagement to be received with entire -solemnity or assured credence. A sort of fashion of going into mourning -for dead soldiers had set in, and undoubtedly many a forlorn damsel by a -tender fiction thus gratified a blighted passion which had never before -been allowed to come to light. Cynic wits declared that it added a new -terror to a soldier's death that he could never tell who would, when he -was unable to deny it, claim to have been betrothed to him; and when, as -in the present case, three disconsolate maidens wore crape for the same -man, the affair became too absurd even for the responsive sympathies of -war-time. - -"The way things are going on," observed Mrs. Drew, a stern woman with a -hard eye, "the men are getting so killed off that the only satisfaction -a girl can get anyway is to go into mourning for some of 'em; and I -don't blame 'em if they do it." - -The quality of the remark evidently did not please her hearers, who -could hardly bear any slightest approach to light speaking concerning -the tragedy in which the nation was involved. - -"If it was any one of the three," Mrs. Cummings declared, after a brief -silence, "it was Delia Burrage. He used to go round with her all the -time." - -"No more 'n he did with Mattie Seaton," another lady observed. "He used -to see Mattie home from singing-school most of the time that winter -before he enlisted." - -"Well, anyway, when Delia presented the flag to the company the night -before they went off, he was with her all the evening. Don't you -remember how we had a supper in the Academy yard, and----" - -"Of course I remember. I guess I was on the committee; but he used to go -with Mattie lots." - -"He sent Mary Foster that wooden chair he carved in camp," spoke up -another lady, coming into the field as a champion of the third of the -mourners who were so conspicuously advertising their grief to an -unbelieving world. - -"Well, that was a philopena; so that don't count. She told me so -herself." - -The case was argued with all the zeal and minuteness inseparable from a -discussion at the Tuskamuck Soldiers' Aid Society, and at last, when -everybody else began to show signs of flagging, a word was put in by -Aunt Naomi Dexter. She had throughout sat listening to the dispute, now -and then throwing in a dry comment, wagging her foot and chewing her -green barège veil after her fashion, and looking as if she could tell -much, if she were but so disposed. Aunt Naomi scorned sewing, and was -the one woman who was privileged to sit idle while all the others were -busy. She never removed her bonnet on these occasions, the fiction being -that she had only dropped in, and did not really belong to the society; -but gossip was to Aunt Naomi as the breath of her nostrils, and she -would have died rather than to absent herself from a company where it -might be current. - -"I don't know how many girls Archie Lovell was engaged to," she now -remarked dryly. "I dare say he did n't himself; and for all I know, he -was engaged to all three of those geese that are flying the black flag -for him. But I can tell you the girl he really wanted to marry, and she -is n't in black, either." - -The ladies all regarded her with looks of lively curiosity and -interrogation; but she rolled the sweet morsel of gossip under her -tongue, and evidently had no intention of being hurried. - -"Who is it?" Mrs. Cummings demanded at length, in a tone which indicated -that no more trifling would be endurable. - -Aunt Naomi moistened her lips with an air like that of a cat in -contemplation of a plump young sparrow. - -"I don't see who there is that's any more likely to have been engaged to -him than Mattie," the champion of that young lady asserted combatively. - -"He'd no more have married her than he would me," Aunt Naomi asserted -contemptuously. - -"Who was it, then?" Mrs. Smith demanded impatiently. - -Aunt Naomi looked about on the eager faces, and seemed to feel that -interest had been brought up to its culmination point so that it was -time to speak. - -"Nancy Turner," she pronounced briefly. - -The name was received with varying expressions of face, but few of the -ladies had any especial comment to offer in word. Some scorned the idea, -and the champions of the three mourners still stood by their guns; but -the new theory plainly had in it some force, for the women were all -evidently impressed that in this suggestion might lie the real solution -to the vagaries of Archie Lovell's multitudinous wooing. As Mrs. -Cummings said, however, Nancy Turner was a girl who kept her own -counsel, and if she had indeed been engaged to the missing soldier, -nobody would ever be the wiser for it. It was discouraging to the -gossips to be confronted with a mystery which they could have so little -hope of ever solving, and the talk gradually turned to other topics, -this one remaining as available as ever to be taken up whenever -conversation might languish. - -The Sunday following this meeting of the Soldiers' Aid Society was a -warm and beautiful spring day, which invited to the open air. Public -morality in Tuskamuck was narrow in its interpretations, and among -other restrictions it imposed was the impropriety of walking on Sunday -except by strolling in the village graveyard. The theory, if carefully -investigated, would have been found, in all probability, to have its -roots in some Puritan notion that youth in its thoughtlessness would be -sobered and religiously inclined by the sight of the grassy mounds, the -solemnly clumsy mortuary inscriptions, and the general reminders of -death. In practice the fact did not entirely justify such a theory, for -the graceless young people instinctively sought for amusement rather -than for spiritual enlightenment, chatted and laughed as loudly as they -dared, examined the epitaphs for those that might by any distortion of -their original intent be made ludicrous, and exchanged jokes in most -unsabbatical fashion. They even indulged thoughtlessly, in the very -midst of these grim reminders of a life wherein is neither marriage nor -giving in marriage, in little rustic flirtations, and eagerly picked -up morsels of gossip by sharp observation of young couples strolling -oblivious of watching eyes among the graves. - -To-day the desire to see the newly set stone which had been placed -over the empty mound which was to preserve the memory of Archie Lovell -attracted an unusually large number of village folk to turn into the -graveyard after afternoon service, and an exciting whisper had gone -about that the three disconsolate betrothed damsels had all come to -church with flowers. The little groups drifted slowly through the -weatherbeaten gate behind the church, but the very first of them were -deterred by seeing a black-robed figure laying already her bunch of -geraniums on the grave. Delia Burrage, who sang in the choir, had, as -was afterward told from one end of the town to the other, slipped down -the gallery stair without waiting for the benediction, and so had -managed to be first in the field. - -The gathering groups of villagers had hardly time to note with what -tender care the bereft Delia arranged her bunch of scarlet blossoms at -the foot of the still snowy marble slab than they were set aquiver with -delicious excitement by the sight of a second crape-enshrouded figure -that came to the spot, also bearing flowers. Mary Foster carried in her -black-gloved hands a cluster of white pyrethrums, a favorite house-plant -in Tuskamuck. Miss Foster came up on the side of the mound opposite to -the first comer, and humbly laid her offering below the red geraniums; -but although she was thus forced to place her flowers farther from the -stone than the other, she was evidently determined not to be outdone in -devotion. She fell on her knees, and bowed her face in her handkerchief -in a grief so dramatic that Miss Burrage was left far behind, and had -no resource but to come to her knees in turn, in a weak imitation of her -rival. - -The spectators were by this time in a sort of twitter of gratified -excitement, and exchanged many significant looks and subdued comments. -Those boldest pressed nearer to the scene of action, keenly curious to -hear if word passed between the bereaved ladies. Excitement rose to -its highest when slowly down the long path came Martha Seaton, more -voluminously draped in sable weeds than either of the others. She -carried a wreath of English ivy, and a sort of admiring shudder ran -through the neighbors as they saw that to this funeral wreath Miss -Seaton had sacrificed the growth of years of careful window gardening. - -"My! She 's cut her ivy!" one of them gasped. - -"Why, so she has! Well, for the land's sake!" responded another, too -much overwhelmed to speak coherently. - -"Trust Mattie Seaton for not letting anybody get ahead of her!" a third -commented, in accents of admiration. - -Human curiosity could not keep aloof at a moment such as this, and as -Mattie advanced toward the Lovell lot, the neighbors followed as if -irresistibly impelled. They closed in a ring around the spot when she -reached it, and they looked and listened with an eagerness so frank as -almost to be excusable. They could see that the earlier comers were -watching from behind the handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes, and with -the approbation which belongs to a successful dramatic performance the -audience noted also the entire coolness with which Miss Seaton ignored -them until she stood close to the drooping pair. Then she flung back her -long veil of crape with a sweeping gesture, and with a regal glance of -her gypsyish black eyes looked first at them and then at the flowers. - -"Oh, thank you so much for bringing flowers," she said, in a voice -evidently so raised that her words should be distinctly heard by the -ring of spectators. "Archie was so fond of them!" - -The words gave no chance of reply, and an audible chuckle arose from the -listening throng, so obviously had her tone and manner made the other -mourners outsiders. When Mattie slowly and deliberately moved around the -headstone until she stood behind it, hung her wreath on its rounded top, -and bowed her head upon it with her handkerchief covering her eyes, she -had completely taken possession of the whole situation. As one of the -young men of the town inelegantly observed, she was "boss of that grave -and the others did n't count." As if in a carefully planned _tableau -vivant_, she stood, a drooping figure of anguish, while the other two -had become merely kneeling ministrants upon her woe. - -"Well, if that ain't the beatin'est!" chuckled old Ichabod Munson, -puckering his leathery face into an ecstasy of wrinkles. "Gosh, I wish -Archie Lovell could see that. He'd be 'most willin' to get kilt for a -sight o' his three widders, an' that Seaton girl comin' it so over t' -others." - -"He'd think he was a Mormon or a Turk," observed Miss Charlotte Kendall, -with her deep, throaty chuckle that not even the solemnity of the -graveyard could subdue. "He'd see the fun of it. Poor Archie! He did -love a joke." - -The situation over the tombstone was one from which retreat to be -effective must be speedy. Mattie Seaton was apparently the only one to -appreciate this. But for a few moments did she remain with her forehead -bent to the slab; then she kissed the cold marble feverishly; and in -a voice broken, but still in tones easily audible to the listening -neighbors, she said to the kneeling girls:-- - -"Thank you so much for your sympathy;" and before they could reply she -had dropped again the cloud of crape over her face, and was moving -swiftly away up the path to the gate. - -Never was exit more dramatically effective. The pair left behind -exchanged angry glances, then with a simultaneous impulse started to -their feet, and as quickly as possible got away from the sight of their -fellow townsfolk. They might be silly, but they were not so foolish as -not to know how ridiculous they had been made to look that afternoon. - -It was only a few days after this that the village was stirred by the -news that Old Lady Andrews, who so mourned for Archie, who had adored -the handsome, good-natured, selfish, flirtatious dog all his life, had -gone South in the hope of recovering his remains, and of bringing them -home to rest beneath the stone she had erected. The village pretty -generally sympathized with the desire, but thought the chance of success -in such a quest made the undertaking a piece of hopeless sentiment. The -time since the news of Archie's death was already considerable, his fate -from the first had been uncertain, and the chances of the identification -of his grave seemed exceedingly small. - -"I figure Ol' Lady Andrews would 'a' done better to stay to hum," -'Siah Appleby expressed the sentiment of the town in saying. "Like's -not 'f she finds out anythin' certain,--which 't ain't all likely she -will,--she'll find Archie was just hove into a trench 'long with a lot -more poor fellers, an' no way o' sortin' out their bones short o' the -Day o' Judgment. She'd sot up a stone to him, 'n' she'd a nawful sight -better let it go at that." - -The sentiment of the matter touched some, but the years of war had -brought so much of grief and suffering that most had settled into a sort -of dull acquiescence unless the woe were personal and immediate. The -neighbors sympathized with the feeling of grief-stricken Old Lady -Andrews, but so many husbands and fathers, brothers and sons and lovers, -had vanished in unidentified graves that the nerves of feeling were -benumbed. It would in the early years of the war have been unbearable to -think of a friend as lying in an unnamed grave in the South; now it -seemed simply a part of the inevitable misery of war. - -The "three widows," as the village folk unkindly dubbed them, were less -in evidence after the episode in the graveyard. They avoided each other -as far as possible, and were evidently not unaware that they were not -taken very seriously by their neighbors. They perhaps knew that jests at -their expense were in circulation, like the grim remark of Deacon Daniel -Richards, that he did not see how any one of them could claim more than -a "widow's third" of Archie's memory. They kept rather quiet, at least; -and the weeks went by uneventfully until the departure of Old Lady -Andrews again drew attention to the story. - -The old lady went alone, and once gone she sent no word back to tell -how she fared on her quest. Now that her nephew was missing, she had -no immediate family; and she wrote to none of her townsfolk. The spring -opened into summer as a bud into a flower, and life at Tuskamuck went -on with its various interests, but no one was able to do more than to -speculate upon her movements or her success. - -One afternoon in June the Soldiers' Aid Society came together for its -weekly gathering in the vestry. The meeting had been appointed at the -house of the Widow Turner, but Nancy Turner had been suddenly called out -of town, and her mother, somewhat of an invalid, had not felt equal to -the task of entertaining without her. The bare room, with its red pulpit -and yellow settees, had a forlorn look, despite the groups of busy women -and girls scattered over it; but its chilling influence could not check -the flow of conversation. - -"Did you hear where Nancy Turner's gone?" one woman asked of the group -in which she sat. "She must have gone very suddenly." - -"I understood there was sickness somewhere," another responded vaguely. - -"Maybe it's her aunt over at Whitneyville," a third suggested. "Mis' -Turner told me in the spring she was real feeble." - -"Mis' Turner herself 's real frail. She did n't feel well enough to come -this afternoon." - -"Where 's Aunt Naomi?" inquired Mrs. Cummings. "It's 'most five -o'clock, and she almost always comes about three." - -"Oh," responded Mrs. Wright, with a laugh and her quick, bright glance, -"you may depend upon it she's getting news somewhere. She'll come in -before we go home, with something wonderful to tell." - -As if in intentional confirmation of the words, Aunt Naomi at that -moment appeared in the doorway. Her shrewd old face showed satisfaction -in every wrinkle, and from beneath the unfailing veil of green barège -draped from her bonnet over the upper left-hand corner of her face her -eyes positively twinkled. She took a deliberate survey of the room, and -then with her peculiar rocking gait moved to the group which had been -discussing her absence. - -"Good afternoon, Aunt Naomi," Mrs. Cummings greeted her. "We were just -wondering what had become of you." - -"And I said," put in Mrs. Wright audaciously, "that you must be getting -some wonderful piece of news." - -Aunt Naomi hitched up her shawl behind with a grasshopper-like motion of -her elbows, and sat down with a wide grin. - -"Well, this time you were right," she said. "I was hearing Old Lady -Andrews tell about her trip." - -"Old Lady Andrews?" echoed the ladies. "Has she got home?" - -"Yes; she got here this noon." - -"And nobody but you knew it!" ejaculated Mrs. Cummings. - -They all regarded Aunt Naomi with undisguised admiration, in every look -acknowledging her cleverness in discovering what had been hid from the -rest of the village. She smiled broadly, and seemed to drink in the -sweet odor of this surprise and their homage as an idol might snuff up -grateful fumes of incense. - -"Did she bring home the body?" Mrs. Cummings asked after a moment, in a -voice becomingly lowered. - -"Yes, she did," Aunt Naomi answered, with a chuckle of levity which -seemed almost indecent. "She had a dreadful time finding out anything; -but she had friends at Washington--her husband had cousins there, you -know--and at last she got on the track." - -"Where was he buried?" - -Aunt Naomi paused to wag her foot and to nibble at the corner of her -green veil in a way common to her in moments of excitement. She looked -around in evident enjoyment of the situation. - -"He was n't buried anywhere," she said, with a grin. - -"Why not?" demanded Mrs. Wright excitedly. - -"Because he was n't dead." - -"Was n't dead?" - -"No; only taken prisoner. He was wounded, and he's been in Libby." - -"How is he now?" - -"Oh, he's all right now. He's coming over here to show himself, and see -his friends." - -The words were hardly spoken when in the doorway appeared the well-known -figure of Archie Lovell. He wore the uniform of a lieutenant, he was -pale and worn, but handsomer than ever. On his arm was a blushing damsel -in a hat with a white feather, her face all smiles and dimples. An -exclamation went up from all over the room. - -"Why, it's Archie Lovell!" - -It was followed almost immediately by another:-- - -"And Nancy Turner's with him!" - -"No; it's Nancy Lovell," announced Aunt Naomi, in a voice audible all -over the vestry. "They were married in Boston." - -The bridal couple advanced. All about the room the ladies rose, but -instead of greeting the newcomers, they looked at the "three widows," -and waited as if to give them first an opportunity of accosting their -mate, thus returned as if from the very grave, and so inopportunely -bringing another mate with him. Miss Burrage and Miss Foster shrank from -sight behind the backs of those nearest to them; but Mattie Seaton swept -impulsively forward with her hand extended cordially. Her crisp black -hair curled about her temples, her eyes shone, and her teeth flashed -between her red lips. - -"Why, Archie, dear," she said, in her clear, resonant voice, "we thought -we had lost you forever. We all supposed you were dead, and here you are -only married. Let me congratulate you, though after being engaged to -so many girls, it must seem queer to be married to only one!