the parasite a story by a. conan doyle author of "the refugees" "micah clarke" etc. 1894 the parasite i march 24. the spring is fairly with us now. outside my laboratory window the great chestnut-tree is all covered with the big, glutinous, gummy buds, some of which have already begun to break into little green shuttlecocks. as you walk down the lanes you are conscious of the rich, silent forces of nature working all around you. the wet earth smells fruitful and luscious. green shoots are peeping out everywhere. the twigs are stiff with their sap; and the moist, heavy english air is laden with a faintly resinous perfume. buds in the hedges, lambs beneath them--everywhere the work of reproduction going forward! i can see it without, and i can feel it within. we also have our spring when the little arterioles dilate, the lymph flows in a brisker stream, the glands work harder, winnowing and straining. every year nature readjusts the whole machine. i can feel the ferment in my blood at this very moment, and as the cool sunshine pours through my window i could dance about in it like a gnat. so i should, only that charles sadler would rush upstairs to know what was the matter. besides, i must remember that i am professor gilroy. an old professor may afford to be natural, but when fortune has given one of the first chairs in the university to a man of four-and-thirty he must try and act the part consistently. what a fellow wilson is! if i could only throw the same enthusiasm into physiology that he does into psychology, i should become a claude bernard at the least. his whole life and soul and energy work to one end. he drops to sleep collating his results of the past day, and he wakes to plan his researches for the coming one. and yet, outside the narrow circle who follow his proceedings, he gets so little credit for it. physiology is a recognized science. if i add even a brick to the edifice, every one sees and applauds it. but wilson is trying to dig the foundations for a science of the future. his work is underground and does not show. yet he goes on uncomplainingly, corresponding with a hundred semi-maniacs in the hope of finding one reliable witness, sifting a hundred lies on the chance of gaining one little speck of truth, collating old books, devouring new ones, experimenting, lecturing, trying to light up in others the fiery interest which is consuming him. i am filled with wonder and admiration when i think of him, and yet, when he asks me to associate myself with his researches, i am compelled to tell him that, in their present state, they offer little attraction to a man who is devoted to exact science. if he could show me something positive and objective, i might then be tempted to approach the question from its physiological side. so long as half his subjects are tainted with charlatanerie and the other half with hysteria we physiologists must content ourselves with the body and leave the mind to our descendants. no doubt i am a materialist. agatha says that i am a rank one. i tell her that is an excellent reason for shortening our engagement, since i am in such urgent need of her spirituality. and yet i may claim to be a curious example of the effect of education upon temperament, for by nature i am, unless i deceive myself, a highly psychic man. i was a nervous, sensitive boy, a dreamer, a somnambulist, full of impressions and intuitions. my black hair, my dark eyes, my thin, olive face, my tapering fingers, are all characteristic of my real temperament, and cause experts like wilson to claim me as their own. but my brain is soaked with exact knowledge. i have trained myself to deal only with fact and with proof. surmise and fancy have no place in my scheme of thought. show me what i can see with my microscope, cut with my scalpel, weigh in my balance, and i will devote a lifetime to its investigation. but when you ask me to study feelings, impressions, suggestions, you ask me to do what is distasteful and even demoralizing. a departure from pure reason affects me like an evil smell or a musical discord. which is a very sufficient reason why i am a little loath to go to professor wilson's tonight. still i feel that i could hardly get out of the invitation without positive rudeness; and, now that mrs. marden and agatha are going, of course i would not if i could. but i had rather meet them anywhere else. i know that wilson would draw me into this nebulous semi-science of his if he could. in his enthusiasm he is perfectly impervious to hints or remonstrances. nothing short of a positive quarrel will make him realize my aversion to the whole business. i have no doubt that he has some new mesmerist or clairvoyant or medium or trickster of some sort whom he is going to exhibit to us, for even his entertainments bear upon his hobby. well, it will be a treat for agatha, at any rate. she is interested in it, as woman usually is in whatever is vague and mystical and indefinite. 10.50 p. m. this diary-keeping of mine is, i fancy, the outcome of that scientific habit of mind about which i wrote this morning. i like to register impressions while they are fresh. once a day at least i endeavor to define my own mental position. it is a useful piece of self-analysis, and has, i fancy, a steadying effect upon the character. frankly, i must confess that my own needs what stiffening i can give it. i fear that, after all, much of my neurotic temperament survives, and that i am far from that cool, calm precision which characterizes murdoch or pratt-haldane. otherwise, why should the tomfoolery which i have witnessed this evening have set my nerves thrilling so that even now i am all unstrung? my only comfort is that neither wilson nor miss penclosa nor even agatha could have possibly known my weakness. and what in the world was there to excite me? nothing, or so little that it will seem ludicrous when i set it down. the mardens got to wilson's before me. in fact, i was one of the last to arrive and found the room crowded. i had hardly time to say a word to mrs. marden and to agatha, who was looking charming in white and pink, with glittering wheat-ears in her hair, when wilson came twitching at my sleeve. "you want something positive, gilroy," said he, drawing me apart into a corner. "my dear fellow, i have a phenomenon--a phenomenon!" i should have been more impressed had i not heard the same before. his sanguine spirit turns every fire-fly into a star. "no possible question about the bona fides this time," said he, in answer, perhaps, to some little gleam of amusement in my eyes. "my wife has known her for many years. they both come from trinidad, you know. miss penclosa has only been in england a month or two, and knows no one outside the university circle, but i assure you that the things she has told us suffice in themselves to establish clairvoyance upon an absolutely scientific basis. there is nothing like her, amateur or professional. come and be introduced!" i like none of these mystery-mongers, but the amateur least of all. with the paid performer you may pounce upon him and expose him the instant that you have seen through his trick. he is there to deceive you, and you are there to find him out. but what are you to do with the friend of your host's wife? are you to turn on a light suddenly and expose her slapping a surreptitious banjo? or are you to hurl cochineal over her evening frock when she steals round with her phosphorus bottle and her supernatural platitude? there would be a scene, and you would be looked upon as a brute. so you have your choice of being that or a dupe. i was in no very good humor as i followed wilson to the lady. any one less like my idea of a west indian could not be imagined. she was a small, frail creature, well over forty, i should say, with a pale, peaky face, and hair of a very light shade of chestnut. her presence was insignificant and her manner retiring. in any group of ten women she would have been the last whom one would have picked out. her eyes were perhaps her most remarkable, and also, i am compelled to say, her least pleasant, feature. they were gray in color,--gray with a shade of green,--and their expression struck me as being decidedly furtive. i wonder if furtive is the word, or should i have said fierce? on second thoughts, feline would have expressed it better. a crutch leaning against the wall told me what was painfully evident when she rose: that one of her legs was crippled. so i was introduced to miss penclosa, and it did not escape me that as my name was mentioned she glanced across at agatha. wilson had evidently been talking. and presently, no doubt, thought i, she will inform me by occult means that i am engaged to a young lady with wheat-ears in her hair. i wondered how much more wilson had been telling her about me. "professor gilroy is a terrible sceptic," said he; "i hope, miss penclosa, that you will be able to convert him." she looked keenly up at me. "professor gilroy is quite right to be sceptical if he has not seen any thing convincing," said she. "i should have thought," she added, "that you would yourself have been an excellent subject." "for what, may i ask?" said i. "well, for mesmerism, for example." "my experience has been that mesmerists go for their subjects to those who are mentally unsound. all their results are vitiated, as it seems to me, by the fact that they are dealing with abnormal organisms." "which of these ladies would you say possessed a normal organism?" she asked. "i should like you to select the one who seems to you to have the best balanced mind. should we say the girl in pink and white?--miss agatha marden, i think the name is." "yes, i should attach weight to any results from her." "i have never tried how far she is impressionable. of course some people respond much more rapidly than others. may i ask how far your scepticism extends? i suppose that you admit the mesmeric sleep and the power of suggestion." "i admit nothing, miss penclosa." "dear me, i thought science had got further than that. of course i know nothing about the scientific side of it. i only know what i can do. you see the girl in red, for example, over near the japanese jar. i shall will that she come across to us." she bent forward as she spoke and dropped her fan upon the floor. the girl whisked round and came straight toward us, with an enquiring look upon her face, as if some one had called her. "what do you think of that, gilroy?" cried wilson, in a kind of ecstasy. i did not dare to tell him what i thought of it. to me it was the most barefaced, shameless piece of imposture that i had ever witnessed. the collusion and the signal had really been too obvious. "professor gilroy is not satisfied," said she, glancing up at me with her strange little eyes. "my poor fan is to get the credit of that experiment. well, we must try something else. miss marden, would you have any objection to my putting you off?" "oh, i should love it!" cried agatha. by this time all the company had gathered round us in a circle, the shirt-fronted men, and the white-throated women, some awed, some critical, as though it were something between a religious ceremony and a conjurer's entertainment. a red velvet arm-chair had been pushed into the centre, and agatha lay back in it, a little flushed and trembling slightly from excitement. i could see it from the vibration of the wheat-ears. miss penclosa rose from her seat and stood over her, leaning upon her crutch. and there was a change in the woman. she no longer seemed small or insignificant. twenty years were gone from her age. her eyes were shining, a tinge of color had come into her sallow cheeks, her whole figure had expanded. so i have seen a dull-eyed, listless lad change in an instant into briskness and life when given a task of which he felt himself master. she looked down at agatha with an expression which i resented from the bottom of my soul--the expression with which a roman empress might have looked at her kneeling slave. then with a quick, commanding gesture she tossed up her arms and swept them slowly down in front of her. i was watching agatha narrowly. during three passes she seemed to be simply amused. at the fourth i observed a slight glazing of her eyes, accompanied by some dilation of her pupils. at the sixth there was a momentary rigor. at the seventh her lids began to droop. at the tenth her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slower and fuller than usual. i tried as i watched to preserve my scientific calm, but a foolish, causeless agitation convulsed me. i trust that i hid it, but i felt as a child feels in the dark. i could not have believed that i was still open to such weakness. "she is in the trance," said miss penclosa. "she is sleeping!" i cried. "wake her, then!" i pulled her by the arm and shouted in her ear. she might have been dead for all the impression that i could make. her body was there on the velvet chair. her organs were acting--her heart, her lungs. but her soul! it had slipped from beyond our ken. whither had it gone? what power had dispossessed it? i was puzzled and disconcerted. "so much for the mesmeric sleep," said miss penclosa. "as regards suggestion, whatever i may suggest miss marden will infallibly do, whether it be now or after she has awakened from her trance. do you demand proof of it?" "certainly," said i. "you shall have it." i saw a smile pass over her face, as though an amusing thought had struck her. she stooped and whispered earnestly into her subject's ear. agatha, who had been so deaf to me, nodded her head as she listened. "awake!" cried miss penclosa, with a sharp tap of her crutch upon the floor. the eyes opened, the glazing cleared slowly away, and the soul looked out once more after its strange eclipse. we went away early. agatha was none the worse for her strange excursion, but i was nervous and unstrung, unable to listen to or answer the stream of comments which wilson was pouring out for my benefit. as i bade her good-night miss penclosa slipped a piece of paper into my hand. "pray forgive me," said she, "if i take means to overcome your scepticism. open this note at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. it is a little private test." i can't imagine what she means, but there is the note, and it shall be opened as she directs. my head is aching, and i have written enough for to-night. to-morrow i dare say that what seems so inexplicable will take quite another complexion. i shall not surrender my convictions without a struggle. march 25. i am amazed, confounded. it is clear that i must reconsider my opinion upon this matter. but first let me place on record what has occurred. i had finished breakfast, and was looking over some diagrams with which my lecture is to be illustrated, when my housekeeper entered to tell me that agatha was in my study and wished to see me immediately. i glanced at the clock and saw with sun rise that it was only half-past nine. when i entered the room, she was standing on the hearth-rug facing me. something in her pose chilled me and checked the words which were rising to my lips. her veil was half down, but i could see that she was pale and that her expression was constrained. "austin," she said, "i have come to tell you that our engagement is at an end." i staggered. i believe that i literally did stagger. i know that i found myself leaning against the bookcase for support. "but--but----" i stammered. "this is very sudden, agatha." "yes, austin, i have come here to tell you that our engagement is at an end." "but surely," i cried, "you will give me some reason! this is unlike you, agatha. tell me how i have been unfortunate enough to offend you." "it is all over, austin." "but why? you must be under some delusion, agatha. perhaps you have been told some falsehood about me. or you may have misunderstood something that i have said to you. only let me know what it is, and a word may set it all right." "we must consider it all at an end." "but you left me last night without a hint at any disagreement. what could have occurred in the interval to change you so? it must have been something that happened last night. you have been thinking it over and you have disapproved of my conduct. was it the mesmerism? did you blame me for letting that woman exercise her power over you? you know that at the least sign i should have interfered." "it is useless, austin. all is over:" her voice was cold and measured; her manner strangely formal and hard. it seemed to me that she was absolutely resolved not to be drawn into any argument or explanation. as for me, i was shaking with agitation, and i turned my face aside, so ashamed was i that she should see my want of control. "you must know what this means to me!" i cried. "it is the blasting of all my hopes and the ruin of my life! you surely will not inflict such a punishment upon me unheard. you will let me know what is the matter. consider how impossible it would be for me, under any circumstances, to treat you so. for god's sake, agatha, let me know what i have done!" she walked past me without a word and opened the door. "it is quite useless, austin," said she. "you must consider our engagement at an end." an instant later she was gone, and, before i could recover myself sufficiently to follow her, i heard the hall-door close behind her. i rushed into my room to change my coat, with the idea of hurrying round to mrs. marden's to learn from her what the cause of my misfortune might be. so shaken was i that i could hardly lace my boots. never shall i forget those horrible ten minutes. i had just pulled on my overcoat when the clock upon the mantel-piece struck ten. ten! i associated the idea with miss penclosa's note. it was lying before me on the table, and i tore it open. it was scribbled in pencil in a peculiarly angular handwriting. "my dear professor gilroy [it said]: pray excuse the personal nature of the test which i am giving you. professor wilson happened to mention the relations between you and my subject of this evening, and it struck me that nothing could be more convincing to you than if i were to suggest to miss marden that she should call upon you at half-past nine to-morrow morning and suspend your engagement for half an hour or so. science is so exacting that it is difficult to give a satisfying test, but i am convinced that this at least will be an action which she would be most unlikely to do of her own free will. forget any thing that she may have said, as she has really nothing whatever to do with it, and will certainly not recollect any thing about it. i write this note to shorten your anxiety, and to beg you to forgive me for the momentary unhappiness which my suggestion must have caused you. "yours faithfully; "helen penclosa. really, when i had read the note, i was too relieved to be angry. it was a liberty. certainly it was a very great liberty indeed on the part of a lady whom i had only met once. but, after all, i had challenged her by my scepticism. it may have been, as she said, a little difficult to devise a test which would satisfy me. and she had done that. there could be no question at all upon the point. for me hypnotic suggestion was finally established. it took its place from now onward as one of the facts of life. that agatha, who of all women of my acquaintance has the best balanced mind, had been reduced to a condition of automatism appeared to be certain. a person at a distance had worked her as an engineer on the shore might guide a brennan torpedo. a second soul had stepped in, as it were, had pushed her own aside, and had seized her nervous mechanism, saying: "i will work this for half an hour." and agatha must have been unconscious as she came and as she returned. could she make her way in safety through the streets in such a state? i put on my hat and hurried round to see if all was well with her. yes. she was at home. i was shown into the drawing-room and found her sitting with a book upon her lap. "you are an early visitor, austin," said she, smiling. "and you have been an even earlier one," i answered. she looked puzzled. "what do you mean?" she asked. "you have not been out to-day?" "no, certainly not." "agatha," said i seriously, "would you mind telling me exactly what you have done this morning?" she laughed at my earnestness. "you've got on your professional look, austin. see what comes of being engaged to a man of science. however, i will tell you, though i can't imagine what you want to know for. i got up at eight. i breakfasted at half-past. i came into this room at ten minutes past nine and began to read the 'memoirs of mme. de remusat.' in a few minutes i did the french lady the bad compliment of dropping to sleep over her pages, and i did you, sir, the very flattering one of dreaming about you. it is only a few minutes since i woke up." "and found yourself where you had been before?" "why, where else should i find myself?" "would you mind telling me, agatha, what it was that you dreamed about me? it really is not mere curiosity on my part." "i merely had a vague impression that you came into it. i cannot recall any thing definite." "if you have not been out to-day, agatha, how is it that your shoes are dusty?" a pained look came over her face. "really, austin, i do not know what is the matter with you this morning. one would almost think that you doubted my word. if my boots are dusty, it must be, of course, that i have put on a pair which the maid had not cleaned." it was perfectly evident that she knew nothing whatever about the matter, and i reflected that, after all, perhaps it was better that i should not enlighten her. it might frighten her, and could serve no good purpose that i could see. i said no more about it, therefore, and left shortly afterward to give my lecture. but i am immensely impressed. my horizon of scientific possibilities has suddenly been enormously extended. i no longer wonder at wilson's demonic energy and enthusiasm. who would not work hard who had a vast virgin field ready to his hand? why, i have known the novel shape of a nucleolus, or a trifling peculiarity of striped muscular fibre seen under a 300-diameter lens, fill me with exultation. how petty do such researches seem when compared with this one which strikes at the very roots of life and the nature of the soul! i had always looked upon spirit as a product of matter. the brain, i thought, secreted the mind, as the liver does the bile. but how can this be when i see mind working from a distance and playing upon matter as a musician might upon a violin? the body does not give rise to the soul, then, but is rather the rough instrument by which the spirit manifests itself. the windmill does not give rise to the wind, but only indicates it. it was opposed to my whole habit of thought, and yet it was undeniably possible and worthy of investigation. and why should i not investigate it? i see that under yesterday's date i said: "if i could see something positive and objective, i might be tempted to approach it from the physiological aspect." well, i have got my test. i shall be as good as my word. the investigation would, i am sure, be of immense interest. some of my colleagues might look askance at it, for science is full of unreasoning prejudices, but if wilson has the courage of his convictions, i can afford to have it also. i shall go to him to-morrow morning--to him and to miss penclosa. if she can show us so much, it is probable that she can show us more. ii march 26. wilson was, as i had anticipated, very exultant over my conversion, and miss penclosa was also demurely pleased at the result of her experiment. strange what a silent, colorless creature she is save only when she exercises her power! even talking about it gives her color and life. she seems to take a singular interest in me. i cannot help observing how her eyes follow me about the room. we had the most interesting conversation about her own powers. it is just as well to put her views on record, though they cannot, of course, claim any scientific weight. "you are on the very fringe of the subject," said she, when i had expressed wonder at the remarkable instance of suggestion which she had shown me. "i had no direct influence upon miss marden when she came round to you. i was not even thinking of her that morning. what i did was to set her mind as i might set the alarum of a clock so that at the hour named it would go off of its own accord. if six months instead of twelve hours had been suggested, it would have been the same." "and if the suggestion had been to assassinate me?" "she would most inevitably have done so." "but this is a terrible power!" i cried. "it is, as you say, a terrible power," she answered gravely, "and the more you know of it the more terrible will it seem to you." "may i ask," said i, "what you meant when you said that this matter of suggestion is only at the fringe of it? what do you consider the essential?" "i had rather not tell you." i was surprised at the decision of her answer. "you understand," said i, "that it is not out of curiosity i ask, but in the hope that i may find some scientific explanation for the facts with which you furnish me." "frankly, professor gilroy," said she, "i am not at all interested in science, nor do i care whether it can or cannot classify these powers." "but i was hoping----" "ah, that is quite another thing. if you make it a personal matter," said she, with the pleasantest of smiles, "i shall be only too happy to tell you any thing you wish to know. let me see; what was it you asked me? oh, about the further powers. professor wilson won't believe in them, but they are quite true all the same. for example, it is possible for an operator to gain complete command over his subject-presuming that the latter is a good one. without any previous suggestion he may make him do whatever he likes." "without the subject's knowledge?" "that depends. if the force were strongly exerted, he would know no more about it than miss marden did when she came round and frightened you so. or, if the influence was less powerful, he might be conscious of what he was doing, but be quite unable to prevent himself from doing it." "would he have lost his own will power, then?" "it would be over-ridden by another stronger one." "have you ever exercised this power yourself?" "several times." "is your own will so strong, then?" "well, it does not entirely depend upon that. many have strong wills which are not detachable from themselves. the thing is to have the gift of projecting it into another person and superseding his own. i find that the power varies with my own strength and health." "practically, you send your soul into another person's body." "well, you might put it that way." "and what does your own body do?" "it merely feels lethargic." "well, but is there no danger to your own health?" i asked. "there might be a little. you have to be careful never to let your own consciousness absolutely go; otherwise, you might experience some difficulty in finding your way back again. you must always preserve the connection, as it were. i am afraid i express myself very badly, professor gilroy, but of course i don't know how to put these things in a scientific way. i am just giving you my own experiences and my own explanations." well, i read this over now at my leisure, and i marvel at myself! is this austin gilroy, the man who has won his way to the front by his hard reasoning power and by his devotion to fact? here i am gravely retailing the gossip of a woman who tells me how her soul may be projected from her body, and how, while she lies in a lethargy, she can control the actions of people at a distance. do i accept it? certainly not. she must prove and re-prove before i yield a point. but if i am still a sceptic, i have at least ceased to be a scoffer. we are to have a sitting this evening, and she is to try if she can produce any mesmeric effect upon me. if she can, it will make an excellent starting-point for our investigation. no one can accuse me, at any rate, of complicity. if she cannot, we must try and find some subject who will be like caesar's wife. wilson is perfectly impervious. 10 p. m. i believe that i am on the threshold of an epoch-making investigation. to have the power of examining these phenomena from inside--to have an organism which will respond, and at the same time a brain which will appreciate and criticise--that is surely a unique advantage. i am quite sure that wilson would give five years of his life to be as susceptible as i have proved myself to be. there was no one present except wilson and his wife. i was seated with my head leaning back, and miss penclosa, standing in front and a little to the left, used the same long, sweeping strokes as with agatha. at each of them a warm current of air seemed to strike me, and to suffuse a thrill and glow all through me from head to foot. my eyes were fixed upon miss penclosa's face, but as i gazed the features seemed to blur and to fade away. i was conscious only of her own eyes looking down at me, gray, deep, inscrutable. larger they grew and larger, until they changed suddenly into two mountain lakes toward which i seemed to be falling with horrible rapidity. i shuddered, and as i did so some deeper stratum of thought told me that the shudder represented the rigor which i had observed in agatha. an instant later i struck the surface of the lakes, now joined into one, and down i went beneath the water with a fulness in my head and a buzzing in my ears. down i went, down, down, and then with a swoop up again until i could see the light streaming brightly through the green water. i was almost at the surface when the word "awake!" rang through my head, and, with a start, i found myself back in the arm-chair, with miss penclosa leaning on her crutch, and wilson, his note book in his hand, peeping over her shoulder. no heaviness or weariness was left behind. on the contrary, though it is only an hour or so since the experiment, i feel so wakeful that i am more inclined for my study than my bedroom. i see quite a vista of interesting experiments extending before us, and am all impatience to begin upon them. march 27. a blank day, as miss penclosa goes with wilson and his wife to the suttons'. have begun binet and ferre's "animal magnetism." what strange, deep waters these are! results, results, results--and the cause an absolute mystery. it is stimulating to the imagination, but i must be on my guard against that. let us have no inferences nor deductions, and nothing but solid facts. i know that the mesmeric trance is true; i know that mesmeric suggestion is true; i know that i am myself sensitive to this force. that is my present position. i have a large new note-book which shall be devoted entirely to scientific detail. long talk with agatha and mrs. marden in the evening about our marriage. we think that the summer vac. (the beginning of it) would be the best time for the wedding. why should we delay? i grudge even those few months. still, as mrs. marden says, there are a good many things to be arranged. march 28. mesmerized again by miss penclosa. experience much the same as before, save that insensibility came on more quickly. see note-book a for temperature of room, barometric pressure, pulse, and respiration as taken by professor wilson. march 29. mesmerized again. details in note-book a. march 30. sunday, and a blank day. i grudge any interruption of our experiments. at present they merely embrace the physical signs which go with slight, with complete, and with extreme insensibility. afterward we hope to pass on to the phenomena of suggestion and of lucidity. professors have demonstrated these things upon women at nancy and at the salpetriere. it will be more convincing when a woman demonstrates it upon a professor, with a second professor as a witness. and that i should be the subject--i, the sceptic, the materialist! at least, i have shown that my devotion to science is greater than to my own personal consistency. the eating of our own words is the greatest sacrifice which truth ever requires of us. my neighbor, charles sadler, the handsome young demonstrator of anatomy, came in this evening to return a volume of virchow's "archives" which i had lent him. i call him young, but, as a matter of fact, he is a year older than i am. "i understand, gilroy," said he, "that you are being experimented upon by miss penclosa." "well," he went on, when i had acknowledged it, "if i were you, i should not let it go any further. you will think me very impertinent, no doubt, but, none the less, i feel it to be my duty to advise you to have no more to do with her." of course i asked him why. "i am so placed that i cannot enter into particulars as freely as i could wish," said he. "miss penclosa is the friend of my friend, and my position is a delicate one. i can only say this: that i have myself been the subject of some of the woman's experiments, and that they have left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind." he could hardly expect me to be satisfied with that, and i tried hard to get something more definite out of him, but without success. is it conceivable that he could be jealous at my having superseded him? or is he one of those men of science who feel personally injured when facts run counter to their preconceived opinions? he cannot seriously suppose that because he has some vague grievance i am, therefore, to abandon a series of experiments which promise to be so fruitful of results. he appeared to be annoyed at the light way in which i treated his shadowy warnings, and we parted with some little coldness on both sides. march 31. mesmerized by miss p. april 1. mesmerized by miss p. (note-book a.) april 2. mesmerized by miss p. (sphygmographic chart taken by professor wilson.) april 3. it is possible that this course of mesmerism may be a little trying to the general constitution. agatha says that i am thinner and darker under the eyes. i am conscious of a nervous irritability which i had not observed in myself before. the least noise, for example, makes me start, and the stupidity of a student causes me exasperation instead of amusement. agatha wishes me to stop, but i tell her that every course of study is trying, and that one can never attain a result with out paying some price for it. when she sees the sensation which my forthcoming paper on "the relation between mind and matter" may make, she will understand that it is worth a little nervous wear and tear. i should not be surprised if i got my f. r. s. over it. mesmerized again in the evening. the effect is produced more rapidly now, and the subjective visions are less marked. i keep full notes of each sitting. wilson is leaving for town for a week or ten days, but we shall not interrupt the experiments, which depend for their value as much upon my sensations as on his observations. april 4. i must be carefully on my guard. a complication has crept into our experiments which i had not reckoned upon. in my eagerness for scientific facts i have been foolishly blind to the human relations between miss penclosa and myself. i can write here what i would not breathe to a living soul. the unhappy woman appears to have formed an attachment for me. i should not say such a thing, even in the privacy of my own intimate journal, if it had not come to such a pass that it is impossible to ignore it. for some time,--that is, for the last week,--there have been signs which i have brushed aside and refused to think of. her brightness when i come, her dejection when i go, her eagerness that i should come often, the expression of her eyes, the tone of her voice--i tried to think that they meant nothing, and were, perhaps, only her ardent west indian manner. but last night, as i awoke from the mesmeric sleep, i put out my hand, unconsciously, involuntarily, and clasped hers. when i came fully to myself, we were sitting with them locked, she looking up at me with an expectant smile. and the horrible thing was that i felt impelled to say what she expected me to say. what a false wretch i should have been! how i should have loathed myself to-day had i yielded to the temptation of that moment! but, thank god, i was strong enough to spring up and hurry from the room. i was rude, i fear, but i could not, no, i could not, trust myself another moment. i, a gentleman, a man of honor, engaged to one of the sweetest girls in england--and yet in a moment of reasonless passion i nearly professed love for this woman whom i hardly know. she is far older than myself and a cripple. it is monstrous, odious; and yet the impulse was so strong that, had i stayed another minute in her presence, i should have committed myself. what was it? i have to teach others the workings of our organism, and what do i know of it myself? was it the sudden upcropping of some lower stratum in my nature--a brutal primitive instinct suddenly asserting itself? i could almost believe the tales of obsession by evil spirits, so overmastering was the feeling. well, the incident places me in a most unfortunate position. on the one hand, i am very loath to abandon a series of experiments which have already gone so far, and which promise such brilliant results. on the other, if this unhappy woman has conceived a passion for me--- but surely even now i must have made some hideous mistake. she, with her age and her deformity! it is impossible. and then she knew about agatha. she understood how i was placed. she only smiled out of amusement, perhaps, when in my dazed state i seized her hand. it was my half-mesmerized brain which gave it a meaning, and sprang with such bestial swiftness to meet it. i wish i could persuade myself that it was indeed so. on the whole, perhaps, my wisest plan would be to postpone our other experiments until wilson's return. i have written a note to miss penclosa, therefore, making no allusion to last night, but saying that a press of work would cause me to interrupt our sittings for a few days. she has answered, formally enough, to say that if i should change my mind i should find her at home at the usual hour. 10 p. m. well, well, what a thing of straw i am! i am coming to know myself better of late, and the more i know the lower i fall in my own estimation. surely i was not always so weak as this. at four o'clock i should have smiled had any one told me that i should go to miss penclosa's to-night, and yet, at eight, i was at wilson's door as usual. i don't know how it occurred. the influence of habit, i suppose. perhaps there is a mesmeric craze as there is an opium craze, and i am a victim to it. i only know that as i worked in my study i became more and more uneasy. i fidgeted. i worried. i could not concentrate my mind upon the papers in front of me. and then, at last, almost before i knew what i was doing, i seized my hat and hurried round to keep my usual appointment. we had an interesting evening. mrs. wilson was present during most of the time, which prevented the embarrassment which one at least of us must have felt. miss penclosa's manner was quite the same as usual, and she expressed no surprise at my having come in spite of my note. there was nothing in her bearing to show that yesterday's incident had made any impression upon her, and so i am inclined to hope that i overrated it. april 6 (evening). no, no, no, i did not overrate it. i can no longer attempt to conceal from myself that this woman has conceived a passion for me. it is monstrous, but it is true. again, tonight, i awoke from the mesmeric trance to find my hand in hers, and to suffer that odious feeling which urges me to throw away my honor, my career, every thing, for the sake of this creature who, as i can plainly see when i am away from her influence, possesses no single charm upon earth. but when i am near her, i do not feel this. she rouses something in me, something evil, something i had rather not think of. she paralyzes my better nature, too, at the moment when she stimulates my worse. decidedly it is not good for me to be near her. last night was worse than before. instead of flying i actually sat for some time with my hand in hers talking over the most intimate subjects with her. we spoke of agatha, among other things. what could i have been dreaming of? miss penclosa said that she was conventional, and i agreed with her. she spoke once or twice in a disparaging way of her, and i did not protest. what a creature i have been! weak as i have proved myself to be, i am still strong enough to bring this sort of thing to an end. it shall not happen again. i have sense enough to fly when i cannot fight. from this sunday night onward i shall never sit with miss penclosa again. never! let the experiments go, let the research come to an end; any thing is better than facing this monstrous temptation which drags me so low. i have said nothing to miss penclosa, but i shall simply stay away. she can tell the reason without any words of mine. april 7. have stayed away as i said. it is a pity to ruin such an interesting investigation, but it would be a greater pity still to ruin my life, and i know that i cannot trust myself with that woman. 11 p. m. god help me! what is the matter with me? am i going mad? let me try and be calm and reason with myself. first of all i shall set down exactly what occurred. it was nearly eight when i wrote the lines with which this day begins. feeling strangely restless and uneasy, i left my rooms and walked round to spend the evening with agatha and her mother. they both remarked that i was pale and haggard. about nine professor pratt-haldane came in, and we played a game of whist. i tried hard to concentrate my attention upon the cards, but the feeling of restlessness grew and grew until i found it impossible to struggle against it. i simply could not sit still at the table. at last, in the very middle of a hand, i threw my cards down and, with some sort of an incoherent apology about having an appointment, i rushed from the room. as if in a dream i have a vague recollection of tearing through the hall, snatching my hat from the stand, and slamming the door behind me. as in a dream, too, i have the impression of the double line of gas-lamps, and my bespattered boots tell me that i must have run down the middle of the road. it was all misty and strange and unnatural. i came to wilson's house; i saw mrs. wilson and i saw miss penclosa. i hardly recall what we talked about, but i do remember that miss p. shook the head of her crutch at me in a playful way, and accused me of being late and of losing interest in our experiments. there was no mesmerism, but i stayed some time and have only just returned. my brain is quite clear again now, and i can think over what has occurred. it is absurd to suppose that it is merely weakness and force of habit. i tried to explain it in that way the other night, but it will no longer suffice. it is something much deeper and more terrible than that. why, when i was at the mardens' whist-table, i was dragged away as if the noose of a rope had been cast round me. i can no longer disguise it from myself. the woman has her grip upon me. i am in her clutch. but i must keep my head and reason it out and see what is best to be done. but what a blind fool i have been! in my enthusiasm over my research i have walked straight into the pit, although it lay gaping before me. did she not herself warn me? did she not tell me, as i can read in my own journal, that when she has acquired power over a subject she can make him do her will? and she has acquired that power over me. i am for the moment at the beck and call of this creature with the crutch. i must come when she wills it. i must do as she wills. worst of all, i must feel as she wills. i loathe her and fear her, yet, while i am under the spell, she can doubtless make me love her. there is some consolation in the thought, then, that those odious impulses for which i have blamed myself do not really come from me at all. they are all transferred from her, little as i could have guessed it at the time. i feel cleaner and lighter for the thought. april 8. yes, now, in broad daylight, writing coolly and with time for reflection, i am compelled to confirm every thing which i wrote in my journal last night. i am in a horrible position, but, above all, i must not lose my head. i must pit my intellect against her powers. after all, i am no silly puppet, to dance at the end of a string. i have energy, brains, courage. for all her devil's tricks i may beat her yet. may! i must, or what is to become of me? let me try to reason it out! this woman, by her own explanation, can dominate my nervous organism. she can project herself into my body and take command of it. she has a parasite soul; yes, she is a parasite, a monstrous parasite. she creeps into my frame as the hermit crab does into the whelk's shell. i am powerless what can i do? i am dealing with forces of which i know nothing. and i can tell no one of my trouble. they would set me down as a madman. certainly, if it got noised abroad, the university would say that they had no need of a devil-ridden professor. and agatha! no, no, i must face it alone. iii i read over my notes of what the woman said when she spoke about her powers. there is one point which fills me with dismay. she implies that when the influence is slight the subject knows what he is doing, but cannot control himself, whereas when it is strongly exerted he is absolutely unconscious. now, i have always known what i did, though less so last night than on the previous occasions. that seems to mean that she has never yet exerted her full powers upon me. was ever a man so placed before? yes, perhaps there was, and very near me, too. charles sadler must know something of this! his vague words of warning take a meaning now. oh, if i had only listened to him then, before i helped by these repeated sittings to forge the links of the chain which binds me! but i will see him to-day. i will apologize to him for having treated his warning so lightly. i will see if he can advise me. 4 p. m. no, he cannot. i have talked with him, and he showed such surprise at the first words in which i tried to express my unspeakable secret that i went no further. as far as i can gather (by hints and inferences rather than by any statement), his own experience was limited to some words or looks such as i have myself endured. his abandonment of miss penclosa is in itself a sign that he was never really in her toils. oh, if he only knew his escape! he has to thank his phlegmatic saxon temperament for it. i am black and celtic, and this hag's clutch is deep in my nerves. shall i ever get it out? shall i ever be the same man that i was just one short fortnight ago? let me consider what i had better do. i cannot leave the university in the middle of the term. if i were free, my course would be obvious. i should start at once and travel in persia. but would she allow me to start? and could her influence not reach me in persia, and bring me back to within touch of her crutch? i can only find out the limits of this hellish power by my own bitter experience. i will fight and fight and fight--and what can i do more? i know very well that about eight o'clock to-night that craving for her society, that irresistible restlessness, will come upon me. how shall i overcome it? what shall i do? i must make it impossible for me to leave the room. i shall lock the door and throw the key out of the window. but, then, what am i to do in the morning? never mind about the morning. i must at all costs break this chain which holds me. april 9. victory! i have done splendidly! at seven o'clock last night i took a hasty dinner, and then locked myself up in my bedroom and dropped the key into the garden. i chose a cheery novel, and lay in bed for three hours trying to read it, but really in a horrible state of trepidation, expecting every instant that i should become conscious of the impulse. nothing of the sort occurred, however, and i awoke this morning with the feeling that a black nightmare had been lifted off me. perhaps the creature realized what i had done, and understood that it was useless to try to influence me. at any rate, i have beaten her once, and if i can do it once, i can do it again. it was most awkward about the key in the morning. luckily, there was an under-gardener below, and i asked him to throw it up. no doubt he thought i had just dropped it. i will have doors and windows screwed up and six stout men to hold me down in my bed before i will surrender myself to be hag-ridden in this way. i had a note from mrs. marden this afternoon asking me to go round and see her. i intended to do so in any case, but had not excepted to find bad news waiting for me. it seems that the armstrongs, from whom agatha has expectations, are due home from adelaide in the aurora, and that they have written to mrs. marden and her to meet them in town. they will probably be away for a month or six weeks, and, as the aurora is due on wednesday, they must go at once--to-morrow, if they are ready in time. my consolation is that when we meet again there will be no more parting between agatha and me. "i want you to do one thing, agatha," said i, when we were alone together. "if you should happen to meet miss penclosa, either in town or here, you must promise me never again to allow her to mesmerize you." agatha opened her eyes. "why, it was only the other day that you were saying how interesting it all was, and how determined you were to finish your experiments." "i know, but i have changed my mind since then." "and you won't have it any more?" "no." "i am so glad, austin. you can't think how pale and worn you have been lately. it was really our principal objection to going to london now that we did not wish to leave you when you were so pulled down. and your manner has been so strange occasionally--especially that night when you left poor professor pratt-haldane to play dummy. i am convinced that these experiments are very bad for your nerves." "i think so, too, dear." "and for miss penclosa's nerves as well. you have heard that she is ill?" "no." "mrs. wilson told us so last night. she described it as a nervous fever. professor wilson is coming back this week, and of course mrs. wilson is very anxious that miss penclosa should be well again then, for he has quite a programme of experiments which he is anxious to carry out." i was glad to have agatha's promise, for it was enough that this woman should have one of us in her clutch. on the other hand, i was disturbed to hear about miss penclosa's illness. it rather discounts the victory which i appeared to win last night. i remember that she said that loss of health interfered with her power. that may be why i was able to hold my own so easily. well, well, i must take the same precautions to-night and see what comes of it. i am childishly frightened when i think of her. april 10. all went very well last night. i was amused at the gardener's face when i had again to hail him this morning and to ask him to throw up my key. i shall get a name among the servants if this sort of thing goes on. but the great point is that i stayed in my room without the slightest inclination to leave it. i do believe that i am shaking myself clear of this incredible bond--or is it only that the woman's power is in abeyance until she recovers her strength? i can but pray for the best. the mardens left this morning, and the brightness seems to have gone out of the spring sunshine. and yet it is very beautiful also as it gleams on the green chestnuts opposite my windows, and gives a touch of gayety to the heavy, lichen-mottled walls of the old colleges. how sweet and gentle and soothing is nature! who would think that there lurked in her also such vile forces, such odious possibilities! for of course i understand that this dreadful thing which has sprung out at me is neither supernatural nor even preternatural. no, it is a natural force which this woman can use and society is ignorant of. the mere fact that it ebbs with her strength shows how entirely it is subject to physical laws. if i had time, i might probe it to the bottom and lay my hands upon its antidote. but you cannot tame the tiger when you are beneath his claws. you can but try to writhe away from him. ah, when i look in the glass and see my own dark eyes and clear-cut spanish face, i long for a vitriol splash or a bout of the small-pox. one or the other might have saved me from this calamity. i am inclined to think that i may have trouble to-night. there are two things which make me fear so. one is that i met mrs. wilson in the street, and that she tells me that miss penclosa is better, though still weak. i find myself wishing in my heart that the illness had been her last. the other is that professor wilson comes back in a day or two, and his presence would act as a constraint upon her. i should not fear our interviews if a third person were present. for both these reasons i have a presentiment of trouble to-night, and i shall take the same precautions as before. april 10. no, thank god, all went well last night. i really could not face the gardener again. i locked my door and thrust the key underneath it, so that i had to ask the maid to let me out in the morning. but the precaution was really not needed, for i never had any inclination to go out at all. three evenings in succession at home! i am surely near the end of my troubles, for wilson will be home again either today or tomorrow. shall i tell him of what i have gone through or not? i am convinced that i should not have the slightest sympathy from him. he would look upon me as an interesting case, and read a paper about me at the next meeting of the psychical society, in which he would gravely discuss the possibility of my being a deliberate liar, and weigh it against the chances of my being in an early stage of lunacy. no, i shall get no comfort out of wilson. i am feeling wonderfully fit and well. i don't think i ever lectured with greater spirit. oh, if i could only get this shadow off my life, how happy i should be! young, fairly wealthy, in the front rank of my profession, engaged to a beautiful and charming girl--have i not every thing which a man could ask for? only one thing to trouble me, but what a thing it is! midnight. i shall go mad. yes, that will be the end of it. i shall go mad. i am not far from it now. my head throbs as i rest it on my hot hand. i am quivering all over like a scared horse. oh, what a night i have had! and yet i have some cause to be satisfied also. at the risk of becoming the laughing-stock of my own servant, i again slipped my key under the door, imprisoning myself for the night. then, finding it too early to go to bed, i lay down with my clothes on and began to read one of dumas's novels. suddenly i was gripped--gripped and dragged from the couch. it is only thus that i can describe the overpowering nature of the force which pounced upon me. i clawed at the coverlet. i clung to the wood-work. i believe that i screamed out in my frenzy. it was all useless, hopeless. i must go. there was no way out of it. it was only at the outset that i resisted. the force soon became too overmastering for that. i thank goodness that there were no watchers there to interfere with me. i could not have answered for myself if there had been. and, besides the determination to get out, there came to me, also, the keenest and coolest judgment in choosing my means. i lit a candle and endeavored, kneeling in front of the door, to pull the key through with the feather-end of a quill pen. it was just too short and pushed it further away. then with quiet persistence i got a paper-knife out of one of the drawers, and with that i managed to draw the key back. i opened the door, stepped into my study, took a photograph of myself from the bureau, wrote something across it, placed it in the inside pocket of my coat, and then started off for wilson's. it was all wonderfully clear, and yet disassociated from the rest of my life, as the incidents of even the most vivid dream might be. a peculiar double consciousness possessed me. there was the predominant alien will, which was bent upon drawing me to the side of its owner, and there was the feebler protesting personality, which i recognized as being myself, tugging feebly at the overmastering impulse as a led terrier might at its chain. i can remember recognizing these two conflicting forces, but i recall nothing of my walk, nor of how i was admitted to the house. very vivid, however, is my recollection of how i met miss penclosa. she was reclining on the sofa in the little boudoir in which our experiments had usually been carried out. her head was rested on her hand, and a tiger-skin rug had been partly drawn over her. she looked up expectantly as i entered, and, as the lamp-light fell upon her face, i could see that she was very pale and thin, with dark hollows under her eyes. she smiled at me, and pointed to a stool beside her. it was with her left hand that she pointed, and i, running eagerly forward, seized it,--i loathe myself as i think of it,--and pressed it passionately to my lips. then, seating myself upon the stool, and still retaining her hand, i gave her the photograph which i had brought with me, and talked and talked and talked--of my love for her, of my grief over her illness, of my joy at her recovery, of the misery it was to me to be absent a single evening from her side. she lay quietly looking down at me with imperious eyes and her provocative smile. once i remember that she passed her hand over my hair as one caresses a dog; and it gave me pleasure--the caress. i thrilled under it. i was her slave, body and soul, and for the moment i rejoiced in my slavery. and then came the blessed change. never tell me that there is not a providence! i was on the brink of perdition. my feet were on the edge. was it a coincidence that at that very instant help should come? no, no, no; there is a providence, and its hand has drawn me back. there is something in the universe stronger than this devil woman with her tricks. ah, what a balm to my heart it is to think so! as i looked up at her i was conscious of a change in her. her face, which had been pale before, was now ghastly. her eyes were dull, and the lids drooped heavily over them. above all, the look of serene confidence had gone from her features. her mouth had weakened. her forehead had puckered. she was frightened and undecided. and as i watched the change my own spirit fluttered and struggled, trying hard to tear itself from the grip which held it--a grip which, from moment to moment, grew less secure. "austin," she whispered, "i have tried to do too much. i was not strong enough. i have not recovered yet from my illness. but i could not live longer without seeing you. you won't leave me, austin? this is only a passing weakness. if you will only give me five minutes, i shall be myself again. give me the small decanter from the table in the window." but i had regained my soul. with her waning strength the influence had cleared away from me and left me free. and i was aggressive--bitterly, fiercely aggressive. for once at least i could make this woman understand what my real feelings toward her were. my soul was filled with a hatred as bestial as the love against which it was a reaction. it was the savage, murderous passion of the revolted serf. i could have taken the crutch from her side and beaten her face in with it. she threw her hands up, as if to avoid a blow, and cowered away from me into the corner of the settee. "the brandy!" she gasped. "the brandy!" i took the decanter and poured it over the roots of a palm in the window. then i snatched the photograph from her hand and tore it into a hundred pieces. "you vile woman," i said, "if i did my duty to society, you would never leave this room alive!" "i love you, austin; i love you!" she wailed. "yes," i cried, "and charles sadler before. and how many others before that?" "charles sadler!" she gasped. "he has spoken to you? so, charles sadler, charles sadler!" her voice came through her white lips like a snake's hiss. "yes, i know you, and others shall know you, too. you shameless creature! you knew how i stood. and yet you used your vile power to bring me to your side. you may, perhaps, do so again, but at least you will remember that you have heard me say that i love miss marden from the bottom of my soul, and that i loathe you, abhor you! "the very sight of you and the sound of your voice fill me with horror and disgust. the thought of you is repulsive. that is how i feel toward you, and if it pleases you by your tricks to draw me again to your side as you have done to-night, you will at least, i should think, have little satisfaction in trying to make a lover out of a man who has told you his real opinion of you. you may put what words you will into my mouth, but you cannot help remembering----" i stopped, for the woman's head had fallen back, and she had fainted. she could not bear to hear what i had to say to her! what a glow of satisfaction it gives me to think that, come what may, in the future she can never misunderstand my true feelings toward her. but what will occur in the future? what will she do next? i dare not think of it. oh, if only i could hope that she will leave me alone! but when i think of what i said to her--- never mind; i have been stronger than she for once. april 11. i hardly slept last night, and found myself in the morning so unstrung and feverish that i was compelled to ask pratt-haldane to do my lecture for me. it is the first that i have ever missed. i rose at mid-day, but my head is aching, my hands quivering, and my nerves in a pitiable state. who should come round this evening but wilson. he has just come back from london, where he has lectured, read papers, convened meetings, exposed a medium, conducted a series of experiments on thought transference, entertained professor richet of paris, spent hours gazing into a crystal, and obtained some evidence as to the passage of matter through matter. all this he poured into my ears in a single gust. "but you!" he cried at last. "you are not looking well. and miss penclosa is quite prostrated to-day. how about the experiments?" "i have abandoned them." "tut, tut! why?" "the subject seems to me to be a dangerous one." out came his big brown note-book. "this is of great interest," said he. "what are your grounds for saying that it is a dangerous one? please give your facts in chronological order, with approximate dates and names of reliable witnesses with their permanent addresses." "first of all," i asked, "would you tell me whether you have collected any cases where the mesmerist has gained a command over the subject and has used it for evil purposes?" "dozens!" he cried exultantly. "crime by suggestion----" "i don't mean suggestion. i mean where a sudden impulse comes from a person at a distance--an uncontrollable impulse." "obsession!" he shrieked, in an ecstasy of delight. "it is the rarest condition. we have eight cases, five well attested. you don't mean to say----" his exultation made him hardly articulate. "no, i don't," said i. "good-evening! you will excuse me, but i am not very well to-night." and so at last i got rid of him, still brandishing his pencil and his note-book. my troubles may be bad to hear, but at least it is better to hug them to myself than to have myself exhibited by wilson, like a freak at a fair. he has lost sight of human beings. every thing to him is a case and a phenomenon. i will die before i speak to him again upon the matter. april 12. yesterday was a blessed day of quiet, and i enjoyed an uneventful night. wilson's presence is a great consolation. what can the woman do now? surely, when she has heard me say what i have said, she will conceive the same disgust for me which i have for her. she could not, no, she could not, desire to have a lover who had insulted her so. no, i believe i am free from her love--but how about her hate? might she not use these powers of hers for revenge? tut! why should i frighten myself over shadows? she will forget about me, and i shall forget about her, and all will be well. april 13. my nerves have quite recovered their tone. i really believe that i have conquered the creature. but i must confess to living in some suspense. she is well again, for i hear that she was driving with mrs. wilson in the high street in the afternoon. april 14. i do wish i could get away from the place altogether. i shall fly to agatha's side the very day that the term closes. i suppose it is pitiably weak of me, but this woman gets upon my nerves most terribly. i have seen her again, and i have spoken with her. it was just after lunch, and i was smoking a cigarette in my study, when i heard the step of my servant murray in the passage. i was languidly conscious that a second step was audible behind, and had hardly troubled myself to speculate who it might be, when suddenly a slight noise brought me out of my chair with my skin creeping with apprehension. i had never particularly observed before what sort of sound the tapping of a crutch was, but my quivering nerves told me that i heard it now in the sharp wooden clack which alternated with the muffled thud of the foot fall. another instant and my servant had shown her in. i did not attempt the usual conventions of society, nor did she. i simply stood with the smouldering cigarette in my hand, and gazed at her. she in her turn looked silently at me, and at her look i remembered how in these very pages i had tried to define the expression of her eyes, whether they were furtive or fierce. to-day they were fierce--coldly and inexorably so. "well," said she at last, "are you still of the same mind as when i saw you last?" "i have always been of the same mind." "let us understand each other, professor gilroy," said she slowly. "i am not a very safe person to trifle with, as you should realize by now. it was you who asked me to enter into a series of experiments with you, it was you who won my affections, it was you who professed your love for me, it was you who brought me your own photograph with words of affection upon it, and, finally, it was you who on the very same evening thought fit to insult me most outrageously, addressing me as no man has ever dared to speak to me yet. tell me that those words came from you in a moment of passion and i am prepared to forget and to forgive them. you did not mean what you said, austin? you do not really hate me?" i might have pitied this deformed woman--such a longing for love broke suddenly through the menace of her eyes. but then i thought of what i had gone through, and my heart set like flint. "if ever you heard me speak of love," said i, "you know very well that it was your voice which spoke, and not mine. the only words of truth which i have ever been able to say to you are those which you heard when last we met." "i know. some one has set you against me. it was he!" she tapped with her crutch upon the floor. "well, you know very well that i could bring you this instant crouching like a spaniel to my feet. you will not find me again in my hour of weakness, when you can insult me with impunity. have a care what you are doing, professor gilroy. you stand in a terrible position. you have not yet realized the hold which i have upon you." i shrugged my shoulders and turned away. "well," said she, after a pause, "if you despise my love, i must see what can be done with fear. you smile, but the day will come when you will come screaming to me for pardon. yes, you will grovel on the ground before me, proud as you are, and you will curse the day that ever you turned me from your best friend into your most bitter enemy. have a care, professor gilroy!" i saw a white hand shaking in the air, and a face which was scarcely human, so convulsed was it with passion. an instant later she was gone, and i heard the quick hobble and tap receding down the passage. but she has left a weight upon my heart. vague presentiments of coming misfortune lie heavy upon me. i try in vain to persuade myself that these are only words of empty anger. i can remember those relentless eyes too clearly to think so. what shall i do--ah, what shall i do? i am no longer master of my own soul. at any moment this loathsome parasite may creep into me, and then--- i must tell some one my hideous secret--i must tell it or go mad. if i had some one to sympathize and advise! wilson is out of the question. charles sadler would understand me only so far as his own experience carries him. pratt-haldane! he is a well-balanced man, a man of great common-sense and resource. i will go to him. i will tell him every thing. god grant that he may be able to advise me! iv 6.45 p. m. no, it is useless. there is no human help for me; i must fight this out single-handed. two courses lie before me. i might become this woman's lover. or i must endure such persecutions as she can inflict upon me. even if none come, i shall live in a hell of apprehension. but she may torture me, she may drive me mad, she may kill me: i will never, never, never give in. what can she inflict which would be worse than the loss of agatha, and the knowledge that i am a perjured liar, and have forfeited the name of gentleman? pratt-haldane was most amiable, and listened with all politeness to my story. but when i looked at his heavy set features, his slow eyes, and the ponderous study furniture which surrounded him, i could hardly tell him what i had come to say. it was all so substantial, so material. and, besides, what would i myself have said a short month ago if one of my colleagues had come to me with a story of demonic possession? perhaps. i should have been less patient than he was. as it was, he took notes of my statement, asked me how much tea i drank, how many hours i slept, whether i had been overworking much, had i had sudden pains in the head, evil dreams, singing in the ears, flashes before the eyes--all questions which pointed to his belief that brain congestion was at the bottom of my trouble. finally he dismissed me with a great many platitudes about open-air exercise, and avoidance of nervous excitement. his prescription, which was for chloral and bromide, i rolled up and threw into the gutter. no, i can look for no help from any human being. if i consult any more, they may put their heads together and i may find myself in an asylum. i can but grip my courage with both hands, and pray that an honest man may not be abandoned. april 10. it is the sweetest spring within the memory of man. so green, so mild, so beautiful! ah, what a contrast between nature without and my own soul so torn with doubt and terror! it has been an uneventful day, but i know that i am on the edge of an abyss. i know it, and yet i go on with the routine of my life. the one bright spot is that agatha is happy and well and out of all danger. if this creature had a hand on each of us, what might she not do? april 16. the woman is ingenious in her torments. she knows how fond i am of my work, and how highly my lectures are thought of. so it is from that point that she now attacks me. it will end, i can see, in my losing my professorship, but i will fight to the finish. she shall not drive me out of it without a struggle. i was not conscious of any change during my lecture this morning save that for a minute or two i had a dizziness and swimminess which rapidly passed away. on the contrary, i congratulated myself upon having made my subject (the functions of the red corpuscles) both interesting and clear. i was surprised, therefore, when a student came into my laboratory immediately after the lecture, and complained of being puzzled by the discrepancy between my statements and those in the text books. he showed me his note-book, in which i was reported as having in one portion of the lecture championed the most outrageous and unscientific heresies. of course i denied it, and declared that he had misunderstood me, but on comparing his notes with those of his companions, it became clear that he was right, and that i really had made some most preposterous statements. of course i shall explain it away as being the result of a moment of aberration, but i feel only too sure that it will be the first of a series. it is but a month now to the end of the session, and i pray that i may be able to hold out until then. april 26. ten days have elapsed since i have had the heart to make any entry in my journal. why should i record my own humiliation and degradation? i had vowed never to open it again. and yet the force of habit is strong, and here i find myself taking up once more the record of my own dreadful experiences--in much the same spirit in which a suicide has been known to take notes of the effects of the poison which killed him. well, the crash which i had foreseen has come--and that no further back than yesterday. the university authorities have taken my lectureship from me. it has been done in the most delicate way, purporting to be a temporary measure to relieve me from the effects of overwork, and to give me the opportunity of recovering my health. none the less, it has been done, and i am no longer professor gilroy. the laboratory is still in my charge, but i have little doubt that that also will soon go. the fact is that my lectures had become the laughing-stock of the university. my class was crowded with students who came to see and hear what the eccentric professor would do or say next. i cannot go into the detail of my humiliation. oh, that devilish woman! there is no depth of buffoonery and imbecility to which she has not forced me. i would begin my lecture clearly and well, but always with the sense of a coming eclipse. then as i felt the influence i would struggle against it, striving with clenched hands and beads of sweat upon my brow to get the better of it, while the students, hearing my incoherent words and watching my contortions, would roar with laughter at the antics of their professor. and then, when she had once fairly mastered me, out would come the most outrageous things--silly jokes, sentiments as though i were proposing a toast, snatches of ballads, personal abuse even against some member of my class. and then in a moment my brain would clear again, and my lecture would proceed decorously to the end. no wonder that my conduct has been the talk of the colleges. no wonder that the university senate has been compelled to take official notice of such a scandal. oh, that devilish woman! and the most dreadful part of it all is my own loneliness. here i sit in a commonplace english bow-window, looking out upon a commonplace english street with its garish 'buses and its lounging policeman, and behind me there hangs a shadow which is out of all keeping with the age and place. in the home of knowledge i am weighed down and tortured by a power of which science knows nothing. no magistrate would listen to me. no paper would discuss my case. no doctor would believe my symptoms. my own most intimate friends would only look upon it as a sign of brain derangement. i am out of all touch with my kind. oh, that devilish woman! let her have a care! she may push me too far. when the law cannot help a man, he may make a law for himself. she met me in the high street yesterday evening and spoke to me. it was as well for her, perhaps, that it was not between the hedges of a lonely country road. she asked me with her cold smile whether i had been chastened yet. i did not deign to answer her. "we must try another turn of the screw;" said she. have a care, my lady, have a care! i had her at my mercy once. perhaps another chance may come. april 28. the suspension of my lectureship has had the effect also of taking away her means of annoying me, and so i have enjoyed two blessed days of peace. after all, there is no reason to despair. sympathy pours in to me from all sides, and every one agrees that it is my devotion to science and the arduous nature of my researches which have shaken my nervous system. i have had the kindest message from the council advising me to travel abroad, and expressing the confident hope that i may be able to resume all my duties by the beginning of the summer term. nothing could be more flattering than their allusions to my career and to my services to the university. it is only in misfortune that one can test one's own popularity. this creature may weary of tormenting me, and then all may yet be well. may god grant it! april 29. our sleepy little town has had a small sensation. the only knowledge of crime which we ever have is when a rowdy undergraduate breaks a few lamps or comes to blows with a policeman. last night, however, there was an attempt made to break-into the branch of the bank of england, and we are all in a flutter in consequence. parkenson, the manager, is an intimate friend of mine, and i found him very much excited when i walked round there after breakfast. had the thieves broken into the counting-house, they would still have had the safes to reckon with, so that the defence was considerably stronger than the attack. indeed, the latter does not appear to have ever been very formidable. two of the lower windows have marks as if a chisel or some such instrument had been pushed under them to force them open. the police should have a good clue, for the wood-work had been done with green paint only the day before, and from the smears it is evident that some of it has found its way on to the criminal's hands or clothes. 4.30 p. m. ah, that accursed woman! that thrice accursed woman! never mind! she shall not beat me! no, she shall not! but, oh, the she-devil! she has taken my professorship. now she would take my honor. is there nothing i can do against her, nothing save---ah, but, hard pushed as i am, i cannot bring myself to think of that! it was about an hour ago that i went into my bedroom, and was brushing my hair before the glass, when suddenly my eyes lit upon something which left me so sick and cold that i sat down upon the edge of the bed and began to cry. it is many a long year since i shed tears, but all my nerve was gone, and i could but sob and sob in impotent grief and anger. there was my house jacket, the coat i usually wear after dinner, hanging on its peg by the wardrobe, with the right sleeve thickly crusted from wrist to elbow with daubs of green paint. so this was what she meant by another turn of the screw! she had made a public imbecile of me. now she would brand me as a criminal. this time she has failed. but how about the next? i dare not think of it--and of agatha and my poor old mother! i wish that i were dead! yes, this is the other turn of the screw. and this is also what she meant, no doubt, when she said that i had not realized yet the power she has over me. i look back at my account of my conversation with her, and i see how she declared that with a slight exertion of her will her subject would be conscious, and with a stronger one unconscious. last night i was unconscious. i could have sworn that i slept soundly in my bed without so much as a dream. and yet those stains tell me that i dressed, made my way out, attempted to open the bank windows, and returned. was i observed? is it possible that some one saw me do it and followed me home? ah, what a hell my life has become! i have no peace, no rest. but my patience is nearing its end. 10 p. m. i have cleaned my coat with turpentine. i do not think that any one could have seen me. it was with my screw-driver that i made the marks. i found it all crusted with paint, and i have cleaned it. my head aches as if it would burst, and i have taken five grains of antipyrine. if it were not for agatha, i should have taken fifty and had an end of it. may 3. three quiet days. this hell fiend is like a cat with a mouse. she lets me loose only to pounce upon me again. i am never so frightened as when every thing is still. my physical state is deplorable--perpetual hiccough and ptosis of the left eyelid. i have heard from the mardens that they will be back the day after to-morrow. i do not know whether i am glad or sorry. they were safe in london. once here they may be drawn into the miserable network in which i am myself struggling. and i must tell them of it. i cannot marry agatha so long as i know that i am not responsible for my own actions. yes, i must tell them, even if it brings every thing to an end between us. to-night is the university ball, and i must go. god knows i never felt less in the humor for festivity, but i must not have it said that i am unfit to appear in public. if i am seen there, and have speech with some of the elders of the university it will go a long way toward showing them that it would be unjust to take my chair away from me. 10 p. m. i have been to the ball. charles sadler and i went together, but i have come away before him. i shall wait up for him, however, for, indeed, i fear to go to sleep these nights. he is a cheery, practical fellow, and a chat with him will steady my nerves. on the whole, the evening was a great success. i talked to every one who has influence, and i think that i made them realize that my chair is not vacant quite yet. the creature was at the ball--unable to dance, of course, but sitting with mrs. wilson. again and again her eyes rested upon me. they were almost the last things i saw before i left the room. once, as i sat sideways to her, i watched her, and saw that her gaze was following some one else. it was sadler, who was dancing at the time with the second miss thurston. to judge by her expression, it is well for him that he is not in her grip as i am. he does not know the escape he has had. i think i hear his step in the street now, and i will go down and let him in. if he will---may 4. why did i break off in this way last night? i never went down stairs, after all--at least, i have no recollection of doing so. but, on the other hand, i cannot remember going to bed. one of my hands is greatly swollen this morning, and yet i have no remembrance of injuring it yesterday. otherwise, i am feeling all the better for last night's festivity. but i cannot understand how it is that i did not meet charles sadler when i so fully intended to do so. is it possible---my god, it is only too probable! has she been leading me some devil's dance again? i will go down to sadler and ask him. mid-day. the thing has come to a crisis. my life is not worth living. but, if i am to die, then she shall come also. i will not leave her behind, to drive some other man mad as she has me. no, i have come to the limit of my endurance. she has made me as desperate and dangerous a man as walks the earth. god knows i have never had the heart to hurt a fly, and yet, if i had my hands now upon that woman, she should never leave this room alive. i shall see her this very day, and she shall learn what she has to expect from me. i went to sadler and found him, to my surprise, in bed. as i entered he sat up and turned a face toward me which sickened me as i looked at it. "why, sadler, what has happened?" i cried, but my heart turned cold as i said it. "gilroy," he answered, mumbling with his swollen lips, "i have for some weeks been under the impression that you are a madman. now i know it, and that you are a dangerous one as well. if it were not that i am unwilling to make a scandal in the college, you would now be in the hands of the police." "do you mean----" i cried. "i mean that as i opened the door last night you rushed out upon me, struck me with both your fists in the face, knocked me down, kicked me furiously in the side, and left me lying almost unconscious in the street. look at your own hand bearing witness against you." yes, there it was, puffed up, with sponge-like knuckles, as after some terrific blow. what could i do? though he put me down as a madman, i must tell him all. i sat by his bed and went over all my troubles from the beginning. i poured them out with quivering hands and burning words which might have carried conviction to the most sceptical. "she hates you and she hates me!" i cried. "she revenged herself last night on both of us at once. she saw me leave the ball, and she must have seen you also. she knew how long it would take you to reach home. then she had but to use her wicked will. ah, your bruised face is a small thing beside my bruised soul!" he was struck by my story. that was evident. "yes, yes, she watched me out of the room," he muttered. "she is capable of it. but is it possible that she has really reduced you to this? what do you intend to do?" "to stop it!" i cried. "i am perfectly desperate; i shall give her fair warning to-day, and the next time will be the last." "do nothing rash," said he. "rash!" i cried. "the only rash thing is that i should postpone it another hour." with that i rushed to my room, and here i am on the eve of what may be the great crisis of my life. i shall start at once. i have gained one thing to-day, for i have made one man, at least, realize the truth of this monstrous experience of mine. and, if the worst should happen, this diary remains as a proof of the goad that has driven me. evening. when i came to wilson's, i was shown up, and found that he was sitting with miss penclosa. for half an hour i had to endure his fussy talk about his recent research into the exact nature of the spiritualistic rap, while the creature and i sat in silence looking across the room at each other. i read a sinister amusement in her eyes, and she must have seen hatred and menace in mine. i had almost despaired of having speech with her when he was called from the room, and we were left for a few moments together. "well, professor gilroy--or is it mr. gilroy?" said she, with that bitter smile of hers. "how is your friend mr. charles sadler after the ball?" "you fiend!" i cried. "you have come to the end of your tricks now. i will have no more of them. listen to what i say." i strode across and shook her roughly by the shoulder "as sure as there is a god in heaven, i swear that if you try another of your deviltries upon me i will have your life for it. come what may, i will have your life. i have come to the end of what a man can endure." "accounts are not quite settled between us," said she, with a passion that equalled my own. "i can love, and i can hate. you had your choice. you chose to spurn the first; now you must test the other. it will take a little more to break your spirit, i see, but broken it shall be. miss marden comes back to-morrow, as i understand." "what has that to do with you?" i cried. "it is a pollution that you should dare even to think of her. if i thought that you would harm her----" she was frightened, i could see, though she tried to brazen it out. she read the black thought in my mind, and cowered away from me. "she is fortunate in having such a champion," said she. "he actually dares to threaten a lonely woman. i must really congratulate miss marden upon her protector." the words were bitter, but the voice and manner were more acid still. "there is no use talking," said i. "i only came here to tell you,--and to tell you most solemnly,--that your next outrage upon me will be your last." with that, as i heard wilson's step upon the stair, i walked from the room. ay, she may look venomous and deadly, but, for all that, she is beginning to see now that she has as much to fear from me as i can have from her. murder! it has an ugly sound. but you don't talk of murdering a snake or of murdering a tiger. let her have a care now. may 5. i met agatha and her mother at the station at eleven o'clock. she is looking so bright, so happy, so beautiful. and she was so overjoyed to see me. what have i done to deserve such love? i went back home with them, and we lunched together. all the troubles seem in a moment to have been shredded back from my life. she tells me that i am looking pale and worried and ill. the dear child puts it down to my loneliness and the perfunctory attentions of a housekeeper. i pray that she may never know the truth! may the shadow, if shadow there must be, lie ever black across my life and leave hers in the sunshine. i have just come back from them, feeling a new man. with her by my side i think that i could show a bold face to any thing which life might send. 5 p. m. now, let me try to be accurate. let me try to say exactly how it occurred. it is fresh in my mind, and i can set it down correctly, though it is not likely that the time will ever come when i shall forget the doings of to-day. i had returned from the mardens' after lunch, and was cutting some microscopic sections in my freezing microtome, when in an instant i lost consciousness in the sudden hateful fashion which has become only too familiar to me of late. when my senses came back to me i was sitting in a small chamber, very different from the one in which i had been working. it was cosey and bright, with chintz-covered settees, colored hangings, and a thousand pretty little trifles upon the wall. a small ornamental clock ticked in front of me, and the hands pointed to half-past three. it was all quite familiar to me, and yet i stared about for a moment in a half-dazed way until my eyes fell upon a cabinet photograph of myself upon the top of the piano. on the other side stood one of mrs. marden. then, of course, i remembered where i was. it was agatha's boudoir. but how came i there, and what did i want? a horrible sinking came to my heart. had i been sent here on some devilish errand? had that errand already been done? surely it must; otherwise, why should i be allowed to come back to consciousness? oh, the agony of that moment! what had i done? i sprang to my feet in my despair, and as i did so a small glass bottle fell from my knees on to the carpet. it was unbroken, and i picked it up. outside was written "sulphuric acid. fort." when i drew the round glass stopper, a thick fume rose slowly up, and a pungent, choking smell pervaded the room. i recognized it as one which i kept for chemical testing in my chambers. but why had i brought a bottle of vitriol into agatha's chamber? was it not this thick, reeking liquid with which jealous women had been known to mar the beauty of their rivals? my heart stood still as i held the bottle to the light. thank god, it was full! no mischief had been done as yet. but had agatha come in a minute sooner, was it not certain that the hellish parasite within me would have dashed the stuff into her--- ah, it will not bear to be thought of! but it must have been for that. why else should i have brought it? at the thought of what i might have done my worn nerves broke down, and i sat shivering and twitching, the pitiable wreck of a man. it was the sound of agatha's voice and the rustle of her dress which restored me. i looked up, and saw her blue eyes, so full of tenderness and pity, gazing down at me. "we must take you away to the country, austin," she said. "you want rest and quiet. you look wretchedly ill." "oh, it is nothing!" said i, trying to smile. "it was only a momentary weakness. i am all right again now." "i am so sorry to keep you waiting. poor boy, you must have been here quite half an hour! the vicar was in the drawing-room, and, as i knew that you did not care for him, i thought it better that jane should show you up here. i thought the man would never go!" "thank god he stayed! thank god he stayed!" i cried hysterically. "why, what is the matter with you, austin?" she asked, holding my arm as i staggered up from the chair. "why are you glad that the vicar stayed? and what is this little bottle in your hand?" "nothing," i cried, thrusting it into my pocket. "but i must go. i have something important to do." "how stern you look, austin! i have never seen your face like that. you are angry?" "yes, i am angry." "but not with me?" "no, no, my darling! you would not understand." "but you have not told me why you came." "i came to ask you whether you would always love me--no matter what i did, or what shadow might fall on my name. would you believe in me and trust me however black appearances might be against me?" "you know that i would, austin." "yes, i know that you would. what i do i shall do for you. i am driven to it. there is no other way out, my darling!" i kissed her and rushed from the room. the time for indecision was at an end. as long as the creature threatened my own prospects and my honor there might be a question as to what i should do. but now, when agatha--my innocent agatha--was endangered, my duty lay before me like a turnpike road. i had no weapon, but i never paused for that. what weapon should i need, when i felt every muscle quivering with the strength of a frenzied man? i ran through the streets, so set upon what i had to do that i was only dimly conscious of the faces of friends whom i met--dimly conscious also that professor wilson met me, running with equal precipitance in the opposite direction. breathless but resolute i reached the house and rang the bell. a white cheeked maid opened the door, and turned whiter yet when she saw the face that looked in at her. "show me up at once to miss penclosa," i demanded. "sir," she gasped, "miss penclosa died this afternoon at half-past three!" the philosophy which shows the physiology of mesmerism, and explains the phenomenon of clairvoyance. by t. h. pasley. to form a just opinion of a novel mode of philosophising, we should study the subject, and not condemn without being able to prove it erroneous. he is not an esculapian who is unacquainted with the philosophy of the animal economy. london: longman, brown, green, and longmans. 