--and you, -Nancy," she went on, before Archie could make other reply than to shake -hands; "to think you got him after all, just because you went ahead and -caught him! I congratulate you with all my heart; only look out for him. -He'll make love to every woman he sees." - -She bent forward and kissed the bride before Mrs. Lovell could have -known her intention, and turned quickly. - -"Come, Delia," she called across the vestry; "come, Mary! There's -nothing for us to do but to go home and take off our black. We may have -better luck next time!" - -With this ambiguous observation, which might have been construed to -cast rather a sinister reflection upon the return to life of the young -lieutenant, she swept out of the vestry, complete mistress of the -situation; and although Archie Lovell always strenuously denied that he -had ever been engaged to any woman besides the one he married, a general -feeling prevailed in Tuskamuck that no girl could have carried it off -with a high hand as Mattie did, if she had not had some sort of an -understanding to serve her as a support. - -But never again while the Civil War lasted did a girl in Tuskamuck put -on black for a lover unless the engagement had been publicly recognized -before his death. - - - - -A MEETING OF THE PSYCHICAL CLUB - - -I - -The meeting of the Psychical Club had been rather dull, and it was just -as the members were languidly expecting an adjournment that the only -interesting moment of the evening came. The papers had been more than -usually vapid, and, as one man whispered to another, not even a ghost -could be convicted upon evidence so slight as that brought forward to -prove the existence of disembodied visitants to certain forsaken and -rat-haunted houses. At the last moment, however, the President, Dr. -Taunton, made an announcement which did arouse some attention. - -"Before we go," he said, smiling with the air of one who desires it to -be understood that in what he says he distinctly disclaims all personal -responsibility, "it is my duty to submit to the Club a singular -proposition which has been made to me. A gentleman whom I am not at -liberty to name, but who is personally known to many--perhaps to -most--of you, offers to give to the Club an exhibition of occult -phenomena." - -The members roused somewhat, but too many propositions of a nature not -dissimilar had ended in entire failure and flatness for any immediate -enthusiasm. - -"What are his qualifications?" a member asked. - -"I did not dream that he possessed any," Dr. Taunton responded, smiling -more broadly. "Indeed, to me that is the interesting thing. I had never -suspected that he had even the slightest knowledge or curiosity in such -matters, and still less that he made any pretensions to occult powers. -The fact that he is a man of a position so good and of brains so well -proved as to make it unlikely that he would gratuitously make a fool of -himself is the only ground on which his proposition seems to me worth -attention." - -"What does he propose to do?" - -"He does not say." - -"He must have given some sort of idea." - -"He said only that he was able to perform some tricks--experiments, I -think, was his word; or no--he said demonstrations. He thought they -would interest the members." - -"Did he say why he offered to do them?" - -"No further than to observe not over politely that he was weary of some -of the nonsense the Club circulated, and that he would therefore take -the trouble to teach them better." - -The members smiled, but some colored a little as if the touch had -reached a spot somewhat sensitive. - -"It is exceedingly kind of him," one elderly gentleman remarked stiffly. - -"He is explicit in his conditions," the President added. - -The members were beginning to seem really awake, and Judge Hobart asked -with some quickness what the conditions were. - -"First," the President answered, "that his identity shall not be -revealed. I am not to tell his name, and he trusts to the honor of any -member who may recognize him. A meeting is to be appointed when and -where we please. He is to know nothing more than the time. I am to send -a carriage for him, to provide certain things of which he has given me a -list, to arrange a room according to his directions, and to give him my -word that no record of the meeting shall appear in the newspapers." - -"Are the things he wishes difficult to procure?" - -"This is the list," said Dr. Taunton, taking a paper from his pocket. -"You will see that they are all sufficiently simple. - -"'Two rings of iron, four or five inches in diameter, interlocked and -welded firmly. - -"'A ten-inch cube of hard wood. - -"'A six-inch cube of iron. - -"'A sealed letter, written by some member. - -"'A carpenter's saw. - -"'A gold-fish globe ten inches or so across. - -"'Three smaller globes, one filled with red, one with blue, and one -with a colorless liquid. - -"'A scale on which a man may be weighed. - -"'A stick of sealing-wax. - -"'A flower-pot filled with earth. - -"'An orange seed.'" - -"The articles are simple enough," Judge Hobart commented. "Are the -arrangements required difficult?" - -"No. He asks for a committee to examine him in the dressing-room; a -platform insulated with glass and some substance he will furnish, and a -little matter of the arrangement of lights that is easy enough." - -The members of the Club meditated in silence for a moment, and then -Professor Gray spoke. - -"It must depend, it seems to me," he said, "on the sort of a man your -mysterious magician is. If he is a person to be trusted, I should say -go ahead." - -"He is a gentleman," the President answered; "a man of social standing, -money, education, and with a reputation in his special branch of -knowledge both here and in Europe. If I named him, you would, I feel -sure, give him a hearing without question." - -"What is his specialty?" one member inquired. - -"I hardly think it would be fair for me to tell. It would possibly be -too good a clue to his identity." - -"Is it fair to ask if it is connected with any psychical branch?" - -"Not in the least. I think I said at the start that I never suspected -him of any interest in such subjects. He was asked to join this Club, -and declined." - -"Did he give any particular reason?" - -The President smiled satirically. - -"He said it would never accomplish anything." - -"Perhaps that shows his common sense," Judge Hobart observed dryly. "I -am bound to say that it has not accomplished much thus far. What I do -not understand is why at this late day he takes an interest in our -work." - -"He did n't go into that. He did not seem especially anxious. He merely -told me that he was willing to show the Club certain things, and named -his conditions. That is about the whole of it." - -"Well," observed Judge Hobart, with his air of burly frankness, "I vote -we have him. The only reason for shying off is that so many fellows, -otherwise sensible, lose their heads the moment they try to investigate -anything psychical." - -"Is that a reflection on our Club?" Professor Gray asked good-naturedly. - -In the end the decision was that the President should be instructed to -make arrangements with the unknown, and an evening was chosen for the -meeting. The place was left to the President, to be imparted to the -members confidentially on the day appointed. Then the gentlemen went -their several ways, each, except the President who knew, speculating -upon the possible identity of the mysterious wonder-worker. - - -II - -When the clock struck eight on the evening appointed, the members of the -Club were all present. The room to which they had been summoned by Dr. -Taunton was simply furnished with a table, before which the seats were -arranged in a semicircle, and behind which was a small platform on which -stood a single chair. This platform was raised on blocks of glass, above -which were thin slabs of a substance which to the eye seemed like a sort -of brown resin, in which were to be discerned sparkles of yellow, as of -minute crystals. The chair was in turn insulated in the same manner, -while before it for the feet of the performer was placed a slab of glass -covered with the same resinous substance. On the chair lay a thick robe -of knitted silk. Beneath the table was a trunk containing the articles -of which the President had read a list at the previous meeting. - -The members examined everything and handled everything except the -platform and the chair upon it. These they were especially requested -not to touch. At five minutes past eight a carriage was heard to stop -outside, and almost immediately the President came in. - -"The gentleman is in the dressing-room," he said, "and is ready for the -examining committee. If the members will be seated, we shall be prepared -to receive him." - -The members took their seats, and there was a brief interval of silence. -Then Judge Hobart and Professor Gray, who had gone to the dressing-room, -reëntered. Between them was a tall man, well formed, rather slender, -but showing in his figure some signs of approaching middle age. He wore -simply a single garment of knit silk. It was laced in the back, and -fitted him so tightly that the play of his muscles was as evident as it -would have been in a nude figure. His face was covered down to the lips -by a black mask of silk. - -The unknown stepped out of the loose slippers he wore, mounted the -platform, put on the silk robe, and sat down in the chair. Judge Hobart -made a formal statement that the perfor-- that their guest had neither -properties nor apparatus concealed about his person. Then he sat down, -and silence filled the room. - -"We are ready," President Taunton said. - -The stranger smoothed from his lips the smile which had curled them when -Judge Hobart so nearly spoke of him as the "performer." He rose, and -stood on the slab before his chair. - -"I must say a word or two by way of preface," he began, in a voice -cultivated and pleasant. "In the first place, I have no concealed motive -in coming here to-night. I am not even--as I shall convince you before -we are done--gratifying my vanity by advertising my powers. It has -seemed to me that the Club is not on the right track, and although in -one sense it is none of my business, I am interested in the subject -which it is, as I understand, the object of this body to investigate. -The paper by Judge Hobart in a recent number of the 'Agassiz Quarterly' -decided me to show to him that certain forces which he conclusively -proves to be non-existent do, nevertheless, exist. As I am personally -known to perhaps half the gentlemen in the room, and am likely to meet -some of them not infrequently, I take the liberty of asking that if any -one shall chance to recognize me, he will remember that I come on the -condition that my identity remain concealed. The President," he -continued, "will bear me out when I say that I have not seen the things -provided for use this evening, and that I had no knowledge of the place -appointed for the meeting. The dressing-gown I sent him because the -scantiness of my dress makes it rather a necessity. I presume that he -has examined it carefully enough to be sure that it is innocent of -witchery and of trickery." - -He paused for a moment, and then in a tone somewhat more determined went -on. - -"One thing I must add. I decline to answer any questions whatever in -regard to the means which produce the effects to which I shall call -your attention. Those from whom I have learned would be sufficiently -unwilling that I exhibit my power at all, and were there no other -reason, their wishes would be sufficient to prevent me from offering -information or explanation. I may not succeed in doing all that I shall -attempt. I have laid out a pretty serious evening's work, especially for -one who lives as I do amid unfavorable conditions; and of course I can -receive no assistance from my audience." - -He took off the dressing-gown and dropped it into the chair. Then he -removed from his finger a large seal ring, and laid it between his feet -on the resinous slab. - -"I wish to show you first," the stranger said, "that if I chose, I could -manage to deceive you into thinking that I accomplished much that I did -not really do. For instance, I perhaps at this moment look to you like -an elephant." - -The members of the Psychical Club gasped in astonishment. Surely upon -the platform stood a large white elephant, twisting his pink trunk. - -"Or a palm tree," they heard the voice of the stranger say. - -No; not an elephant stood on the platform, but a tall and graceful -date-palm, crowned with a splendid cluster of spreading fronds. - -"Or Dr. Taunton." - -The members looked in amazement from the figure of the President sitting -in his chair, twirling his gold eye-glasses with his familiar gesture, -and his double on the platform, as faithful as a reflection in a mirror, -doing the same thing. - -"But all this is mere illusion," the voice went on; "I am none of these -things." - -Once more they saw only the silken-clad figure, tall and supple, smiling -under the black mask. - -"What I profess to do," the speaker continued, "I shall really do, and -not depend upon cheating your senses. I shall hope to leave you proofs -and evidences to establish this completely. The difficulty of the -different expositions of force is not to be judged by appearances. -First, for instance, I shall show you an exceedingly simple and easy -thing. It has come to be customary, for some foolish reason, to speak of -these phenomena as illustrations of the 'fourth dimension.' The term, I -suppose, is as good as another, since it certainly conveys no definite -idea whatever to people in general. I will ask a couple of gentlemen -to take a pair of interlocked iron rings that I suppose are among the -articles prepared, and to bring them to me. I do not wish to leave my -insulation, as in later trials I shall need all my force." - -The rings were taken from the trunk and brought forward. They were of -iron as thick as a man's thumb, were linked together, and firmly welded. -To pull them apart would have been impossible for teams of strong -horses. By the direction of the stranger they were held before him by -the two gentlemen. - -"I have asked Dr. Taunton," he said, "to have the rings privately -marked, so as to insure against any possible suspicion of substitution. -I have never seen them." - -He leaned forward, and laid his hand lightly on the junction of the -rings. They fell apart instantly. Both were unbroken; and neither gave -the slightest appearance of strain or rupture. A murmur of surprise -circled the room, and then the members of the Club broke into hearty -applause. - -The stranger laughed frankly. - -"I thank you, gentlemen," he said good-humoredly; "but I am not a -juggler." - -He asked next for the cube of wood and for the sealed letter. - -"I have never seen either of these," he said, the phrase being repeated -almost with a mechanical indifference. "I suppose that the President or -the person who wrote the letter can identify the note wherever he finds -it." - -At his direction President Taunton held up before him the cube with the -letter lying upon it. The stranger laid his hand over the letter, and -then showed an empty palm toward the audience. - -"You see I have not taken the letter," he said. "If the saw is there, -please cut the block in two in the middle. Cut it across the grain." - -While the sawing was going on, the magician put on his wrap and sat -down. He resumed his signet ring, and sat with his head bowed in his -hands. When the block had been divided, the ends of the letter, cut in -halves, appeared in the midst of the wood. - -"I think," the stranger said, "that the two halves of the note will slip -out of the envelope without difficulty, and Dr. Taunton will then be -able to say whether it is the original letter or not." - -The president with a little trouble pulled out the pieces of paper and -fitted them together. He examined them critically, even using a -pocket-glass. - -"If I had not been deceived earlier in the evening, and if I did not -know that it is wildly impossible," he said, "I should say that this is -my letter." - -"'I believe because it is impossible,'" quoted the stranger. "You may -keep the pieces and decide at your leisure." - -He rose as he spoke, and once more threw off his robe. The Club waited -breathless. He again placed the ring between his feet. - -"I wish now," he said, "the three globes filled with colored fluid." - -These were brought to him on a tray, and at his bidding placed close -together in a triangle. - -"This is only another of the innumerable possible variations upon the -penetrability of matter, and would come under the head in common -nomenclature of that stupidly used term 'fourth dimension.' I said that -I am not a juggler, but of course I chose some of the tests because they -are picturesque, and so might amuse an audience. See." - -He laid his hand upon the top of the three globes. Instantly they became -one by intersection, the three bases being moved nearer together. Each -globe preserved perfectly its shape, and in the divisions now made by -the coalescing of the section of one sphere with that of another the -liquid was of the hue resulting from a mingling of the colors of the -differently tinted fluids. - -A murmur went around. Several of the members rose to examine the globes. - -"Put them on the table," the wonder-worker said, "and then everybody may -see." - -"We are not to ask questions of methods," Judge Hobart observed. "Is it -proper to inquire whether the experiment involves a contradiction of the -old law that two bodies cannot occupy the same space?" - -"Not at all," was the answer. "Modern science has shown clearly enough -that to seem to occupy space is only to fill it as the stars fill the -sky. I have only taken advantage of that fact to crowd more matter into -a defined area." - -The members were asked to seat themselves, and when this had been done, -the stranger said: "Any number of examples of this power could be given, -but these should be enough, unless some one would prefer to improvise a -test on the spot." - -"I am glad that you say this," Professor Gray remarked. "I am subject to -the prejudice, foolish enough but common, of being more impressed by -experiments of my own contriving. Do you mind, sir, if Dr. Taunton and I -loop handkerchiefs together, and let you separate them while we hold the -ends?" - -"Certainly not," was the reply. - -The experiment was instantly successful, and was repeated for double -assurance. - -"If we had nothing else to do," the stranger observed, "we might go on -in this line indefinitely; but this is enough of the 'fourth dimension,' -so called. Now we will try development." - - -III - -The flower-pot filled with earth was placed upon the slab at the feet of -the magician. The orange seed was laid upon the earth. - -"So ingenious an explanation has recently been given--or, more exactly, -recently revived--of the development of a plant from a seed, that you -may suppose me to have all the different pieces of an orange grove -concealed about me, despite the fact that my dress is not adapted to -the concealment of a needle. However, you may judge for yourselves." - -He leaned forward, and with the point of his finger pushed the seed into -the earth. - -"Will some one cover the pot with a handkerchief?" he said. "Please be -careful not to touch me or it. Hold the handkerchief out, and drop it." - -One of the members followed the directions, and for a moment the -stranger sat quiet, his eyes fixed on the covered flower-pot. The centre -of the handkerchief was seen gradually to rise, and when the cloth was -lifted, the astonished eyes of the Club beheld a glossy shoot, three or -four inches in height. Without again covering it, the magician continued -to gaze fixedly upon the plant. Before the eyes of the spectators the -shoot became a shrub, the shrub a tree; the fragrance of orange blossoms -filled the air, and among the shining leaves began to swell the golden -fruit. The time had been numbered only in minutes, yet there stood a -tree higher than a man's head, and laden with golden globes. - -"Take it away," the wonder-worker said, "and let me rest a little before -I try anything more. You will find the tree to-morrow, and I think you -will concede that it is too bulky to have been concealed under these -fleshings. If you think it only an optical delusion or the result of -hypnotism, try to-morrow by the senses of persons who do not know how it -was produced." - -He sat for some moments with his head bowed in his hands. Then at his -direction a globe about a foot in diameter was filled with clear water -and placed on the table. The lights were then turned down so as to leave -all the room in shadow except the platform. - -"I must ask you to be as quiet as possible," the magician requested. -"The experiment is a difficult one, and from living in the atmosphere -which surrounds my daily life I am out of the proper condition." - -Putting his hands behind him, he sank downward on the slab to his knees, -and so reached forward as to press his thumbs upon his great toes. -The position was a singular one, and earlier in the evening might have -raised a smile. Now all was breathless silence for a couple of moments. -Then the stranger sprang suddenly to his full height, and directed his -forefinger with a violent movement toward the globe. A spark of violet -light not unlike that from an electric battery flashed from the -outstretched finger to the globe, and was seen to remain like a star -in the midst of the water. - -From this violet centre, with slow, sinuous movement, numerous filaments -of light grew out in the liquid, until the globe was filled with tangled -and intertwined