1848. tyler & reed, printers, bolt-court, fleet street. dedication. the following trite sketch of the philosophy of nature, dedicates itself to the most noble champions of mesmerism, doctor elliotson and doctor ashburner of london, and doctor esdaile of calcutta, in compliment and grateful acknowledgment for having rescued from the fangs of ignorance, envy, and self-conceit, the science of health and knowledge--the science of mesmerism, which unfolds the hitherto unknown wonders of the animal system; and will unfold the wonders of the entire universe, when the telescope and microscope are familiarly used by the clairvoyant. advertisement. it is not the intention of the present work, that what is herein described should be received as the philosophy of nature according to the precision of nature; but, through exemplification, on principles deduced from the natural inertia of matter, to point out the mode by which the philosophy, which should govern all illustration of physical phenomena, is discoverable,--the philosophy of mechanical nature. jersey, _july 1, 1848_. contents. page dedication iii advertisement v table of contents vii mesmerism and established philosophy 1 attraction 10 philosophy, experimental 13 physiology and function of the senses 15 matter 23 motion 24 medium of space 28 minus-pressure matter 31 fire 34 medium of fire 37 expansion 39 oxygen air 41 the use of oxygen in promoting combustion 42 combustion 43 water 47 solvency 53 gastric solvency 54 use of the inspired oxygen within the system 56 spleen, its use 59 diaphragm, how raised 60 correlative elements 61 magnetism 62 natural sleep 65 comatose flow 66 mesmeric sleep 68 vision 70 transparency 77 opacity 77 the nervous fluid 78 clairvoyance 81 long vision 82 opaque vision 83 rigidity 86 pain 86 mesmerism, curative 87 ethers 87 report 88 voluntary de-electrisation 91 will, the nature and power of 92 application of mesmerism 95 continuous motion 97 ascending and descending motion 99 centripetal flow 99 formation of a planet 100 ---and use of a comet 103 transcriber's note philosophy, etc., etc. mesmerism and established philosophy. long as clairvoyance has remained the riddle, jest and wonder of the world, it is questioned by none why the established philosophy of this superiorly enlightened age is incompetent to account for this or any other mesmerically produced phenomenon, or afford the least glimmer of light by which it were possible to arrive at the physiology. why the philosophy of aristotle, bacon, newton, des cartes, davy, liebig--honoured names, and most justly, as the ancient and modern fathers in science--can afford no scintillation whereby to lessen the obscurity in which this most interesting subject is involved, should appear strange and unaccountable to all lovers of philosophy. by professors the question should be answered. to consider it unworthy of being looked into, would be a tacit confession that professors are indifferent to the natural truth; which proves all such to be but half reasoners, and not philosophers, notwithstanding all their mathematical learning and experimental experience. it should have been questioned long since, whether the philosophy be not untrue which leaves all mankind in the dark, in a mere physical case, however mysterious the psychological result, the effect of manual application, and in the power of almost every person to produce. the mesmerising operation and effect includes nothing of necromancy or trick; is openly performed, and produced mechanically; and although the passes make a living being appear as if in a novel state of existence, the immediate effect, polarisation of the extremities of the body, is the same precisely as is effected on the iron bar when passed along the poles of a loadstone. this, and numerous other physical phenomena, which to the present day remain unexplained, and as if inexplicable, afford much reason for at least the conjecture, that modern philosophy is not the philosophy of physical nature; which, if not, it must be false and misleading, inasmuch as there can be but one philosophy, by reason of there being but one species of matter throughout all nature, and but one cause of action,--_the general pressure_. from which it follows, that as the philosophy of nature is that of matter universally, there can be no physical phenomenon which it does not explain. therefore, the phenomena which modern philosophy has neither laws nor rules competent to explain, are so many proofs that the established philosophy of the age is false philosophy; which is provable throughout all its particulars, however rash and adventurous may appear the announcement. besides, at the present day, there are several different philosophies maintained; every profession has its own; which is proof of the strongest nature that not one is true, dissent from the truly natural being impossible, so universally is it applicable. eventually it will be admitted that the philosophy of the nineteenth century is founded on the crude ideas of the imperfectly learned in the earliest days of science, ever since adopted, and never investigated, instead of being deduced solely from the inert nature of matter, the only true basis. on modern philosophy, davy makes the shrewd remark, that "it is no better than a mere compilation of isolated facts and circumstances, differently accounted for, and leading to no general theory:" such is not the philosophy of nature. that matter is _inert_, is made manifest in there being nothing whatever throughout the whole of inanimate nature which can act or move of itself. matter does nothing, cannot act; it is the passive patient of the general pressure, which alone can act; and pressure is universal, because of matter being _inert_. matter is not only _inert_, but _unalterable_; on which principles the constancy of the order and laws of nature depend. inert, unalterable matter can suffer no change but of a local nature--change of place, which implies motion, for which there is no analogous cause but impulsive pressure. these unquestionable physical truisms are stated in advance, from being intimately connected with every physical change, in order to serve as a standard of comparison from which to form an opinion while canvassing the principles and laws by which the scientific world has been for centuries not only governed, but misled. newton admits the _principle_ of _inertia_, but considers it an innate _passive_ power, which _enables_ a body to resist against being moved; and when in motion, enables it _to resist_ that which would put it out of motion. _inertia_, a passive power, is as death, being passive animation; and _inertia enabling_ a body to _act_ against force, is nothing short of _active inertia_, or _vis inertiæ_, which means the force of inability. this monstrous perversion of a natural fundamental principle, and by such high authority, pervades the whole of the established philosophy. it makes the planets, which are but clumps of deadly inert matter, gravitate themselves through space; and makes _inert_ atoms competent to perform attraction on each other wherever they exist. a more absurd article of _belief_ has no place in the athanasian code of mind-perverting dogmas; yet admitted as true by the most eminently talented and highly learned of the present age. while such inconsistent principles of common-place use are gravely defended, the _known facts_ of mesmerism are obstinately and ignorantly denied; and only because of not being understood; that, were it not for the good sense and philanthropic perseverance of the enlightened, noble-minded elliotsons, ashburners, and esdailes, of the british empire--honourable, heroic champions and victors in the cause of truth, humanity and science, in despite of the self-conceit which affects the knowledge of the limits of possibility; that, were it not for the magnanimity of those superiors belonging to the learned profession, this heaven-bestowed boon, carrying healing on the wing to suffering humanity, would have been contemptuously received, ungratefully acknowledged, and long since consigned to the rubbish of oblivion. yet all have claim to the common apology, _false scientific education_, excepting those who have assented to what they have seen with wonder, and afterwards denied their admission. the established philosophy cannot account for the boy's marble going farther through the air than the fullest extent of the impelling thumb. the proposition may appear trifling and insignificant, yet is it worthy the consideration of the chair of knowledge, from which it has never been explained nor there understood, as involving the cause of planetary motion; for, _in all nature there are not two causes of motion_. that the marble "_partakes_" of the _force_, and "partakes" of the _motion_ of that by which it is impelled, is an absurd idea; the force and motion of a body were not, and cannot become, the force and motion of any other body. the established philosophy cannot account for the splinters of a stone having motion out of the direction of impulse, nor for having motion in every direction but that of the stone-breaker's impelling hammer, which appears at variance with the natural, immutable dynamic law, which says, that _as a body cannot move itself_, so must it have motion in the direction only of that by which it is being moved. neither is there any philosophy extant, which explains why the stone at texteth of one hundred tons should rise, as if of itself, six inches in the air, under which the quarrymen could have shoved a hand and withdrawn it safely, before the immense mass fell crushingly on the former bed. on the other hand, what the established philosophy undertakes to explain, it explains erroneously. beside maintaining the transfer of a local casualty, in accounting for continuous motion, it teaches that the power of steam consists in heat, and that cold congeals water: whereas heat and cold have no physical existence; each is a sensation, anything similar to which it is impossible for either fire or water to possess. so that to the present day the power of steam, the cause of combustion and of congelation has in each instance remained unknown. so simple is nature, so few her laws, that were any one of her phenomena known throughout all its bearings, it would be found that the knowledge includes the philosophy of the whole of matter. of this aristotle was aware when announcing, that he who is unacquainted with motion, is ignorant of all things in true philosophy. motion being the _only effect_ producible on _inert, unalterable matter_, the knowledge of the phenomenon includes that of all effect. the substance of all things being of the same species, and the power of nature consisting in universal pressure, the formations in general nature and in the laboratory of art can have but the same principles, laws, theory, and philosophy. paul may plant and apollos water; nature germinates, the weather or climate grows and fructifies. the chymist's fire does not burn itself; in the absence of air and its pressure there is no combustion; neither is there growth, respiration, nor life. according to the philosophy of the astronomer, the earth has projectile motion, from "impulse once impressed, at the beginning, and not since renewed;" which is effect six thousand times, at least, greater than the cause. then, again, as motion must be in the direction of impulse and cease out of that direction, the earth, from "impulse once impressed," goes round the sun without being impelled; or of its own accord, and should be centripetally attracted to the sun, if solar attraction were possible. it needs no mathematical calculation to prove, that, from such philosophy being wholly independent of all consideration of natural cause, it is untrue, and at variance with common sense. the philosophy of the chymist is of every-day make. it assumes different species of matter; chymical matter and matter not chymical; attractions innumerable, such as chymical, electric, galvanic, capillary, and attraction of cohesion; likewise magnetic forces, chymical affinities, and affections of matter--"while as yet there is none of them"--matter being _inert_ naturally. to mechanical nature the entire is useless and foreign, and their value lies solely in being terms of professional application in the highly important chymical art; but to the discovery of true philosophy they are an insurmountable obstacle. how chymical matter differs from the common matter of the world, no chymist can say or conceive; nor is there any difference in the substance and nature of inert matter: as well might it be maintained that motion is not always mechanical, but sometimes chymical. the true philosophy of chymistry is dynamic, the basis inertia, the laws those of quantity and relative position. the philosophy of the anatomist and physiologist is semi-natural, semi-spiritual, mechanical and vital. life, throughout all belonging to the frame, does not suffice; the heart and blood have each an imputed, distinct, living principle; the nerves are sensitive, the muscles irritable; the flesh has its susceptibility, according to the modern physiology. the sainted health-preserver shudders at the irreligious notion of the economy being philosophised on at all; more especially according to the laws of hydrostatics; it being "impious beyond measure" to reason on the work of god's own hand, formed after his own image and likeness, (malformations excepted,) as on human mechanism. yet, where are any of these vitalities and living principles when respiration is suddenly stopped? verily, these professionals endow, most gratuitously, the animal frame with as many vitalities and living principles as the lives bestowed on the tailor's--so much the more unfortunate--cat. as every organ of the body is inert; no organ, of itself, performs the function; every function is mechanically performed, and every effect analogous to impulsive pressure, whether consisting in formation, intermixture, or dissolution, all depend on elementary local change. the contrary is not in the power of the anatomist and physiologist to prove of inert, unalterable, atomic substance; nor should more causes be assumed than what are natural, common, sufficient, and analogous to effects. spiritual principles for mechanical purposes are as little requisite for animal organism as for the steam-engine, or the performances of a watch. the last on the list of professional philosophies is that of the therapeutist; the least misleading, from being the most concise. the word action includes the whole. there is no inquiry to which the word _action_ is not the deeply-learned significant reply; being indefinite, it stands for a dead-stop silencer. the doctor knows best--with much room for knowing better. the doctor knows, and assures from his own certain knowledge, that the _action_ of the dose on the stomach upheaves the sac; but rather than be thought positive, allows that the effect may be from the _action_ of the stomach on the dose. the good easy man of m.d. celebrity, or mediocrity, has to learn, that the dose is as _inert_ as when in the tea-cup, and the stomach as _inert_ as when it has arrived at the predicted destiny, the dissecting table. again, the _action_ of the pain prevents the _action_ of the physic, otherwise the cure would have been immediate. such philosophy is harmless, if so to the patient; from its insignificance it corrupts neither pathology, osteology, nor dynamics. not so the learning, published on high surgical authority, to enlighten ward-walking noviciates--that "pain may exist in the _flesh_ and bones without being felt, owing to the _insensible_ sensibility of the part," which amounts to an excruciating, painless toothache, and, the being unconscious of excited consciousness. pain is not in the diseased or wounded part, being the consequence of cerebral excitement; pain is one of the objects of perception belonging to the scenery of the sensorium, from which it cannot migrate. the disorganised part is but the apparent place of pain; and wisely such, or else all remedial applications would be to the brain. as to the dose and stomach _action_, it stands corrected by the diagnosis; the stomach is lifted in consequence of the equilibrium of pressure being destroyed by means of the dose, notwithstanding its additional weight, within the stomach. chymical action of the dose and self-lifting muscles are all of esculapian surmise. the faculty should cease to identify feeling, pain, sensation, with organic ailments and disorganization of the flesh. attraction. attraction is the all-pervading, all-perverting sin of the established philosophy, the scape-goat, on which the blunders of illustration are heaped. newtonians endow every atom of matter with not only an attracting property, but another, as if to neutralise it--repulsion, which renders both useless; as if to make matter both active and inert, naturally, and as if nature were planned on principles of complexity, from having double the number of powers the universe is possessed of atoms. one steam power would suffice for the whole of england, all appendages being feasible. how is solidity either maintainable or attainable, while attracting atoms are repelling atoms? the free, uncombined condition of the atoms of the atmosphere, as well as their _inertia_, proclaim their inability to attract each other; and the mere crack in a pane of glass, that between bodies there is no attraction. while it is left to be conceived by the so-taught rising generation, that the atoms of a bar of iron are busily employed in attracting one another, and as busily in repelling each other at the same time; and that the same atoms are inert, the long-denounced aspersion stands good, that there is no absurdity, however great, into which philosophers have not fallen; which is removable only by philosophers, professors and teachers coalescing to reform the erroneous doctrines universally promulgated, which cannot stand the test of rational investigation, and for which, as national instructors, they are morally responsible. terrestrial attraction, attenuated on arriving at the moon, and there sufficiently strong to prevent the satellite having tangential flight, should be at the surface of the globe at least two-hundred-and-forty-thousand times stronger; yet here a puff of the breath drives the dust into the air, and the smallest winged insect is not restrained by the attraction of the enormous magnet the earth is considered, from escaping off the surface of the globe. there is philosophy in mists, as well as "sermons in stones." rain should come down from above the clouds, if terrestrial attraction hold fast the moon: mists and exhalations, by quitting the earth, solve the problem; but we are ignorant of the philosophy, ways, and expressions of simple nature; hence, ours is foreign philosophy. in attributing the fall of bodies to the ground to attraction, it is overlooked that the earth's greater attraction has to be exceeded by the minor muscular, or explosive force, which caused the ascent. the foregoing plain facts, although demonstrations to the contrary are on record in the royalized transactions, but without reference to the inability of inert matter to attract, are certain proof that attraction is founded on a guess-work basis. hence, that all learning is not knowledge is a moral certainty; and that the nature of cause is not to be arrived at by demonstrating the properties of lines and angles, time has sufficiently proved. had the fall of newton's apple been an effect of terrestrial attraction, there should have been some stronger attraction from somewhere above the tree, to make the juices of which the apple was formed ascend from the ground, and capillary cannot be said to be stronger than terrestrial attraction. there is nothing but puzzle, contradiction, and inconsistency, in human opinion, where the natural truth is unknown. oh! apples, apples, why for discord sent? the first cut short eternal life on earth; another turned "heaven-born reason" to inventing dreams;--that heaven-born reason which tells us every day of its yesterday's mistakes. experimental philosophy. the baconian precept, to "torture nature out of her secrets," has been, and ever must be, abortive of the good intended. nature is performing freely and openly every hour, without making us wiser, and as little while she is operating in our own experiments. her language, of which _inertia_ and _pressure_ are the alpha and omega, is not studied; nor does it mislead or flatter like our own. experiments innumerable have been performed; the _experimentum crucis_ resorted to; the screw applied to the utmost pinch, without either confession or concealment on nature's part. hence, the experimenter is left to make his own philosophy of the case, of which the next operator makes a different; and all are falsely interpreted that violate the principle of inertia, which all do. aristotle, bacon, newton, black, reid, davy, des cartes, experimented indefatigably under the most favourable auspices,--exalted talent, and the institutions of the world at command; but all on false principles; yet nature, tortured or not, left them to their own mis-interpretations. aristotle, true in his opinion of motion, was himself ignorant of the cause of continuous motion, or all would not be so at present. bacon recommended experiment, without teaching the natural mode of interpretation. newton spent his valuable time, to the world's great loss, in experimenting on light, in ascertaining and describing its properties, as if there were material light; instead of which, light is a mere sensible effect; hence, a physical nonentity. black and reid called to their assistance all the powers of numbers, to ascertain and prove the quantity of heat in the animal system, and of cold in ice; but could not torture nature out of the information, that heat and cold do not belong to matter or bodies, as a knowledge of the function of the senses could have informed them. davy travelled to skehallean to find from the size of the hill, a ratio of attraction, whence to calculate the quantity of attraction in the entire globe of the earth: at home, correctly sought, he would have found, without numerical assistance and the pendulum, that the amount is zero. the deflection of the pendulum was caused by the pressure on one side of the bulb being greater than on the side facing the hill; which, from varying hourly with the sun's altitude, should have told him that the deflection is a mere weather-deviating circumstance. on the other hand, who perceives the natural truths elicited by even his own experiments! that truly great philosopher, priestly, remained ignorant that his own experiments on blood and air brought to light the principle on which the blood is arterialized, without coming in contact with the air in the lungs; of which experiments the faculty are reprehensibly ignorant at present; also the principle of congelation without cold. it is a general error that men must be philosophers because they are mathematicians and first-rate experimenters, yet do not know what keeps the blood in motion, nor how water becomes ice. what experiment was ever so absurdly illustrated as that of ice formed in the midst of fire; which is explained by, "evaporation generating cold in a red-hot crucible," and while maintaining that cold is only the absence of heat. the _rationale_ is: the oxygen of water is the hindrance to congelation, which the evaporation carries off, and the remaining elements of the water are compressed into ice. what are the elementary constituents of water, has yet to be learned. misled by false-directing philosophy, the analysis of a rotten potato, in quest of the cause of the vegetable epidemic, is as wise as were the same scientific procedure taken on the contents of a pustule to discover the cause of the small pox: the result in both cases must be a complete new formation; and in the former, the result could be no preventive information whatever to the planter. to convince planters and remove all timidity, every garden owner should plant an experimental patch with potato _peelings_, each having an eye; the crop is certain and good, and supplies the cottager with the next year's seed at no expense. the _cutting_ for seed may be of exhausted vegetating power, while the peeling of even the same potato may be as sound as ever. the badly grown potatoes of the previous crop caused those of the following to be of imperfect growth and perishable: hence the general potato-rot. physiology and function of the senses. by the popular expression, "evidence of the senses," is universally understood, the perception, or seeing external bodies by the organs of sense: yet externals are invisible and the senses insentient. this mistake, common among the fathers of every age, has corrupted the prevalent false philosophy tenfold. the eye is not possessed of sight; neither is colour a property of matter, or it must be indestructible by fire and every other means. the senses should be considered as but mechanical agents for exciting the brain; by which means it is we have our knowledge, the particulars of the whole of which are mental, confined to the brain, and consist, solely, in the cerebral excited scenery of the sensorium. we have no other kind or means of acquiring knowledge, that is, mental information. by the mere organs of sense we know nothing. the knowledge we have by means of the senses exciting the brain, consists in sensations or sensible effects, and, _we know nothing but our knowledge_, whatever may be thought of externals being objects and immediate objects of our knowledge. in describing what we know, it is imagined the description is of external bodies, their appearance, qualities, and properties; which, however harmless the mistake throughout busy-life affairs,--as all abide, judge, and are directed by the same kind of evidence,--not so is it in philosophy, which is a description of nature's own mode of procedure; and although it is impossible to describe invisible things, as they are really, they should not be philosophised and reasoned on, _as they are not_; they are not according to what we know, and can have no resemblance in any manner to sensations, which are all we know by means of them. instead of knowing by the senses what bodies are, we know only what they _are not_; modern philosophy is regardless, totally heedless of this most instructive most pointedly directing information, instead of making the just allowance for mental appearances, it materializes every sensation, and imputes the whole to the bodies outside of our own, of which all we can possibly know is but inferential knowledge: it considers our sensations as being qualities of bodies or properties of matter, and maintains that some are physical causes by which certain physical effects are produced. such may be considered some of the principal reasons why _clairvoyance_ is unintelligible to all the most learned; and so must it ever remain, or until a truer philosophy arises and rescues the great subject from the darkness and errors of a perverting philosophy, the whole of which has to be abandoned before the mind is fitted for the reception of natural truths. we must cease to identify sensations with their unseen, unknown, and but _promoting_, material causes. in proof of the foregoing, a short review of the senses, their physiology, function, result of the function and use of the result, must prove satisfactory and convincing. the _physiology_ of a sense, consists in an external organ,--as the eye or ear, its nerves of sensation which spread through the brain, and, the nervous fluid. to each of the senses there belongs a distinct cerebral organ, which, if deducted, leaves nothing to constitute the physiology, but the external organ, the nerves, and nervous fluid; such may be considered the physiology of all the senses, so far as the exciting mental perception is concerned. the _function of a sense_ is, to act on and excite the cerebral organ, when the nervous fluid is put into an acting state through external circumstances. the _result of the function_, is a sensation, of which we have immediate cognizance, by reason of a sensation being _a recent change in consciousness_. the nervous fluid, not the tubular nervous _striæ_, is that by which the brain is excited. the _use of the sensation_ is manifold. emanating from the wonderful economy, is the law, that, _the sensation which an external body promotes, shall, to ourself, seem to belong to that body_. the law is imperative. the sensation being apparently at, and belonging to, the external object or body, it is imagined the body is visible, seen by the eyes, and of the colour, flavour, or odour known by the sensation. the apparent place of the sensation directs to where the body is situated. no person thinks, when a rose promotes the sensation of colour, that the object perceived is within himself: without the sensation there is no perception of red, and with it, nothing is perceived or seen of colour or of the flower; so that, were the object coloured or not, it is to the spectator invisible; and as the sensation would be useless were the object coloured and seen, it is obvious that the flower is uncoloured, therefore is not seen: the seeing an uncoloured object is a physical absurdity. so is it with all sensations; they constitute the only objects of perception with which we are acquainted; and, such as they are in any respect, the outward objects are in no respect. sound is a sensation; a sense has been provided that we should have knowledge of sound; there is nothing of sound or noise in the air; the function of the sense is not to hear, but excite the auditory cerebral organ, and the sensation, in which alone sound consists, _seems_ to be outside of us, and _seems_ to come from a bell, but which has nothing of the kind to part with; yet it is imagined that sound enters the ear. thus is it supposed that the sensation externally exists, and is sound heard by the ear. the philosopher so instructed, calculates the velocity of the physical nonentity sound. luminousness, light, colour, sound, heat, cold, flavour, odour, are sensations,--each of the entire is traceable from the function of the senses to the sensorium: deduct these, there is nothing perceived or to perceive; by means of the senses, respectively, we have knowledge of each,--and by the senses exciting the brain are the whole produced, as sensible effects. outward bodies can have nothing the same or similar to sensible effects; and therefore nothing of the whole belongs to matter or bodies, or to physical philosophy. to mechanical nature the whole would be useless; to sensitive beings only are they useful; to us they are substitutes for nature's deficiency in these respects; and the whole present a convincing proof of the wise, the strict economy of the great architect in his works. the objection is unfounded, that the external object should be like the sensation, in order to produce such sensation. but where is there sound in musical string or in the metal of a bell to promote the sensation; or yellow in the snowdrop to promote the sensation of yellow, when the eyes are jaundiced or a stained lens is before them: the sensation of pain is not the effect of pain; it and pain are one. that which in health promotes the sensation known as sweet, promotes that of bitter in sickness; the object is the same, the sensation changeable. in reason it cannot be said that fire is like the sensation, or the latter should be burning hot in the brain, where it is excited; neither is any material thing outside of us like a sensation of the brain; nor does the sensation inform us of anything but itself, excepting that it has a remote external cause. the common show-box exhibits the same landscape picture under the different aspects of summer, autumn, winter, and spring, according to the stained lens before the eyes; the picture has not all these colours, nor any, it is a mere black and white print, in which the stained lenses make no alteration. nothing can be like a sensation but a sensation. that the objects we perceive and their remote cause are distinct things, is proved by the perception being that of a coin of the half-crown size, when the eyes are directed to a shilling and a convex lens before the face; if the lens be red, yellow, or blue, so is the perceived object, which is not the white shilling. we are invisible to each other; what is imagined to be a man's appearance, may be described as, various sensations of different colours symmetrically arranged, and constituting a single optically-excited mental effect. neither is it the likeness of the sitter that the canvass exhibits, but the excited perception within the sensorium of the limner; for the renewal of which it is that he directs his eyes so frequently to the sitter's face, which is invisible to the limner, although he feels certain that he sees every feature. those who imagine the eye-balls look and see, and that externals and the perceptions they promote are the same, should, upon reflection, attribute sight to their spectacles; for, as sight is nothing bettered when the glasses are removed, so should the temporary improvement be referred to the spectacles having sight as well as the eyes. in consequence of all mankind being similarly organised, that which seems coloured, sonorous, hot, acid, or aromatic to one person, is so to every one else with sane eyes and senses; by which unanimity of opinion, in these respects, prevails throughout the great family of man, in the worldly concerns of active life, and the social compact is maintained indissoluble. the all-wise, benevolent dispensation of the senses, by which man's existence is supplied with enjoyments not in all nature otherwise to bestow; and his intellectual faculties provided with means of contemplating the attributes of his maker through his knowledge, such as it is, of the creation, which makes known to us not only god's regard for his creatures, but his supreme omniscience in the economy made manifest throughout all his works. were bodies coloured as we imagine, there should be an element of each red, yellow, and blue atoms; elements of sound, heat, and cold; elements of flavour and odour innumerable: whereas, by the substitution of sensations, matter without any such qualities, or any whatever, excepting that of being everlasting, is made subservient to the formation of a universe of worlds, teeming with beauty, harmony, and wonders; all contributing to the comfort, enjoyment, happiness, edification, and future hope of its sojourning inhabitants. now, when from the established philosophy we deduct gravitation, attraction and repulsion, which are as foreign to inert matter as vitality to the dead,--the host of chymicals, so repugnant to the principle of _inertia_,--the imaginary living principles, erroneously imputed to the mechanical organs of the animal system,--the sensations of luminousness, light, colour, sound, heat, cold, acidity, and of flavours and odours,--when the entire of these unphysical, mere nominals, are deducted from modern philosophy, there remains nothing whatever to produce action, physical change, or motion, excepting _pressure_, which has been always looked upon as a mere adjunct to the imagined numerous powers of nature. when common sense has rejected the whole, then will the philosophy of the fathers be valued by the world, as would be a garment with more holes than threads. matter as a general term, _matter_, means substance; with scientific precision, the term is confined to the elementary state, in contradistinction to the term _body_, applied to matter consolidated into solids and fluids. matter consists of atoms, which are hard, opaque, _unalterable_, of homogeneous substance, of the spheric shape, and naturally _inert_, therefore of inactive essence; being _inert_, various species of substance would be useless. the spherical shape admits immediate atomic contact, and leaves interstices uniformly throughout all bodies. there cannot be either communication or alteration of the essence of inert matter; and what the essence of unalterable matter may be, is impossible, and would be useless, to know. an element is any volume of atoms of the same size. there is no difference between elements but in the size of their atoms. every element is a rarer medium to every other element of larger atoms; the minor is as a partial vacuum to the major, which involves the principle of _inequality_, on which motion depends. correlative elements are any two, the atoms of one of which are fitted for the interstices of the other, and for no other interstices. such elements will naturally be together. on the correlative principle magnetism depends. all bodies consist of several elements; there is nothing simple, but an element. bodies are divisible, matter is not. all bodies include a portion of _elementary_ or _electric_ matter, which is removed without injury to their general texture. matter can suffer no change but change of place. weight is an accident of matter, the effect of motion: all _effect_ consists in motion; there is no result until effect has ended in rest. rest being natural to inert matter, is no effect, has no cause. _there is no power but impulsive pressure_; nor is there any effect whatever attributable to _inertia_. the fundamental principle of _inertia_ is that only from which the philosophy of nature is deducible: all philosophy is false which is not consistent throughout with this universal, all-directing principle. * * * * * _note._--the terms _electric_ and _elementary_ are of the same signification, which is, _highly rare_: quality and power to act are wholly out of the question with the inert atoms of the elements of bodies and matter. motion. motion admits of no definition, from being but a local casuality of transitory endurance; motion is the same in all things, from an atom to a planet, against which all difference in velocity and direction makes no exception. impulsive pressure is the only cause analogous to the mechanical effect motion; pressure is universal because matter is inert. motion is not natural to _inert_ matter: the term is expressive of the local condition of a body, while the body is prevented remaining where it is, and while the body is being passed through contiguous portions of space. there is no cause of motion but physical impulse. as effect and cause are necessarily equal, so is motion the measure of impulse, in time. therefore as long as a body is in motion it is being impelled, however insensible the impelling cause. motion must be in the direction of impulse; for, as a body cannot move itself, and is the passive patient of impulse, so must its direction be the same as that of impulse; therefore when the direction of motion is changed, it must be by a novel impulse in the novel direction. from all matter being in motion, and all effect consisting in motion, and because like effects everywhere are attributable to the like or same cause, so must there be a cause of motion as universal as matter; rather than that there should be a distinct impelling cause for every individual motion following after the body, to put and keep it in motion. in all philosophic research the golden rule of nature should be held in mind, which prescribes "the shortest mode and fewest materials:" _to mistake on the side of simplicity is more wise than censurable in the search after natural physical truths_. a universal cause of motion, it would seem, can be no other than a universal medium, a medium of pressure, one occupying the regions of planetary space, competent to keep the planets in interminable motion and effect all terrestrial minor motion: only by such means is it conceivable how the earth can be under endless, ever-varying impulse, productive of ever-changing direction. when impulsively pressed into motion by such a medium, the direction of a planet must be orbicular, on account of the pressure on the solar side being always less than on the opposite, by which the projectile direction is diverted from rectilinear to curvilinear. newton imagined that a medium, and however rare, occupying the regions of space, must retard, in time destroy, and eventually require the hand of deity to restore the primeval order of planetary motion: no very bright idea of the great mathematician, considering the omniscience of the projector of a _self-going_, _self-regulating_ universe. whereas a medium as dense as molten gold, could produce no such disorder as long as impulse is greater than resistance; which the long-continuance and order of planetary motion strongly seem to indicate is the case. were there no medium in space, the planets must be at rest; one could not possibly affect another but by its shadow: uranus being agitated by the greatly remote presence of neptune, is proof of there being a connecting medium between. gravitation is supposed to move the body possessed of the property, forwards,--why not every way?--to the sun or towards some neighbouring planet, but not to send that body or planet an agitating warning of its presence. how is gravitation within one planet to keep another in a state of agitation; which agitation being motion--a mechanical effect--is proof of there being a medium by which mediate connection is maintained between the two, uranus and neptune. without a planetary medium there could be no _system_ of planets. suppose the existence of such a medium, then its sudden removal,--must not every subordinate system, which makes part of the universal system, become disjointed the same instant? besides, from the laws of vision, rather of optics, there is equal proof that space contains a medium. there is no light to come from a star to the eye; there is nothing of sight belonging to the eye-balls; and there must be something between a star and the sense to connect the star with the sense; or how is the sense or brain to be so affected by the star, as that the perception or sensation shall be always the same when the eye-ball lenses are directed to the same star; and only by a universal medium can all the stars of the hemisphere be in connection with the eye at the same time, or the time of a few winks of the eye. therefore until it is proved that constant planetary motion can be without constant and equal corresponding impulse, as to direction; and that a star can affect the sense of itself, immediately or with nothing between, all denial of planetary space being occupied by a medium of pressure, is utterly untenable. the medium of space. pressure being obviously the cause of planetary motion, so is it of all terrestrial motion. to produce atomic motion and transfer generally, it is necessary, only, that the atoms of the medium of space should be of less size than the minutest interstices in bodies. a universal medium must be of universal service, (as would be conceived, were the universe involved in a medium of water,) to be in accordance with nature's economy: to keep the planets and matter in motion, to retain atoms together, and effect their separation occasionally, include the whole of action required by its service; more in this respect it cannot effect; nor is the common general procedure otherwise effected. therefore in pressure, by the medium of space, consists the primum mobile: the beginning and end of all physical cause of action and of all physical effect. pressure is nothing assumed, hypothetic, or unproven, like attraction and gravitation,--the justly dethroned imbecile usurpers of the imperial chair of philosophy for ages past. on barometric evidence alone, that pressure exists all round the globe is fully proved; and that it is indispensable to the maintenance of the existing general order, all must readily grant who reflect for an instant on the fatal consequences which the cessation of the general pressure, for only a few minutes, must cause. hence it is no immediate question how the general pressure originated, how maintained, what the confining boundaries or _point d'appui_. most likely it is the consequence of the motion of the planets themselves, surging through the ocean of space. as every performance of nature has some ulterior object in view, it is probable that the effect of the motion of a planet on the medium of space is tributary to the motion of another planet, and that the motion of the whole is a means of preventing the cessation of motion of any of the parts. most likely the medium of space was not in a state of pressure at first; that planetary motion, however commenced, effected the state of pressure necessary for its continuance, and which would be useless beyond the precincts of planetary evolution: where pressure is not needed, of a certainty there is none. hence the conclusion is warrantable, that the general pressure, however commenced, is maintained by not only the motion of the planets individually but in systems, through the ocean of space. the earth may be said to swim through the medium of space, and to be soaked with it as a submerged sponge is with water, and the portion within the globe of the earth, is continuous with the like medium in space generally. by which all parts of the interior of the globe are under the general pressure equally as the surface, and all terrestrial bodies subject to its vicissitudes. by such means, only, is the great earthquake to be accounted for on dynamic principles. far as the subterraneous grumbling extends, the physical cause must be present, and in a state of force equal to the awful result. no pent-up air suddenly set free, or suddenly exploded gas,--both naturally forceless,--subject to attenuation and obstruction in the passage from the source--is competent to burst the globe and hurl whole cities into the engulfing chasm: nor is fire any assistant, judging from the absence of flame, smoke, cinders, and ashes. dreadful as is the catastrophe, it is but a natural casuality and in perfect accordance with the laws of matter. an extraordinary rushing into the body of the earth of medium of space, preceded by an equal efflux of elementary matter atmospherically induced, are the cause and promoting means of the extraordinary, terrific phenomenon. all things being under the general pressure, and elementary atoms of all sizes everywhere present, the interstices of bodies cannot remain empty. from all interstices being formed by spherical atoms, and the atoms of the medium of space the smallest, there are always interstitial spaces for medium of space to enter, pass through or remain within, and which _is not insulated_, but continuous with the outward source. thus, has the medium of space access to every atom, and by the pressure from without, is enabled to act _centrifugally_ within the body, as a kind of back-spring against each and the whole of its constituent atoms, to produce expansion, dissolution, and elementary dispersion according to the medium or circumstances in which the body may be placed. these general principles admit of repetition, in order, that, by repeated showing, to prove their validity, against others more generally known and adopted, although unfounded in nature, sense, or reason. minus-pressure matter. taking the maximum of pressure as a fixed quantity, or, as not being subject to increase, and assuming the degree to be not less than equal to the tenacity of steel, there must of necessity be means of mitigating the maximum, so that in the scale of descent every degree of force should be attainable; and more, to keep the equilibrium in a state of disturbance, without which all things must be, and remain in the rest of death. were there no minus-pressure means, the solid, or perhaps aëriform state of matter would exist everywhere, and of motion there could be none. such means for promoting motion are amply supplied, and without any addition of matter to the measured quantity sufficient for the formation of bodies and service of nature generally, in the elements themselves, of matter. as the body which is involved in a medium of air is under less pressure than in a medium of water, and still less within a medium of elementary matter, so is elementary matter, and the elements generally, the natural means of mitigating the maximum of pressure on and within bodies. all bodies within and on the surface of the earth, possess removable elementary matter, which prevents superficial contact, and excludes medium of space proportionally from their interior; and because the medium of space is the cause of pressure, in being thus rendered discontinuous, so is its force, as it were, intercepted or lessened. for instance, a polished needle floats on water, but when wetted or smoked is precipitated, from having its electric or minus-pressure atmosphere removed; from which it is obvious that with the minus-pressure atmosphere, the needle is under less pressure than when without it; and the same atmosphere it is which makes the bed in the water so much larger every way than the needle. the minus-pressure principle is well exemplified in the rise of water within a tube over which fire is situated. when the fire is removed, the water falls. the fire must be in the state of combustion--mere ignition does not answer. the elements forced out of the combustible, as combustion proceeds, cover the orifice of the tube, and intercept the general pressure, notwithstanding they are under the general pressure. by such minus-pressure means is the equilibrium destroyed, and by the unaltered pressure on the water outside the lower orifice of the tube, the water is forced upwards. so is it that the water of the sea is raised to the minus-pressure, elementary matter descending from a cloud in the shape of an inverted cone, and known as the water-spout. astronomers can best say whether the sun and moon be not minus-pressure means in promoting the rise of the ocean, productive of the tides; a miniature representation of which is effected by holding a charged jar over a surface of water, to which the water rises in a small cone,--which cone follows every motion of the jar, and falls when the jar is discharged. capillary ascent is promoted by the interposed minus-pressure electric matter which fills the caliber of the tube: the same matter prevents the horizontal flow of water through such tubes; but when the tubes are de-electrised, the flow is free and constant: boiling water, or fire de-electrises all such tubes. the electric matter on a bar of iron is a hinderance to water running down, but when removed by means of fire, the water runs down the bar freely. the atmosphere is a minus-pressure medium to the earth, and on the general principle that _interposed elementary matter renders discontinuous_ the medium of pressure, which is the medium of space. minus-pressure means exist in other than the elementary form, as in blotting-paper, candle-wick, pledgets of lint. within the cupping-glass, which is empty of air only, it is the minus-pressure matter obtained from flame which promotes the rise of blister. within the vessels of the vascular system, as mucilaginous lining, minus-pressure matter assists the circulation of fluids, on the foregoing capillary principle. the slime on deep-water fish, seems provided to lessen the pressure of the water on the inhabitants of those seas. minus-pressure matter on one side only of a body, destroys the equilibrium, and promotes the motion of the body; and generally, the partial action, implied by motion, of the medium of space on bodies or their parts, is promoted by interposed minus-pressure matter in every instance of physical change. only in minus-pressure means, which serve as a partial vacuum in some cases, to disturb the equilibrium of pressure, is motion, or change of place of the elements of bodies, or of bodies themselves promoted: without such means there is nothing to promote the blowing of a wind, or to put the medium of space into action. cause being given, the _general pressure_ in the production of every physical effect, the sole province of philosophy consists in tracing out the minus-pressure means which promote the occasional and partial action of the medium of pressure. fire. fire is not hot, although it burns the flesh and promotes pain. matter, which is unalterable, cannot be made hot or cold, neither is there anything to make it so. if a limb be made rigid, or the nerves of sensation be removed, or the function of the nervous fluid be obstructed, the limb may be burned off unconsciously. heat is a sensation effected through excitement of the brain; out of the brain there is neither excitement nor heat. the fire does not excite the brain, but the nervous fluid; and although the sensation is not hot, it is imagined that the cause must be hot, which is false reasoning. the chymist finds heat creviced in all things, even those which he admits are destroyed by heat--gunpowder and ice. how can flame be hot, when just obtained from the gases of decomposed ice water? or, if hot, _sui generis_, it must have been hot frozen flame in the original ice. modern philosophy adopts different kinds of heat,--_animal, culinary, and latent heat_. the first is our own feeling excited by means of fire in the sensitive centre, the brain; also by exercise and disease, in the absence of fire. how is the spark from the flint or from the steel to saturate a bushel of coal with heat? how, again, does "heat come to an equilibrium in all surrounding bodies," when some portion of the coal may be black cold, and others red hot--using the popular terms--in the fire-place, at the same time, and while the air in the chamber is indexing zero? _latent heat_ is of the philosopher's own peculiar making; and on the "_great discovery_" the most unbounded praise is still bestowed. latent heat, "which all bodies possess without being heated," which, "heats nothing," and is not hot, is cold heat, and should be nomenclatured such, or, absurd heat. are not instructors less than half-reasoners and unnatural philosophers, who abide by and teach such consummate nonsense: on a par with which is the discovery of "latent dark light"--"of black being formed by the intermixture of two luminous rays at the point of intersection in the spectrum," which is the same as feelable darkness; after which, there only remains for "_new discovery_," latent sound, for inking on, thence vibrating from, a sheet of music-paper; and latent motion, to keep a stone at rest, the quantity of motion in the world having been already ascertained arithmetically to a fraction; the last-day discovery, the quantity of right reason, is the small remaining trifle to be discovered. radiation of heat and cold by fire and ice, being inconsistent with the _inertia_ of _matter_, is an erroneous and greatly-misleading assumption, although proved through the nicest experiments, according to the experimenter's ideas. instead of fire communicating anything to bodies, _fire promotes loss to everything_ in its neighbourhood. the bars of stoves, iron pokers, steam-boilers; all culinary vessels; coal, wood, candles, paper, linen, all suffer loss by means of fire; cinders, charcoal, tinder, are but remains: to which it is no exception that some bodies acquire substance and weight in becoming oxydes; because, previous to acquiring oxygen from the air, they must have lost elementary matter to the fire to make spaces for the oxygen to enter, otherwise the open air should oxydize equally, in the absence of fire. the loss, or matter of loss which fire promotes to fluids, appears as air-beads on the sides and bottom within the vessel on the fire, before the water comes to ebullition: these beads cannot be made to rise in the water by any manner of agitation, which is proof they have not come from the fire, and through the rigid bottom, or ascent and escape are inevitable. when the bottom has been sufficiently de-electrised by the fire, they are pressed through it to the fire; or if the vessel be removed and placed on the ground, they become dispersed through the water insensibly. the like spherules collect on an egg while boiling, which cannot be anything issued from the fire to the surface of the water, then precipitated on the egg. on the bottom of a glass-retort suspended over a lamp, the like spherules collect, from which it is supposed that water never touches the bottom of any containing vessel; it must touch that which it wets. that air suffers loss to fire, is made evident by the air being deprived of, or losing its oxygen during combustion; and from both fire and flame becoming extinguished in a limited quantity of respirable air, in consequence of having lost its oxygen to the combustible, while in the state of fire. solids, as polished metals and glass, when they experience no change of weight, lose to the fire imponderable elementary matter only. so is it when the hand is presented to the fire, it loses electric matter, and the loss it suffers promotes the sensation of heat: when the hand afterwards touches a body, supposed to be cold, it acquires elementary matter from that which is touched. in every instance the body, solid or fluid, supposed to be _heating_, is losing elementary matter; and that which is said to be _cooling_, is acquiring the like matter; the hand _loses_ to the former and _receives_ from the latter electric matter. the medium of fire. a peculiar medium is formed within a fire, towards the composition of which the fuel contributes more or less of its elements; which is made manifest in a piece of wood or paper when held within the fire, being brought to the state of combustion, and without touching the fuel, (heat, be it remembered, is no more physical than shadow.) the like medium is formed from the elements contributed by flame, and whatever of elementary matter the atmosphere may contribute beside. high above the flame of a lamp combustion and fusion are effected the same as within, or in contact with the flame. between the cupped hands this medium is receivable, and may be carried from the flame of a candle to the wick of a different candle just blown out, which it re-illumines. there being little or none of the medium of fire attendant on a detached ignited body, favours the conjecture that the fuel during combustion contributes somewhat of its elements towards the formation of the medium of fire. hence, although not included in the nomenclature of chymistry or any other, the medium of fire should have place on the list of realities. as all bodies include more or less of free elementary matter, which excludes its equal in volume of the medium of space, so to admit medium of space in order to cause change in the constitution of a body, the body must undergo previous de-electrisation: the law is general. the medium of space being the expanding and decomposing cause, by means of its centrifugal pressure within bodies, to prevent its being in excess and effecting such changes spontaneously, productive of the decomposition of all things, all bodies are protected or retained in their present condition by the electric matter within them, which excludes the decomposing cause. within the medium of fire all kinds of bodies become de-electrised; all suffer loss of electric matter, which is succeeded by influent medium of space, the centrifugal pressure of which affects the several changes to which bodies are liable previous to ultimate dissolution into the elementary state. in promoting the de-electrisation of every kind of body, and to the extreme, which no other individual medium or menstruum can effect, consists the universal utility of the medium of fire. expansion. the theory of expansion is of easy comprehension; it consists in previous de-electrisation, succeeded by influent medium of space, which, by acting with centrifugal pressure, produces the phenomenon of expansion. the general pressure is the expanding cause, by reason of the portion of medium of space within all bodies being continuous with the medium of pressure in general space. a bar of iron placed within the medium of fire suffers de-electrisation; then acquires medium of space, by which the bar is expanded. when taken from the fire, it acquires electric matter similar to that of which it had suffered loss, which displaces the expanding medium, and now becomes contracted by external pressure. the olden philosophy has no contracting cause, the imputed attraction having been destroyed by the imputed heat of the fire, as the same philosophy states of the imputed attraction of magnets being destroyed by the heat of fire, which leaves the bar to contract itself. a piece of lead on the fire becomes de-electrised and expanded. the portion of medium of space it has acquired separates the atoms of the lead by which the state of solidity is subverted; it remains as one of the constituents of the lead, and is as a menstruum to the metal, and the atoms of the metal may be said to swim in it as the globules of blood in the serum. further de-electrisation and additional increments of medium of space are productive of complete dispersion of the atoms of the metal, and of a kind of efflorescent result, which is a subsequent formation. the air in a corked bottle before the fire loses electric matter to the medium of fire; and by the medium of space which enters the vacated interstices, the cork is exploded. in the partially exhausted air-pump receiver, that decrease in the quantity of air should increase the expansive power of the remainder, and that the atoms should fly asunder with exploding force, is most unreasonable and impossible. the physical fact is, the more the air is reduced, the greater is the quantity of influent medium of space, consequently of expanding and exploding force. in the condensing of air, as is the expression, by the piston of the syringe, the quantity is reduced from being forced out through the pores of the syringe; and pressure on the bottom of the piston springs it up when the depressing power is removed. under the general pressure the atoms of air must be in contact; and the volume being reduced, implies reduction of quantity: hard unalterable atoms are incompressible beyond contact; and as to their being elastic, it is physically impossible; medium of space being forced out and re-entering, is what makes the air be considered elastic. let the syringe be worked under water, and the matter displaced appears escaping as air-bubbles, and as air-beads on the outside of the syringe. oxygen air. all airs are compounds. medium of space is the most voluminous constituent of every aëriform body, which accounts for an air or gas and steam being of so much greater volume than that from which it had been obtained; steam has fifteen hundred times the volume of the water it was produced from. oxygen air is decomposed in converting it with hydrogen to water: there is no oxygen or hydrogen air in water; their _elements_ are the constituents of water. oxygen is decomposed by respiration; when inspired, it is not expired, but nitrogen, which must have been one of its constituents, and from there being nothing to constitute the expiration but the previous inspiration the proposition is proved. the constituents of oxygen are--nitrogen, _a highly rare imponderable element_ and medium of space. the first is the most ponderable element of nitrogen air; its atoms are the largest of all others of the elements of matter, and, it may be said, they constitute the substance of the framework of all ponderable or gross formations. davy says, "the properties of nitrogen are altogether negative;" the same applies to every other kind of air, all being constituted of _inert_ atomic substance, consequently of inactive essence; and all being alike in every respect but in the size of their atoms. the imponderable element being highly evanescent, is never found alone, and is always connected with nitrogen; hence simple nitrogen is obtainable only from bodies, or by deoxygenating atmospheric air. atmospheric air is nitrogen, plus the imponderable element; and when the nitrogen is saturated with the same element, the air is oxygen: hence, whichever is inspired, nitrogen is expired. from nitrogen being evolved copiously from water in vacuo, and from ice being convertible to nitrogen, according to priestley, so is nitrogen a constituent of water, also of the gases into which water is decomposable; but as it cannot belong to the hydrogen, owing to its superior levity, it must to the oxygen; which is confirmation of the above, that nitrogen is a constituent of oxygen air or gas. the use of oxygen in promoting combustion. how oxygen supports combustion no elementary treatise explains; but leaves it to be imagined, that oxygen is somewhat of a burnable nature, or that it generates heat when blown into a fire. the fact is, it supports combustion only mechanically. the centrifugal pressure, by the medium of space, decomposes the fuel; electric matter, entering the ignited fuel, displaces medium of space, and the fire goes out; oxygen prevents the entrance of electric matter, and permits the medium of space to enter the fuel freely, the pressure from without gives centrifugal force. in this twofold manner of service oxygen promotes the continuance of the kind of decomposition known as combustion. a live coal is greatly _deficient_ of electric matter; when just fallen from the fire it is said to be red and hot, after a few minutes black and cold; all of which are but mental effects. on the hearth the coal acquires electric matter from the air, which displaces medium of space, and becomes extinguished; so would the fire were there no oxygen in the surrounding air. hence it would seem, that the interstices of oxygen are too diminutive for electric matter to enter, but are sufficiently large for those of the medium of space to pass through, thence into the fuel. should the utility of the nitrogen of oxygen in combustion be questioned, because nitrogen alone puts an end to the combustion of a candle; it may be answered, that, as the imponderable element of oxygen air, from being highly evanescent, is not obtainable without the nitrogen, and as by the service of both together combustion is increased, so may both be considered supporters of combustion; the grosser element serving as a carrier to the minor, and, as it were, giving it momentum sufficient to penetrate beyond the surface of the half-decomposed, or previously ignited fuel. combustion. a piece of wood, like everything else when placed within the medium of fire, suffers de-electrisation and acquires medium of space: this twofold procedure continuing, the wood becomes split or burst asunder, and its elements gradually forced out by the centrifugal pressure; some of which are precipitated, some contribute to the medium of fire, others are recombined differently and exist for a short space of time as flame, and others, with matter from the air, form soot. such is the most rational theory of combustion, consistent with the _inertia_ of matter and the absence of heat. friction rubs away electric matter, percussion forces it out, combustion and ignition follow, and without being promoted by either heat or fire. the kindling matter of a coal-laid fire requires the de-electrising spark at first, and the de-electrised kindling de-electrises the coal; the wood fire, effected by means of friction, is independent of even the spark of fire for its commencement, from having been otherwise de-electrised at first. within the fire, one part de-electrises another, and the centrifugal pressure decomposes the whole. animal combustion is consequent on the internal organs and flesh being de-electrised, the stomach first, by means of spirituous liquors, which, like fire in so doing, promote the sensation of heat. the stomach and adjacent organs, from being thus de-electrised, are prepared to receive the decomposing medium; and from oxygen, to exclude electric matter, being absent, the flesh is brought to the state of smothered combustion and charred: it may now be considered in the light of a _mortuum caput_. the spontaneous combustion of greasy clothes, damp hay and other things, is promoted by the limited quantity of air in which such articles are confined. to the hand the air seems warm before combustion has commenced, which indicates deficiency of electric matter, but which, in time, the air acquires from greasy clothes, and from damp hay, the removal of which is succeeded by the destroying medium, by which the elements of the combustible become separated, set free, and dispersed. in summer, when the atmosphere is greatly deficient of what may be termed winter electric matter, all woodwork is in a desiccated condition; and the slight friction of limb against limb is sufficient to make space for medium of space to enter in excess, and convert to fire, tree after tree, the whole of a forest. the combustion of a candle is well worthy the philosopher's attention. the candle while burning, comprises a series of the simplest operations, and far beyond the powers of art to effect or otherwise imitate; yet from indifference to the familiar, and the paucity of skill required in the construction, there is nothing less noticed with philosophic acumen. the mechanism and materials to be wrought are the same; which consist in a slender, compact, portable cylinder of tallow, within which is included an equal length of wick. the various operations of de-electrising, fluidifying, and gas-making, are performed in silent, regular succession, unretarded by friction and unincumbered with containing vessels, nature furnishes the power. the wick answers the purpose of service-pipes, through which the half-wrought materials are conveyed in a gaseous form to the refining fire, within which they remain as in a gasometer of supply, to be gradually diffused through the surrounding flame, and there receive the finishing lustrous polish. the new formation is now a refinery to the work in progress, and is curiously situated over the materials where only it could serve the numerous requisite purposes. nor does the gradual consumption of the machinery derange the order of operation, work and wear being carried on simultaneously to the end. the many-coloured tissue wrought, of starlight shine and of expanded base, is tastefully tapered as if to please in appearance, as well as lighten our darkness. thus by natural means, operating on almost uncostly materials, mankind are supplied with that by which darkness is turned to day--the candle flame. all combustion is on the same principle, previous de-electrisation the commencement, and, by the same cause continued, the centrifugal pressure, which is on the increase from being derived from the general pressure. flame, or the electric spark, de-electrises the gases, oxygen and hydrogen, before their conversion to water takes place; compression effects the same. the inflammable air in mines becomes exploded from the de-electrising consequence of flame, when inadvertently exposed; and at times the de-electrisation is effected by the atmosphere, as in spontaneous combustion. the mine explosion, promoted by the atmosphere, is a case of spontaneous detonation, if not combustion, which, from sad experience taught, should be anticipated by the application of a rocket fired by a train. the foul air should be got rid of timely, not left to accumulate, and the weather dictates when. "the davy" may be said to insulate the flame of the lamp from the electric matter of the air within the mine. the flame, when exposed, de-electrises the foul air, and in fluent medium of space causes the explosion. water. water is the most compound of fluids, although when pure it promotes little or no sensation, which is owing to the certain proportion of its elements to each other. it seems to have, as constituents, a portion of each of the general elements; of which, when any are in excess or deficiency, the fluid differs from common pure water, but still is an aqueous fluid. all aqueous fluids which differ from pure water, do so from elementary disproportion in their constitution. ancient philosophers considered water the parent of all things, because it contributes matter of substance and increase, they said, to all kinds of bodies, and because there is nothing elementary belonging to bodies which is not obtainable, by one means or other, from water or its productions. it contributes increase to the whole of the vegetable kingdom, and through vegetable matter to the increase of animal flesh. from the vegetable world are obtainable, by means of art, earths, metals, salts, acids, alkalies, even flame; the primitives of which are of the same kind as the initials of water; also of the atmosphere, which is convertible to water, but is not water, by reason of not only elementary disproportion, but the enormous excess of medium of space in which its elements are involved. the constitution of water being unknown, and supposed to consist of only the gases, hydropathy is condemned, like mesmerism, through the ignorance and intolerance of professionals, themselves falsely educated at best. as alimentary, water is the most wholesome drink under heaven; as medicinal, far beyond comparison with extracts from metals and minerals, from which deduct the water, the remainder kills. the hydropathic perspiration cleanses the flesh from head to foot; physic, the intestines and stomach only. water is the elixir of both body and mind; witness the persons who are teetotallers. a patient declared to the present writer, he would rather have run naked into the street, were he not bound up by the wet sheets, than endure the fog and stench from his body by the cold water perspiration. yet doctors insist that hydropathy is not medicinal or curative, or why not adopt the practice? water is formed by detonating the gases, oxygen and hydrogen, by which their _elements_ become combined in the form of water; which is the only formative mode pursued in the laboratory of art; whereas, in that of nature, it is variously formed: the number of elements determines the number of modes. suppose six the number of the natural elements, then any five and the remaining one, any four and the remaining two, or any three and the other three, met and compressed within the atmosphere, the product is water. on the meeting of certain clouds, where _the gases_ could not have equal elevation, water is formed; and on walls and wainscots, under cover, in humid weather, it is formed from the electric matter on their surface and the complement of elements contributed by the atmosphere: the same walls, in the same weather, would have no water, if kept de-electrised by stoves. it is formed similarly on furs, woollens, and the spider's web, all of which are retainers of electric matter; and on the leaves of plants as _dew_, but on the side only which is covered with the like electric matter. dew-water is neither a precipitation nor exhalation, but a formation on that where it is found. water is formed on glass and metallic vessels, however closely covered, as long and no longer than the included water gives out electric matter through the pores of the vessel. in the air of the tropics, the dew or water running down the outside of covered and uncovered vessels, cannot be considered humidity of the air condensed by cold. in proof of the foregoing, the hitherto unexplained experiment is opportune. a plate of glass, covered on one side with tin foil, has much dew on the naked side when uppermost, and none, when the covered side is uppermost, of equal dewy nights. the foil acquires electric matter from the ground, which the glass or naked upper side receives and retains; but when the naked side is next the ground, the portion of electric matter it acquires is conducted off by the foil at top; and as where there is no electric matter there is no dew, the upper coated side is dry, and under circumstances which would have left much dew on the glass side if uppermost. within the animal system various aqueous fluids and humidities are formed, and, as in the former instances, without oxygen and hydrogen being present; namely, hydrocephalus, the stomach juices, liquor pericardium, water of blister, milk, tears: to these add the juices of fruit, the chymists' aqueous fluids, together with the variety of formative modes, and the complex constitution of water remains unquestionable. lavoisier's experiments proved the same, by the endless variety in the residue and product, from decomposing and recomposing the same water several times. davy states, that, when experimenting on different substances, water frequently appeared, when there was nothing sensibly present to which it could be attributed, if not to nitrogen, which disappeared simultaneously with the water appearing: electric matter is everywhere present, although not sensibly discoverable. from which it is obvious that the alchymists of old mistook the road to _el dorado_. instead of aiming at turning the grosser metals into gold, they should have alchymised on water, taking its elements as the money-changer does those of the numeration table, and by the rules of transposition made the valueless stand in the place of most value. water in the boiler loses electric matter to the fire beneath, and is expanded by influent medium of space; the excess of the latter throws out the elements of the superior stratum, which, with an enormous influx of medium of space, are the constituents of steam and the power of steam. the so-acquired medium of space, by the pressure from without which it is under, is the cause of the elasticity and force of steam. steam is not water, nor is it ever condensed by "cold." it consists in the elements of water, less that which the water lost to the fire: both, with a reduced or proportional quantity of medium of space, make the original stratum of water. what but electric matter can steam receive from the pipes it may be passed through, and is discharged from as water? insulated, "centrifugally repellant heat," without fulcrum, is a most inconsiderable substitute for _the pressure of nature_ by the all-pervading medium of space, and but a shadowy substitute in accounting for the powerful effects of steam. there is no repellant force in the flame of a candle; and what but influent medium of space can make a pint of water fill and overflow a quart vessel. water loses its fluidity and is made solid or congealed, upon losing the imponderable oxygenating element. priestley through his experiments made the discovery, that, "air, purer than atmospheric, is given out by water at the instant of congelation,"--which must be oxygen air. from which we learn, that oxygen is the natural hinderance against the waters of the globe being solid; with which experimental practice and experience agree, it being well known that oxygen added to a freezing solution, retards congelation; and that, to facilitate the freezing of water, a smart tap is given to the side of the vessel, hitherto unknown why, but seems as if to shake out the oxygen. the following observed circumstances exhibit the congelation of water throughout all its stages. the air in a chamber being favourable for the reception of oxygen from water, the water in a cylindrical earthen pitcher became frozen; a plate of ice was formed, which equalled the area of the vessel, and firmly fixed to the sides one full inch higher than the water had been at first. the bottom of the vessel was blown out, the sides remained whole, and the ice not broken or moved. the circumstances of the case admits of the following illustration. medium of space, by its pressure, forced out the oxygen; additional increments of the same medium entered, collapsed the elements of the deoxydated stratum of water, and so forcibly expanded the rest of the water as to make it explode the bottom of the vessel, all at the same instant. as all excess of medium of space retired from the water, the latter sunk to the original height; and had not the water escaped, it would have been an inch separate from the plate of ice. a river thus frozen, flows freely beneath the ice from the same circumstances. the bomb-shell at hudson bay was exploded by the expanded water, not by the newly-formed ice; or else the sides, not the bottom of the earthen vessel, would have been exploded. ice is deoxygenated water, and abounds with electric matter, hence it floats; and ice-water is at the minimum of density from being deficient of oxygen. ice, in a florence flask, hung over a lamp, yields abundance of electric matter, towards the formation of lamp-black on the outside of the bottom of the flask, which, to the miniature painter may be preferable, from being the freest of grit. in all cases of combustion, the elements of lamp-black are present; so that, in combustion of the diamond, the same kind of soot being formed, affords no information of the constituents of this highly-prized crystal. with more reason than that of pure carbon, (which is but another name for the electric matter which is the principal constituent of ice, and lamp-black) being the base of diamond, it may be assumed, that, diamond is a crystalized oxyde of water. the electrician's opposite characteristics of the two, diamond and ice, accord with the suggestion. solvency. the menstruum is supposed to _act_ by "chymical attraction," from having "chymical affinity" on the involved "chymical solid," which enables it to draw out the elementary atoms of the solid: whereas the _inert_ menstruum does nothing; it is but an interstitial recipient for the atoms to be forced into, as they become centrifugally forced out of the solid. and because the atoms of a body are of different sizes, some make novel interstices, and thus expedite the dissolution. only by increasing the number and kind of interstices, can diluting a menstruum with water increase what is imagined to be its solvency. neither chymical properties, nor chymical strength of a fluid, if it had any such, could be increased by dilution, and the stronger should dissolve that which the weaker is said to dissolve. the contrary supposes that the force which breaks a stone is too strong to break a nutshell. mechanical dissolution by the centrifugal pressure is independent of _chymicalities_. _gastric solution_ is effected similarly: the juice has none of the chymical properties of liebig, nor does ingestion stand in need of the living principle of coombe; the former are imaginary, the latter is denied from gastric solution taking place in a tea-cup. the gastric juice is an interstitial receiver of the elements of the pulp, when forced out by the centrifugal pressure into the gastric menstruum, as those of soap into water. the pulp and its _striæ_ are disunited, mechanically decomposed, not abraded: some of its elements escape into the air within the stomach, which, by disturbing the equilibrium within, promote irregularity of pressure on the outside of the sac, which causes the _pliæ_ to be in the peristaltic motion, supposed to be caused by the stomach stimulating itself. the same circumstances take place within and without the intestines. the whole process of digestion is dynamic, in which the only stimulant is pressure. of the various conjectures on the origin of the gastric juice, there cannot be any more unreasonable than that which considers it a fluid _sui generis_, and as having origin out of the stomach. all fluids are compounds; and those belonging to the body may be said to be formed out of, or by commixture with others. to suppose for an instant, that a fluid, which is _destructive of all flesh_, should have existence out of the stomach, and remain harmless in some _fleshy_ vessel as long as the stomach is empty of food, or until food is required to "stimulate" its flow from without through the _papillæ_ of the villous lining into the stomach, is a most strange physiologic oversight. why not rather conclude at once, that the flesh-destroying juice exists only where it is required and for immediate service, and where only there are preventive means, the peristaltic motion, against it proving injurious to the flesh of the stomach; and to the vessels of secretion it would be injurious, hence, not as the juice but chyme it is passed out of the stomach into the system. under such circumstances, the suggestion is nothing unreasonable, that, _there is no gastric juice out of the stomach, nor within, but while there is food present to contribute one or more of its elements to the other juices, including the saliva, towards effecting its completion as a fit interstitial gastric menstruum, for receiving the elementary constituents of the pulp under mechanical decomposition by the centripetally disuniting pressure of the medium of space_. like the all de-electrising medium of fire, which exists only where and while it is being formed, the gastric juice should be looked upon as if _designed to be of difficult formation_; made more so by depending on the food for its completion, which is not a matter of "observation" within the stomach, or in the tea-cup: neither is the perfect juice, which may be sponged or syringed from the bottom of the stomach, any proof that as such precisely it came from the _papillæ_, as some suppose. as to the papillary flow being _stimulated_ by the food, with as bad philosophy it might be said, charmed; or that clockwork is _stimulated_ by the weights. the flow is promoted by the pulp, as were the latter a piece of sponge. and that the papillary flow is but a constituent, not the flesh-destroying juice, in promoting ingestion, is evident from the hunger pain it promotes while harmlessly accumulating out of the stomach, indicating the stomach being empty; and the relief experienced at its source when discharged into the stomach, it is, which has given rise to the idea, that certain organs _sympathise_ with the stomach. such metaphorical expressions may pass for the poetry of pathology, but hitherto have stood in the way of deep research. ingestion is expedited by sleep, in consequence of the accumulation of minus-pressure matter in the gastric region and stomach at the time; and sleep is promoted by imperfect mastication causing a deficiency of saliva in the stomach which is compensated by minus-pressure matter of the thus provoked comatose flow. the pollparrot masticates but little, if at all, and sleeps regularly after breakfast. use of the inspired oxygen within the system. there is none of the inspired oxygen returned to the lungs by the circulation. what becomes of it, or what its use within the system, has not been written for our learning. it is not retained in the blood, nor is it animalised; nothing yields less oxygen than animal matter. to convey "carbon" out of the system, and somehow purify the blood, is the supposed service; but if so, should it not be included in every expiration and of the inspiration quantity? but which is not the case. harvey proved that the blood circulates, but left undiscovered what keeps in motion the _inert_ fluid, except the systole, which the _inert_ heart cannot effect on itself. no organ can do anything of itself, the whole being composed of inert substance, and nothing else; even the life of the body, whatever it may be, leaves the function of every organ, not excepting that of the brain, dependent on the general pressure. by the general pressure the air is forced into, but not through or beyond the lungs which it inflates, and inflates nothing else. within the blood-vessels it would prove fatal; and although from it the blood derives that by which it becomes arterialised, yet the blood and air do not come in contact, extravasation and pulmonary rupture must happen, did the lungs permit the blood and air coming together, or in immediate contact. of the air of an inspiration, the oxygenating imponderable element only can permeate the pulmonary tissue. this element it is which imponderably arterialises the blood; the nitrogen of the inspiration constitutes the immediate succeeding exspiration. the oxygenating element promotes the circulation on the same principle that it promotes combustion; its diminutive interstices exclude electric matter, which coagulates, and admits the propelling force, medium of space, which is the only cause of motion, to enter the blood. the oxygenated blood being propelled, or pressed, by the medium of space it includes, from the lungs into the ventricle, the collapse, or systole, takes place, and the blood is forced out of the ventricle, through the auricle, into the aorta, thence through the several branches of the arterial system, to and through the capillaries, into the veins. thus, from the medium of space within the blood being continuous with the medium of space generally, it is manifest that the blood is circulated not by the systole, but by the general pressure. to produce the systole, there is nothing but the normal pressure on the outside surface of the heart; nor, to lessen the normal pressure on the parietes of the ventricle, is there anything but the arterialising, minus-pressure, imponderable element of the blood just received into the ventricle. throughout the entire of the arterial flow, the blood is losing the arterialising minus-pressure matter to the different organs, as the means by which the functional action of each is promoted. without such means, there is nothing to disturb the equilibrium of pressure on an organ to produce organic motion, action, or function. hence, it appears, that the use of the inspired oxygen consists in promoting the circulation of the blood and the functional motion or action of the different organs within the frame. before entering the veins the blood is fully deoxygenated; within them it acquires gradually electric matter, productive of the livid or coagulating appearance; at the same time the blood-propelling medium is lessening in quantity; but which is compensated in the mucilaginous lining of the veins, which assists the venous flow on the minus-pressure capillary principle; capillary attraction would collapse the vessels. the electric matter collected by the venous blood is got rid of in the lungs, and expired with the nitrogen and a remnant of the oxygenating element of the last inspiration; hence the small portion of carbonic acid gas obtained from the expiration. after all organic service, the arterialising minus-pressure matter is insensibly transpired, which is inferable from the supply being continued through respiration; which, although constant, yet, from being intermitting, might, perhaps, cause corresponding stoppings in the round of organic action; hence it would seem that, against such intervals or interruptions taking place, the liver has been designed to collect for casual distribution a portion of the same minus-pressure matter. the great surface of the liver may stand comparison with the plate, or cylinder, of the electrifying machine, and the organs as jars which receive electric matter from it, as each stands in need. _use of the spleen._--the spleen, from being an organ common to the human frame, must have an allotted service to supply; although considered useless by some, to all of unknown utility, it may be _a lateral channel of arterial blood direct from the heart, to supply the vessels lying in a portion of the body not traversed by the arteries belonging to the great arterial system_; those of the diaphragm first; thence through the umbilical cord to the fetus, in which the circulation is indispensable, from being the only means of conveying and dispersing throughout the body, in the absence of respiration, the minus-pressure matter which the organism of the fetus requires to promote the several functions, without which life would become extinct if commenced. in this supply of motion promoting elementary matter, consists all that can be considered _aeration_ of the blood, and all that the blood of both the fetus and the _adult_ requires, or can possibly receive. in the chirping chick, while within the yet unbroken shell, aeration is _prevented_ by incubation of the mother bird; but the arterialising elementary matter is amply provided within the larger, apparently empty, end of the shell. to keep out electric matter, which would exclude the blood-moving medium, is the object of the hen sitting on the eggs, and oven-hatching is effected on the same principle. _how the diaphragm is raised._--the _diaphragm_ cannot rise of itself, and has no self-acting, self-lifting nerves or muscles, all flesh being composed of _inert_ atoms. the rise is proof positive that pressure is greater on the posterior than anterior surface of the membrane, and the unchanged normal pressure beneath indicates reduced pressure above; the latter is promoted by minus-pressure matter imparted by the splenic blood to the diaphragm, while passing through the vessels of the diaphragm. this arterialising matter being highly evanescent, escapes from the diaphragm and upwards, and during the escape mitigates the pressure, intercepts it in some degree from the superior surface; then, by the normal pressure beneath, the rise of the diaphragm is effected. as the escape, or separation, is becoming complete, the equilibrium is being restored, and the diaphragm depressed to the normal level. if this be not the rationale of diaphragmatic motion, it will be little improved by the substitution of muscular energy, leverage, or muscular vitality, while leaving out _muscular inertia_, which should not be omitted, but included, in accounting for every muscular action and motion. correlative elements. any pair of the general elements, the interstices of one of which are the only interstices for receiving and retaining the atoms of the other, or that can be occupied by the atoms of any other of the general elements, such elements are correlatives. elementary co-relation is conspicuous in the opposite polarities of the loadstone, magnet, and crystals, and all bodies subject to polarization, which includes the animal frame. similar co-relation is evinced between the galvanic fluids, those of the pile, and those named electricity; likewise between oxygen and hydrogen, the oxygenating element and nitrogen, acids and alkalies and all mutually neutralizing substances. still it is not meant that all the general elements are so paired; doubtless, there are several ratios of size between the atoms of the different elements, for the purpose of multiplying variety among formations, the substance of which is of the same species throughout. possibly the correlative principle gave rise to the ideal scale of _chymical affinities_, subsequently refined to _affections of matter_. naturally, correlative elements will be found together, as are nitrogen and the imponderable element; also the magnetic fluids common to iron. magnetism. were attraction a property of the atomic substance of the loadstone, it could be neither transferable, receivable, nor liable to be destroyed by fire. a magnet is a work of art, the substance is inert, it can no more attract than think. magnetism is an accident of matter; it consists in the correlatives of an iron bar having become separated, and drawn one to each end of the bar: separation and transition to the extremities of the bar, are what the rubbing on the poles of the loadstone effects. two paving-stones hanging a short distance asunder and touched by nothing but the tranquil air, remain at rest; but should attract each other had "every atom in creation" the property. were a vacuum, partial vacuum or air much rarer than atmospheric, now placed between the suspended stones, each would be in motion towards the other the same instant. here both _causes_, the general pressure, and the minus-pressure, or motion _promoting_ means, are given; the latter are sensibly present, and the absence of attraction is as evident as the inutility of anything of the kind to effect the mutual approach of the two bodies. not so is the approach of two magnets understood, because the intermediate minus-pressure means _present_ are not sensible. that iron magnets do not move together by attraction, or that attraction is not the cause of the phenomena imputed to it, is proved in the case of iron-filings dropping from a bar, when the connection of the bar with the galvanic battery is broken; and it will not be contended that the galvanic current is attraction. in order to arrive at a knowledge of wherein consists the means which subvert the equilibrium between two suspended magnets, reference has to be made to the artizan's mode of operating in converting the unmagnetised bar to a magnet. he holds the bar in the middle, and draws one half along the pole of a loadstone; then draws the other half along the other pole, and after a few such alternate _rubbings_ against the poles, the bar is a polarized magnet. from which it was formerly supposed, that iron contains a magnetic fluid which the loadstone rubbings divide, and draw half to each end of the bar. but were such the fact, the ends or poles should be _equals_, whereas they are magnetic opposites. now, with more reason, it is considered that iron includes two different, removable elements, (correlatives,) which, by the manipulation on the loadstone, are drawn one to each end of the bar, and there remain as polar atmospheres, and constitute what are termed the polarities, or opposite polarities of the bar; the latter opinion is somewhat confirmed by the corresponding manner in which iron filings, while being scattered on a sheet of paper, become arranged round the poles of a magnet lying under the paper. the magnetic relation, which the polar atmospheres of any iron magnet bear to those of every iron magnet, being the same as exists between the polar atmospheres of every individual magnet, makes manifest, that a certain pair of correlative elements is common to all magnetisable iron; but without concluding that, by the same kind of correlatives, the polarities are produced in bodies not ferruginous, which, if the physical fact, so may the animal correlatives be different in some instances. from which it follows, that no one mesmeriser can affect mesmerically every person, nor any one person be so affected by all mesmerisers. neither are all persons "nervous" alike, which should moderate the war cry against mesmerism generally because of failure in some cases; and should awaken the philosophic mesmeriser, willing to make perfect the science, to investigate the cause of exceptions and difficulties. now, as respects the interposed minus-pressure means or matter, which, by destroying the equilibrium, promote the approaching motion of two suspended magnets; there is nothing whatever to refer to, but the magnets themselves, that is, their polar atmospheres, which, together or facing one another, make a rare or minus-pressure medium between the proximate ends, into which both magnets are moved by the greater pressure on their remotest ends. it lies with the previously-instructed patient, while clairvoyant, through questioning by the mesmeriser, to make close observation, and report all circumstances respecting the magnetic lights; also, those attached to and proceeding from the mesmeriser, towards elucidating this most of all recondite subjects--magnetism, in the philosophy of physics. the mesmeriser should hold in mind, that, probably the air between the facing ends of two magnets is magnetically affected, that is, made a magnet in the series by the other two; which seems to be the case when the patient is magnetised at a distance from the mesmeriser by means of the pointed finger, and by the _effect_ of will at a much greater distance. natural sleep. that sleep is not at the command of will is certain, or why undergo the tedium of a restless night? before the state of sleep can obtain, the body has to experience an _electro-physico_ change, by which the extremities are left polarised and the body an animal or living magnet. that the extremities are polarised during sleep, is admitted by all physiologists; for the effecting of which there must be a pair of correlative elements concerned. while the elementary transfer, productive of the polarities, is taking place, so is drowsiness; when sleep has obtained, the natural magnetising procedure has terminated; hence from the degree of polarity, the mesmeriser can determine the stage to which the patient has been brought between the comatose and clairvoyant states, and know the capability of his patient for being made clairvoyant or not; this polar index should be well noticed. _comatose flow._--it must have been observed by many persons while dozing and the body in a sitting or leaning posture, that an agreeable warm glow arises in the chest, which increases while passing sensibly through the pectoral towards the gastric region, and which terminates, insensibly, in the consummation of sleep; from the feet upwards a similar, but less perceptible, flow takes place. of this twofold _comatose flow_, the immediate consequence is polarisation of the extremities; sleep is a remote, but not the remotest consequence, when effects similar to those by the flow are mesmerically effected. thus it appears that the theory of sleep and magnetism is the same. the magnetising procedure, however, has this difference; the magnetic correlatives are drawn from the middle to and out of the extremities of the bar; those of the body of the patient recede from the extremities to the central region, leaving one, the correlative of the other, at each extremity, in both cases. the foregoing theory of sleep is described from immediate personal observation. while leaning over a table, the doze heavy, the comatose flow distinctly felt in its agreeable downward progress through the chest, when, just at the instant of forgetfulness, the violent slam of a door drove away all chance of sleep under the following circumstances: a sensible and sudden revulsion upwards, a few seconds of giddiness, and a smart painful stroke on the stomach took place, all in quick succession; which may be accounted for thus: the slam prevented the correlative fluids from the opposite extremities meeting centrally; each gushed irregularly back, and depolarized its extremity, the suddenness of which caused the giddiness. the stroke is the true electric shock, inflicted by the medium of space suddenly rushing or falling on the stomach, from which the matter of the comatose flow had been as suddenly displaced. taking all circumstances into consideration, it is manifest that the state of sleep is the result of a natural magnetizing operation. before the fire, while reading, the superior extremity loses electric matter to the fire, which leaves it polarized and promotes the comatose flow. the lower extremity becomes polarized simultaneously with the upper as a correlative consequence. sleep is supposed to be expedited by heat; hence the afternoon's nap is seconded by a silk handkerchief thrown over the head, but which is only a hindrance to electric matter, similar to that of the comatose flow entering from the air and depolarizing the extremity. the handkerchief, from being a non-conductor, only prevents the coming sleep being retarded; it could neither generate nor multiply heat. naturally it might be questioned, why the body should become somnolent daily; and, by what means the comatose flow is naturally effected;--of itself it could not take place. the languor removed, and renovation of muscular strength through sleep, may satisfy in the first instance. next, it would seem, that, as the functions of the several organs depend on the presence of minus-pressure matter for unequalising the pressure on each organ, so must there be waste, loss, and daily deficit of minus-pressure matter; which, from being made good by means of sleep, leaves it inferable, that the daily quantity derived from respiration may be little more than sufficient for the continuance of animation under the minimum of bodily exercise; but as man is necessitated to follow laborious avocations, so is it designed, that the loss by service and waste shall be the means whereby the necessary re-supply is to be furnished. the loss leaves the extremities polarized; and as greater waste towards total exhaustion approaches, the matter of the comatose flow becomes needed and is employed in prolonging the functions of the different organs, and before exhaustion is complete the body is in the state of sleep; during which, from every inspiration being far more lengthy than ordinary, the body is resupplied to repletion with the respirable minus-pressure matter, by which the extremities are depolarized, and the sleeper is awake, refreshed and invigorated. from which it may be said, that a man toils himself to sleep, and sleeps himself awake; and that, not "balmy sleep," but respiration, is "tired nature's sweet restorer." _mesmeric sleep_ may be considered forced sleep. it is effected with little or no comatose flow, which renders replenishing by long breathing unnecessary; and the patient, on being awakened by demagnetising the extremities, is rather debilitated than refreshed. every finger of the mesmeriser is a magnet to the magnetic correlatives within the extremities of the patient; and the passes polarize after the manner of the comatose flow in the case of natural sleep. from there being no mesmerically-effected comatose flow, there is reason to infer, that _the contents of the nerves of sensation only are what the passes polarize_ and what only are polarized in natural sleep, although expressed by the word, _extremities_. repetition of the passes separates, or de-electrises more completely the nerves of the extremities, than for the production of natural sleep is requisite. hence it may be said, that the body of the _mesmerised_ patient is in magnetic advance, and hence the series of surprising consequences which bring to light more and more the wonders of the economy. the passes should be conducted on magnetising principles; that is, from the extremities to the gastric region to bring on somnolency, and from the same region to the head and feet or extremes to awaken; from head to foot is unscientific, and might be prejudicial; the central region of the body should be considered _the mesmeric insuperable line_. cross passes having been found efficient are not anomalous, by reason of the nerves and branches lying in all directions. vision. according to the popular opinion, which governs the philosopher, and with which the established philosophy agrees, vision is an act performed by the eye, which is said to be endowed with the faculty of sight, by which it is enabled to look into, through space, and see external bodies made visible when covered with solar or day light; nothing of which is true. the eyeball is not possessed of sight; to see is not the function of the sense; externals are not visible; there is no material light; light is a sensible or mental effect consequent on the chromatic organ of the brain being excited by the fluid of the optic nerve. all we know by means of the optic sense, consists in the sensation of light or coloured light, accompanied with the idea of form. the object which promotes the sensation being, seemingly, the place of the sensation, all imagine the sensation is the colour of the object to which the eye is directed, and hence, that the object or body is seen by the eyes. these general mistakes are made evident and stand corrected by reference to the sense itself, its physiology and function, as previously stated and advised. the medium of space is the visual medium; not, however, for looking through, as is supposed, but by reason of it forming the link or intermediate means by which the object is connected with the sense. now, as the medium of space is present everywhere, and as it promotes visual or optic perception, the question naturally arises, why do we not see in the night as well as day, in all places and at all times; in a word, why do we not see in the dark? the clairvoyant does "see" in the dark. the nervous fluid excites the sensation of colour; the medium of space connects mediately the object with the nervous fluid, which fluid acts on the optic cerebral organ by pressure and degrees of pressure. the nervous fluid, nor anything else, acts essentially, that is, by means of properties and qualities; and its acting on the brain is caused by external agency, the fluid itself being _inert_. it may well be supposed that the exquisite construction of the brain, from being competent to produce psychologic effects, although excited by material agency, requires but the most simple means, such as a simple impulse or impression, to be actuated into excitement; and as the portion or line of the medium of space which is continuous from the external object, through the pupil, to the nervous fluid within the retina, is that which puts the nervous fluid into functional action on the brain, it is fairly assumable that only by pressure, degrees, and changes of pressure, the nervous fluid can by possibility act on and excite the brain; which equally applies to the nervous fluid of all the senses. taking, then, the maximum of optic pressure as productive of no sensation; so, from there being no object to perceive, it is imagined we are surrounded with darkness; and taking the minimum as exciting the sensation recognised as luminous, light, or white, to intermediate degrees of cerebral pressure are to be attributed the sensations of red, yellow, blue and of colours generally. according to these terms of the colorific scale, all optically-excited perceptions are consequent on the cerebral pressure being in degrees on the scale of descent from the maximum. for the reduction of optic pressure, there are different minus-pressure means, namely, the sun, flame, electricity, phosphoric substances; and the daily electric matter, which is constant in the atmosphere at the eastern hemisphere of the globe, and which keeps pace with the sun; because the rarest elements of the atmosphere will be in greater quantity on the side facing the sun. as this daily electric matter emerges before the sun is above the horizon, the general optic pressure excites the sensation supposed to be the light of day-break; and while following, after sunset, the sensation is known as twilight. any such minus-pressure matter lying in the visual direction, shortens the visual line, and intercepts the continuity of that line of the medium of space which makes one with the axis of the eye, and thus effects the reduction of optic pressure. * * * * * _note._--the terms here made use of, from being unknown in the olden philosophy, need explanation.--_axis line_: that line of the medium of space which is as the axis of the eye produced to, and terminated by the external object. _visual line_, the same. _visual continuity_; the line which is continuous _angularly_ with the termination of the axis line. from the termination of this _continuous_ line, there may be another angular continuity or _line_, as from mirror to mirror. all lines continuous from the axis line and terminated by _the object_ supposed to be seen, and however irregular, are _lines_ of _vision_: the angular point, _the point of_ (first, second, or third) _continuity_. the reader should make a diagram for each case as he proceeds. * * * * * within the window-closed room, a lighted candle is supposed to fill the entire space with light radiated from the flame: the perception is named light, and is thus wise excited. when the axis line is terminated by the flame, the pressure on the nervous fluid is lessened to the degree which promotes the sensation of luminousness, which seems to be the physical appearance of the flame itself. again; when, in the same room, the eye is directed to a mirror the like perception is excited, because the visual line is continuous from the point of continuity, or termination of the axis line, to the flame as before. when the axis line is terminated by a piece of furniture, the point of continuity being imperfect and the visual continuity thence to the flame irregular or indirect, the optic pressure on the brain by the axis line excites the sensation of colour, which is imputed to the object, chair, or table. in the celebrated optics, the visual lines are mistaken for rays of light radiated from the flame, and reflected from the other objects; which rays are supposed to enter the eye, and (as if possessed of intelligence) arrange themselves on the back of the eye or on the retina, in the precise form, but of a different size, of the object to which the eyes are directed, as the means by which externals are seen before the face. in cases wherein the visual line is indirect, as when lying through media of unequal density, the supposed rays are said to be refracted: and, because the curtained iris excludes the visual medium, except through the pinhole pupil, thence along the axis through the lenses of the eyeball, the _optics_ inculcate, that the eye has been formed to see only in straight lines. finally, by dr. reed it is taught, that the use of the sensation and of the image on the _back_ of the eye, is to make the external object _opposite the face_ be seen; all which has to be rejected and forgotten in being guided by the natural, real function of the sense, against which there is no appeal. there are no rays concerned; the medium of vision is quiescent; there can be neither radiation, reflection, nor refraction effected by passive inert bodies; there is no image on any part of the eye or retina; and externals could not be made visible, or seen by their images. such absurdities, all of which are maintained in modern philosophy, have prevented, more than any thing else, the science and phenomena of mesmerism being understood. according to the interstitial composition of the surface of a body, so is the point of visual continuity at or beneath the surface; which determines the degree of pressure on the axis line; which determines what shall be the resulting sensation, or apparent colour of the surface of the object to which the pupil of the eyeball is directed. through a pane of glass, or through the clear atmosphere, the axis line may be said to be uninterruptedly continuous, and the perception is as if the glass were away. through an ignited sheet of iron the visual continuity is imperfect, and may be said to be continuous only halfway through the sheet. an ignited bar, at first, is said to be brown, then ignited to redness: colours are sensations. within the bar the axis line is continuous in zig-zag order, which causes the optic pressure to excite the sensation of red: it is a prismatic case. the _spectra_, by means of the prism, are only in the sensorium; the skreen itself is unseen. when the direct axis line terminates at the apparent red on the skreen, the continuity thence is maintained through some particular part of the prism; when terminated by the yellow, through a different part; when by the blue, through another different part; and through each part the continuity is somewhat curvilinear, hence the pressures and perceptions are different. through the air, when the perception is of the many-coloured rainbow, the visual continuity is as through the prism: there is no coloured bow out of the sensorium. where there are no minus-pressure means for lessening the optic pressure, as in mines, caves, and window-closed rooms, there can be no perceptions of light and colour. from the sensation ceasing the same instant the last window-shutter is closed, it would seem, that, the _daily_ minus-pressure matter is in constant flow eastward through the globe. the rheumatic sufferer fears sun-down, as if the daily matter enters and protects the nerves from the nightly. the meteorologist has to resolve the problem for the philosopher in tracing the magnetic meridian. the objection is unfounded against pressure being the cerebral exciting cause. it is objected, that, from two stars equally distant, one considered red, the other blue, the pressure cannot be changed along the visual lines in the small space of time the eye takes to direct itself from one to the other star. there is no changing of pressure on either line. the existing pressure on the sense by each is different, and what it is, depends on the constitution of the external object, as in every other instance, and just as on that of the ignited bar already stated. the imputed colours of the stars being different, so is the continuity of axis line beneath the surface of the atmosphere of each star, also the degree of pressure and the sensitive result. neither is it maintainable that the medium of space cannot be the medium of vision, because "from being all-pervading, it should excite vision through all kinds of bodies, as through a block of rock crystal, but does not through so thin a substance as a leaf of blotting-paper." by clairvoyance it is proved that the visual continuity is maintained through stone walls; and by reason of the _visual and auditory_ medium being the same, that is, medium of space, the "hearing" through stone walls, makes the "seeing" possible. the bell must be connected mediately with the auditory sense, as is the object with the visual sense; and through stone walls there is nothing continuous but the medium of space. sound is no more a transmissible object than colour; neither belongs to the external object. in all such cases of sensations which are different, although the promoting means are the same for all the senses, that the organs of sense may not be equally susceptible, or capable of being put into functional service by the same degree of cerebral pressure, should be held in mind, or else it might be asked why all the senses are not excited at the same time. transparency. a transparent body, is one through which the visual line is uninterruptedly continuous from an object to the sense. the materials for glass-making are opaque, and the natural opacity of their elementary atoms is unalterable. hence in some novel arrangement of the atoms towards promoting the direct continuity of the medium of space through them, consists the object of vitrifying and principle of transparency. opacity. the principal obstacle to transparency is interposed electric matter. in the earliest stages of glass-making an immense volume of electric matter is got rid of by means of the furnace fire, which becomes sooty smoke while ascending and passing through the furnace funnel; and to prevent all return of the like, it is, that solid oxygen is added to the materials when fused, the interstices of which, in the vitrified mass, secure the direct continuity of the visual medium. priestley made black wax and brass filings transparent, by only removing all interposed electric matter. the body of a living man, by being de-electrised, has been made transparent. in these instances the transparency is of short continuance, and the opacity is restored by returning electric matter. fire, in de-electrising gems and crystals, destroys all partial opacity. the clearest water is made cloudy on receiving the charge from the electrifying jar; by uncustomary electric matter, the atmosphere is made foggy, and is transparent again when the electric matter becomes a constituent of rain-water. these instances show, that, electric matter lying in the way of the medium of space and vision, interrupts its regular continuity, consequently, its direct pressure; yet not wholly,--clairvoyance and sound make manifest that the continuity is maintained through the most opaque bodies. the principle bears strongly on the physiology of clairvoyance. the nervous fluid. were there a distinct fluid belonging to the nerves of sensation, and insulated, it could not be affected by external circumstances, nor its cerebral excitement be productive in the least of any knowledge, relative or inferential of external bodies. were the fluid not insulated, it should be subject to waste like the lachrymal fluid, and must excite the brain differently at different times, even under equal circumstances; which must make it impossible to identify the same body after its removal out of the axis-of-vision direction. a distinct fluid, not insulated, has to be in contact with the line of medium of space which the external object terminates, which adds to the difficulty of waste, in the possibility of the nerves becoming flooded with an abnormal fluid, medium of space. much more likely is it, that, _the cerebral exciting fluid, of the nerves generally, consists in medium of space_, received from without through the cuticular insertions and orifices of the nerves as streamlets from the great ocean of space, subject to neither ebb nor flow, and liable to change of pressure occasioned by external agency. according to this idea, the object and brain are the terms of the visual line; and medium of space, continuous from the object through the nerves to the brain, is the connecting link. further; although medium of space is the nervous fluid and immediate cerebral exciting cause, (which entitles it to be named the true _nervous fluid_,) there are strong grounds for concluding that, with the true fluid, the nerves include a pair of correlative elements. because of the mesmeric effected polarities being without the comatose flow, which leaves nothing to look to for the polarizing means but the contents of the nerves. next, as clairvoyance is a cerebral effect, something connected with the nervous fluid must be concerned in its production, or why not clairvoyance take place without the magnetic passes. finally, the true fluid, or any single fluid, is incapable of being polarized; and the true fluid might be rendered immovable at times, were there no electric or minus-pressure matter within the nerves, also to prevent its increase, and to retain the normal quantity of the true fluid. all extremes being prevented, and the polarities of the extremities productive of increased lucidity, are consistent with idea of the nerves including magnetising correlatives, which, beside, serve as an elastic break against the fluid exciting the brain indistinctly, irregularly, or exquisitely; and only, as it were, muffled, to prevent the sensibility of the cerebral organs being worn out prematurely. another object may be attained by the included electric correlatives, namely, restricting the exciting pressure to certain degrees, so that the sensation shall be defined and directing, but otherwise useless and misleading. another may be, that of regulating the degrees of pressure on such a scale, as that, by the same senses, sensations shall be excited as different from each other as those of red, yellow, and blue by the optic sense, heat and cold by the feeling sense, sweet and bitter by the gustory sense. to which the conjecture may be added, for the purpose of anatomic and physiologic inquiry, that, as not even an elementary interstice is without design, so may the orifices of the retina be of regulated diameters, to ensure such definite degrees of pressure on the brain as shall excite the sensations recognised as primitive colours. on the principle that the nervous fluid is derived from without, the question is decided as to the cuticular termination of the nerves, which is objected to by some, in consequence of a few of the nerves being observed to have "inward bending." and is it not a matter of common observation, that "feeling is most sensible at the tips of the fingers" or apparent place of the sensation. clairvoyance. all mesmerically-produced phenomena are the consequence of the passes. the immediate effect of the passes is de-electrisation of the nerves, that is, of their contents, which leaves them polarised (as is the case in natural sleep), but more intensely than is effected by the comatose flow. in the ordinary condition, the contents of the nerves may be likened to milky water in a barometer tube; in natural sleep, to the same, with a less degree of milkiness--the latter subsiding from the ends to the middle portion of the water; and in the clairvoyant condition of the nerves, to the milkiness having so completely subsided as to leave the water above and below the middle of the tube transparent. in the ordinary condition, the nervous fluid is clogged, as it were, with intermixed electric matter, which, by marring the regular continuity of the fluid from without to the brain, reduces in some degree the exciting pressure on the brain, which prevents the function of the fluid being employed to its utmost. in this encumbered state, the fluid may be said to act on the brain, as the clapper when muffled on a bell. still the excited pressure is sufficiently strong, and the mental result sufficiently distinct for all human purposes. when to the clairvoyant degree the nerves have been denuded of impeding electric matter, the nervous fluid is enabled to act on the brain as if unmuffled; and as its continuity from the orifices of the retina through space is not in any manner altered, so, to the altered electric condition, mesmerically effected, on the contents of the nerves between their orifices and the brain, we must attribute all mesmerically produced phenomena; and without supposing that the brain is quickened into a higher degree of sensibility, or that any one of its various organs has acquired some exalted degree of psychologic ability. that _long vision_ and _opaque vision_ should be consequences of cleansing, as it were, the nerves of intercepting minus-pressure matter, is nothing surprising, it is as removing dust from the window to better our vision: the physiology is traceable, and the psychology not more incomprehensible than its hourly occurrence in a minor degree, to which, as sensible effects, we are indebted for all we know, and by which we abide, without inquiry into their nature or origin; so perfect is the design of nature in our make for supplying all that is requisite to the comfort and enjoyment of man in his present state of existence. _long vision_, during the clairvoyant state, or the recognition of objects greatly remote by the sensation each promotes, has its wonder much more in the _nature of the medium of space_ than in the familiar mental effect. the optically promoted sensation is proof that the external object, were it at the antipodes, is in mediate connection with not only the nervous fluid of the retina, but the brain. long and ordinary vision have the same theory: in both states the same chromatic cerebral organ is excited by the nervous fluid; in both the nervous fluid is continuous from the brain to the external body; and in both the object perceived is the sensation of colour. that the eye-ball lenses are concerned in long and opaque, as in short vision, however in the two former, the eyes may be bandaged (to satisfy the desire of spectators, otherwise useless, if not worse,) is obvious, from the knowledge of form being connected with the sensation, as in every instance of optically-excited perception. by the passes, the nervous fluid is freed from the visual intercepting electric matter; which matter, like the colouring matter in stained glass, renders the continuity of the visual medium or fluid within the optic nerve impaired. to account for the phenomenon of much longer than ordinary vision, there is nothing in the mesmeric case to effect the difference, or refer to, but the de-electrised condition of the nervous fluid. from which it would seem that the visual line from the most remote object, is always as continuous to the brain as from one within arm's length before the face; and that the degree of cerebral exciting pressure on the longer line is rendered equally efficacious, _now_, that the electric impediment has been removed from the nervous fluid; hence, that the normal intermixed quantity of electric matter with the nervous fluid prevents us being clairvoyant at all times, is reasonable to conclude. _opaque vision_, or the "seeing through opaque bodies," is not the absurdity so generally imagined when judged and reasoned on according to the true principles of visual perception: the facts of clairvoyance place the absurdity on the denier. as the medium of space furnishes all the nerves with the true and only cerebral exciting fluid, which is necessarily all-pervading, and proved to be so by the auditory sense, or "hearing through stone walls," the possibility of seeing through such bodies is made manifest, and _clairvoyantly_, has been proved. misled by the idea that the eye-balls look through solid glass, yet cannot look through a stone, to doubt and deny is pardonable; yet nothing else is requisite, than that the visual medium shall be continuous from the object to the brain, no matter how many opaque objects lie between, for the perception being excited, and promoted by the remote object: the object perceived is the sensation of this or that colour, as in transparent vision. it is no ordinary circumstance, that of "seeing through opaque bodies;" neither is it an ordinary circumstance, the extreme de-electrised condition of the nervous fluid, _on which the extra-ordinary of the phenomenon depends_. in removing the partial opacity of a crystal by means of fire, the hindrance to the visual continuity, electric matter, is displaced; but as no such electric displacement from a stone wall is effected or practicable, while to the clairvoyant the continuity is as were there no electric impediment in the wall, is proof additional that the medium of space, the common cerebral exciting cause, pervades all things, the human body included, and hence the being in _report_. now that mesmeric practice and proof have stifled all open opposition, by the influential ignorant, to the surprising truths of the science, that all persons cannot be mesmerised to the clairvoyant stage, is in nowise prejudicial to mesmerism, or to the science of the economy being intimately connected with medical practice; neither are occasional failures by the clairvoyant, especially in trial tests, some of which exhibit samples of complicated confusion, as if for the purpose of suppression, instead of laudably exalting the all-important science of mesmerism. had the very liberal offer of a hundred pounds been under less complicated conditions, the bank-note most certainly would have been deciphered and changed hands. had the note been spread open, while enclosed between two plates of sheet-iron, and then read by the clairvoyant, the test would have been sufficient to convince the most steady, sturdy, staunch unbeliever, and the _dénouement_ affirmative to every dispassionate observer. but from being folded line upon line, letter on letter, at least three deep, the misarrangement destroyed most effectually all reading order. a newtonian would say, that, "the commixed rays proceeding from the several overlaid typographic characters, and from the lines placed tier over tier, could never form the image of even a single letter on the retina, with anything resembling legible clearness;" therefore the trial must fail most inevitably. rigidity. none deny that rigidity of the limbs can be effected mesmerically; but all mistake who impute the phenomenon to muscular ability, irritability, or energy. all flesh is _inert_; all muscular fibrine is flexible, bends from its own weight when held horizontally, and over it the will has neither power nor influence. then, how is a muscle or nerve to stiffen itself, and where is the mechanical arrangement within for such purpose? the power is derived from without, and consists in medium of space. the de-electrising passes make entrance-room for influent medium of space, which is the cause of the limbs becoming rigid. as in bramah's pump, water serves the purpose of an iron piston, so, within the nerves and muscles, medium of space in excess and under the general pressure, is an equally rigid piston, and the cause of all muscular strength and of rigidity. the depolarizing passes bring back electric matter, which displaces all excess of medium of space, and with it the physical cause of rigidity. pain. pain is not removed but prevented by means of the passes. it is not excited in the mesmerised patient during severe surgical operations, because the movements of the brain, as is said of a watch with the finger on a wheel, are stopped. general insensibility being effected by pressure of the surgeon's finger on the brain of a fractured skull, so is it mesmerically effected by the nervous fluid, which has suffered increase as the nerves have been de-electrised by the passes. _curative mesmerism._--the curative principle of mesmerism seems to consist in correcting occasional irregularities in the _electric circulation_. by the passes, electric matter in excess is removed, which, from being noxious to the part, might contribute to the formation of mucus to become concrete, or otherwise injurious to the flesh: or, the passes may transfer the excess to supply deficiency elsewhere,--as in the case of gout, a disease of the sufferer's own making, from excess of de-electrising food and drink, which uncoats and unlines the nerves, and thus leaves the nervous fluid, from casual circumstances, to almost lacerate the brain. stomach coating aliment, not denuding physic, is the cure: as electric matter may become a constituent of the humidities of the different organs, so may it of the serous fluid, which is indispensable to wholesome flesh. in all such cases mesmerism is curative. _ethers._--from inhaled _ethers_, producing insensibility without rigidity, it would seem that they contribute a kind of electric matter to the interior of the nerves, but which, from being uncongenial, is happily soon displaced. all excess being the more prejudicial, the quicker the displacement the better. any ether imparted to the fluids of the nerves, may effect reduction in the quantity of the true fluid through the cuticle orifices; or make breaks in what is left, so as to leave the nervous fluid incompetent to produce excitement of the brain; hence the insensibility of the patient, if that can be considered insensibility, when there is nothing of pain of which to be insensible. etherising by external application, but which may not amount to mesmerizing, is nothing new. a dublin apothecary, sixty years since, cured the poor daily of nervous complaints, headaches especially, by pressing a folded handkerchief on the forehead, taken from a wide-mouth jar, concealed with professional delicacy, behind the counter, but long since discontinued; the learned in the laws of life and living, considering that short-hand work is a forbidden practice,--that something newest in the last _pharmacopoeia_ is better than the best, for all parties. tobacco-smoking brings on a degree of insensibility, and mesmerically conduces to sleep, which exertion frustrates. the smoke of the fire in london stayed the plague in the year 1666. the subject is worthy of consideration by the mesmerizing physician, in case of epidemics especially. report. the being in report one with another, the mesmerised with the mesmeriser, is proved possible, and from being effected by the passes is proved also to be natural,--not satanic or supernatural, the weakest of all ideas. within nature there can be nothing supernatural; nor out of nature, or of the other worlds, anything in the power of living man or poor human nature to command or imitate. however, as believers are not reasoners, except in the arithmetic of funds, to the reformer _time_, must be left the conversion to reason. throughout the whole of nature there is nothing insulated, not even an atom. involved in a universal medium of pressure, all things must be in contact, mediate or immediate. the atmosphere is a universal connecting link. as by the sea the most distantly-situated islands are in mediate connection, so are all mankind by means of the atmosphere. still this atmospheric connection is limited to margin with margin, surface with surface. by the all-pervading medium of space, the interior of all living beings is in mediate connection, equally as the interior of submerged sponges by the water. as "light" would pervade and connect our bodies were they glass, so does the medium of space. but were mankind so left, it is difficult to conceive how the organic functions could possibly take place, and impossible to say how personal individuality could be, as at present, an independent animal privilege. although the medium of space is continuous through all bodies, the regular continuity is impaired by the elements of the atmosphere between each. the atmosphere not only protects all living bodies against the maximum and all excess of pressure, but in some considerable degree insulates the bodies of persons from each other, just as fog and small snow intercept the visual continuity and would render "rays of light" interruptedly continuous; so do the intermixed atoms of the atmosphere the regular continuity of the medium of space between person and person, as respects surfaces. within the body, insulation is still more complete: here, electric matter and air abound to the exclusion of all excess of medium of space; by which the different organs remain, in a manner disconnected, or so far, as that the functional action of each organ has its distinct period, instead of the action of the whole being simultaneously performed. beside these means and degrees of insulation, the non-conducting coating and lining of the nerves insulate more completely their elementary contents, by which the nerves are not only tubes of separation but insulation, and are direct conducting channels of the nervous fluid through the body from its external source to the brain. although man is thus isolated from man, the isolating means do not prevent the medium of space being continuous through all, and from one to another; which is manifested by the clairvoyant, who has the like of the sensation excited in the brain of the mesmeriser repeated or excited in his own brain; as when the mesmeriser masticates and the sensation of the same flavour is known by the mesmerised. the sensation is nothing transferable; taste is not by the tongue; hence, by the sensation being excited in succession in the brain of each person, is the only conceivable mode, in reason, why the second should know what the first is masticating. the nervous fluid of the two may be supposed to be derived from the medium of space between them; then, by the medium of space lying between, the nervous fluids of the two are rendered continuous one with the other, and is so at all times, but only when the nervous fluid is mesmerically de-electrised is it productive of clairvoyant perceptions. community of sensation, or the _same_ sensation being perceived by different persons, is an impossibility. the first sensation is only where it has been excited, in the brain of the mesmeriser; and supposing the matter of the nervous fluid continuous direct from his brain to that of the patient, in it, what has the latter to perceive?--nothing; neither is perception separable in idea from the result of cerebral excitement. it is to be hoped that the desultory ideas here advanced may tend to a better knowledge on this singular mesmeric discovery. even the foregoing may be objected to with apparent reason, on consideration of what is termed "community of thought," wherein there is no previous sensation to be repeated. to account for which requires more cerebral information than has as yet been brought to light; when satisfactorily known it may show, whether or not community in dreaming may be effected. report would be impossible were there not intimate connection of brain with brain. voluntary de-electrisation. every motion of the limbs being effected by pressure, to promote the local change minus-pressure matter has to be displaced. that the assent of will is indispensable is evident, inasmuch as there is no _ordinary_ limb motion, if not previously assented to by the will. yet will is no mechanical power, nor anything having a distinct existence. will seems to be, the mutual accordance of the cerebral organs to act together so as to effect, or rather assist, the accomplishing of a present intention. the act may be likened to that of suction, voluntarily performed by the brain to de-electrise itself, in order to make room for and receive that which lies in the way of the desired object being effected. the voluntary act by the brain cannot be on anything far away, or not in contact with the brain, and that which is acted on must be continuous to the place of the removable impediment. if, then, the brain does de-electrise itself, and that by so doing it receives electric matter from the nerves which are continuous from the limb to the brain, such removal of electric matter is effected within the nerves of the limb, as makes space for medium of space to enter in the requisite quantity to move the limb according to the required velocity. it is not to be overlooked, that, previous to the self de-electrisation of the brain, thought may be concerned in promoting the cerebral de-electrising act. so far as the foregoing may be true, the like circumstances take place when the mesmeriser wills into report with himself the far-off patient, the electric matter in the space between being affected with as much facility, as the transfer of similar matter from the trough to the utmost extent of the galvanic wire, which may be considered instantaneous, considering the hundreds of miles distance between. _the nature and power of will._--the power of effecting, voluntarily, the transfer of electric matter from one part of the interior of the body to a different, seems to belong, in some necessary degree, to all bodies possessed of life. the object is to make space for medium of space to enter, and by its pressure to put the animal in a state of locomotion. the snake, worm, and snail do so to be pressed onward along the ground; the oyster, to have the shells firmly collapsed; the limpit, to be pressed against the rock; and each, cerebrally wills the replacement of electric matter to displace the cause of pressure, medium of space, for the grovelling reptile to be at rest--the oyster, that the shells may be opened; the limpit, when willing to fall into the water. the fly, lizard, and walrus, so de-electrise the body, as to reverse the direction of what is supposed to be their natural weight, by which means each becomes pressed upwards, and walks with the back downwards--which, to be consistent with the established philosophy, should be considered _repellent gravitation_. the goat voluntarily de-electrises his body to have it pressed with double force against the slippery rock; the lynx, to have mesmeric long vision; the cat, to have opaque vision, or "see through the dark;" the fire-fly, to effect reduction of the optic pressure productive of sensations of colour. the carrier-pigeon effects self de-electrisation to the clairvoyant degree, by which the external object, the turret at constantinople, promotes the sensation which indicates at once the shortest direction of flight from london to the birth-place of the bird. the eagle de-electrises itself inwardly, the same as if by the mesmeric passes, to promote olfactory lucidity, by which to ascertain the presence of carrion on the ground. fishes effect internal de-electrisation, somehow by means of the contents of the swim, for influent medium of space to propel the body with a velocity superior to the power of the short, flexible fins. the flight of birds is not effected by wing motion, or wing powers. the crow, eagle, and kite sail in all directions on extended motionless wing, and the odd wing-flap now and then given, is only to assist in keeping the body in the necessary electric condition. the swallow is darted most rapidly through the air with closed wing, and changes acutely, without way, the direction of flight, by changing instantaneously the direction of impulse. with the greatest wing-agitation the hawk remains at times stationary in the air. the fish, bird, and bullet are impelled by the same cause, pressure, by the medium of space on the de-electrised rear. the cow and goat voluntarily de-electrise the cud, for medium of space to enter and press it upwards through the food-passage which the cud presses against, instead of being raised by nerves or muscles of the esophagus. in parturition also, and the discharge of the feces, the same principles are maintained. the "throes of nature" are consequent on the natural pressure being made intermitting, by electric matter returning to and escaping from the birth at intervals. the physiologist may refer to muscular action; but where are the delivery muscles? the stage-dancer makes de-electrising efforts to receive medium of space, by which to be lifted above the boards and supported a few seconds in the air. muscles at full stretch in opposite directions, and the fulcrum, if any, being carried by them, is out of all dynamic rule. all persons make a de-electrising effort previous to the leap-spring, and while continuing to stand or run and tiptoe, without being aware of the reason; and the fatigue is not muscular, but in keeping the body fittingly de-electrised. the _gymnotus electricus_ kills the distant prey instantaneously, which receives nothing whatever of missile from the enemy; nor could the latter be accessary to the death-stroke, were there nothing between to connect one with the other: nothing passing and no connecting means, no outstretched arm or instrument touching that which is to be acted on, is a mechanical absurdity, and is attributing an effect to that which, it may be said, is an absent cause. the eel voluntarily performs the cerebral operation on the electric matter which is continuous from itself through the air to the marked prey, which effects instantaneous removal of the same matter from the prey; which permits medium of space at the same instant to give the de-electrised part the death-blow. application of mesmerism. first. a national asylum, to be named, the british mesmeric institution, should be founded and endowed. england should take the lead. a professorship of magnetism should be founded. all sanatory asylums to be obliged to furnish their experience periodically, and be under control of the institution, which should be possessed of power to undiploma the medical practitioner who refuses to mesmerise. self-mesmerising to clairvoyance, to be taught, which is as teachable as ventriloquism; the principle is the same of both,--the theory is that of sound. through self-mesmerising, the blind and eyeless would be extricated occasionally from the shadow leading to the valley of death and be enabled to follow some useful calling. some blind, illiterate clairvoyant, may have superior _connoisseurship_, entitling him to fill the academic chair. through mesmerism the resuscitating process can be brought under rules of science. through clairvoyance the geography of the globe may yet be improved; the northern passage discovered; the astronomer assisted in his stellar speculations beyond the possibility of mere telescopic discovery. on ship-board, the voluntary clairvoyant may make discovery of the haze-hidden lighthouse and wave-hidden shoal. in the hands of the clairvoyant the telescope and microscope, will, in time, make us acquainted with other worlds, other beings, and other of the wonderful works of the great god of nature! the seeker after god from the book of god's own composing, the holy volume of his own works, through voluntary clairvoyance, will feel himself in the enjoyment of a second nature, the fit inhabitant of an intellectual world, in which the powers of thought are without limits. and who can say what discovery of abstract truths may not be elicited from the conversation of two or more clairvoyants in mutual report, all of exalted talent and superior education? other worlds, ere this be past, may open to our view, and their inhabitants become clairvoyantly familiar to human observation. the idea is pregnant with hope; it presumes that we are not inhabitants of only the earth, but the universe; which may be considered a natural, _never_-dying hope. why, then, should the science be opposed which has already been so beneficial to our species, and promises to make known the never yet discovered wonders of the animal economy? surely they will be yet ashamed of having done those things, the fruit of which is the bitterness of remorse. continuous motion. the motion which continues after the body has ceased to be in contact with the _sensible_ impelling cause, is named continuous motion. the body impelled receives neither force nor motion from the impelling cause: neither force nor motion is anything transferrable or anything communicable; forcible velocity and change of place are but accidents of matter, and but local, casual circumstances of bodies. being _inert_, the body cannot move itself. motion, therefore, is but a physical effect, and must have a cause equal to the duration of the effect: motion after impulse has ceased, would be effect without cause--which is an absurdity and impossibility; therefore impulse is constant as motion, however insensible the impelling cause. these dynamic principles cannot be too frequently brought to mind, considering the general erroneous opinion on the subject which maintains, that "a body continues in motion because it cannot stop itself;" which is effect without its equal of cause. a body in motion is under unequal pressure on opposite sides, greater on the rear than front. the air in front resists, that in the rear may be said to recede from the body; therefore neither impels the projectile. under such circumstances there remains but the alternative, that of the electric constitution of the body being changed by the previous impulse, by which medium of space accumulates on one side, or decreases on the opposite. the phenomenon admits of being thus illustrated: the first, previous or sensible impulse, effects de-electrisation of the body on the rear or side of impulse; influent medium of space immediately occupies the vacated rear, and by its pressure impels the body through the air. the velocity of the previous impulse, gives momentum to the body greater than the included freely-removable elementary matter can obtain; of consequence the latter is left behind in the air, and the pressure of the acquired medium of space in the rear, is the continuous impelling cause. thus is the mistake of dugald stuart made evident, that "motion is the immediate and only effect of impulse." it is not the air's resistance which makes the motion of a projectile decline and end. taking impulse as ten, resistance four, there remains six degrees of unresisted impulse, which should impel the body for ever through the atmosphere. the decline and cessation of impulse is that which brings the projectile to rest. from the instant the body has ceased to be in contact with the sensible impelling cause, electric matter is re-entering the rear, which displaces gradually the impelling medium; and as are the increments of the former, so are the decrements of the latter, and so is the decline of motion. _ascending and descending motion._--the rear of the vertically-impelled body becomes vacated of minus-pressure matter, and replaced with medium of space; by the latter, and general pressure, the body is forced upwards as a cork by water. while ascending, the rear is acquiring electric matter and losing the impelling medium,--the velocity of course declines; and when at the highest, the body is at rest in the air for an instant, then is precipitated to the ground. during the entire of the descent, electric matter is vacating the rear and medium of space entering, consequently the fall is accelerated. now as the body cannot fall of itself; as descending motion is of increasing velocity, while motion in every other direction is retarded; and, because all descent has the same _centripetal_ direction, so should there be some distinct cause to produce these conspicuous effects, which, to trace, suggest the following hypothesis: _centripetal flow._--the different motions of the globe affect all bodies on its surface, so as to appear to the inhabitants as if the whole were at rest; supposing thence, that the centre of the earth is the centre of motion, the following may be considered probable consequences:--the general pressure being less at the centre and axis than on the surface of the earth, obliges the medium of space to flow through the atmosphere and entire surface, _centripetally_, to the centre, thence along the axis, carrying with it electric matter, and has exit at the poles, which polarizes the globe and produces the boreales. the centripetal flow retains the atmosphere to the earth; precipitates bodies from the air in a centripetal direction; accelerates the descent; and retards all motion not in its own direction: it prevents vertical ascent being equal to impulse, the difference being employed in bearing against the flow. the flow makes bodies ponderate or have weight, causes the dip and direction of the compass-needle. formation of a planet. that cannot be considered a chaotic state from which the eternal order sprung; nor that a created body, the substance of which previously existed, which was and is common to all bodies. hence it may be concluded that a planet is a natural production, equally as the instantly-formed ponderous atmospheric aërolite, supposed to have come from the moon. from the elementary to the aëriform, thence the aqueous state, seems the simplest and primeval order of atomic combination. hence it is conceivable, that, were an immense volume of the general elements collected together in the regions of space, and subjected to extreme pressure, the result would be an aqueous sphere, with an attached residue of the same elements to serve as a primeval atmosphere to receive increase from future mists and exhalations. while aqueous and with one side only of the sphere facing the sun, the elements of the water cannot avoid being in a state of constant disturbance and transfer, productive of combinations, formations, and precipitations until the equilibrium has obtained, leaving ultimately the solid masses so formed, as they would now appear were the ocean away: the original water, from having contributed the elements of the newly-formed solids, being reduced in quantity and changed in quality, is left as the ocean is at present, saline. during the intermediate plastic state, and as induration increased, the endowed fertility may have produced _kinds_, many of which have become extinct. it may be further assumed, that deep within the planet the elements abound in neither kind nor quantity as at the surface and in the atmosphere; and if the imponderable oxygen element be absent, an immense mass of ice would form the nucleus of the earth, the occasional melting at the surface of which, in the neighbourhood of sulphurous and ferruginous masses, may cause those volcanic eruptions from which no region of the earth is free. thus it would seem that a planet may be the natural formation of an instant, requiring time for completion, and may be an everyday circumstance in space. the strict inquirer into terrestrial magnetism has to ascertain, whether the non-conducting central ice be not the means, some how, of separating the correlative fluids which the centripetal flow carries with it along the axis through the poles, and which make the poles magnetic opposites; or, whether, of these fluids, one only is transmissible through ice. a planet may be subject to wear and the fertility to decrease, thence to be uninhabitable, as herschel describes the very probable condition of the moon, owing to the rapid motion through space, solar effects and cultivation. the idea is neither gloomy nor a threatened dread. man was born to leave this world, and live where god has pleased. some anticipate the night, when we shall see "our god in terror, and our world on fire!"--"undoing all, as all had never been," or made in vain. but he who blessed and never cursed his works, whose mercy and goodness endureth for ever, and who will "save both man and beast," is not a god of terror! why the planets are moved round the sun, all in the same direction, excites speculation in the absence of demonstration. let it be supposed that the inequalities in a newly-formed planet prevent the body being at rest under the general pressure; in which case the planet is put into its primeval motion, and in the direction of the strongest impulsive pressure. but as the like inequalities precisely, cannot present in every new planet, neither could the motion of all be in the same direction, which gives room for conceiving the probability that the portion of the medium, however extensive, in which the solar system is involved, revolves round the sun, or round the orbit of the sun, and that its motion is promoted by the sun in the solar orbit,--which orbit may probably be promoted by the rarity of the elements in the solar regions. the medium of space so revolving, determines the direction of all the planets, which by the hypothesis must be the same as that of the revolving medium. by some such means only is it conceivable how solar matter can arrive at neptune, the earth, or even mercury,--the _inert_ sun being incapable of radiating anything from itself, and solar atoms requiring a physical impelling cause, in motion, and acting on the rear of each from the sun to the extreme of planetary space. a circulating medium of constantly-increasing radius, appears indispensably necessary for the purpose of conveying solar matter through the regions of space, and for the maintaining all planetary motion in the same uniform direction. the subject is open to all, and worthy of notice: what is now advanced will be passed over, from having no mathematical appendage, but which, makes even false causes pass for the demonstrated truth. the mathematical science has not to this day demonstrated the cause of planetary motion,--a subject wholly indifferent to modern astronomy, in which the false, self-gravitation, in connection with _inertia_, satisfies all as long as the astronomer remains self-satisfied. _formation and use of a comet._--a _comet_ may have been a planet by formation, and impelled, before completion, immeasurably far beyond the sun. the tail is probably the primitive atmosphere, left behind and pressed after the body as towards a sheltering wall; the _coma_ may be electric matter collected on the front, and subject to increase, which, by lessening pressure on the side facing the direction of motion, and without increased pressure on the opposite side, may cause the velocity of the planet to be subject to acceleration, or prevent the motion being equitable: the reticulated tail may serve to collect all redundant solar matter in space, after planetary use, for deposit in the solar regions, or the sun as the heart of the system, for future circulation. were the tail to approach the earth sufficiently near, the waters of the sea would be pressed upwards as towards an immense water-spout; in which case the rivers must become drained; and as the comet recedes from the earth, the fall of the immense column would produce _another general deluge_ over one hemisphere, at least, of the globe! the deposits from a comet's tail may occasion those nebulocities named solar spots. * * * * * the end. * * * * * tyler and reed, printers, bolt-court, london. transcriber's note. archaic, dialectical and unusual spellings and usage have been maintained. obvious typos have been fixed as detailed below. table of contents entries with no corresponding centered title in the original book have been indented and the titles have been inserted inline. page vii: dedication iii advertisement v table of contents vii mesmerism and established philosophy 1 in the original book: philosophy, the established 9 page vii: the use of oxygen in promoting combustion 42 in the original book: ----, its use in combustion 42 page vii: use of the inspired oxygen within the system 56 in the original book: use of oxygen in respiration 56 page vii: natural sleep 65 comatose flow 66 mesmeric sleep 68 in the original book: sleep, natural 65 ----, mesmeric 68 comatose flow 66 page viii: transparency 77 opacity 77 in the original book: transparency and opacity 77 page viii: mesmerism, curative 87 ethers 87 in the original book: ethers 87 mesmerism, curative 87 page viii: transcriber's note in the original book: (inserted) page 10: an excruciating, painless toothache, and, in the original book: an excruciating, painless toothach, and, page 24: velocity and direction makes no exception. in the original book: velocity and direction makes no exeption. page 41: constituent of every aëriform body in the original book: constituent of every acriform body page 42: in this twofold manner of service in the original book: in this two-fold manner of service page 43: suffers de-electrisation and acquires medium in the original book: suffers de-electrisation and acquiries medium page 55: within the stomach, or in the tea-cup in the original book: within the stomach, or in the teacup page 56: the accumulation of minus-pressure matter in in the original book: the accumulation of minus pressure-matter in page 56: which is compensated by minus-pressure matter in the original book: which is compensated by minus pressure-matter page 58: the arterialising, minus-pressure, imponderable in the original book: the arterialising, minus pressure, imponderable page 58: losing the arterialising minus-pressure matter in the original book: losing the arterialising minus pressure matter page 59: the venous flow on the minus-pressure capillary in the original book: the venous flow on the minus pressure capillary page 59: _use of the spleen._--the spleen, from being an in the original book: the spleen, from being an page 60: _how the diaphragm is raised._--the _diaphragm_ in the original book: the _diaphragm_ page 66: _comatose flow._--it must have been observed by in the original book: it must have been observed by page 72: above the horizon, the general optic in the original book: above the horiozn, the general optic page 87: _curative mesmerism._--the curative principle of in the original book: the curative principle of page 87: _ethers._--from inhaled _ethers_, producing in the original book: from inhaled _ethers_, producing page 88: pharmacopoeia in the original book the oe ligature was used. page 92: _the nature and power of will._--the power of in the original book: the power of page 103: _formation and use of a comet._--a _comet_ may in the original book: a _comet_ may walter moore for project gutenberg australia transcriber's note: 1. source: this is an emended copy of this book as transcribed by walter moore for project gutenberg australia. http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks17/1700341h.html [illustration: front cover] the gentleman who vanished. a psychological phantasy. by fergus hume, author of "the mystery of a hansom cab," "the piccadilly puzzle," "madame midas," "miss mephistopheles," "the man with a secret," etc. 'tis ill to tamper with the unseen world lest those habitate the sphere's invisible should make us sport for their ironic jeers, and by some trick beyond the thought of man entangle all the issues of our lives. _in one volume_ london: f. v. white & co. 31, southampton street, strand. 1890. contents chap. i. flying from justice ii. the recluse iii. the dissection of a soul iv. a curious transformation v. new wine in an old bottle vi. the tortures of hell vii. the woman he loved viii. the man she hated ix. the philosophy of mr. dentham x. teddy rudall's ideas xi. a modern judas xii. a perilous situation xiii. a startling discovery xiv. dentham makes terms xv. resurgam chapter i. flying from justice it was an oppressively hot night towards the end of june, and the heavy still atmosphere surcharged with electricity was full of premonitions of storm. here in london the glare and glitter of myriad lamps seemed to be crushed down by a lowering sky, in which the stars were almost hidden by great masses of sombre clouds. every now and then a thin thread of lightning flashed ghost-like through the murky air and the low hoarse roll of the thunder which followed, seemed to warn mankind that nature was in one of her angry moods. so hot, terribly hot, one could hardly breathe in the crowded streets, where throngs of people, well-dressed and otherwise principally otherwise were sweeping along intent on business and pleasure, paying no attention to the sultry heavens pressing so cruelly down upon the panting earth. the signs and tokens of heaven were not for them, with their sordid souls longing for gold, or their empty stomachs yearning for bread, as they worked, danced, sang, and busied themselves with the material things of this life, the same to-day as their forefathers centuries ago on the eve of that deluge they did not believe would ever come. in a handsomely-furnished room, in a large house which stood in one of the fashionable streets off piccadilly, sat two young men playing cards. the windows of the apartment were open on to a flower-decorated balcony, from whence one could see the people walking, and the cabs flashing past. the rhythmical beat of the horses' hoofs, the quick tread or weary dragging gait of passers-by, the subdued murmur of distant voices and the sultry air of the hot night, penetrated into the room, but the occupants were too busy with their game to pay any attention to outside disturbances. a handsome room it was, but evidently that of a bachelor, as in the picturesque confusion there was wanting that subtle touch of refinement and order which indicates the hand of woman. curiously-patterned carpets of turkish workmanship were scattered about on the polished floor and here and there stood small tables laden with photographs in chased silver frames, books, principally consisting of english and french novels, flowers and other things too numerous to mention. a pipe rack, fencing foils and boxing gloves over the mantelpiece, pictures of race-horses and pretty women on the walls, and plenty of plush-covered lounging-chairs placed in luxurious corners, with spirit-stand, glasses, pipes, cigarettes and tobacco jars, handy to anyone who sat down. in the centre of all this confusion was a green covered table at which sat the two young men aforesaid in evening dress, with several packs of cards scattered at their feet and their eyes intent upon the game, which seemed to be rather an expensive one, judging by the pile of gold pieces that lay on the green cloth. one of the players was tall, with clearly cut features, dark hair, closely cropped, and a small dark moustache, beneath which gleamed regular white teeth when he smiled, which he did not seem inclined to do at the present moment. adrian lancaster was not at all pleased, as luck was dead against him, and he frequently took deep draughts of a brandy-and-soda which stood near him, in order to console himself for his bad fortune. his friend philip trevanna was short, fair, and insignificant-looking, so much so that not even the well-cut clothes he wore could give him a distinguished appearance. the louis quinze clock on a bracket in one corner of the room chimed eleven, with a silvery ring, but still the two young men played on steadily. the savage look on adrian's face showed that he was losing still, until at last the look of triumph on his companion's smug countenance proved too much for his philosophy, and rising from his seat with a stifled oath he flung down his cards, upset the table by his sudden movement and lounging over to the fireplace, lighted a cigarette. "hullo," said trevanna lazily, looking at the overturned table and the scattered cards with an air of well-bred surprise, "what's the matter?" "nothing," replied adrian, thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking down at the debris from his height of six feet odd, "only i'm sick of playing you've won a deuce of a lot, so unless i want to leave myself a pauper, i think i'll give the game best for to-night." "better luck next time," said trevanna, rising and stretching himself, "you're a bad loser." "there never yet was a philosopher who could bear the toothache patiently," quoted adrian with a grim smile. "you call losing at cards, toothache," murmured philip indolently, "i daresay you're right, it's quite as disagreeable at all events." he glanced complacently over the bundle of i.o.u's he held in his hand, added the amounts together, then offered them to his companion. "i'm rather in luck's way to-night," he said in a satisfied tone, "if you don't mind, old chap, i'd like a cheque for a thousand." adrian bit his nether lip angrily, then walking towards his desk, and pulling out a blank cheque, made it out for the amount named, which he handed to philip without a word, then taking the i.o.u's he tore them up and threw the pieces on the floor. "that pretty well clears me out of ready money," he said at length, resuming his position in front of the mantelpiece, while philip filled himself a glass of brandy-and-soda, "it will pull me up for a bit." "never mind," said trevanna with an evil smile, "your marriage with olive maunders will put you straight." "leave miss maunders out of the question," observed adrian imperiously, "you've no right to use her name." "i'll use the name of anybody i like," retorted trevanna, into whose head the liquor he had drunk was rapidly mounting. "except hers," said lancaster quietly, although his dark face was flushed with anger. philip trevanna laughed insolently at the remark and taking up a few cards, lightly balanced them in his hand. "a nice one you are, to preach morality," he said scoffingly, "you're about as bad a lot as there is in town." "you're not much better, at all events," observed adrian wrathfully. "look here, trevanna, shut up--i'm not in the best of tempers, and you know i've got hot blood in my veins, so when i get angry it's dangerous. don't rouse the tiger in me." "don't talk bosh," said trevanna politely, "you know you only want to marry olive maunders for her money." "speak for yourself," cried lancaster, going over to a side table and taking up a decanter to pour himself out some brandy. "i know you'd give anything to be in my place." "tell you what," said trevanna, with an ugly look. "i'll play you for her--if i win, i marry her." "hold your tongue," retorted adrian, grasping the stem of the decanter in a paroxysm of rage. "i'll back this thousand against olive maunders," observed trevanna, ignoring the menacing look of his friend. "will you play?" "no." "then go to the devil," shouted philip, losing control of himself and flinging the cards he was holding into the face of adrian. "take that." the hot blood flamed in lancaster's face, and with a stifled roar of anger he threw the heavy decanter he was holding at philip trevanna's head. it struck him full on the temple, and without a word the young man fell like a log on the floor, while the decanter, smashing into a thousand pieces, was scattered over the carpet, and the contents diffused an odour of spirits through the room. there was a dead silence for one awful moment, broken only by the steady tick of the clock. suddenly a woman in the street laughed shrilly, and the sound seemed to arouse adrian out of the lethargy into which he had fallen. a red mist floated before his eyes and his limbs seemed paralysed. even when he strove to cry out his voice died away in a hoarse whisper, and he stood with a terrible look of anguish on his face staring at the overturned card-table, the broken pieces of glass, and the figure lying at his feet so still and deathlike, with a thin red stream of blood flowing from an ugly wound in the temple. once more the woman laughed, and adrian rapidly sprang to the windows, in a stealthy manner, closed them and pulled down the blinds so as to shut out this terrible sight from the eyes of the prying world. a sullen roll of thunder startled him, and with a hurried glance around he crept towards the still form of his friend. "philip," he whispered, kneeling beside trevanna's body, "philip." no answer! adrian opened trevanna's shirt and placed his hand on the heart--it did not beat--he leaned his face downward to the slightly parted lips; there was no breath, and then, for the first time, a sense of what he had done seemed to break on him. "dead!" he whispered with ashen grey lips, in a paroxysm of terror, clasping his hands. "dead!