threads like the roots of a hyacinth in its glass. -Slowly, slowly, the nucleus rose to the surface, dragging the threads -behind it. Then above the water began to form a faint haze. With gradual -motion it mounted, absorbing by degrees the fire from the phosphorescent -fibres which served for its roots, until a faintly luminous pillar of -dully glowing mist four or five feet high showed above the mouth of the -globe. - -The magician made strange gestures, and a slow rotary motion was -discerned in the cloud. Without abrupt or definitely marked alteration -the pillar was modified in shape until more and more plainly was evident -a resemblance to the human form. He rose to his full height, and -extended both his hands toward the figure. Slowly it detached itself -from the water and from the globe, and floated in the air, the perfect -shape of a woman, transparent, faintly luminous, but with a lustre -less cold than at first. One of the men drew in his breath with a deep -and audible inspiration. The shape wavered, and another spectator -impulsively cried "Hush!" The word seemed to break the spell. The -wonderful visionary form trembled, shivered, and its exquisite beauty -melted in the air. - -The magician resumed his seat with visible disappointment. - -"I am sorry," he said. "I am already tired, and you distracted my -attention. The experiment has failed. May the lights be turned up, -please." - -A murmur of disappointment ran around the room. - -"I am sorry," he repeated. "I should have impressed on you more strongly -the need of absolute quiet. I am not quite up to beginning this over -again. Let me show you the opposite--disintegration. It is easier to -tear down than to build up." - -The block of iron he had asked for was by his direction laid on the -floor in front of the platform. The magician sat for a moment with -closed eyes, his hands laid palm to palm upon his knees. Then with an -abrupt movement he pointed his two forefingers, pressed together, toward -the cube. A report like that of a pistol startled the members, and the -solid iron shivered into almost impalpable dust. The members of the Club -crowded together to the spot. - -"Please do not touch my platform," he requested, as he had earlier in -the evening. "I must still show you something more." - - -IV - -"Levitation is a phenomenon which is common enough," he said by way of -preface, "but our examination would by no means be complete without it. -Of course I am only touching upon a few of the less subtle principles -that underlie what is commonly misnamed occultism; but this is one of -the obvious ones. Please let some heavy man step upon the scales." - -Judge Hobart was with some laughter persuaded to take his place upon the -platform of the scales, and the indicator marked a weight of two hundred -and six pounds. - -"Will you look again?" the stranger asked of the gentleman who had read -the number. - -"Why, he weighs nothing!" the weigher exclaimed, in astonishment. - -"His weight has broken the scales," another member declared. - -"You may think," the magician went on, "that I have bewitched the -spring. Will somebody lift the Judge?" - -Professor Gray, who happened to stand nearest, put out one hand and -picked the venerable Judge up as easily as he would have lifted a -pocket-handkerchief. As he took his victim by the collar, the effect -did not tend toward solemnity. - -"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the Judge. "Put me down, sir, at -once." - -The stranger made a little sign with his hand. The Professor saw and -understood, so instead of putting Judge Hobart down, he lightly tossed -the rotund figure upward. The Judge, probably more to his amazement than -to his satisfaction, found himself floating in the air with his head -against the ceiling, and with his legs paddling hopelessly as if he -were learning to swim. The other members shouted with laughter. - -"That will do," the magician said. "I did not mean to turn things into -a farce." - -The ponderous form of Judge Hobart floated softly to the floor; his face -showed a wonderful mixture of bewilderment, wounded vanity, and relief. - -"It's very warm at the top of the room," he said, wiping his red -forehead; "very warm. Heat rises so." - -"Other things rise also at times," somebody said. - -Everybody laughed, and then the members settled into quiet again, and -listened to the magician. - -"Examples of this sort are infinite in number, but one is as good as -many. The principle is everywhere the same. Levitation is really too -simple a matter to occupy more of our time. The transporting of matter -through space and through other matter is more interesting and more -important. It is also more difficult, and consequently less common. -Some time ago it was proposed in London, as a test of the reality of -occultism, that a copy of an Indian paper of any given date be produced -in London on the day of its publication in Calcutta. The test was -shirked by those who are advertising themselves by pretending to powers -which they did not have, and those who were able to do the feat had no -interest in helping to bolster up a sham. That the thing was easily -possible is the last fact with which I shall trouble you to-night. Allow -me to offer you a copy of the 'London Times' of this morning." - -As he spoke, a newspaper fluttered from the air above, and fell upon the -table. The stranger checked a movement which Judge Hobart made to -examine it. - -"Let me seal it first," he said. "It will make future identification -surer. Please lay it with that stick of sealing-wax on the platform." - -When this had been done, he took the wax and held it above the paper. -The wax melted without visible cause, and dropped on the margin of the -journal. Leaning forward, the magician pressed his seal into the red -mass, and then flung the paper again on the table. - -"It will be easy," he remarked, "to compare this with a copy received -through the ordinary channels. You do not need to be instructed in the -means proper for securing and identifying this. The experiment may seem -to you a simple one, but I assure you that it is so difficult that you -cannot hope to repeat it without preparation you would find pretty -severe." - -He rose as he spoke, and drew his robe about him. - -"I have to thank you," he continued, "for your patience and attention. -As I meet so many of you not infrequently, it is better to trust to your -courtesy not to name me than to your ignorance." - -He pulled off, as he spoke, the black mask, and with cries of surprise -more than half the members of the Club called out the name of one of the -best-known club men of the town, a man who had traveled extensively in -the East, a man who had proved his powers by distinguished services -in literature, a man of wealth and of leisure, and one of dominating -character. Smiling calmly, he replaced the mask, and stood a moment in -silence. - -"That is all," he said. - -Then, with a peculiar gesture he waved his arms over the company, and -repeated a few words in some unknown tongue. He stepped down from the -platform and walked quietly from the room. But by that gesture or spell -he had strangely wrought upon their minds; from that moment no man of -them all, not even the President, has ever been able to remember who was -their acquaintance who that evening did such wonders in the sight of the -astonished Psychical Club. - - - - -TIM CALLIGAN'S GRAVE-MONEY - - -I - -"'T was a fool's notion to get tipped out of a boat anywhere," said Tim -Calligan to his circle of fellow pensioners at the Dartbank poor-farm, -"me that's been on the water like a bubble from the day me mother weaned -me, saints rest her soul, and she as decent a woman as ever was born in -County Cork." - -Tim was relating the oft-told tale of his escape from drowning, a story -of which they were fond, and which he delighted to tell. The old man had -a fertile Celtic fancy, and his narrations were luxuriant with exuberant -growth. - -"So there was meself drownin' like a blind kitten in a pond,--and many -'s the litter of 'em I'd sent to the cat's Purgatory by the way of that -very river, saving that the Purgatory of cats there ain't any, having -no souls, by the token that having nine lives they'd belike have nine -souls, and being so many they'd crowd good Christian souls in -Paradise,--blessings on the holy saints for previnting it. - -"No more could I make me head stay out of water," Tim went on, "than if -it was a stone. 'Good-by, Tim, me boy,' sez I to meself. 'Ye're gone -this time,' sez I, 'and I'll miss nothing in not being at yer wake, by -the token that there won't be no wake; and ef there was,' sez I, still -to meself, 'there could be nothing to drink but water here in this -cursed stream.' And down I went again, like a dasher in a churn. 'Holy -St. Bridget,' thinks I, 'how far 'll it be to the bottom of this -ondecent river. Likely it goes clean through to Chiny,' thinks I, 'and -one of them bloody, onbelaving heathen 'll be grabbing me presently with -his mice-eating hands. But it's better being pulled out by a heretic -heathen than staying in and soaking.' With that up again I goes, like a -shellaly at a fair; and it was like fire flashing in me eyes. Sez I to -meself: 'That 'll be Widdy Malony's bit of a house,' sez I, spaking -always in me mind because of the floods of water in me mouth. 'It'll be -burning to the very ground,' sez I, 'and me missing all the fun of it. -The blessed saints help the poor woman, turned out of house and home to -get bite and sup for her children like a chipmunk, and every one of them -taking after Dennis, and I might have married her meself long ago if -they was fewer, for I'd want a ready-made family small,' sez I to -meself, plunking up and down in the water like a dumpling in the broth. -''T is pitiful to think of her house burning down over her head,' sez I, -'and she never to know the man might have made her Mis' Calligan's down -here drowning in plain sight of the very flames of it, and she nor -nobody doing one thing to save him, praise be to the handiworks of God. -Faith, and 't would be better for the both of us if she had more water -and meself more fire,' sez I in me mind. And all the time 't was no -fire, but just the blessed sun I'd never see again, barring I had n't -got saved, and it shining and flashing in the eyes of me from the -widdy's windows." - -The tale was long, for it included an enumeration of all the sensations -and emotions which Tim had really experienced, and all those which, in -the course of long years, he had been able to imagine he might have -felt. As at the poor-farm time was not an object, however, except of -slaughter, the length of the narrative was its greatest recommendation. - -"And with that," Tim at last ended his recital, "I felt the whole top of -me head pulled off as I lay soft and easy on the bottom of the flood, -and thinking nothing at all, but reflecting how soft the mud of it were -and pitying Pat Donovan that he'd never get the quarter I owed him. -'That 'll be a Chany-man or the Divil, Tim, me boy,' sez I to meself; -and then I made no more observes to meself at all, owing to the soul -having gone out of me body. And all the time it was Bill Trafton -catching me by the hair, him having dove for me just shortly after me -being dead, and dragging me to the top when I could n't be moved from -the bottom, and was likely to die any minute, saving that it was dead -already I was. And he saved me life, by the token that the soul had gone -out of me peaceful; but, Holy Mother, how'll I be telling ye the pain of -its coming back! 'T was like the unwilling dragging back of a pig out of -a praitie patch to get the soul of me back from the place it had gone -to, and they rubbing me to show it the care they'd take of me, and -coaxing it for two mortal hours." - -As the tale ended, the bleared eyes of one of the auditors were -attracted to a light wagon which had turned into the lane at the foot of -the long slope upon which the poor-house stood. - -"Somebody 's comin'," old Simeon observed deliberately. "Likely it's the -new Over_seer_." - -"Yes, that's him," Tim assented. "That's Dan Springer." - -"I 'spected he was a-comin'," Grandsire Welsh commented, with a senile -chuckle. "Huldy and Sam's been a-slickin' up things." - -"Huldy and Sam," in more official language Mr. and Mrs. Dooling, were -the not unworthy couple who had the poor-farm in charge. - -"Wa'n't you sayin' t'other day," asked old Simeon, "thet you particular -wantid to see the Over_seer_?" - -"It's pining for him I am the time," Tim answered. - -The old men sat silent, watching the approach of the visitor, who drove -up to the hitching-post near them, and who leaped from his wagon with a -briskness almost startling to the aged chorus. - -"Spry," old Simeon commented. "I've seen the time, though, when I was -spry too." - -Springer fastened his horse, and came toward them. - -"How d' do, boys?" he said cheerily. "How goes it?" - -The contrast between his great hearty voice and the thin quavers in -which they answered him was pathetic. He lingered a moment, and -then turned to make his way into the house. Tim rose and hobbled -rheumatically after him. - -"Whist, Mister Springer," he called; "would ye be after waiting a wee -bit till I have a word of speech with yer." - -"Well, what can I do for you?" Springer asked good-naturedly. "Don't -they treat you well?" - -The old man took him by the arm and drew him around the corner of the -house, away from the curious eyes of his companions. - -"Whist!" he said, with a strange and sudden air of excitement. "Wait -till I'm after telling yer. Your honor'll mind I'm after _trusting_ yer; -_trusting_ yer, and ye'll no be betraying an old man. It's meself," he -added, with a touch of pride at once whimsical and pathetic, "is -ninety-three the day." - -"Are you as old as that? Well, I'd keep your secret if you were twice as -old," Springer returned, with clumsy but kindly jocoseness. - -Tim raised himself until he stood almost upright. - -"It's the money," he whispered, "the money I've saved for me burying." - -He turned to stretch his thin, bloodless finger toward the bleak cluster -of mounds on the hillside where mouldered the dead of the poor-farm. - -"I'll no lie there," he said, with husky intensity. "I've scraped and -scraped, and saved and saved, and it's the wee bit money I've got to pay -for a spot of consecrated ground over to Tiverton. Ye'll no put me here -when I'm gone! I'll no rest here! Me folks was respectable in the Old -Isle, an' not unbeknowing the gentry; and there's never a one put -outside consecrated ground. Ye'll promise me I'll be put in the -graveyard over to Tiverton, and me got the money to pay." - -Springer was as unemotional and unimaginative as a hearty, practical, -well-fed man could be, but seeing the tears in the old pauper's bleared -eyes, and hearing the passion of his tone, he could not but be moved. -He had heard something of this before. His predecessor in office had -mentioned Tim, and his twenty years' saving, but so few were the chances -a pauper in Dartbank had of picking up even a penny that the hoard even -of so long a time could not be large. Now and then some charitable -soul had given the old man a trifle. A vague sympathy was felt for the -pathetic longing to be assured of a grave in consecrated ground, even -among the villagers who regarded the idea itself as rank superstition. - -"It's all right, Tim," the Overseer said. "If you go off while I have -the say, I'll see to it myself. If you'd be any more comfortable over in -Tiverton, we'll plant you there." - -"Thank yer honor kindly," Tim answered. "The Calligans has always been -decent, God-fearing folks, and it's meself'd be loth to disgrace the -name a-crawling up out of this unholy graveyard forby on Judgment Day, -and all the world there to see, and I never could do it so sly but the -O'Tools and the O'Hooligans 'd spy on me, and they always so mad with -envy of the Calligans they'd be after tattling the news all over -Heaven, and bringing shame to me whole kith and kin." - -The Overseer laughed, and responded that if Tim had laid by the money to -pay for the job, he would certainly see that the grave was made in the -consecrated earth of Tiverton churchyard. Then with a brisk step he -passed on to attend to the sordid affairs of his office within. The most -troublesome matter was left until the last. - -"As to the Trafton child," he said to Huldy and Sam, "I don't see that -anything can be done. I've spoken to the Selectmen about it, and they -don't think the town should be called on to pay out twenty-five dollars -when here's a place for the child for nothing." - -"That's just what I told Louizy," Huldy responded. "I said that's what -they'd say; but Louizy 's dretful cut up." - -Springer moved uneasily or impatiently in his seat, so that the old -wooden chair creaked under the weight of his substantial person. - -"I know she is," he said; "if I could afford it, I'd send the child to -her folks myself; but I can't, and I don't see but the girl's got to go -to 'Lizy Ann Betts. Perhaps she won't be so hard on her." - -"Hard on her," sniffed Huldy; "she'll just kill her; that's all." - -At the word a wretched-looking woman pushed into the kitchen as if she -had been listening at the door. She held out before her a right hand -withered and shriveled by fire. - -"Oh, Mr. Springer," she broke out, tears running down her cheeks, "don't -send my Nellie to be bound to that woman! She's all I've got in the -world; and she never wanted till I was burned. Send her to my folks in -Connecticut and they'll treat her as their own." - -She sank down suddenly as if her strength failed, and sat stiff and -despairing, with eyes of wild entreaty. - -"It's hard, I know," Springer answered awkwardly, "but Nellie'll be -near you, and she would n't be in Connecticut. 'Lizy Ann Betts ain't -a bad-hearted woman. She'll do well by the child, I hope." - -"She'll do well?" the mother cried shrilly, raising herself with sudden -vehemence. "Did she do well by the last girl was bound to her from this -farm? Did n't she kill her?" - -"There, there, Louizy," interposed Huldy, "it ain't no sort of use to -make a fuss. What the S'lectmen say they say, and--" - -She was interrupted by a cry without, and in an instant the door was -flung open by old Simeon, who with wildly waving arms and weirdly -working face cried out:-- - -"F' th' Lord's sake! Come quicker 'n scat! Old Tim's in a fit!" - - -II - -The account old Simeon and Grandsire Welsh gave of Tim's seizure was -that he had been sitting outside the kitchen window, where they all were -listening with interest to the conversation within, when suddenly he had -thrown up his arms, crying out that he could not do it, and had fallen -in a fit. No one at the poor-farm could know that Tim had reached the -crisis of a severe mental struggle which had been going on for days. He -had for days listened to the bitter words of Mrs. Trafton, and had -sympathized with her grief over her child; and all the time he listened -he had been secretly conscious that the little hoard he had gathered for -his burying would save Nellie from the Betts woman, a shrew notorious -all over the county for her cruelty. He remembered that Bill Trafton had -saved him from drowning; that Mrs. Betts had the credit of having caused -the death of her last bound child; and against this he set the terror of -rising at the Resurrection from the unblessed precincts of the Dartbank -Potter's Field. The mental conflict had been too much for him, and the -appeal of Mrs. Trafton to the Overseer had broken old Tim down. - -Tim was got to bed, and in time recovered his senses, although he was -very weak. Mrs. Trafton volunteered to watch with him that night, and so -it came about that at midnight she sat in the bare chamber where old Tim -lay. As the hours wore on Tim seemed much brighter, and asked her to -talk to him to while away the time. The only subject in her mind was her -child. - -"If Nellie was with my folks," she said, "I'd try to stand being away -from her; but it's just killing me to have that Betts woman starve her -and beat her the way she's done with the others. She'd kill Nellie." - -Tim moved uneasily in bed. - -"But ye'd be after seein' the child here," he muttered feebly. - -"I'd see her no more'n if she was with my folks," returned Louizy -bitterly; "but I'd know how she was suffering." - -The sick man did not answer. He turned his face to the wall and lay -silent. After a time his regular breathing showed that he slept, while -the watcher brooded in hopeless grief. At length Tim grew restless and -began to mutter in his sleep. - -"The poor creature's having a bad dream," Louizy said to herself, as his -words grew more vehement and wild. "I wonder if I'd better wake him." - -She was still debating the matter in her mind when Tim gave a sudden cry -and sat up in bed, trembling in every limb. His face was ghastly. - -"Oh, I will, I will!" he cried out. "I will, so help me Holy Mary!" - -"Tim, Tim, what's the matter?" asked the nurse. - -The old man clutched her hands desperately for a moment, and then seemed -to recover a little his reason. He sank down again and closed his eyes. -For a time he lay there silent. Then he said with strange solemnity:-- - -"'T is a vision meself has had this night, Louizy." - -She thought his mind still wandering, but in a moment he went on with -more calmness: "I'll tell it to ye all, Louizy. Give me a sup till I get -strength. I'm no more strong than a blind kitten that's just born." - -She gave him nourishment and stimulant, and Tim feebly and with many -pauses told his dream. The force of a natural dramatic narrator still -shaped his speech, and as he became excited, he spoke with more and more -strength, until he was sitting up in bed, and speaking with a voice more -clear than he had used for many a day. - -"But it was a fearsome dream's had holt on me the night. 'T is meself's -been palarvering with the blessed St. Peter face to face and tongue to -tongue; and if I'd ought to be some used to it through having been dead -once already by drowning, this time I was broke up by being dead in good -earnest, by the same token that when St. Peter set his two piercing -black eyes on me, I could tell by the look of 'em that it was straight -through me whole body he was seeing. - -"And the first thing I knew in my dream I was going all sole alone on -a frightsome road all sprinkled over with ashes and bones, and I that -crawly in my back I could feel the backbone of me wiggling up and down -like a caterpillar, so my heart was choking in my throat with the fear -of it. And I went on and I went on; and all the time it was in the head -of me there was that coming behind was more fearsome than all the bones -and skelingtons forninst. And I went on and I went on, seeming to -be pushed along like, and not able to help meself; and all the time -something was creeping, and creeping, and creeping behind, till all the -blood in my body was that chilled the teeth of me chattered. And I went -on and I went on till I could n't stand it one mortal minute more; but I -had to turn if the life went out of me for it. And there behind was a -mite of a girl, a wee bit thing, thin and starved looking, and seeming -that weak it was pitiful to see. 'Poor thing,' sez I to my own ghost, -'it's pitying her the day is Tim Calligan, if I be him,' sez I, 'and not -some other body, for having no body perhaps I ain't anybody at all, but -just a spook in this place that ain't nowhere.' And all the time I was -that scared of the wee bit child, being as it were where it could n't -be, and me dead before it and it dead behind me, and always following -and following; so without thinking deeply what was to be done, I starts -up and runs as hard as my legs that was turned into ghost shanks would -let me. And I run through them ashes, stumbling on bones and seeing -shadows that would get in the way and I had to run through 'em, and the -weight of the horror of it words would n't tell. - -"And when I run, the wee bit child run; and it scared me worse than -ever when the further I run away from it the closer it was to me, till -at last it had a grab on the tail of my coat; and it clung on, and I -that mad with fear I had no more sense than a hen with its head cut -off and goes throwing itself round about for anger at the thought of -being killed, and not knowing it is dead already. And oh, Louizy, the -scaresomeness of the places I run through a-trying to get rid of that -wee bit thing! It's downright awful to think of the things that can -happen to a dead man while he's alive all the time and forgetful of it -through dreaming! - -"So when I'd been going on till mortal man could n't stand it no longer, -let alone a ghost, there I was just forninst the gate of Heaven, not in -the least knowing how I come there or would I get in; and blessed St. -Peter himself on a white stone outside the gate sitting and smiling and -looking friendly so the terror went out of me like a shadow in the sun. -And I scraped my foot, and I went up close to him, standing that way -would I hide the child ahind of me; for sez I to meself: 'What'll I say -to his Reverence and he axes me about the girl?' And St. Peter he sez to -me, mighty polite and condescending: 'Good-morning,' sez he. 'The top of -the morning to your Reverence, and thank ye kindly,' sez I. 'And what'll -be your name?' sez he. 'Tim Calligan, your honor,' sez I, answering as -pert as ever I could; for there was that in his manner of speaking -that made me feel shivery, as if me heart'd been out all night in a -snowstorm. 'It's a decent, respectable body I am, your Reverence,' sez -I, 'though I say it as should n't, having nobody else at hand that would -put in a word for me.' 'And was ye buried in holy ground?' sez he. 'I -was that,' sez I; 'and many's the weary year I've been scraping to do -that,' sez I. 'And what'll that be behind ye?' sez he. And I looked -this way and that way, trying to make as if I did n't know; and at last -I pretended to spy the child, and to be that surprised he could n't -suspect I ever clapped eyes on the wee bit thing before. 'That, your -Reverence,' sez I, 'has the look of a scrap of a girl. Is it one your -Reverence is bringing up?' sez I, being that desperate I was as bold -as a brass kettle. 'And what'll she be doing here?' sez his Reverence, -paying no heed to the impertinence of the question. 'Sure, how'll I know -that?' sez I. 'Will she be coming with you?' sez he. 'Don't she belong -hereabouts?' sez I, trying hard to brazen it out, and feeling my heart -go plump down out of my mouth into my boots, more by token that I was -barefoot the time. 'Will she be coming with you?' sez he again. 'Sorra -a bit,' sez I; 'I just could n't get away from her,' sez I. 'And what -for'll you be trying to get away from her, and her no bigger than a -bee's knee?' sez he, looking at me so hard that I could n't hold up my -face forninst him. 'Well, your Reverence,' sez I, looking down at the -stones, and seeing the weeds trying to grow between them in the very -face of Heaven itself, 'it's inconvenient traveling with a child -anywhere, let alone the ondecent places I've been through this night; -and the girl was n't mine, and I might get blamed for keeping her out -late, with her folks getting scared about her, not knowing where she -was, and not understanding she was where your Holiness would be after -caring for her.' And with that St. Peter put out his hand, looking that -sharp his eyes went through me like needles; and he pulled the wee bit -child from behind me, and he sez to her: 'What is the name of yer?' -'Nellie,' sez she, her voice so thin you could n't hear it, only knowing -what she said from the moving of her lips like shadows on the wall. -'And how came you here?' sez he. 'I was beat and starved to death,' -sez she, shivering till 't was a mercy she did n't go to pieces like -a puff of smoke. And with that St. Peter looked at me once more, and -the cold sweat run down my backbone like rain down a conductor in a -thunder-storm. 'Your Reverence,' sez I, trembling, 'I did n't beat and -starve the girl.' 'That may be,' sez he, 'but there'll be some reason -why she's hanging on to your coat-tail like a burr on a dog,' sez he. -'What for are you following Tim Calligan,' sez he to the girl, 'and he -dead and resting in holy ground?' And with that she put you her little -front finger, that was as thin as a sparrow's claw that's starved to -death in winter, and she pointed to me, and sez she: 'He would n't give -the money to send me to my folks,' sez she; 'and my own father saved the -life of him when he was dead and drownded before I was born,' sez she. -'What for would n't you give the money, Tim?' sez St. Peter, sitting -there on that white stone like a judge trying the life of a man. 'Your -Reverence,' sez I, falling down on the stones at the feet of him, -'twenty years was I struggling, and saving, and scraping to get the bit -money for a grave in holy ground! If I'd give it to the child, I'd be -down this blessed minute I'm having the honor of conversing with your -Holiness--and it's proud I am of your condescending so far!--lying in -unconsecrated ground all cheek by jowl with heretics, and like as not -getting my bones mixed with theirs at the blessed resurrection. Sorra a -bit did I know the suffering of this poor wee bit thing.' 'And did her -father save your life?' sez he. 'He did that,' sez I, 'and a good, -decent, God-fearing man he were,' sez I, 'barring he were a heretic, -your Reverence, owing to his not being asked, it's likely, would he be -born a good Catholic,--and I hope your Reverence ain't been too hard on -Bill Trafton if he's come this way,' sez I. 'Tim,' sez St. Peter, -looking at me with a look like one of the long isuckles on the north -side of the barn in January,--'Tim, 't is no use trying the palarver on -me,' sez he. 'Ye know ye let this child get bound to that Betts woman, -and now she'll be bate to death, and who's to bear the blame if not ye -that might have stopped it? Do ye think, Tim Calligan,' sez he, raising -his voice so the blessed angels come a-looking over the holy walls of -Heaven to see what would be the matter,--by the same token that the -little gold hoops floating round their heads kept clashing together and -sounding like sleigh-bells, their heads was that close together on top -of the wall, and all their eyes looking at me that sorrowful like it -nigh broke my heart,--'do ye think,' sez he, 'you're sleeping in holy -ground when the price of the grave your worthless old carcass is in was -the life of this wee bit child?' And all the angels shook their heads, -and looked at me that reproachful the heart in me got so big it would -have killed me with its swelling only saving that I was dead already, -not to say being dead twice; and I fell to sobbing and praying to St. -Peter for mercy,--and the first thing I knew I woke up in bed, praise be -to the handiworks of God! made alive again, this being the third time, -counting the time I was first born." - -Tim's tale was long, and it was interrupted by frequent intervals of -rest made necessary by his weakness. When he ended, the pale forecast -of dawn shone into the squalid room. Louizy was crying softly, in the -suppressed fashion of folk unaccustomed to give full vent even to grief. -Tim lay quiet for a long time. At last he aroused himself to feel -beneath the mattress, and to bring to light a dirty bag of denim. This -he pressed into the hand of his nurse. - -"It'll take you both," he murmured feebly. "Blessings go with ye, and -the saints be good to the soul of Tim Calligan, coming up at the Day of -Judgment like a scared woodchuck out of unblessed ground!" - - -III - -Tim failed rapidly. The excitement of his dream and the moral struggle -through which he had passed had worn upon his enfeebled powers. On the -second day after his seizure the priest came from Tiverton to administer -the last rites. When this was over, Tim lay quiet, hardly seeming -alive. Thus he was when Springer, who drove over late in the afternoon, -came in to see him. - -"Tim," Springer said, "Mrs. Dooling has told me what you have done. The -ground you lie in will make little difference to a man that would do a -thing so white as that." - -"Thank you kindly," Tim answered, in the shadow of a voice. "Father -O'Connor's promised to bless my grave. It's not the same as being at -Tiverton where the ground would be soaked with the blessing all round, -but leastways St. Peter 'll not be after flinging it in my face that the -blood of the child's on me." - -The Overseer regarded him with such tenderness as did not often shine -within the doors of the poor-farm. - -"Tim," he said, leaning forward as if he were half ashamed of his good -impulse, "don't worry any more. I'll pay for your grave at Tiverton, and -see that you are put in it." - -The old pauper turned upon him a glance of positive rapture. He clasped -his thin, withered hands, trembling like rushes in the winds of autumn. - -"Holy and Blessed Virgin," he prayed, almost with a sob, "be good to him -for giving a poor old dying creature the wish of his heart! Blessed St. -Peter--" - -But the rush of joy was too great. With a face of ecstasy the old man -died. - - - - -MISS GAYLORD AND JENNY - - -When Alice Gaylord was, by the death of her grandmother, set free from -the long servitude of attending upon the invalid, it might have seemed -that nothing need hinder the fulfilling of her protracted engagement -to Dr. Carroll. The friends of both the young people expressed, in -decorous fashion, their satisfaction that old Mrs. Gaylord, ninety and -bed-ridden, should at last have been released, and it was entirely well -understood that what they meant was to signify their pleasure at the -ending of Alice's tedious waiting. Some doubt in regard to the girl's -health, however, still clouded the prospect. Long care and confinement -had told on her; and when a decent interval had passed after the death, -and the wedding did not take place, people began to say that it was such -a pity that Alice was not well enough to be married. - -Dr. Carroll was thinking of her health as, one gloomy November -afternoon, he walked down West Cedar Street to the house where Gaylords -had dwelt from the time when West Cedar Street began its decorous -existence, and where Alice declared she had herself lived for -generations. He glanced up at the narrow strip of sky like dull flannel -overhead, around at the dwellings like a row of proper spinsters ranged -on either side of the way, and at the Gaylord house itself, a brick and -glass epitome of old Boston respectability. He reflected impatiently -that of course Alice could be no better until he got her out of an -atmosphere so depressing. Then he remembered that he had always liked -West Cedar Street, and he began to wonder whether he were not getting so -morbid over Alice that some other physician should be called in. - -He had long been baffled by being unable to discover anything wrong, -beyond the fact that the girl was worn out with the strain of -ministering to an imperious and exacting invalid. She was nervously -exhausted; and he said to himself for the hundredth time that rest was -the only thing needed. A few months would set everything right. The -difficulty was that time had thus far not come up to what was expected -of it. Carroll was forced to acknowledge that, in spite of tonics and -rest, Alice was really not much better, and he had come almost to feel -that the real cause of her languor and weakness was involved in teasing -mystery. - -The prim white door, with its fan-light overhead and the discreetly -veiled side-windows fantastically leaded, was opened by Abby, a sort of -housekeeper, who had the air of being coeval with the house, if not with -Boston itself. George always smiled inwardly at the look with which he -was received by this primeval damsel, a look of virginal primness at the -idea of allowing in the house a man who was professedly a suitor, and he -declared to Alice that he was still, after long experience, a little -afraid of Abby's regard. To-day her customary look vanished quickly, to -give place to one more vivid and spontaneous. Abby put up a lean -finger, mysteriously enjoining silence, and spoke instantly in a -sibilant whisper. - -"Will you please come in here, sir, before you go upstairs?" she said. - -She waved her thin hand toward the little reception-room, and the -doctor, in mild wonderment, obeyed the gesture and entered. Abby closed -the door softly, and came toward him with an air of concern. - -"I must tell you, sir," the old servant said in a half voice, "a queer -thing's come." - -"A queer thing's come," he repeated, leaning against the mantel. "Come -from where?" - -"It's come, sir," repeated Abby, a certain relish of her mystery seeming -to his ear to impart an unctuous flavor to her tone. "It's just come. -Nobody knows where things come from, I guess." - -"Oh, you mean something's happened?" - -"Yes, sir; that's what I said." - -"But what is it?" - -"I don't know, sir; but it's queer." - -He looked at her wrinkled old face, where now the mouth was drawn in as -if she had pulled up her lips with puckering-strings lest some secret -escape. He smiled at her important manner, and, leaning his elbow on -the mantel, prepared for the slow process of getting at what the woman -really meant. It proved in the event less laborious than usual, and he -reflected that the directness with which Abby gave her information was -sufficient indication of the seriousness with which she regarded it. - -"Miss Alice ain't right, sir. She does what she don't know." - -"What do you mean?" he demanded, really startled. - -"She wrote a letter to you last night, and then instead of mailing it -she cut it all up into teenty tonty pieces, postage stamp and all; and -then said she did n't know who did it." - -Carroll stared at the woman. Whimsies and mysteries were alike so -foreign to Alice that his first and natural thought was that Abby had -lost her mind. - -"It's true, sir, every word," Abby insisted, answering his unspoken -incredulity. "She did just 's I say." - -"If she said she did n't know who did it," the young man said sharply, -"she did n't know." - -"Of course she did n't know. That 's what's queer." - -"But she could n't have done it herself." - -"Oh, but I saw her doing it, sir, and I wondered what was the matter -with the letter; only I did n't notice the postage stamp, or I'd have -spoken." - -Carroll knew that Abby was as well aware as was he of Alice's invincible -truthfulness, and that he had not to reckon with any unfounded suspicion -of deceit. If Alice had said she did not know who destroyed the letter, -then it was evident that she had done it unconsciously and in some -condition which needed to be inquired into. He leaned back against the -mantel, and playing absently with the dangling prisms which hung above a -brazen pair of pastoral lovers on the old-fashioned candelabra, he heard -Abby's story in full. Miss Gaylord had said to the servant that she was -about to write the letter, and that it must be posted that evening. -Going to the parlor after the note, Abby had seen her mistress cut it -to pieces. The maid withdrew, supposing that for some reason the note -needed rewriting; but on returning some time later, she had been met -by the declaration that it was on the table. As it was not there, her -mistress had joined in searching for it, but nothing could be found save -the fragments in the waste-basket. Miss Gaylord had insisted that she -had not cut it, and that she was entirely ignorant of how the damage had -occurred. - -Dr. Carroll was puzzled and troubled, nor was he less so when Alice had -given him her account. She did this unsolicited, and with evident -frankness. - -"I suppose, George," she said, "it's absent-mindedness; but if I have -got so far that I don't know what I'm doing, I'd better be shut up for -a lunatic at once." - -"Has anything of the sort ever happened before?" he asked. - -"I am not sure," was her answer; "but sometimes I've found things done -that I could not remember doing: my clothes put in queer places, and -that sort of thing, you know. I never really thought much about it -before. You don't think--" - -He could see that she was seriously troubled, and he set himself to -dissipate her concern. - -"I think you are tired, and so you may be a little absent-minded; but I -certainly do not think it's worth making any fuss about. You and Abby -will have a theory of demoniacal possession soon, to account for a mere -slip of memory." - -He did not leave her until it seemed to him that she no longer regarded -the incident seriously; but in his own mind he was by no means at -ease. At the earliest moment possible he went to consult with a fellow -physician who was a specialist in disorders of the nerves, and to him -he told the whole case as accurately as he was able. The specialist -put some questions and in the end asked:-- - -"Has she ever been hypnotized?" - -"I'm sure she never has," Carroll answered. "She might easily be a -subject, I should think. She's naturally nervous, and just now she is -run down and unstrung." - -"It seems like a case of self-hypnotism," the other said. "Sometimes, -you know, patients unconsciously hypnotize themselves, or get -hypnotized, without having any idea of it." - -"But would n't she know it afterward?" - -"Oh, no; the