--i've killed him." he arose slowly to his feet, looked vacantly round the room, at the still, white face, at the stream of blood, then staggering to a side table he snatched up a bottle of whisky, and without waiting to fill a glass placed it to his lips. the fiery spirit put new life into him, and as his blood coursed swiftly through his veins, he braced his muscles, shook his head to clear the clouds which seemed to fog his brain, and nerved himself for action. "i can't stay here," he whispered to himself, putting one hand up to his throat, "they would arrest me for murder--i would be hanged--oh, god, the disgrace--poor olive!" the storm so long threatening had burst at last over the city, and the rain was pouring down with tropical violence, while every now and then, through the interstices of the venetian blinds, gleamed the blueish flash of the lightning, and the deep roll of thunder which followed seemed to the ears of adrian like the voice of an accusing angel denouncing him as a murderer. there was no time to be lost, for at any moment someone might come up to his rooms and discover his crime; he would have to fly--but where could he fly to? where, in all this great city, was there a refuge for a murderer? still, he dare not stay; he could give no plausible explanation, the evidence of his guilt was too strong; the police would come up, he would be arrested, then the inquest, the trial, the verdict--with the rapidity of lightning the possibility of these things flashed across his mind--and with a hoarse cry he sprang past the body on the floor into his bedroom. there he put on a heavy ulster, which, reaching nearly to his feet, effectually hid the evening clothes he had no time to change. then he put on a soft hat, pulled it down over his eyes, caught up a heavy stick and stole out again into the sitting-room, half thinking that it was all some hideous dream. but no, it was only too true--there on the floor lay the body of the man he had killed, and he, adrian lancaster, was a murderer. the clock struck twelve with a silvery chime as he slowly pulled the dead man's cloak off the back of a chair, and with a sudden movement flung it over the body as if terrified to look upon his handiwork. he turned out the gas which was flaring in the pink globes, and then crept towards the door in the darkness, carefully avoiding the place where the body lay. once outside the door, which opened with a loud creak as if to denounce him, he locked it, and dropping the key into his pocket stole stealthily downstairs out into the stormy night, feeling that on his brow burned the mark of cain, which, from henceforth, would make him a hunted fugitive on the face of the earth. he walked slowly down the street towards piccadilly, not heeding the direction, but only longing to get as far away from the scene of his crime as he could, and when a hansom suddenly drew up at the side of the pavement he felt a sudden convulsion of terror at hearing the voice of the driver asking if he wanted a cab. for a moment he hesitated, then, without a word, sprang in and flung himself back among the cushions, closing the doors, as if he could thus hide himself from the eyes of justice. "where to, sir?" asked the driver, peering down through the trapdoor in the roof of the cab. where to, indeed? was there any sanctuary in this mighty london where he could hide? no, he could think of none; but with that instinct of self-preservation which is strong in the breast of every human being, he wished to fly as far away as he could, so said at a venture the first name that came into his head. "hampstead!" "right sir," said the driver, and closing the trapdoor with a bang he let down the glass and drove off. the wheels spun round, the lights of the gas-lamps flashed dully in through the blurred windows, and the man shrinking back among the cushions clenched his teeth and stared out at the night, painting with vivid fancy on the curtain of the dark the hideous scene from which he was flying. chapter ii. the recluse the rapidity or slowness with which time passes depends entirely upon the feelings, and although the drive to hampstead occupied only an hour, it seemed to adrian lancaster as if centuries had passed since he left his chambers. between his past life of carelessness and ease and this one of agonizing feelings, a great gulf had widened which he knew would ever more separate him from his former state. a short time ago, he was a pleasure-loving man, rich, honoured and courted, but now he was a hunted fugitive--a social outcast, scorned of all men and pitied by none. the shock had been so great that he did not yet understand his position, but lay back among the cushions in a kind of dull apathy, the whole journey seeming to him to be a kind of hideous nightmare. suddenly the cab stopped, and the trapdoor in the roof was opened by the driver. "this is hampstead, sir," he said in a hoarse voice, "and the limit of the radius." "very good," replied adrian dully, "i will get out here." he jumped out on to the sodden ground, turning up the collar of his coat, for the rain was still coming down heavily, and gave the cabman ten shillings in gold. "i have no change, sir," began the driver. "i--" "it doesn't matter," said adrian, waving his hand. "good night," and he tramped off into the darkness, while the cabman, with a muttered expression of thanks, drove back to town. it was a lonely road, with a high fence on each side, topped by trees, and, beyond, great houses all in darkness, as the inmates had apparently gone to bed. adrian had no idea where he was, but walked slowly along the muddy path with downcast head, and his hands thrust well into his pockets. his boots were more adapted to piccadilly than to country roads, and the cold chill struck through the thin soles, but he paid no attention, mechanically walking onward without heeding where he was going. above, the heavens were slightly clearing of their masses of clouds, and a few stars showed brightly in the cold blue, while the trees on each side shook their branches complainingly in the cold wind, and heavy drops of rain fell from their moist leaves. at last he found himself walking along under a weather-stained brick wall, on the top of which grew luxurious ivy, and towards the end a low door appeared, which stood slightly open. half thinking that it would admit him into some park where he could conceal himself, adrian, with no very definite purpose in his mind, pushed it wide open and entered. he found himself in dense darkness, standing in a path which apparently ran through a belt of beech trees whose branches meeting overhead shut out the midnight sky. with outstretched hands he carefully advanced, following the windings of the path, and carefully avoiding collision with the trunks of the tall trees on either side. at last he emerged into a wide lawn, half ringed by dense masses of trees, while at one end stood a large house with many gables and turrets standing black against the clear sky beyond. adrian recognized it as one of those old country houses which still remain in hampstead, isolating themselves in sullen pride amid their wide parks, although enclosed on all sides by rows of red-brick villas and desirable residences. the long drive, the frightful excitement through which he had passed, and the dampness of the night were all telling on him physically, and he longed to find some place where he could lie down and rest. with this idea he stole across the lawn towards the house, and on turning the corner of a great beech tree which stood high up in a little knoll, he saw a bright light shining through an open french window. with stealthy steps and bated breath, he stepped up to it, keeping in the shadow beyond the stream of light, and on looking through espied a large comfortably-furnished apartment, with a man seated in a chair near a table covered with a white table-cloth, on which was spread a comfortable supper. hardly knowing what he was doing, but only anxious to have someone to talk to and relieve his overburdened mind, adrian boldly stepped into the room, a tall, sombre figure with muddy boots and wet with rain. "sir," said lancaster, taking off his hat, "will you permit me to--" suddenly he broke off his speech with a low cry for the figure in the chair, that of an old man wrapped in a comfortable dressing-gown did not stir, but remained in the same position with still limbs and closed eyes. adrian at first thought he was asleep, but his case was too urgent to permit him remaining till the man awoke, so stepping forward he touched him on the shoulder. to his dismay, the figure did not stir, and on looking closely at the still face, the closed eyes, and the rigid limbs, lancaster saw that he was dead. this fearful sight in connection with the horrors he had already undergone was too much for his nerves, and with an ejaculation of terror he put on his hat, and strode rapidly towards the window with the intention of seeking safety once more in flight. "stay!" adrian faced round rapidly with a thrill of horror, for it was the man whom he had thought dead was speaking, and who was now standing up with outstretched hand. "do not be alarmed," he said in a full rich voice, with a reassuring smile. "i am not dead although you thought i was. sit down for a few moments, and tell me who you are, and what you want here." adrian was too astonished at this reception to make any remark, and still felt inclined to retreat, but his host seemed to exert some mesmeric power over him, and he mechanically sank down into a chair near the table, letting his walking-stick fall on the floor. the unknown was a tall, massive looking man, with boldly cut features and a head of grey hair, worn rather long. he also had a heavy grey beard which swept his chest, and his hands were long and slender with sinewy fingers; but what attracted adrian's attention most were his eyes--dark brilliant eyes which had a look of power in their depths, and seemed to dominate everything with their piercing gaze. the expression of his features was calm, a terrible calm such as is seen upon the faces of egyptian sphinxes, giving the onlooker the idea of some dread power concealed under the placid exterior. "my name," observed this man in his musical voice, resuming his seat, "is doctor michael roversmire, and i shall be very glad if you will kindly explain your presence in my house, but first take a glass of wine, as you seem quite worn out." the young man, whose face looked worn and ill in the mellow light of the lamp, took the glass pushed forward by the doctor and drank off the contents. the generous liquor did him good, for it took away his feeling of fatigue, and as he replaced the glass on the table he felt able to reply to the question of his host. a feeling of caution, however, dictated his answer as he felt too much afraid of this calm man with the brilliant eyes to reveal all the events of the night. "what my name is does not matter," he said in a somewhat defiant manner, "but for the rest i was walking along the road and finding the garden door open, i entered. coming into this room i saw you sitting apparently dead, and was going away to seek assistance when you called on me to stop." "a very fair explanation," said roversmire, calmly fixing his gaze steadily on the young man, "but one that does not satisfy me--what right had you to come into my garden at this hour, and why are you in such a dishevelled state? gentlemen don't usually walk about country roads in evening dress." "i came from town," replied adrian sullenly. "that's more like it--but you're not telling me everything. i could compel you to do so but at present prefer you to exercise your free will." "i won't tell you a thing." "reflect," said the doctor, a faint smile curling his lips, "you are in my power. i have only to touch a bell and my servants will come in--i can give you in charge as a burglar and then, once in the clutches of the law, who knows what truths may be revealed?" adrian drew a long breath and looked earnestly at his host, who on his part eyed him in a masterful manner, which seemed to compel him to answer even against his will. he sank back in his chair with a groan, feeling that in this room he was utterly powerless and at the absolute disposal of dr. roversmire. "come," said the latter quietly, "why set your will against mine? you are sure to be overpowered. i do not need to summon aid to enable me to retain you here; although apparently you can escape with the utmost ease through yonder window, yet unless i give you leave you will not be able to do so." adrian cast a frightful look of anguish at this man who seemed able to unveil the whole of the events of the night, which he was desirous of concealing, and made an effort to rise but in vain, for his limbs felt paralyzed and refused to obey his will, so he remained seated in his chair waiting for roversmire to speak. "you see," said that gentleman with a slight laugh, "you can do nothing contrary to my will, so your best plan is to tell me who you are and why you came here--perhaps i can help you." "impossible." "that depends," replied the doctor placidly. "i possess powers, as you can see for yourself, which can do more for you than ordinary assistance--now there is no time to lose--tell me your name." "adrian lancaster." roversmire's face flushed, and with an effort he preserved his composure, but it was evident that the young man's name conveyed some meaning to him for he muttered to himself: "adrian lancaster--the man she loves--this is better than i thought--he will be of service to me and while helping him i may teach her a lesson she sorely needs. i must learn all this youth has to tell me." he gazed steadily at the young man, and adrian felt that in another moment he would reveal all he wished to keep secret, when by a powerful effort of will he checked the impulse. "no! no!" he said thickly. "i won't tell you--i dare not--i dare not." "you must," replied the doctor, in a relentless voice. "judging from your speech you are in great trouble. i alone can help you, and to do so i must learn all the events which have brought you here--speak!" "no! no! no!" cried lancaster, with a terrible contortion of his face, "i refuse." it was all in vain, however, setting his feeble will against that of the other, for little by little he felt the influence of the master mind dominate his own until at last all his resolution gave way with a rush, and in a quick, hurried voice, he told his tormentor all the events which had happened since he was playing cards with philip trevanna. "is that all?" said roversmire, when lancaster stopped in his recital from utter exhaustion. the young man made a motion with his head to signify it was, and the doctor, seeing that the effort had exhausted him both mentally and physically, made him drink another glass of wine, and then sitting down again in his own chair began to talk in a slow, deliberate manner. "judging from the explanation you have given me, you are in a very unpleasant position--however the man may be only stunned." "no--no," interrupted lancaster hurriedly, clasping his hands, "he is dead--i feel sure i killed him--oh, if i could only undo what i have done." "that is impossible," said roversmire a little sadly, "whatever we do always bears fruit either for good or evil, and we must abide by the consequences of our own acts--of course you killed trevanna in a fit of passion, but i'm afraid such a plea will not hold good with a jury." "do you intend to give me up?" cried adrian in a voice of anguish. "by no means--i was only putting a supposititious case--far from wishing to give you up for a crime committed in such an irresponsible manner i am going to save you." "but how?" "that i will explain, but in order to do so i must tell you my history--it will sound like a romance to you, but luckily i shall be able to prove the truth of it to you by putting you in my own place." "in your own place," said the young man in amazement. "exactly!" replied roversmire gravely, "literally in my own place; as it happens i want to do something for which i must have assistance and you are the very person i want to assist me." "then the garden door--" "was standing open on purpose. i thought sooner or later it would catch some bird, but i tell you frankly i expected a rough customer--say a burglar--not a gentleman like yourself who is--" "a murderer," groaned adrian, hiding his face in his hands. "do not call yourself hard names," said roversmire with a mocking smile; "you'll find plenty of people who will do that for you, if they see you, and even if they don't--the absent are always wrong." "but they must see me--where can i hide?" "in a very curious place," observed the doctor, "and one where they will never find you. i intend you to vanish." "and fly the country?" "no, you will stay in london, go about everywhere, meet your friends, and lead whatever life pleases you." "but how can i do this if i vanish? i will be arrested if i go out." "no, you will not." "i don't understand." "nor will you till you hear my story." "i'm ready." the doctor looked piercingly at the young man for a moment, and then gave a satisfied laugh. "i think you'll do," he said coolly, "desperate diseases require desperate remedies, and if you want to escape the strong arm of the law, you will have to undergo a very curious experience." "and that experience." "forms the sequel to the story i am now going to tell you." chapter iii. the dissection of a soul "the history of my life which i am about to relate to you is known to no one, and i only reveal it now as it is necessary for the success of the experiment i contemplate making that you should know all about me. i am generally supposed to be a cosmopolitan as i speak many languages, have travelled a great deal, and physically resemble the natives of no particular country. as a matter of fact, however, i am of mixed blood, my father being an irish adventurer, and my mother a pure-blooded hindoo. this blending of the east and the west gave me on the one hand a strong physique, and on the other a reflective brain, so that i was eminently fitted for the strange career i chose to lead during the earlier part of my life. "my father went out to india when it was ruled by the h.e.i.c. and, being an unscrupulous man, determined to make money in the easiest way he could. a chance soon presented itself, for my mother, the daughter of a high priest of brahma, fell in love with his handsome face, and yielding to his protestations of love, gave up her country, religion and parents in order to fly with him, which she did, carrying with her no inconsiderable amount of wealth, principally consisting of gems stolen from the treasury of the temple. "my parents came to england and, shortly after i was born, my mother, unable to bear the rigour of the english climate, died, while my father shortly afterwards followed her to the grave, being assisted there, as i strongly suspect, by a hindoo servant who resented his treatment of my mother. this servant, by name lai chunder, then returned to india, taking with him the remnant of the stolen jewels and myself, the offspring of the ill-fated marriage. the jewels were restored to the temple of the offended god, and i was given in charge of my grandfather, the high priest, while lai chunder, having lost caste by crossing the ocean, was purified before the shrine of brahma and then sent forth as a fakir to do penance for the rest of his life. "seeing that i was partly irish, and the offspring of a man he hated, my grandfather was not at all prepossessed in my favour, and i have often wondered that he did not kill me by some subtle means known to his sect, but whatever power may have withheld his hand, he did not do so, but at first tolerated my presence and afterwards grew very fond of me. my mixed blood prevented me from becoming a priest, but my grandfather taught me all the lore of the temple, and being a remarkably quick child i soon picked up a great deal of curious knowledge. the east, as you know, has always been much more accomplished in esoteric learning than the west, seeing that the asiatics study the operations of the spirit, while the europeans confine themselves mostly to the material wants of man, so that having a vein of eastern mysticism in my blood coming from my mother's side, i became deeply versed in occult science. "as the years rolled by, i was initiated into the most profound mysteries and by subjecting my body to the ordeal of fasting, as practised by the fakirs and yoghis of hindostan, i gained a wonderful command over the spiritual part of myself. unluckily, my grandfather died just as i was attaining the last secrets of eastern psychology, and, his influence being withdrawn, his fellow priests determined to kill me as one knowing too much of their secrets and dangerous to the brotherhood. fortunately, however, my learning stood me in good stead for i discovered my danger and fled from the neighbourhood. this would not have saved me, seeing that the priests had at their command secrets which, if used, would have annihilated me physically by disintegrating my body, and sending my soul forth to the infinite without its fleshy envelope. "at this critical stage of my career, however, i chanced to meet my old friend, lai chunder, who was still engaged in his life-long penance, and by his power i was protected in a great measure from the malignity of the brahmins. lai chunder was a man who had a marvellous knowledge of those secrets of psychological science for which the self-complacent savants of europe profess such profound contempt. for them the hindoo trinity of brahma the creator, vishnu the preserver, and siva the destroyer, instead of being the visible emblems of a subtle religious system, are merely the proof of a gross idolatry. thanks to my indian blood, my initiation into the secret brotherhood, and my acquaintance with the learned yoghi, lai chunder, i was enabled to pierce the painted veil which hid the shrine from the eyes of the common people and participate in the wonderful secrets of metempsychosis won from the spiritual world through long centuries of patient work. "i remained a long time with lai chunder, submitted myself to prolonged fastings, to terrible ordeals which required a soul of iron to withstand, and after years of self-torture, months of motionless contemplations, and long weeks of ardent study, i arrived at a profound knowledge of the hidden mysteries of the spiritual world. the ordeal was a frightful one, physically as well as mentally, but thanks to the tremendous vital powers i inherited from my father, and the subtle intellect which was the gift of my mother, i survived years of anguish and suffering, attaining at last the wished-for goal. i could leave this tenement of clay at will, and could send my astral body whither i desired. "i could indulge in the dreams of a god, and partake of the joys of paradise even before my body had perished from this earth. willingly would i have remained away for ever and let my pain-twisted, scarred body return to the earth from whence it originally sprung, but the laws of the universe prevented me; my time had not yet come, and i was forced to return at certain intervals and re-incarnate myself in this body which i now wear. "one secret lai chunder withheld from me--a secret which i ardently desired to learn, namely, how to incarnate my own soul or that of another human being's in a separate body. i have seen my master leave his own body apparently lifeless, and re-incarnate his soul in a corpse; the dead arose, walked, talked, and lived under the animating influence of the soul of lai chunder, and then returned to its former lifeless condition when the animating soul came back once more to its accustomed tenement. this secret was withheld from me, as lai chunder considered i had not achieved a sufficient degree of purification to be blessed with such a boon, so in order to gain this last secret i travelled to thibet and took up my abode with the mystic brotherhood who have their home in those distant wilds. i remained some years with them, and, at last, having attained the highest degree of spirituality possible for a denizen of this planet, i returned to lai chunder, whom i found on the point of death. his hour had come, and his soul was about to leave his emaciated body for the last time. previous, however, to his departure, being satisfied with my efforts to deserve knowledge, he initiated me into the last secret of all, and then his soul departed from this earth for ever, to return to the spirit world from whence it originally came. "when this took place i eagerly tried the effect of my newly-acquired knowledge, and, leaving my own body, i projected my soul into the shell of lai chunder. the experiment was entirely successful, for in the guise of lai chunder i arose and walked, while at my feet my former tenement remained motionless and empty. the laws of the universe, however, forced me to return once more to my own body, and having done so, i buried the mortal part of the yoghi in the earth to resolve into its original elements, and then left india for europe. "i did this as i was still an object of enmity to the priests, and although i now possessed spiritual powers equal to their own, was unwilling to come into collision with them in any way. i had plenty of money, and, as far as material wants were concerned, i was amply provided; while, of course, my life-long studies gave me complete command over the spiritual part of myself. "i only arrived in england last year, and established myself in this house, which i found convenient to the city and also isolated enough to permit me to live my own life without comment. i have one servant, whom i hired when i first settled down, and he serves me sufficiently well--that is, he does everything necessary for my material wants, and speaks to no one about the life i lead. i frequently leave my body for days, and soar, untrammelled, through the wide expanse of the infinite--i have strange visions, wild dreams, unexplainable ecstacies--and my only regret is, that being bound by the laws of the universe, which are fixed and unalterable, i have to return at certain intervals to this body. of course, my servant knows nothing of my trances, as his knowledge of me is bounded by the life i lead in this house. "curiously enough, in spite of my years of spiritual training, my material desires were not yet conquered, and six months after my arrival in this country i fell in love. what attracted me most about the young lady i became attached to, was not her beauty of face and form, although in both of these she was pre-eminent, but the strong masculine spirit which inhabited her feminine body. i was introduced to her through the medium of her father, on whom i called to deliver a letter of introduction from a friend in india. finding that my material nature had surrendered to the spell she had cast over me, i determined to marry her and initiate her into the mysteries of occult science, so that, like myself, her soul would be able to leave her body and fly side by side with mine through infinite space. she, however, was already in love with a young man about her own age, and, not finding my ancient years and my scarred and emaciated body sufficiently attractive, refused to marry me--so, after many trials, failing to shake her resolution, i gave up all thought of attaining my object and returned here to await in patience the period of my solution, when my soul will at last leave this body and reside for ever in the unseen world which it loves. "you may imagine that, now the only being i ever loved has so disdainfully trampled on the affection i offered her, i have no wish to stay on the earth longer than i can help. as i told you, however, the laws of the universe do not permit me to leave my body until the period appointed by god. although i am now sixty years of age, and my body has been exposed to tortures and privations which would have killed an ordinary man, yet i still live on, and, so far as i can see, there is no probability of my dying for some years. ardently desiring, however, to cut short my period of earth-life, i sought for some other solution of the enigma besides death. i could not die, and i dare not kill myself, for suicide is terribly punished in the spiritual world as soul-murder, but by means of my communings, while in the spirit, with the inhabitants of distant spheres, i have discovered that if i can obtain a soul willing to inhabit my own body and work out its allotted years, my own soul can leave the world for ever. "this solution perplexed me very much, as i did not know where to find a man who would be willing to leave his own body and incarnate himself in this withered trunk which goes by the name of dr. michael roversmire. "i thought, however, that chance might send me someone willing to do what i wanted, and the garden door was left open by me so that some stranger might be drawn hither by my strong desire for his services. had it been a burglar, i would have offered him the choice of being arrested for his attempt to rob my house, or of being incarnated in my body, enjoying my income and working out the balance of my life. "though some weeks have passed, no one came however, but to-night you presented yourself, and i think you will be an excellent subject for my purpose. you have committed a murder, and in your own body are in danger of being hanged. i therefore propose that you should conceal yourself in my frame and work out my allotted span of life, so that my soul can leave the world without sin and mingle for ever with the pure spirits who inhabit the unseen universe. "you see, therefore, that if you are agreeable to my plan, i can secure you from all earthly harm by incarnating your soul in my body. as adrian lancaster, to-morrow will see you in prison, and a few weeks, possibly on the scaffold, but concealed in the personality of dr. michael roversmire, you will be able to defy everyone and lead whatever life you desire. "now i have told you my story you can ask me whatever questions you please, but i think i have put the question plainly before you, and it remains with yourself whether you will accede to my request and incarnate yourself in my body or, as adrian lancaster, run the risk of arrest and an ignominious death at the hands of the law." chapter iv. a curious transformation adrian listened to this strange recital in silent astonishment, and in spite of the trouble in which he was involved, felt inclined to regard the whole as the whimsical outcome of a madman's brain. he had heard a great deal about occult science, theosophy, and spiritist belief, but, engaged in a frivolous life, had not paid much attention to their teachings and looked upon them as the religions of charlatans and quacks. but here was a man who far outstripped the powers which theosophists and spiritists professed to exercise, arrogating to himself the functions of the creator in dealing with souls. the whole narration was too fantastical for belief, still he was in such desperate danger that he gladly seized any chance that promised safety, and proceeded to interrogate roversmire in order to find out if there was anything tangible in the weird belief he held. "if i accept your offer," he said slowly, "and permit you to incarnate my soul in your body, what becomes of my own?" "it will remain, to all appearances, dead, until your soul again returns to animate it." "i will go back to it again, then?" "yes!--i think so. my body is sixty years old, yours is, i should say, about twenty-six years, and as things stand now, there is every prospect that you will outlive me. when, therefore your soul inhabits my body, such body will die at my allotted time, and your soul, having no habitation, will be forced to return to your own body in order to work out its period." "but, suppose i am incarnated in your body for years, will not my own decay?" "no--because it is not dead--only asleep. if, however, it is fated that you should die before myself, your body will begin to decay, and then you will remain in mine till the period fixed by god for solution, and your soul will then mingle in the world of spirits as if you had died in your own frame." "i understand," said adrian thoughtfully; "it is a curious idea." "it is a very fortunate one--for you," replied roversmire quietly. "where will my body remain during the time i am incarnated in yours?" "in this house," said the doctor, rising and going over to the fireplace. "as there was danger that my body might be meddled with by ignorant people during the periods my soul was absent, it was necessary to place it in safety, so i sent my servant away for a few weeks and had a secret chamber constructed, about which he knows nothing. when i want to assume my astral body i tell him i am going out of town for a few days so that he may not think my disappearance strange. then i enter into my secret chamber, leave my body there and go where i will, knowing that my fleshly envelope is safe till i return. when you entered to-night, however, i left my body sitting in yonder chair, but your presence warned my spirit of danger to the physical part of myself, so i returned in time to stay your exit." "where is this secret chamber," asked adrian, rising, now more inclined to believe the fantastic story of the doctor. "can i see it?" "certainly, it is important you should know it as you will have to leave your present body in it for safety. look!" he touched a spring in the mantelpiece, whereupon the whole of the fireplace swung round on a kind of pivot, showing that the back was hollow and that a narrow flight of steps led downward into darkness. roversmire lighted a candle which stood on the mantelpiece, then taking it in his hands, bent down and entered into the cavity, beckoning to adrian to follow. the young man did so, and as soon as they were on the verge of the steps, the doctor, touching another spring in the stone wall, caused the fireplace to swing back again into its place. "you see, anyone in the room could not tell we were hidden here," said roversmire, smiling. "come downstairs and i will show you the secret of the pyramid." somewhat bewildered by this strange experience, adrian followed the doctor down the narrow stairs guided by the glimmering light of the taper. they went down for some distance, then found themselves in a small square vault, with room enough for three people to stand in it. roversmire again touched a spring and one part of the wall slid slowly aside, showing a space beyond in utter darkness. "another precaution, you see," said the doctor, pointing to the third spring. "anyone who found the first secret would never guess the second. come!" he advanced into the vault, and going towards one end of it turned an ivory handle fixed in the wall, whereupon the whole apartment was irradiated with a powerful electric light. adrian gave an exclamation of surprise and put his hands over his eyes as they felt quite painful in the sudden glare after the dense darkness, only lighted by the candle. it was a moderate-sized apartment, circular in shape, with a domed roof of pure white, painted with signs of the zodiac, and from the centre blazed the electric light hidden in a large semi-opaque globe. the walls were hung with strange tapestries of brilliant colours, whereon were depicted the animal gods of egypt and the fantastic deities of india, while the floor was covered by a thick, soft carpet with a bizarre pattern in blue, yellow and red, the outcome of some opium-confused, oriental imagination. at one side of this queer place was a low couch covered with a magnificent tiger skin, and near at hand a mother-of-pearl inlaid moorish table, whereon stood a decanter of red wine and some glasses, together with a plate of white bread. "the existence of this is only known to ourselves," said dr. roversmire, casting a satisfied look around, "and here you can leave your body until such time as it is fated mine should die, when your soul will of course return to its former dwelling-place, but as the body left so long without action or food will be weak, you will find the wine and bread of great service in restoring your vital powers." "but suppose your body dies soon and i have to return to my own," said the young man miserably. "i will then be arrested." "that, of course, will be your own look out," retorted the doctor, shrugging his shoulders. "i provide you with a hiding-place for a time, and if my body dies and you lose your city of refuge--well, it is not my fault; but i think you can rest assured that unless some accident happens or you commit suicide, my body will continue on this earth for a few more years, and by the time it dies the whole affair of this murder will have blown over and you can re-animate your own body, go out of the county and live on my money, which i freely make over to you." "are you rich?" "yes, i think you will find plenty of ready money standing in my name in the international bank, and moreover in my desk is a small box of gems which are worth a great deal; whatever income you may possess now, i don't think you'll suffer by the change into my body." "but are you not sorry to give up all this wealth?" dr. roversmire laughed in an amused manner, as if adrian had asked a childish question, which, indeed, he had, from the doctor's point of view. "sorry," he echoed, "sorry to exchange this weary body for an astral one--sorry to give up the gross pleasures of earth for the pure delights of the spiritual world? no, i am not sorry; the change to me will be like that of a beggar man passing suddenly from abject poverty to kingly affluence." "but reflect," said adrian earnestly, "if i accept your offer, think of what i am--i have committed a crime. according to my own showing i am not a good man; my soul in your body may commit many foolish actions, and yet you will be held guilty of them." "my body will, not my soul," replied roversmire coolly. "whatever you do in my body will have to be expiated by your own soul since it is your freewill that acts and not mine--as to my personality, which you seem afraid of harming, it does not matter to me in the least--i have no relations on whom your actions in my body would bring disgrace; you can do what you like with my shell--i am only concerned about my soul. "but how about your past life?" "i have told you all my past life, but should you need to know more there are plenty of papers in my desk which will tell you every action of mine since my arrival in england; with my indian life you have nothing to do, as no trouble will come from there; my reputation is that of a savant and a recluse; when you occupy my body you can indulge in whatever pranks you like, but i warn you, that however youthful your soul may be, the body is old and weak, and if you play with it you will kill it and thus lose your city of refuge sooner than you expect, so your safety rests entirely with yourself." "it's impossible to undo the past," said adrian gloomily, "and although i committed the crime in a moment of passion, i will never cease to feel remorse. "that is part of your punishment," said roversmire seriously. "i can give you a new body but not a new soul, so whatever acts of evil you have done in your past life the remembrance will always cling to you; but if you expiate your crime on earth by prayers and repentance in my body and in your own, it will purify your spirit for the world beyond. now i think everything has been explained, so if you will lie down on that couch i will release my own soul and accomplish the transformation of yours into my body." "one moment," cried adrian, as he sat down on the couch, "how can i sign your name to cheques and imitate your handwriting?" "you will do so mechanically," said roversmire, who was lighting a fire in a small brazier; "writing is an operation of the body, not of the soul. i cannot give you my learning, as that pertains to the soul and i take it with me, but all material knowledge i possess or physical dexterity i have acquired will be yours, to use as you will--now, are you ready?" "yes," said adrian, obediently lying down, "but i am engaged to marry a girl called olive maunders--how will that affect me in your body?" "of course she won't know you," replied the doctor with a peculiar smile, fanning the fire which was now at red heat. "you will have to wait till you reassume your own body before marrying her--but it is simply a question of safety for you just now, so you'd better leave love out of the question or you will lose your life, your love, and everything else." adrian gave a sigh of sorrow, and slightly turning his head, watched the preparations of the doctor. the fire was now burning a deep red, and the brazier was standing in the centre of a ring of white powder which had been strewn around it. the doctor bent down and touched this powder with his finger, muttering some words, whereupon a blue lambent flame sprang up and ran round the circle. roversmire then cast some herbs on the fire, which he took out of a small silver box, and raising his arms chanted a kind of hymn in a low soft voice. the wild music, barbaric in the extreme, rose and fell like the rhythmical fall of waves on a lonely beach, and a thick white smoke curled upward from the brazier, spreading a pungent odour through the vault. after a time roversmire, looking strange and spectral amid the veil of smoke, paused in his chanting, crossed over to the young man and spoke solemnly: "i am about to leave this world for that of the spirits and i leave your soul in charge of my body--make good use of it, for what you do will be of your own free will and must be expiated by your own spirit. are you ready and willing to take this burden upon you?" "i am ready," replied adrian slowly. "then close your eyes," commanded roversmire going over to the brazier. "farewell, and may your crime-stained soul be cleansed by prayer, repentance and expiation." in obedience to the instructions, adrian closed his eyes and felt the acrid odour of the smoke titillate his nostrils, while the doctor resumed his measured chant. the strange melody which sounded like the wailing of a lost spirit seemed to recede further and further away as the senses of the young man became clouded by the fumes spreading through the apartment. suddenly his whole body felt contorted with extreme pain, every muscle, every nerve seemed to be wrenched asunder, and in a paroxysm of terror he strove to cry out, but was unable to do so. fire seemed to run all through his body, burning up his physical frame, and he writhed and twisted in an agony of torture, then a thick darkness seemed to descend on his brain and he remembered no more. how long the thick darkness continued he did not know, for when he opened his eyes again he was lying on the floor near the brazier, from whence all the fire had died away. a cold air pervaded the vault, and raising himself from the floor, adrian saw with a sudden thrill of horror that his body, pale and still, was lying on the couch while he himself, looking down at his limbs, saw that they were wrapped in roversmire's dressing-gown. with a cry which did not sound like his own voice he walked to a mirror which was hanging on the wall and then recoiled with a shudder, for the face which looked from the glass was not his own handsome countenance, but the old, grey-bearded, wrinkled face of roversmire, now no longer calm and placid but convulsed with terror and anguish. the transformation had taken place. adrian, in the person of dr. michael roversmire, walked languidly over to the table, already feeling in his limbs the difference between youth and age, and pouring out a glass of wine drank it up. then looking at his own body lying so still on the couch, he folded the arms across the chest, lighted the candle, and after turning out the electric light, left the vault. he soon found his way back to the room above, as his hands seemed to mechanically discover the secret springs, then putting back the fireplace into its original condition, he blew out the candle and replaced it on the table, then falling on his knees prayed long and earnestly. he was safe so far, for his guilty soul now inherited the body of roversmire, and his outward semblance, which would have caused his arrest, was safely hidden in the secret room below. the events of the night had been terrible, and quite worn out with the anguish and misery his soul had undergone, he staggered to a couch, flung himself down on it and was soon fast asleep. chapter v. new wine in an old bottle when adrian awoke next morning he half thought that the fantastic events of the night were but the outcome of some strange dream, but a single glance in the mirror soon disillusioned him as he saw reflected back the countenance of dr. michael roversmire. it was true then--he had voluntarily placed his soul in the outward semblance of the old man, and would have to lead his life, be bound by his physical restrictions and be to all intents and purposes another person, until such time as the worn-out body died and he could return once more to his own frame. and then there would be the danger of paying the penalty of the crime he had committed. no! there was no safety for him save in the guise of age, and he would have to patiently endure this servitude which he had brought upon himself. while he was seated on the couch in the disordered sitting-room, wondering what was the first step to take in his new existence, the door opened and a pale, lean man, quietly dressed in black, appeared. this was dentham, the servant alluded to by doctor roversmire, and his appearance by no means impressed adrian in a favourable manner. tall, thin and supple, his movements seemed to have the sinuosity of a serpent, and his pallid face, clean shaven and serious, looked cold and cunning under a sparse crop of thin red hair, giving the young man an uneasy feeling of repulsion, similar to that provoked by the sight of a noxious animal. the shifty grey eyes, habitually downcast, the thin lips twitching involuntarily at the corners and the air of self-restraint, all clearly pointed to the fact that this man had a cunning nature and would by no means be averse to performing any treacherous action for the sake of money. adrian took an immediate dislike to his physiognomy, which dislike was not lessened when he heard the soft, hissing voice which issued from the thin lips. "have you not been in bed, sir?" he asked, closing the door softly after him, and coming forward to the centre of the room. "no," replied adrian, in a dull voice, feeling it incumbent upon him to keep up the character he had assumed, "i have been engaged in writing and just slept here for a few hours." dentham cast a swift glance at the writing materials lying on a desk standing near the window, let his cold glance dwell doubtfully for a moment on his master's face and then spoke again. "what would you be pleased to have for breakfast, sir?" "the same as usual," replied adrian, who had not the slightest idea but that roversmire might have been a vegetarian, and therefore felt afraid to say anything. "meanwhile i'll go up to my room and have a bath." "you will find everything ready, sir," answered dentham, respectfully holding the door open. adrian did not know where the bedroom was, but did not like to ask dentham, knowing it would look curious in his eyes, so left the room, trusting to chance to find it. luckily he had not proceeded very far when he saw through an open door a sponge-bath filled with water, and guessing this to be roversmire's bedroom, went-inside, closing the door after him. left alone in the sitting-room, dentham's manner underwent a rapid change and from wearing an air of cold self-restraint he became as eager and as anxious as a ferret. he glanced rapidly round the room, went across to the writing-desk, turned over the papers quickly with his lean hands, marked the two arm-chairs set opposite one another near the table, noticed that two glasses had been filled with wine, then suddenly caught sight of adrian's stick, which he had thrown down the previous evening. "i knew i was right," murmured dentham to himself, pouncing eagerly on the stick. "it was the voice of a stranger. someone's been to see him. i wonder what's up; this ain't his stick." he looked carefully at the stick, a massive oaken staff, round the top of which was a gold band, marked with the letters "a. l.," which discovery seemed to afford him much satisfaction. "i wonder who it was came," he repeated, twisting the stick round and round. "the letters of his name are 'a. l.,' and he's gone off again, leaving his stick behind him. that's queer! rum old cove, my master. i can't make him out." the fact was, dr. roversmire's peculiar mode of life had roused the curiosity of mr. dentham, who was of a very suspicious nature, and he was anxious to find out the reason of his master's solitary life, and if possible turn it to his own advantage. up till the present, although he had watched the movements of the doctor closely, nothing had occurred to justify his suspicions that anything was wrong, but on the previous night he had heard two voices in conversation, and now that he saw two separate glasses of wine had been drunk, and had found the tangible evidence of the walking-stick, he became assured that his master had received a visitor during the night. "wish i'd listened," said mr. dentham, in a disappointed tone. "i might have found out what was up. i wouldn't be a bit surprised to find the old cove was a forger or a thief--there must be some reason for the way he lives, and if i find out anything, i'll make some money out of it." he went off to his own room, hid the stick safely away, returning with a self-satisfied air to lay the table, fully determined to keep his eyes open and watch the actions of dr. roversmire so as to trip him up should he espy anything wrong. meanwhile adrian had freshened himself with a bath, and changed his clothes for some which he found in the wardrobe, still, however, retaining the dressing-gown, as he did not want to make too sudden a change in his outward appearance. he intended to make a close examination of all roversmire's papers in order to get himself thoroughly conversant with the daily life of the recluse. it was curious that he should take so much trouble in learning all the tricks, manners and daily actions of his usual body, seeing that it was impossible anyone could comprehend the change that had taken place, and however strikingly he altered his habits it would be put down by every person to the well-known eccentricities of the doctor. assuming a new body as a disguise is very different from assuming a new garb, and it was this very novelty that made adrian so painfully careful, as it seemed almost impossible to him that no one should notice the transformation. having finished his toilet, he returned to the sitting-room and found the table spread for breakfast consisting of milk, eggs, watercress and fruit. dentham was in attendance, but adrian speedily dismissed him, as he felt ill at ease under the stealthy glances which the servant bestowed upon him whenever he felt himself unobserved. "i wonder if he notices any difference," said adrian to himself when dentham had retired, closing the door softly after him, "pshaw! of course not--it would be a clever person who could find the soul of adrian lancaster in the body of michael roversmire." he made a very good breakfast and was about to devote himself to the task of looking over roversmire's private papers, when he suddenly recollected his hat, cloak and stick, not wishing to leave them about, lest the keen eyes of dentham should see them and an awkward explanation might ensue. although he searched the sitting-room yet he could not find them; then suddenly recollected that he might have taken them down with him to the secret chamber. in order to be certain of this and set his mind at rest, he lighted a candle, touched the spring and having replaced the fireplace in its normal condition so as to obviate discovery by dentham, descended into the vault, turned on the electric light and looked around. the sight of his former body lying so still and deathlike gave him a momentary pang, and he could not help contrasting its handsome face and fine figure with his present uncouth exterior, for owing to the ordeals to which it had been subjected, the body of dr. roversmire was in a rather battered condition. adrian saw that his own frame was still wrapped in the ulster, and the hat lay beside the couch on the floor, but although he hunted in every corner of the vault he could not find the stick. with a thrill of terror he extinguished the electric light and then in the darkness, feebly lighted by the glimmering taper, he seemed to feel the spiritual presence of the old fakir, who had doubtless returned to see how the occupant of his body was getting on. a cold breath of air seemed to break suddenly into the warm atmosphere of the vault, and adrian half thought he saw a luminous cloud hovering near him. the half vision however soon vanished, and the young man put it down to the excited state of his mind. still, the vault seemed to be occupied by some strange presence, and he hurriedly left this nether apartment and returned hurriedly to the upper room, which he luckily found still untenanted. "thank heaven that infernal servant didn't discover my absence," he thought, blowing out the candle. "i don't trust him in any way, and the old doctor was more easily gulled than i should have thought possible if he believed in a man with such a treacherous face." at this moment the subject of his reflections entered the room and proceeded to clear away the breakfast things, at the same time handing the daily telegraph of the day to his master. "by-the-way, dentham, you did not see a walking-stick lying about here--an oak stick with a gold band round it?" asked adrian unfolding the paper. "no sir, i did not," replied dentham, telling the lie without moving a muscle of his pale face, "was it yours sir?" "yes! i carried it yesterday and left it lying about the room." "i did not know you were out yesterday, sir." "you don't know a good many things," said adrian tartly, smoothing out the newspaper, "you can go." dentham withdrew without a word and smiled subtly to himself when safe outside. "says it's his own stick," he muttered under his breath. "oh, yes, i dare say--but your name don't begin with 'a. l.' dr. roversmire--there's something queer about all this; i believe he's the head of a gang of forgers and one of 'em came to see him. i'll keep my eyes open in case there's a row." adrian soon dismissed the episode of the stick from his mind, as he did not remember all the events of the previous night and half thought he might have lost the stick in his journey from the garden door to the house. meantime he looked at the paper anxious to see if there was anything about his crime of the previous night. as he anticipated there was a short statement, but owing to the late hour at which the affair had taken place, a very full report had not come to hand. the paragraph was headed "a curious affair," and it stated that a gentleman called lancelot alther, had gone up to mr. adrian lancaster's rooms early in the morning and found the owner absent, and a mutual friend, mr. philip trevanna, lying half-dead on the floor. he had been stunned, but on administration of remedies had revived, although he could not give any explanation of the assault as he was now in a high fever, and it was doubtful if he would recover. mr. lancaster had disappeared and no trace of him had been discovered. adrian laid down the paper with a sigh of relief as he read the news. "i didn't kill him after all," he said in a thankful tone, "he was only stunned, and it would have been better if i had remained and explained the affair, although in any case i would certainly have been arrested. at all events, even if he does recover, it's too late now to do anything. i'm imprisoned in this body, and, unless something happens, will have no opportunity of becoming adrian lancaster again. i have indeed vanished completely from the world, and i don't think all the police in london will be able to trace my whereabouts. i must just wait patiently for the chapter of accidents to redeem me--curses on me for a fool in accepting roversmire's offer so readily--i am lost to the world--to olive and to everything else, and all by my own act. i'll wait and see if philip trevanna recovers, then some chance may release me from this mask of old age, and i'll be able to face my fellow men once more as adrian lancaster." chapter vi. the tortures of hell there is no punishment that men can devise so terrible in its effects as remorse. physical tortures cannot last longer than a certain period without wearing out the body, but remorse is a monster which feeds upon itself and, little by little, gains possession of the whole inner life, making outward things hateful to the sight. it was this feeling that adrian experienced after he had surrendered his liberty to gain safety in the body of dr. roversmire. the memory of his crime was constantly with him, reminding him at every moment of the day that his soul was held in the bondage of an alien body, and that, even if philip trevanna recovered, he would be powerless to break the chain which fettered him. the deed, once done, could not be recalled, and, of his own free will, he had entered into a prison from which nothing short of a miracle could release him. as the days went slowly by he strove mightily to adapt himself to the dreary, monotonous life which he was now leading. roversmire had indeed been able to draw entertainment from his stores of knowledge, his vast experience, and his power of releasing his soul from his body whenever earthly things grew too irksome to him, but adrian, having lived all his life in a frivolous world, had not a well-stored mind to draw upon, consequently being debarred by his strange position from his ordinary pleasures he did not know how to employ his time. furthermore, the memory of his folly stung him sharply, and the forced inaction of the life of seclusion, to which he was now condemned, made his tortured soul writhe in its new dwelling-place with a hideous sense of impotence and weariness. day by day the papers informed him of the progress which philip trevanna was making towards recovery, and the astonishment excited by his own strange disappearance, but he was powerless to come forward, explain the circumstances of the affair, and resume his place among his fellow-men. he had sinned in permitting his temper to lead him to so nearly kill a human being, and this was his punishment--this dreary life of forced inaction, of agonising remorse, and of terrible self-reproach. truly he was paying dearly for the one mad act of his life, and to his mind the punishment appeared immeasurably severe to the magnitude of the crime. had philip trevanna died, he would have accepted his terrible situation with sullen apathy, looking upon it as a fit reward for taking the life of a fellow-man, but seeing that his friend was recovering, that the crime was unpremeditated, and that trevanna had provoked him beyond all powers of endurance, it seemed bitterly hard that he should have to pass an indefinite period in a constant state of torture. this unpleasant state of things was not rendered any more bearable by the presence of dentham, who, adrian knew, kept a constant watch upon his every action. what the man suspected he could not tell, but that he was suspicious of the life led by dr. michael roversmire was certain, as adrian felt rather than saw the stealthy glances with which he watched his goings out and comings in, gettings up and layings down. this, in itself, was enough to irritate a sensitive mind, but added to the appalling tortures the unhappy young man was constantly feeling, it drove him nearly to the verge of distraction, and he longed for something to happen which would give him, if not a release, at least change of life. at last an event happened which caused adrian to make up his mind to leave his seclusion, and which also caused considerable anxiety to the enquiring mind of mr. dentham. one day, about two weeks after the transformation had taken place, adrian saw in the paper a notice of a reward offered for the discovery of the whereabouts of adrian lancaster. "i'm wanted by the police, i suppose," he muttered gloomily to himself; but this idea was soon dispelled when he read the last lines of the advertisement, which said that all information was to be given to o. m., the nook, marlow, bucks. "it's olive! olive!" cried adrian, throwing down the paper, "she wants to find out where i am and help me, god bless her; if i could only reveal myself to her--but it's impossible. dr. roversmire is a stranger to her, and if i told her what had taken place, she would look upon me as a madman. what am i to do?--god help me, what am i to do?" he walked up and down the room, plucking at his long grey beard as if he would tear from his young soul this mark of age. "she could never love me as i am now," he said, clasping his hands, "for that would be treachery to my memory, and this face is not the one to win any girl's love--did not roversmire himself say that the woman he loved refused to return his passion?--stay! perhaps if i look through this desk i may find out the name of the woman he loved, and go and see her--something may come of it, though i dread even to hope that things will turn out well." sitting down at the desk near a deep, wide window, he unlocked it with the key which was placed therein, and began to turn over the papers in the hope of finding some clue to the name of this girl, whose rejection of roversmire's suit had indirectly led up to the catastrophe which had happened to himself. he was about an hour looking through the papers, but found nothing likely to lead to discovery, until at length he found a locked book, which he immediately guessed was the diary of roversmire. "if it's anywhere, it will be in here," he said to himself, "but it's locked--i wonder where the key is--it's a very small hole, so the key must also be small. i don't think i've seen any key that size, and yet--ah!" with a sudden recollection, "it's on the watch chain." and so it was, a long slender golden key of indian workmanship, with which adrian easily unlocked the book, and was soon deep in the contents written in the small, clear handwriting of the doctor. for a long time he read steadily on, without finding what he was in search of. the entries principally related to the writer's life in india, the periods of his fasts, the statements of his feelings, the dates upon which he arrived at and departed from different places, and every now and then, wild rhapsodies, peculiarly oriental in their poetic thought and imagery of the delights, ecstacies, and marvellous pleasures he had tasted of, when set free from his earthly body. later on in the book, the doctor recorded his arrival in england, the disposition of his affairs with regard to money; the taking of his house at hampstead, and the way in which he lived secluded from all men. then, at last, came a declaration of his passion, and at the sight of the name of the woman he loved, adrian lancaster gave a low cry, and letting the book fall upon the floor, arose quickly to his feet. "olive maunders!" he whispered clutching his throat, "he loved olive maunders, and she never told me anything about him--oh, impossible--it cannot be true." it was true however, for on recovering his composure, and resuming the reading of the diary, he found the whole facts of the case, plainly set out. dr. roversmire had called at the town house of sir john maunders with a letter of introduction from a friend in india, and sir john, having a leaning towards occult science, had been much taken up with the curious character of his guest. roversmire saw olive, fell in love with her, and recorded his impressions in a series of broken paragraphs, which were anything but pleasant reading to the fastidious mind of adrian lancaster, seeing that they were about the girl whom he intended to make his wife. ". . . . she is certainly a most beautiful woman, but it is not her outward form which attracts me, fair though it be as the lotus floating on the wave of the holy ganges. the pure crystal of her body encloses the still purer flower of her soul, a soul which possesses strong masculine characteristics . . . . after the soulless women of the east, this discovery is to me a source of wonder and admiration. ". . . . i have observed her narrowly, and am still constant to my first opinion; with such a strong soul as she possesses, olive might go through the ordeal with unshaken firmness of purpose, and be enabled to release her soul from this clinging vestment of clay . . . . i must explain as much as i can to her and see if she will make the attempt. ". . . . all in vain . . . . i have told her of my idea that she should marry me, that i should initiate her into those strange sciences of which the west knows nothing, and when she attains the mastery of the last great secret, we will float together, radiant spirits in infinite space. ". . . . it is quite useless, not even this destiny i offer her can gain her love! and why? because it is given already to some brainless dandy of to-day called adrian lancaster . . . he is abroad now, and hence the mistake i made in thinking she was free--ah, it is unkind of fate to thus mar the destiny of a fair strong soul by such a vulgar obstacle. ". . . . by means of my astral body, i have seen mr. adrian lancaster, who is at monte carlo . . . . a handsome face certainly, but no brains, and if he has any, he never uses them . . he seems to me to lead a debauched life--ah, the pity that such a soiled soul should seek union with the stainless, spiritual part of olive maunders. it will be like fire and water coming together, and the mastery will be with the strongest. ". . . . i have tried again and failed, her material part is stronger than her spiritual one, and she has set her heart upon marriage with adrian lancaster, so there is nothing left for me to do, but to retire peacefully from the field . . . . i should like to teach her a lesson, and show her what she has lost in refusing to marry me . . . well, time will show, and i may some day, have an opportunity of doing so . . . ." there were several other entries about olive and himself, but adrian had read enough, and closing the book with a frown, locked it up again in the desk. it was clear dr. roversmire had not held a very good opinion of him, and adrian could not help acknowledging to himself that the view taken by the savant was a correct one. he had brains in plenty, but had never exercised them--never mind, there was yet time. the experiences he had undergone, while in the body of roversmire, had not been without a salutary effect, and he would benefit by them, when he returned to his own body. but when would he return? ah! that was the question; at all events, he would go down to olive maunders, and find out from her demeanour towards him, if she really was true to adrian lancaster, or if her ambition had caused her to look kindly upon michael roversmire. the entries in the book were plain enough--she did not love anyone else but himself, still the demon of jealousy was gnawing at adrian's heart, and only a personal interview could satisfy him on the subject. he rang the bell, and dentham appeared with such rapidity that adrian felt convinced he had not been far away. however, listen as he might, he could not learn anything likely to endanger the safety of dr. roversmire, so adrian asked at once for what he wanted. "have you a bradshaw?" "yes, sir," replied dentham, and thereupon vanished, quickly returning with the book in question. adrian took it, and dentham was about to retire when his master called him back. "wait a moment, i may want you," he said, without raising his eyes from the guide, whereupon dentham wondered greatly what could have occurred to alter so suddenly the general habits of the old doctor. adrian soon found out that there was a train late in the afternoon to great marlow, and laying down the book open on the table, rose to his feet. "i am going to my room, dentham," he said abruptly. "you can come in shortly to pack my portmanteau--i shall be going away for a few days." "going away," echoed dentham when the door had closed on the tall figure of his master. "where to, i wonder; there's something queer about this--why, he's hardly been out of the house for the last six months, and now he makes up his mind to be off in half a minute. i'll have a look at this and find out where he's going to." the bradshaw was lying on the table, still open at the place to which adrian had referred, so dentham had no difficulty in discovering that dr. roversmire was going to great marlow, in the county of bucks. "what does he want there?" mused mr. dentham, laying down the book--"more mysteries." here he caught sight of the paper crumpled up on the floor, where adrian had thrown it, and picked it up. "he's been asking for the papers a lot lately," said the astute valet to himself, "i wonder if there's anything in this that's got to do with his going to marlow--i'll see." he looked carefully over the paper, and at length came upon the advertisement for adrian lancaster's whereabouts. "that's it," said mr. dentham in a satisfied tone, "it's the only mention of marlow in the paper, and he only made up his mind to go there since he read the paper; and now i think of it," muttered dentham sagaciously, "the walking-stick i picked up as he said belonged to himself, which was a lie, had the letters a l on it--now a stands for adrian and l for lancaster, and adrian lancaster's disappeared. i wonder--now i do wonder if the voice i heard that night was mr. lancaster's, and what his walking-stick is doing in this room--jumping at conclusions this is, i'm afraid, still, something may come of all this, but i shan't move till i've got more to go on." he put the paper in his pocket, intending to place it beside the stick, which he had securely hidden, and then went off to pack dr. roversmire's portmanteau with a self-satisfied smirk on his white face. chapter vii. the woman he loved certainly there is no more delightful retreat on a hot july day, than one of those picturesque cottages standing in an expanse of verdant turf, cool to the eye and soft to the feet, down by the silver wave of father thames, near marlow. by the bend of the river, just above the quaint old town, one of these red-tiled domiciles was, as "the lock to lock times" informed its readers, occupied by sir john maunders, his daughter olive, and a party of friends, who had fled from the noise and dust of london to the pleasant cool of the country. "the nook," as it was called, was a cosy little place, of somewhat incongruous architecture, the present proprietor having purchased it as a cottage and added wings, gables, turrets and oriel windows to the original erection, until it had assumed quite an imposing appearance. nothing ancient about it certainly, no tudor battlements, georgian frontages nor norman towers, for it was eminently victorian in its appearance, and all its arrangements both without and within had all the latest improvements conducive to comfort and luxury. there was a deep verandah round the red brick front, with wide french windows giving access to drawing-room, dining-room and smoking-snuggery, all of which were furnished regardless of cost by the most famous upholsterer in london. from the verandah a velvety smooth lawn spread like an emerald carpet down to the river banks, where there was a boat-house and a flight of broad steps to the water, near to which steps two handsome boats of cedar were generally moored for the convenience of sir john's guests. between the river and the house were four huge beech trees, whose foliage made a pleasant shade, and under which were plenty of rustic seats and tables, while a lazy-looking hammock of net swung from a giant limb. on this hot july afternoon one of the tables was spread for afternoon tea, presided over by olive maunders, and sir john who sat near her, while all around were the guests, mostly young men and women with a sprinkling of chaperones. sir john, a genial-looking old gentleman, was always delighted to surround himself with young people, as he said they made life look bright to him, and certainly there was plenty of laughing and talking as the party on the lawn chatted about the events of the day, listened to the voice of the wind stirring the leaves overhead or watched the boats floating past on the sunlit river, with their loads of young men in flannels and pretty girls daintily costumed in river fashion. teddy rudall, a fashionable journalist, society verse writer, and know-everybody-about-town young man was seated in a wicker chair, playing his banjo and singing a nonsensical impromptu ditty suggested by the situation: _oh, london's summer i like it not, in june the season becomes a bore, the last sensation is quite forgot, the last new lion has ceased to roar pleasure is over and bills come in; the girl i worshipped has married a peer, i'll leave this town with its life of sin, and not come near it--until next year_. _oh country's summer i much prefer, for perfume blows from a thousand flowers, delightful breezes the still leaves stir, nightingales sing in the twilight hours. phillis has captured my worn-out heart, but only a moment 'tis hers i fear, i'll love her and love her until we part, and not come near her--until next year_. "what a fickle person you are, mr. rudall," remarked a pretty blonde when the song came to an end. "i always am--in poetry, mrs. manson," replied rudall, idly touching the strings of his banjo, with an amused smile on his boyish face. "and what about real life?" "depends very much on the lady." everyone laughed at this rejoinder except olive maunders, who sat staring at the river with a frown on her handsome face. "it's a case of 'gather ye rosebuds while ye may' with rudall," said sir john in a jovial manner. "herrick," observed mr. rudall meditatively, "was a philosopher, and if by rosebuds he meant ladies, i'm not at all averse to following his example." olive maunders evidently found the conversation too frivolous, for she suddenly arose, and without saying a word went up to the house, and retired into the drawing-room. sir john looked after her with a rather pained expression on his face, and, seizing the opportunity afforded by teddy rudall beginning another song, he slipped away to look for her. she was seated in a lounging chair, leaning forward with bent head and clasped hands, the frown still on her face. a striking looking girl, tall and slender, with a handsome resolute countenance of a pronounced brunette type, and her small head, with its coils of smooth black hair, was well set on her sloping shoulders. "why did you run away so suddenly, olive?" asked her father, sitting beside her, and taking one of her slim hands in his own. "i grew tired of the conversation," said olive in a clear sharp voice; "it is so frivolous, and there is such a lot to be thought of." "my dear, you must not brood too much over trevanna's accident." "i'm not thinking about mr. trevanna, but i am about adrian. where can he be? it is now a fortnight since he disappeared, and nothing has been heard of him." "oh! he'll come back again as soon as he hears trevanna is getting better. i expect he thought he had killed trevanna, and is keeping quiet." "but now that mr. trevanna is getting well, he has exonerated adrian entirely. they were both foolish, no doubt, but nothing was so bad as to make adrian hide himself like this." "perhaps the advertisement you put in the paper will bring him," suggested sir john, thoughtfully. "i hope so," replied olive quickly. "if he's anywhere in england he must have seen it by this time, but he seems to have vanished altogether. why cannot your occult science discover him, father?" "i'm not well enough up in theosophy to try any experiments of that nature," said sir john, ruefully, "but i'll tell you who might find out where adrian is." "some detective, i suppose," retorted olive. "nonsense, they never make any discoveries worth talking about, out of the pages of shilling shockers." "no, not a detective," answered her father, quietly, "but a dealer in mysteries--doctor roversmire." "charlatan!" "i don't think he's a charlatan; he knows more about the unseen world than you think." olive maunders looked at her father in a puzzled manner, then, rising from her seat, walked to and fro hurriedly, with her arms folded behind her back. "i can't make you out, father," she said lightly. "you are so sensible in some things, and in others--well! i really don't know how you can believe in this theosophical rubbish." "'_there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy!_'" quoted sir john, with a smile. "oh! i know that quotation," answered his daughter, shaking her head; "it is always quoted by people who believe in the supernatural as an unanswerable argument, and so it is in one sense, but, of course, i did not see enough of doctor roversmire to know what his pretensions are, so i can't say a word against him." "you did not like him, olive?" "no, i certainly did not." "yet he admired you?" "so much so that he did me the honour to ask me to be his wife," replied olive, gravely, "but, of course, i am engaged to adrian. ah, poor adrian! i wonder where he can be?" "wait and hope." "i'm tired of waiting and hoping," said the girl, petulantly. "there was enough about this affair in the papers already, and i want adrian to come forward and defend himself from the malicious tongues of busybodies. philip trevanna will stand by him." "well, i'm sure i don't know what to advise," said poor sir john, helplessly, "unless you ask doctor roversmire." "a drowning man will clutch at a straw," observed olive, after a pause. "i do not believe much in doctor roversmire and his relations with the supernatural world, still, if i could see him, i would ask him to use his knowledge for the benefit of adrian. do you know where he lives, father?" "at hampstead, i believe." "then i will write to him, to-night. mind you, i don't believe any good will come of it; still, i'm so anxious to find adrian that i'd consult even a fortune-teller." she spoke in a scoffing tone which appeared to wound her father, and he was about to remonstrate with her upon her levity when a servant entered and gave her a card. olive glanced carelessly at it and then started in surprise as she handed it to her father, for the name inscribed thereon was that of dr. roversmire. "your prophet of theosophy must certainly have had an intuitive instinct he was wanted," she observed idly. "at all events he could not come at a better time," replied sir john, with a smile. "ask dr. roversmire to come in." the servant departed, and olive and her father looked at one another in silence, while from the garden sounded the gay voice of teddy rudall singing the last four lines of a ballad. _lift not thou the future's curtain, though the present be not gay; only present hours are certain, laugh and love and live to-day_. "there's a good deal of philosophy in that," said sir john sagely. chapter viii. the man she hated dr. roversmire entered the room in a hesitating manner, as if not quite sure of his reception, but his mind was soon set at rest by the cordial manner in which he was met by sir john maunders, who advanced towards him with outstretched hand. "my dear doctor," he said in a hearty voice, "this is indeed an unexpected pleasure and, moreover, a curious coincidence, as we were just speaking of you." "i hope the conversation was favourable to me," said the doctor, advancing towards olive and clasping one of her cool slim hands, "how do you do, miss maunders?" "i am quite well, thank you," she answered, quickly withdrawing her hand from his warm grasp. "have you been away from london?" "yes, i've been to monte carlo," began adrian mechanically, then suddenly recollecting that his personality was lost in the body of dr. roversmire, he went on hurriedly, "that is--no--i have not been out of town further than hampstead." "and why have you not been to see us for such a long time," said sir john. "we have not had a visit for months." "i've been living very quietly," replied adrian, with an effort, "making experiments." the fact was he did not know exactly what to say as he was quite ignorant of the relations existing between dr. roversmire and sir john maunders, and, moreover, was woefully ignorant in all matters of theosophy in which sir john was quite an adept. besides, the sight of olive maunders' calm, sweet face had woke the deepest passions of his soul as he reflected how near and yet how far away she was to him. he saw her face, he heard her voice, he touched her hand and yet for all the satisfaction he obtained he might have been miles away, separated as he was from her by this mask of ancient seeming, in which his ardent young soul had become incarnate. olive maunders, on her part, was struck by the change in the manner of her former admirer. the look of calm, conscious superiority which she had been accustomed to admire, much as she disliked the man, was gone, and in its place was an expression of anguish and a look of haunting dread in the dark eyes. his voice also, formerly so rich, smooth and flowing, was broken and rough, as if the owner had lost all power of controlling his speech. "i'm very glad to see you, dr. roversmire," said olive, looking at him keenly, "as i wish you to help me." "i will be delighted. what is it you wish me to do." "find adrian lancaster." adrian recoiled as if he had received a blow. she asked him to find himself, quite ignorant of the strange transformation which had taken place, and he--what could he do in the matter? he was unable to produce his own body, void as it was of any vital principle, and yet, if he told the truth, he would be looked upon as a madman. as these thoughts flashed rapidly through his brain, he saw at a glance the precipice upon which he stood and resolved to gain time by dexterously temporising so as to form some plan of action. sir john had strolled outside on to the lawn so he was quite alone with olive, and could speak freely. "adrian lancaster," he said smoothly. "i don't think i have had the pleasure of meeting him." "no! at the time you were visiting us in town, he was away on the continent, but although you do not know him personally, i dare say you have seen his name in the papers of late." adrian pretended to think for a moment. "yes, i fancy i have," he replied, anxious to learn from olive's lips the true condition of philip trevanna, "did he not attempt to commit a murder?" olive arose to her feet rapidly, with a look of anger on her expressive face. "no he did not," she answered in a clear, vibrating voice. "mr. trevanna is now getting better, and has made a statement which completely exonerates mr. lancaster from any such intention." "thank god," thought adrian thankfully, "at all events my character will be cleared even although i am unable to defend myself." mistaking his silence for disbelief, olive went on to explain the circumstances of the case. "mr. lancaster and mr. trevanna were playing cards and mr. trevanna insulted his friend by flinging the cards in his face. hardly knowing what he was doing, mr. lancaster threw a decanter at mr. trevanna. it struck him on the head and stunned him. thinking he was dead, mr. lancaster left, very likely to get assistance. mr. trevanna is now recovering and blames himself severely for provoking mr. lancaster's anger as he said mr. lancaster kept his temper admirably for some time under the grossest provocation." "and mr. lancaster has disappeared?" said adrian. "yes, he has vanished completely and in spite of all enquiries cannot be found." "are you sure he went to seek assistance, or--fled?" asked adrian in a measured tone. "you wrong him by such a thought," said olive loyally. "adrian lancaster is not the man to fly from the consequence of his own misdeeds--no! i believe he went to seek assistance, and--and--" "never came back," said the pseudo roversmire cynically. olive lifted her arms with a gesture of despair. "it ill becomes you to speak in this way," she said severely. "what do you know about the impulses of youth? you are an old man, cautious, cold-blooded and calculating; he was warm, impulsive and hot-tempered. if, in a moment of anger, he thought he had committed a crime, was it therefore a very wonderful thing that he should go away secretly for a period so as to gain time to explain the matter, instead of waiting to be arrested? i blame him for his folly as much as you do, but i pity and love him all the same." adrian's heart smote him as he saw how nobly she defended his pusillanimous conduct, though to be sure it is easier to be brave even at the cannon's mouth than to await in cold blood for a certain arrest and a possible ignominious death. "but i thought you said he went to seek assistance," he observed deliberately. "and i say so again," she retorted angrily, "why do you measure and clip my words in this pedantic fashion?--he might have changed his mind--if he has erred in acting upon the impulse of the moment, no doubt he is now being severely punished for it." poor soul, she little knew how severe the punishment was. "he is hiding in some distant place, i suppose, that in itself is punishment for a noble-hearted gentleman like my adrian to have to conceal his face from his fellow men--punishment indeed--i tell you, dr. roversmire, he has, i am certain, already undergone worse punishment than any the law can devise." in her castings round for apologies for adrian's conduct, she had accidentally hit upon the truth, and the soul of the man she loved hidden in the body of the man she hated, writhed under the lash of her words. he had, however, to act the part of a cold philosopher, such as was in keeping with dr. roversmire's general conduct, and crushed down his rising emotions with a powerful effort. "i understand and appreciate all you have said," he observed calmly, "but what do you want me to do?" "tell me where he is." "how can i do that?" "by the aid of your science--chicanery--readings in the stars--or whatever else you practise under the title of theosophy. what is the good of you pretending to supernatural powers if you cannot exercise them in an emergency like this?" here was a dilemma--adrian had not the slightest idea of the sciences which dr. roversmire was supposed to know, and he was quite unable to answer this girl, who stood looking at him with piercing gaze. "perhaps you already know where he is?" she said with sudden suspicion. "i!" he echoed in apparent surprise, "how should i know?" "it may be that, although you have never seen him, you do not like him," she went on feverishly, not paying any attention to his answer. "you did me the honour to ask me to be your wife--i declined as i loved adrian lancaster--perhaps you hate him on that account--i don't believe in your spells and juggling tricks, still--still--tell me," she demanded, with a sudden outburst of anger, "do you know anything about the disappearance of adrian lancaster?" he made a gesture of dissent, for although he was burning to reveal himself, yet the dread of future consequences kept him silent. "is it true that you can disintegrate your bodies? i have heard that you profess to do so, if so have you disintegrated adrian?--oh, what am i talking about? it is madness, insanity, this playing with the supernatural--i do not believe in the powers you say you possess--adrian is in hiding, afraid of the consequences of his folly--when he sees my advertisement, he will return--i'm sure he will." "i'm afraid not," said adrian sadly, knowing how impossible it was such a thing could happen. "what do you know about it?" she cried fiercely, wheeling round on him with a look of suspicion in her eyes, "he could not have come to you for concealment--he did not know you--such things cannot occur in real life." adrian took a sudden resolution, and rising to his feet, advanced towards her and seized her by the wrist. "listen to me, miss maunders," he said gravely, "there is more in this occult science than you dream of, the age of miracles is not past, they are happening every day--your lover thought he had committed a crime and disappeared--he vanished into the night and the darkness hides him--you want to know where he is--i cannot tell you--he has no doubt been punished as you suggest--how, it is impossible to explain--but i will go to work and perchance may restore adrian lancaster to your arms." "and your reward for this?" she asked disbelievingly. "your love," he said softly, forgetting for the moment who he was. olive maunders tore herself from his arms with a cry. "no! no! anything but that," she said with an expression of anger. "what would be the good of your returning adrian to me if i lose him again, by becoming your wife?--be generous, dr. roversmire, you are a learned man far above me in knowledge and wisdom, if you can do what you say, i will ever look upon you as my friend." "i ask for bread and you give me a stone," said adrian sadly; "well, so be it, i will try and find your lover and in return i ask your--friendship." he held out his hand and she clasped it in both of hers. "i must go back to town," he said after a short silence. "say good-bye to your father for me." "what are you going to do?" she asked quickly. he turned towards her in some surprise. "i am going to try and find adrian lancaster," he replied quietly, and with a bow left the room at once, while she stood staring idly at the brilliant group on the lawn, and wondered how they could laugh and jest so carelessly while her life's happiness was at stake. chapter ix. the philosophy of mr. dentham so adrian, after his one glimpse of the woman he loved, left paradise and returned with a heavy heart to his solitary existence at hampstead. he had, it was true, promised to restore the lost sheep to the arms of the gentle shepherdess, but how this was to be done he did not know. there were two ways in which he could regain his identity, either that he should be killed in his present body by accident or that he should commit suicide. the former of these methods seemed unlikely to occur, as the number of people who meet with accidents is really very small, and as to the latter, although he was no coward yet he shrank with a vague dread from putting an end to his present existence. it was true that roversmire had informed him, that his soul would return to its own tenement, but suppose he was wrong and the soul, powerless to enter its former habitation, should remain suspended like the coffin of mahomet between heaven and earth? the last case would be worse than the first, and adrian, in spite of what was at stake, could hardly be blamed for preferring his present condition, unsatisfactory as it was, to a possible chance of leaving the world altogether. one thing, however, he had learned by his visit to marlow which gave him a feeling of satisfaction, and that was the certainty of trevanna's recovery. he was at least guiltless of blood, and moreover the explanation of trevanna exonerated him from any malicious intent, so that when his soul returned to its former body he would at least be in a position to hold up his head as he had been accustomed to do. the devotion displayed by olive in defending his character had touched him deeply, and he was now anxious to recover his lost position and reward that devotion as it deserved. but, in spite of all his desires and the dreariness of his present position, he felt quite powerless to make a move in any direction. he wandered about the house, read a great deal, smoked occasionally, and sometimes went down to the secret chamber, where he found his body was still preserving a life-like appearance with no signs of decay or change. "dentham," he said one day, anxious to find out what suspicions were harboured by his crafty servant, "are you quite sure you did not see that walking-stick i spoke about?" "quite sure, sir," replied the valet promptly, "perhaps the gentleman took it away." "what gentleman?" asked adrian sharply. "the gentleman that owned it, sir." "it belonged to me," said adrian, looking keenly at him, "i told you that before." "would you mind describing the stick to me again, sir," asked dentham innocently. "an oaken staff with a golden band and initials." "your own initials, sir, m.r.?" "no--a.l.--the stick was given to me by a friend and i did not get them altered." "indeed, sir, i'm afraid i didn't see it." "very well, you can go," said adrian shortly, and as the door closed behind the man he muttered quickly: "that man suspects i came to the house on the night, and he thinks as dr. roversmire i've hidden adrian lancaster. good heavens!" he cried, suddenly springing to his feet, "if he thinks this and finds out the body, i, as dr. roversmire, may be accused of making away with myself as adrian lancaster, and then there will be trouble--but it's impossible--even if dentham does suspect, he'll never find the connection between that stick and the disappearance of adrian lancaster. i am a fool to torture myself like this--a fool--a fool." he walked rapidly up and down the room, wildly excited by the possibilities he was conjuring up, and then going to the desk, took out roversmire's diary to find out if possible some mode of escape from his unpleasant position. meanwhile dentham, in the security of his own chamber, was busily engaged in reading a letter he had just received, and which appeared to give him great satisfaction, judging from the smile on his unpleasant-looking face. the letter read as follows: "_if the person who wrote to miss olive maunders offering to give information as to the whereabouts of mr. adrian lancaster will be at no. 40, beryle square at three o'clock on thursday, he will see miss maunders, and obtain a reward if his information leads to the finding of mr. lancaster_." "he! he!" chuckled mr. dentham, folding up this note and putting it safely in his pocket, "it was a good move, writing to that young lady--she's sweet on mr. lancaster, i'll bet--and though i don't know where he is exactly, i daresay this stick will put her on his track--lord! i wonder what old roversmire's done with him--he was always up to some tricks. i don't believe in these jugglers myself--perhaps he's killed him to read a fortune in his inside, like them coves in history." dentham was so excited with this idea that he walked up and down his chamber chuckling. "i thought he was a forger or a robber--but he ain't. no!--he's a murderer, and that's worse nor either of the other two. i'll go to this young lady to-morrow, and i'll show her the walking-stick--that'll show mr. adrian lancaster's been here, at all events, and if they search the house perhaps they'll find him, though i don't say," said mr. dentham sagaciously, "that he'll be alive. if i get any money out of this i'll chuck the old cove--this house gives me the horrors; i know he's got a blue beard's chamber somewhere--well, i'll go to-morrow--my information's worth a fiver at all events. i'll dare to ask the old 'un's leave to get away--he wouldn't give it to me if he know'd what i was up to." the bell rang at this moment, and he was summoned to adrian's presence. "bring me some wine," said adrian, looking up from his book. "yes, sir," replied dentham, and retreated. "drinking, eh," he thought as he went to the pantry; "i wouldn't if i were you--you might let out something about that gentleman whose stick you collared--oh, he give it to you--yes, i daresay--my gracious, what a wicked old chap he is, to be sure." when he had placed the wine on the table and poured out a glass for his master, he waited a moment, and then spoke. "i beg pardon, sir, but might i ask leave to-morrow for a couple of hours?" "what for?" asked his master abruptly. "i've got to go into town, sir--to see a doctor; i ain't well--perhaps you could do something, sir?" "no; i don't practise medicine. go into town, if you like, but mind you're back again in two hours." "you can depend upon me, sir," said dentham quietly, and then sneaked out of the room, chuckling to himself. "he don't practise medicine, don't he--why, i don't believe he's a doctor at all--well, i've got what i wanted, and if i put the police on to the old cove he won't like it." here mr. dentham made a pause, struck with a brilliant idea. "i'll get the money for putting the police on to him," he said in a satisfied tone, "then i'll come home and tell him of his danger if he pays me well--so i'll make money on both sides, and they can fight it out between them--that's what i call philosophy." at all events, it was a very paying philosophy, and mr. dentham passed a happy night, dreaming of the golden harvest he would reap by betraying his master to olive maunders, and then by telling the doctor the lady's plans. chapter x. teddy rudall's ideas number forty, beryle square, was a handsome-looking town residence, but, the owners now being away from london, it had rather a desolate appearance. the boxes of brilliant flowers, that had preserved a many-coloured fringe outside the windows, had all been removed, and, the shutters being up, the house had a lonely look, which was infinitely dreary. the old woman, who looked after it in the absence of its owner, was a grimy-looking party of unprepossessing appearance, addicted to the wearing of a crushed crape bonnet, a withered-looking black dress, and a large apron which had once been white. she made a daily tour of inspection through all the deserted rooms, and cherished dire suspicions of crafty burglars hiding behind doors and under couches. mrs. bickles was the name of this ancient damsel, but, as a matter of fact, she had never been married, but assumed the appellation which she thought was more in keeping with her dignity. this bright july afternoon, was the day upon which dentham was due at 40, beryle square, to give his information regarding adrian lancaster's whereabouts, and mrs. bickles was seated in the kitchen, moralizing over a glass of ale, and the remnants of the frugal meal, which she dignified with the name of luncheon. like most old people, she was very garrulous, and in default of a better listener, talked to herself when alone, so she ran no chance of interruption, but had it all her own way. "victuals," moaned mrs. bickles, wiping her mouth after a drink of beer, "is that dear, as never was. i'm sure it costs a forting to buy as much as 'ud keep a cat alive, and as for summat to drink, what with their billees in parlymint, and their chargin's out of it, i might as well live in the sara desert." she sopped up the gravy on her plate, with a piece of bread, and immediately attacked the baker, from whom she had bought it, as an excellent object to rail at. "it's that heavy," said the lady viciously, referring to the bread, "as lead is feathers to it--on my stomick it lies like a pavin' stone, and the indigressings i suffers is nightmares in 'emselves. i'm getting as thin as a lamp-post--a shadder of the h'old days--ah well!" she concluded philosophically, finishing the beer, "it don't take much to fill a coffing as i'll soon be occipying." at this moment the front door-bell rang, and with a grumble at being disturbed at her meal, mrs. bickles took a large key in her withered claw, and crawled upstairs in an aggressive temper. "why can't they holler down the airy," she whispered, pushing back the bolts from the door, "it's a policeman or a post, i know--what with 'urrying up and skipping down, my legs is ashaking like aspinalls." she unlocked the door, and threw it open, when, much to her surprise, olive maunders stepped inside, followed by a young gentleman dressed in an irreproachable tweed suit, with a flower in his button-hole and a smile on his face. mrs. bickles with many curtseys began to apologise for her delay in opening the door, when olive cut her short in a peremptory manner. "what is the most presentable room in the house?" she asked, "i have come up on business, but leave again by the afternoon train." "the dorin-room's muffled up," explained mrs. bickles, in a thoughtful manner, "and the dinin' ain't fit to receive compingy--i won't say as what the best bedroom needs dustin', but i think the libery is most decent." "very well, then, the library will do," replied olive, walking towards it, followed by her escort, "and if anyone calls to see me in about an hour, show him in." "yes, miss," said the charwoman, with many genufluxions, "but there ain't anythin' to eat." "i don't want anything, thank you," answered olive, and disappeared with the gentleman into the library, leaving mrs. bickles looking after them in astonishment. "now what's up, i do wonder," she said apostrophising the door through which they had vanished "is it police, or pleasures?--it can't be divorces 'cause they're both single--if her par only knowed as she was making appointments with male parties in the 'ouse, it mightn't be to his likings--well it ain't no biziness of mine," pursued mrs. bickles cheerfully, taking her way down to the nether regions, "their moralses and their quarrelses is their own businesses." meanwhile olive maunders was seated on a holland-covered chair in the library, talking earnestly to teddy rudall, who sat in a similar chair, with a puzzled look on his genial young face. "i want you to understand plainly why i have asked you to come up with me to-day," explained olive deliberately, "i put an advertisement in the paper concerning adrian lancaster, and it is about that advertisement i am here to-day." "has it been answered?" asked rudall, with a look of interest. "yes--and in extremely bad english too," replied the girl, handing him a scrap of blue paper, "read it please, and see what you make of it." thus adjured, teddy took the paper, and smoothing it out, read as follows in his slow, languid voice: "_the writter of this knows somthing of mr. adrian lancaster--if there is muny, he will come and tell all he knowes, without preggyduce--adres d. manor court, yew street, hampstead_." "extraordinary document," commented teddy, handing it back to olive, "particularly the last words. i don't know which to admire the most, the legal knowledge, or the spelling--well, did you answer this?" "i did, and told d., whosoever he or she may be, to call here at three o'clock to-day." "oh! it's nearly three now," said teddy, glancing at his watch, "and what do you want me to do?" "depends entirely on what i learn from 'd'" replied olive, folding up the letter and putting it away. "i did not tell my father, as i don't want to do so until i find out something definite about adrian." "i'll be delighted to do anything i can," said rudall heartily, "i feel awfully sorry for adrian--it would have been much better if he had stayed and faced it out." "yes, i suppose so," answered olive sadly, "but you see he acted on the impulse of the moment. adrian was always so impulsive." "why speak of him in the past tense?" asked teddy lightly. olive rose to her feet, and folding her arms behind her back, walked up and down the room slowly. "i suppose i shouldn't," she replied, after a pause, "he is no doubt all right, and only hiding himself till he knows how things are with mr. trevanna. can you blame him?" "not for pitching into trevanna," said rudall coolly. "i don't know anyone with a more aggravating manner than that sweet youth. he admits throwing the cards in lancaster's face, so i don't wonder adrian retaliated, but i think it was a pity he did not stay and face it out." "you've said that before," cried olive, angrily. "no doubt, and i dare say i'll say it again," returned teddy, smiling. "it's my opinion, although i dare say if i were in the same predicament, i should act the same way, but what puzzles me is that adrian did not himself reply to your advertisement. he knew he'd be quite safe with you, and besides there was a paragraph in several papers stating that trevanna was getting well and had exonerated him." "that's what makes me fear adrian is dead," said olive, turning her pale face towards him. "dead!