second personality generally knows all about the first--" - -"You mean," interrupted Carroll, "that the normal person is the first -and the hypnotized is the second?" - -"Yes. The personality that comes to the surface in hypnotism, the -subliminal self, knows all about the normal person, but the normal -person has no idea of the existence of the secondary, the subliminal -personality." - -"It's so cheerful to think of yourself as a sort of nest of boxes," -Carroll commented grimly, "one personality inside of the other, and you -only knowing about the outside box." - -"Or you _being_ only the outside box, perhaps," the specialist -responded, with a smile. "Well, what we don't know would fill rather a -good-sized book." - -The suggestion of hypnotism remained in Carroll's mind, and it was not -many days before he had a sufficiently plain but altogether disagreeable -confirmation of the specialist's theory. He was with Alice in the old -drawing-room, a place of quaint primness, with fine, staid Copley -portraits, and an air of self-respecting propriety utterly at variance -with psychical mysteries. He stood gazing out of the window, while Alice -moved about the room looking for a book of which they had been speaking, -and his eye was caught by a sparkling point of light on the sunlit wall -of the house opposite. He made some casual remark in regard to it, and -Alice came to look over his shoulder. - -"What is it?" she asked. - -"It must be a grain of sand in the mortar, I suppose," he answered. "It -is making a tremendous effect for such a little thing." - -She did not answer for an instant. Then she burst into a laugh which to -him sounded strange and unpleasant, and clapped her hands. - -"Well, I've come," she said joyously. - -He wheeled quickly toward her. Her face seemed to have undergone a -change, slight yet extraordinary. She was laughing with a glee that was -not without a suspicion of malice, and she met his look with a boldness -so different from the usual regard of Alice as to seem almost brazen. -He could see that his evident bewilderment amused her greatly. A -mischievous twinkle lighted her glance. - -"Oh, of course you think I'm she; but I'm not. I'm a good deal nicer. -She's a tiresome old thing, anyway. You'd like me a great deal better." - -Carroll was entirely too confused to speak, but he was a physician, and -could not help reflecting instantly upon the cause of this strange -metamorphosis. He naturally thought of hypnotism, and he came in a -second thought to realize that Alice had with amazing rapidity been -sent into a hypnotic condition by looking for an instant at the -glittering point on the wall of the house across the street. What the -result might be, or what the words she spoke meant, he could not even -conjecture. - -"Don't stare at me so," the girl went on. "I'm Jenny." - -"Oh," he repeated confusedly, "you're Jenny?" - -"Yes; I'm Jenny, and I'm worth six of that silly Alice you're engaged -to." - -He took her lightly by the shoulders and looked at her, quite as much -for the sake of steadying his own nerves as from any expectation of -learning anything by examination. Her eyes shone with an unwonted -brightness, and seemed to him to gleam with an archness of which Alice -would not have been capable. The cheeks were flushed, not feverishly, -but healthily, and the girl had lost completely the appearance of -exhaustion which had troubled him so long. The head was carried with a -new erectness, and as he regarded her she tossed it saucily. - -"You may look at me as much as you like," she said gayly. "I can stand -it. Don't you think I am better looking than she is?" - -He was convinced that Alice could not know what she was saying, yet he -involuntarily cried out:-- - -"Don't, Alice! I don't like it!" - -She pouted her lips, lips which to his excited fancy seemed to have -grown redder and fuller than he had ever seen them, and she made a droll -little grimace. - -"I'm not Alice, I tell you. Kiss me." - -In all their long engagement Alice had never asked him for a caress, and -the request hurt him now as something unwomanly. Instead of complying, -he dropped his hands and turned away. She laughed shrilly. - -"Oh, you won't kiss me? I thought it was polite to do what a lady asked! -Well, if you won't now, you will some time. You'll want to when you know -me better." - -She moved away, but he caught her by the arm. - -"Stop!" he ordered her, with all the determination he could put into -the word. "Wake up, Alice! Be done with this fooling!" - -The bright face grew anxious and the pouting lips beseeching. - -"Don't send me away! I'll be good! Don't make her come back!" - -"Alice," he repeated, clasping her arm firmly, "wake up!" - -"You hurt me!" she cried half whiningly. "You hurt me! I'll go." - -The wild brightness faded from the eyes, a change too subtle to be -defined seemed to come over the whole figure, the old tired expression -spread like mist over the face, and the familiar Alice stood there, -passing her hand over her eyes. - -"What is the matter?" she asked, in a startled way. "Did I faint?" - -He was conscious that his look must have alarmed her, and he made a -desperate effort to speak easily and naturally. - -"I guess you came mighty near it," he answered, as naturally as he -could. "It's all right now." - -For some days nothing unusual happened, so far as Carroll knew. He -watched Alice closely, and he plunged into all the literature on the -subject of hypnotism upon which he could lay hands. He was not sure that -at the end of a week's hard reading he was much clearer than at the -beginning, although he had at least accumulated a fine assortment of -terms in the nomenclature of animal magnetism. He cautiously questioned -Abby, and learned that for some time Alice had been subject to what the -old servant called "notional spells when she were n't herself." His -friend the specialist was greatly interested in all that Dr. Carroll -could tell him about the case. - -"It is evidently a subliminal self coming to the surface," he -pronounced. "I've seen cases somewhat similar, but only one where the -patient was not hypnotized by somebody else." - -"But what can I do about it?" George demanded. "I don't want any -subliminal selves floating about. I want the girl I know." - -"Build up her general health," the other advised. "You say she's run -down and used up with taking care of her grandmother. Get her rested. -That's the only thing I can say. She is n't really ill, is she?" - -"God knows what you call it," was Carroll's response. "She can't be -called well when she goes off the way she did the other day. I tell you -it was frightful, simply frightful!" - -The days went on, and once more George had the uncanny experience of a -chat with Jenny. Alice had been looking over some of her grandmother's -belongings, and when he called, came down to him with a necklace of -rhinestones dangling and sliding through her fingers. - -"See," she accosted him, in the buoyant manner he remembered only too -vividly, "is n't this gay? I should wear it, only I'm in her clothes, -and she won't wear anything but poky black." - -Carroll tried to steady his nerves against the sudden shock. - -"Of course you wear black, Alice," he said; "it is only six months since -your grandmother died." - -She made him a merry, mocking grimace. - -"Now don't pretend you don't know I'm Jenny," she retorted. "I saw you -knew me the minute you heard me speak. Alice! Pooh! She'd have come into -the room this way." - -She darted to the door and turned back, to advance with her face pulled -down and her eyelids dropped. - -"How do you do, dear?" she greeted him, with a burlesque of Alice's -manner so droll that he laughed in spite of himself. - -Jenny herself burst into a shout of merriment and whirled about in a -pirouette, swinging the sparkling chain around her head. - -"Is n't it fun?" she exclaimed, pausing before him with her head on one -side; "she can't even look at a bright thing half a minute but off she -goes, and here I am. Before I go this time, I'm going to stick up every -shiny thing I can find where she'll see it." - -Carroll had a sickening sensation, as if the girl he loved had gone mad -before his very eyes; yet so completely did she appear like a stranger -that the feeling faded as soon as it arose. This was certainly no Alice -that he knew. He could not speak to her as his friend and betrothed, -although it was equally impossible to address her as a stranger. He was -too completely baffled and confused to be able to determine on any line -of action, and she stood smiling at him as if she were entirely -conscious of what was passing in his troubled brain. - -"Did you know I cut up her letter?" Jenny demanded, with a smile -apparently called up by the remembrance. - -"Yes," he answered, exactly as if the question had been put by a third -person. - -"It was an awfully foolish letter," the girl went on. "I won't have her -writing like that to you. You've got to belong to me." - -He had neither the time nor the coolness to realize his emotions, but he -accepted for the moment the assumption of the individuality of Jenny. - -"You are nothing to me," he said. "I am engaged to Alice." - -"Oh, that's all right. I know that. I know all about her; lots more than -you do. But I tell you, you'd a great deal better take me. I'm just as -much the girl you're engaged to as she is." - -He looked at her darkly and with trouble in his eyes. - -"Where is Alice?" he asked. - -"Oh, she's all right. She's somewhere. Asleep, I think likely. I don't -want to talk about her. I never liked her." - -"Talk about yourself, then. Where are you when Alice is here?" - -"Oh, that's stupid. I'd rather talk about what we'll do when we are -married. Shall we go abroad right off?" - -"It will be time enough to talk about that when there's any prospect of -our being married." - -"You would n't kiss me the other day," Jenny said, looping the necklace -about his throat and bending forward so that her face was close to his. - -A feeling of anger so strong that it was almost brutal came over him. He -tore the necklace out of her hands and threw it across the room. Then, -as on the previous occasion, he caught the girl by the wrists. - -"Go away!" he commanded. "Let Alice come back!" - -"Oh, you hurt me!" she cried. "I can't bear to be hurt! Let me go!" - -He tightened his grasp. - -"If you don't go, I'll really hurt. I won't have you fooling with Alice -like this." - -Her glance wavered on his; then the eyelids drooped; and he loosened his -hold with the consciousness that Alice had come back. - -"Why, George," she said, in her natural voice; "I did n't know you were -here." - -He took her in his arms with a feeling as near to the hysterical as he -was capable of, and then instantly devoted himself to dissipating the -anxiety which his obvious agitation aroused in her. - -As time went on, the appearances of Jenny became more frequent. The fact -that this secondary personality had once been in control of the body -which it shared with Alice seemed to make its reappearance more easy. -Alice evidently became more susceptible to whatever conditions produced -this strange possession. It was clear to Carroll that each time the -elfish Jenny succeeded in gaining possession of consciousness,--for so -he put it to himself, entirely realizing what a confusing paradox the -phrase implied,--she became stronger and better able to assert herself. -He grew more and more disturbed, but he was also more and more -completely baffled. Sometimes the matter presented itself to his -professional mind as a medical case of absorbing interest; sometimes it -appealed to him as a freak of gigantic irony on the part of fate; and -yet again he was swept away by love or by passionate pity and sorrow for -Alice. He felt that, all unconscious of her peril,--for she knew nothing -of her mysterious double,--she was being robbed of her very personality. - -Most curious of all was his feeling toward Jenny, who had come in -his mind to represent an individual as tangible, as human, and as -self-existent as Alice herself. He never allowed himself to encourage -her presence, despite the fact that natural curiosity and professional -interest might well make him eager to study her peculiarities. He -insisted always upon her speedy departure from the body into which she -had intruded herself--or so he doggedly insisted with himself--like an -evil spirit. He had soon learned that her fear of physical pain was -excessive; that, like the child that she often seemed, she could be -managed best by dread of punishment; and he for a considerable time had -been able to frighten her away by threats of hurting her. As the days -went on, however, she began to laugh at his menaces, and he was obliged -to resort to trifling physical force. The strong grasp on the wrists -had sufficed at first, but it had to be increased as Jenny apparently -decided that he would not dare to carry out his threats, and one day he -found himself twisting the girl's arm backward in a determined effort -to drive off this persistent ghoul-like presence. The idea of injuring -Alice came over him so sickeningly that, had not his betrothed at that -instant recovered her normal state, he felt that he must have abandoned -the field. As it was, he was so unmanned that he could only plead a -suddenly remembered professional engagement and get out of the house -with the utmost possible speed. - -There were other moods which were perhaps even worse. Now and again he -was conscious of a strong attraction toward this laughing girl who -defied him, looking at him with the eyes of Alice, but brimming them -with merriment; who tempted him with Alice's lips, yet ripened them with -warm blood and pouted them so bewitchingly; who walked toward him with -the form of his betrothed, but swayed that body with a grace and an -allurement of which Alice knew nothing. He felt in his nostrils a -quiver of desire, and shame and self-scorn came in its wake. Not only -did he feel that he had been false to Alice, but by a painful and -disconcerting paradox he felt that he was offering to her a degrading -insult in being moved by what at least was her body, as he might have -been moved by the sensual attractiveness of a light woman. Jenny was at -once so distinct, so far removed from Alice, and yet so identified with -her, that his emotions confounded themselves in baffling confusion. It -was not only that he could not think logically about the matter, but he -seemed also to have lost the directing influence of instinctive feeling. -Jenny represented nothing ethical, nothing spiritual, not even anything -moral. He was filled with disgust at himself for being moved by her, yet -humanly his masculine nature could not but respond to her spell; and -the impossibility of either separating this from his love for Alice or -reconciling it with the respect he had for her left him in a state of -mental confusion as painful as it seemed hopeless. - -He became so troubled that it was inevitable Alice should notice his -uneasiness, and he was not in the least surprised when one evening she -said to him:-- - -"George, what is the matter? Are you worrying about me?" - -He had prepared himself over and over to answer such a question, but -now he only hesitated and stumbled. - -"Why--what makes you think anything is the matter?" - -"I know there is; and I'm sure it's my fainting-spells." - -She had come to speak of her seizures by this term, and George had -accepted it, secretly glad that she had no idea worse than that of loss -of consciousness. - -"Why, of course I am troubled, so long as you are not well, but--" - -"You don't like to tell me what is the matter," she went on calmly, but -with an earnestness which showed she had thought long on the matter. "I -dare say I should n't be any better for knowing, and I can trust you; -but I know you are worrying, and it troubles me." - -His resolution was taken at once. - -"See here, Alice," he said, "the truth is that you need to get away from -Boston and have an entire change of scene and climate. You used to be a -good sailor, and a sea voyage will set you up. I'm going to marry you -next week and take you to Italy." - -"Why, George, you can't!" - -"I shall." - -"Even if I were well, I could n't be ready." - -"Who cares? As to being well, you are going so you may get well. When I -order patients to go away for their health, I expect them to go." - -She became serious, and looked at him with eyes of infinite sadness. - -"Dear George," she said, "I can't marry you just to be a patient. You -must n't go through life encumbered by an invalid wife." - -"I've no notion of doing anything of the kind," he responded brightly. -"It would be too poor an advertisement, and that's the reason I insist -on taking you abroad. What day do you choose, Wednesday, Thursday, or -Friday? We sail Saturday." - -He would listen to no objections, but got Thursday fixed for the -wedding, and pushed forward rapidly his preparations for going abroad. -He enlisted the coöperation of a cousin of Alice, an efficient lady -accustomed to carry everything before her, and, as Abby warmly approved -of his decision, he felt that Alice would be ready. He saw Alice but -briefly until Sunday evening, when he found her in a state of much -agitation. - -"I am really out of my mind," she said. "What do you think I have done?" - -"I don't care, if you have n't changed your mind about Thursday." - -"I ought to change my mind. Oh, George, I've no right--" - -"That is settled," he interrupted decisively. "What have you done that -is so dreadful?" - -She produced a waist of dove-colored silk. - -"Of course I could n't be married in black, you know, and this was to be -my dress. See here." - -The front of the waist was cut and slashed from top to bottom. - -"I must have done it some time to-day. Oh, George, it's dreadful!" - -For the first time in all the long, hard trial of their protracted -engagement, she broke down and cried bitterly. He took her in his arms -and soothed her. He told her he knew all about it, and that she was -going to be entirely well; that he asked only that she would not worry, -but would trust to him that she would come safely and happily out of all -this trouble and mystery. She yielded to his persuasions, and, indeed, -it was evident that she had hardly strength to resist him even had she -not believed. She rested quietly on his shoulder and let him drift into -a description of the route he had laid out, and in her interest she -seemed to forget her trouble. - -Before he left, she asked him what she could tell the dressmaker, who -would suspect if she was given no reason for being called upon to make a -new waist. He took the injured garment, went to the writing-table, and -splashed ink on the cut portions. - -"You showed it to me," he said gayly, "and I was so incredibly clumsy -as to spill ink on it. Men are so stupid." - -She laughed, and he went away feeling that he could gladly have -throttled Jenny, could he but succeed in getting her in some other -body than that belonging to his betrothed. If he was irritated by this -experience, however, he had one to meet later which tried him still -more. Abby, on letting him into the house on Tuesday, once more led him -mysteriously into the reception-room. - -"Miss Alice's been writing to herself, sir." - -She held toward him a sealed and stamped envelope addressed to Alice. He -took it half mechanically, and as he wondered how he was to circumvent -this new trick of the maliciously ingenious Jenny, he noted that the -handwriting was strangely different from Alice's usual style. - -"Did she give you this to post?" he asked. - -"It was with the other letters, and I noticed it and did n't mail it." - -"I'll take it," he said. "You did perfectly right." - -He wondered whether the prescience of Jenny would enable her to discover -that he had destroyed her note to Alice; then he smiled to realize how -he was coming to think of her as almost a supernatural demon, and -reflected that nothing could be easier than for her to leave a paper -where Alice must find it. A couple of days later he found his thought -verified when Alice said to him:-- - -"George, who is Jenny?" - -As she spoke, she put into his hand an unsigned note which said only, -"George loves Jenny." The instant which was necessarily taken for its -examination gave him a chance to steady himself. - -"You wrote it yourself," he said quietly. "Don't you recognize your -paper and your writing? It's a little strange, but sleep-writing always -is." - -"Then I am a somnambulist!" she exclaimed, with flushing cheek. - -"There is nothing dreadful in that," he replied. "You have promised to -trust me about your health. I know all about it, and if you