--nonsense," cried teddy hastily. "why should he be dead? he wouldn't commit suicide, it is unlikely he has met with an accident, and no one would harm him, for he hadn't an enemy in the world." "no, that's true. adrian has no enemy, but there is a man who does not like me, so out of revenge he might harm adrian." "a man who does not like you?" repeated teddy in surprise. "yes; dr. roversmire," she answered, coming up close to him, and laying her gloved hand on his arm. "he wanted to marry me, and i refused him because i loved adrian. suppose he wanted to remove adrian from his path." "the supposition is too idle. but suppose he did, what then? do you think he would murder him?" "no," she said, in a low voice, "but dr. roversmire is a theosophist, a believer in occult science. he comes from india, where they say these people have strange, unholy powers. what if he had lured adrian to his house at hampstead, and disintegrated his body." teddy rudall smiled at this, for he was a matter-of-fact young man, very sceptical of the powers asserted to be exercised by the theosophists. "that's a lot of nonsense, you know," he said lightly. "that theosophy is all bosh. i've been to lots of their meetings, and it's the same kind of rubbish as table-turning and mesmerism. you surely don't believe in it?" "i did not, but since adrian has vanished so strangely i confess i feel a little afraid." "of dr. roversmire?" "yes; he called to see me last week, and from the way he spoke i feel sure he knows something of adrian." "at all events, you may be sure there is no disintegration business about it," said teddy decisively, "for these gentry can scatter their own body to the winds, but they can't do it with any one else's." "but he might have got rid of adrian by some other means?" "adrian isn't the sort of fellow to allow himself to be got rid of easily," retorted rudall soothingly. "come, miss maunders, that wretched indian juggler, whom i remember having seen here, has upset your nerves with his mad talk. i'm certain adrian is all right and this 'd' who is coming here to-day will no doubt be able to tell us where he is." "i hope so," began olive, when suddenly there came a ring at the door, and they looked quickly at one another. "here is the answer to your advertisement," said teddy gaily. "now then, miss maunders, don't bother your head about any theosophy or supernatural interference. we'll soon find out where adrian is and give him a good rating for making such a fuss over nothing." chapter xi. a modern judas being directed to the library by mrs. bickles, the gentleman who hid his identity under the letter "d." soon made his appearance, and closing the door softly, stood in front of olive and teddy with his hat in one hand and in the other a walking stick wrapped up in brown paper. mr. dentham looked despicably mean as he stood there with his pinched white face and his closely cropped head of red hair. neither the lady nor gentleman were impressed with his appearance and exchanged glances during a silence which olive was the first to break. "i presume this is from you?" she said, handing him the note written on blue paper. "yes, mum," replied dentham, casting a flickering look on it from under his white eyelashes. "i saw the advertisement about mr. adrian lancaster and came to see about it." "what do you know about mr. lancaster?" asked teddy sharply. dentham shot a sudden glance of suspicion at the young man, and then assumed a cringing, fawning air which made teddy long to kick him. "not much, sir," he replied in his silky voice, "but i do know a little." "tell us what you know," said olive quickly. having laid down his hat and the brown paper parcel, dentham's hands were free, and he made use of the opportunity of rubbing them slowly together, speaking meanwhile in a deprecating tone. "i think, mum, there was some mention of a reward." "the reward will be forthcoming if your information prove to be of any use." "and the amount, mum?" began the valet, still washing his hands with invisible soap and water. "will depend entirely on the information," replied olive disdainfully. dentham looked at her stealthily, and scratched his chin with one lean finger, evidently debating in his own mind if it would not be better to make terms before parting with his information. teddy saw this was his feeling, and, although as a rule a good-tempered fellow, felt thoroughly enraged at the mean spirit displayed by this unpleasant-looking individual. "come, my man," he said sharply, "do you hear what the lady says? tell us what you know about mr. lancaster and you will be paid accordingly." "how much, sir?" demanded dentham in a tone of covert insolence, whereat rudall completely lost his temper, and was about to step forward with no very amicable intent, when olive stopped him. "if your information is worth anything, i will give you fifty pounds," she said quickly; "half before you leave this room, and half when mr. lancaster is found." the eyes of the spy sparkled, as he had not anticipated being paid so well. he was not certain of the whereabouts of adrian lancaster, but he knew what he had to tell would certainly gain him twenty-five pounds, so he was quite content to sell his information for that sum. "very well, mum," he said with a pleased smile, "i'm sure i'm agreeable--i'll tell you all i know, but first, mum, will you look at this?" he took the stick out of the brown paper and handed it to olive, who flushed violently as she examined it. "it's adrian's!" she cried. "jove! so it is," remarked teddy, taking it from her, "here are his initials on the band." "i knew i was right, mum," said dentham with a gratified grin. "when i saw him looking at your advertisement about mr. lancaster, i said to myself, this is his stick, 'cause the letters of the name are the same." "who was looking at the advertisement?" "doctor roversmire, mum." olive gave a cry, and her face grew pale as she clasped rudall's arm. "i knew he had something to do with it," she said in a terrified whisper. "go on, tell me everything from the first." "very well, mum," replied dentham, and began his story without further delay. "my name is dentham, mum, and i am servant to doctor roversmire, who lives at hampstead. i always thought him queer, as he lived such a quiet life and behaved in such a strange way. he said he had come home from india, and when he engaged me, said i was to attend to my business of looking after him and make no remarks, so as he paid me well, i didn't mind. he stayed in a great deal, sometimes going away for a few days, and the longest time he was away was six months ago, when he was away some weeks--i don't know where he was." "i can tell you," interrupted olive quickly, "he was here, in this house, as he was a friend of my father's." "he never said where he was, mum, and as i had been told not to ask questions, i did not know what he was up to. when he came back he never went out for longer than a few hours, and used to send me to bed while he sat up waiting. i don't know what he waited for as no one ever came near the house, and i couldn't find out what his little game was. at last, about three weeks ago, i was on my way to bed when i heard the murmur of voices. i couldn't make it out at all, but as i couldn't go in and see and it was none of my business, i went to bed. the next morning i found my master had passed all the night in the sitting-room and was quite upset; he used to be quiet enough, but ever since that night he has been quite changed--so excited--like--i found that stick and took it to my own room." "what right had you to do that?" asked teddy sharply. dentham wriggled and looked down. "well, sir, to tell the truth, sir, i thought as my master was a forger, or a coiner, or a burglar, and that his visitor was a pal of his, so i thought if i kept the stick i might find out something about his goings on." "did doctor roversmire ask about the stick?" demanded olive. "yes, mum, several times; said it had been given to him by a friend of his, but of course i knew it hadn't." "and how did you connect the stick with the disappearance of mr. lancaster?" asked teddy, who was more upset by the story than he cared to show. "well, sir, master is always looking at the papers after the morning on which i found the stick. about a week ago, after reading the telegraph, he asks for a bradshaw and said he was going out of town; when he left the room, i looked at the bradshaw and saw he had looked up the trains to marlow; then i thought something in the paper might have put it into his head to go there. i found your advertisement, mum, and seeing you were at marlow, knew i was on the right track; then the letters on the stick were those of mr. adrian lancaster's name, who was being advertised for, so i wrote to you and that's all." "you are a very ingenious gentleman indeed," said teddy grimly, when this recital ended, "quite an amateur detective. well, miss maunders, what do you think of this story?" olive had resumed her seat and was leaning her head on her hand, deep in thought. she started when teddy addressed her and looked up quickly. "it seems to me that adrian went to that house," she said quickly, "as the stick is certainly his and could only have been left there by him--there is no doubt he was doctor roversmire's visitor--why, i do not know, as he was quite unacquainted with the doctor and with the fact that i knew him. at all events, it is plain he was there on the night in question, but here all trace seems lost--did he stay there, or did he go away again?" "he stayed," said dentham solemnly. "how do you know?" asked rudall. "did you see him in the house afterwards, or hear any noises to lead you to suspect that mr. lancaster might be concealed there?" dentham shook his head. "no, i neither saw nor heard anything," he replied quickly, "but it was a wet night when he came, and after i found the walking-stick i searched for his footmarks. i traced them more or less clearly from the garden-door up to the window of the room in which i heard the voices. he must have left the same way if he left at all; but all the footmarks pointed towards the house, and none away from it, so i'm certain he did not go away." "you're quite a detective," said teddy, with a smile, "and, certainly, your explanation is a very ingenious one, so let us assume, for the sake of argument, that mr. lancaster did not leave the house--so far so good. now the next question is, did he leave the room?" "no," asserted dentham again. "why not?" asked olive. "because i was lying awake listening to the voices, and although i could not make out what they were saying, yet if either my master or mr. lancaster had left the room, i should easily have heard them doing so." teddy rudall looked puzzled. "well, if lancaster did not leave the house nor the room, he must be concealed in it--or else have vanished into thin air, which is, of course, impossible." "i'm not so certain about that," said olive, looking up, "remember what we were talking about." teddy shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "occult science, theosophy, and disintegration," he said glibly. "oh! nonsense--all that stuff is humbug." "i believe my master's a devil," asserted dentham, suddenly, with a scared look. both the others stared at him in silent astonishment, but there was a look of apprehension on olive's face that showed that she shared to some extent in the ideas of the servant. "how so?" demanded teddy, with a disbelieving smile. "because i've left him in the room, sir, and locked all the windows before leaving; sometimes i've come back and found him gone, with the windows still locked, and the shutters up. he couldn't have got out of the windows, and he couldn't clear by the door, because i was generally in the passage, and would have seen him. now, sir," finished dentham, triumphantly, "where did he go to?" "i think the true explanation is this," said rudall, quietly. "he has some secret chamber or exit in the walls of this special room to which you refer. have you examined the walls?" "no, sir." "then, depend upon it, my theory is a correct one," said teddy, in a complacent tone, "there's a sliding panel or a masked door, which either leads to the outside of the house, or to some secret room. i think the latter, because if he had let mr. lancaster out by the secret way we should have heard from him long ago. my opinion is that he is keeping adrian concealed in the hidden room i refer to." "but why?" asked olive, quietly. "you, yourself, gave me the explanation," said rudall, quickly; "it is a case of revenge, i fancy. now in order to find out anything we must search this room." "but how, sir?" asked dentham. "master never goes away from the house, and we can't look if he's there." "oh! i can manage that," said olive, decisively. "i'll get my father to write a letter asking him to come down to marlow--during his absence we can search the room; if we find anything we can demand an explanation, and, at all events, i shall certainly make him tell me why adrian called to see him on that night." "yes, i think that will be the best thing to be done," said teddy, thoughtfully. "well, miss maunders, we had better go down at once to marlow, and get your father to write the necessary letter. as for you," he added, turning to dentham, "go back to hampstead, and keep a watch on your master. don't arouse his suspicions, but if he tries to clear out wire us at once." "and the money, mum?" said dentham in a whining tone, as olive arose to her feet. she took out her purse, and handed him two ten-pound notes and one five-pound in silence. "your information is well worth it," she said quietly, as he took them with a servile smile, "and if we find mr. lancaster in the house of doctor roversmire, i will double the reward." "don't be too generous, miss maunders," said teddy, suspiciously. "we know nothing definitely yet. now we must go to paddington at once, as there's no time to lose." olive consented with alacrity, and they left the house, secured a hansom, and were soon on their way to the railway station, leaving mrs. bickles to the solitude of the town house, and dentham with twenty-five pounds in his pocket, very well satisfied with his day's work. chapter xii. a perilous situation now although dentham intended to betray the confidence both of dr. roversmire and olive maunders, yet it was an operation of some difficulty, as he foresaw on taking a quiet view of the situation. so far he had made twenty-five pounds out of the transaction, but he would not obtain any more money from adrian lancaster's betrothed until the house had been thoroughly searched, and the unhappy young man found. if they did discover adrian shut up in a secret chamber, as rudall surmised, he would certainly gain the balance of the reward from olive maunders, but on the other hand he would obtain nothing from his master, as he would be unable to warn him and make terms. "if he's murdered mr. lancaster," mused dentham to himself, as he took his way homeward, "they'll arrest him straight off, and then i won't be able to give him the straight tip, and get paid for it; but then he'll be away from the house if they find anything, so i'll be able to wire the old cove at marlow, and make an appointment in town--once i get a hold of him i'll bleed him freely, or else hand him over to the law. yes, that's what i'll do; they can't put him in gaol straight off, so i'll fix up things with him before they get a chance." mr. dentham was quite delighted with his villainous little scheme, and could not help admiring himself for the dexterous way in which he turned things to his own advantage. "she said she'd double the reward," he resumed, referring to miss maunders, "does that mean the twenty-five or the fifty? if she only doubles the twenty-five, i'll only clear seventy-five pounds, but if she means the fifty, it will be a hundred and twenty-five in my pocket, that will be something on account, and if i can only get another hundred and twenty-five pounds out of the old cove, i'll be able to sit down with three hundred clear, that will set me up for life and not much trouble either. ah! i knew something would come out of the old cove's way of living. lord, what a scoundrel he is to be sure--it's a wicked world, and the old cove's about the worst in it." so mused the virtuous mr. dentham, who, while blaming the presumable wickedness of his master, concerning which he had no proof, was quite blind to the despicable part he was playing himself. but then mr. dentham called his baseness business, which placed the whole transaction in quite a different light, and, moreover, being without the least atom of conscience, he was quite at rest on the score of moral considerations, regarding his possible three hundred pounds as honestly earned money. adrian lancaster, still hidden in the personality of dr. roversmire, was quite unconscious of the perilous situation in which he was placed. it was true he mistrusted dentham, but he never expected the valet would be so dexterous in piecing evidence together and so establish a case against him. as to dentham communicating with olive maunders, it never entered his brain that such a thing could occur, as he had said nothing to the servant, and, to all outward appearance, there was nothing to connect the so-called dr. roversmire with the disappearance of adrian lancaster. the morning after dentham's satisfactory visit to town, adrian received a letter from sir john maunders asking him to come down to marlow and stay the night, as he wanted to speak with him on a particular subject. "i know," wrote the cheery baronet, "that you are kept busy with your philosophical studies, but all work and no play makes jack a dull boy, so if you give us the pleasure of your society for a few hours. i am sure it will do you good. i am sorry to say my daughter will be away during your visit, but may probably return before you take your departure." at this point, adrian laid down the letter and debated seriously with himself as to whether he should accept the invitation, seeing that olive would be absent. on the whole, after much consideration, he came to the conclusion that he would do so, as he was now in such a desperate state of mind over the difficulties of his situation that he determined to tell sir john everything and ask his advice as to his future movements. he was afraid to reveal the secret of his transformation to olive, as he knew how she scoffed at the powers alleged to be exercised by theosophists, and thought, with a great show of reason, that she would look upon him as a madman. but with sir john it was very different, as adrian remembered he had had a good deal of experience in occult sciences and knew many strange things which had occurred quite outside the laws of nature, that is, the laws of nature as seen by the world at large. under these circumstances, he would not deny that such a curious event as the transposition of souls might take place, and adrian knew he would give him enough proofs of his own life to convince the baronet, however sceptical, that the soul of adrian lancaster was really concealed in the body of dr. roversmire. then he would be able to ask sir john's advice as to the chances of getting rid of roversmire's body and resuming his own identity, for sir john was acquainted with many votaries of theosophy who might be able to hit upon some solution of the enigma. surely among theosophists there could be found some one equal in knowledge to dr. roversmire, who could undo the harm which had been done, and releasing his soul from this aged body, restore it once more to its proper habitation. having come to this conclusion, adrian wrote a letter accepting the invitation, but declined to stay all night as he wanted to get back to his studies. the fact was that he was afraid during his absence something might happen to solve the difficulty, and he was unwilling to be absent should any chance of regaining his freedom present itself. the whole house was permeated with the influence of spirits, for, of course, dr. roversmire, during his tenancy of his earthly body had been constantly visited by his friends of the spirit world, and sometimes a weird feeling would seize adrian as if he was in the centre of a crowd of ethereal beings whose bodies, impalpable and invisible, were pressing around him on all sides. he would have given anything could he have known of some invocation by which to communicate with them and find a means of release from his unpleasant position, but although he read most of the books in the house and all the favourite papers of dr. roversmire, no spell or ceremony presented itself by which he could do so. there were times when the strange influence which brooded over the house almost proved too much for his nerves, and he longed to escape from this spirit-haunted atmosphere into the matter-of-fact frivolity of the outside world. by his prolonged fasts, by his terrible ordeals and his ascetic mode of life, dr. roversmire had rendered his body peculiarly sensitive to spiritual influences, and now that he had transferred this body to adrian, the material soul of the unhappy young man felt strange to the subtle contact he seemed to feel with the unseen world about which he knew absolutely nothing. dentham, of course, felt nothing, as his soul was too sensual and his body too gross to vibrate or come in contact with spiritual things, but adrian's body being strange to him, was not under his control, and he felt as though he stood on neutral ground between two worlds, powerless to leave the one and equally powerless to enter the other. "i'll go mad if this continues," he said to himself as he directed the envelope, "it is like putting a savage to live among people highly cultivated. i feel the influence, but cannot respond, so i have all the pain and none of the pleasures; an afternoon at marlow will do me a lot of good and drive away all this phantasy of moonlight and spirituality." so he sent the letter and told dentham he was going to leave hampstead the next day for a visit, at which the valet was highly delighted, and sent off a telegram that evening to miss maunders, telling her the house would be able to be searched the following day. olive, on her part, had told her father nothing of the revelations of dentham, but had got him to ask dr. roversmire down to marlow and then intimated her intention of going away. sir john at first objected to this strange mode of proceeding, but was ultimately over-ruled by his clever daughter. "i don't know what you mean to do," he grumbled good-naturedly, "but i'll be glad to see roversmire, who is a very clever man, although you do not seem to like him." "whether i really like him or not depends entirely upon what i learn during the next few days," she replied. "but where are you going to learn anything about roversmire?" asked her father curiously. "i'll tell you when i come back," responded olive promptly. "well, have your own way," said the baronet with a sigh; "you certainly are an enigma." "of course," said teddy rudall, who entered at that moment, "she is a woman, and that answers everything." chapter xiii. a startling discovery in due time adrian, feeling depressed and dreary, departed by the early train to marlow, leaving dentham in charge of the house at hampstead. he expected miss maunders and mr. rudall to call about mid-day, but, prior to their arrival, made an exploration of the sitting-room on his own account, with a view to finding out, if possible, the secret chamber, which rudall said must exist. but dentham, though crafty enough in small villanies, was woefully ill-fitted for such a task, and after an hour's hard work, during which he examined the most unlikely places, gave up the search in disgust. if he had calmly sat down and logically argued the matter out, he might have come to some satisfactory conclusion, but, instead of doing this, he hunted about in blind confusion, with the natural result that nothing came of his work. "it's all bosh," muttered dentham to himself, sitting on a chair and mopping his heated brow. "i don't believe there's any such place--it's my opinion the old cove's killed mr. lancaster, and hid his body in the garden." his meditations were brought to an end by the arrival of olive and teddy rudall, both of whom were in a state of suppressed excitement as to the issue of their plan to examine the house during the absence of its owner. "i say, you know," said rudall, when they were seated in the room for a rest preparatory to beginning their search, "we've no right to do this sort of thing without a search-warrant." "oh, that doesn't matter," replied olive, with that sublime disregard for the majesty of the law, which the feminine sex sometimes display. "dr. roversmire will never know anything about it, unless we find something, and then he'll have enough to do in clearing himself, without bothering about the search." "you don't think he'll come up unbeknown, mum?" asked dentham uneasily, for he had a wholesome dread of his mysterious master. "no! you can set your mind at rest on that point," said olive decisively, "he has no suspicions of our visit here, and will stay down at marlow till the evening--even if he did wish to return he could not arrive back here for at least two hours, and that will give us plenty of time." "i hope so, mum," answered dentham respectfully, rubbing his hands together; "but it's like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. i've hunted everywhere in the room, and can't find any signs of a secret door." "no doubt you went blindly to work, without considering the situation," said teddy cheerfully; "the first thing to be ascertained is how this room lies." "what do you mean, sir?" asked dentham in a puzzled tone. "i'll explain later on," answered teddy, "but before doing so, we are agreed upon one thing, that adrian lancaster came to this room and never left it." "to all appearances--yes," assented olive promptly. "i'd better state the case exactly," observed rudall cautiously, "so that we may run no chance of making any mistake; the facts, as we have gathered them, are simply these--adrian lancaster disappeared from his rooms in piccadilly about three weeks ago; we hear nothing of him till this man comes to us and produces a walking-stick, which we both recognise as adrian's property--it was found in this room, so the presumption is that on the night of his disappearance adrian was here. dentham heard the murmur of voices, and asserts positively that lancaster could not have left the room by that door leading to the passage, or he would have heard him." "yes!--easily," said dentham emphatically. "on the other hand," resumed teddy learnedly, "the night in question was wet, and dentham traced lancaster's footsteps more or less clearly from the garden door to that window which leads on to the lawn--but, although he looked carefully, he could find no footmarks leading away from the house, so that, having left neither by the door nor the window, it stands to reason he could not have gone at all. under these circumstances the most logical conclusion is that he did not leave this room. we cannot see him, and, as none of us are foolish enough to believe in the theory of disintegration, he must be concealed somewhere in a secret chamber, the entrance to which is from this room. now what we have to do is to find this entrance." "yes, but how?" asked dentham dispiritedly. "first by finding out the position of this room," said teddy, rising to his feet and glancing round; "two sides of it are bounded by the outside walls, and as they do not appear to me to be thick enough to contain any hiding place, we may be certain that the secret door can be in neither of them--the third wall stands between this room and the passage, so that the same objection applies--now what about the fourth wall in the centre of which is built the chimney?" "there is a room beyond; the same as this," explained dentham. "in that case the objection applies to the whole four walls," said rudall ruefully. "what about the roof?" "my bedroom is above it." "humph! in that case lancaster cannot certainly have gone heavenward--and the floor?" "there's a cellar below this!" "a cellar!" ejaculated teddy thoughtfully. "that looks more promising--let us examine the cellar." "i think it would be better to look at the floor first," suggested olive, "for adrian can't have got into the cellar without some mode of exit." the floor was of polished wood, consisting of narrow planks laid horizontally, and these were partly covered here and there with turkish mats. collecting these in a heap, teddy and dentham made a thorough examination, but were quite unable to find any trapdoor through which entrance could have been gained into the cellar. "is the cellar open to anyone?" asked rudall rising to his feet and dusting the knees of his trousers. "yes, sir," answered dentham quickly. "i'm out and in it a dozen times a day, there's wood and coal stored there." "doesn't seem much use examining the cellar!" "in that case i fail to see that there can be any secret hiding-place," said olive in despair. "you are quite sure, dentham, you did not hear the doctor or mr. lancaster leave the room." "quite sure, mum," replied dentham decisively, "my room is above, but i wasn't in it, as i came out and looked over the stairs, so if either of 'em left the room i'd have seen as well as heard." "then," observed olive disconsolately, "this disintegration theory--" "is all bosh," interrupted teddy angrily. "i don't believe in theosophy, and as i told you, even if they can disintegrate bodies they can only meddle with their own and not with those of other people--there must be some secret hiding-place to which the entrance is from this room." "but where?" demanded olive, "walls, roof and floor all give no clue." teddy fastened his eyes upon the chimney. "what about the fireplace," he asked, going over to it and surveying its cumbersome proportions. "oh, there's nothing there, sir," said dentham with a wriggle of scorn. "i don't know so much about that," replied teddy, "see, there's a half-burnt candle on the mantelpiece." "he always had a candle," said dentham, referring to his master. "why, i don't know, as there was lots of gas-light." "always had a candle," murmured rudall thoughtfully, "humph--i dare say it was to light the way to the lower regions--what is under the flooring of the next room," he added, turning to dentham. "nothing, sir, except earth! the cellar below here was dug out, i think, sir." teddy gave a cry of delight. "then depend upon it there is a secret chamber under the next room, and the entrance to it is from this chimney-piece." "impossible!" said olive, rising and coming forward. "it's the most reasonable explanation i can offer at all events," said teddy, "suppose we examine the fireplace." dentham and miss maunders, now very much excited at the chance of a possible discovery, assisted, and teddy began to make a minute inspection of the fireplace. it consisted of an ordinary steel grate, surrounded by a bordering of encaustic tiles, and the mantelpiece was a heavy oaken one, elaborately carved with fruit and flowers. although teddy pushed and shook the grate it remained immovable and there certainly seemed no possibility that such a heavy mass could be moved at all. "perhaps there's a spring," suggested olive, and began to feel among the carvings of the mantelpiece with deft fingers. the attempt proved successful, for by chance her fingers came in contact with the spring; there was a click as she pressed it, almost involuntarily, and the three present gave a cry of surprise as the whole of the grate swung round upon a central pivot, disclosing the space beyond. "i knew i was right," cried teddy in ecstasy, "this leads to some secret chamber, and i would not be surprised if we found adrian lancaster a prisoner below." olive turned pale as he lighted the candle and bending down crept into the black cavity. at first she feared to follow in his steps, but her love for adrian prevailed and she cautiously entered also. dentham, who was shaking in every limb with terror at this strange discovery, remained in the room, but when teddy and his companion disappeared down the narrow steps his curiosity got the better of his fear and he groped his way in the same direction. "is this the secret chamber?" asked olive in a disappointed tone, when they found themselves in the square vault. "i don't think so," replied teddy doubtfully, holding the candle above his head, "or surely roversmire would have made it more comfortable." "there may be another door," suggested miss maunders hopefully, "examine the walls." teddy did so, and running his hand rapidly down on the smooth surface of the stone, he felt a round button which he pressed with all his strength and immediately the blank wall before them seemed to disappear, showing only a dense black space. "dentham," cried teddy on seeing this, "go and get more candles or a lamp." upon which dentham sped rapidly up the steps without being required to be told twice. "adrian," cried olive peering forward into the darkness, dimly lighted by the glimmer of the candle, "are you there?" no voice answered, and in vague terror the girl caught teddy by the hand. "oh! do you think he is dead?" she whispered! "i don't know," he replied blankly; "perhaps he is not here, or there may be some more doors to open. see, here is dentham, with two more lights." olive took one of the candles, and headed by teddy the little band went forward along the narrow passage and at length found themselves in the circular vault, which looked weird and spectral-looking with its strange decorations. "looks like the cave of a magician," said teddy, slowly waving his light to and fro. "hullo, what's up?" his sudden exclamation was caused by dentham, who had dropped his candle, and with chattering teeth, shaking limbs and pale face, pointed to a dark form extended on a couch. with a cry of terror olive rushed forward and held the light close to the figure's face, and fell on her knees with a shriek. "it's adrian!--adrian!--and he's dead." "dead!" echoed rudall in an awed tone, "impossible." "no, it's true; quite true," she shrieked, setting her candle down on the floor. "his limbs are cold, his eyes are closed, and i can't feel his heart beat." "roversmire may have thrown him into a trance," said rudall reassuringly, who in the face of this strange discovery was willing now to credit roversmire with all kinds of superhuman powers, "here, miss maunders, take up your candle and hold mine--dentham and myself will carry--the--i mean will carry adrian upstairs to the light." almost overcome by grief, olive was yet sufficiently mistress of herself to do what he asked, and arose to her feet, holding a light in each hand, while the tears she was unable to wipe away streamed down her pale face. "come on," said teddy, seeing that dentham, overcome with fear, made no move, "take mr. lancaster by the head." "i dare not," whispered dentham, shrinking back, "he's dead." "how do you know he is dead?" said rudall, angrily, "he may be only in a trance--do what i tell you, or i'll thrash you within an inch of your life." on hearing this dentham with manifest reluctance did as he was told, but gave a shudder of fear as he seized the inert feet of the figure on the couch. teddy held up the head, and, preceded by olive with the lights, the two men with great difficulty managed to carry the body upstairs to the sitting-room. olive's courage sustained her thus far, but when she saw adrian's body lying on the floor stiff and cold, she let the candles fall from her hands and flung herself down in a paroxysm of sorrow. "oh, adrian!--adrian!" she wailed, clasping one cold hand, "he is dead!--dead!" "nonsense," said teddy roughly, kneeling beside the still form, "if he were dead, symptoms of decay would have set in long ago--he's not dead, i tell you, but in a trance." the girl dried her eyes, summoned up all her courage, and arose to her feet. "are you certain he is not dead?" she asked breathlessly. "it's rather difficult to say," answered teddy, rising also and leading her to a seat, "but we'll send at once for a doctor and, meantime, you must have a glass of wine. dentham, get some wine for miss maunders." dentham disappeared and, meantime, teddy comforted olive as well as he was able. "i'm sure he's in a trance," he insisted quietly, "look how firm and healthy the flesh looks. if he were really dead he would not look like this after three weeks." here dentham returned with the wine and teddy made the girl take a good glass of it. "dentham," he said, when olive grew more composed, "go down to the police station and send the police here. then come back with a doctor as hard as you can." dentham took the money teddy held out towards him, and, putting on his hat, left the house chuckling quietly to himself. "yes, i'll get the police and the doctor," he muttered, as he walked rapidly down the road, "and i'll telegraph to the old cove at marlow. it's just as i thought. he's killed mr. lancaster, so as soon as he knows the body is found, i'll be able to fix him up, and i won't let him off unless he pays me jolly well." chapter xiv. dentham makes terms jintle's hotel was situated in that very unfashionable neighbourhood, the seven dials, and mr. jintle, the proprietor thereof, was a friend of dentham's. on the evening of the day upon which the strange discovery had been made at hampstead, dentham was seated in a small, stuffy back room of the hotel, talking eagerly to no less a personage than his master, dr. michael roversmire, who had come up from marlow to jintle's by the four-o'clock train in answer to a telegram sent by dentham. adrian was in a terrible dilemma, as he did not know which way to turn. the telegram which warned him not to go back to hampstead or he would be arrested, had fallen upon him like a thunderbolt, and he had come up to town at once to see dentham. that gentleman had gained his reward from olive maunders, and was now the happy possessor of one hundred and twenty-five pounds, but not satisfied with even such a sum, which represented wealth to him, he was now trying to make terms with his master. all his cringing manners had disappeared, and he sat opposite to adrian with his elbows resting on the table and a look of coarse triumph irradiating his mean-looking face. "i knew how it would be," he was saying in a sneering tone. "if you'd only trusted me about the young man i could have helped you, but now it's too late--unless you make it worth my while." "what do you want me to do?" asked adrian hopelessly, fully aware that he was in the power of this man and quite at a loss what course to pursue. "what do i want you to do?" said dentham jeeringly. "i want you to give me a cheque for two hundred straight off." "and if i do that?" queried adrian, fixing his eyes on dentham's face. "well, i'll do my best to help you to get off," retorted dentham with a silky smile. "and suppose i refuse?" "oh, in that case, i'll go straight out and tell the police." "will you, indeed?" said adrian with a grim smile, stroking his long grey beard. "and what about your warrant for my arrest?--you can't do it on suspicion." "now don't you try any larks on me," said dentham in a bullying tone, "because i'm the only person who can help you out of this mess, and i won't unless you're civil." "oh, yes you will--for money," retorted his master coolly, "besides, i want first to be assured of the truth of your story." dentham was quite exasperated by the quiet tone in which the doctor spoke. he had expected to find a terrified man, who would give any sum to be placed in safety, instead of which, the proposed victim talked as calmly and sedately as if no terrible charge of murder was hanging over him. "if what i've told you don't convince you, nothing will," he said sarcastically. "ain't i said all your being asked to marlow was a blind? i found out mr. lancaster had been with you on that night by means of the stick." "which you denied having seen," interpolated adrian quietly. "that's my business; you said it was your stick--which was a lie. well, i answered miss maunders' advertisement and told her all i knew." "in other words, you betrayed me." "you can call it what you like, but i had to look after number one, and she paid me well for what i told her." "so now, having betrayed me and getting paid, you are going to betray her in the hope of a similar reward?" "i always make hay while the sun shines," retorted dentham with an ugly smile, for he did not like his villainies to be put before him so plainly. "whatever i did is none of your business, all i know is, this miss maunders and mr. rudall came to your house this morning, found mr. lancaster's body where you hid it and called in the police; if i hadn't sent that telegram to marlow, you'd have gone back home and been arrested, but i saved you." "for your own ends," said adrian with a dreary laugh. "good heavens, what scoundrels there are in this world! so you think i killed adrian lancaster?" "i'm sure of it," replied dentham promptly. "i saw it myself." "and where is it now?" demanded adrian, leaning back in his chair. "at number forty beryle square. miss maunders had it taken there with permission of the police this afternoon." "so there is a warrant out against me?" "yes; on a charge of murdering mr. lancaster." "and if i give you a cheque for two hundred pounds you will help me to escape?" "i'll do my best," replied dentham evasively. "do you know you are compounding a felony?" said adrian, rising. "whatever i'm doing, it's better than being a murderer; but i've not got any more time to talk, you know my offer and you can do what you like." "i must have time to think over it," said adrian calmly. "you can go away and leave me for a time." "don't you try to escape," cried dentham, moving towards the door, "'cause you won't i'll keep a watch outside." "i may escape yet, in spite of you." "oh, will you?" scoffed dentham. "i daresay you're a juggler, ain't you? perhaps you can get through the keyhole, but all your juggles won't get you out of this mess, unless you pay me well," and with this parting shot dentham took his departure and closed the door after him. left alone in the dirty, ill-lighted little room, adrian walked up and down, pondering over the situation. he saw plainly he was in dentham's power, and if he refused to accede to his demand, he would be at once arrested, tried--in the person of dr. roversmire--for the murder of adrian lancaster, and as the proofs were so strong against him, ultimately hanged. but it was not this prospect that made him shudder; no, it was something far more terrible, for he knew that his own body, being to all intents and purposes dead, would be duly buried, and then--oh, god, how terrible!--when he was hanged as dr. roversmire, his soul would have to go back to find its original body, and find it!--where?--in the darkness of the coffin. he would be lying under the earth a living man, and would die by that most terrible of all deaths--suffocation. the bare idea of such an appalling death made a cold sweat break out on his forehead, and leaning his arms on the mantelpiece he groaned with anguish. he would die two horrible deaths, first on the gallows, as dr. roversmire, and then in the narrowness of the coffin, as adrian lancaster. what was he to do--consent to dentham's offer and be saved, or give himself up and try to explain the whole affair? alas, he knew that if he did so he would be looked upon as a madman, and even if his life was spared, he would be put in a lunatic asylum. sooner or later the life of dr. roversmire's body would end, and then he would most certainly, by returning to his own, die a terrible death in the grave. on the other hand he recognised fully the treacherous nature of dentham, and foresaw that even if he did pay him what he asked, the valet would first make certain of his money by cashing the cheque, and then betray him into the hands of the police in the hope of further reward. there seemed no escape--on all sides he was hemmed in by perils, and he was the helpless sport of circumstances. he raised his head from his arms and stared steadily at the old wrinkled face that looked at him from the dimness of the mirror. as adrian lancaster he had been accused of murder, and hidden his personality in the body of michael roversmire to escape, but now he was accused of murder as michael roversmire, and where could he hide now--where? like a flash of light a solution of the problem broke on his bewildered brain. the old man whose personality he had assumed had told him that if the body of dr. roversmire died by accident or suicide, the soul would have to go back to its own body. well, he would do so--he would kill himself in the body of dr. roversmire and wake as from a trance in the body of adrian lancaster. yes, that would be the easiest way out of the difficulty. he shrank from the idea of suicide, but it was the only way to avoid two terrible deaths, by hanging and suffocation, so he saw that the only means of escape was to at once destroy the body of roversmire. thinking that such a contingency might occur--although it had come sooner than he expected--adrian had provided himself with a phial of deadly poison, distilled from some rare eastern herb, which he had found in the medicine-chest of dr. roversmire. he always carried it about with him, and now, producing it from his pocket, held it up towards the light. it contained a dark, ruby-coloured liquid, which he knew was swift to kill, as he had found a full description of its effects in the diary of the old indian fakir. "thank god!" he murmured to himself as he removed the stopper, "this will save me. roversmire said suicide was punished bitterly in the spiritual world, but he surely cannot blame me for taking the life of his body in order to escape two terrible deaths. no! i have bitterly expiated the sins of adrian lancaster in this old body, and i will destroy it without fear of the consequence. it will at least restore me to my proper self and to the arms of the woman i love." at this moment the door was pushed roughly open and dentham made his appearance in swaggering triumph. "well," he said, rubbing his lean hands together, "have you made up your mind?" "yes, i have," answered adrian, holding the phial closely in his hand. "i have made up my mind not to give a scoundrel like you one penny." "then i'll have you arrested," yelled dentham, furious at seeing his chance of making money fading away. "you will not arrest me," replied his master with a strange smile, "for i will be far beyond the reach of your malice. bring in your detectives as soon as you like, for they will only find a dead body." dentham, seeing his intention, darted forward to stop him, with a cry of anger, but adrian was too quick for him, and raising the phial to his lips, drank off the contents. the valet recoiled as he did so, for an awful change passed over the face of his master--the thin hands plucked wildly at the grey beard, and with a choking cry dr. roversmire fell down on the floor--dead. and the clock struck nine. chapter xv. resurgam when dentham asserted that the body of adrian lancaster had been removed to beryle square, he told a lie, as the police refused to allow any such thing. a doctor had been called in, who pronounced life to be extinct, and the body was now lying on a couch in the sitting-room, where it was to remain until the inquest. olive had refused to leave the house since the discovery, and in despair, teddy, afraid to leave her by herself, had telegraphed to her father to come to hampstead. sir john immediately obeying the summons, had come up by the night train, and the three of them were now in the room, talking over the affair. dentham had disappeared. the police were in possession of the house, and now sir john was trying to persuade his daughter to come into town to the metropole hotel, and take the rest she so sadly needed. in spite of the verdict of the doctor, teddy rudall firmly refused to believe that adrian was dead, and declared with the greatest confidence that he was only in a trance. it was this statement that made olive refuse to leave the house, as she half thought that teddy might be right in his belief, and adrian would come back to life again, so she was unwilling to be absent in case he should revive while she was away. the sergeant of the police, who was present, now insisted respectfully that they should all leave the house, as it was nearly nine o'clock, and he was unable to retire until they did. under this pressure, olive had consented to accompany her father and teddy into town. "i'll come back in the morning," she said turning to the sergeant, "and if he shows any signs of reviving, mind you send a messenger at once to the metropole. "yes miss--certainly!" "what nonsense, olive!" said her father testily, for the unpleasantness of the situation was beginning to tell even on his genial temper. "i'm afraid there's no chance of poor adrian's revival, he is dead--quite dead." "there i disagree with you," interposed teddy quietly, "he is in a trance." "but the doctor?" "i don't care what the doctor says--he isn't the pope, to be infallible--if adrian were dead, his body would have decayed long ago." "i'm sure, papa, if you believe in theosophy you can see that dr. roversmire has hypnotised poor adrian," said olive firmly, "i daresay if dr. roversmire were here, he could bring him to life again." "oh, he'll come back here, miss," observed the sergeant confidently, "then he'll be arrested at once and to save his own skin, he'll do what he can." "i'm not so sure that roversmire will return here," said sir john thoughtfully, "because he received a telegram to-day and went up to town by the afternoon train, in a very agitated state." "who could the telegram have been from?" cried olive. "i daresay dentham sent it," suggested teddy "for i don't believe in that fellow at all--he's away now." "when he comes back sir, we'll not lose sight of him again," said the policeman, "but now we really must go." olive assented in silence, and moved towards the door, followed by the others. on the threshold however, she turned to take a last look at adrian, and truly it was a strange scene which met her eye. on the table burned an oil lamp with a bright yellow flame, which only illuminated half the room, the rest being in a kind of semidarkness, and on the verge of this radiance was the couch, covered with a tiger skin, upon which lay the body of adrian lancaster, still arrayed in the ulster he had worn, with the quiet hands crossed on the placid breast, the eyes closed, the lips smileless, and a look of terrible calm on the white face. olive had placed a great bunch of tuber-roses in his hands, and the sickly odour permeated the whole apartment, while, as the group stood silently at the door, dead stillness seemed to reign around. suddenly from the black marble clock over the mantelpiece there sounded the hour of nine, in deep hollow tones, like the knell of a funeral bell. one! two! three! four! five! six! seven! eight! nine!--they rang heavily through the silence of the night, while the listeners, overcome by the strangeness of the scene, stood immovable, counting each sonorous stroke with mute lips. as the last died away in silence, there was an awful pause, as if the absence of sound made the quiet more ghastly, and then-the figure on the couch stirred and sighed--the hands raised themselves off the breast, and the flowers fell with a muffled sound on the floor. the onlookers gazed at this awesome resurrection in paralyzed silence, and it was only when adrian opened his eyes, and languidly tried to rise, that the spell broke, and olive fell on the floor, while the three men rushed forward in a state of uncontrollable agitation. "he lives! he lives!" cried sir john, placing his arm under adrian's head, and cautiously lifting him to an erect sitting position. "i knew it was a trance," said teddy triumphantly, "poor old chap, he seems quite worn out," and with great presence of mind, he poured out a glass of wine, and held it to adrian's lips. while he was drinking it, the sergeant stood scratching his head in amazement. "i never saw such a queer thing in my life," he said, staring at adrian with a look of awe on his face, "it's like the raisin' of lazarus." adrian, revived somewhat with the wine, spoke in a faint voice. "olive," he whispered, "olive." the woman on the floor heard the beloved voice, and, raising herself to her knees, dragged herself across the floor to the side of the couch and, with one cry of joy, clasped adrian to her breast. * * * * * * extract from "the morning planet." "a curious case of suspended animation is reported to have taken place in london within the last few weeks. most of our readers will remember the extraordinary disappearance of mr. adrian lancaster, who, having quarrelled with a friend, left his chambers in piccadilly and was not heard of for some time. he was ultimately discovered in the house of a dr. michael roversmire, who appears to have made him the subject of some mesmeric experiment, for the unfortunate gentleman had evidently been cast into a trance, and was to all appearances dead. and now comes the curious part of the story. dr. roversmire, no doubt dreading the questions that might be asked him, disappeared on the discovery of mr. lancaster's inanimate form, and was found dead in a low public-house situate in the seven dials. it appears his valet, dentham (who had given most valuable information to the police concerning the whereabouts of mr. lancaster), was with him at the time of his death, which took place, so he asserted to the landlord of the hotel, at nine o'clock. it is worthy of remark that, as the man who exercised the mesmeric power died at the seven dials, mr. lancaster, the person over whom such power had been exercised, revived, and has been in perfect possession of his faculties ever since. so we beg all professors of mesmerism, hypnotism or occult science to note that this power over their victims evidently ceases upon their death. mr. lancaster, who has been in a trance state for at least three weeks, steadily refuses to give any information of his experiences during that period, but we suspect the reason of such refusal is simply that he has nothing to tell, as his faculties were no doubt absolutely powerless to exercise themselves while under the evil influence of the hypnotic power of dr. roversmire. "dentham, the valet of the deceased, has disappeared, and is supposed by the police to have gone to america. dr. roversmire, whose death is ascribed to suicide (proved by the small portion of deadly poison found in the phial clenched in his hand and the appearance of the stomach after a post mortem examination), was a wealthy man, and, as no relatives or friends of the deceased can be found, nor to all appearances is there any will in existence, the whole property of the deceased will go to the crown. "we hear mr. lancaster is about to marry miss olive maunders, the daughter of sir john maunders of no. 40, beryle square and the nook, marlow; and we heartily congratulate him on his narrow escape from the hands of such an unscrupulous charlatan as roversmire seems to have been." * * * * * * so far the oracle of the press, but no one ever knew the real truth except olive, to whom adrian told the whole story, and, in spite of her scepticism, she was forced to believe, if not the whole, at least a portion of the strange recital. with philip trevanna, who was indirectly the cause of all his strange experiences, adrian became good friends, so much so, that mr. trevanna acted as his best man, and, in conjunction with teddy rudall, saw the bridal pair off to dover, from whence they departed to the continent for their honeymoon. the end complete hypnotism: mesmerism, mind-reading and spiritualism how to hypnotize: being an exhaustive and practical system of method, application, and use by a. alpheus 1903 contents introduction--history of hypnotism--mesmer--puysegur--braid--what is hypnotism?--theories of hypnotism: 1. animal magnetism; 2. the neurosis theory; 3. suggestion theory chapter i--how to hypnotize--dr. cocke's method-dr. flint's method--the french method at paris--at nancy--the hindoo silent method--how to wake a subject from hypnotic sleep--frauds of public hypnotic entertainments. chapter ii--amusing experiments--hypnotizing on the stage--"you can't pull your hands apart!"--post-hypnotic suggestion--the newsboy, the hunter, and the young man with the rag doll--a whip becomes hot iron--courting a broom stick--the side-show chapter iii--the stages of hypnotism--lethargy-catalepsy--the somnambulistic stage--fascination chapter iv--how the subject feels under hypnotization--dr. cocke's experience--effect of music--dr. alfred warthin's experiments chapter v--self hypnotization--how it may be done--an experience--accountable for children's crusade--oriental prophets self-hypnotized chapter vi--simulation--deception in hypnotism very common--examples of neuropathic deceit--detecting simulation--professional subjects--how dr. luys of the charity hospital at paris was deceived--impossibility of detecting deception in all cases--confessions of a professional hypnotic subject chapter vii--criminal suggestion--laboratory crimes--dr. cocke's experiments showing criminal suggestion is not possible--dr. william james' theory--a bad man cannot be made good, why expect to make a good man bad? chapter viii--dangers in being hypnotized condemnation of public performances--a commonsense view--evidence furnished by lafontaine; by dr. courmelles; by dr. hart; by dr. cocke--no danger in hypnotism if rightly used by physicians or scientists chapter ix--hypnotism in medicine--anesthesia--restoring the use of muscles--hallucination--bad habits chapter x--hypnotism of animals--snake charming chapter xi--a scientific explanation of hypnotism--dr. hart's theory chapter xii--telepathy and clairvoyance--peculiar power in hypnotic state--experiments--"phantasms of the living" explained by telepathy chapter xiii--the confessions of a medium--spiritualistic phenomena explained on theory of telepathy--interesting statement of mrs. piper, the famous medium of the psychical research society introduction. there is no doubt that hypnotism is a very old subject, though the name was not invented till 1850. in it was wrapped up the "mysteries of isis" in egypt thousands of years ago, and probably it was one of the weapons, if not the chief instrument of operation, of the magi mentioned in the bible and of the "wise men" of babylon and egypt. "laying on of hands" must have been a form of mesmerism, and greek oracles of delphi and other places seem to have been delivered by priests or priestesses who went into trances of self-induced hypnotism. it is suspected that the fakirs of india who make trees grow from dry twigs in a few minutes, or transform a rod into a serpent (as aaron did in bible history), operate by some form of hypnotism. the people of the east are much more subject to influences of this kind than western peoples are, and there can be no question that the religious orgies of heathendom were merely a form of that hysteria which is so closely related to the modern phenomenon of hypnotism. though various scientific men spoke of magnetism, and understood that there was a power of a peculiar kind which one man could exercise over another, it was not until frederick anton mesmer (a doctor of vienna) appeared in 1775 that the general public gave any special attention to the subject. in the year mentioned, mesmer sent out a circular letter to various scientific societies or "academies" as they are called in europe, stating his belief that "animal magnetism" existed, and that through it one man could influence another. no attention was given his letter, except by the academy of berlin, which sent him an unfavorable reply. in 1778 mesmer was obliged for some unknown reason to leave vienna, and went to paris, where he was fortunate in converting to his ideas d'eslon, the comte d'artois's physician, and one of the medical professors at the faculty of medicine. his success was very great; everybody was anxious to be magnetized, and the lucky viennese doctor was soon obliged to call in assistants. deleuze, the librarian at the jardin des plantes, who has been called the hippocrates of magnetism, has left the following account of mesmer's experiments: "in the middle of a large room stood an oak tub, four or five feet in diameter and one foot deep. it was closed by a lid made in two pieces, and encased in another tub or bucket. at the bottom of the tub a number of bottles were laid in convergent rows, so that the neck of each bottle turned towards the centre. other bottles filled with magnetized water tightly corked up were laid in divergent rows with their necks turned outwards. several rows were thus piled up, and the apparatus was then pronounced to be at 'high pressure'. the tub was filled with water, to which were sometimes added powdered glass and iron filings. there were also some dry tubs, that is, prepared in the same manner, but without any additional water. the lid was perforated to admit of the passage of movable bent rods, which could be applied to the different parts of the patient's body. a long rope was also fastened to a ring in the lid, and this the patients placed loosely round their limbs. no disease offensive to the sight was treated, such as sores, or deformities. "a large number of patients were commonly treated at one time. they drew near to each other, touching hands, arms, knees, or feet. the handsomest, youngest, and most robust magnetizers held also an iron rod with which they touched the dilatory or stubborn patients. the rods and ropes had all undergone a 'preparation' and in a very short space of time the patients felt the magnetic influence. the women, being the most easily affected, were almost at once seized with fits of yawning and stretching; their eyes closed, their legs gave way and they seemed to suffocate. in vain did musical glasses and harmonicas resound, the piano and voices re-echo; these supposed aids only seemed to increase the patients' convulsive movements. sardonic laughter, piteous moans and torrents of tears burst forth on all sides. the bodies were thrown back in spasmodic jerks, the respirations sounded like death rattles, the most terrifying symptoms were exhibited. then suddenly the actors of this strange scene would frantically or rapturously rush towards each other, either rejoicing and embracing or thrusting away their neighbors with every appearance of horror. "another room was padded and presented another spectacle. there women beat their heads against wadded walls or rolled on the cushion-covered floor, in fits of suffocation. in the midst of this panting, quivering throng, mesmer, dressed in a lilac coat, moved about, extending a magic wand toward the least suffering, halting in front of the most violently excited and gazing steadily into their eyes, while he held both their hands in his, bringing the middle fingers in immediate contact to establish communication. at another moment he would, by a motion of open hands and extended fingers, operate with the great current, crossing and uncrossing his arms with wonderful rapidity to make the final passes." hysterical women and nervous young boys, many of them from the highest ranks of society, flocked around this wonderful wizard, and incidentally he made a great deal of money. there is little doubt that he started out as a genuine and sincere student of the scientific character of the new power he had indeed discovered; there is also no doubt that he ultimately became little more than a charlatan. there was, of course, no virtue in his "prepared" rods, nor in his magnetic tubs. at the same time the belief of the people that there was virtue in them was one of the chief means by which he was able to induce hypnotism, as we shall see later. faith, imagination, and willingness to be hypnotized on the part of the subject are all indispensable to entire success in the practice of this strange art. in 1779 mesmer published a pamphlet entitled "memoire sur la decouverte du magnetisme animal", of which doctor cocke gives the following summary (his chief claim was that he had discovered a principle which would cure every disease): "he sets forth his conclusions in twenty-seven propositions, of which the substance is as follows:-there is a reciprocal action and reaction between the planets, the earth and animate nature by means of a constant universal fluid, subject to mechanical laws yet unknown. the animal body is directly affected by the insinuation of this agent into the substance of the nerves. it causes in human bodies properties analogous to those of the magnet, for which reason it is called 'animal magnetism'. this magnetism may be communicated to other bodies, may be increased and reflected by mirrors, communicated, propagated, and accumulated, by sound. it may be accumulated, concentrated, and transported. the same rules apply to the opposite virtue. the magnet is susceptible of magnetism and the opposite virtue. the magnet and artificial electricity have, with respect to disease, properties common to a host of other agents presented to us by nature, and if the use of these has been attended by useful results, they are due to animal magnetism. by the aid of magnetism, then, the physician enlightened as to the use of medicine may render its action more perfect, and can provoke and direct salutary crises so as to have them completely under his control." the faculty of medicine investigated mesmer's claims, but reported unfavorably, and threatened d'eslon with expulsion from the society unless he gave mesmer up. nevertheless the government favored the discoverer, and when the medical fraternity attacked him with such vigor that he felt obliged to leave paris, it offered him a pension of 20,000 francs if he would remain. he went away, but later came back at the request of his pupils. in 1784 the government appointed two commissions to investigate the claims that had been made. on one of these commissions was benjamin franklin, then american ambassador to france as well as the great french scientist lavoisier. the other was drawn from the royal academy of medicine, and included laurent de jussieu, the only man who declared in favor of mesmer. there is no doubt that mesmer had returned to paris for the purpose of making money, and these commissions were promoted in part by persons desirous of driving him out. "it is interesting," says a french writer, "to peruse the reports of these commissions: they read like a debate on some obscure subject of which the future has partly revealed the secret." says another french writer (courmelles): "they sought the fluid, not by the study of the cures affected, which was considered too complicated a task, but in the phases of mesmeric sleep. these were considered indispensable and easily regulated by the experimentalist. when submitted to close investigation, it was, however, found that they could only be induced when the subjects knew they were being magnetized, and that they differed according as they were conducted in public or in private. in short--whether it be a coincidence or the truth--imagination was considered the sole active agent. whereupon d'eslon remarked, 'if imagination is the best cure, why should we not use the imagination as a curative means?' did he, who had so vaunted the existence of the fluid, mean by this to deny its existence, or was it rather a satirical way of saying. 'you choose to call it imagination; be it so. but after all, as it cures, let us make the most of it'? "the two commissions came to the conclusion that the phenomena were due to imitation, and contact, that they were dangerous and must be prohibited. strange to relate, seventy years later, arago pronounced the same verdict!" daurent jussieu was the only one who believed in anything more than this. he saw a new and important truth, which he set forth in a personal report upon withdrawing from the commission, which showed itself so hostile to mesmer and his pretensions. time and scientific progress have largely overthrown mesmer's theories of the fluid; yet mesmer had made a discovery that was in the course of a hundred years to develop into an important scientific study. says vincent: "it seems ever the habit of the shallow scientist to plume himself on the more accurate theories which have been provided f, by the progress of knowledge and of science, and then, having been fed with a limited historical pabulum, to turn and talk lightly, and with an air of the most superior condescension, of the weakness and follies of those but for whose patient labors our modern theories would probably be non-existent." if it had not been for mesmer and his "animal magnetism", we would never have had "hypnotism" and all our learned societies for the study of it. mesmer, though his pretensions were discredited, was quickly followed by puysegur, who drew all the world to buzancy, near soissons, france. "doctor cloquet related that he saw there, patients no longer the victims of hysterical fits, but enjoying a calm, peaceful, restorative slumber. it may be said that from this moment really efficacious and useful magnetism became known." every one rushed once more to be magnetized, and puysegur had so many patients that to care for them all he was obliged to magnetize a tree (as he said), which was touched by hundreds who came to be cured, and was long known as "puysegur's tree". as a result of puysegur's success, a number of societies were formed in france for the study of the new phenomena. in the meantime, the subject had attracted considerable interest in germany, and in 1812 wolfart was sent to mesmer at frauenfeld by the prussian government to investigate mesmerism. he became an enthusiast, and introduced its practice into the hospital at berlin. in 1814 deleuze published a book on the subject, and abbe faria, who had come from india, demonstrated that there was no fluid, but that the phenomena were subjective, or within the mind of the patient. he first introduced what is now called the "method of suggestion" in producing magnetism or hypnotism. in 1815 mesmer died. experimentation continued, and in the 20's foissac persuaded the academy of medicine to appoint a commission to investigate the subject. after five years they presented a report. this report gave a good statement of the practical operation of magnetism, mentioning the phenomena of somnambulism, anesthesia, loss of memory, and the various other symptoms of the hypnotic state as we know it. it was thought that magnetism had a right to be considered as a therapeutic agent, and that it might be used by physicians, though others should not be allowed to practice it. in 1837 another commission made a decidedly unfavorable report. soon after this burdin, a member of the academy, offered a prize of 3,000 francs to any one who would read the number of a bank-note or the like with his eyes bandaged (under certain fixed conditions), but it was never awarded, though many claimed it, and there has been considerable evidence that persons in the hypnotic state have (sometimes) remarkable clairvoyant powers. soon after this, magnetism fell into very low repute throughout france and germany, and scientific men became loath to have their names connected with the study of it in any way. the study had not yet been seriously taken up in england, and two physicians who gave some attention to it suffered decidedly in professional reputation. it is to an english physician, however, that we owe the scientific character of modern hypnotism. indeed he invented the name of hypnotism, formed from the greek word meaning 'sleep', and designating 'artificially produced sleep'. his name is james braid, and so important were the results of his study that hypnotism has sometimes been called "braidism". doctor courmelles gives the following interesting summary of braid's experiences: "november, 1841, he witnessed a public experiment made by monsieur lafontaine, a swiss magnetizer. he thought the whole thing a comedy; a week after, he attended a second exhibition, saw that the patient could not open his eyes, and concluded that this was ascribable to some physical cause. the fixity of gaze must, according to him, exhaust the nerve centers of the eyes and their surroundings. he made a friend look steadily at the neck of a bottle, and his own wife look at an ornamentation on the top of a china sugar bowl: sleep was the consequence. here hypnotism had its origin, and the fact was established that sleep could be induced by physical agents. this, it must be remembered, is the essential difference between these two classes of phenomena (magnetism and hypnotism): for magnetism supposes a direct action of the magnetizer on the magnetized subject, an action which does not exist in hypnotism." it may be stated that most english and american operators fail to see any distinction between magnetism and hypnotism, and suppose that the effect of passes, etc., as used by mesmer, is in its way as much physical as the method of producing hypnotism by concentrating the gaze of the subject on a bright object, or the like. braid had discovered a new science--as far as the theoretical view of it was concerned--for he showed that hypnotism is largely, if not purely, mechanical and physical. he noted that during one phase of hypnotism, known as catalepsy, the arms, limbs, etc., might be placed in any position and would remain there; he also noted that a puff of breath would usually awaken a subject, and that by talking to a subject and telling him to do this or do that, even after he awakes from the sleep, he can be made to do those things. braid thought he might affect a certain part of the brain during hypnotic sleep, and if he could find the seat of the thieving disposition, or the like, he could cure the patient of desire to commit crime, simply by suggestion, or command. braid's conclusions were, in brief, that there was no fluid, or other exterior agent, but that hypnotism was due to a physiological condition of the nerves. it was his belief that hypnotic sleep was brought about by fatigue of the eyelids, or by other influences wholly within the subject. in this he was supported by carpenter, the great physiologist; but neither braid nor carpenter could get the medical organizations to give the matter any attention, even to investigate it. in 1848 an american named grimes succeeded in obtaining all the phenomena of hypnotism, and created a school of writers who made use of the word "electro-biology." in 1850 braid's ideas were introduced into france, and dr. azam, of bordeaux, published an account of them in the "archives de medicine." from this time on the subject was widely studied by scientific men in france and germany, and it was more slowly taken up in england. it may be stated here that the french and other latin races are much more easily hypnotized than the northern races, americans perhaps being least subject to the hypnotic influence, and next to them the english. on the other hand, the orientals are influenced to a degree we can hardly comprehend. what is hypnotism? we have seen that so far the history of hypnotism has given us two manifestations, or methods, that of passes and playing upon the imagination in various ways, used by mesmer, and that of physical means, such as looking at a bright object, used by braid. both of these methods are still in use, and though hundreds of scientific men, including many physicians, have studied the subject for years, no essentially new principle has been discovered, though the details of hypnotic operation have been thoroughly classified and many minor elements of interest have been developed. all these make a body of evidence which will assist us in answering the question, what is hypnotism? modern scientific study has pretty conclusively established the following facts: 1. idiots, babies under three years old, and hopelessly insane people cannot be hypnotized. 2. no one can be hypnotized unless the operator can make him concentrate his attention for a reasonable length of time. concentration of attention, whatever the method of producing hypnotism, is absolutely necessary. 3. the persons not easily hypnotized are those said to be neurotic (or those affected with hysteria). by "hysteria" is not meant nervous excitability, necessarily. some very phlegmatic persons may be affected with hysteria. in medical science "hysteria" is an irregular action of the nervous system. it will sometimes show itself by severe pains in the arm, when in reality there is nothing whatever to cause pain; or it will raise a swelling on the head quite without cause. it is a tendency to nervous disease which in severe cases may lead to insanity. the word neurotic is a general term covering affection of the nervous system. it includes hysteria and much else beside. on all these points practically every student of hypnotism is agreed. on the question as to whether any one can produce hypnotism by pursuing the right methods there is some disagreement, but not much. dr. ernest hart in an article in the british medical journal makes the following very definite statement, representing the side of the case that maintains that any one can produce hypnotism. says he: "it is a common delusion that the mesmerist or hypnotizer counts for anything in the experiment. the operator, whether priest, physician, charlatan, self-deluded enthusiast, or conscious imposter, is not the source of any occult influence, does not possess any mysterious power, and plays only a very secondary and insignificant part in the chain of phenomena observed. there exist at the present time many individuals who claim for themselves, and some who make a living by so doing, a peculiar property or power as potent mesmerizers, hypnotizers, magnetizers, or electro-biologists. one even often hears it said in society (for i am sorry to say that these mischievous practices and pranks are sometimes made a society game) that such a person is a clever hypnotist or has great mesmeric or healing power. i hope to be able to prove, what i firmly hold, both from my own personal experience and experiment, as i have already related in the nineteenth century, that there is no such thing as a potent mesmeric influence, no such power resident in any one person more than another; that a glass of water, a tree, a stick, a penny-post letter, or a lime-light can mesmerize as effectually as can any individual. a clever hypnotizer means only a person who is acquainted with the physical or mental tricks by which the hypnotic condition is produced; or sometimes an unconscious imposter who is unaware of the very trifling part for which he is cast in the play, and who supposes himself really to possess a mysterious power which in, fact he does not possess at all, or which, to speak more accurately, is equally possessed by every stock or stone." against this we may place the statement of dr. foveau de courmelles, who speaks authoritatively for the whole modern french school. he says: "every magnetizer is aware that certain individuals never can induce sleep even in the most easily hypnotizable subjects. they admit that the sympathetic fluid is necessary, and that each person may eventually find his or her hypnotizer, even when numerous attempts at inducing sleep have failed. however this may be, the impossibility some individuals find in inducing sleep in trained subjects, proves at least the existence of a negative force." if you would ask the present writer's opinion, gathered from all the evidence before him, he would say that while he has no belief in the existence of any magnetic fluid, or anything that corresponds to it, he thinks there can be no doubt that some people will succeed as hypnotists while some will fail, just as some fail as carpenters while others succeed. this is true in every walk of life. it is also true that some people attract, others repel, the people they meet. this is not very easily explained, but we have all had opportunity to observe it. again, since concentration is the prerequisite for producing hypnotism, one who has not the power of concentration himself, and concentration which he can perfectly control, is not likely to be able to secure it in others. also, since faith is a strong element, a person who has not perfect self-confidence could not expect to create confidence in others. while many successful hypnotizers can themselves be hypnotized, it is probable that most all who have power of this kind are themselves exempt from the exercise of it. it is certainly true that while a person easily hypnotized is by no means weak-minded (indeed, it is probable that most geniuses would be good hypnotic subjects), still such persons have not a well balanced constitution and their nerves are high-strung if not unbalanced. they would be most likely to be subject to a person who had such a strong and well-balanced nervous constitution that it would be hard to hypnotize. and it is always safe to say that the strong may control the weak, but it is not likely that the weak will control the strong. there is also another thing that must be taken into account. science teaches that all matter is in vibration. indeed, philosophy points to the theory that matter itself is nothing more than centers of force in vibration. the lowest vibration we know is that of sound. then comes, at an enormously higher rate, heat, light (beginning at dark red and passing through the prismatic colors to violet which has a high vibration), to the chemical rays, and then the so-called x or unknown rays which have a much higher vibration still. electricity is a form of vibration, and according to the belief of many scientists, life is a species of vibration so high that we have no possible means of measuring it. as every student of science knows, air appears to be the chief medium for conveying vibration of sound, metal is the chief medium for conveying electric vibrations, while to account for the vibrations of heat and light we have to assume (or imagine) an invisible, imponderable ether which fills all space and has no property of matter that we can distinguish except that of conveying vibrations of light in its various forms. when we pass on to human life, we have to theorize chiefly by analogy. (it must not be forgotten, however, that the existence of the ether and many assumed facts in science are only theories which have come to be generally adopted because they explain phenomena of all kinds better than any other theories which have been offered.) now, in life, as in physical science, any one who can get, or has by nature, the key-note of another nature, has a tremendous power over that other nature. the following story illustrates what this power is in the physical world. while we cannot vouch for the exact truth of the details of the story, there can be no doubt of the accuracy of the principle on which it is based: "a musical genius came to the suspension bridge at niagara falls, and asked permission to cross; but as he had no money, his request was contemptuously refused. he stepped away from the entrance, and, drawing his violin from his case, began sounding notes up and down the scale. he finally discovered, by the thrill that sent a tremor through the mighty structure, that he had found the note on which the great cable that upheld the mass, was keyed. he drew his bow across the string of the violin again, and the colossal wire, as if under the spell of a magician, responded with a throb that sent a wave through its enormous length. he sounded the note again and again, and the cable that was dormant under the strain of loaded teams and monster engines--the cable that remained stolid under the pressure of human traffic, and the heavy tread of commerce, thrilled and surged and shook itself, as mad waves of vibration coursed over its length, and it tore at its slack, until like a foam-crested wave of the sea, it shook the towers at either end, or, like some sentient animal, it tugged at its fetters and longed to be free. "the officers in charge, apprehensive of danger, hurried the poor musician across, and bade him begone and trouble them no more. the ragged genius, putting his well-worn instrument back in its case, muttered to himself, 'i'd either crossed free or torn down the bridge.'" "so the hypnotist," goes on the writer from which the above is quoted, "finds the note on which the subjective side of the person is attuned, and by playing upon it awakens into activity emotions and sensibilities that otherwise would have remained dormant, unused and even unsuspected." no student of science will deny the truth of these statements. at the same time it has been demonstrated again and again that persons can and do frequently hypnotize themselves. this is what mr. hart means when he says that any stick or stone may produce hypnotism. if a person will gaze steadily at a bright fire, or a glass of water, for instance, he can throw himself into a hypnotic trance exactly similar to the condition produced by a professional or trained hypnotist. such people, however, must be possessed of imagination. theories of hypnotism. we have now learned some facts in regard to hypnotism; but they leave the subject still a mystery. other facts which will be developed in the course of this book will only deepen the mystery. we will therefore state some of the best known theories. before doing so, however, it would be well to state concisely just what seems to happen in a case of hypnotism. the word hypnotism means sleep, and the definition of hypnotism implies artificially produced sleep. sometimes this sleep is deep and lasting, and the patient is totally insensible; but the interesting phase of the condition is that in certain stages the patient is only partially asleep, while the other part of his brain is awake and very active. it is well known that one part of the brain may be affected without affecting the other parts. in hemiplegia, for instance, one half of the nervous system is paralyzed, while the other half is all right. in the stages of hypnotism we will now consider, the will portion of the brain or mind seems to be put to sleep, while the other faculties are, abnormally awake. some explain this by supposing that the blood is driven out of one portion of the brain and driven into other portions. in any case, it is as though the human engine were uncoupled, and the patient becomes an automaton. if he is told to do this, that, or the other, he does it, simply because his will is asleep and "suggestion", as it is called, from without makes him act just as he starts up unconsciously in his ordinary sleep if tickled with a straw. now for the theories. there are three leading theories, known as that of 1. animal magnetism; 2. neurosis; and 3. suggestion. we will simply state them briefly in order without discussion. animal magnetism. this is the theory offered by mesmer, and those who hold it assume that "the hypnotizer exercises a force, independently of suggestion, over the subject. they believe one part of the body to be charged separately, or that the whole body may be filled with magnetism. they recognize the power, of suggestion, but they do not believe it to be the principal factor in the production of the hypnotic state." those who hold this theory today distinguish between the phenomena produced by magnetism and those produced by physical means or simple suggestion. the neurosis theory. we have already explained the word neurosis, but we repeat here the definition given by dr. j. r. cocke. "a neurosis is any affection of the nervous centers occurring without any material agent producing it, without inflammation or any other constant structural change which can be detected in the nervous centers. as will be seen from the definition, any abnormal manifestation of the nervous system of whose cause we know practically nothing, is, for convenience, termed a neurosis. if a man has a certain habit or trick, it is termed a neurosis or neuropathic habit. one man of my acquaintance, who is a professor in a college, always begins his lecture by first sneezing and then pulling at his nose. many forms of tremor are called neurosis. now to say that hypnotism is the result of a. neurosis, simply means that a person's nervous system is susceptible to this condition, which, by m. charcot and his followers, is regarded as abnormal." in short, m. charcot places hypnotism in the same category of nervous affections in which hysteria and finally hallucination (medically considered) are to be classed, that is to say, as a nervous weakness, not to say a disease. according to this theory, a person whose nervous system is perfectly healthy could not be hypnotized. so many people can be hypnotized because nearly all the world is more or less insane, as a certain great writer has observed. suggestion. this theory is based on the power of mind over the body as we observe it in everyday life. again let me quote from dr. cooke. "if we can direct the subject's whole attention to the belief that such an effect as before mentioned--that his arm will be paralyzed, for instance--will take place, that effect will gradually occur. such a result having been once produced, the subject's will-power and power of resistance are considerably weakened, because he is much more inclined than at first to believe the hypnotizer's assertion. this is generally the first step in the process of hypnosis. the method pursued at the school of nancy is to convince the subject that his eyes are closing by directing his attention to that effect as strongly as possible. however, it is not necessary that we begin with the eyes. according to m. dessoir, any member of the body will answer as well." the theory of suggestion is maintained by the medical school attached to the hospital at nancy. the theory of neurosis was originally put forth as the result of experiments by dr. charcot at the salpetriere hospital in paris, which is now the co-called salpetriere school--that is the medical, school connected with the salpetriere hospital. there is also another theory put forth, or rather a modification of professor charcot's theory, and maintained by the school of the charity hospital in paris, headed by dr. luys, to the effect that the physical magnet and electricity may affect persons in the hypnotic state, and that certain drugs in sealed tubes placed upon the patient's neck during the condition of hypnosis will produce the same effects which those drugs would produce if taken internally, or as the nature of the drugs would seem to call for if imbibed in a more complete fashion. this school, however, has been considerably discredited, and dr. luys' conclusions are not received by scientific students of hypnotism. it is also stated, and the present writer has seen no effective denial, that hypnotism may be produced by pressing with the fingers upon certain points in the body, known as hypnogenic spots. it will be seen that these three theories stated above are greatly at variance with each other. the student of hypnotism will have to form a conclusion for himself as he investigates the facts. possibly it will be found that the true theory is a combination of all three of those described above. hypnotism is