write -yourself forty notes, you are not to bother." - -She sighed, and then bravely smiled. - -"I'll try not to worry," she told him; "but I am a coward not to send -you away. I wonder why I should have chosen Jenny as the name of your -beloved." - -"I'm sure I don't know; it's an ugly name enough," he responded, with a -quick thought that he hoped Jenny could hear. "At any rate, I tell you -with my whole heart that you are the only woman in the world for me." - -He did not see Jenny again until the evening before his marriage. He -fancied she was avoiding him, especially as once Alice sent down word -that she was too busy to see him. He received, however, a note on -Wednesday. The hand, so like that of Alice and yet so unmistakably -different, affected him most unpleasantly, nor was he made more at ease -by the contents. - -"You think you got ahead of me by telling Alice she was a sleep-walker, -did n't you! Well, I don't care, for I'm going to get rid of her for -always when we are married. I did n't mean to be married in that nasty -old gray dress, and I won't be, either. You see if I am. You are very -unkind to me. You might remember that I'm a great deal fonder of you -than she is, because I've got real feeling and she's a kind of graven -image. You'll love your little wifie Jenny very dearly." - -Dr. Carroll began to feel as if his own brain were whirling. He could -not reply to the note, since he could hardly address a letter to Jenny -somewhere inside the personality of Alice. He realized that a strain -such as this would soon so tell on him that he would be unfit to care -for Alice, and he made up his mind that the time had come for the -strongest measures. To tell what the strongest measures were, however, -was a problem which occupied him for the rest of the day, and about -which he consulted the specialist. Even when, that evening, he walked -down West Cedar Street, he could hardly be sure that he would carry out -his plan. He was told at the door by Abby that Miss Alice had given -strict orders against his being admitted. - -"When did she do that?" he inquired. - -"This forenoon, sir, when she gave me that note to send to you. She was -queer, sir. She had a cab and went down town shopping, and came back -with a big box. Then she had a nap, and to-night she's all right." - -"I'll go up, Abby. It is necessary for me to see her." - -As he came into the drawing-room Alice sprang up to meet him. - -"I began to be afraid you would n't come," she said. "I've been queer -to-day, I know; and there's a dressmaker's box in my room I never saw, -and it's marked not to be opened till to-morrow. Oh, George, I am so -frightened and miserable! I know I ought to send you away, and not let -you marry me." - -"Send me away, by all means, if it will make you feel any better. I -shan't go. Sit down in this chair; I want to show you something." - -She took the seat he indicated. He trimmed the fire and left the poker -in the coals. Then from his pocket he took a ball of silvered glass as -large as an orange, and began to toss it in his hands. She stared at it -in silence for half a minute. Then the unmistakable laugh of Jenny rang -out. - -"So you really wanted to see me, did you?" she cried. "I knew you would -some time." - -"Yes," was his reply. "You may be sure I wanted to see you pretty badly -before I'd take the risk of doing something that may be bad for Alice." - -"Oh, it's still Alice, is it?" Jenny responded, pouting. "I hoped you'd -got more sense by this time. Honest, now," she continued, leaning -forward persuasively, "don't you think you'd like me best? The trouble -is, you think you're tied to her, and you don't dare do what you want -to. I'd hate to be such a coward!" - -He looked at the beautiful creature bending toward him, and he could not -but acknowledge in his heart that she was physically more attractive -than Alice, that she stirred in him a fever of the blood which he had -never known when with the other. All the attraction which had drawn him -to Alice was there, save for certain spiritual qualities, and added -was a new charm which he felt keenly. He could not define to himself -clearly, moreover, what right or ground he had for objecting to this -form of the personality of his betrothed, to this potential Alice, who -in certain ways moved him more than the Alice he had known so long. He -had only a dogged instinct to guide him, an unescapable inner conviction -that the normal consciousness of the girl had inalienable rights which -manhood and honor called upon him to defend. In part this was the -feeling natural to a physician, but more it was the Puritan loyalty to -an idea of justice. The more he felt himself stirred by the fascination -of Jenny, the more strongly his sense of right urged him to end, if -possible, this frightful possession forever. Both for himself and for -Alice, he was resolute now to go to any extreme. - -"You are at liberty to put it any way you please," he responded to her -taunt, with grave courtesy. "I called you to tell you that I am going to -marry Alice to-morrow, and that I will not have her personality -interfered with any more." - -"Oh, you won't? How are you going to help it?" - -He looked at her eyes sparkling with mischievous defiance, at her red -lips pouted in saucy insolence, and he wavered. Then in the instant -revulsion from this weakness he turned to the fire and took from the -coals the glowing poker. - -"That is how I mean to help it," he said. - -She shrank and turned pale; but she did not yield. - -"You can't fool me like that," she said. "You would n't really hurt the -body of that precious Alice of yours. You can't burn me without her -being burned too." - -"She had better be burned than to be under the control of a little devil -like you." - -For the moment they faced each other, and then her glance dropped. She -fell on her knees with a bitter cry, and held up to him her clasped -hands. - -"Oh, why can't you let me stay!" she half sobbed. "Why won't you give me -a chance? You don't know how good I'll be! I'll do every single thing -you want me to. I know all your ways as well as she does, and I'll make -you happy. Why should n't I have as much right to live as she?" - -The wail of her pleading almost unmanned him. He felt instinctively that -his only chance of carrying through his plan was to refuse to listen. -The thought surged into his mind that perhaps she had as much claim to -consciousness as Alice; he seemed to be murdering this strange creature -kneeling to him with streaming eyes and quivering mouth. He had to turn -away so as not to see her. - -"I will not listen to you," he said doggedly. "I will not have you -trouble Alice. As sure as there's a God in heaven, if you come back -again when I am with her, I'll burn you with a hot iron; and I mean to -watch her all the time after we are married." - -"If you married me, you'd have to help me against her," Jenny said, -apparently as much to herself as to him. - -He made no other answer than to bring the heated iron so near to her -cheek that she must have felt its glow. She threw back her head with a -cry of fear. Then a look of defiance came over the face, and the red -lips took a mocking curve; but in the twinkle of an eye it was Alice who -knelt on the rug before him. - -The strain of this interview, with the after-necessity of reassuring -Alice, left Carroll in a condition little conducive to sleep. All -night he revolved in his head the circumstances of this strange case, -comforting himself as well as he was able with the hope that at last he -had frightened Jenny away for good. He reflected on the Scriptural -stories of demoniacal possession, and wondered whether hypnotism might -not have played some part in them; he speculated on the future, and now -and then found himself wondering what would have come of his choosing -Jenny instead of Alice. A haggard bridegroom he looked when Abby opened -the door to him the next forenoon, and he grew yet paler when the old -servant said to him, with brief pathos,-- - -"She 's queer again." - -Carroll set his teeth savagely. He hardly returned the greetings of the -few friends assembled in the drawing-room, but went at once to the -fireplace, applied a match to the fire laid there, and thrust the poker -between the bars of the grate. The clergyman came in, and in another -moment the rustle of the bride's gown was heard from the stairs outside. -Then, on the arm of a cousin of the Gaylords, appeared in the doorway a -figure in white. The sweat started on Carroll's forehead. He realized -that Jenny was making one more desperate effort to marry him. He -remembered her last words of the evening before, and saw that then she -must have had this in mind. He looked her straight in the eyes, and -then turned to the grate. As he stooped to grasp the poker the bride -stopped, trembled, put her hand to the door-jamb as if for support. -Then George, watching, put the iron down and advanced to Alice. What the -assembled company might think of his stirring the fire at that moment he -did not care. He felt that he had triumphed; and at least it was Alice -and not Jenny whom he married. - -So far as Carroll can determine, Jenny never again intruded upon Alice's -personality. Renewed health, varied interests, and the ever watchful -affection of her husband gave Mrs. Carroll self-poise and fixed her in -a normal state. But there is a little daughter, and now and then the -father catches his breath, so startlingly into her face and into her -manner comes a likeness to Jenny. - - - - -DR. POLNITZSKI - - -"So you think," Dr. Polnitzski said, smiling rather satirically, "that -you are really tasting the bitterness of life?" - -"I did n't say anything of the sort," I retorted impatiently. "I was n't -making anything so serious of it; but you'll own that to be thrown over -your horse's head on a stake that rips a gash six inches long in your -thigh is n't precisely amusing." - -"Oh, quite the contrary," he answered. "I'm prepared to admit so much." - -"In the very middle of the hunting season, too," I went on, "and at the -house of a friend. More than that, a man never gets over the feeling -that everybody secretly thinks an accident must be his own fault and he -a duffer. Even Lord Eldon, who's good nature itself and no end of a -jolly host, must think--" - -"Nonsense," my physician interrupted brusquely, "Lord Eldon is not a -fool, and he realizes that this was n't your fault as well as you do -yourself. You take the whole thing so hard because you've evidently -never come in contact with the realities of life." - -He was so magnificent a man as he stood there that the brusqueness of -his words was easily forgiven; he had been so unremitting in his care -ever since, in the illness of Lord Eldon's family physician, he had been -called in on the occasion of my accident, that I had become genuinely -attached to him. Our acquaintance had ripened into something almost like -intimacy, since my host and his family had been unexpectedly called from -home by the illness of a married daughter, and it had come to be the -usual thing for Dr. Polnitzski to pass with me the evenings of my slow -convalescence, which would otherwise have been so intolerably tedious. - -"I dare say I've been too much babied most of my life," I returned; "but -a month of this sort of thing is pretty serious for anybody." - -He smiled, then his face grew grave. - -"I dare say you may think me tediously moral," he said, "but I can't -help thinking of what I see every day. For some years I've been trying -to do something for the poor people about here, and especially for the -operatives over at Friezeton. If you had any idea of the things I've -seen-- But, after all, you would n't understand if I were to tell you." - -"I know," I returned, "that you have devoted yourself to the most -generous work among those poor wretches." - -"I beg your pardon," responded he, stiffening at once, "but we will, if -you please, waive compliments." - -"But," I persisted, "Lord Eldon and others have more than once expressed -their wonder that you, with talents and acquirements so unusual, should -bury yourself--" - -"I was not speaking of myself," he interrupted, somewhat impatiently, -"but of my poor patients. If you knew what they suffer uncomplainingly, -it might make you a little more content." - -We were both silent for a little time. I looked across the chamber at -the strong figure of the Russian, as he stood by the fire, and wondered -what his past had been. I knew that he was a mystery to all the -neighborhood where he had lived for the better part of a dozen years. -He was evidently a gentleman, and he seemed to be wealthy. I had -myself found him to be of unusual culture and refinement, and he had -unobtrusively won recognition as a physician of marked skill and -attainments. The wonder was why he should be living in England as an -exile, and why he so persistently resisted all efforts to draw him from -his retirement. He devoted himself to philanthropic work in a perfectly -quiet fashion, declining to be enrolled as part of any organized -charity. He was more and more, however, coming to be appreciated as a -skillful physician, and to be called in for consultation. He impressed -me on the whole as a man who had a past, and I could not but wonder -what that past had been. - -"I dare say you are right," I answered, somewhat absently, "but has it -never occurred to you that it is easy to make the mistake of judging -the suffering of others by our own standards instead of by their real -feelings? It seems to be assumed nowadays that all men are born with -the same sensibilities, yet nothing could be farther from the truth." - -Dr. Polnitzski did not reply for a moment. He seemed this evening to be -unusually restless. He walked about the room, getting up as soon as he -sat down, and made impulsive movements which apparently betrayed some -inward disturbance. - -"Of course you are right," he said at length, in an absent manner. "The -classes not bred to sensitiveness cannot have the real sensibility--" - -He broke off abruptly and came across to my couch. - -"We were talking," he began, with a sudden, bitter vehemence which -startled me, "of real suffering. See! I have lived here silent in an -alien land for long years; but to-day--to-day is an anniversary, and I -have somehow lost the power to be silent any longer. If you care to -listen, I will tell you what I mean by suffering; I will tell you what -life has been to me." - -"If you will," I responded, "I will try to understand." - -He seemed hardly to hear or to heed my words, but, walking up and down -the chamber, he began at once, speaking with the outbursting eagerness -of a man who has restrained himself long. - -"My father," he said, "was one of the small nobles in the neighborhood -of Moscow. I was his only son, and when he died, in my seventeenth year, -I had been his companion so much that I was as mature as most lads half -a dozen years older. My mother was a gentle, good woman. I loved my -mother, but she made little difference in my life. She was kind to me -and she prayed for me a good deal. She thought her prayers answered when -I grew up without debauchery. She may have been right; but I have lived -to think that there are worse things than debauchery." - -He paused a moment, and then went on, looking downward. - -"Once the little mother was frightened," he went on again, with a -strange mingling of bitterness and tenderness in his tone. "There was -a girl, the daughter of the steward; her name was Alexandrina." - -His voice as he pronounced the stately name was full of feeling. He -seemed to have forgotten me, and to be telling his story to an unseen -hearer. - -"Shurochka!" he said, dwelling on the diminutive with a fond, lingering -cadence most pathetic to hear. "Shurochka! I loved her; I was mad for -her; my blood was full of longing by day and of fire by night. It was -the complete, mad passion of a boy grown into a man, and pure in spite -of an ardent temperament. I used to stand under her window at night, and -if it were stinging with cold or storm I was glad. I seemed to be doing -something for her; you know the madness, perhaps, in spite of the cold -temperament of your race. I did not for a moment really hope for her. -Her family had betrothed her to her cousin, and it would have broken my -mother's heart for me to marry the descendant of serfs. I could n't even -show her that I loved her. My father out of his grave said to me what he -had said again and again while he was alive: 'Do not hurt those under -you; and especially do not soil the purity of a maiden.' I did not try -to conceal from the little mother that I loved Shurochka, and maybe the -servants gossiped, as they always do; but Shurochka herself I avoided. I -was not sure that I could trust myself to see her. It was a happiness to -the little mother when the girl was married and taken away to the home -of her cousin in Moscow. She felt safe for me then, and she was very -tender. Time, she said, would take this madness out of my heart." - -He looked into the glowing fire with a strange expression and mused a -little. - -"My good mother!" he said again. "She was too near a saint to -understand. That has been a madness time could n't take out of my heart! -I've gone out here on the moors and flung myself down on the ground and -bitten the turf in agony because it seemed to me that I had borne this -as long as human endurance was possible! No; if the spirit of the little -mother sees me, she knows that time has not taken the madness out of -me!" - -His face had grown white with feeling, and he seemed to struggle to -control himself. - -"I can't tell you whether it was wholly from the loss of her and the -death of my mother which came soon after, or whether it was the current -of the time, the unrest in the air, that drew me toward the men who were -striving to free Russia from political slavery. I went to St. Petersburg -to continue my studies, and there I was thrown with men aflame with the -ardor of patriotism. Constantly the cause of Holy Russia secretly took -more and more absolute possession of me. I confided it to nobody. I did -not even suspect that anybody had the smallest hint of my state of -mind, and yet, when the time came, when I had made my decision to throw -in my lot with the patriots, I found them not only ready, but expecting -me. They had felt my secret comradeship by that sixth sense which we -develop in Russia in our zeal for country, and the imperative need of -such an intelligence in the work we have to do. - -"I did n't take the step from simple patriotism, perhaps. Motives are -generally mixed in this world. There was a last touch, a final reason in -my case, as in others, that had a good deal of the personal. I was ripe -for the cause, but there was a gust to shake the fruit down. There came -bitter news from Moscow." - -Again he paused, but only for a second; then threw back his head and -went on with a new hardness in his tone more moving than open -fierceness. - -"Shurochka was gone. It was whispered that a noble high in the army had -carried her off, but no one dared to speak openly. We must be careful -how we complain in Holy Russia! When her husband tried to find her, when -he tormented the police to right him, he was arrested as a political -offender--the charge always serves. The man, as I afterward learned -authoritatively, was no more a conspirator than you are. He was sent -to the mines of Siberia simply because he complained that his wife had -been stolen, and so made himself obnoxious to a man in power. It was -fortunate for me that I did not learn the officer's name, or I should -have gone to Siberia too." - -Dr. Polnitzski threw himself into a chair by the fire and remained -staring into the coals as if he had forgotten me, and as if he again -were back in the dreadful days of which he had spoken. I waited some -time before I spoke, and then, without daring to offer sympathy, I asked -if he were willing to go on with his story. He looked at me as if he saw -me through a dream; then he came to sit down beside my couch. - -"Pardon me," he said. "I was a fool to allow myself to speak, but now -you may have the whole of it. It is n't worth while for me to tell you -my experiences as a patriot--a Nihilist, you would say. I was full of -zeal; I was young and hot-headed; I thought that all the strength of my -feeling was turned to my country. I know now that a good deal of it was -consumed in the desire for revenge upon that unknown officer. Russia, -our Holy Russia, I said to myself, must be to me both wife and child. -Stepniak said to me once that Russia was the only country in the world -where it was a man's duty not to obey the laws. You cannot understand -it here in England, where it never occurs to you to fear, as you lie -down at night, that for no fault whatever you may in the morning find -yourself on the way to lifelong exile and some horrible, living death. -I could tell you things that I can hardly think of without going mad; -they are the events of every day in our unhappy land. The heroism, the -devotion, of those striving to free Russia can be believed only by the -few that know they are true. They are beyond human; they are divine. -Why, the things I have known done by women so pure and delicate that -they were almost angels already--" - -He broke off and wiped his forehead. - -"I beg your pardon," said he, in a tone he evidently tried to make more -natural. "I will not talk of this. I have not spoken so for years and I -cannot command myself. It is enough for you to know that I saw it all, -and that, to the best of my ability, I did my part. As time went on, -I established myself as a physician at St. Petersburg. My family -connection, although I had no near relatives, was of use to me, and in -the end I had an excellent position. I was fortunate in the curing of -wounds, and I had the luck to attract attention by saving the life of a -near relative of the Czar. All this I looked at as so much work done for -the cause. Every advance I made in influence, in wealth, in power, put -me in a position to be so much the more serviceable to the great purpose -of my life. Personal ambition was so swallowed up in the tremendousness -of that issue that self was lost sight of. The patriot cannot remember -himself in a land like Russia. - -"When the execution"-- He paused and turned to me with a singular smile. -"You would say the assassination--when the death of General Kakonzoff -was determined in our Section, no part was assigned to me, but I was -high enough in the counsels of the patriots to know all that was done. -He had possession of information which it was necessary to suppress. -He came to St. Petersburg to present it in person. He told me frankly -enough afterward that he could not trust any one because he counted upon -a reward for giving the evidence himself. We were minutely informed of -his plans and his movements. We had taken the precaution to replace his -body-servant by one of our own men as soon as he began to make inquiries -about two patriots who were suspected by the government. He had proofs -which would have been fatal to them, and it was necessary to intercept -these. If he had been put out of the way, our agent would easily have -got possession of the papers, and without the testimony of the general -our two friends were safe. The plot failed through one of those chances -that make men believe in the supernatural. He was shot as he stepped out -of the train at the St. Petersburg station, but the very instant our man -fired, Kakonzoff stumbled. The bullet, which should have gone through -his heart, passed through his lungs without killing him." - -The perfectly cool manner in which Dr. Polnitzski spoke of this incident -affected me like a vertigo. To have a man who is one's daily companion, -and of whom one has become fond, speak of an assassination as if it were -an ordinary occurrence, is almost like seeing him concerned himself in -a murder. I lay there listening to the doctor with a fascination not -unmixed with horror, despite the fact that my sympathies, as he knew -beforehand, were strongly with the Nihilists. To be in sympathy with -their cause and to come so near as to smell the reek of blood, so to -speak, were, however, very different things. - -"By a strange chance," the doctor went on, "I was summoned to attend the -wounded man, and although it was a desperate fight, I was after some -days satisfied that I could save his life." - -"But," I interrupted, "I don't see why you should try to save his life -if you were of those who doomed him to death in the first place." - -He looked at me piercingly. - -"You forget," he answered, "that I was called to him as a physician. -It is the duty of a physician to save life, as it may be the duty of a -patriot to take it. I was trying to do my best in both capacities. I had -given the best counsel I could in the Section and, when he was on his -feet, I would have shot him myself if it had seemed to my superiors that -I was the best person to do it. Does it seem to you that I could have -taken advantage of his helplessness, of his confidence, of my skill as -a physician, to deprive him of the life which it is the aim of a -physician's existence to preserve?" - -He waited for me to reply, but I had no answer to give him. The -situation was one so far outside of my experience, so fantastically -unreal as measured by my own life, that I could not even judge of it. - -"See," he went on, leaning forward with shining eyes and with increasing -excitement of manner, "the patient puts himself into the hands of his -physician, body and soul. To betray that trust is to strike at the very -heart of the whole sacred art of healing. If I, as a physician, took -advantage of this sick man, I not only betrayed the personal trust he -put in me, but I was false to the whole principle on which the relation -of doctor and patient rests. Don't you see what a tremendous question is -involved? That to harm Kakonzoff was to go beyond the limits of human -possibility?" - -"Yes," was my answer; "I can understand how a doctor might feel that; -but I don't know how far the feeling of a patriot might overbalance -this; how far the idea of serving his country would overcome every -other feeling." - -Polnitzski gave me a glance which made me quiver. - -"It is a question which I found I did not readily answer," he said, -"when I received from the chief of our Section an order not to let -Kakonzoff recover." - -He sprang up from his chair and began to pace the floor. - -"What could I do?" he said, pouring out his words with a rapidity which -increased his slight foreign accent so that when his face was turned -away I could hardly follow them. "There was my country bleeding her very -heart's blood. Every day the most infamous cruelties were done before my -eyes. And if this man Kakonzoff lived to tell his story, it meant the -torture, the death, of men whose only crime was that they had given -up everything that makes life tolerable to save their fellows from -political slavery. It lay in my power to let Kakonzoff die. A very -slight neglect would accomplish that. To the cause of my country I had -sworn the most solemn oaths, and sworn them with my whole heart. I had -never before even questioned any order from the Section. I had obeyed -with the blind fidelity of a man that loved the cause too well to think -of his own will at all. But now--now, I simply found what I was asked to -do was impossible! I could not do it. I fought it out with myself day -and night, and all the time the patient was slowly getting better. The -gain was slow, but it was steady, and I could not fail to see that his -giving his wicked testimony against the patriots was simply a matter of -time. - -"But one day, through no fault of mine--indeed, because my express -orders had been disobeyed--he became worse. I can't tell you the relief -I felt in thinking the man might die and I be spared the awful necessity -of deciding. If he would only die without fault of mine--but I still did -my best. I gave minute directions, and when I left him I promised to -return in a few hours. As I went through the antechamber on my way out -of the hotel, some one came behind me quickly and laid a hand on my arm. -I thought it was the nurse, following to ask some question. I turned -round to be face to face with Shurochka! My God! It was like a crazy -farce or a bad dream!" - -It is impossible that Dr. Polnitzski should not have known what an -effect his story was producing on me, and it is hardly doubtful that -his responsive Slav nature was more or less moved by my excitement. He -seemed, however, scarcely to be conscious of me at all. His face was -white with suffering, and he spoke with the vehemence of one who tries -to be rid of intolerable pain by pouring it out in words. - -"In a flash," he went on, "it came over me what her presence meant, and -I said to myself, 'I will kill him!' I had always hoped that in striking -against the creatures of the Czar's tyranny I might unknowingly reach -the man that had harmed her; but I had wished not to know, for I could -not bear that personal feeling should come into the work I did for my -country. That work was the one sacred thing. Now what I had feared had -been thrust on me. Shurochka was changed; there were marks of suffering -in her face, and she showed, too, the effects of training which could -never have come honestly into the life of a woman of her station. She -was dressed like a lady. At first she did not know me. She spoke to me -as a stranger, and implored me to save Kakonzoff. She caught me by the -arm in her excitement; and then she recognized me. Then--oh, my God, -what creatures women are!--then she cried out that I had loved her once, -and that in memory of that time I must help her. Think of it! She flung -my broken heart in my face to induce me to save the scoundrel she loved! - -"It was Alexandrina, my old-time Shurochka, clinging to me as if she had -risen from the grave where her shame should have been hidden, and I -loved her then and always. I could hardly control myself to speak to -her. All I could do was stupidly to ask if he was kind to her, and she -shrank as if I had lashed her with the knout. She cried out that it was -no matter, so long as she loved him, and that I must save him: that -she could not live without him. I--could n't endure it! I shook off her -hands and rushed away more wild than sane, with her voice in my ears all -agony and despair." - -His face was dreadful in its pain, and I felt that I had no right to -see it. I closed my eyes, and tried to turn away a little, but in my -clumsiness I knocked from the couch a book. The crash of its fall -aroused him. He mechanically picked up the volume, and the act seemed -somewhat to restore him to himself. - -"You may judge," he began again, "the hell that I was in. I could have -torn the man to bits, and yet--and yet now I said to myself that to obey -the Section and let Kakonzoff die would be doing a murder to gratify -personal hate. Yet all the sides of the question tortured me. I asked -the valet in the afternoon about the woman that had spoken to me. He -shrugged his shoulders, and said she was only a peasant that the general -was tired of, but that she would not leave him, although he beat her. He -beat her!" - -There were tears in my eyes at the intensity with which he spoke, but -Dr. Polnitzski's were dry. He clenched his strong hands as if he were -crushing something. Then he shook himself as if he were awaking, and -threw back his head with a bitter attempt at a laugh. - -"Bah!" he exclaimed, with a shrug. "I have never talked like this in my -life, but it is so many years since I talked at all that I have lost -control of myself. I beg your pardon." - -He crossed the room, sat down by the fire, and began to fill his pipe. - -"But, Dr. Polnitzski," I protested eagerly, "I do not want to force your -confidence, but you cannot stop such a story there." - -He looked at me a moment as if he would not go on. Then his face -darkened. - -"What could the end of such a story be?" he demanded. "Any end must be -ruin and agony. Should I be moved by personal feelings to be false to -everything I held sacred? Should I take my revenge at the price of -professional honor? I said to myself that in time she might come to care -for me, if this man were out of her life. Kindness could do so much with -some women. But could I make such a choice?" - -"No," I said slowly, "you could not do that." - -"Could I restore him to life, then, and have him go on beating that poor -girl and flinging her into the ditch at last?" - -I had no answer. - -"Could I let him live to destroy the patriots whose sworn fellow I was? -Do you think I could ever sleep again without dreaming of their fate? -Could I kill him there in his bed--I, the physician he trusted? Could I -do that?" - -"In God's name," I cried, "what did you do?" - -He regarded me with a look that challenged my very deepest thought. - -"The patriots were spared," he answered. "That was my fee for saving the -life of General Kakonzoff. A year later I paid for having asked that -favor by being exiled myself." - -"And--and--the other?" I asked. - -"She, thank God, is dead." - -For a moment or two we remained motionless and unspeaking. Then I -silently held out my hand to him. I had no words. - - - - -IN THE VIRGINIA ROOM - - -"Childless," was the word which she murmured in her heart, as she -entered the building which had once been the Presidential Mansion of -Jefferson Davis and now is the Confederate Museum. Why the thought of -her estranged daughter flashed upon her as she came to do honor to the -memory of her long dead husband, Mrs. Desborough could not have told, -but so overwhelming was the sadness of her mood that she could hardly -wonder if this bitter memory took advantage of her moment of weakness to -obtrude itself. She set her lips tightly and put it determinedly into -the background. She would not think of the daughter who was lost to her; -to-day and here no thought but should go back in loving homage and -passionate grief to the hero whose name she bore. - -She went at once to the Virginia Room, bowing quickly but kindly to the -custodian of the Museum, and as she pushed open the door of the sad -place, she thought herself alone. The heavy April rain which was -drenching Richmond outside kept visitors away, and the building was -almost deserted. In her yearly visits to this spot, those pilgrimages -which she had made as to a shrine, she had once before had the Virginia -Room to herself, untroubled by the presence of strangers; and now with -a quick sigh of relief she realized how great had been the comfort of -that solitude. To her sensitive nature it was hard to stand before -the memorials of her dead and yet to be aware that strange eyes, eyes -curious if sympathetic, might be reading in her face all the emotions -of her very soul. To preserve the calm necessary before the public had -always seemed to her almost like being untrue to the memory she came to -consecrate; and to-day it was with a swelling sigh of relief that she -threw back her heavy widow's veil with the free, proud motion which -belonged to the women of her race and time--the women bred in the South -before the war. She was an old woman, though not much over sixty, for -pain can age more swiftly than time. The high-bred mien would be hers -as long as life remained, and wonderful was her self-control. Again and -again she had felt unshed tears burn in her eyes like living fire, yet -had been sure that no stranger had had reason to look upon her as more -than a casual visitor to the museum; but to be able to let her grief -have way seemed almost a joy. She felt the quick drops start at the bare -thought. Life had left her no greater blessing than this liberty to weep -undiscovered over the memorials of her dead. - -At the instant a man came from behind one of the cases, so near that she -might have touched him. Instinctively she tried to take her handkerchief -from her chatelaine, and in her confusion detached the bag. It fell at -the feet of the gentleman, who stooped at once to pick it up. As he held -it out, she forced a smile to her fine old face. - -"Thank you," she said; "I--I was very awkward." - -"Not at all," he responded. "Those bags are so easily unhooked." - -The tone struck her almost like a blow. To the disappointment of finding -that she was not alone in this solemn place was added the bitter fact -that the intruder who had come upon her was not of her people. An -impulse of bitterness from the old times of blood and of fire swept over -her like a wave. The room had carried her back as it always did to the -past, and after almost two-score years she for the first time broke -through the stern resolve that had kept her from hostile speech. - -"You are a Northerner!" she exclaimed. - -The words were nothing, but the tone, she knew, was hot with all the -long pent-up bitterness. She felt her cheek flush as, almost before -the words were spoken, she realized what she had said. The stranger, -however, showed no sign of resentment. He smiled, then grew grave again. - -"Yes. Do not Northerners visit the Museum? I supposed nobody came to -Richmond without coming here." - -She was painfully annoyed, and felt her thin cheeks glow as hotly as -if she were still a girl. To be lacking in politeness was sufficiently -humiliating, but to seem rude to one from the North, to fail in living -up to her traditions, was intolerable. - -"I beg your pardon," she forced herself to say. "To come through that -door is to step into the past, and I spoke as I might have when--" - -"When a Yankee in the house of President Davis would have required -explicit explanation," the stranger finished the sentence she knew not -how to complete. - -Even in her discomposure she appreciated both the courtesy which spared -her the embarrassment of being left in the confusion of an unfinished -remark and the adroitness which gave to his reply just the right tone of -lightness. He was evidently a man of the world. Her instinct, not to be -outdone in politeness, least of all by one of her race, made her speak -again. - -"I was rude," she said stiffly. "To-day is an anniversary on which I -always come here, and I forgot myself." - -"Then I must have seemed doubly obtrusive," he returned gravely. - -He was certainly a gentleman. He was well groomed, moreover, with the -appearance of quiet wealth. One of his hands was ungloved, and she noted -appreciatively how finely shaped it was, how white and well kept. The -North had all the wealth now, she reflected involuntarily, while so many -of the descendants of old Southern families were forced to earn their -very bread by occupations unworthy of them. They could not keep their -fine hands, hands that told of blood and breeding for generations, -as could this stranger before her. His attractiveness, his air of -prosperity, were offensive to her because they emphasized the pitiful -poverty of so many of her kin whose forefathers had never known what -want could be. - -"The Museum is open to the public," she replied, with increasing -coldness. - -She expected him to bow and leave her. Not only did he linger, but she -seemed to see in his face a look of pity. Before she could resent this -pity, however, she met his eyes with her own, and the look seemed to her -to be one of sympathy. - -"Will you pardon my saying that I too came here to-day because it is an -anniversary?" - -"An anniversary?" she echoed. "How can an anniversary bring a Northerner -here?" - -"It is n't mine exactly. It is my son's. His mother is a Virginian." - -So highly strung was her mood that she noticed almost with approval that -he had said "is" and not "was." He had at least not deprived his wife of -her birthright as a daughter of the sacred soil. She began to be aware -of a growing excitement. She could hardly have heard unmoved any -allusion to a marriage which had taken from the South a woman born to -its traditions and to its sorrows. She felt a fresh impulse of anger -against this prosperous son of the North who had carried away from a -Virginia mother a daughter as she had been robbed of hers. The cruel -pang of crushed motherhood which ached within her at the remembrance -of her own child, the child she had herself cast off because of her -marriage, was so fierce that for a moment she could not command her -voice. She could not shape the question which was in her heart, but she -felt that with her eyes she all but commanded the stranger to tell her -more. - -"We live in the North," he explained, "but she has long promised the -boy that when he was eight he should see the relics of his Virginian -grandfather which are in the museum here. Unfortunately, when the time -came, she was not well enough to come with him; and as she wished him to -be here on this especial day, I have brought him." - -The Southern woman felt her heart beating tumultuously, and it was -almost as if another spoke when she said in a manner entirely -conventional:-- - -"I trust that her illness is not serious." - -"If it were, I should not be here myself," he answered. - -She collected her strength, which seemed to be leaving her, and forced -herself to look around the room. She could not have told what she -expected, or whether she most hoped or feared what she might see. - -"But your son?" she asked. - -The man's face changed subtly. - -"My father," he replied, "was an