certainly a complicated phenomena, and he would be a rash man who should try to explain it in a sentence or in a paragraph. an entire book proves a very limited space for doing it. chapter i. how to hypnotize. dr. cocke's method--dr. flint's method--the french method at paris--at nancy--the hindoo silent method--how to wake a subject from hypnotic sleep--frauds of public hypnotic entertainers. first let us quote what is said of hypnotism in foster's encyclopedic medical dictionary. the dictionary states the derivation of the word from the greek word meaning sleep, and gives as synonym "braidism". this definition follows: "an abnormal state into which some persons may be thrown, either by a voluntary act of their own, such as gazing continuously with fixed attention on some bright object held close to the eyes, or by the exercise of another person's will; characterized by suspension of the will and consequent obedience to the promptings of suggestions from without. the activity of the organs of special sense, except the eye, may be heightened, and the power of the muscles increased. complete insensibility to pain may be induced by hypnotism, and it has been used as an anaesthetic. it is apt to be followed by a severe headache of long continuance, and by various nervous disturbances. on emerging from the hypnotic state, the person hypnotized usually has no remembrance of what happened during its continuance, but in many persons such remembrance may be induced by 'suggestion'. about one person in three is susceptible to hypnotism, and those of the hysterical or neurotic tendency (but rarely the insane) are the most readily hypnotized." first we will quote the directions for producing hypnotism given by dr. james r. cocke, one of the most scientific experimenters in hypnotism in america. his directions of are special value, since they are more applicable to american subjects than the directions given by french writers. says dr. cocke: "the hypnotic state can be produced in one of the following ways: first, command the subject to close his eyes. tell him his mind is a blank. command him to think of nothing. leave him a few minutes; return and tell him he cannot open his eyes. if he fails to do so, then begin to make any suggestion which may be desired. this is the so-called mental method of hypnotization. "secondly, give the subject a coin or other bright object. tell him to look steadfastly at it and not take his eyes away from it. suggest that his eyelids are growing heavy, that he cannot keep them open. now close the lids. they cannot be opened. this is the usual method employed by public exhibitors. a similar method is by looking into a mirror, or into a glass of water, or by rapidly revolving polished disks, which should be looked at steadfastly in the same way as is the coin, and i think tires the eyes less. "another method is by simply commanding the subject to close his eyes, while the operator makes passes over his head and hands without coming in contact with them. suggestions may be made during these passes. "fascination, as it is called, is one of the hypnotic states. the operator fixes his eyes on those of the subject. holding his attention for a few minutes, the operator begins to walk backward; the subject follows. the operator raises the arm; the subject does likewise. briefly, the subject will imitate any movement of the hypnotist, or will obey any suggestion made by word, look or gesture, suggested by the one with whom he is en rapport. "a very effective method of hypnotizing a person is by commanding him to sleep, and having some very soft music played upon the piano, or other stringed instrument. firm pressure over the orbits, or over the finger-ends and root of the nail for some minutes may also induce the condition of hypnosis in very sensitive persons. "also hypnosis can frequently be induced by giving the subject a glass of water, and telling him at the same time that it has been magnetized. the wearing of belts around the body, and rings round the fingers, will also, sometimes, induce a degree of hypnosis, if the subject has been told that they have previously been magnetized or are electric. the latter descriptions are the so-called physical methods described by dr. moll." dr. herbert l. flint, a stage hypnotizer, describes his methods as follows: "to induce hypnotism, i begin by friendly conversation to place my patient in a condition of absolute calmness and quiescence. i also try to win his confidence by appealing to his own volitional effort to aid me in obtaining the desired clad. i impress upon him that hypnosis in his condition is a benign agency, and far from subjugating his mentality, it becomes intensified to so great an extent as to act as a remedial agent. "having assured myself that he is in a passive condition, i suggest to him, either with or without passes, that after looking intently at an object for a few moments, he will experience a feeling of lassitude. i steadily gaze at his eyes, and in a monotonous tone i continue to suggest the various stages of sleep. as for instance, i say, 'your breathing is heavy. your whole body is relaxed.' i raise his arm, holding it in a horizontal position for a second or two, and suggest to him that it is getting heavier and heavier. i let my hand go and his arm falls to his side. "'your eyes,' i continue, 'feel tired and sleepy. they are fast closing' repeating in a soothing tone the words 'sleepy, sleepy, sleep.' then in a self-assertive tone, i emphasize the suggestion by saying in an unhesitating and positive tone, 'sleep.' "i do not, however, use this method with all patients. it is an error to state, as some specialists do, that from their formula there can be no deviation; because, as no two minds are constituted alike, so they cannot be affected alike. while one will yield by intense will exerted through my eyes, another may, by the same means, become fretful, timid, nervous, and more wakeful than he was before. the same rule applies to gesture, tones of the voice, and mesmeric passes. that which has a soothing and lulling effect on one, may have an opposite effect on another. there can be no unvarying rule applicable to all patients. the means must be left to the judgment of the operator, who by a long course of psychological training should be able to judge what measures are necessary to obtain control of his subject. just as in drugs, one person may take a dose without injury that will kill another, so in hypnosis, one person can be put into a deep sleep by means that would be totally ineffectual in another, and even then the mental states differ in each individual--that which in one induces a gentle slumber may plunge his neighbor into a deep cataleptic state." that hypnotism may be produced by purely physical or mechanical means seems to have been demonstrated by an incident which started doctor burq, a frenchman, upon a scientific inquiry which lasted many years. "while practising as a young doctor, he had one day been obliged to go out and had deemed it advisable to lock up a patient in his absence. just as he was leaving the house he heard the sound as of a body suddenly falling. he hurried back into the room and found his patient in a state of catalepsy. monsieur burq was at that time studying magnetism, and he at once sought for the cause of this phenomenon. he noticed that the door-handle was of copper. the next day he wrapped a glove around the handle, again shut the patient in, and this time nothing occurred. he interrogated the patient, but she could give him no explanation. he then tried the effect of copper on all the subjects at the salpetriere and the cochin hospitals, and found that a great number were affected by it." at the charity hospital in paris, doctor luys used an apparatus moved by clockwork. doctor foveau, one of his pupils, thus describes it: "the hypnotic state, generally produced by the contemplation of a bright spot, a lamp, or the human eye, is in his case induced by a peculiar kind of mirror. the mirrors are made of pieces of wood cut prismatically in which fragments of mirrors are incrusted. they are generally double and placed crosswise, and by means of clockwork revolve automatically. they are the same as sportsmen use to attract larks, the rays of the sun being caught and reflected on every side and from all points of the horizon. if the little mirrors in each branch are placed in parallel lines in front of a patient, and the rotation is rapid, the optic organ soon becomes fatigued, and a calming soothing somnolence ensues. at first it is not a deep sleep, the eye-lids are scarcely heavy, the drowsiness slight and restorative. by degrees, by a species of training, the hypnotic sleep differs more and more from natural sleep, the individual abandons himself more and more completely, and falls into one of the regular phases of hypnotic sleep. without a word, without a suggestion or any other action, dr. luys has made wonderful cures. wecker, the occulist, has by the same means entirely cured spasms of the eye-lids." professor delboeuf gives the following account of how the famous liebault produced hypnotism at the hospital at nancy. we would especially ask the reader to note what he says of dr. liebault's manner and general bearing, for without doubt much of his success was due to his own personality. says professor delboeuf: "his modus faciendi has something ingenious and simple about it, enhanced by a tone and air of profound conviction; and his voice has such fervor and warmth that he carries away his clients with him. "after having inquired of the patient what he is suffering from, without any further or closer examination, he places his hand on the patient's forehead and, scarcely looking at him, says, 'you are going to sleep.' then, almost immediately, he closes the eyelids, telling him that he is asleep. after that he raises the patient's arm, and says, 'you cannot put your arm down.' if he does, dr. liebault appears hardly to notice it. he then turns the patient's arm around, confidently affirming that the movement cannot be stopped, and saying this he turns his own arms rapidly around, the patient remaining all the time with his eyes shut; then the doctor talks on without ceasing in a loud and commanding voice. the suggestions begin: "'you are going to be cured; your digestion will be good, your sleep quiet, your cough will stop, your circulation will become free and regular; you are going to feel very strong and well, you will be able to walk about,' etc., etc. he hardly ever varies the speech. thus he fires away at every kind of disease at once, leaving it to the client to find out his own. no doubt he gives some special directions, according to the disease the patient is suffering from, but general instructions are the chief thing. "the same suggestions are repeated a great many times to the same person, and, strange to say, notwithstanding the inevitable monotony of the speeches, and the uniformity of both style and voice, the master's tone is so ardent, so penetrating, so sympathetic, that i have never once listened to it without a feeling of intense admiration." the hindoos produce sleep simply by sitting on the ground and, fixing their eyes steadily on the subject, swaying the body in a sort of writhing motion above the hips. by continuing this steadily and in perfect silence for ten or fifteen minutes before a large audience, dozens can be put to sleep at one time. in all cases, freedom from noise or distractive incidents is essential to success in hypnotism, for concentration must be produced. certain french operators maintain that hypnotism may be produced by pressure on certain hypnogenic points or regions of the body. among these are the eye-balls, the crown of the head, the back of the neck and the upper bones of the spine between the shoulder glades. some persons may be hypnotized by gently pressing on the skin at the base of the finger-nails, and at the root of the nose; also by gently scratching the neck over the great nerve center. hypnotism is also produced by sudden noise, as if by a chinese gong, etc. how to wake a subject from hypnotic sleep. this is comparatively easy in moot cases. most persons will awake naturally at the end of a few minutes, or will fall into a natural sleep from which in an hour or two they will awake refreshed. usually the operator simply says to the subject, "all right, wake up now," and claps his hands or makes some other decided noise. in some cases it is sufficient to say, "you will wake up in five minutes"; or tell a subject to count twelve and when he gets to ten say, "wake up." persons in the lethargic state are not susceptible to verbal suggestions, but may be awakened by lifting both eyelids. it is said that pressure on certain regions will wake the subject, just as pressure in certain other places will put the subject to sleep. among these places for awakening are the ovarian regions. some writers recommend the application of cold water to awaken subjects, but this is rarely necessary. in olden times a burning coal was brought near. if hypnotism was produced by passes, then wakening may be brought about by passes in the opposite direction, or with the back of the hand toward the subject. the only danger is likely to be found in hysterical persons. they will, if aroused, often fall off again into a helpless state, and continue to do so for some time to come. it is dangerous to hypnotize such subjects. care should be taken to awaken the subject very thoroughly before leaving him, else headache, nausea, or the like may follow, with other unpleasant effects. in all cases subjects should be treated gently and with the utmost consideration, as if the subject and operator were the most intimate friends. it is better that the person who induces hypnotic sleep should awaken the subject. others cannot do it so easily, though as we have said, subjects usually awaken themselves after a short time. further description of the method of producing hypnotism need not be given; but it is proper to add that in addition to the fact that not more than one person out of three can be hypnotized at all, even by an experienced operator, to effect hypnotization except in a few cases requires a great deal of patience, both on the part of the operator and of the subject. it may require half a dozen or more trials before any effect at all can be produced, although in some cases the effect will come within a minute or two. after a person has been once hypnotized, hypnotization is much easier. the most startling results are to be obtained only after a long process of training on the part of the subject. public hypnotic entertainments, and even those given at the hospitals in paris, would be quite impossible if trained subjects were not at hand; and in the case of the public hypnotizer, the proper subjects are hired and placed in the audience for the express purpose of coming forward when called for. the success of such an entertainment could not otherwise be guaranteed. in many cases, also, this training of subjects makes them deceivers. they learn to imitate what they see, and since their living depends upon it, they must prove hypnotic subjects who can always be depended upon to do just what is wanted. we may add, however, that what they do is no more than an imitation of the real thing. there is no grotesque manifestation on the stage, even if it is a pure fake, which could not be matched by more startling facts taken from undoubted scientific experience. chapter ii. amusing experiments. hypnotizing on the stage--"you can't pull your hands apart"--post hypnotic suggestion--the news boy, the hunter, and the young man with the rag doll--a whip becomes hot iron--courting a broomstick--the side show. let us now describe some of the manifestations of hypnotism, to see just how it operates and how it exhibits itself. the following is a description of a public performance given by dr. herbert l. flint, a very successful public operator. it is in the language of an eye-witness--a new york lawyer. in response to a call for volunteers, twenty young and middle-aged men came upon the stage. they evidently belonged to the great middle-class. the entertainment commenced by dr. flint passing around the group, who were seated on the stage in a semicircle facing the audience, and stroking each one's head and forehead, repeating the phrases, "close your eyes. think of nothing but sleep. you are very tired. you are drowsy. you feel very sleepy." as he did this, several of the volunteers closed their eyes at once, and one fell asleep immediately. one or two remained awake, and these did not give themselves up to the influence, but rather resisted it. when the doctor had completed his round and had manipulated all the volunteers, some of those influenced were nodding, some were sound asleep, while a few were wide awake and smiling at the rest. these latter were dismissed as unlikely subjects. when the stage had been cleared of all those who were not responsive, the doctor passed around, and, snapping his finger at each individual, awoke him. one of the subjects when questioned afterward as to what sensation he experienced at the snapping of the fingers, replied that it seemed to him as if something inside of his head responded, and with this sensation he regained self-consciousness. (this is to be doubted. as a rule, subjects in this stage of hypnotism do not feel any sensation that they can remember, and do not become self-conscious.) the class was now apparently wide awake, and did not differ in appearance from their ordinary state. the doctor then took each one and subjected him to a separate physical test, such as sealing the eyes, fastening the hands, stiffening the fingers, arms, and legs, producing partial catalepsy and causing stuttering and inability to speak. in those possessing strong imaginations, he was able to produce hallucinations, such as feeling mosquito bites, suffering from toothache, finding the pockets filled and the hands covered with molasses, changing identity, and many similar tests. the doctor now asked each one to clasp his hands in front of him, and when all had complied with the request, he repeated the phrase, "think your hands so fast that you can't pull them apart. they are fast. you cannot pull them apart. try. you can't." the whole class made frantic efforts to unclasp their hands, but were unable to do so. the doctor's explanation of this is, that what they were really doing was to force their hands closer together, thus obeying the counter suggestion. that they thought they were trying to unclasp their hands was evident from their endeavors. the moment he made them desist, by snapping his fingers, the spell was broken. it was most astonishing to see that as each one awoke, he seemed to be fully cognizant of the ridiculous position in which his comrades were placed, and to enjoy their confusion and ludicrous attitudes. the moment, however, he was commanded to do things equally absurd, he obeyed. while, therefore, the class appeared to be free agents, they are under hypnotic control. one young fellow, aged about eighteen, said that he was addicted to the cigarette habit. the suggestion was made to him that he would not be able to smoke a cigarette for twenty-four hours. after the entertainment he was asked to smoke, as was his usual habit. he was then away from any one who could influence him. he replied that the very idea was repugnant. however, he was induced to take a cigarette in his mouth, but it made him ill and he flung it away with every expression of disgust. *this is an instance of what is called post-hypnotic suggestion. dr. cocke tells of suggesting to a drinker whom he was trying to cure of the habit that for the next three days anything he took would make him vomit; the result followed as suggested. the same phenomena that was shown in unclasping the hands, was next exhibited in commanding the subjects to rotate them. they immediately began and twirled them faster and faster, in spite of their efforts to stop. one of the subjects said he thought of nothing but the strange action of his hands, and sometimes it puzzled him to know why they whirled. at this point dr. flint's daughter took charge of the class. she pointed her finger at one of them, and the subject began to look steadily before him, at which the rest of the class were highly amused. presently the subject's head leaned forward, the pupils of his eyes dilated and assumed a peculiar glassy stare. he arose with a steady, gliding gait and walked up to the lady until his nose touched her hand. then he stopped. miss flint led him to the front of the stage and left him standing in profound slumber. he stood there, stooping, eyes set, and vacant, fast asleep. in the meantime the act had caused great laughter among the rest of the class. one young fellow in particular, laughed so uproariously that tears coursed down his cheeks, and he took out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. just as he was returning it to his pocket, the lady suddenly pointed a finger at him. she was in the center of the stage, fully fifteen feet away from the subject, but the moment the gesture was made, his countenance fell, his mirth stopped, while that of his companions redoubled, and the change was so obvious that the audience shared in the laughter--but the subject neither saw nor heard. his eyes assumed the same expression that had been noticed in his companion's. he, too, arose in the same attitude, as if his head were pulling the body along, and following the finger in the same way as his predecessor, was conducted to the front of the stage by the side of the first subject. this was repeated on half a dozen subjects, and the manifestations were the same in each case. those selected were now drawn up in an irregular line in front of the stage, their eyes fixed on vacancy, their heads bent forward, perfectly motionless. each was then given a suggestion. one was to be a newsboy, and sell papers. another was given a broomstick and told to hunt game in the woods before him. another was given a large rag doll and told that it was an infant, and that he must look among the audience and discover the father. he was informed that he could tell who the father was by the similarity and the color of the eyes. these suggestions were made in a loud tone, miss flint being no nearer one subject than another. the bare suggestion was given, as, "now, think that you are a newsboy, and are selling papers," or, "now think that you are hunting and are going into the woods to shoot birds." so the party was started at the same time into the audience. the one who was impersonating a newsboy went about crying his edition in a loud voice; while the hunter crawled along stealthily and carefully. the newsboy even adopted the well-worn device of asking those whom he solicited to buy to help him get rid of his stock. one man offered him a cent, when the price was two cents. the newsboy chaffed the would-be purchaser. he sarcastically asked him if he "didn't want the earth." the others did what they had been told to do in the same earnest, characteristic way. after this performance, the class was again seated in a semicircle, and miss flint selected one of them, and, taking him into the center of the stage, showed him a small riding whip. he looked at it indifferently enough. he was told it was a hot bar of iron, but he shook his head, still incredulous. the suggestion was repeated, and as the glazed look came into his eyes, the incredulous look died out. every member of the class was following the suggestion made to the subject in hand. all of them had the same expression in their eyes. the doctor said that his daughter was hypnotizing the whole class through this one individual. as she spoke she lightly touched the subject with the end of the whip. the moment the subject felt the whip he jumped and shrieked as if it really were a hot iron. she touched each one of the class in succession, and every one manifested the utmost pain and fear. one subject sat down on the floor and cried in dire distress. others, when touched, would tear off their clothing or roll up their sleeves. one young man was examined by a physician present just after the whip had been laid across his shoulders, and a long red mark was found, just such a one as would have been made by a real hot iron. the doctor said that, had the suggestion been continued, it would undoubtedly have raised a blister. one of the amusing experiments tried at a later time was that of a tall young man, diffident, pale and modest, being given a broom carefully wrapped in a sheet, and told that it was his sweetheart. he accepted the situation and sat down by the broom. he was a little sheepish at first, but eventually he grew bolder, and smiled upon her such a smile as malvolio casts upon olivia. the manner in which, little by little, he ventured upon a familiar footing, was exceedingly funny; but when, in a moment of confident response to his wooing, he clasped her round the waist and imprinted a chaste kiss upon the brushy part of the broom, disguised by the sheet, the house resounded with roars of laughter. the subject, however, was deaf to all of the noise. he was absorbed in his courtship, and he continued to hug the broom, and exhibit in his features that idiotic smile that one sees only upon the faces of lovers and bridegrooms. "all the world loves a lover," as the saying is, and all the world loves to laugh at him. one of the subjects was told that the head of a man in the audience was on fire. he looked for a moment, and then dashed down the platform into the audience, and, seizing the man's head, vigorously rubbed it. as this did not extinguish the flames, he took off his coat and put the fire out. in doing this, he set his coat on fire, when he trampled it under foot. then he calmly resumed his garment and walked back to the stage. the "side-show" closed the evening's entertainment. a young man was told to think of himself as managing a side-show at a circus. when his mind had absorbed this idea he was ordered to open his exhibition. he at once mounted a table, and, in the voice of the traditional side-show fakir, began to dilate upon the fat woman and the snakes, upon the wild man from borneo, upon the learned pig, and all the other accessories of side-shows. he went over the usual characteristic "patter," getting more and more in earnest, assuring his hearers that for the small sum of ten cents they could see more wonders than ever before had been crowded under one canvas tent. he harangued the crowd as they surged about the tent door. he pointed to a suppositious canvas picture. he "chaffed" the boys. he flattered the vanity of the young fellows with their girls, telling them that they could not afford, for the small sum of ten cents, to miss this great show. he made change for his patrons. he indulged in side remarks, such as "this is hot work." he rolled up his sleeves and took off his collar and necktie, all of the time expatiating upon the merits of the freaks inside of his tent. chapter iii. the stages of hypnotism. lethargy--catalepsy--the somnambulistic stage--fascination. we have just given some of the amusing experiments that may be performed with subjects in one of the minor stages of hypnotism. but there are other stages which give entirely different manifestations. for a scientific classification of these we are indebted to professor charcot, of the salpetriere hospital in paris, to whom, next to mesmer and braid, we are indebted for the present science of hypnotism. he recognized three distinct stages--lethargy, catalepsy and somnambulism. there is also a condition of extreme lethargy, a sort of trance state, that lasts for days and even weeks, and, indeed, has been known to last for years. there is also a lighter phase than somnambulism, that is called fascination. some doctors, however, place it between catalepsy and somnambulism. each of these stages is marked by quite distinct phenomena. we give them as described by a pupil of dr. charcot. lethargy. this is a state of absolute inert sleep. if the method of braid is used, and a bright object is held quite near the eyes, and the eyes are fixed upon it, the subject squints, the eyes become moist and bright, the look fixed, and the pupils dilated. this is the cataleptic stage. if the object is left before the eyes, lethargy is produced. there are also many other ways of producing lethargy, as we have seen in the chapter "how to hypnotize." one of the marked characteristics of this stage of hypnotism is the tendency of the muscles to contract, under the influence of the slightest touch, friction, pressure or massage, or even that of a magnet placed at a distance. the contraction disappears only by the repetition of that identical means that called it into action. dr. courmelles gives the following illustration: "if the forearm is rubbed a little above the palm of the hand, this latter yields and bends at an acute angle. the subject may be suspended by the hand, and the body will be held up without relaxation, that is, without returning to the normal condition. to return to the normal state, it suffices to rub the antagonistic muscles, or, in ordinary terms, the part diametrically opposed to that which produced the phenomenon; in this case, the forearm a little above the hands. it is the same for any other part of the body." the subject appears to be in a deep sleep, the eyes are either closed or half closed, and the face is without expression. the body appears to be in a state of complete collapse, the head is thrown back, and the arms and legs hang loose, dropping heavily down. in this stage insensibility is so complete that needles can be run into any part of the body without producing pain, and surgical operations may be performed without the slightest unpleasant effect. this stage lasts usually but a short time, and the patient, under ordinary conditions, will pass upward into the stage of catalepsy, in which he opens his eyes. if the hypnotism is spontaneous, that is, if it is due to a condition of the nervous organism which has produced it without any outside aid, we have the condition of prolonged trance, of which many cases have been reported. until the discovery of hypnotism these strange trances were little understood, and people were even buried alive in them. a few instances reported by medical men will be interesting. there is one reported in 1889 by a noted french physician. said he: "there is at this moment in the hospital at mulhouse a most interesting case. a young girl twenty-two years of age has been asleep here for the last twelve days. her complexion is fresh and rosy, her breathing quite normal, and her features unaltered. "no organ seems attacked; all the vital functions are performed as in the waking state. she is fed with milk, broth and wine, which is given her in a spoon. her mouth even sometimes opens of itself at the contact of the spoon, and she swallows without the slightest difficulty. at other times the gullet remains inert. "the whole body is insensible. the forehead alone presents, under the action of touch or of pricks, some reflex phenomena. however, by a peculiarity, which is extremely interesting, she seems, by the intense horror she shows for ether, to retain a certain amount of consciousness and sensibility. if a drop of ether is put into her mouth her face contracts and assumes an expression of disgust. at the same moment her arms and legs are violently agitated, with the kind of impatient motion that a child displays when made to swallow some hated dose of medicine. "in the intellectual relations the brain is not absolutely obscure, for on her mother's coming to see her the subject's face became highly colored, and tears appeared on the tips of her eyelashes, without, however, in any other way disturbing her lethargy. "nothing has yet been able to rouse her from this torpor, which will, no doubt, naturally disappear at a given moment. she will then return to conscious life as she quitted it. it is probable that she will not retain any recollection of her present condition, that all notion of time will fail her, and that she will fancy it is only the day following her usual nightly slumber, a slumber which, in this case, has been transformed into a lethargic sleep, without any rigidity of limbs or convulsions. "physically, the sleeper is of a middle size, slender, strong and pretty, without distinctive characteristic. mentally, she is lively, industrious, sometimes whimsical, and subject to slight nervous attacks." there is a pretty well-authenticated report of a young girl who, on may 30, 1883, after an intense fright, fell into a lethargic condition which lasted for four years. her parents were poor and ignorant, but, as the fame of the case spread abroad, some physicians went to investigate it in march, 1887. her sleep had never been interrupted. on raising the eyelids, the doctors found the eyes turned convulsively upward, but, blowing upon them, produced no reflex movement of the lids. her jaws were closed tightly, and the attempt to open her mouth had broken off some of the teeth level with the gums. the muscles contracted at the least breath or touch, and the arms remained in position when uplifted. the contraction of the muscles is a sign of the lethargic state, but the arm, remaining in position, indicates the cataleptic state. the girl was kept alive by liquid nourishment poured into her mouth. there are on record a large number of cases of persons who have slept for several months. catalepsy. the next higher stage of hypnotism is that of catalepsy. patients may be thrown into it directly, or patients in the lethargic state may be brought into it by lifting the eyelids. it seems that the light penetrating the eyes, and affecting the brain, awakens new powers, for the cataleptic state has phenomena quite peculiar to itself. nearly all the means for producing hypnotism will, if carried to just the right degree, produce catalepsy. for instance, besides the fixing of the eye on a bright object, catalepsy may be produced by a sudden sound, as of a chinese gong, a tom-tom or a whistle, the vibration of a tuning-fork, or thunder. if a solar spectrum is suddenly brought into a dark room it may produce catalepsy, which is also produced by looking at the sun, or a lime light, or an electric light. in this state the patient has become perfectly rigidly fixed in the position in which he happens to be when the effect is produced, whether sitting, standing, kneeling, or the like; and this face has an expression of fear. the arms or legs may be raised, but if left to themselves will not drop, as in lethargy. the eyes are wide open, but the look is fixed and impassive. the fixed position lasts only a few minutes, however, when the subject returns to a position of relaxation, or drops back into the lethargic state. if the muscles, nerves or tendons are rubbed or pressed, paralysis may be produced, which, however, is quickly removed by the use of electricity, when the patient awakes. by manipulating the muscles the most rigid contraction may be produced, until the entire body is in such a state of corpse-like rigidity that a most startling experiment is possible. the subject may be placed with his head upon the back of one chair and his heels on the back of another, and a heavy man may sit upon him without seemingly producing any effect, or even heavy rock may be broken on the subject's body. messieurs binet and fere, pupils of the salpetriere school, describe the action of magnets on cataleptic subjects, as follows: "the patient is seated near a table, on which a magnet has been placed, the left elbow rests on the arm of the chair, the forearm and hand vertically upraised with thumb and index finger extended, while the other fingers remain half bent. on the right side the forearm and hand are stretched on the table, and the magnet is placed under a linen cloth at a distance of about two inches. after a couple of minutes the right index begins to tremble and rise up; on the left side the extended fingers bend down, and the hand remains limp for an instant. the right hand and forearm rise up and assume the primitive position of the left hand, which is now stretched out on the arm of the chair, with the waxen pliability that pertains to the cataleptic state." an interesting experiment may be tried by throwing a patient into lethargy on one side and catalepsy on the other. to induce what is called hemi-lethargy and hemi-catalepsy is not difficult. first, the lethargic stage is induced, then one eyelid is raised, and that side alone becomes cataleptic, and may be operated on in various interesting ways. the arm on that side, for instance, will remain raised when lifted, while the arm on the other side will fall heavily. still more interesting is the intellectual condition of the subject. some great man has remarked that if he wished to know what a person was thinking of, he assumed the exact position and expression of that person, and soon he would begin to feel and think just as the other was thinking and feeling. look a part and you will soon begin to feel it. in the cataleptic subject there is a close relation between the attitude the subject assumes and the intellectual manifestation. in the somnambulistic stage patients are manipulated by speaking to them; in the cataleptic stage they are equally under the will of the operator; but now he controls them by gesture. says dr. courmelles, from his own observation: "the emotions in this stage are made at command, in the true acceptation of the word, for they are produced, not by orders verbally expressed, but by expressive movements. if the hands are opened and drawn close to the mouth, as when a kiss is wafted, the mouth smiles. if the arms are extended and half bent at the elbows, the countenance assumes an expression of astonishment. the slightest variation of movement is reflected in the emotions. if the fists are closed, the brow contracts and the face expresses anger. if a lively or sad tune is played, if amusing or depressing pictures are shown, the subject, like a faithful mirror, at once reflects these impressions. if a smile is produced it can be seen to diminish and disappear at the same time as the hand is moved away, and again to reappear and increase when it is once more brought near. better still, a double expression can be imparted to the physiognomy, by approaching the left hand to the left side of the mouth, the left side of the physiognomy will smile, while at the same time, by closing the right hand, the right eyebrow will frown. the subject can be made to send kisses, or to turn his hands round each other indefinitely. if the hand is brought near the nose it will blow; if the arms are stretched out they will remain extended, while the head will be bowed with a marked expression of pain." heidenhain was able to take possession of the subject's gaze and control him by sight, through producing mimicry. he looks fixedly at the patient till the patient is unable to take his eyes away. then the patient will copy every movement he makes. if he rises and goes backward the patient will follow, and with his right hand he will imitate the movements of the operator's left, as if he were a mirror. the attitudes of prayer, melancholy, pain, disdain, anger or fear, may be produced in this manner. the experiments of donato, a stage hypnotizer, are thus described: "after throwing the subjects into catalepsy he causes soft music to be played, which produces a rapturous expression. if the sound is heightened or increased, the subjects seem to receive a shock and a feeling of disappointment. the artistic sense developed by hypnotism is disturbed; the faces express astonishment, stupefaction and pain. if the same soft melody be again resumed, the same expression of rapturous bliss reappears in the countenance. the faces become seraphic and celestial when the subjects are by nature handsome, and when the subjects are ordinary looking, even ugly, they are idealized as by a special kind of beauty." the strange part of all this is, that on awaking, the patient has no recollection of what has taken place, and careful tests have shown that what appear to be violent emotions, such as in an ordinary state would produce a quickened pulse and heavy breathing, create no disturbance whatever in the cataleptic subject; only the outer mask is in motion. "sometimes the subjects lean backward with all the grace of a perfect equilibrist, freeing themselves from the ordinary mechanical laws. the curvature will, indeed, at times be so complete that the head will touch the floor and the body describe a regular arc. "when a female subject assumes an attitude of devotion, clasps her hands, turns her eyes upward and lisps out a prayer, she presents an admirably artistic picture, and her features and expression seem worthy of being reproduced on canvas." we thus see what a perfect automaton the human body may become. there appears, however, to be a sort of unconscious memory, for a familiar object will seem to suggest spontaneously its ordinary use. thus, if a piece of soap is put into a cataleptic patient's hands; he will move it around as though he thought he were washing them, and if there is any water near he will actually wash them. the sight of an umbrella makes him shiver as if he were in a storm. handing such a person a pen will not make him write, but if a letter is dictated to him out loud he will write in an irregular hand. the subject may also be made to sing, scream or speak different languages with which he is entirely unfamiliar. this is, however, a verging toward the somnambulistic stage, for in deep catalepsy the patient does not speak or hear. the state is produced by placing the hands on the head, the forehead, or nape of the neck. the somnambulistic stage. this is the stage or phase of hypnotism nearest the waking, and is the only one that can be produced in some subjects. patients in the cataleptic state can be brought into the somnambulistic by rubbing the top of the head. to all appearances, the patient is fully awake, his eyes are open, and he answers when spoken to, but his voice does not have the same sound as when awake. yet, in this state the patient is susceptible of all the hallucinations of insanity which may be induced at the verbal command of the operator. one of the most curious features of this stage of hypnotism is the effect on the memory. says monsieur richet: "i send v---to sleep. i recite some verses to her, and then i awake her. she remembers nothing. i again send her to sleep, and she remembers perfectly the verses i recited. i awake her, and she has again forgotten everything." it appears, however, that if commanded to remember on awaking, a patient may remember. the active sense, and the memory as well, appears to be in an exalted state of activity during this phase of hypnotism. says m. richet: "m----, who will sing the air of the second act of the africaine in her sleep, is incapable of remembering a single note of it when awake." another patient, while under this hypnotic influence, could remember all he had eaten for several days past, but when awake could remember very little. binet and fere caused one of their subjects to remember the whole of his repasts for eight days past, though when awake he could remember nothing beyond two or three days. a patient of dr. charcot, who when she was two years old had seen dr. parrot in the children's hospital, but had not seen him since, and when awake could not remember him, named him at once when he entered during her hypnotic sleep. m. delboeuf tells of an experiment he tried, in which the patient did remember what had taken place during the hypnotic condition, when he suddenly awakened her in the midst of the hallucination; as, for instance, he told her the ashes from the cigar he was smoking had fallen on her handkerchief and had set it on fire, whereupon she at once rose and threw the handkerchief into the water. then, suddenly awakened, she remembered the whole performance. in the somnambulistic stage the patient is no longer an automaton merely, but a real personality, "an individual with his own character, his likes and dislikes." the tone of the voice of the operator seems to have quite as much effect as his words. if he speaks in a grave and solemn tone, for instance, even if what he utters is nonsense, the effect is that of a deeply tragic story. the will of another is not so easily implanted as has been claimed. while a patient will follow almost any suggestion that may be offered, he readily obeys only commands which are in keeping with his character. if he is commanded to do something he dislikes or which in the waking state would be very repugnant to him, he hesitates, does it very reluctantly, and in extreme cases refuses altogether, often going into hysterics. it was found at the charity hospital that one patient absolutely refused to accept a cassock and become a priest. one of monsieur richet's patients screamed with pain the moment an amputation was suggested, but almost immediately recognized that it was only a suggestion, and laughed in the midst of her tears. probably, however, this patient was not completely hypnotized. dr. dumontpallier was able to produce a very curious phenomenon. he suggested to a female patient that with the right eye she could see a picture on a blank card. on awakening she could, indeed, see the picture with the right eye, but the left eye told her the card was blank. while she was in the somnambulistic state he told her in her right ear that the weather was very fine, and at the same time another person whispered in her left ear that it was raining. on the right side of her face she had a smile, while the left angle of her lip dropped as if she were depressed by the thought of the rain. again, he describes a dance and gay party in one ear, and another person mimics the barking of a dog in the other. one side of her face in that case wears an amused expression, while the other shows signs of alarm. dr. charcot thus describes a curious experiment: "a portrait is suggested to a subject as existing on a blank card, which is then mixed with a dozen others; to all appearance they are similar cards. the subject, being awakened, is requested to look over the packet, and does so without knowing the reason of the request, but when he perceives the card on which the portrait was suggested, he at once recognizes the imaginary portrait. it is probable that some insignificant mark has, owing to his visual hyperacuity, fixed the image in the subject's brain." fascination. says a recent french writer: "dr. bremand, a naval doctor, has obtained in men supposed to be perfectly healthy a new condition, which he calls fascination. the inventor considers that this is hypnotism in its mildest form, which, after repeated experiments, might become catalepsy. the subject fascinated by dr. bremaud--fascination being induced by the contemplation of a bright spot--falls into a state of stupor. he follows the operator and servilely imitates his movements, gestures and words; he obeys suggestions, and a stimulation of the nerves induces contraction, but the cataleptic pliability does not exist." a noted public hypnotizer in paris some years ago produced fascination in the following manner: he would cause the subject to lean on his hands, thus fatiguing the muscles. the excitement produced by the concentrated gaze of a large audience also assisted in weakening the nervous resistance. at last the operator would suddenly call out: "look at me!" the subject would look up and gaze steadily into the operator's eyes, who would stare steadily back with round, glaring eyes, and in most cases subdue his victim. chapter iv. how the subject feels under hypnotization.--dr. cooper's experience.--effect of music.--dr. alfred marthieu's experiments. the sensations produced during a state of hypnosis are very interesting. as may be supposed, they differ greatly in different persons. one of the most interesting accounts ever given is that of dr. james r. cocke, a hypnotist himself, who submitted to being operated upon by a professional magnetizer. he was at that time a firm believer in the theory of personal magnetism (a delusion from which he afterward escaped). on the occasion which he describes, the operator commanded him to close his eyes and told him he could not open them, but he did open them at once. again he told him to close the eyes, and at the same time he gently stroked his head and face and eyelids with his hand. dr. cocke fancied he felt a tingling sensation in his forehead and eyes, which he supposed came from the hand of the operator. (afterward he came to believe that this sensation was purely imaginary on his part.) then he says: "a sensation akin to fear came over me. the operator said: 'you are going to sleep, you are getting sleepy. you cannot open your eyes.' i was conscious that my heart was beating rapidly, and i felt a sensation of terror. he continued to tell me i was going to sleep, and could not open my eves. he then made passes over my head, down over my hands and body, but did not touch me. he then said to me, 'you cannot open your eyes.' the motor apparatus of my lids would not seemingly respond to my will, yet i was conscious that while one part of my mind wanted to open my eyes, another part did not want to, so i was in a paradoxical state. i believed that i could open my eyes, and yet could not. the feeling of not wishing to open my eyes was not based upon any desire to please the operator. i had no personal interest in him in any way, but, be it understood, i firmly believed in his power to control me. he continued to suggest to me that i was going to sleep, and the suggestion of terror previously mentioned continued to increase." the next step was to put the doctor's hand over his head, and tell him he could not put it down. then he stroked the arm and said it was growing numb. he said: "you have no feeling in it, have you?" dr. cocke goes on: "i said 'no,' and i knew that i said 'no,' yet i knew that i had a feeling in it." the operator went on, pricking the arm with a pin, and though dr. cocke felt the pain he said he did not feel it, and at the same time the sensation of terror increased. "i was not conscious of my body at all," he says further on, "but i was painfully conscious of the two contradictory elements within me. i knew that my body existed, but could not prove it to myself. i knew that the statements made by the operator were in a measure untrue. i obeyed them voluntarily and involuntarily. this is the last remembrance that i have of that hypnotic experience." after this, however, the operator caused the doctor to do a number of things which he learned of from his friends after the performance was over. "it seemed to me that the hypnotist commanded me to awake as soon as i dropped my arm," and yet ten minutes of unconsciousness had passed. on a subsequent occasion dr. cocke, who was blind, was put into a deep hypnotic sleep by fixing his mind on the number 26 and holding up his hand. this time he experienced a still greater degree of terror, and incidentally learned that he could hypnotize himself. the matter of self-hypnotism we shall consider in another chapter. in this connection we find great interest in an article in the medical news, july 28, 1894, by dr. alfred warthin, of ann arbor, mich., in which he describes the effects of music upon hypnotic subjects. while in vienna he took occasion to observe closely the enthusiastic musical devotees as they sat in the audience at the performance of one of wagner's operas. he believed they were in a condition of self-induced hypnotism, in which their subjective faculties were so exalted as to supersede their objective perceptions. music was no longer to them a succession of pleasing sounds, but the embodiment of a drama in which they became so wrapped up that they forgot all about the mechanical and external features of the music and lived completely in a fairy world of dream. this observation suggested to him an interesting series of experiments. his first subject was easily hypnotized, and of an emotional nature. wagner's "ride of walkure" was played from the piano score. the pulse of the subject became more rapid and at first of higher tension, increasing from a normal rate of 60 beats a minute to 120. then, as the music progressed, the tension diminished. the respiration increased from 18 to 30 per minute. great excitement in the subject was evident. his whole body was thrown into motion, his legs were drawn up, his arms tossed into the air, and a profuse sweat appeared. when the subject had been awakened, he said that he did not remember the music as music, but had an impression of intense, excitement, brought on by "riding furiously through the air." the state of mind brought up before him in the most realistic and vivid manner possible the picture of the ride of tam o'shanter, which he had seen years before. the picture soon became real to him, and he found himself taking part in a wild chase, not as witch, devil, or tam even; but in some way his consciousness was spread through every part of the scene, being of it, and yet playing the part of spectator, as is often the case in dreams. dr. warthin tried the same experiment again, this time on a young man who was not so emotional, and was hypnotized with much more difficulty. this subject did not pass into such a deep state of hypnotism, but the result was practically the same. the pulse rate rose from 70 to 120. the sensation remembered was that of riding furiously through the air. the experiment was repeated on other subjects, in all cases with the same result. only one knew that the music was the "ride of walkure." "to him it always expressed the pictured wild ride of the daughters of wotan, the subject taking part in the ride." it was noticeable in each case that the same music played to them in the waking state produced no special impression. here is incontestable evidence that in the hypnotic state the perception of the special senses is enormously heightened. a slow movement was tried (the valhalla motif). at first it seemed to produce the opposite effect, for the pulse was lowered. later it rose to a rate double the normal, and the tension was diminished. the impression described by the subject afterward was a feeling of "lofty grandeur and calmness." a mountain climbing experience of years before was recalled, and the subject seemed to contemplate a landscape of "lofty grandeur." a different sort of music was played (the intense and ghastly scene in which brunhilde appears to summon sigmund to valhalla). immediately a marked change took place in the pulse. it became slow and irregular, and very small. the respiration decreased almost to gasping, the face grew pale, and a cold perspiration broke out. readers who are especially interested in this subject will find descriptions of many other interesting experiments in the same article. dr. cocke describes a peculiar trick he played upon the sight of a subject. says he: "i once hypnotized a man and made him read all of his a's as w's, his u's as v's, and his b's as x's. i added suggestion after suggestion so rapidly that it would have been impossible for him to have remembered simply what i said and call the letters as i directed. stimulation was, in this case impossible, as i made him read fifteen or twenty pages, he calling the letters as suggested each time they occurred." the extraordinary heightening of the sense perceptions has an important bearing on the question of spiritualism and clairvoyance. if the powers of the mind are so enormously increased, all that is required of a very sensitive and easily hypnotized person is to hypnotize him or herself, when he will be able to read thoughts and remember or perceive facts hidden to the ordinary perception. in this connection the reader is referred to the confession of mrs. piper, the famous medium of the american branch of the psychical research society. the confession will be found printed in full at the close of this book. chapter v. self-hypnotization.--how it may be done.--an experience.--accountable for children's crusade.--oriental prophets self-hypnotized. if self-hypnotism is possible (and it is true that a person can deliberately hypnotize himself when he wishes to till he has become accustomed to it and is expert in it, so to speak), it does away at a stroke with the claims of all professional hypnotists and magnetic healers that they have any peculiar power in themselves which they exert over their fellows. one of these professionals gives an account in his book of what he calls "the wonderful lock method." he says that though he is locked up in a separate room he can make the psychic power work through the walls. all that he does is to put his subjects in the way of hypnotizing themselves. he shows his inconsistency when he states that under certain circumstances the hypnotizer is in danger of becoming hypnotized himself. in this he makes no claim that the subject is using any psychic power; but, of course, if the hypnotizer looks steadily into the eyes of his subject, and the subject looks into his eyes, the steady gaze on a bright object will produce hypnotism in one quite as readily as in the other. hypnotism is an established scientific fact; but the claim that the hypnotizer has any mysterious psychic power is the invariable mark of the charlatan. probably no scientific phenomenon was ever so grossly prostituted to base ends as that of hypnotism. later we shall see some of the outrageous forms this charlatanism assumes, and how it extends to the professional subjects as well as to the professional operators, till those subjects even impose upon scientific men who ought to be proof against such deception. moreover, the possibility of self-hypnotization, carefully concealed and called by another name, opens another great field of humbug and charlatanism, of which the advertising columns of the newspapers are constantly filled--namely, that of the clairvoyant and medium. we may conceive how such a profession might become perfectly legitimate and highly useful; but at present it seems as if any person who went into it, however honest he might be at the start, soon began to deceive himself as well as others, until he lost his power entirely to distinguish between fact and imagination. before discussing the matter further, let us quote dr. cocke's experiment in hypnotizing himself. it will be remembered that a professional hypnotizer or magnetizer had hypnotized him by telling him to fix his mind on the number twenty-six and holding up his hand. says the doctor: "in my room that evening it occurred to me to try the same experiment. i did so. i kept the number twenty-six in my mind. in a few minutes i felt the sensation of terror, but in a different way. i was intensely cold. my heart seemed to stand still. i had ringing in my ears. my hair seemed to rise upon my scalp. i persisted in the effort, and the previously mentioned noise in my ears grew louder and louder. the roar became deafening. it crackled like a mighty fire. i was fearfully conscious of myself. having read vivid accounts of dreams, visions, etc., it occurred to me that i would experience them. i felt in a vague way that there were beings all about me but could not hear their voices. i felt as though every muscle in my body was fixed and rigid. the roar in my ears grew louder still, and i heard, above the roar, reports which sounded like artillery and musketry. then above the din of the noise a musical chord. i seemed to be absorbed in this chord. i knew nothing else. the world existed for me only in the tones of the mighty chord. then i had a sensation as though i were expanding. the sound in my ears died away, and yet i was not conscious of silence. then all consciousness was lost. the next thing i experienced was a sensation of intense cold, and of someone roughly shaking me. then i heard the voice of my jolly landlord calling me by name." the landlord had found the doctor "as white as a ghost and as limp as a rag," and thought he was dead. he says it took him ten minutes to arouse the sleeper. during the time a physician had been summoned. as to the causes of this condition as produced dr. cocke says: "i firmly believed that something would happen when the attempt was made to hypnotize me. secondly, i wished to be hypnotized. these, together with a vivid imagination and strained attention, brought on the states which occurred." it is interesting to compare the effects of hypnotization with those of opium or other narcotic. dr. cocke asserts that there is a difference. his descriptions of dreams bear a wonderful likeness to de quincey's dreams, such as those described in "the english mail-coach," "de profundis," and "the confessions of an english opium eater," all of which were presumably due to opium. the causes which dr. cocke thinks produced the hypnotic condition in his case, namely, belief, desire to be hypnotized, and strained attention, united with a vivid imagination, are causes which are often found in conjunction and produce effects which we may reasonably explain on the theory of self-hypnotization. for instance, the effects of an exciting religious revival are very like those produced by mesmer's operations in paris. the subjects become hysterical, and are ready to believe anything or do anything. by prolonging the operation, a whole community becomes more or less hypnotized. in all such cases, however, unusual excitement is commonly followed by unusual lethargy. it is much like a wild spree of intoxication--in fact, it is a sort of intoxication. the same phenomena are probably accountable for many of the strange records of history. the wonderful cures at lourdes (of which we have read in zola's novel of that name) are no doubt the effect of hypnotization by the priests. some of the strange movements of whole communities during the crusades are to be explained either on the theory of hypnotization or of contagion, and possibly these two things will turn out to be much the same in fact. on no other ground can we explain the so-called "children's crusade," in which over thirty thousand children from germany, from all classes of the community, tried to cross the alps in winter, and in their struggles were all lost or sold into slavery without even reaching the holy land. again, hypnotism is accountable for many of the poet's dreams. gazing steadily at a bed of bright coals or a stream of running water will invariably throw a sensitive subject into a hypnotic sleep that will last sometimes for several hours. dr. cocke says that he has experimented in this direction with patients of his. says he: "they have the ability to resist the state or to bring it at will. many of them describe beautiful scenes from nature, or some mighty cathedral with its lofty dome, or the faces of imaginary beings, beautiful or demoniacal, according to the will and temper of the subject." perhaps the most wonderful example of self-hypnotism which we have in history is that of the mystic swedenborg, who saw, such strange things in his visions, and at last came to believe in them as real. the same explanation may be given of the manifestations of oriental prophets--for in the orient hypnotism is much easier and more systematically developed than with us of the west. the performances of the dervishes, and also of the fakirs, who wound themselves and perform many wonderful feats which would be difficult for an ordinary person, are no doubt in part feats of hypnotism. while in a condition of auto-hypnotization a person may imagine that he is some other personality. says dr. cocke: "a curious thing about those self-hypnotized subjects is that they carry out perfectly their own ideals of the personality with whom they believe themselves to be possessed. if their own ideals of the part they are playing are imperfect, their impersonations are ridiculous in the extreme. one man i remember believed himself to be controlled by the spirit of charles sumner. being uneducated, he used the most wretched english, and his language was utterly devoid of sense. while, on the other hand, a very intelligent lady who believed herself to be controlled by the spirit of charlotte cushman personated the part very well." dr. cooke says of himself: "i can hypnotize myself to such an extent that i will become wholly unconscious of events taking place around me, and a long interval of time, say from one-half to two hours, will be a complete blank. during this condition of auto-hypnotization i will obey suggestions made to me by another, talking rationally, and not knowing any event that has occurred after the condition has passed off." chapter vi. simulation.--deception in hypnotism very common.--examples of neuropathic deceit.--detecting simulation.--professional subjects.--how dr. luys of the charity hospital at paris was deceived.--impossibility of detecting deception in all cases.--confessions of a professional hypnotic subject. it has already been remarked that hypnotism and hysteria are conditions very nearly allied, and that hysterical neuropathic individuals make the best hypnotic subjects. now persons of this character are in most cases morally as well as physically degenerate, and it is a curious fact that deception seems to be an inherent element in nearly all such characters. expert doctors have been thoroughly deceived. and again, persons who have been trying to expose frauds have also been deceived by the positive statements of such persons that they were deceiving the doctors when they were not. a diseased vanity seems to operate in such cases and the subjects take any method which promises for the time being to bring them into prominence. merely to attract attention is a mania with some people. there is also something about the study of hypnotism, and similar subjects in which delusions constitute half the existence, that seems to destroy the faculty for distinguishing between truth and delusion. undoubtedly we must look on such manifestations as a species of insanity. there is also a point at which the unconscious deceiver, for the sake of gain, passes into the conscious deceiver. at the close of this chapter we will give some cases illustrating the fact that persons may learn by practice to do seemingly impossible things, such as holding themselves perfectly rigid (as in the cataleptic state) while their head rests on one chair and their heels on another, and a heavy person sits upon them. first, let us cite a few cases of what may be called neuropathic deceit--a kind of insanity which shows itself in deceiving. the newspapers record similar cases from time to time. the first two of the following are quoted by dr. courmelles from the french courts, etc. 1. the comtesse de w---accused her maid of having attempted to poison her. the case was a celebrated one, and the court-room was thronged with women who sympathized with the supposed victim. the maid was condemned to death; but a second trial was granted, at which it was conclusively proved that the comtesse had herself bound herself on her bed, and had herself poured out the poison which was found still blackening her breast and lips. 2. in 1886 a man called ulysse broke into the shop of a second-hand dealer, facing his own house in paris, and there began deliberately to take away the goods, just as if he were removing his own furniture. this he did without hurrying himself in any way, and transported the property to his own premises. being caught in the very act of the theft, he seemed at first to be flurried and bewildered. when arrested and taken to the lock-up, he seemed to be in a state of abstraction; when spoken to he made no reply, seemed ready to fall asleep, and when brought before the examining magistrate actually fell asleep. dr. garnier, the medical man attached to the infirmary of the police establishment, had no doubt of his irresponsibility and he was released from custody. 3. while engaged as police-court reporter for a boston newspaper, the present writer saw a number of strange cases of the same kind. one was that of a quiet, refined, well educated lady, who was brought in for shop-lifting. though her husband was well to do, and she did not sell or even use the things she took, she had made a regular business of stealing whenever she could. she had begun it about seven months before by taking a lace handkerchief, which she slipped under her shawl: soon after she accomplished another theft. "i felt so encouraged," she said, "that i got a large bag, which i fastened under my dress, and into this i slipped whatever i could take when the clerks were not looking. i do not know what made me do it. my success seemed to lead me on." other cases of kleptomania could easily be cited. "simulation," say messieurs binet and fere, "which is already a stumbling block in the study of hysterical cases, becomes far more formidable in such studies as we are now occupied with. it is only when he has to deal with physical phenomena that the operator feels himself on firm ground." yet even here we can by no means feel certain. physicians have invented various ingenious pieces of apparatus for testing the circulation and other physiological conditions; but even these things are not sure tests. the writer knows of the case of a man who has such control over his heart and lungs that he can actually throw himself into a profound sleep in which the breathing is so absolutely stopped for an hour that a mirror is not moistened in the least by the breath, nor can the pulses be felt. to all intents and purposes the man appears to be dead; but in due time he comes to life again, apparently no whit the worse for his experiment. if an ordinary person were asked to hold out his arms at full length for five minutes he would soon become exhausted, his breathing would quicken, his pulse-rate increase. it might be supposed that if these conditions did not follow the subject was in a hypnotic trance; but it is well known that persons may easily train themselves to hold out the arms for any length of time without increasing the respiration by one breath or raising the pulse rate at all. we all remember montaigne's famous illustration in which he said that if a woman began by carrying a calf about every day she would still be able to carry it when it became an ox. in the paris hospitals, where the greater number of regular scientific experiments have been conducted, it is found that "trained subjects" are required for all of the more difficult demonstrations. that some of these famous scientists have been deceived, there is no doubt. they know it themselves. a case which will serve as an illustration is that of dr. luys, some of whose operations were "exposed" by dr. ernest hart, an english student of hypnotism of a skeptical turn of mind. one of dr. luys's pupils in a book he has published makes the following statement, which helps to explain the circumstances which we will give a little later. says he: "we know that many hospital patients who are subjected to the higher or greater treatment of hypnotism are of very doubtful reputations; we know also the effects of a temperament which in them is peculiarly addicted to simulation, and which is exaggerated by the vicinity of maladies similar to their own. to judge of this, it is necessary to have seen them encourage each other in simulation, rehearsing among themselves, or even before the medical students of the establishment, the experiments to which they have been subjected; and going through their different contortions and attitudes to exercise themselves in them. and then, again, in the present day, has not the designation of an 'hypnotical subject' become almost a social position? to be fed, to be paid, admired, exhibited in public, run after, and all the rest of it--all this is enough to make the most impartial looker-on skeptical. but is it enough to enable us to produce an a priori negation? certainly not; but it is sufficient to justify legitimate doubt. and when we come to moral phenomena, where we have to put faith in the subject, the difficulty becomes still greater. supposing suggestion and hallucination to be granted, can they be demonstrated? can we by plunging the subject in hypnotical sleep, feel sure of what he may affirm? that is impossible, for simulation and somnambulism are not reciprocally exclusive terms, and monsieur pitres has established the fact that a subject who sleeps may still simulate." messieurs binet and fere in their book speak of "the honest hublier, whom his somnambulist emelie cheated for four years consecutively." let us now quote mr. hart's investigations. dr. luys is an often quoted authority on hypnotism in paris, and is at the head of what is called the charity hospital school of hypnotical experiments. in 1892 he announced some startling results, in which some people still have faith (more or less). what he was supposed to accomplish was stated thus in the london pall mall gazette, issue of december 2: "dr. luys then showed us how a similar artificial state of suffering could be created without suggestion--in fact, by the mere proximity of certain substances. a pinch of coal dust, for example, corked and sealed in a small phial and placed by the side of the neck of a hypnotized person, produces symptoms of suffocation by smoke; a tube of distilled water, similarly placed, provokes signs of incipient hydrophobia; while another very simple concoction put in contact with the flesh brings on symptoms of suffocation by drowning." signs of drunkenness were said to be caused by a small corked bottle of brandy, and the nature of a cat by a corked bottle of valerian. patients also saw beautiful blue flames about the north pole of a magnet and distasteful red flames about the south pole; while by means of a magnet it was said that the symptoms of illness of a sick patient might be transferred to a well person also in the hypnotic state, but of course on awaking the well person at once threw off sickness that had been transferred, but the sick person was permanently relieved. these experiments are cited in some recent books on hypnotism, apparently with faith. the following counter experiments will therefore be read with interest. dr. hart gives a full account of his investigations in the nineteenth century. dr. luys gave dr. hart some demonstrations, which the latter describes as follows: "a tube containing ten drachms of cognac were placed at a certain point on the subject's neck, which dr. luys said was the seat of the great nerve plexuses. the effect on marguerite was very rapid and marked; she began to move her lips and to swallow; the expression of her face changed, and she asked, 'what have you been giving me to drink? i am quite giddy.' at first she had a stupid and troubled look; then she began to get gay. 'i am ashamed of myself,' she said; 'i feel quite tipsy,' and after passing through some of the phases of lively inebriety she began to fall from the chair, and was with difficulty prevented from sprawling on the floor. she was uncomfortable, and seemed on the point of vomiting, but this was stopped, and she was calmed." another patient gave all the signs of imagining himself transformed into a cat when a small corked bottle of valerian was placed on his neck. in the presence of a number of distinguished doctors in paris, dr. hart tried a series of experiments in which by his conversation he gave the patient no clue to exactly what drug he was using, in order that if the patient was simulating he would not know what to simulate. marguerite was the subject of several of these experiments, one of which is described as follows: "i took a tube which was supposed to contain alcohol, but which did contain cherry laurel water. marguerite immediately began, to use the words of m. sajous's note, to smile agreeably and then to laugh; she became gay. 'it makes me laugh,' she said, and then, 'i'm not tipsy, i want to sing,' and so on through the whole performance of a not ungraceful giserie, which we stopped at that stage, for i was loth to have the degrading performance of drunkenness carried to the extreme i had seen her go through at the charite. i now applied a tube of alcohol, asking the assistant, however, to give me valerian, which no doubt this profoundly hypnotized subject perfectly well heard, for she immediately went through the whole cat performance. she spat, she scratched, she mewed, she leapt about on all fours, and she was as thoroughly cat-like as had been dr. luys's subjects." similar experiments as to the effect of magnets and electric currents were tried. a note taken by dr. sajous runs thus: "she found the north pole, notwithstanding there was no current, very pretty; she was as if she were fascinated by it; she caressed the blue flames, and showed every sign of delight. then came the phenomena of attraction. she followed the magnet with delight across the room, as though fascinated by it; the bar was turned so as to present the other end or what would be called, in the language of la charite, the south pole. then she fell into an attitude, of repulsion and horror, with clenched fists, and as it approached her she fell backward into the arms of m. cremiere, and was carried, still showing all the signs of terror and repulsion, back to her chair. the bar was again turned until what should have been the north pole was presented to her. she again resumed the same attitudes of attraction, and tears bedewed her cheeks. 'ah,' she said, 'it is blue, the flame mounts,' and she rose from her seat, following the magnet around the room. similar but false phenomena were obtained in succession with all the different forms of magnet and non-magnet; marguerite was never once right, but throughout her acting was perfect; she was utterly unable at any time really to distinguish between a plain bar of iron, demagnetized magnet or a horseshoe magnet carrying a full current and one from which the current was wholly cut off." five different patients were tested in the same way, through a long series of experiments, with the same results, a practical proof that dr. luys had been totally deceived and his new and wonderful discoveries amounted to nothing. there is, however, another possible explanation, namely, telepathy, in a real hypnotic condition. even if dr. luys's experiments were genuine this would be the rational explanation. they were a case of suggestion of some sort, without doubt. nearly every book on hypnotism gives various rules for detecting simulation of the hypnotic state. one of the commonest tests is that of anaesthesia. a pin or pen-knife is stuck into a subject to see if he is insensible to pain; but as we shall see in a latter chapter, this insensibility also may be simulated, for by long training some persons learn to control their facial expressions perfectly. we have already seen that the pulse and respiration tests are not sufficient. hypnotic persons often flush slightly in the face; but it is true that there are persons who can flush on any part of the body at will. mr. ernest hart had an article in the century magazine on "the eternal gullible," in which he gives the confessions of a professional hypnotic subject. this person, whom he calls l., he brought to his house, where some experiments were tried in the presence of a number of doctors, whose names are quoted. the quotation of a paragraph or two from mr. hart's article will be of interest. says he: "the 'catalepsy business' had more artistic merit. so rigid did l. make his muscles that he could be lifted in one piece like an egyptian mummy. he lay with his head on the back of one chair, and his heels on another, and allowed a fairly heavy man to sit on his stomach; it seemed to me, however, that he was here within a 'straw' or two of the limit of his endurance. the 'blister trick,' spoken of by truth as having deceived some medical men, was done by rapidly biting and sucking the skin of the wrist. l. did manage with some difficulty to raise a slight swelling, but the marks of the teeth were plainly visible." (possibly l. had made his skin so tough by repeated biting that he could no longer raise the blister!) "one point in l.'s exhibition which was undoubtedly genuine was his remarkable and stoical endurance of pain. he stood before us smiling and open-eyed while he ran long needles into the fleshy part of his arms and legs without flinching, and he allowed one of the gentlemen present to pinch his skin in different parts with strong crenated pincers in a manner which bruised it, and which to most people would have caused intense pain. l. allowed no sign of suffering or discomfort to appear; he did not set his teeth or wince; his pulse was not quickened, and the pupil of his eye did not dilate as physiologists tell us it does when pain passes a certain limit. it may be said that this merely shows that in l. the limit of endurance was beyond the normal standard; or, in other words, that his sensitiveness was less than that of the average man. at any rate his performance in this respect was so remarkable that some of the gentlemen present were fain to explain it by supposed 'post-hypnotic suggestion,' the theory apparently being that l. and his comrades hypnotized one another, and thus made themselves insensible to pain. "as surgeons have reason to know, persons vary widely in their sensitiveness to pain. i have seen a man chat quietly with bystanders while his carotid artery was being tied without the use of chloroform. during the russo-turkish war wounded turks often astonished english doctors by undergoing the most formidable amputations with no other anaesthetic than a cigarette. hysterical women will inflict very severe pain on themselves--merely for wantonness or in order to excite sympathy. the fakirs who allow themselves to be hung up by hooks beneath their shoulder-blades seem to think little of it and, as a matter of fact, i believe are not much inconvenienced by the process." the fact is, the amateur can always be deceived, and there are no special tests that can be relied on. if a person is well accustomed to hypnotic manifestations, and also a good judge of human nature, and will keep constantly on guard, using every precaution to avoid deception, it is altogether likely that it can be entirely obviated. but one must use his good judgment in every possible way. in the case of fresh subjects, or persons well known, of course there is little possibility of deception. and the fact that deception exists does not in any way invalidate the truth of hypnotism as a scientific phenomenon. we cite it merely as one of the physiological peculiarities connected with the mental condition of which it is a manifestation. the fact that a tendency to deception exists is interesting in itself, and may have an influence upon our judgment of our fellow beings. there is, to be sure, a tendency on the part of scientific writers to find lunatics instead of criminals; but knowledge of the well demonstrated fact that many criminals are insane helps to make us charitable. chapter vii. criminal suggestion.--laboratory crimes.--dr. cocke's experiments showing criminal suggestion is not possible.--dr. william james' theory.--a bad man cannot be made good, why expect to make a good man bad? one of the most interesting phases of hypnotism is that of post-hypnotic suggestion, to which reference has already been made. it is true that a suggestion made during the hypnotic condition as to what a person will do after coming out of the hypnotic sleep may be carried out. a certain professional hypnotizer claims that once he has hypnotized a person he can keep that person forever after under his influence by means of post-hypnotic suggestion. he says to him while in the hypnotic sleep: "whenever i look at you, or point at you, you will fall asleep. no one can hypnotize you but me. whenever i try to hypnotize you, you will fall asleep." he says further: "suggest to a subject while he is sound asleep that in eight weeks he will mail you a letter with a blank piece of note paper inside, and during the intervening period you may yourself forget the occurrence, but in exactly eight weeks he will carry out the suggestion. suggestions of this nature are always carried out, especially when the suggestion is to take effect on some certain day or date named. suggest to a subject that in ninety days from a given date he will come to your house with his coat on inside out, and he will most certainly do so." the same writer also definitely claims that he can hypnotize people against their wills. if this were true, what a terrible power would a shrewd, evil-minded criminal have to compel the execution of any of his plans! we hope to show that it is not true; but we must admit that many scientific men have tried experiments which they believe demonstrate beyond a doubt that criminal use can be and is made of hypnotic influence. if it were possible to make a person follow out any line of conduct while actually under hypnotic influence it would be bad enough; but the use of posthypnotic suggestion opens a yet more far-reaching and dangerous avenue. among the most definite claims of the evil deeds that may be compelled during hypnotic sleep is that of dr. luys, whom we have already seen as being himself deceived by professional hypnotic subjects. says he: "you cannot only oblige this defenseless being, who is incapable of opposing the slightest resistance, to give from hand to hand anything you may choose, but you can also make him sign a promise, draw up a bill of exchange, or any other kind of agreement. you may make him write an holographic will (which according to french law would be valid), which he will hand over to you, and of which he will never know the existence. he is ready to fulfill the minutest legal formalities, and will do so with a calm, serene and natural manner calculated to deceive the most expert law officers. these somnambulists will not hesitate either, you may be sure, to make a denunciation, or to bear false witness; they are, i repeat, the passive instruments of your will. for instance, take e. she will at my bidding write out and sign a donation of forty pounds in my favor. in a criminal point of view the subject under certain suggestions will make false denunciations, accuse this or that person, and maintain with the greatest assurance that he has assisted at an imaginary crime. i will recall to your mind those scenes of fictitious assassination, which have exhibited before you. i was careful to place in the subject's hands a piece of paper instead of a dagger or a revolver; but it is evident, that if they had held veritable murderous instruments, the scene might have had a tragic ending." many experiments along this line have been tried, such as suggesting the theft of a watch or a spoon, which afterward was actually carried out. it may be said at once that "these laboratory crimes" are in most cases successful: a person who has nothing will give away any amount if told to do so; but quite different is the case of a wealthy merchant who really has money to sign away. dr. cocke describes one or two experiments of his own which have an important bearing on the question of criminal suggestion. says he: "a girl who was hypnotized deeply was given a glass of water and was told that it was a lighted lamp. a broomstick was placed across the room and she was told that it was a man who intended to injure her. i suggested to her that she throw the glass of water (she supposing it was a lighted lamp) at the broomstick, her enemy, and she immediately threw it with much violence. then a man was placed across the room, and she was given instead of a glass of water a lighted lamp. i told her that the lamp was a glass of water, and that the man across the room was her brother. it was suggested to her that his clothing was on fire and she was commanded to extinguish the fire by throwing the lighted lamp at the individual, she having been told, as was previously mentioned, that it was a glass of water. without her knowledge a person was placed behind her for the purpose of quickly checking her movements, if desired. i then commanded her to throw the lamp at the man. she raised the lamp, hesitated, wavered, and then became very hysterical, laughing and crying alternately. this condition was so profound that she came very near dropping the lamp. immediately after she was quieted i made a number of tests to prove that she was deeply hypnotized. standing in front of her i gave her a piece of card-board, telling her that it was a dagger, and commanded her to stab me. she immediately struck at me with the piece of card-board. i then gave her an open pocketknife and commanded her to strike at me with it. again she raised it to execute my command, again hesitated, and had another hysterical attack. i have tried similar experiments with thirty or forty people with similar results. some of them would have injured themselves severely, i am convinced, at command, but to what extent i of course cannot say. that they could have been induced to harm others, or to set fire to houses, etc., i do not believe. i say this after very careful reading and a large amount of experimentation." dr. cocke also declares his belief that no person can be hypnotized against his will by a person who is repugnant to him. the facts in the case are probably those that might be indicated by a common-sense consideration of the conditions. if a person is weak-minded and susceptible to temptation, to theft, for instance, no doubt a familiar acquaintance of a similar character might hypnotize that person and cause him to commit the crime to which his moral nature is by no means averse. if, on the other hand, the personality of the hypnotizer and the crime itself are repugnant to the hypnotic subject, he will absolutely refuse to do as he is bidden, even while in the deepest hypnotic sleep. on this point nearly all authorities agree. again, there is absolutely no well authenticated case of crime committed by a person under hypnotic influence. there have been several cases reported, and one woman in paris who aided in a murder was released on her plea of irresponsibility because she had been hypnotized. in none of these cases, however, was there any really satisfactory evidence that hypnotism existed. in all the cases reported there seemed to be no doubt of the weak character and predisposition to crime. in another class of cases, namely those of criminal assault upon girls and women, the only evidence ever adduced that the injured person was hypnotized was the statement of that person, which cannot really be called evidence at all. the fact is, a weak character can be tempted and brought under virtual control much more easily by ordinary means than by hypnotism. the man who "overpersuades" a business man to endorse a note uses no hypnotic influence. he is merely making a clever play upon the man's vanity, egotism, or good nature. a profound study of the hypnotic state, such as has been made by prof. william james, of harvard college, the great authority on psychical phenomena and president of the psychic research society, leads to the conviction that in the hypnotic sleep the will is only in abeyance, as it is in natural slumber or in sleepwalking, and any unusual or especially exciting occurrence, especially anything that runs against the grain of the nature, reawakens that will, and it soon becomes as active as ever. this is ten times more true in the matter of post-hypnotic suggestion, which is very much weaker than suggestion that takes effect during the actual hypnotic sleep. we shall see, furthermore, that while acting under a delusion at the suggestion of the operator, the patient is really conscious all the time of the real facts in the case--indeed, much more keenly so, oftentimes, than the operator himself. for instance, if a line is drawn on a sheet of paper and the subject is told there is no line, he will maintain there is no line; but he has to see it in order to ignore it. moreover, persons trained to obey, instinctively do obey even in their waking state. it requires a special faculty to resist obedience, even during our ordinary waking condition. says a recent writer: "it is certain that we are naturally inclined to obey, conflicts and resistance are the characteristics of some rare individuals; but between admitting this and saying that we are doomed to obey--even the least of us--lies a gulf." the same writer says further: "hypnotic suggestion is an order given for a few seconds, at most a few minutes, to an individual in a state of induced sleep. the suggestion may be repeated; but it is absolutely powerless to transform a criminal into an honest man, or vice versa." here is an excellent argument. if it is possible to make criminals it should be quite as easy to make honest men. it is true that the weak are sometimes helped for good; but there is no case on record in which a person who really wished to be bad was ever made good; and the history of hypnotism is full of attempts in that direction. a good illustration is an experiment tried by colonel de rochas: "an excellent subject * * * had been left alone for a few minutes in an apartment, and had stolen a valuable article. after he had left, the theft was discovered. a few days after it was suggested to the subject, while asleep, that he should restore the stolen object; the command was energetically and imperatively reiterated, but in vain. the theft had been committed by the subject, who had sold the article to an old curiosity dealer, as it was eventually found on information received from a third party. yet this subject would execute all the imaginary crimes he was ordered." as to the value of the so-called "laboratory crimes," the statement of dr. courmelles is of interest: "i have heard a subject say," he states, "'if i were ordered to throw myself out of the window i should do it, so certain am i either that there would be somebody under the window to catch me or that i should be stopped in time. the experimentalist's own interests and the consequences of such an act are a sure guarantee.'" chapter viii. dangers in being hypnotized.