officer in the Union army. I wished to -see this place first, to be prepared for Desborough's questions. It is -n't easy to answer the questions of a clever lad whose two grandfathers -have been killed in the same battle, fighting on opposite sides." - -The name struck her like a blow. She leaned for support against the -corner of the nearest case, and fixed her gaze on the pathetic coat of -General Lee behind the glass which showed her as a faint wraith the -reflection of her own face. Desborough had been her husband's name, and -this the anniversary of his death; she felt as if the dead had arisen to -confront her, and that some imperative call in the blood insistently -responded. Yet she could not believe that her son-in-law was before -her, regarding her with that straightforward, appealingly honest gaze; -she said to herself that the name was merely a coincidence, that every -day in the year was the anniversary of the death of some Virginian hero, -and that this could not be her daughter's husband. - -"Have you decided what to tell your son?" she heard her voice, strange -and far off, asking amid the thrilling quiet of the room. - -The stranger regarded her as if struck by the note of challenge in her -tone. His serious eyes seemed to her to be endeavoring to probe her own -in search of the cause of her sharpness. - -"I can do no more," was his answer, "than to tell him what I have always -told him--the truth, as far as I can see it." - -"And the truth which you can tell him here--here, before the sacred -relics of our dead, the sacred memorials of our Lost Cause--" - -She could not go on, but stopped suddenly that he might not hear her -voice break. - -"He has never been taught anything but that the men of the South fought -for what they believed, and that no man can do a nobler thing than to -give his life for his faith." - -She became suddenly and illogically sure that she was talking to her -son-in-law, although the ground of her conviction was no other than the -one she had just before rejected. The whole thing flashed upon her mind -as perfectly simple. Her daughter knew that on this day she was always -to be found here, and had meant to meet her, with the little son bearing -his grandfather's name. The question now was whether the husband knew. -Something in his air, something half-propitiatory, something certainly -beyond the ordinary deference offered to a lady who is a stranger, -gave her a vague distrust. She was not untouched by the desire for -reconciliation, but she had again and again resisted that before, -and least of all could she tolerate the idea of being tricked. The -possibility that her son-in-law might be feigning ignorance to work the -more surely upon her sympathy angered her. - -"Do you know who I am?" she demanded abruptly. - -"I beg your pardon," he answered, evidently surprised, "but I have never -been in Richmond before. If you are well known here, or are the wife of -some man famous in the South, I am too completely a stranger to -recognize you." - -"Yet you seemed to wish to explain yourself to me. Why?" - -"I don't know," he began hesitatingly, searching her face with his -straightforward gray eyes. Then he flushed slightly, and broke out -with new feeling: "Yes; I do know. You came just as I was going away -because I could not endure the sadness of it; when every one of these -cases seemed to me to drip with blood and tears. That sounds to you -extravagant, but the whole thing came over me so tremendously that I -could n't bear it." - -"I do not understand," she returned tremulously. "You have such -collections at the North, I suppose." - -"But here it came over me that to all the sorrow of loss was added the -bitterness of defeat. I felt that no Southerner could come here without -feeling that all the agony this commemorates had been in vain; and the -pity of it took me by the throat so that when I spoke to you, you were a -sort of impersonation of the South--of the Southern women; and I wanted -to ask for pardon." - -She drew a deep breath and raised her head proudly. - -"Not for the war," he said quickly, with a gesture which seemed to wave -aside her pride and showed her how well he had understood her triumph at -the admission seemingly implied in his words. "I am a Northern man, and -I believe with my whole soul that the North was right. I believe in the -cause for which my father died. Only I see now that if he had lived in -the South, the same spirit would have carried him into the Confederate -army." - -"But for what should you ask pardon, if the North was in the right?" - -"For myself; for not understanding--for being so dull all these years -that I have lived with a wife faithful in her heart to the South and too -loyal to me to speak. We in the North have forgiven, and we think that -the South should forget. It has come over me to-day how easy it is for -the conquerors to forgive and how hard that must be for the conquered." - -"You do not understand even now," she said, her voice low with feeling. -"Because we are conquered we can forgive; but we should be less than -human to forget." - -The room was very still for a little, and then, following out her -thought, she said as if in wonder: "And you, a Northerner, have felt -all this!" - -He shook his head, with a little smile. - -"It is perhaps too much to ask," returned he, "that you Southern women -should realize that even a Northerner is still human." - -"Yes, yes; but to feel our suffering, to see--" - -"It has always been facing me, I understand now, in my wife's eyes--the -immeasurable pathos of a people beaten in a struggle they felt to be -right; but she had been so happy otherwise, and she never spoke of it." - -"In the heart of every Southern woman," she said solemnly, though now -without bitterness, "is always the anguish of our Lost Cause. We cover -the surface, we accept, and God knows we have been patient; but each of -us has deep down a sense of the blood that was poured out in vain, of -the agony of the men we loved, of how they were humiliated--humiliated, -and of the great cause of liberty lost--lost!" - -For long, bitter years she had not spoken even to her nearest friends as -she was talking to this stranger, this Northerner. The consciousness of -this brought her back to the remembrance that he was the husband of her -daughter. - -"Has your wife no relatives in the South who might have made you -understand how we Southern women must feel?" she asked. - -He grew instantly colder. - -"I have never seen her Southern relatives." - -"Pardon the curiosity of an old woman," she went on, watching him -keenly; "may I ask why?" - -"My wife's mother did not choose to know the Yankee her daughter -married." - -"And you?" - -"I did not choose to force an acquaintance or to be known on -sufferance," he answered crisply. "I was aware of no wrong, and I did -not choose to ask to be forgiven for being a Northerner." - -She knew that in her heart she was already accepting this strong, fine -man, alien as he was to all the traditions of her life, and she was not -ill pleased at his pride. - -"But have you ever considered what it must have cost the mother to give -up her daughter?" - -"Why need she have given her up? Marriages between the North and the -South have been common enough without any family breach." - -She was utterly sure that he knew neither to whom he was talking nor -what had been the real cause of her separation from her daughter. She -experienced a sort of wild inner exultation that at last had come the -moment when she might justify herself; when she might tell the whole -dreadful story which had been as eating poison in her veins. She raised -her head proudly, and looked at him with her whole soul in her eyes. - -"If you have patience to listen," she said, feeling her cheeks warm, -"and will pardon my being personal, I should like to tell you what has -happened to me. My husband was a colonel in the Confederate army. We -were married when I was seventeen, in a brief furlough he won by being -wounded at the battle of the Wilderness. I saw him, in the four years of -the war before he fell at Five Forks, less than a dozen times, and -always for the briefest visits--poor scraps of fearful happiness torn -out of long stretches of agony. My daughter, my only child, was born -after her father's death. Our fortune had gone to the Cause. My father -and my husband both refused to invest money abroad. They considered it -disloyal, and they put everything into Confederate securities even after -they felt sure they should get nothing back. They were too loyal to -withhold anything when the country was in deadly peril." - -She paused, but he did not speak, and with swelling breast and parching -throat she went on:-- - -"At Five Forks my husband was killed in a hand-to-hand fight with a -Northern officer. He struck his enemy down after he had received his own -death-wound. I pray God he did not know the day was lost. He had gone -through so much, I hope that was spared him. On the other side of death -he must have found some comfort to help him bear it. God must have had -some comfort for our poor boys when he permitted the cause of liberty to -be lost." - -She pressed her clenched hand against her bosom, and as she did so her -eyes met those of her companion. She felt the sympathy of his look, but -something recalled her to the sense that she was speaking to one from -the North. - -"It is not the cause of liberty to you," she said. "I have forgotten -again. I have not spoken of all this for so long. I have not dared; but -to-day--to-day I must speak, and you must forgive me if I use the old -language." - -He dropped his glance as if he felt it an intrusion to see her bitter -emotion, and said softly: "I think I understand. You need not -apologize." - -"After the war," she went on hurriedly and abruptly, "I lived for my -daughter. I worked for her. She--she was like her father." - -She choked, but regained the appearance of composure by a mighty effort. - -"When she was a woman--she was still a child to me; over twenty, but I -was not twice her age--she went North, and there she fell in love. She -wrote me that she was to marry a Northerner, and when she added his -name--it was the son of the man who killed her father." - -"It is not possible!" the other exclaimed. "You imagined it. Such -things happen in melodramas--" - -She put up her hand and arrested his words. - -"This happened not in a melodrama, but in a tragedy--in my life," she -said. "I need not go into details. She married him, and I have never -seen her since." - -"Did he know?" - -"No. It was my wedding gift to my daughter--that I kept her secret. That -was all I had strength to do. You think I was an unnatural mother, of -course; but--" - -She saw that his eyes were moist as he raised them in answering. - -"I should have said so yesterday without any hesitation; to-day--" - -"To-day?" she echoed eagerly, as he paused. - -"To-day," he answered, letting his glance sweep over the pathetic -memorials so thick about them--"to-day at least I understand, and I do -not wonder." - -She looked at him with all her heart in her eyes, trying to read his -most hidden feeling. Then she touched his arm lightly with the tips of -her slender black-gloved fingers. - -"Come," she said. - -She led him across the room, and pointed to a colonel's sash and pistols -which lay in one of the cases under a faded card. - -"Those were my husband's." - -"Those!" he cried. "You Louise's mother? It is impossible!" - -"It may be impossible; but, as I said of the other thing, it is true." - -"The other thing?" he repeated. "What--do you mean the thing you -said--that my father and he-- That cannot be true. I should surely have -known!" - -"It is true," she insisted. "At the moment it happened they were -surrounded by our soldiers, and his own men probably did not realize -just what happened. But I--I know every minute of that fight! One of my -husband's staff had been at West Point with them both, and he told me. -He saw it, and tried to come between them. Your wife married you, -knowing you to be the son of the man who killed her father." - -The Northerner passed his hand across his forehead as if to wipe away -the confusion of his mind. His eyes were cast down, but she saw that -their lids were wet. - -"Poor Louise!" he murmured, seemingly rather to himself than to her; -"how she must have suffered over that secret. Poor Louise!" - -"You come here," Mrs. Desborough went on, feeling herself choke at his -words, but determined not to give way to the warmer impulse of her -heart, "and even you are moved by these sacred relics. What do you think -they are to us?" - -She was half conscious that she was appealing to the memorials around -her to strengthen her in her purpose not to yield, not to make peace -with the son of the man who had slain her husband, her hero, her love; -she felt that in harboring for an instant such an impulse she was untrue -to the Cause which, though lost, was for her forever living with the -deathless devotion of love and anguish. - -"These relics do move me," her son-in-law said gently. "They move me so -deeply that they seem to me wrong. I confess that I was thinking, before -you came in, that if I were a Southerner, with the traditions of the -South behind me, and the bitter sense of failure to embitter me, they -would stir me to madness; that I should feel it impossible ever to be -loyal to anything but the South. The war is over. The South at last is -understood. She is honored for the incredible bravery with which, under -crushing odds, she fought for her conviction. Why prolong the inevitable -pain? Why gather these relics to nourish a feeling absolutely -untrue--the feeling that the Union is less your country than it is -ours?" - -"Because it is just to the dead," she answered swiftly. "Because it -is only justice that we keep in remembrance how true they were, how -gallant, how brave, how noble, and--O God!--that we make some poor -record of what we of the South have suffered!" - -He shook his head and sighed. She saw the tears in his eyes and did not -attempt to hide her own. - -"Would you have it forgotten," she demanded passionately, "that the -grandfather of your son--the father of your wife--was one of God's -noblemen? Would you have him remembered only as a beaten rebel? I tell -you that if we had not gathered these memorials, every clod that was wet -with their blood would cry out against us! In the North you call these -men rebels; there is no battlefield in the South where the very rustle -of the grass does not whisper over their graves that they were patriots -and heroes! And this, poor though it be"--and she waved her hand to the -cases around them--"is the best memorial we can give them." - -He made a step forward, and held out both his hands impulsively. She did -not take them, and they dropped again. He hesitated, and then drew back. - -"It must be as it is," he said sadly. "Even if I blamed you women of -the South, I could not say so here. Only," he added, his voice falling, -"can you forget that the women of the North suffered too? I grew up -in the shadow of a grief so great that it sapped the very life of my -mother, and in the end killed her. Do you think I could visit that -upon the innocent head of Louise?--I did not mean, though, to speak of -myself, now that I know who you are. I will not intrude on you; but my -little son, with your husband's name and his mother's eyes, is certainly -guiltless. I will not come with him, but may I not send him with my man -to see you this afternoon, so that I may say to Louise that you have -kissed him and given him your blessing? Sorrow has taken away his other -grandmother." - -It seemed to her that she could not endure the speaking of one syllable -more. Her whole body trembled, and she raised her hands in an impulsive -gesture which implored him to be silent. All the old mother-love for -Louise, the passionate crying of her lonely heart for this unseen -grandson with the blood of her dead husband warm in his veins, the -grief of black years and fidelity to old ideals, warred within her, and -tore her like wolves. She cast a glance around as if to find some way by -which she could flee from this position which it was too terrible to -face. Then she saw her companion look at her with infinite pity and -sadness. - -"Then," he said, "I can only say good-by." - -But she sprang forward as if she burst from chains, and threw herself -upon his breast, the agony of the long, bitter past gushing in a torrent -of hot tears. - -"Oh, my son! my son!" she sobbed. - - - - - The Riverside Press - CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS - U . S . A - - - - -THE OLD PEABODY PEW - - By KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN - - -"A characteristically bright tale of a New England life full of -sentiment and humor."--_Outlook, N. Y._ - -"The cheeriest of the stories by this gifted author."--_Philadelphia -Telegraph._ - -"Mrs. Wiggin has never penned a more truthful or delightful idyl of New -England life."--_Boston Herald._ - -"A delightful mingling of humor and sentiment and pathos."--_N. Y. -Herald._ - -"A story that compels laughter as well as tears and makes us think -better of the workaday world in which we live."--_Budget and Beacon._ - - -With border designs and full-page illustrations in color, $1.50. - - HOUGHTON - MIFFLIN - & COMPANY - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON - AND - NEW YORK - - - - -THE PRINCESS POURQUOI - - By MARGARET SHERWOOD - - -Five charming fairy tales. "They all point a moral that is never too -apparently on the surface and they all hold our undiverted attention -through their fluent writing, their delicate fantasy, and their -exquisite simplicity."--_Boston Transcript._ - -"A whimsical view of the progress of woman ... wise and witty."--_Kansas -City Star._ - -"Told with much humor and they satirize many foibles of -mankind."--_Boston Budget and Beacon._ - -"Although the full significance of these delicate fancies will be -grasped only by older people, they have enough of the fairy spirit to -prove enjoyable to children also."--_Baltimore News._ - - - With illustrations, $1.50. - - HOUGHTON - MIFFLIN - & COMPANY - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON - AND - NEW YORK - - - - -MONTLIVET - - By ALICE PRESCOTT SMITH - - -"The best American historical novel by a woman since 'To Have and To -Hold.'" - _New York World._ - -"In dramatic force and in power and reality of dialogue this story is -one of the best of the year." - _San Francisco Chronicle._ - -"The reader thrills under the spell of a well-sustained and adventurous -tale." - _Detroit Free Press._ - -"The story of 'Montlivet' is as simple as it is absorbingly -interesting--it is of a quality to rise above fads and fashions by -virtue of its own power." - _Chicago Journal._ - - - With frontispiece in colors, $1.50. - - HOUGHTON - MIFFLIN - & COMPANY - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON - AND - NEW YORK - - - - -THE WORLD'S WARRANT - - By NORAH DAVIS - - -"Miss Davis has evolved a plot of unusual ingenuity and dotted it with -situations that are striking and unexpected." - _The Times, New York._ - -"The novel is written with a clear understanding of the people where the -scenes are laid, and the descriptive passages show equal knowledge of -the country and its outward aspects. It is realistic, but never dull, -for it has a keenness and brightness of text that is constantly -enticing." - _Boston Budget._ - -"Miss Davis deserves to be watched. She has power, style, convincing -earnestness, and, more than all, the trick of creating atmosphere." - _New Orleans Picayune._ - -"'The World's Warrant' is certainly the most unique, interesting, and -original love story of the season. The story is bold in execution, and -really exceptional in strength and power. It would be impossible not to -read it with keen interest." - _St. Paul Pioneer Press._ - - - With frontispiece in color by F. C. YOHN - Crown 8vo, $1.50 - - HOUGHTON - MIFFLIN - & COMPANY - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON - AND - NEW YORK - - - - -Transcriber's Note - -Double chapter headers and blank pages between chapters were removed. -One missing opening quote mark was added. Otherwise the original was -preserved, including inconsistent spelling of the dialect. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Intoxicated Ghost, by Arlo Bates - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INTOXICATED GHOST *** - -***** This file should be named 40312-8.txt or 40312-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/3/1/40312/ - -Produced by sp1nd, eagkw and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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