--condemnation of public performances.--a. common sense view.--evidence furnished by lafontaine.--by dr. courmelles.--by. dr. hart.--by dr. cocke.--no danger in hypnotism if rightly used by physicians or scientists. having considered the dangers to society through criminal hypnotic suggestion, let us now consider what dangers there may be to the individual who is hypnotized. before citing evidence, let us consider the subject from a rational point of view. several things have already been established. we know that hypnotism is akin to hysteria and other forms of insanity--it is, in short, a kind of experimental insanity. really good hypnotic subjects have not a perfect mental balance. we have also seen that repetition of the process increases the susceptibility, and in some cases persons frequently hypnotized are thrown into the hypnotic state by very slight physical agencies, such as looking at a bright doorknob. furthermore, we know that the hypnotic patient is in a very sensitive condition, easily impressed. moreover, it is well known that exertions required of hypnotic subjects are nervously very exhausting, so much so that headache frequently follows. from these facts any reasonable person may make a few clear deductions. first, repeated strain of excitement in hypnotic seances will wear out the constitution just as certainly as repeated strain of excitement in social life, or the like, which, as we know, frequently produces nervous exhaustion. second, it is always dangerous to submit oneself to the influence of an inferior or untrustworthy person. this is just as true in hypnotism as it is in the moral realm. bad companions corrupt. and since the hypnotic subject is in a condition especially susceptible, a little association of this kind, a little submission to the inferior or immoral, will produce correspondingly more detrimental consequences. third, since hypnotism is an abnormal condition, just as drunkenness is, one should not allow a public hypnotizer to experiment upon one and make one do ridiculous things merely for amusement, any more than one would allow a really insane person to be exhibited for money; or than one would allow himself to be made drunk, merely that by his absurd antics he might amuse somebody. it takes little reflection to convince any one that hypnotism for amusement, either on the public stage or in the home, is highly obnoxious, even if it is not highly dangerous. if the hypnotizer is an honest man, and a man of character, little injury may follow. but we can never know that, and the risk of getting into bad hands should prevent every one from submitting to influence at all. the fact is, however, that we should strongly doubt the good character of any one who hypnotizes for amusement, regarding him in the same light as we would one who intoxicated people on the stage for amusement, or gave them chloroform, or went about with a troup of insane people that he might exhibit their idiosyncrasies. honest, right-minded people do not do those things. at the same time, there is nothing wiser that a man can do than to submit himself fully to a stronger and wiser nature than his own. a physician in whom you have confidence may do a thousand times more for you by hypnotism than by the use of drugs. it is a safe rule to place hypnotism in exactly the same category as drugs. rightly used, drugs are invaluable; wrongly used, they become the instruments of the murderer. at all times should they be used with great caution. the same is true of hypnotism. now let us cite some evidence. lafontaine, a professional hypnotist, gives some interesting facts. he says that public hypnotic entertainments usually induce a great many of the audience to become amateur hypnotists, and these experiments may cause suffocation. fear often results in congestion, or a rush of blood to the brain. "if the digestion is not completed, more especially if the repast has been more abundant than usual, congestion may be produced and death be instantaneous. the most violent convulsions may result from too complete magnetization of the brain. a convulsive movement may be so powerful that the body will suddenly describe a circle, the head touching the heels and seem to adhere to them. in this latter case there is torpor without sleep. sometimes it has been impossible to awake the subject." a waiter at nantes, who was magnetized by a commercial traveler, remained for two days in a state of lethargy, and for three hours dr. foure and numerous spectators were able to verify that "the extremities were icy cold, the pulse no longer throbbed, the heart had no pulsations, respiration had ceased, and there was not sufficient breath to dim a glass held before the mouth. moreover, the patient was stiff, his eyes were dull and glassy." nevertheless, lafontaine was able to recall this man to life. dr. courmelles says: "paralysis of one or more members, or of the tongue, may follow the awakening. these are the effects of the contractions of the internal muscles, due often to almost imperceptible touches. the diaphragm--and therefore the respiration--may be stopped in the same manner. catalepsy and more especially lethargy, produce these phenomena." there are on record a number of cases of idiocy, madness, and epilepsy caused by the unskillful provoking of hypnotic sleep. one case is sufficiently interesting, for it is almost exactly similar to a case that occurred at one of the american colleges. the subject was a young professor at a boys' school. "one evening he was present at some public experiments that were being performed in a tavern; he was in no way upset at the sight, but the next day one of his pupils, looking at him fixedly, sent him to sleep. the boys soon got into the habit of amusing themselves by sending him to sleep, and the unhappy professor had to leave the school, and place himself under the care of a doctor." dr. ernest hart gives an experience of his own which carries with it its own warning. says he: "staying at the well known country house in kent of a distinguished london banker, formerly member of parliament for greenwich, i had been called upon to set to sleep, and to arrest a continuous barking cough from which a young lady who was staying in the house was suffering, and who, consequently, was a torment to herself and her friends. i thought this a good opportunity for a control experiment, and i sat her down in front of a lighted candle which i assured her that i had previously mesmerized. presently her cough ceased and she fell into a profound sleep, which lasted until twelve o'clock the next day. when i returned from shooting, i was informed that she was still asleep and could not be awoke, and i had great difficulty in awaking her. that night there was a large dinner party, and, unluckily, i sat opposite to her. presently she again became drowsy, and had to be led from the table, alleging, to my confusion, that i was again mesmerizing her. so susceptible did she become to my supposed mesmeric influence, which i vainly assured her, as was the case, that i was very far from exercising or attempting to exercise, that it was found expedient to take her up to london. i was out riding in the afternoon that she left, and as we passed the railway station, my host, who was riding with me, suggested that, as his friends were just leaving by that train, he would like to alight and take leave of them. i dismounted with him and went on to the platform, and avoided any leave-taking; but unfortunately in walking up and down it seems that i twice passed the window of the young lady's carriage. she was again self-mesmerized, and fell into a sleep which lasted throughout the journey, and recurred at intervals for some days afterward." in commenting on this, dr. hart notes that in reality mesmerism is self-produced, and the will of the operator, even when exercised directly against it, has no effect if the subject believes that the will is being operated in favor of it. says he: "so long as the person operated on believed that my will was that she should sleep, sleep followed. the most energetic willing in my internal consciousness that there should be no sleep, failed to prevent it, where the usual physical methods of hypnotization, stillness, repose, a fixed gaze, or the verbal expression of an order to sleep, were employed." the dangers of hypnotism have been recognized by the law of every civilized country except the united states, where alone public performances are permitted. dr. cocke says: "i have occasionally seen subjects who complained of headache, vertigo, nausea, and other similar symptoms after having been hypnotized, but these conditions were at a future hypnotic sitting easily remedied by suggestion." speaking of the use of hypnotism by doctors under conditions of reasonable care, dr. cocke says further: "there is one contraindication greater than all the rest. it applies more to the physician than to the patient, more to the masses than to any single individual. it is not confined to hypnotism alone; it has blocked the wheels of human progress through the ages which have gone. it is undue enthusiasm. it is the danger that certain individuals will become so enamored with its charms that other equally valuable means of cure will be ignored. mental therapeutics has come to stay. it is yet in its infancy and will grow, but, if it were possible to kill it, it would be strangled by the fanaticism and prejudice of its devotees. the whole field is fascinating and alluring. it promises so much that it is in danger of being missed by the ignorant to such an extent that great harm may result. this is true, not only of mental therapeutics and hypnotism, but of every other blessing we possess. hypnotism has nothing to fear from the senseless skepticism and contempt of those who have no knowledge of the subject." he adds pertinently enough: "while hypnotism can be used in a greater or less degree by every one, it can only be used intelligently by those who understand, not only hypnotism itself, but disease as well." dr. cocke is a firm believer that the right use of hypnotism by intelligent persons does not weaken the will. says he: "i do not believe there is any danger whatever in this. i have no evidence (and i have studied a large number of hypnotized subjects) that hypnotism will render a subject less capable of exercising his will when he is relieved from the hypnotic trance. i do not believe that it increases in any way his susceptibility to ordinary suggestion." however, in regard to the dangers of public performances by professional hypnotizers, dr. cocke is equally positive. says he: "the dangers of public exhibitions, made ludicrous as they are by the operators, should be condemned by all intelligent men and women, not from the danger of hypnotism itself so much as from the liability of the performers to disturb the mental poise of that large mass of ill-balanced individuals which makes up no inconsiderable part of society." in conclusion he says: "patients have been injured by the misuse of hypnotism. * * * this is true of every remedial agent ever employed for the relief of man. every article we eat, if wrongly prepared, if stale, or if too much is taken, will be harmful. every act, every duty of our lives, may, if overdone, become an injury. "then, for the sake of clearness, let me state in closing that hypnotism is dangerous only when it is misused, or when it is applied to that large class of persons who are inherently unsound; especially if that mysterious thing we call credulity predominates to a very great extent over the reason and over other faculties of the mind." chapter ix. hypnotism in medicine.--anesthesia.--restoring the use of muscles.--hallucination.--bad habits. anaesthesia--it is well known that hypnotism may be used to render subjects insensible to pain. thus numerous startling experiments are performed in public, such as running hatpins through the cheeks or arms, sewing the tongue to the ear, etc. the curious part of it is that the insensibility may be confined to one spot only. even persons who are not wholly under hypnotic influence may have an arm or a leg, or any smaller part rendered insensible by suggestion, so that no pain will be felt. this has suggested the use of hypnotism in surgery in the place of chloroform, ether, etc. about the year 1860 some of the medical profession hoped that hypnotism might come into general use for producing insensibility during surgical operations. dr. guerineau in paris reported the following successful operation: the thigh of a patient was amputated. "after the operation," says the doctor, "i spoke to the patient and asked him how he felt. he replied that he felt as if he were in heaven, and he seized hold of my hand and kissed it. turning to a medical student, he added: 'i was aware of all that was being done to me, and the proof is that i knew my thigh was cut off at the moment when you asked me if i felt any pain.'" the writer who records this case continues: "this, however, was but a transitory stage. it was soon recognized that a considerable time and a good deal of preparation were necessary to induce the patients to sleep, and medical men had recourse to a more rapid and certain method; that is, chloroform. thus the year 1860 saw the rise and fall of braidism as a means of surgical anaesthesia." one of the most detailed cases of successful use of hypnotism as an anaesthetic was presented to the hypnotic congress which met in 1889, by dr. fort, professor of anatomy: "on the 21st of october, 1887, a young italian tradesman, aged twenty, jean m--. came to me and asked me to take off a wen he had on his forehead, a little above the right eyebrow. the tumor was about the size of a walnut. "i was reluctant to make use of chloroform, although the patient wished it, and i tried a short hypnotic experiment. finding that my patient was easily hypnotizable, i promised to extract the tumor in a painless manner and without the use of chloroform. "the next day i placed him in a chair and induced sleep, by a fixed gaze, in less than a minute. two italian physicians, drs. triani and colombo who were present during the operation, declared that the subject lost all sensibility and that his muscles retained all the different positions in which they were put exactly as in the cataleptic state. the patient saw nothing, felt nothing, and heard nothing, his brain remaining in communication only with me. "as soon as we had ascertained that the patient was completely under the influence of the hypnotic slumber, i said to him: 'you will sleep for a quarter of an hour,' knowing that the operation would not last longer than that; and he remained seated and perfectly motionless. "i made a transversal incision two and a half inches long and removed the tumor, which i took out whole. i then pinched the blood vessels with a pair of dr. pean's hemostatic pincers, washed the wound and applied a dressing, without making a single ligature. the patient was still sleeping. to maintain the dressing in proper position, i fastened a bandage around his head. while going through the operation i said to the patient, 'lower your head, raise your head, turn to the right, to the left,' etc., and he obeyed like an automaton. when everything was finished, i said to him, 'now, wake up.' "he then awoke, declared that he had felt nothing and did not suffer, and he went away on foot, as if nothing had been done to him. "five days after the dressing was removed and the cicatrix was found completely healed." hypnotism has been tried extensively for painless dentistry, but with many cases of failure, which got into the courts and thoroughly discredited the attempt except in very special cases. restoring the use of muscles.--there is no doubt that hypnotism may be extremely useful in curing many disorders that are essentially nervous, especially such cases as those in which a patient has a fixed idea that something is the matter with him when he is not really affected. cases of that description are often extremely obstinate, and entirely unaffected by the ordinary therapeutic means. ordinary doctors abandon the cases in despair, but some person who understands "mental suggestion" (for instance, the christian science doctors) easily effects a cure. if the regular physician were a student of hypnotism he would know how to manage cases like that. by way of illustration, we quote reports of two cases, one successful and one unsuccessful. the following is from a report by one of the physicians of the charity hospital in paris: "gabrielle c---became a patient of mine toward the end of 1886. she entered the charity hospital to be under treatment for some accident arising from pulmonary congestion, and while there was suddenly seized with violent attacks of hystero-epilepsy, which first contracted both legs, and finally reduced them to complete immobility. "she had been in this state of absolute immobility for seven months and i had vainly tried every therapeutic remedy usual in such cases. my intention was first to restore the general constitution of the subject, who was greatly weakened by her protracted stay in bed, and then, at the end of a certain time, to have recourse to hypnotism, and at the opportune moment suggest to her the idea of walking. "the patient was hypnotized every morning, and the first degree (that of lethargy), then the cataleptic, and finally the somnambulistic states were produced. after a certain period of somnambulism she began to move, and unconsciously took a few steps across the ward. soon after it was suggested--the locomotor powers having recovered their physical functions--that she should walk when awake. this she was able to do, and in some weeks the cure was complete. in this case, however, we had the ingenious idea of changing her personality at the moment when we induced her to walk. the patient fancied she was somebody else, and as such, and in this roundabout manner, we satisfactorily attained the object proposed." the following is professor delboeuf's account of dr. bernheim's mode of suggestion at the hospital at nancy. a robust old man of about seventy-five years of age, paralyzed by sciatica, which caused him intense pain, was brought in. "he could not put a foot to the ground without screaming with pain. 'lie down, my poor friend; i will soon relieve you.' dr. bernheim says. 'that is impossible, doctor.' 'you will see.' 'yes, we shall see, but i tell you, we shall see nothing!' on hearing this answer i thought suggestion will be of no use in this case. the old man looked sullen and stubborn. strangely enough, he soon went off to sleep, fell into a state of catalepsy, and was insensible when pricked. but when monsieur bernheim said to him, 'now you can walk, he replied, 'no, i cannot; you are telling me to do an impossible thing.' although monsieur bernheim failed in this instance, i could not but admire his skill. after using every means of persuasion, insinuation and coaxing, he suddenly took up an imperative tone, and in a sharp, abrupt voice that did not admit a refusal, said: 'i tell you you can walk; get up.' 'very well,' replied the old follow; 'i must if you insist upon it.' and he got out of bed. no sooner, however, had his foot touched the floor than he screamed even louder than before. monsieur bernheim ordered him to step out. 'you tell me to do what is impossible,' he again replied, and he did not move. he had to be allowed to go to bed again, and the whole time the experiment lasted he maintained an obstinate and ill-tempered air." these two cases give an admirable picture of the cases that can be and those that cannot be cured by hypnotism, or any other method of mental suggestion. hallucination.--"hallucinations," says a medical authority, "are very common among those who are partially insane. they occur as a result of fever and frequently accompany delirium. they result from an impoverished condition of the blood, especially if it is due to starvation, indigestion, and the use of drugs like belladonna, hyoscyarnus, stramonium, opium, chloral, cannabis indica, and many more that might be mentioned." large numbers of cases of attempted cure by hypnotism, successful and unsuccessful, might be quoted. there is no doubt that in the lighter forms of partial insanity, hypnotism may help many patients, though not all; but when the disease of the brain has gone farther, especially when a well developed lesion exists in the brain, mental treatment is of little avail, even if it can be practiced at all. a few general remarks by dr. bernheim will be interesting. says he: "the mode of suggestion should be varied and adapted to the special suggestibility of the subject. a simple word does not always suffice in impressing the idea upon the mind. it is sometimes necessary to reason, to prove, to convince; in some cases to affirm decidedly, in others to insinuate gently; for in the condition of sleep, just as in the waking condition, the moral individuality of each subject persists according to his character, his inclinations, his impressionability, etc. hypnosis does not run all subjects into a uniform mold, and make pure and simple automatons out of them, moved solely by the will of the hypnotist; it increases cerebral docility; it makes the automatic activity preponderate over the will. but the latter persists to a certain degree; the subject thinks, reasons, discusses, accepts more readily than in the waking condition, but does not always accept, especially in the light degrees of sleep. in these cases we must know the patient's character, his particular psychical condition, in order to make an impression upon him." bad habits.--the habit of the excessive use of alcoholic drinks, morphine, tobacco, or the like, may often be decidedly helped by hypnotism, if the patient wants to be helped. the method of operation is simple. the operator hypnotizes the subject, and when he is in deep sleep suggests that on awaking he will feel a deep disgust for the article he is in the habit of taking, and if he takes it will be affected by nausea, or other unpleasant symptoms. in most cases the suggested result takes place, provided the subject can be hypnotized al all; but unless the patient is himself anxious to break the habit fixed upon him, the unpleasant effects soon wear off and he is as bad as ever. dr. cocke treated a large number of cases, which he reports in detail in his book on hypnotism. in a fair proportion of the cases he was successful; in some cases completely so. in other cases he failed entirely, owing to lack of moral stamina in the patient himself. his conclusions seem to be that hypnotism may be made a very effective aid to moral suasion, but after all, character is the chief force which throws off such habits once they are fixed. the morphine habit is usually the result of a doctor's prescription at some time, and it is practiced more or less involuntarily. such cases are often materially helped by the proper suggestions. the same is true of bad habits in children. the weak may be strengthened by the stronger nature, and hypnotism may come in as an effective aid to moral influence. here again character is the deciding factor. dr. james r. cocke devotes a considerable part of his book on "hypnotism" to the use of hypnotism in medical practice, and for further interesting details the reader is referred to that able work. chapter x. hypnotism of animals.--snake charming. we are all familiar with the snake charmer, and the charming of birds by snakes. how much hypnotism there is in these performances it would be hard to say. it is probable that a bird is fascinated to some extent by the steady gaze of a serpent's eyes, but fear will certainly paralyze a bird as effectively as hypnotism. father kircher was the first to try a familiar experiment with hens and cocks. if you hold a hen's head with the beak upon a piece of board, and then draw a chalk line from the beak to the edge of the board, the hen when released will continue to hold her head in the same position for some time, finally walking slowly away, as if roused from a stupor. farmers' wives often try a sort of hypnotic experiment on hens they wish to transfer from one nest to another when sitting. they put the hen's head under her wing and gently rock her to and fro till she apparently goes to sleep, when she may be carried to another nest and will remain there afterward. horses are frequently managed by a steady gaze into their eyes. dr. moll states that a method of hypnotizing horses named after its inventor as balassiren has been introduced into austria by law for the shoeing of horses in the army. we have all heard of the snake charmers of india, who make the snakes imitate all their movements. some suppose this is by hypnotization. it may be the result of training, however. certainly real charmers of wild beasts usually end by being bitten or injured in some other way, which would seem to show that the hypnotization does not always work, or else it does not exist at all. we have some fairly well known instances of hypnotism produced in animals. lafontaine, the magnetizer, some thirty years ago held public exhibitions in paris in which he reduced cats, dogs, squirrels and lions to such complete insensibility that they felt neither pricks nor blows. the harvys or psylles of egypt impart to the ringed snake the appearance of a stick by pressure on the head, which induces a species of tetanus, says e. w. lane. the following description of serpent charming by the aissouans of the province of sous, morocco, will be of interest: "the principal charmer began by whirling with astonishing rapidity in a kind of frenzied dance around the wicker basket that contained the serpents, which were covered by a goatskin. suddenly he stopped, plunged his naked arm into the basket, and drew out a cobra de capello, or else a haje, a fearful reptile which is able to swell its head by spreading out the scales which cover it, and which is thought to be cleopatra's asp, the serpent of egypt. in morocco it is known as the buska. the charmer folded and unfolded the greenish-black viper, as if it were a piece of muslin; he rolled it like a turban round his head, and continued his dance while the serpent maintained its position, and seemed to follow every movement and wish of the dancer. "the buska was then placed on the ground, and raising itself straight on end, in the attitude it assumes on desert roads to attract travelers, began to sway from right to left, following the rhythm of the music. the aissoua, whirling more and more rapidly in constantly narrowing circles, plunged his hand once more into the basket, and pulled out two of the most venomous reptiles of the desert of sous; serpents thicker than a man's arm, two or three feet long, whose shining scales are spotted black or yellow, and whose bite sends, as it were, a burning fire through the veins. this reptile is probably the torrida dipsas of antiquity. europeans now call it the leffah. "the two leffahs, more vigorous and less docile than the buska, lay half curled up, their heads on one side, ready to dart forward, and followed with glittering eyes the movements of the dancer. * * * hindoo charmers are still more wonderful; they juggle with a dozen different species of reptiles at the same time, making them come and go, leap, dance, and lie down at the sound of the charmer's whistle, like the gentlest of tame animals. these serpents have never been known to bite their charmers." it is well known that some animals, like the opossum, feign death when caught. whether this is to be compared to hypnotism is doubtful. other animals, called hibernating, sleep for months with no other food than their fat, but this, again, can hardly be called hypnotism. chapter xi. a scientific explanation of hypnotism.--dr. hart's theory. in the introduction to this book the reader will find a summary of the theories of hypnotism. there is no doubt that hypnotism is a complex state which cannot be explained in an offhand way in a sentence or two. there are, however, certain aspects of hypnotism which we may suppose sufficiently explained by certain scientific writers on the subject. first, what is the character of the delusions apparently created in the mind of a person in the hypnotic condition by a simple word of mouth statement, as when a physician says, "now, i am going to cut your leg off, but it will not hurt you in the least," and the patient suffers nothing? in answer to this question, professor william james of harvard college, one of the leading authorities on the scientific aspects of psychical phenomena in this country, reports the following experiments: "make a stroke on a paper or blackboard, and tell the subject it is not there, and he will see nothing but the clean paper or board. next, he not looking, surround the original stroke with other strokes exactly like it, and ask him what he sees. he will point out one by one the new strokes and omit the original one every time, no matter how numerous the next strokes may be, or in what order they are arranged. similarly, if the original single line, to which he is blind, be doubled by a prism of sixteen degrees placed before one of his eyes (both being kept open), he will say that he now sees one stroke, and point in the direction in which lies the image seen through the prism. "another experiment proves that he must see it in order to ignore it. make a red cross, invisible to the hypnotic subject, on a sheet of white paper, and yet cause him to look fixedly at a dot on the paper on or near the red cross; he wills on transferring his eye to the blank sheet, see a bluish-green after image of the cross. this proves that it has impressed his sensibility. he has felt but not perceived it. he had actually ignored it; refused to recognize it, as it were." dr. ernest hart, an english writer, in an article in the british medical journal, gives a general explanation of the phenomena of hypnotism which we may accept as true so far as it goes, but which is evidently incomplete. he seems to minimize personal influence too much--that personal influence which we all exert at various times, and which he ignores, not because he would deny it, but because he fears lending countenance to the magnetic fluid and other similar theories. says he: "we have arrived at the point at which it will be plain that the condition produced in these cases, and known under a varied jargon invented either to conceal ignorance, to express hypotheses, or to mask the design of impressing the imagination and possibly prey upon the pockets of a credulous and wonder-loving public--such names as mesmeric condition, magnetic sleep, clairvoyance, electro-biology, animal magnetism, faith trance, and many other aliases--such a condition, i say, is always subjective. it is independent of passes or gestures; it has no relation to any fluid emanating from the operator; it has no relation to his will, or to any influence which he exercises upon inanimate objects; distance does not affect it, nor proximity, nor the intervention of any conductors or non-conductors, whether silk or glass or stone, or even a brick wall. we can transmit the order to sleep by telephone or by telegraph. we can practically get the same results while eliminating even the operator, if we can contrive to influence the imagination or to affect the physical condition of the subject by any one of a great number of contrivances. "what does all this mean? i will refer to one or two facts in relation to the structure and function of the brain, and show one or two simple experiments of very ancient parentage and date, which will, i think, help to an explanation. first, let us recall something of what we know of the anatomy and localization of function in the brain, and of the nature of ordinary sleep. the brain, as you know, is a complicated organ, made up internally of nerve masses, or ganglia, of which the central and underlying masses are connected with the automatic functions and involuntary actions of the body (such as the action of the heart, lungs, stomach, bowels, etc.), while the investing surface shows a system of complicated convolutions rich in gray matter, thickly sown with microscopic cells, in which the nerve ends terminate. at the base of the brain is a complete circle of arteries, from which spring great numbers of small arterial vessels, carrying a profuse blood supply throughout the whole mass, and capable of contraction in small tracts, so that small areas of the brain may, at any given moment, become bloodless, while other parts of the brain may simultaneously become highly congested. now, if the brain or any part of it be deprived of the circulation of blood through it, or be rendered partially bloodless, or if it be excessively congested and overloaded with blood, or if it be subjected to local pressure, the part of the brain so acted upon ceases to be capable of exercising its functions. the regularity of the action of the brain and the sanity and completeness of the thought which is one of the functions of its activity depend upon the healthy regularity of the quantity of blood passing through all its parts, and upon the healthy quality of the blood so circulating. if we press upon the carotid arteries which pass up through the neck to form the arterial circle of willis, at the base of the brain, within the skull--of which i have already spoken, and which supplies the brain with blood--we quickly, as every one knows, produce insensibility. thought is abolished, consciousness lost. and if we continue the pressure, all those automatic actions of the body, such as the beating of the heart, the breathing motions of the lungs, which maintain life and are controlled by the lower brain centers of ganglia, are quickly stopped and death ensues. "we know by observation in cases where portions of the skull have been removed, either in men or in animals, that during natural sleep the upper part of the brain--its convoluted surface, which in health and in the waking state is faintly pink, like a blushing cheek, from the color of the blood circulating through the network of capillary arteries--becomes white and almost bloodless. it is in these upper convolutions of the brain, as we also know, that the will and the directing power are resident; so that in sleep the will is abolished and consciousness fades gradually away, as the blood is pressed out by the contraction of the arteries. so, also, the consciousness and the directing will may be abolished by altering the quality of the blood passing through the convolutions of the brain. we may introduce a volatile substance, such as chloroform, and its first effect will be to abolish consciousness and induce profound slumber and a blessed insensibility to pain. the like effects will follow more slowly upon the absorption of a drug, such as opium; or we may induce hallucinations by introducing into the blood other toxic substances, such as indian hemp or stramonium. we are not conscious of the mechanism producing the arterial contraction and the bloodlessness of those convolutions related to natural sleep. but we are not altogether without control over them. we can, we know, help to compose ourselves to sleep, as we say in ordinary language. we retire into a darkened room, we relieve ourselves from the stimulus of the special senses, we free ourselves from the influence of noises, of strong light, of powerful colors, or of tactile impressions. we lie down and endeavor to soothe brain activity by driving away disturbing thoughts, or, as people sometimes say, 'try to think of nothing.' and, happily, we generally succeed more or less well. some people possess an even more marked control over this mechanism of sleep. i can generally succeed in putting myself to sleep at any hour of the day, either in the library chair or in the brougham. this is, so to speak, a process of self-hypnotization, and i have often practiced it when going from house to house, when in the midst of a busy practice, and i sometimes have amused my friends and family by exercising this faculty, which i do not think it very difficult to acquire. (we also know that many persons can wake at a fixed hour in the morning by setting their minds upon it just before going to sleep.) now, there is something here which deserves a little further examination, but which it would take too much time to develop fully at present. most people know something of what is meant by reflex action. the nerves which pass from the various organs to the brain convey with, great rapidity messages to its various parts, which are answered by reflected waves of impulse. if the soles of the feet be tickled, contraction of the toes, or involuntary laughter, will be excited, or perhaps only a shuddering and skin contraction, known as goose-skin. the irritation of the nerve-end in the skin has carried a message to the involuntary or voluntary ganglia of the brain which has responded by reflecting back again nerve impulses which have contracted the muscles of the feet or skin muscles, or have given rise to associated ideas and explosion of laughter. in the same way, if during sleep heat be applied to the soles of the feet, dreams of walking over hot surfaces--vesuvius or fusiyama, or still hotter places--may be produced, or dreams of adventure on frozen surfaces or in arctic regions may be created by applying ice to the feet of the sleeper. "here, then, it is seen that we have a mechanism in the body, known to physiologists as the ideo-motor, or sensory motor system of nerves, which can produce, without the consciousness of the individual and automatically, a series of muscular contractions. and remember that the coats of the arteries are muscular and contractile under the influence of external stimuli, acting without the help of the consciousness, or when the consciousness is in abeyance. i will give another example of this, which completes the chain of phenomena in the natural brain and the natural body i wish to bring under notice in explanation of the true as distinguished from the false, or falsely interpreted, phenomena of hypnotism, mesmerism and electro-biology. i will take the excellent illustration quoted by dr. b. w. carpenter in his old-time, but valuable, book on 'the physiology of the brain.' when a hungry man sees food, or when, let us say, a hungry boy looks into a cookshop, he becomes aware of a watering of the mouth and a gnawing sensation at the stomach. what does this mean? it means that the mental impression made upon him by the welcome and appetizing spectacle has caused a secretion of saliva and of gastric juice; that is to say, the brain has, through the ideo-motor set of nerves, sent a message which has dilated the vessels around the salivary and gastric glands, increased the flow of blood through them and quickened their secretion. here we have, then, a purely subjective mental activity acting through a mechanism of which the boy is quite ignorant, and which he is unable to control, and producing that action on the vessels of dilation or contraction which, as we have seen, is the essential condition of brain activity and the evolution of thought, and is related to the quickening or the abolition of consciousness, and to the activity or abeyance of function in the will centers and upper convolutions of the brain, as in its other centers of localization. "here, then, we have something like a clue to the phenomena--phenomena which, as i have pointed out, are similar to and have much in common with mesmeric sleep, hypnotism or electro-biology. we have already, i hope, succeeded in eliminating from our minds the false theory--the theory, that is to say, experimentally proved to be false--that the will, or the gestures, or the magnetic or vital fluid of the operator are necessary for the abolition of the consciousness and the abeyance of the will of the subject. we now see that ideas arising in the mind of the subject are sufficient to influence the circulation in the brain of the person operated on, and such variations of the blood supply of the brain as are adequate to produce sleep in the natural state, or artificial slumber, either by total deprivation or by excessive increase or local aberration in the quantity or quality of blood. in a like manner it is possible to produce coma and prolonged insensibility by pressure of the thumbs on the carotid; or hallucination, dreams and visions by drugs, or by external stimulation of the nerves. here again the consciousness may be only partially affected, and the person in whom sleep, coma or hallucination is produced, whether by physical means or by the influence of suggestion, may remain subject to the will of others and incapable of exercising his own volition." in short, dr. hart's theory is that hypnotism comes from controlling the blood supply of the brain, cutting off the supply from parts or increasing it in other parts. this theory is borne out by the well-known fact that some persons can blush or turn pale at will; that some people always blush on the mention of certain things, or calling up certain ideas. certain other ideas will make them turn pale. now, if certain parts of the brain are made to blush or turn pale, there is no doubt that hypnotism will follow, since blushing and turning pale are known to be due to the opening and closing of the blood-vessels. we may say that the subject is induced by some means to shut the blood out of certain portions of the brain, and keep it out until he is told to let it in again. chapter xii. telepathy and clairvoyance.--peculiar power in hypnotic state.--experiments.--"phantasms of the living" explained by telepathy it has already been noticed that persons in the hypnotic state seem to have certain of their senses greatly heightened in power. they can remember, see and hear things that ordinary persons would be entirely ignorant of. there is abundant evidence that a supersensory perception is also developed, entirely beyond the most highly developed condition of the ordinary senses, such as being able to tell clearly what some other person is doing at a great distance. in view of the discovery of the x or roentgen ray, the ability to see through a stone wall does not seem so strange as it did before that discovery. it is on power of supersensory, or extra-sensory perception that what is known as telepathy and clairvoyance are based. that such things really exist, and are not wholly a matter of superstition has been thoroughly demonstrated in a scientific way by the british society for psychical research, and kindred societies in various parts of the world. strictly speaking, such phenomena as these are not a part of hypnotism, but our study of hypnotism will enable us to understand them to some extent, and the investigation of them is a natural corollary to the study of hypnotism, for the reason that it has been found that these extraordinary powers are often possessed by persons under hypnotic influence. until the discovery of hypnotism there was little to go on in conducting a scientific investigation, because clairvoyance could not be produced by any artificial means, and so could not be studied under proper restrictive conditions. we will first quote two experiments performed by dr. cocke which the writer heard him describe with his own lips. the first case was that of a girl suffering from hysterical tremor. the doctor had hypnotized her for the cure of it, and accidentally stumbled on an example of thought transference. she complained on one occasion of a taste of spice in her mouth. as the doctor had been chewing some spice, he at once guessed that this might be telepathy. nothing was said at the time, but the next time the girl was hypnotized, the doctor put a quinine tablet in his mouth. the girl at once asked for water, and said she had a very bitter taste in her mouth. the water was given her, and the doctor went behind a screen, where he put cayenne pepper in his mouth, severely burning himself. no one but the doctor knew of the experiment at the time. the girl immediately cried and became so hysterical that she had to be awakened. the burning in her mouth disappeared as soon as she came out of the hypnotic state, but the doctor continued to suffer. nearly three hundred similar experiments with thirty-six different subjects were tried by dr. cocke, and of these sixty-nine were entirely successful. the others were doubtful or complete failures. the most remarkable of the experiments may be given in the doctor's own words: "i told the subject to remain perfectly still for five minutes and to relate to me at the end of this time any sensation he might experience. i passed into another room and closed the door and locked it; went into a closet in the room and closed the door after me; took down from the shelf, first a linen sheet, then a pasteboard box, then a toy engine, owned by a child in the house. i went back to my subject and asked him what experience he had had. "he said i seemed to go into another room, and from thence into a dark closet. i wanted something off the shelf, but did not know what. i took down from the shelf a piece of smooth cloth, a long, square pasteboard box and a tin engine. these were all the sensations he had experienced. i asked him if he saw the articles with his eyes which i had removed from the shelf. he answered that the closet was dark and that he only felt them with his hands. i asked him how he knew that the engine was tin. he said: 'by the sound of it.' as my hands touched it i heard the wheels rattle. now the only sound made by me while in the closet was simply the rattling of the wheels of the toy as i took it off the shelf. this could not possibly have been heard, as the subject was distant from me two large rooms, and there were two closed doors between us, and the noise was very slight. neither could the subject have judged where i went, as i had on light slippers which made no noise. the subject had never visited the house before, and naturally did not know the contents of the closet as he was carefully observed from the moment he entered the house." many similar experiments are on record. persons in the hypnotic condition have been able to tell what other persons were doing in distant parts of a city; could tell the pages of the books they might be reading and the numbers of all sorts of articles. while in london the writer had an opportunity of witnessing a performance of this kind. there was a young boy who seemed to have this peculiar power. a queer old desk had come into the house from italy, and as it was a valuable piece of furniture, the owner was anxious to learn its pedigree. without having examined the desk beforehand in any way the boy, during one of his trances, said that in a certain place a secret spring would be found which would open an unknown drawer, and behind that drawer would be found the name of the maker of the desk and the date 1639. the desk was at once examined, and the name and date found exactly as described. it is clear in this case that this information could not have been in the mind of any one, unless it were some person in italy, whence the desk had come. it is more likely that the remarkable supersensory power given enabled reading through the wood. we may now turn our attention to another class of phenomena of great interest, and that is the visions persons in the ordinary state have of friends who are on the point of death. it would seem that by an extraordinary effort the mind of a person in the waking state might be impressed through a great distance. at the moment of death an almost superhuman mental effort is more likely and possible than at any other time, and it is peculiar that these visions or phantasms are largely confined to that moment. the natural explanation that rises to the ordinary mind is, of course, "spirits." this supposition is strengthened by the fact that the visions sometimes appear immediately after death, as well as at the time and just before. this may be explained, however, on the theory that the ordinary mind is not easily impressed, and when unconsciously impressed some time may elapse before the impression becomes perceptible to the conscious mind, just as in passing by on a swift train, we may see something, but not realize that we have seen it till some time afterward, when we remember what we have unconsciously observed. the british society for psychical research has compiled two large volumes of carefully authenticated cases, which are published under the title, "phantasms of the living." we quote one or two interesting cases. a miss l. sends the following report: january 4, 1886. "on one of the last days of july, about the year 1860, at 3 o'clock p.m., i was sitting in the drawing room at the rectory, reading, and my thoughts entirely occupied. i suddenly looked up and saw most distinctly a tall, thin old gentleman enter the room and walk to the table. he wore a peculiar, old-fashioned cloak which i recognized as belonging to my great-uncle. i then looked at him closely and remembered his features and appearance perfectly, although i had not seen him since i was quite a child. in his hand was a roll of paper, and he appeared to be very agitated. i was not in the least alarmed, as i firmly believed he was my uncle, not knowing then of his illness. i asked him if he wanted my father, who, as i said, was not at home. he then appeared still more agitated and distressed, but made no remark. he then left the room, passing through the open door. i noticed that, although it was a very wet day, there was no appearance of his having walked either in mud or rain. he had no umbrella, but a thick walking stick, which i recognized at once when my father brought it home after the funeral. on questioning the servants, they declared that no one had rung the bell; neither did they see any one enter. my father had a letter by the next post, asking him to go at once to my uncle, who was very ill in leicestershire. he started at once, but on his arrival was told that his uncle had died at exactly 3 o'clock that afternoon, and had asked for him by name several times in an anxious and troubled manner, and a roll of paper was found under his pillow. "i may mention that my father was his only nephew, and, having no son, he always led him to think that he would have a considerable legacy. such, however, was not the case, and it is supposed that, as they were always good friends, he was influenced in his last illness, and probably, when too late, he wished to alter his will." in answer to inquiries, miss l. adds: "i told my mother and an uncle at once about the strange appearance before the news arrived, and also my father directly he returned, all of whom are now dead. they advised me to dismiss it from my memory, but agreed that it could not be imagination, as i described my uncle so exactly, and they did not consider me to be either of a nervous or superstitious temperament. "i am quite sure that i have stated the facts truthfully and correctly. the facts are as fresh in my memory as if they happened only yesterday, although so many years have passed away. "i can assure you that nothing of the sort ever occurred before or since. neither have i been subject to nervous or imaginative fancies. this strange apparition was in broad daylight, and as i was only reading the 'illustrated newspaper,' there was nothing to excite my imagination." hundreds of cases of this kind have been reported by persons whose truthfulness cannot be doubted, and every effort has been made to eliminate possibility of hallucination or accidental fancy. that things of this kind do occur may be said to be scientifically proven. such facts as these have stimulated experiment in the direction of testing thought transference. these experiments have usually been in the reading of numbers and names, and a certain measure of success has resulted. it may be added, however, that no claimants ever appeared for various banknotes deposited in strong-boxes, to be turned over to any one who would read the numbers. just why success was never attained under these conditions it would be hard to say. the writer once made a slight observation in this direction. when matching pennies with his brother he found that if the other looked at the penny he could match it nearly every time. there may have been some unconscious expression of face that gave the clue. persons in hypnotic trance are expert muscle readers. for instance, let such a person take your hand and then go through the alphabet, naming the letters. if you have any word in your mind, as the muscle reader comes to each letter the muscles will unconsciously contract. by giving attention h the muscles you can make them contract on the wrong letters and entirely mislead such a person. chapter xiii. the confessions of medium.--spiritualistic phenomena explained on theory of telepathy.--interesting statement of mrs. piper, the famous medium of the psychical research society. the subject of spiritualism has been very thoroughly investigated by the society for psychical research, both in england and this country, and under circumstances so peculiarly advantageous that a world of light has been thrown on the connection between hypnotism and this strange phenomenon. professor william james, the professor of psychology at harvard university, was fortunate enough some years ago to find a perfect medium who was not a professional and whose character was such as to preclude fraud. this was mrs. leonora e. piper, of boston. for many years she remained in the special employ of the society for psychical research, and the members of that society were able to study her case under every possible condition through a long period of time. not long ago she resolved to give up her engagement, and made a public statement over her own signature which is full of interest. a brief history of her life and experiences will go far toward furnishing the general reader a fair explanation of clairvoyant and spiritualistic phenomena. mrs. piper was the wife of a modest tailor, and lived on pinckney street, back of beacon hill. she was married in 1881, and it was not until may 16, 1884, that her first child was born. a little more than a month later, on june 29, she had her first trance experience. says she: "i remember the date distinctly, because it was two days after my first birthday following the birth of my first child." she had gone to dr. j. r. cocke, the great authority on hypnotism and a practicing physician of high scientific attainments. "during the interview," says mrs. piper, "i was partly unconscious for a few minutes. on the following sunday i went into a trance." she appears to have slipped into it unconsciously. she surprised her friends by saying some very odd things, none of which she remembered when she came to herself. not long after she did it again. a neighbor, the wife of a merchant, when she heard the things that had been said, assured mrs. piper that it must be messages from the spirit world. the atmosphere in boston was full of talk of that kind, and it was not hard for people to believe that a real medium of spirit communication had been found. the merchant's wife wanted a sitting, and mrs. piper arranged one, for which she received her first dollar. she had discovered that she could go into trances by an effort of her own will. she would sit down at a table, with her sitter opposite, and leaning her head on a pillow, go off into the trance after a few minutes of silence. there was a clock behind her. she gave her sitters an hour, sometimes two hours, and they wondered how she knew when the hour had expired. at any rate, when the time came around she awoke. in describing her experiences she has said: "at first when i sat in my chair and leaned my head back and went into the trance state, the action was attended by something of a struggle. i always felt as if i were undergoing an anesthetic, but of late years i have slipped easily into the condition, leaning the head forward. on coming out of it i felt stupid and dazed. at first i said disconnected things. it was all a gibberish, nothing but gibberish. then i began to speak some broken french phrases. i had studied french two years, but did not speak it well." once she had an italian for sitter, who could speak no english and asked questions in italian. mrs. piper could speak no italian, indeed did not understand a word of it, except in her trance state. but she had no trouble in understanding her sitter. after a while her automatic utterance announced the personality of a certain dr. phinuit, who was said to have been a noted french physician who had died long before. his "spirit" controlled her for a number of years. after some time dr. phinuit was succeeded by one "pelham," and finally by "imperator" and "rector." as the birth of her second child approached mrs. piper gave up what she considered a form of hysteria; but after the birth of the child the sittings, paid for at a dollar each, began again. dr. hodgson, of the london society for psychical research, saw her at the house of professor james, and he became so interested in her case that he decided to take her to london to be studied. she spent nearly a year abroad; and after her return the american branch of the society for psychical research was formed, and for a long time mrs. piper received a salary to sit exclusively for the society. their records and reports are full of the things she said and did. every one who investigated mrs. piper had to admit that her case was full of mystery. but if one reads the reports through from beginning to end one cannot help feeling that her spirit messages are filled with nonsense, at least of triviality. here is a specimen--and a fair specimen, too--of the kind of communication pelham gave. he wrote out the message. it referred to a certain famous man known in the reports as mr. marte. pelham is reported to have written by mrs. piper's hand: "that he (mr. marte), with his keen brain and marvelous perception, will be interested, i know. he was a very dear friend of x. i was exceedingly fond of him. comical weather interests both he and i--me--him--i know it all. don't you see i correct these? well, i am not less intelligent now. but there are many difficulties. i am far clearer on all points than i was shut up in the prisoned body (prisoned, prisoning or imprisoned you ought to say). no, i don't mean, to get it that way. 'see here, h, don't view me with a critic's eye, but pass my imperfections by.' of course, i know all that as well as anybody on your sphere (of course). well, i think so. i tell you, old fellow, it don't do to pick all these little errors too much when they amount to nothing in one way. you have light enough and brain enough, i know, to understand my explanations of being shut up in this body, dreaming, as it were, and trying to help on science." some people would say that pelham had had a little too much whisky toddy when he wrote that rambling, meaningless string of words. or we can suppose that mrs. piper was dreaming. we see in the last sentence a curious mixture of ideas that must have been in her mind. she herself says: "i do not see how anybody can look on all that as testimony from another world. i cannot see but that it must have been an unconscious expression of my subliminal self, writing such stuff as dreams are made of." in another place mrs. piper makes the following direct statement: "i never heard of anything being said by myself while in a trance state which might not have been latent in: "1. my own mind. "2. in the mind of the person in charge of the sitting. "3. in the mind of the person who was trying to get communication with some one in another state of existence, or some companion present with such person, or, "4. in the mind of some absent person alive somewhere else in the world." writing in the psychological review in 1898, professor james says: "mrs. piper's trance memory is no ordinary human memory, and we have to explain its singular perfection either as the natural endowment of her solitary subliminal self, or as a collection of distinct memory systems, each with a communicating spirit as its vehicle. "the spirit hypothesis exhibits a vacancy, triviality, and incoherence of mind painful to think of as the state of the departed, and coupled with a pretension to impress one, a disposition to 'fish' and face around and disguise the essential hollowness which is, if anything, more painful still. mr. hodgson has to resort to the theory that, although the communicants probably are spirits, they are in a semi-comatose or sleeping state while communicating, and only half aware of what is going on, while the habits of mrs. piper's neural organism largely supply the definite form of words, etc., in which the phenomenon is clothed." after considering other theories professor james concludes: "the world is evidently more complex than we are accustomed to think it, the absolute 'world ground' in particular being farther off than we are wont to think it." mrs. piper is reported to have said: "of what occurs after i enter the trance period i remember nothing--nothing of what i said or what was said to me. i am but a passive agent in the hands of powers that control me. i can give no account of what becomes of me during a trance. the wisdom and inspired eloquence which of late has been conveyed to dr. hodgson through my mediumship is entirely beyond my understanding. i do not pretend to understand it, and can give no explanation--i simply know that i have the power of going into a trance when i wish." professor james says: "the piper phenomena are the most absolutely baffling thing i know." professor hudson, ph.d., ll.d., author of "the law of psychic phenomena," comes as near giving an explanation of "spiritualism," so called, as any one. he begins by saying: "all things considered, mrs. piper is probably the best 'psychic' now before the public for the scientific investigation of spiritualism and it must be admitted that if her alleged communications from discarnate spirits cannot be traced to any other source, the claims of spiritism have been confirmed." then he goes on: "a few words, however, will make it clear to the scientific mind that her phenomena can be easily accounted for on purely psychological principles, thus: "man is endowed with a dual mind, or two minds, or states of consciousness, designated, respectively, as the objective and the subjective. the objective mind is normally unconscious of the content of the subjective mind. the latter is constantly amenable to control by suggestion, and it is exclusively endowed with the faculty of telepathy. "an entranced psychic is dominated exclusively by her subjective mind, and reason is in abeyance. hence she is controlled by suggestion, and, consequently, is compelled to believe herself to be a spirit, good or bad, if that suggestion is in any way imparted to her, and she automatically acts accordingly. "she is in no sense responsible for the vagaries of a phinuit, for that eccentric personality is the creation of suggestion. but she is also in the condition which enables her to read the subjective minds of others. hence her supernormal knowledge of the affairs of her sitters. what he knows, or has ever known, consciously or unconsciously (subjective memory being perfect), is easily within her reach. "thus far no intelligent psychical researcher will gainsay what i have said. but it sometimes happens that the psychic obtains information that neither she nor the sitter could ever have consciously possessed. does it necessarily follow that discarnate spirits gave her the information? spiritists say 'yes,' for this is the 'last ditch' of spiritism. "psychologists declare that the telepathic explanation is as valid in the latter class of cases as it obviously is in the former. thus, telepathy being a power of the subjective mind, messages may be conveyed from one to another at any time, neither of the parties being objectively conscious of the fact. it follows that a telepathist at any following seance with the recipient can reach the content of that message. "if this argument is valid--and its validity is self-evident--it is impossible to imagine a case that may not be thus explained on psychological principles." professor hudson's argument will appeal to the ordinary reader as good. it may be simplified, however, thus: we may suppose that mrs. piper voluntarily hypnotizes herself. perhaps she simply puts her conscious reason to sleep. in that condition the rest of her mind is in an exalted state, and capable of telepathy and mind-reading, either of those near at hand or at a distance. her reason being asleep, she simply dreams, and the questions of her sitter are made to fit into her dream. if we regard mediums as persons who have the power of hypnotizing themselves and then of doing what we know persons who have been hypnotized by others sometimes do, we have an explanation that covers the whole case perfectly. at the same time, as professor james warns us, we must believe that the mind is far more complex than we are accustomed to think it. proofreaders popular novels by joseph hocking * * * * * the story of andrew fairfax jabez easterbrook all men are liars fields of fair renown weapons of mystery the purple robe the scarlet woman the birthright mistress nancy molesworth lest we forget greater love the coming of the king roger trewinion the prince of this world god and mammon an enemy hath done this the ring of destiny heartsease the tenant of cromlech cottage nancy trevanion's legacy the sign of the triangle the weapons of mystery by joseph hocking author of "all men are liars", "the purple robe", "the scarlet woman", etc. ward. lock & co., limited london and melbourne _made and printed in great britain by_ ward, lock & co., limited, london. 1890 contents chap. i. introduces the writer and others ii. christmas eve iii. christmas morning iv. voltaire's story of the east v. christmas night--the forging of the chain vi. afterwards vii. drearwater pond viii. darkness and light ix. the hall ghost x. the coming of the night xi. dark dreams and night shadows xii. a midnight conference xiii. a mesmerist's spell xiv. god xv. beginning to search xvi. struggling for victory xvii. using the enemy's weapons xviii. nearing the end xix. the second christmas eve chapter i introduces the writer and others my story begins on the morning of december 18, 18--, while sitting at breakfast. let it be understood before we go further that i was a bachelor living in lodgings. i had been left an orphan just before i came of age, and was thus cast upon the world at a time when it is extremely dangerous for young men to be alone. especially was it so in my case, owing to the fact that at twenty-one i inherited a considerable fortune. one thing saved me from ruin, viz. a passionate love for literature, which led me to make it my profession. i had at the time of my story been following the bent of my inclinations for two years with a fair amount of success, and was regarded by those who knew me as a lucky fellow. that is all i think i need say concerning myself prior to the time when my story opens, except to tell my name; but that will drop out very soon. i had not made very great inroads into the omelette my landlady had prepared for me when i heard the postman's knock, and soon after a servant entered with a letter. one only. i had expected at least half-a-dozen, but only one lay on the tray before me. "are you sure this is all, jane?" i asked. "quite sure, sir," said jane, smiling, and then with a curtsey she took her leave. the envelope was addressed in a bold hand-writing to-_justin m. blake, esq., gower street, london, w._ "surely i know the writing," i mused, and then began to look at the postmarks as if a letter were something of very uncommon occurrence. i could make nothing of the illegible smear in the corner, however, and so opened it, and read as follows:-dear old justin martyr, i suppose you have about forgotten your old schoolfellow, tom temple, and it's natural you should; but he has not forgotten you. you see, you have risen to fame, and i have remained in obscurity. ah well, such is the fate of that community called 'country gentlemen.' but this is not what i want to write about, and i am going straight to the real object of this letter. we--that is, mother, the girls, and myself--are contemplating a real jolly christmas. we are inviting a few friends to spend christmas and new year with us, and we wish you to make one of the number. will you come and spend a fortnight or so at temple hall? of course it is rather quiet here, but we are going to do our best to make it more lively than usual. the weather looks frosty, and that promises skating. we have a few good horses, so that we can have some rides across the country. there is also plenty of shooting, hunting, etc., etc. altogether, if you will come and help us; we can promise a fairly good bill of fare. what do you say? you must excuse me for writing in this unconventional strain, but i can't write otherwise to my old schoolfellow. we shall all be really disappointed if you say 'no,' so write at once and tell us you will come, also when we may expect you. all the news when we meet. your sincere friend, tom temple. p.s.--i might say that most of the guests will arrive on christmas eve. "just the very thing," i exclaimed. "i had been wondering what to do and where to go this christmas time, and this invitation comes in splendidly." tom temple lived in yorkshire, at a fine old country house some distance from the metropolis of that county, and was a really good fellow. as for his mother and sisters, i knew but little about them, but i judged from the letters his mother wrote him when at school, that she must be a true, kind-hearted, motherly woman. i accordingly turned to my desk, wrote to tom, telling him to expect me on the 24th inst., and then, without finishing my breakfast, endeavoured to go on with my work. it was very difficult, however. my thoughts were ever running away to yorkshire, and on the pleasant time i hoped to spend. between the lines on my paper i was ever seeing the old baronial hall that was tom temple's home, and the people who had been invited to spend the festive season there. presently i began to chide myself for my foolishness. why should the thoughts of a christmas holiday so unfit me, a staid old bachelor of thirty, for my usual work? nevertheless it did, so i put on my overcoat, and went away in the direction of hyde park in order, if possible, to dispel my fancies. i did dispel them, and shortly afterwards returned to my lodgings, and did a good morning's work. nothing of importance happened between the 18th and the 24th, and early in the afternoon of the latter date i found my way to st. pancras station, and booked for the station nearest tom temple's home. although it was christmas eve, i found an empty first-class carriage, and soon comfortably ensconced myself therein. i don't know why, but we english people generally try to get an empty carriage, and feel annoyed when some one comes in to share our possession. i, like the rest of my countrymen are apt to do in such a case, began to hope i might retain the entire use of the carriage, at least to leeds, when the door opened, and a porter brought a number of wraps and shawls, evidently the property of a lady. "bother it!" i mentally exclaimed, "and so i suppose i am to have some fidgety old women for my travelling companions." the reader will imagine from this that i was not a lady's man. at any rate, such was the case. i had lived my thirty years without ever being in love; indeed, i had from principle avoided the society of ladies, that is, when they were of the flirtable or marriageable kind. no sooner had the porter laid the articles mentioned on a corner seat, the one farthest away from me, than their owner entered, and my irritation vanished. it was a young lady under the ordinary size, and, from what i could see of her, possessed of more than ordinary beauty. her skin was dark and clear, her eyes very dark, her mouth pleasant yet decided, her chin square and determined. this latter feature would in the eyes of many destroy her pretensions to beauty, but i, who liked persons with a will of their own, admired the firm resoluteness the feature indicated. she took no notice of me, but quietly arranged her belongings as if she were accustomed to take care of herself. she had only just sat down, when she was followed by another lady, who appeared, from the sign of recognition that passed between them, an acquaintance. evidently, however, the younger lady was not delighted at the advent of the elder. a look of annoyance swept across her face, as if she could have very comfortably excused her presence. i did not wonder at it. this second comer was a woman of about fifty-five years of age. she had yellow wrinkled skin, a square upright forehead, shaggy grey eyebrows, beneath which, in two cavernous sockets, were two black beady-looking eyes. her mouth was large and coarse, and, to make that feature still more objectionable, two large teeth, like two fangs, stuck out at a considerable angle from her upper jaw and rested on the lower lip. altogether the face was repulsive. added to this, she was tall and bony, and would have passed anywhere for one of the witches of olden time. "i have altered my mind, gertrude, and am going with you." this was said in a harsh, thick voice. "i see you are here, miss staggles," said the younger lady very coolly. "i did not intend coming at first, but your aunt, poor silly thing, said you would not take your maid with you, and so i thought it would be a sin for a young girl like you to travel alone to yorkshire on a day like this." "yorkshire?" i thought. "is that old woman to be in this carriage with me for five or six long hours? i'll get out." i was too late; at that moment the guard's whistle blew, and the train moved slowly out of the station. at all events, i had to remain until the train stopped, so i composed myself as well as i could, and resolved to make the best of it. neither of them paid the slightest attention to me. the elder lady sat bolt upright opposite the younger, and began to harangue her. "don't you know it was very foolish of you to think of coming alone?" "no," said the younger lady; "i'm tired of having a maid dogging my every footstep, as if i were a child and unable to do for myself." "nevertheless, gertrude, you should have brought her; no young lady should travel alone. however, you will have a chaperon, so the deficiency will be more than remedied;" and there was grim satisfaction in the woman's voice. there was no satisfaction in the young lady's face, however, and she turned with what i thought an angry look towards the scrawny duenna, who had claimed guardianship over her, and said---"but, miss staggles, you are in a false position. you have received no invitation." "no, i have not; but your aunt had one, poor silly creature, and so, for duty's sake, i am breaking the rules of etiquette. those fine people you are about to visit did not think it worth their while to invite your aunt's late husband's step-sister--perhaps because she is poor; but she has a soul above formalities, and so determined to come and take care of her niece." the young lady made no reply. "you will be thankful, gertrude forrest, some day that i do care for you," miss staggles continued, "although i never expect to get any reward for my kindness." by this time the train was going rapidly, and so loud was the roar it made that i heard only the growling of miss staggles' voice without distinguishing any words. indeed, i was very glad i could not. it was by no means pleasant to have to sit and listen to her hoarse voice, so i pulled down the laps of my travelling cap over my ears and, closing my eyes, began to think who gertrude forrest was, and where she was going. i did not change carriages as i intended. miss staggles got tired after awhile, and so there was relief in that quarter, while my seat was most comfortable, and i did not want to be disturbed. hour after hour passed by, until night came on; then the wind blew colder, and i began to wonder how soon the journey would end, when the collector came to take all the tickets from the leeds passengers. shortly after we arrived at the midland station, for which i was truly thankful. i did not wait there long; a train stood at another platform, which stopped at a station some two miles from tom temple's home. by this time there was every evidence of the holiday season. the train was crowded, and i was glad to get in at all, unmindful of comfort. what had become of my two travelling companions i was not aware, but concluded that they would be staying at leeds, as they had given up their tickets at the collecting station. i cannot but admit, however, that i was somewhat anxious as to the destination of gertrude forrest, for certainly she had made an impression upon me i was not likely to forget. still i gave up the idea of ever seeing her again, and tried to think of the visit i was about to pay. arrived at the station, i saw tom temple, who gave me a hearty welcome, after which he said, "justin, my boy, do you want to be introduced to some ladies at present?" "a thousand times no," i replied. "let's wait till we get to temple hall." "then, in that case, you will have to go home in a cab. i retained one for you, knowing your dislike to the fair sex; for, of course, they will have to go in the carriage, and i must go with them. stay, though. i'll go and speak to them, and get them all safe in the carriage, and then, as there will be barely room for me, i'll come back and ride home with you." he rushed away as he spoke, and in a few minutes came back again. "i am sorry those ladies had to be made rather uncomfortable, but guests have been arriving all the day, and thus things are a bit upset. there are five people in yon carriage; three came from the north, and two from the south. the northern train has been in nearly half-an-hour, so the three had to wait for the two. well, i think i've made them comfortable, so i don't mind so much." "you're a capital host, tom," i said. "am i, justin? well, i hope i am to you, for i have been really longing for you to come, and i want you to have a jolly time." "i'm sure i shall," i replied. "well, i hope so; only you don't care for ladies' society, and i'm afraid i shall have to be away from you a good bit." "naturally you will, old fellow. you see, you are master of the hall, and will have to look after the comfort of all the guests." "oh, as to that, mother will do all that's necessary; but i--that is--" and tom stopped. "any particular guest, tom?" i asked. "yes, there is, justin. i don't mind telling you, but i'm in love, and i want to settle the matter this christmas. she's an angel of a girl, and i'm in hopes that--well, i don't believe she hates me." "good, tom. and her name?" "her name," said tom slowly, "is edith gray." i gave a sigh of relief. i could not help it--why i could not tell; and yet i trembled lest he should mention another name. we reached temple hall in due time, where i was kindly welcomed by mrs. temple and her two daughters. the former was just the kind of lady i had pictured her, while the daughters gave promise of following in the footsteps of their kind-hearted mother. tom took me to my room, and then, looking at his watch, said, "make haste, old fellow. dinner has been postponed on account of you late arrivals, but it will be ready in half-an-hour." i was not long over my toilet, and soon after hearing the first dinner bell i wended my way to the drawing-room, wondering who and what kind of people i should meet, but was not prepared for the surprises that awaited me. chapter ii christmas eve just before i reached the drawing-room door, mrs. temple came up and took me by the arm. "we are all going to be very unceremonious, mr. blake," she said, "and i shall expect my son's friend to make himself perfectly at home." i thanked her heartily, for i began to feel a little strange. we entered the drawing-room together, where i found a number of people had gathered. they were mostly young, although i saw one or two ancient-looking dames, who, i supposed, had come to take care of their daughters. "i am going to introduce you to everybody," continued the old lady, "for this is to be a family gathering, and we must all know each other. i know i may not be acting according to the present usages of society, but that does not trouble me a little bit." accordingly, with the utmost good taste, she introduced me to a number of the people who had been invited. i need make no special mention of most of them. some of the young ladies simpered, others were frank, some were fairly good looking, while others were otherwise, and that is about all that could be said. none had sufficient individuality to make a distinct impression upon me. the young men were about on a par with the young ladies. some lisped and were affected, some were natural and manly; and i began to think that, as far as the people were concerned, the christmas gathering would be a somewhat tame affair. this thought had scarcely entered my mind when two men entered the room, who were certainly not of the ordinary type, and will need a few words of description; for both were destined, as my story will show, to have considerable influence over my life. i will try to describe the more striking of the two first. he was a young man. not more than thirty-five. he was fairly tall, well built, and had evidently enjoyed the education and advantages of a man of wealth. his hair was black as the raven's wings, and was brushed in a heavy mass horizontally across his forehead. his eyes were of a colour that did not accord with his black hair and swarthy complexion. they were of an extremely light grey, and were tinted with a kind of green. they were placed very close together, and, the bridge of the nose being narrow, they appeared sometimes as if only one eye looked upon you. the mouth was well cut, the lips rather thin, which often parted, revealing a set of pearly white teeth. there was something positively fascinating about the mouth, and yet it betrayed malignity--cruelty. he was perfectly self-possessed, stood straight, and had a soldier-like bearing. i instinctively felt that this was a man of power, one who would endeavour to make his will law. his movements were perfectly graceful, and from the flutter among the young ladies when he entered, i judged he had already spent some little time with them, and made no slight impression. his companion was much smaller, and even darker than he was. his every feature indicated that he was not an englishman. with small wiry limbs, black, restless, furtive eyes, rusty black hair, and a somewhat unhealthy colour in his face, he formed a great contrast to the man i have just tried to describe. i did not like him. he seemed to carry a hundred secrets around with him, and each one a deadly weapon he would some day use against any who might offend him. he, too, gave you the idea of power, but it was the power of a subordinate. instinctively i felt that i should have more to do with these men than with the rest of the company present. although i have used a page of good paper in describing them, i was only a very few seconds in seeing and realizing what i have written. both walked up to us, and both smiled on mrs. temple, whereupon she introduced them. the first had a peculiar name; at least, so it seemed to me. "mr. herod voltaire--mr. justin blake," she said; and instantly we were looking into each other's eyes, i feeling a strange kind of shiver pass through me. the name of the smaller man was simply that of an egyptian, "aba wady kaffar." the guests called him mr. kaffar, and thus made it as much english as possible. scarcely had the formalities of introduction been gone through between the egyptian and myself, when my eyes were drawn to the door, which was again opening. do what i would i could not repress a start, for, to my surprise, i saw my travelling companions enter with miss temple--gertrude forrest looking more charming and more beautiful than ever, and beside her miss staggles, tall, gaunt, and more forbidding than when in the railway carriage. it is no use denying the fact, for my secret must sooner or later drop out. my heart began to throb wildly, while my brain seemed on fire. i began to picture myself in conversation with her, and becoming acquainted with her, when i accidentally looked at herod voltaire. his eyes were fixed on miss forrest, as if held by a magnet, and i fancied i saw a faint colour tinge his cheek. what i am now going to write may appear foolish and unreal, especially when you remember that i was thirty years of age, but the moment i saw his ardent, admiring gaze, i felt madly jealous. the second dinner bell rang, and so, mechanically offering my arm to a lady who had, i thought, been neglected on account of her plain looks, i followed the guests to the dining-room. nothing happened there worth recording. we had an old-fashioned english dinner, and that is about all i can remember, except that the table looked exceedingly nice. i don't think there was much talking; evidently the guests were as yet strangers to each other, and were only gradually wearing away the restraint that naturally existed. i could not see miss gertrude forrest, for she was sitting on my side of the table, but i could see the peculiar eyes of herod voltaire constantly looking at some one nearly opposite him, while he scarcely touched the various dishes that were placed on the table. presently dinner came to an end. the ladies retired to the drawing-room, while the gentlemen prepared to sit over their wine. being an abstainer, i asked leave to retire with the ladies. i did this for two reasons besides my principles of abstinence. first, i thought the custom a foolish one, as well as being harmful; and, second, i hoped by entering the drawing-room early, i might have a chance to speak to miss forrest. i did not leave alone. two young englishmen also declared themselves to be abstainers, and wanted to go with me, while herod voltaire likewise asked leave to abide by the rules he had ever followed in the countries in which he had lived. of course there was some laughing demur among those who enjoyed their after-dinner wine, but we followed the bent of our inclination, and found our way to the drawing-room. evidently the ladies were not sorry to see us, for a look of pleasure and surprise greeted us, and soon the conversation became general. presently, however, our attention was by degrees drawn to that part of the room where herod voltaire sat, and i heard him speaking fluently and smoothly on some subject he was discussing with a young lady. "yes, miss emery," he said, "i think european education is poor, is one-sided. take, for example, the ordinary english education, and what does it amount to? arithmetic, and sometimes a little mathematics, reading, writing, french, sometimes german, and of course music and dancing. nearly all are educated in one groove, until there is in the english mind an amount of sameness that becomes monotonous." "you are speaking of the education of ladies, mr. voltaire?" said miss emery. "yes, more particularly, although there is but little more variation among the men. take your university degrees--your cambridge and oxford master of arts, for example; what a poor affair it is! i have been looking over the subjects of examination, and what are they? a couple of languages, the literature of two or three countries, mathematics, and something else which i have forgotten now." "you are scarcely correct, sir," said one of the young men who came in with me. "i happen to have passed through cambridge, and have taken the degree you mention. i found it stiff enough." "not so stiff, when it can be taken at your age," replied voltaire. "but, admitting what you say, you are all cast in the same mould. you study the same subjects, and thus what one of you knows, all know." "and what may be your ideas concerning education?" said miss forrest. herod voltaire turned and looked admiringly on her, and i saw that a blush tinged both their cheeks. "my ideas are such as would not find much favour in ordinary english circles," he said smilingly. "but i should do away with much of the nonsense of ordinary english education, and deal with the more occult sciences." "pardon me, but i do not quite understand you." "i will endeavour to make my meaning plain. there are subjects relating to the human body, mind, and soul, which cannot be said to have been really studied at all, except by some recluse here and there, who is generally considered mad. you deal with the things which are seen, but think not of the great unsolved spiritual problems of life. for example, the effect of mind upon mind, animal magnetism, mesmerism, biology, and kindred subjects are unknown to you. the secrets of mind and spirit are left unnoticed by you western people. you seek not to solve the occult truths which exist in the spirit of all men. you shudder at the problem of what you call death, and fancy nothing can be known of the spirit which leaves the world in which you live; whereas there is no such thing as death. the spirits of the so-called dead are living forces all around us, who can tell their condition to those who understand some of the secrets of spiritualism. nay, more than that. there are occult laws of the soul which, if understood by some powerful mind, can be made to explain some of the deepest mysteries of the universe. for example, a man versed in the secrets of the spirit life can cause the soul of any human being to leave its clay tenement, and go to the world of spirits, and learn its secrets; and by the powers of his soul life, which can be a thousand times strengthened by means of a knowledge of the forces at the command of all, he can summon it back to the body again. of course i can only hint at these things here, as only the initiated can understand these secret laws; but these are the things i would have studied, and thus lift the life of man beyond his poor material surroundings." by this time the drawing-room was pretty well full. nearly all the men had left their wine, and all were listening intently to what voltaire was saying. "you have lived in the east?" said miss forrest, evidently fascinated by the strange talk. "for the last ten years. i spent a year in cairo, two more up by the banks of the nile, among the ruins of ancient cities, where, in spite of the degradation that exists, there is still to be found those who have some of the wisdom of past ages. four years did i live in india among the sages who hold fast to the teaching of buddha. the three remaining years i have spent in arabia, syria, and chaldea." "and do you mean to say that what you have mentioned exists in reality?" said miss forrest. "i have only hinted at what really exists. i could record to you facts that are strange, beyond the imagination of dumas; so wonderful, that afterwards you could believe the stories told by your most renowned satirist, dean swift." "favour us with one," i suggested. voltaire looked at me with his green-tinted eyes, as if he would read my innermost thoughts. evidently his impression of me was not favourable, for a cynical smile curled his lips, and his eyes gleamed with a steely glitter. "one has to choose times, occasions, and proper circumstances, in order to tell such facts," he said. "i never speak of a sacred thing jestingly." we were all silent. this man had become the centre of attraction. both men and women hung upon his every word. i looked around the room and i saw a strange interest manifested, except in the face of the egyptian. aba wady kaffar was looking at the ceiling as if calculating how many square feet there were. "perhaps you find it difficult to believe me," went on voltaire. "the truth is, i am very unfortunate in many respects. my way of expressing my thoughts is perhaps distasteful to you. you see, i have lived so long in the east that i have lost much of my european training. then, my name is unfortunate. herod killed one of your christian saints, while voltaire was an infidel. you english people have strong prejudices, and thus my story would be injured by the narrator." "nay, voltaire," said tom temple, "we are all friendly listeners here." "my good host," said voltaire, "i am sure you are a friendly listener, but i have been telling of eastern knowledge. one aspect of that knowledge is that the learned can read the minds, the thoughts of those with whom they come into contact." the ladies began to express an intense desire to hear a story of magic and mystery, and to assure him that his name was a delightful one. "i trust i am not the disciple of either the men whose name i bear. certainly i am susceptible to the influence of ladies"--and he smiled, thereby showing his white, shining teeth--"but i am a great admirer of honest men, whoever they may be, or whatever be their opinion. i am not a follower of voltaire, although i admire his genius. he believed but little in the powers of the soul, or in the spirit world; i, on the other hand, believe it to be more real than the world in which we live." "we are not altogether strangers to stories about spiritualism or mesmerism here," said miss forrest, "but the votaries of these so-called sciences have been and are such miserable specimens of mankind that educated people treat them with derision." there was decision and energy in her voice. evidently she was not one to be easily deceived or trifled with. "counterfeits prove reality," said voltaire, looking searchingly at her; "besides, i seek to impose none of my stories on any one. i am not a professional spiritualist, psychologist, or biologist. i simply happen to have lived in countries where these matters are studied, and, as a consequence, have learned some of their mysteries. seeing what i have seen, and hearing what i have heard, i beg to quote your greatest poet- 'there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'" "your quotation is apropos," she said in reply, "but it so happens that i have taken considerable interest in the matter about which you have been speaking, and after seeing various representations of these so-called occult sciences, and carefully examining them, i have come to the conclusion that they are only so many fairly clever juggling tricks, which have been attempts to deceive credulous people. moreover, these have been so often exposed by cultured men, that they have no weight with people of intelligence." his eyes gleamed savagely, but he smiled upon her, and said, "perhaps i may have an opportunity of undeceiving you, some time in the near future." "meanwhile you will tell us an eastern story," said one of the young ladies. "pardon me," replied voltaire, "but tonight is christmas eve, and as my story might be regarded as heathenish, i will wait for some more favourable time, when your minds will not be influenced by the memories of the birth of the christian religion. besides, i know many of you are longing for other amusement than stories of the unseen." as he spoke i saw his eyes travel towards aba wady kaffar, and they exchanged glances; then he looked towards miss forrest, and again a look of intelligence passed between him and the egyptian. soon after kaffar began to talk fluently to one of the misses temple, while several members of the party prepared for a charade. then, when the attention of the guests was drawn towards those who displayed their powers at acting, i saw voltaire rise and go out, and soon after he was followed by his friend. acting upon sudden impulse, which i think was caused by the remembrance of the meaning glances that passed between them after voltaire had looked at miss forrest, i followed them out into the silent night. somehow i felt that this fascinating man did not like me, while i was sure he had been deeply impressed by the woman who had that day travelled with me from london. chapter iii christmas morning when i got out on the lawn, i accused myself of doing a very foolish thing. "why," i thought, "should i follow these men? i know nothing against them. they have as much right here as i have, and surely two friends can leave the house and come out for a stroll without being watched?" with this thought in my mind i turned to go back again, when i heard voices close by me. evidently they were behind some large laurel bushes which hid them from my sight. i stopped again for an instant; but, knowing i had no right to listen to what might be private conversation, i started a second time for the house, when i heard the name of gertrude forrest, and then i seemed chained to the ground. "you have inquired about her?" said a voice, which i recognized as belonging to voltaire. the answer was in arabic, and was spoken by kaffar. five years prior to the time of which i am writing i had been engaged in a work that required a knowledge of the arabic language, and although it cannot be said i had become anything like proficient in that tongue, i had been taught by an arabian, and could enter into ordinary conversation. thus i understood the egyptian's reply. "with regard to miss forrest," he said, "i answer not in the language which every one here knows. miss forrest must be yours, and that for several reasons. she is a flower in herself. she is an orphan. she has a large fortune. she has absolute control over it. she has a fine house in england's capital. she has a large estate and a grand country mansion in the south of this country. win her, herod voltaire, and you can be a little king, and i your prime minister. we heard much about her before we came; but we did not think to find such a queen. win her, man, and our fortunes are made." this was said quickly, and with all the fervour of an eastern. "yes, kaffar. it would be well if it could be done. to be an english gentleman, with an _entree_ into the best english society, is what i have long longed for. it will not only satisfy my taste, but give me power, and power is what i must have. it is by good luck we are here, but neither of us have the means to pass as english aristocrats very long. as you say, something must be done, and, upon my honour, i have very nearly fallen in love with her. but she must be won, and won fairly. she is evidently strong and determined, and can be forced to do nothing." "nonsense," snarled the egyptian. "use all your seductive arts first, and if you fail to win her by those, trust me to weave such a chain of events as shall make her become mrs. voltaire." up to this point i listened attentively, and then a minute's silence on their part aroused me to myself. was it right to stand listening thus? and yet a thousand things justified the act. they moved on from the spot where they had been standing, but i was too much stunned to follow them. at that moment i realized that i had given my heart to gertrude forrest, and that another man had designs concerning her. this sudden falling into love may appear foolish, especially when it is remembered that i had passed the age of boyhood, and yet i have known several cases similar to my own. anyhow, i, who had never loved before, loved now--loved, perhaps, foolishly; for i knew nothing of the lady i loved, and, of course, had not the slightest hope of her caring for me. thus it was with a throbbing heart that i stood there alone upon the lawn, with the knowledge of my new-found love just breaking upon me, and, more than that, i had every reason to fear that she was to be made the dupe of two clever villains. i turned to follow them, but they were gone i knew not whither, and so i went back to the house determined that, if i could be nothing else, i would be miss forrest's protector. i had been back in the drawing-room perhaps ten minutes, when voltaire and kaffar returned, and apparently entered with great zest into the festivities of the evening. there is no necessity that i should write of what took place during the remainder of christmas eve. it was held in good old english style, and to most, i am sure, it was very enjoyable. i got an opportunity of speaking to miss forrest, but only for a very short time; at the same time, i noticed that voltaire took not the slightest notice of her. when i awoke the following morning and looked out, i saw that the great yorkshire hills were covered with snow, the air was bitingly cold, and the leaden sky promised us some real christmas weather. i was soon dressed and ready to go down, but on looking at my watch i found i had an hour to spare before breakfast. arrangements had been made for us to breakfast at ten, and thus be just in time for service at the little village church. on my way down-stairs i saw tom temple, who told me to find my way to the library, where i should be able to pass the time pleasantly. i entered the room, an old-fashioned dark place lined on every side with books. i felt in no mood for looking at them just then, however, and so walked to a window and looked out on the snow-draped landscape that stretched away on every hand. it was a wondrous scene. the snow had fallen steadily all through the night, and no breath of wind had stirred the feathery flakes. thus trees and bushes were laden with snow crystals, while the spotless white was relieved here and there by some shining evergreen leaves which peeped out amidst their snowy mantles. ordinarily i should have been impressed by it. now, however, i could not help thinking of other matters. one face was ever before me, and i constantly wondered whether she were in real danger from these strange men, and whether i should have any part in the labour of delivering her from them. as yet i could do nothing. i knew nothing wrong of them. they might be impostors, they might be penniless adventurers, but i could not prove it. neither could i tell miss forrest what i had heard, while certainly voltaire had as much right as i had to seek to win her affections. these thoughts had scarcely passed through my mind when, hearing a sound behind me, i turned and saw miss forrest, who met me with a bright "good-morning" and the compliments of the season. i blushed almost guiltily at the sound of her voice--i, who had for years declared that no woman could interest me enough to make my heart throb one whit the quicker. "this is a pleasant surprise," i said, after responding to her greeting. "i quite expected to be alone for an hour at least. you see, we all remained up so late last night that it was to me a settled matter that none of you would appear until it was time to start for church." "i hope i am not disturbing you in your morning's meditations, mr. blake," she replied; "i would have stayed in my room had i thought so." "on the other hand, i am delighted to see you here. whether you know it or not, i rode from london to leeds with you yesterday, and i have thought ever since i should like to know you." she looked straight at me as if she would read my thoughts, and then said pleasantly, "i was on the point of asking you whether such was not the case. i was not sure, because you had your travelling cap pulled over your face." "how strange, though, that we were both bound for the same place!" i said. "yes, it does seem remarkable; and yet it is not so wonderful, after all. i am an old friend and schoolfellow of emily temple, while you, i am told, are an old friend and schoolfellow of her brother. thus nothing is more natural than that we should be invited to such a gathering as this." "do you know any of the people who are here?" i asked. "i have met nearly all the young ladies, but only two of the gentlemen--mr. voltaire and mr. kaffar. i saw them on the continent." "indeed?" i said, while i have no doubt a dark look passed over my face. "do you not like them?" she asked. "i do not know enough of either," i replied, "to give an answer reasonably, either in the affirmative or the negative. i think my failing is to form hasty judgments concerning people, which, of course, cannot be fair." i said this rather stammeringly, while she watched me keenly. "that means that you do not like them," she said. "are you quite justified in saying that?" i replied, scarcely knowing what else to say. "quite," she said. "you feel towards them just as i do. i was introduced to them in berlin. mr. tom temple had formed their acquaintance somehow, and seemed wonderfully fascinated by them. i scarcely spoke to them, however, as i left germany the next day, and was rather surprised to see them here last night." "mr. voltaire is a very fascinating man," i suggested. "there can be no doubt about that," was her reply. "and yet i fancy much of his high-flown talk about spiritualism was mere imagination." "i was inclined to think so at first, but i have heard strange things about him. however, it is perhaps scarcely fair to talk about him thus." all this time we had stood looking out of the window upon the wintry landscape, and i, at least, was oblivious to all else but the fact that i was talking with the woman whose interest for me was paramount, when a lump of coal fell from the grate upon the fire-irons. we both turned, and saw herod voltaire standing by a bookcase with an open volume in his hand. a disinterested person might have fancied he had not heard a word of our conversation, but i was sure i saw a steely glitter in his eyes, and a cruel smile playing around his mouth. "then you go to church this morning?" i said, seeking to turn the conversation as naturally as i could. "yes, i always do on christmas morning," she replied, as if thankful i had given her an opportunity of speaking about other matters. "then i hope i shall have the pleasure of escorting you," i replied. ordinarily i should not have dared to mention such a matter to a lady i had seen so little of, but the request slipped out unthinkingly; and she, no doubt confused by the presence of voltaire, cheerfully assented. our embarrassment came to an end just then, for several others came into the room, and the conversation became general. as the reader may guess, i was highly elated at the turn matters were taking, and in my heart i began to laugh at voltaire's idea of winning gertrude forrest. moreover, she had willingly consented to walk to church with me, and had expressed a dislike for the man i, in spite of myself, was beginning to fear. only a very few of the party found their way to the old time-honoured building to join in the christmas service that morning. some were tired and remained in their rooms, while others enjoyed sitting around the cheerful fires. i was not sorry, however, for i was thus enabled to enjoy more of miss forrest's society. need i say that my morning was truly enjoyable? i think not. i found in my companion one who was in every way delightful. widely read, she was able to converse about books she loved, and possessing a mind that was untrammelled by society notions, it was refreshing to hear her talk. far removed from the giddy society girl, she was yet full of mirth and pleasantness. ready witted, she was quick at repartee; and possessing a keen sense of humour, she saw enjoyment in that which to many would be commonplace. only one thing marred my happiness. that was the memory of a cruel look which rested on voltaire's face as we went away together. from that moment i am sure he regarded me as his rival, and from that moment he sought to measure his strength with mine. i could see in his face that he had guessed my secret, while i fancied i could see, beneath his somewhat cynical demeanour, indications of his love for gertrude forrest. on our way back from church we met voltaire and kaffar, who were eagerly conversing. they took but little notice of us, however, and, for my own part, i felt relieved when they were out of sight. "do you know what is on the programme for to-night?" i said, when they were out of hearing. "yes; mr. temple has arranged for a conjuror and a ventriloquist to come, and thus we shall have something to occupy our attention besides ordinary chitchat." "i'm very glad," i replied, "although i should be delighted to spend the evening as i have spent this morning." i said this with an earnestness about which there could be no doubt, and i fancied i saw a blush mount to her cheek. at any rate, i felt that we were good friends, and my heart beat high with hope. arriving at temple hall, i saw tom reading a letter. "disappointing, justin, my boy," he said. "what's the matter?" i asked. "why, i engaged some fellows to come here and give us an entertainment to-night, and they write to say they can't come. but never mind; we must do the best we can among ourselves. you are good at all sorts of odd games; while at--yes, the very thing!--that's delightful!" "what's delightful?" "you'll know to-night! 'pon my word, it's lucky those juggling fellows can't come. anyhow, i can promise you a jolly evening." had i known then what that evening would lead to, i should not have entered the house so joyously as i did; but i knew nothing of what lay in the future, while miss forrest's great dark eyes beamed upon me in such a way as to make earth seem like heaven. chapter iv voltaire's story of the east when lunch-time came, i, to my delight, obtained a seat next to miss forrest, and soon i became oblivious to all else but her. i was sure, too, that she liked me. her every word and action disclaimed the idea of her being a coquette, while her honest preference for my society was apparent. as we left the table i turned towards voltaire, and i found that he was looking at us. if ever hate and cruelty were expressed in any human face, they were expressed in his. evidently he regarded me as his rival, and thus his natural enemy. a little later in the afternoon he was again talking with kaffar, and instinctively i felt that i was the subject of his conversation. but i did not trouble, for was not gertrude forrest near me, and did we not have delightful conversation together? it seemed as if we had known each other for years, and thus it was natural for us to converse freely. just before dinner, voltaire came to me, as if he wished to enter into conversation. he commenced talking about yorkshire, its customs, legends, and superstitions, and then, with a tact and shrewdness which i could not resist, he drew me into a talk about myself. i felt that he was sifting me, felt that he was trying to read my very soul, and yet i could not break myself from him. one thing was in my favour. i knew his feelings towards me, felt sure that he hated me, and thus i kept on my guard. time after time, by some subtle question, he sought to lead me to speak about the woman dear to my heart, but in that he did not succeed. he fascinated me, and in a degree mastered me, but did not succeed in all his desires. i knew he was weighing me, testing me, and seeking to estimate my powers, but being on my guard his success was limited. when our conversation ceased i felt sure of one thing. it was to be a fight to the death between me and this man, if i would obtain the woman i loved. perhaps some may think this conclusion to be built on a very insufficient foundation, nevertheless i felt sure that such was the case. when i was quite a lad, i remember an old scotchwoman visited our house. it is little i can recall to memory now concerning her, but i know that when she first set her eye upon me she said-"eh, mrs. blake, but yon bairn has the gift o' second sight." my mother laughed at the idea, whereupon the old woman began to correct herself. "i'll no say he has the gift o' second sight properly," she said, "but he'll _feel_ in a minute what it'll tak soom fowk years to fin' out. eh, lad"--turning to me--"if ye coom across some one as ye doesna like, hae as leetle to do wi' 'em as ye can." i am inclined to think there is truth in this judgment of the old scotch lady. i have found her words true in many cases, and i was sure in the case of voltaire my feelings told me what actually existed. there was one thing in my favour. evidently he did not think i guessed his wishes; nevertheless i felt sure that if i was to obtain the mastery over such a man, it would be little short of a miracle. dinner passed over without anything worthy of note, but as soon as it was over we hurried to the drawing-room. even those who loved their after-dinner wine joined the ladies, as if in expectation of something wonderful. the truth was, it had gone around that mr. voltaire was going to tell us a story concerning the mystic rites that are practised in eastern lands, and the subject was an attractive one. the ladies especially, evidently fascinated by the witchery of this man's presence, anxiously waited for him to commence. "what do you wish me to tell you about?" he said in answer to repeated requests for him to begin, from several young ladies. "oh, tell us a story of second sight, and spiritualism, and all that, you know," replied a young lady with a doll's face and simpering manner. "you promised you would," said another. "true, i promised, but not to-day. this christmas day is like sunday to you english folk, and i do not wish to mar its sacredness." "oh, the sunday part of it is all ended at twelve o'clock," cried the young lady who had spoken first. "as soon as church is over we commence our fun. do, mr. voltaire; we shall be disappointed if you don't." "i cannot resist the ladies," he said, with a smile, "but you must not be frightened at my story. for, remember, what i tell you is true. i do not weave this out of my own brain like your average english novelist has to do." i fancied this was directed at me. not that i deserved the appellation. i had written only one novel, and that was a very poor one. still i fancied i saw his light glittering eyes turned in my direction. "i must make a sort of apology, too," he went on. "many of you do not believe in what will be the very marrow of my story." "come, voltaire, never mind apologies," said tom temple; "we are all anxious to hear it." "i mentioned last night," said voltaire, "that i had spent some time in egypt up by the nile. the story i have to tell relates to that part of the world. "i had sailed up the nile, by one of the ordinary river steamers, to a place called aboo simbel, close to the second cataract. here the ordinary tourist stops, and stops too at the beginning of what really interests an imaginative mind. there are, however, some fine ruins here which well repay one for a visit. ah me! _one_ wishes he had lived three or four thousand years ago when he stands among those ancient piles. there was some wisdom then, some knowledge of the deep things of life! however, i did not stay here. i went with my friend kaffar away further into the heart of nubia. "i cannot speak highly of the rank and file of the people there. they are mostly degraded and uncultured, lacking"--here he bowed to the ladies--"that delightful polish which characterizes those who live in the west. still i found some relics of the wisdom of the ancients. one of the sheiks of a village that lay buried among palm trees was deeply versed in the things i longed to know, and with him i took up my abode. "abou al phadre was an old man, and not one whom the ladies would love--that is, for his face, for it was yellow and wrinkled; his eyes, too, were almost buried in their cavernous sockets, and shaded by bushy white eyebrows. those who love the higher powers, however, and can respect the divine power of knowledge, would have knelt at abou's feet. "this wonderful man had a daughter born to him in his old age, born, too, with the same love for truth, the same thirst for a knowledge of things unseen to the ordinary eye. so much was this so, that she was called 'ilfra the understanding one.' as the years went on she outstripped her father, and obtained a knowledge of that for which her father had unsuccessfully studied all his life. "when kaffar and i entered this village, she was nearly twenty years of age, and was fair to look upon. it was rarely she spoke to me, however, for she dwelt with the unseen and talked with the buried dead. abou, on the other hand, was kind to me, and taught me much, and together we tried to find out what for years he had been vainly searching. what that secret was i will not tell. only those who live in the atmosphere of mystery can think rightly about what lies in the mind and heart of the true magician. "as i before hinted, 'ilfra the understanding one' had found out the secret; her soul had outsoared that of her father and of all the sages for many miles around, and she would have revealed her knowledge both to her father and to me, but for one thing. seven is a perfect number, and all the easterns take it into consideration, and it is a law that no one shall reveal a secret that they may have found until three times seven years pass over their heads. thus it was, while we eagerly sought for the mysterious power i have mentioned, we were buoyed up by the hope that, though we might not be successful, ilfra would reveal to us what we desired to know." "and thus the time passed on until we reached ilfra's twenty-first birthday, with the exception of seven days. both abou and i were glad at heart; for although the secret, to me, would be as nothing compared to what it would be to him, yet i could put it to some use, while, to him, it would dispel distance, time, and physical life. through it the secrets of astronomer and astrologer would be known, while the pages of the past would lie before him like an open book. "judge his anguish then, and my disappointment, when, seven days before her twenty-first birthday, she was bitten by a cerastes, and her body died. had she been near her home, her knowledge would have defied the powers of this most deadly serpent's bite; for she knew antidotes for every poison. as it was, however, the same kind of serpent that had laid the beautiful cleopatra low, likewise set at liberty the soul of ilfra. do not think abou grieved because of her death. death was not death to him--his eyes pierced that dark barrier; he suffered because the glorious knowledge he longed for was rudely snatched from him." "'thou man of the west who bearest the name of a jewish king,' he said to me, 'this is a heavy blow.' "'not too heavy for you, abou,' i said. 'the soul has flown, but when the three times seven years is complete you can call her back and learn her wisdom.'" "'i can call her back, but the secret--ah, i know it not,' he said." by this time there was a deadly silence in the room. every ear was strained, so that not one sound of voltaire's voice might be missed. as for him, he sat with his eyes fixed, as if he saw beyond the present time and place, while his face was like a piece of marble. kaffar, i noticed, fixed his eyes upon his friend, and in his stony stare he seemed possessed of an evil spirit. none of the english guests spoke when voltaire stopped a second in his narration. all seemed afraid to utter a sound, except kaffar. "go on, herod," he said; "i am up in egypt again." "it was little we ate," said voltaire, "during the next seven days. we were too anxious to know whether the secrets of the dead were to be revealed. neither could we speak much, for the tongue is generally silent when the soul is wrapped in mystery; and right glad were we when the day dawned on which the veil should be made thicker or altogether drawn aside. "we did not seek to know the mystery after which we were panting until the midnight of ilfra's birthday. then, when the earth in its revolution spelt out that hour, we entered the room of the maiden whose soul had departed. "the egyptians have lost much of the knowledge of the ancients, especially in the art of embalming. often the sons of egypt moan over that departed wisdom; still the art is not altogether gone. the body of ilfra lay embalmed before us as we entered. she had been beautiful in life, but was more beautiful in death, and it was with reverence for that beauty that i stood beside her. "'fetch helfa,' said abou to a servant, 'and then begone.' "helfa was abou's son. here, in england, you would cruelly designate him as something between a madman and an idiot, but the easterns look not thus upon those who possess not their ordinary faculties. through helfa, abou had seen many wonderful things, and now he was going to use him again. "'howajja herod,' he said to me, 'i am first going to use one of our old means of getting knowledge. it has failed me in the past, but it will be, perchance, more potent in the presence of ilfra the understanding one.' "with that he took some ink, and poured it in helfa's hand. this ink was the most precious in his possession, and obtained by means not lawful to relate. when it was in his son's hands he looked at me straight in the eyes, until, while i was in possession of all my senses, i seemed to live a charmed life. my imagination soared, my heart felt a wondrous joy. "'look,' said abou, 'look in helfa's hand.' "i looked intently. "'what see you, son herod?' "'i see a paradise,' i replied, 'but i cannot describe it. the beauties are incomparable. ilfra is there; she mingles with those who are most obeyed.' "'see you anything by which the mystery can be learned?' "'i can see nothing.' "i heard a sigh. i had returned to my normal condition again, and had told nothing. "'i expected this,' he said, 'but i will try helfa.' "the experiment with helfa, however, was just as fruitless. "then he turned to me. 'son herod,' he said, 'prepare to see the greatest deed ever done by man. all the knowledge and power of my life are to be concentrated in one act.' "with that he looked at helfa, who staggered to a low cushion. "'spirit of helfa, leave the body,' he said. "instantly the eyes of helfa began to close; his limbs grew stiff, and in a few seconds he lay lifeless by us. "'i have a mission for you, spirit of helfa. flee to the home of spirits, and bring back the soul of thy sister, that she may tell me what we wish to know.' "when the command was given, i felt that a something--an entity--was gone from us. abou and i were alone with the two bodies. "'what expect you, abou?' i said, anxiously. "'if the labour of a lifetime has not been a failure,' he said, 'these two bodies will soon possess their spirits.'" again voltaire stopped in his recital, and looked around the room. he saw that every eye was fixed upon him, while the faces of some of the young ladies were blanched with terror. evidently they were deeply moved. even some of the young men shuddered, not so much because of the story that was told, as the strange power of the man that told it. as he saw these marks of interest, a smile crept over his face. he evidently felt that he was the strongest influence in the room--that all had to yield to him as their superior. "i confess," he went on, "that my heart began to beat quickly at these words. fancy, if you can, the scene. an egyptian village, not far removed from some of the great temples of the dead past. above our heads waved tall palm trees. around was a strange land, and a wild, lawless people. the hour was midnight, and our business was with the dead. "we had not waited above three minutes when i knew that the room was peopled--by whom i knew not, except that they came from that land from whose bourne, your greatest poet says, 'no traveller returns.' i looked at abou. his face was as the face of the dead, except for his eyes. they burned like two coals of fire. he uttered some strange words, the meaning of which was unknown to me, and then i knew some mighty forces were being exerted in that old sheik's hut. my brain began to whirl, while a terrible power gripped me; but still i looked, and still i remembered. "'spirit of ilfra,' said abou, 'are you here?' "no voice spoke that i could hear, and yet i realized that abou had received his answer. "'enter thy body then, spirit of my daughter, and tell me, if thou darest, the secret i have desired so long.' "i looked at the embalmed body. i saw the eyelids quiver, the mouth twitch, and then the body moved. "'speak to me, my daughter, and tell me all,' said abou. "i only heard one sound. my overtaxed nerves could bear no more; the living dead was too terrible for me, and i fell senseless to the ground. "when i awoke to consciousness, i found only abou and helfa there. the body of ilfra had been removed, where, i know not, for i never saw it again; but helfa was like unto that which he had been before. "'the secret is mine, son herod,' said abou, 'but it is not for you to learn yet. be patient; when your spirit is prepared, the knowledge will come.'" voltaire stopped abruptly. one of the young ladies gave a slight scream, and then he apologized for having no more to tell. "but has the knowledge come since?" asked a voice. i did not know who spoke, but it sounded like gertrude forrest's voice. i turned towards her, and saw her looking admiringly at this man whom i could not help fearing. his answer was a beaming smile and a few words, saying that knowledge should never be boasted of. that moment my jealousy, which had been allayed, now surged furiously in me, and i determined that that very night i would match the strength of my mind with the strength of his. chapter v christmas night--the forging of the chain "you have more than redeemed your promise, voltaire," said tom temple, after a silence that was almost painful. "certainly there is enough romance and mystery in your story to satisfy any one. what do you think of it, justin?"--turning to me. "mr. voltaire used the word 'imagination' in his story," i replied, "and i think it would describe it very well. still, it does not account for much after one has read dumas' _memoirs of a physician_." "am i to understand that you doubt the truth of my words?" asked voltaire sharply. "i think your story is all it appears to be," i replied. honestly, however, i did not believe in one word of it. on the very face of it, it was absurd. the idea of taking a spirit from a living body and sending it after some one that was dead, in order that some secret might be learned, might pass for a huge joke; but certainly it could not be believed in by any well-balanced mind. at any rate, such was my conviction. "i have heard that mr. blake has attempted to write a novel," said voltaire. "perhaps he believes my story is made on the same principle." "scarcely," i replied. "my novel was a failure. it caused no sensation at all. your story, on the other hand, is a brilliant success. see with what breathless interest it was listened to, and how it haunts the memories of your hearers even yet!" this raised a slight titter. i do not know why it should, save that some of the young ladies were frightened, and accepted the first opportunity whereby they could in some way relieve their feelings. anyhow it aroused mr. voltaire, for, as he looked at me, there was the look of a demon in his face, and his hand trembled. "do you doubt the existence of the forces i have mentioned?" he asked. "do you think that the matters to which i have referred exist only in the mind? are they, in your idea, no sciences in reality?" "pardon me, mr. voltaire," i replied, "but i am an englishman. we are thought by foreigners to be very conservative, and perhaps there may be truth in it. anyhow, i, for one, like tangible proof before i believe in anything that does not appeal to my reason. your story does not appear reasonable, and, although i hope i do not offend you by saying so, i cannot accept it as gospel." "perhaps," said kaffar, who spoke for the first time, "mr. blake would like some proofs. perhaps he would like not only to _see_ manifestations of the power of the unseen, but to _feel_ them. ah! pardon me, ladies and gentlemen, but i cannot stand by and hear the greatest of all sciences maligned, and still be quiet. i cannot be silent when that which is dearer to me than life itself is submitted to the cool test of bigoted ignorance. you may not believe it true, but i would give much to know what ilfra the understanding one knew. i was reared under egypt's sunny skies; i have lain under her stately palms and watched the twinkling stars; i am a child of the east, and believe in the truths that are taught there. i have only dabbled in the mysteries of the unseen, but i know enough to tell you that what my friend says is true." was this a ruse on the part of the egyptian? looking at the whole matter in the light of what followed i believe it was. and yet at the time i did not know. "i am sorry," i replied, "if i have caused annoyance. but we english people possess the right of our opinions. however, i do not wish to bias other minds, and trust that my scepticism may cause no unpleasantness." "but would mr. blake like to be convinced?" said voltaire. "i am perfectly indifferent about the matter," i replied. "that is very convenient for one who has stated his beliefs so doggedly. certainly i do not think that is english; if it is, i am glad i am not an englishman." with this he fixed his eyes steadily on me, and tried to fasten my attention, but did not at the time succeed. "i was asked for my opinion," i said; "i did not force it. but still, since you place it in that light, i _should_ like to be convinced." by this time the interest manifested in the matter was great. every one watched breathlessly for what was to be done or said next, and certainly i felt that i was regarded by the guests in anything but a favourable light. i saw voltaire and kaffar exchanging glances, and i felt sure that i heard the former say in arabic, "not yet." after this the two arranged to give us some manifestations of their power. while they were conversing i went across the room and spoke to miss forrest; but she was very reserved, and i thought her face looked very pale. "this is becoming interesting," i said. "i wish you had said nothing about his story," was her reply. "pray why?" she only shook her head. "surely you do not believe in his foolish story or conjuring tricks?" i said laughingly. but she did not reply in the same vein. "mr. voltaire is a wonderful man," she said, "a clever man. if i were a man i should not like to make him my enemy." "i have heard of an old saying at my home," i replied, "which ran something like this, 'brag is a good dog, but holdfast is better.'" "still i should have nothing to do with brag," she said. "i hope you will not," i replied meaningly. she did not answer me, but i fancied she blushed; and again i felt happy. by this time voltaire was ready with his performance. "you will see," he said, "that here we have no chance for stage tricks. all is plain and open as the day. moreover, i will have no secrets from you even with regard to the subject itself. the phenomena that will be brought before you are purely psychological. the mind of my friend kaffar will be, by a secret power, merged into mine. what i see he will see, although in your idea of the matter he does not see at all. now, first of all, i wish you to blindfold my friend kaffar. perhaps mr. blake, seeing he longs for truth, may like to do this. no? well, then, perhaps our host will. thank you, mr. temple." with this tom temple completely blindfolded the egyptian, and then we awaited the further development of the matter. "would you mind leading him to the library?" voltaire continued. "he will certainly not be able to see anything of us here, and still he will not be out of earshot." kaffar was accordingly led into the library, blindfolded. "now," said voltaire, "i told you that by a secret power his mind and mine became one. i will prove to you that i have not spoken boastingly. will any gentleman or lady show me any curiosity he or she may have?" accordingly several of the party pulled from their pockets articles of interest, and of which neither voltaire nor kaffar could have known. each time the former asked what the article was, and each time the latter, although at a distance, correctly described it. a look of wonder began to settle on the faces of the guests, and exclamations of surprise and bewilderment were apparent. it was apparent that nearly all were converts to his beliefs, if beliefs they might be called. after a number of articles were shown and described, kaffar was recalled, and was loudly applauded. "you see," said voltaire, "the evident truth of this. certainly this is a very simple affair, and my old friend abou al phadre would have smiled at its littleness. still it must convince every unprejudiced mind that there is something deeper and more wonderful than those things which are constantly passing before your view." miss staggles, who had been almost as silent as a sphinx, spoke now. "we are convinced that you are a wonderful man," she said; "and what i have seen to-night will be ever a matter of marvel, as well as thankfulness that i have been privileged to see it." this was evidently the opinion of every one in the room. even gertrude forrest was carried away by it, while miss edith gray was enraptured at what she termed "a glorious mystery." "i should like," said miss staggles, "to hear what mr. blake, the thomas of the party, has to say to it." there was an ugly leer in the old woman's eye as she spoke, and the thought struck me that voltaire had been making friends with her. "yes," said voltaire; "i am sure we should all like to know whether mr. blake is convinced." "i am convinced that mr. kaffar has a good memory," i said. "good memory! what do you mean?" "why, mr. voltaire and his friends have come a few years too late to make a good impression. i have not only seen a better performance at a dozen entertainments, but i have found out the secret of what is called 'thought-reading.'" "do you mean to say you have seen similar feats before?" asked voltaire, savagely. "at least a dozen times," i replied. "in a few years' time, we shall see the like performed on the sands at our fashionable watering-places." "i am glad," said kaffar, "that the education of your country has so far advanced." i went on talking, not realizing that i was all the time forging a chain that should hold me in cruel bondage. "i am afraid it says very little for our education," i replied. "some clever fellow has invented a clever system for asking and answering questions, and those who have taken the trouble to learn it have been able to deceive a credulous public." voltaire's eyes flashed fire. all the malignity and cruelty that could be expressed in a human face i thought i saw expressed in his. and yet he wore his old fascinating smile; he never lost his seeming self-possession. "i must deny mr. blake's statement," he said; "and, further, i would defy him to find or produce such a code of questions as he mentions." i immediately left the room, and soon afterwards returned with a book by a renowned thought-reader, wherein he explained what, to so many, has appeared marvellous. i pointed out how, according to his system, by asking a question, the first word of which should begin with a certain letter, a particular thing should be indicated, and all that would be needed was that the performers should be perfectly conversant with the system. the company quickly saw the truth of what i was saying, and for the time, at any rate, mr. voltaire's marvellous knowledge was held at a discount. "but does mr. blake mean to insinuate that mr. kaffar and myself have learnt such a code as this?" said voltaire at length. "i insinuate nothing," i replied. "i am simply showing how your performance can be done by those possessing no knowledge of the occult sciences." "but does mr. blake decline to believe that we know nothing of the mysterious--that we have not dived into subjects of which the ordinary mind can know nothing?" said kaffar. "pardon me," i replied, "but i decline to answer. i have not volunteered any opinion either as to mr. voltaire's story or your performance. i was asked my opinion, and i gave it." i watched mr. voltaire's face as i spoke. he seemed to be pondering some matter in his mind, and appeared irresolute as to what action he should take. at length, a strange light shot from his eyes, and he raised his head and spoke. "ladies and gentlemen," he said, "evidently mr. blake, with his hard english common-sense, has raised some amount of doubt in your minds as to the validity of my story and of our performance. i am sure you will allow me to vindicate and prove any assertion i have made. if i have claimed a knowledge of the mysterious, i have not done so without reason." "we believe that is true," said miss staggles; "we believe you are a wonderful man." "thank you," said voltaire. "i am sure i have miss staggles' sympathies, but will some one assist me in what i am about to do? i will allow no possibility of a _system_ in this, and consequently i shall be glad if any gentleman will help me in the manifestation of the hidden powers of the human mind. perhaps"--turning, i thought, eagerly to me--"mr. blake will be the one?" "no," i said; "i prefer to be a spectator." i could no longer mistake the hate that flashed from his eyes; but he said nothing, and waited quietly for a volunteer. no one was forthcoming. at length tom temple said-"would one of the servants do, voltaire?" "i would rather have a visitor," said voltaire, "and for two reasons: first, you could not then have any reason for suspecting a collusion; and, second, the ordinary english servant is extremely unsusceptible to the play of higher powers. if, however, none of you will volunteer, i can see no other alternative." accordingly, a man about my own age was brought in, and introduced as simon slowden. i saw that he was no ordinary character as soon as he entered, and was by no means one who could be easily imposed upon. i afterwards found that simon had spent his boyhood in london, had when a youth joined a travelling circus, and tramped the country for a few years. he had also travelled with several "shows," two or three travelling theatres, and had finally settled down with a lame leg at temple hall, where he made himself generally useful. his dialect was a mixture of the cockney and a dozen others equally bad, until it was almost impossible to tell from that source the part of the country from which he hailed. he was, however, a good-hearted fellow, and for a wonder, considering his history, as honest as the day. "now, simon," said tom temple, "this gentleman is a scientist and wants to show some experiments, and he can't get any one to assist him, so i thought i'd ask you." "well," said simon, "i don't know as i think mich on these science gents. they're allays a-bringin' in some new-fangled thing or other, but generally there's nowt in 'em. still, to 'blige the company, i'll do owt raisonable. i'm tough has a crocodile's tongue, and can stand a goodish bit o' jingo and nonsense. here goes, yer honour." voltaire eyed him doubtfully, and simon coolly returned the stare. "you are not a-gwine to waccinate me, be 'ee?" said simon at length. "no--why?" "'cause i can't stand that, tough as i be. i lived wi' a doctor once, and says he to me, 'simon, i want to speriment on ye,' says he. 'i'm tough 'nough,' says i. 'i want to waccinate you 'gainst cholera, hoopin' cough, and small-pox,' says he. 'what's that? give 'em to me?' says i. 'no,' says he, 'but to prevent you from a hevin' 'em.' 'that's yer sorts,' says i. well, gentlemen, he waccinated me, and i said to un, 'never no more, yer honour.'" "why?" asked i. "'cause i'd rather hev cholera, hoopin' cough, and small-pox all together than be waccinated. jes like women, you never know where they'll break out." "will you kindly sit down," said voltaire, "while i go to my room for a book?" while he was gone i went to simon, and spoke to him, and that gentleman got very communicative. "i'm not overmich in love wi' that chap," he says; "and sure's i'm a right-down cockney, he hates you like pizen. give 'im a wide berth, yer honour, and doan't hev nothin' to do wi' 'im." "oh," i replied, "he can't hurt me." "don't know, yer honour. you and he's got your peepers fixed in the same place, and scuse me; but if you give 'im a chance, he'll beat yer. he'd charm a serpiant vith thews peepers o' hisn." "aren't you afraid yourself, then?" "he can't hurt me, for i'm too tough, and i'm noan sighin' for anybody, i ain't; and i hain't a got a good-lookin' jib, and--" but here voltaire entered the room and spoke to tom temple. "simon," said tom a second after, "what colour are the chestnut mare's eyes?" simon heaved himself, struggled, looked vacant, and said dreamily, "they're loike women, and--waccination, you--you--" but a film came over his eyes, and he was unconscious. again there was deathly silence in the room, and all eyes were turned towards voltaire, who had walked close to simon slowden. "the man is not very susceptible," said voltaire, "consequently i cannot do so much with him as i should had he been more highly organized; but i can at least convince sceptics. you will see," he went on, "that i have not touched him, and yet he is no longer conscious. i will now ask him any question, concerning either the dead or the living, that you may be inclined to ask." "i will ask a test question," said gertrude forrest. "what are the servants doing at this time?" "the cook's examinin' a goose," was the reply, "and the housemaid's talking wi' a chap as is just come from t' village." he went on telling what the rest were doing; but tom temple immediately sent to the kitchen, and found that things were as was described. "where's dr. sharp?" said mrs. temple, adding that they could easily find out the doctor's present whereabouts the next day. "he's comin' up here with his long-nosed pointer," was the reply, "and 'll be 'ere in a jiffy." five minutes after, dr. sharp came into the room. "i did not know i could come until half-an-hour ago," he said as he entered, and then stared as he saw how matters stood. "will you tell me," said miss forrest, "what my aunt is doing just now?" she mentioned no name, and i do not know how the man sitting in the chair could know anything about her. "she is jest gwine to bed," he said; "she's a bit ov a cold in 'er chest, and housekeeper is gwine to take some warmin' stuff to her." "i'll know if this is true to-morrow," said miss forrest, and then relapsed into silence. meanwhile question after question was asked and answered, while voltaire and kaffar stood side by side, each with a terrible glitter in his eyes. under some secret influence simon slowden was led to the piano, and there executed some of the latest and most difficult pieces of music, and, without hesitation, told things that were at least marvellous. then, when excitement was at the highest, he woke up, and coolly rubbed his eyes. no one uttered a word, we were all too much amazed. at last voltaire, with a sidelong glance at me, asked whether we were convinced, and one by one the members of the party expressed their wonder and astonishment. i, however, was silent. some power of obstinacy seemed to possess me. i would not tamely admit his victory, after i had openly defeated him before. still i did not speak a word. "is mr. blake convinced?" said miss staggles, leering towards me. "of what?" i asked. "of mr. voltaire's power." "undoubtedly." "come," said kaffar, "mr. blake is still a sceptic. i think it fair that he should consent to test this for himself." "certainly not," i replied. "but i think it our right," said voltaire. "you have expressed your want of faith in our power; now, if you have the courage of a man with an opinion, test the matter. sit here as simon did, and see whether you are right." i thought i heard a voice saying "don't!" close to my ear, and i hesitated. at this there was a titter among the young ladies. "evidently our thomas is afraid," said miss staggles. there was an ugly look in her eyes as she said this, but the titter increased into a kind of derisive laugh. i know it was an evidence of my cowardice, but i could not withstand their laughter. i forgot the warning voice behind me; i refused to take notice of mrs. temple's warning glance; i rose up, went to the chair in the middle of the room, and defiantly said, "there! do all you can with me." voltaire and kaffar came up to me, while the rest crowded around. the former fixed his terrible eye upon me as if he would peer into my very soul. a strange feeling began to creep over me; but i struggled against it with all my strength, and for a minute i seemed to gain the mastery. i laughed in his face, as if i scorned his boasted strength. a strange gleam was emitted from his light grey eyes, while his lips became ashy pale. then i saw him grip kaffar's hand. instantly the room was peopled with a strange crowd. dark forms seemed to come from voltaire's eyes; peculiar influences were all around me. the faces of the two men became dimmer and dimmer, the people appeared to float in mid air, and i with them; then something heavy seemed to move away, i thought i heard strange creeping noises, like that of an adder crawling amidst thick dry grass, and then all was blank. chapter vi afterwards when i awoke to consciousness i was in my bedroom. for some time i could not gather up my scattered senses; my mind refused to exercise its proper functions. presently i heard some one speak. "i had no idea he was so far gone," a voice said. "you see, his power of resistance is very great, and it needed four times the magnetism to bring him under that it did your servant." "i'm sorry you experimented on him at all," said another voice. "oh, i can assure you no harm's done. there, you see, he's coming to." i felt something cold at my temples, then a strange shivering sensation passed over me, and i was awake. voltaire, kaffar, tom temple, and simon slowden were in the room. "how do you feel, mr. blake?" asked voltaire, blandly. i lifted my eyes to his, and felt held by a strange power. "i'm all right," i said almost mechanically, at the same time feeling as if i was under the influence of a charm. "then," said voltaire, "i will leave you. good-night." immediately he left, followed by kaffar, i experiencing a sense of relief. "did i do anything very foolish?" i asked, recollecting the events of the evening. "oh no, justin," replied tom. "and yet that voltaire is a terrible fellow. half the young ladies in the room were nearly as much mesmerized as you were. you acted in pretty nearly the same way as simon here, but nothing else. do you feel quite right?" "i am awfully weak," i said, "and cold shivers creep down my legs." "you were such a long time under the influence, whatever it is," said tom. "but you'll go back to the drawing-room?" "no; i don't feel up to it. but don't you remain. i'm feeling shaky, but i shan't mind a bit if you'll let simon remain with me." and so tom left me with simon. "do you feel shaky and shivery, simon?" i asked. "not a bit on it, sir," was the reply. "never felt better. but 'tween you and me and the gatepost, yon hinfidel hain't a served me like he hev you. i don't like the look o' things, yer honour." "why, simon?" "why, sir, 'tain't me as ought to tell, and yet i don't feel comfortable. i wish i could 'a had a confabulation with yer afore this performance come off. i hain't got no doubts in my mind but that hinfidel and his dootiful brother hev got dealin's with the devil." simon rose and went to the door, opened it, and peered cautiously around. "that egyptian is a watcher," he said grimly, "and i don't like either of 'em." "what's the matter, simon?" "why, this yer morning, i wur exchangin' a few pleasant remarks with one of the maid-servants, when i hears the egyptian say, 'it's gwine beautiful.' 'how?' says t'other. 'he'll nibble like hanything,' was the answer, and then i hearn a nasty sort o' laugh. soon after, i see you with a bootiful young lady, and i see that hinfidel a-watchin' yer, with a snaky look in his eyes. and so i kep on watchin', and scuse me, yer honour, but i can guess as 'ow things be, and i'm fear'd as 'ow this waccination dodge is a trick o' this 'ere willain." "explain yourself, simon." "well, sir, i knows as 'ow you've only bin yer one day, but i could see in a minit as 'ow you was a smitten with a certain young lady, and i can see, too, as 'ow that white-eyed willain is smitten in the same quarter, and he sees 'ow things be, and he means business." it was by no means pleasant to hear my affairs talked of in this way, and it was a marvel to me how simon could have learnt so much, but i have found that a certain class of english servant seems to find out everything about the house with which they are connected, and i am afraid i was very careless as to who saw the state of my feelings. at any rate, simon guessed how things were, and, more than that, he believed that voltaire had some sinister design against me. "what do you mean by what you call the vaccination dodge?" i asked, after a second's silence. "scuse me, yer honour, but since that doctor waccinated me and nearly killed me by it, tough as i be, i come to call all tomfoolery by the same name. i've been in theatres, yer honour, and played in pieces, and i've known the willain in the play get up a shindy like this. i knows they're on'y got up to 'arrow up the feelin's o' tender females; but i'm afeared as 'ow this voltaire 'ev got somethin' in his head, a-concoctin' like." "nonsense, simon," i said. "you are thinking about some terrible piece you've acted in, and your imagination is carrying away your judgment." "i hope as 'ow 'tis, sur; but i don't think so. if you chop me up, sur, you'll not find sixpenno'th of imagination in my carcase, but i calcalate i'm purty 'eavy wi' judgment. never mind, sur; simon slowden is in the 'ouse, if you should want help, sur." i did not feel much inclined to talk after this, and so, dismissing simon, i began to think of how matters stood. certainly everything was strange. everything, too, had been done in a hurry. it seemed to me i had lived a long life in twenty-four hours. i had fallen in love, i had made an enemy, and i had matched myself against men who possessed a knowledge of some of the secret forces of life, without ever calculating my own strength. and yet i seemed to be beating the air. were not my thoughts concerning voltaire's schemes about miss forrest all fancy? was not i the victim of some quixotic ideas? was not the creation of cervantes' brain about as sensible as i? surely i, a man of thirty, ought to know better? and yet some things were terribly real. my love for gertrude forrest was real; my walk and talk with her that day were real. ay, and the hateful glitter of voltaire's eyes was real too; his talk with kaffar behind the shrubs the night before was real. the biological or hypnotic power that i had felt that very night was real, and, above all, a feeling of dread that had gripped my being was real. i could not explain it, and i could not throw it off, but ever since i had awoke out of my mesmeric sleep, or whatever the reader may be pleased to call it, i felt numbed; weights seemed to hang on my limbs, and my whole being was in a kind of torpor. i went to bed at length, however, and, after an hour's tossing, fell asleep, from which i did not wake until ten o'clock next morning. i found, on descending, that nearly all had breakfasted, but the few with whom i spoke were very kind and pleasant towards me. i had no sooner finished breakfast than i met miss forrest, and entered into conversation with her. once with her, all my dreads and fears vanished. her light eyes and merry laugh drove away dull care, and soon i was in paradise. surely i could not be mistaken! surely the quivering hand, the tremulous mouth, the downcast eye, meant something! surely she need not be agitated at meeting me, unless she took a special interest in me--unless, indeed, she felt as i felt! at any rate, it were heaven to think so. we had been talking i should think ten minutes, when tom temple came towards us. "say, justin, my boy," he said, "what do you say to a gallop of four?" "who are the four?" i asked. "miss forrest, miss edith gray, justin blake, and--myself," was the reply. "i shall be more than delighted if miss forrest will--" i did not finish the sentence. at that moment i felt gripped by an unseen power, and i was irresistibly drawn towards the door. i muttered something about forgetting, and then, like a man in a sleep, i put on my hat and coat and went out, i know not where. i cannot remember much about the walk. it was very cold, and my feet crunched the frozen snow; but i thought little of it--i was drawn on and on by some secret power. i was painfully aware that miss forrest must think i was acting strangely and discourteously, and once or twice i essayed to go back to her, but i could not i was drawn on and on, always away from the house. at length i entered a fir wood, and i began to feel more my real self. i saw the dark pines, from whose prickly foliage the snow crystals were falling; i realized a stern beauty in the scene; but i had not time to think about it. i felt i was near the end of my journey, and i began to wonder at my condition. i had not gone far into the wood before i stopped and looked around me. the influence had gone, and i was free; but from behind one of the trees stepped out a man, and the man was--herod voltaire! "good-morning, mr. justin blake," he said blandly. "why have you brought me here?" i asked savagely. he smiled blandly. "you will admit i have brought you here, then?" he said. "ah, my friend, it is dangerous to fight with a man when you don't know his weapons." "i want to know what this means?" i said haughtily. "not so fast," he sneered. "come down from that high horse and let's talk quietly. yes, i've no doubt you would have enjoyed a ride with a certain lady better than the lonely walk you have had; but, then, you know the old adage, 'needs must when the devil drives.'" "and so you've admitted your identity!" i said. "well, i don't want your society; say what you want to say, or i'm going back." "yes," he said, revealing his white teeth, "i am going to say what i want to say, and you are not going back until you have heard it, and, more than that, promised to accede to it." again i felt a cold shiver creep over me, but i put on a bold face, and said, "it always takes two to play at any game." "yes it does, mr. blake, and that you'll find out. you feel like defying me, don't you? just so; but your defiance is useless. did you not come here against your will? are you not staying here now against your will? look here, my man, you showed your hand immediately you came, and you've been playing your game without knowing the trump cards. it looked very innocent to be mesmerized last night, didn't it? oh, mesmerism is a vulgar affair; but there was more than mesmerism realized last night. i played three trump cards last night, mr. justin blake. the egyptian story was one, the thought-reading was the second, the animal and mental magnetism was the third. i had tested my opponent before, and knew just how to play. when i took the last trick, you became mine--mine, body and soul!" i still defied him, and laughed scornfully into his face. "yes, you laugh," he said; "but i like your english adages, and one is this, 'those laugh best who win.' but come," he said, altering his tone, "you are in my power. by that one act last night you placed yourself in my power, and now you are my slave. but i am not a hard master. do as i wish you, and i shall not trouble you." "i defy you!" i cried. "i deny your power!" "do you?" he said. "then try and move from your present position." i had been leaning against a tree, and tried to move; but i could not. i was like one fastened to the ground. he laughed scornfully. "now do you believe?" he said. i was silent. "yes," he said, "you may well be silent, for what i say is true. and now," he continued, "i promise not to use my power over you on one condition." "name it," i said. "i will name it. it is this. you must give up all thoughts, all hopes, all designs, of ever winning gertrude forrest for your wife." "and if i refuse?" "if you refuse, i shall have to make you do what i would rather you would do willingly. think as you will, but she can never be yours. i do not mind telling you now, for you dare not speak. i have marked her for my own; and, mark you, she must be mine. no power shall stop that. if you presume to speak to her, i will stop you in the act. if ever you seek to walk with her, i will drag you away from her; nay, more than that, i will make you act in such a way as to make you, to her, an object of derision." "but," i said, "if you possess such a power over me, which i do not admit, i will proclaim to every one in the house the villainous means by which you have possessed it. i will make you an object of hatred." his light eyes gleamed with an unearthly glare. "think you i have not thought of that?" he said. "try and tell of my influence over you, seek to speak one word against me, and mark the result. i defy you to utter one word." again i was silent. i seemed hemmed in on every hand by this man's terrible power. "come," he said, "do you consent to my terms? do you relinquish all thoughts, all hopes, of ever winning gertrude forrest?" in spite of my strange situation, i could not help seeing two rays of light. one was, that this man must have seen that miss forrest looked on me with a degree of favour; and the other was that, if his power was as great as he boasted, he needed not be so anxious to obtain my consent to his terms. if i were wholly in his power, he could do with me as he would, and need not trouble about any promises of mine. this led me to defy him still. "herod voltaire," i said, "villain by your own admission, i do not believe in your power; but, admitting it for the moment, i still refuse to do what you ask me. you have guessed my secret. i love gertrude forrest with all my heart, and i will promise neither you nor any other man to give up hopes of winning her. and mark you this, too. although by unlawful means you may have obtained mastery over me, as surely as there is a god who cares for men, your power will be broken. meanwhile, you may force me to act against my will, but my will you shall never have!" "fool, idiot!" he cried, "you shall repent this. you shall be dragged through mire, dirt, pain, defeat, disgrace, and then, when all is over, you will find i have had my own way!" he made a step towards me. "stay there for a quarter of an hour," he said, "and then you may go where you will." he rushed away, and left me alone. i tried to move, but could not; and yet i realized this--although my body was chained, my mind was still free and active. when the quarter of an hour was up, i went away, with a great weight upon my heart, wondering, yet dreading, what would happen next. chapter vii drearwater pond i will not try to describe my walk back to temple hall, or tell of the terrible sensations that i felt. think, if you can, of my position. a young man of thirty, a slave to a deep designing villain, held fast in his power by some secret nervous or brain forces which he possessed. more than this, he had designs upon the woman i loved, while i was powerless, nay, worse than powerless, for he might make me do things which would be altogether opposed to what i believed right and true. when you realize this, you will be able to form some idea of how i felt. and yet i 'was not altogether without hope. i felt that life and love of liberty were strong in me, and i determined that, though i might be conquered, it should not be without a struggle. arriving at the house, i saw simon slowden. he evidently had a message for me, for, making a sign for me to stop, he quickly came to my side. "yer nag is saddled, sur," he said. i caught his meaning instantly. "which way did they go, and how long have they been gone?" i asked. "they're gone to drearwater pond, yer honour. started 'bout half-an-hour ago." "any message for me?" "the guv'nor told me, if i saw yer, to tell yer where they'd gone." "who went with mr. temple?" "miss gray and the other lady, yer honour." he had led out the horse by this time, and i was preparing to mount it, when i saw that he had something more to communicate. "what is it, simon?" i said. he did not speak, but winked slyly at me, and then led the horse away from the stable-yard. as he did so, i saw kaffar come away from one of the lads who was employed about the house. "he's a spy, yer honour, a reg'lar judas iscariot. t'other chap's called herod, pity this one isn't called judas. they be a bootiful couple, yer honour." he looked around again, and then said, "that murderin', waccinatin' willain is gone efter 'em, mr. blake. he came back just after they'd gone, and went ridin' efter 'em like greased lightnin'." for a minute i was stunned. "i thought i'd better tell 'ee, yer honour, and then you'd know 'ow to act." i thanked simon heartily; then, turning my horse's head towards drearwater pond, i galloped away. i had not gone far before i began to question the wisdom of what i was doing. was i right in thus openly defying the man who possessed such a terrible power? it certainly seemed foolish, and yet i could not bear the idea of his being the companion of gertrude forrest. besides, it might stagger him somewhat to find that his words had not frightened me. with this thought i gave my horse the rein. he was a beautiful high-blooded creature, and seemed to delight in making the snow crystals fly around him, as he scampered over the frozen ground. i did not know the district at all, but i had been told in what direction drearwater pond lay, so i did not doubt that i should easily find them. when i came to the spot, however, those i hoped to find were nowhere to be seen, and so, guiding the horse up to the dark waters, i stood and looked at the little lake that bore such a sombre name. it was indeed a dreary place. on one side was wild moorland, and on the other a plantation of firs edged the dismal pond. it might be about a quarter of a mile long, and perhaps one-sixth of a mile wide. there were no houses near, and the high-road was some distance away. it was not an attractive place for several reasons. the region was very drear, and, moreover, the place had a bad reputation. the pond was said to have no bottom, while a murder having been committed on the moors near by, the country people said that dark spirits of the dead were often seen to float over the drearwaters in the silent night. i stood at the edge of the water for some time; then i quietly led my horse away around to the other side, where dark fir trees made the scene, if possible, more gloomy than it would otherwise have been. i had not been there long before i heard voices, and, looking up, i saw the party walking towards me. evidently they had fastened their horses in the near distance, and were now seeking to better enjoy themselves by walking. as they came near me, i made a slight noise, which drew their attention. certainly i ought to have felt flattered by their greeting, especially, by that of miss forrest. "we thought you had been bewitched, mr. blake," said miss gray, after a few trivial remarks had been passed. "perhaps i was," i said, looking at voltaire. he stared at me as if in wonder, and a curious light played in his eyes. he had uttered no word when he saw me, but he gave indications of his astonishment. "well," continued miss gray, "this is the proper place to be bewitched. mr. temple has been telling some strange stories about it. what was it, mr. temple?--a red hand appears from the water, and whoever sees it will be led to commit murder?" "oh, there are dozens of stories about the place," said tom. "indeed, there is scarcely a youth or maiden who will be seen here after dark." "why?" asked voltaire, suddenly. "oh, as i said just now, it is reported to be haunted; but, more than that, the pond is said to have an evil power. some say that if any one sees the place for the first time alone, his hands will be red with blood before a month passes away." "then that will refer to me," i said. "but surely such nonsense is not believed in now?" "these things are not nonsense," said voltaire. "earth and heaven are full of occult forces." i paid no further attention to the subject at the time, but this conversation came back to me with terrible force in the after-days. for a while we chatted on ordinary subjects, and then, remounting our horses, we prepared to ride back. during this time i had felt entirely free from any of the strange influences i have described, and i began to wonder at it; especially so as miss forrest had voluntarily come to my side, and we had galloped away together. we took a roundabout road to temple hall, and so were longer together, and again i was happy. "i thought you were not coming," she said. "what in the world drew you away so suddenly?" i tried to tell her, but i could not. every time i began to speak of the influence voltaire had exerted i was seemingly tongue-tied. no words would come. "i was very sorry," i said at length, "but you did not want a companion. mr. voltaire came." "yes, he overtook us. is he not a wonderful man?" "yes," i said absently. "i was so sorry you allowed yourself to be placed under his influence last night. did you not hear me asking you to avoid having anything to do with him?" "yes," i said, "i am sorry. i was a coward." "i do not understand him," she said. "he fascinates while he repels. one almost hates him, and yet one is obliged to admire him. no one could want him as a friend, while to make him an enemy would be terrible." i could not help shuddering as she spoke. i had made him my enemy, and the thought was terrible. "he does not like you," she went on; "he did not like the way you regarded his magical story and his thought-reading. were i you, i should have no further communications with him. i should politely ignore him." i watched her face as she spoke. surely there was more than common interest betrayed in her voice; surely that face showed an earnestness beyond the common interest of a passing acquaintance? "i do not wish to have anything to do with him," i said, "and might i also say something to you? surely if a man should avoid him, a woman should do so a thousand times more. promise me to have nothing to do with him. avoid him as you would a pestilence." i spoke passionately, pleadingly. she turned her head to reply, and i was bending my head so as not to miss a word when a subtle power seized me. i did not wait for her reply, but turned my head in a different direction. "let us join the others," i stammered with difficulty, and rode away without waiting for her consent. she came up by my side again presently, however, but there was a strange look on her face. disappointment, astonishment, annoyance, and hauteur, all were expressed. i spoke not a word, however. i could not; a weight seemed to rest upon me, my free agency was gone. "how do you know they are in this direction?" she said at length. "we have come a circuitous route." "they surely are," i said. the words were dragged out of me, as if by sheer force of another will, while i looked vacantly before me. "are you well, mr. blake?" she asked again. "you look strange." "well, well," i remember saying. then we caught sight of three people riding. "hurrah!" i cried, "there they are." i could see i was surprising miss forrest more and more, but she did not speak again. pride and vexation seemed to overcome her other feelings, and so silently we rode on together until we rejoined our companions. "ha, justin!" cried tom, "we did not expect to see you just yet surely something's the matter?" "oh no," i replied, when, looking at herod voltaire, i saw a ghastly smile wreathe his lips, and then i felt my burden gone. evidently by some strange power, at which i had laughed, he had again made me obey his will, and when he had got me where he wanted me, he allowed me to be free. no sooner did i feel my freedom than i was nearly mad with rage. i had been with the woman i wanted, more than anything else, to accompany, we had been engaged in a conversation which was getting more and more interesting for me, and then, for no reason save this man's accursed power, i had come back where i had no desire to be. i set my teeth together and vowed to be free, but, looking again at voltaire's eyes, my feelings underwent another revulsion. i trembled like an aspen leaf. i began to dread some terrible calamity. before me stretched a dark future. i seemed to see rivers of blood, and over them floated awful creatures. for a time i thought i was disembodied, and in my new existence i did deeds too terrible to relate. then i realized a new experience. i feared voltaire with a terrible fear. strange forms appeared to be emitted from his eyes, while to me his form expanded and became terrible in its mien. i knew i was there in a yorkshire road, riding on a high-blooded horse; i knew the woman i loved was near me; and yet i was living a dual life. it was not justin blake who was there, but something else which was called justin blake, and the feelings that possessed me were such as i had never dreamed of. and yet i was able to think; i was able to connect cause and effect. indeed, my brain was very active, and i began to reason out why i should be so influenced, and why i should act so strangely. the truth was, and i felt sure of it as i rode along, i was partly mesmerized or hypnotized, whatever men may please to call it. partly i was master over my actions, and partly i was under an influence which i could not resist. strange it may appear, but it is still true, and so while one part of my being or self was realizing to a certain extent the circumstances by which i was surrounded, the other enslaved part trembled and feared at some dreadful future, and felt bound to do what it would fain resist. this feeling possessed me till we arrived at temple hall, when i felt free, and, as if by the wave of some magical wand, justin blake was himself again. instead of following the ladies into the house, i followed the horses to the stables. i thought i might see simon slowden, who i was sure would be my friend, and was watching kaffar closely, but i could not catch sight of him. herod voltaire came up to me, however, and hissed in my ear-"do you yield to my power now?" i answered almost mechanically, "no." "but you will," he went on. "you dared to follow me to yonder lake, but you found you could not ride alone with her. how terrible it must be to have to obey the summons of the devil, and so find out the truth that while two is company, five is none!" i began to tremble again. he fixed his terrible eye upon me, and said slowly and distinctly, "justin blake, resistance is useless. i have spent years of my life in finding out the secrets of life. by pure psychology i have obtained my power over you. you are a weaker man than i--weaker under ordinary circumstances. you would be swayed by my will if i knew no more the mysteries of the mind than you, because as a man i am superior to you--superior in mind and in will-force; but by the knowledge i have mentioned i have made you my slave." i felt the truth of his words. he was a stronger man than i naturally, while by his terrible power i was rendered entirely helpless. still, at that very moment, the inherent obstinacy of my nature showed itself. "i am not your slave," i said. "you are," he said. "did you feel no strange influences coming back just now? was not herod voltaire your master?" i was silent. "just so," he answered with a smile; "and yet i wish to do you no harm. but upon this i do insist. you must leave temple hall; you must allow me to woo and to win miss gertrude forrest." "i never will," i cried. "then," said he, jeeringly, "your life must be ruined. you must be swept out of the way, and then, as i told you, i will take this dainty duck from you, i will press her rosy lips to mine, and--" "stop!" i cried; "not another word;" and, seizing him by the collar, i shook him furiously. "speak lightly of her," i continued, "and i will thrash you like a dog, as well as that cur who follows at your heels." for a moment my will had seemed to gain the mastery over him. he stared at me blankly, but only for a moment, for soon his light eyes glittered; and then, as kaffar came up by his side, my strength was gone, my hands dropped by my side, and unheeding the cynical leer of the egyptian, or the terrible look of his friend, i walked into the house like one in a dream. chapter viii darkness and light during the next few days there was but little to record. the party evidently forgot mesmerism and thought-reading, and seemingly enjoyed themselves without its assistance. the young men and women walked together and talked together, while the matrons looked complacently on. during the day there was hunting, skating, and riding, while at night there was story-telling, charades, games of various sorts, and dancing. altogether, it was a right old-fashioned, unconventional english country party, and day by day we got to enjoy ourselves more, because we learned to know each other better. perhaps, however, i am using a wrong expression. i ought not to have said "we." i cannot say that i enjoyed myself very much. my life was strange and disappointing. more than that, the calamities i dreaded did not take place, but the absence of those calamities brought me no satisfaction. and thus, while all the rest laughed and were joyful, i was solitary and sad. once or twice i thought of leaving temple hall, but i could not bring myself to do so. i should be leaving the woman i was each day loving more and more, to the man who knew no honour, no mercy, no manliness. during these days i was entirely free from voltaire's influence, as free as i was before i saw him. he always spoke to me politely, and to a casual observer his demeanour towards me was very friendly. kaffar, on the other hand, treated me very rudely. he often sought to turn a laugh against me; he even greeted me with a sneer. i took no notice of him, however--never replied to his insulting words; and this evidently maddened him. the truth was, i was afraid lest there should be some design in voltaire's apparent friendliness and kaffar's evident desire to arouse enmity, and so i determined to be on my guard. i was not so much surprised at my freedom from the influence he had exercised over me the day after i had placed myself under his power, and for a reason that was more than painful to me. miss forrest avoided ever meeting me alone, never spoke to me save in monosyllables, and was cold and haughty to me at all times. many times had i seen her engaged in some playful conversation with some members of the party; but the moment i appeared on the scene her smile was gone, and, if opportunity occurred, she generally sought occasion to leave. much as i loved her, i was too proud to ask a reason for this, and so, although we were so friendly on christmas day, we were exceedingly cold and distant when new year's eve came. this, as may be imagined, grieved me much; and when i saw voltaire's smile as he watched miss forrest repel any attempt of mine to converse with her, i began to wish i had never set my foot in temple hall. and yet i thought i might be useful to her yet. so i determined to remain in yorkshire until she returned to london, and even then i hoped to be able to shield her from the designs which i was sure voltaire still had. new year's day was cold and forbidding. the snow had gone and the ice had melted; but the raw, biting wind swept across moor and fen, forbidding the less robust part of the company to come away from the warm fires. i had come down as usual, and, entering the library, i found miss forrest seated. "i wish you a happy new year, miss forrest," i said. "may it be the happiest year you have ever known." she looked around the room as if she expected to see some one else present; then, looking up at me, she said, with the happy look i loved to see, "and i heartily return your wish, mr. blake." there was no coldness, no restraint in her voice. she spoke as if she was glad to see me, and wanted me to know it. instantly a burden rolled away from my heart, and for a few minutes i was the happiest of men. presently i heard voices at the library door, and immediately miss forrest's kindness and cheerfulness vanished, and those who entered the room must have fancied that i was annoying her with my company. i remained in the room a few minutes longer, but she was studiously cold and polite to me, so that when i made a pretence of going out to the stables to see a new horse tom temple had bought, i did so with a heavy heart. i had no sooner entered the stable-yard than simon slowden appeared, and beckoned to me. "i looked hout for yer honour all day yesterday," he said, "but you lay like a hare in a furze bush. things is looking curious, yer honour." "indeed, simon. how?" "can 'ee come this yer way a minit, yer honour?" "certainly," i said, and followed him into a room over the stables. i did not like having confidences in this way; but my brain was confused, and i could not rid myself from the idea that some plot was being concocted against me. simon looked around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers; then he said, "there's a hancient wirgin 'ere called miss staggles, ain't there, mr. blake?" "there is. why?" "it's my belief as 'ow she's bin a waccinated ten times, yer honour." "why, simon?" "why, she's without blood or marrow, she is; and as for flesh, she ain't got none." "well, what for that?" "and not honly that," he continued, without heeding my question, "she hain't a got a hounce of tender feelin's in her natur. in my opinion, sur, she's a witch, she is, and hev got dealin's with the devil." "and what for all this?" i said. "surely you haven't taken me up here to give me your impressions concerning miss staggles?" "well, i hev partly, yer honour. the truth is"--here he sunk his voice to a whisper--"she's very thick with that willain with a hinfidel's name. they're in league, sur." "how do you know?" "they've bin a-promenadin' together nearly every day since christmas; and when a feller like that 'ere woltaire goes a-walkin' with a creature like that hancient wirgin on his arm, then i think there must be somethin' on board." "but this is purely surmise, simon. there is no reason why miss staggles and mr. voltaire may not walk together." "there's more than surmise, sur. you know the plantation up behind the house, mr. blake?" "the fir plantation? very well." "well, sur, the night afore last i wur up there. they are hevin' a kind of christmas-tree in one of the sunday schools over in the willage to-night, and some o' the teachers came to the guv'nor and asked him for a tree to put some knick-knacks on. so he says to me, 'simon,' says he, 'go up in the plantation and pull up a young fir tree, and then in the morning put it in the cart and take it over to the school-room.' this was day afore yesterday, in the afternoon. i was busy jist then, so i didn't go to the plantation till 'twas dusk. however, as you know, yer honour, 'tis moonlight, so i didn't trouble. well, i got a young fir tree pulled up, and was jist a-going to light my pipe, when i see some figures a-comin' threw the plantation towards a summer-'ouse that was put up 'bout two year ago. so i lied luff. 'i believe,' i says, 'that it's that hinfidel and the skinny wirgin a-walkin' together.' they goes into the summer-'ouse, and then i creeps down, and gets behind a tree, but close enough to the couple to hear every word. sure 'nough, sur, i wur right; it was the wirgin staggles and this 'ere woltaire. "'they seemed quarrellin' like when i come up, for she wur sayin'-"'tis no use, she never will.' "'nonsense!' says he. 'give her time, and poison her mind against that blake, and she'll come around.' "'i've done that,' says she. 'i've told her that mr. blake is a regular male flirt; that he's had dozens of love affairs with girls; and, besides that, i told her that her marked preference for him was being talked about.' "'yes,' says woltaire, 'and see how she's treated him since.' "'true enough,' says she; 'but it's made her no softer towards you. if she avoids him, she dislikes you.' "'and do you think she cares about blake?' says he. "'i don't know,' she replies. 'she never would tell me anything, and that's why i dislike her so. but, for all that, she's no hypocrite.' "'well, what for that?' he asks. "'i went to her room last night, and i began to tell her more about him and compare him with you.' "'well?' says he. "'well, she got into a temper, and told me that she would not allow mr. blake's name to be associated with yours in her room.' "then, sur, that 'ere willain he swore like a trooper, and said he'd make you rue the day you were born. after that, they were silent for a little while, and then she says to him-"'i believe she knows what you are wanting to do, and has some idea of the influence you have exerted over him. she's as sharp as a lancet, and it's difficult to deceive her.' "'if only that blake hadn't come,' he says, as if talkin' to hisself. "'yes,' she says, 'but he has come,' says she. "'but if he can be made to leave her, and never speak to her again, will it not show to her that he's what you said he was, and thus turn her against him?' "'i don't know. she's been cool enough to drive him away,' said that 'ere miss staggles. "'but if he leaves disgraced, proved to be a villain, a deceiver, a blackleg, or worse than that, while i show up as an angel of light?' "'i don't know,' she says. 'you are a wonderful man; you can do almost anything. you could charm even an angel.' "'well, you'll do your best for me, won't you?' says he. "'you know i will,' she says; 'but we must not be seen together like this, or they will suspect something.' "'true,' says he, 'but i want to know how things are goin' on.' then he stopped a minit, and a thought seemed to strike him. 'miss staggles, my friend,' he says, 'watch her closely, and meet me here on new year's day, at five o'clock in the evening. it's dark then, and everybody will be indoors.'" "then, yer honour, they went away together, and i was on the look-out for you all day yesterday." there was much in simon's story to think about, and for a time all was mystery to me. one thing, however, i thought was clear. he had either found he could do no good by his mesmeric influences, or else he had lost them, and so he was working up some other scheme against me. i pondered long over the words, "if he leaves disgraced, proved to be a villain, a deceiver, a blackleg, or worse than that, while i show up as an angel of light?" surely that meant a great deal! i must be on the watch. i must be as cunning as he. i did not like eavesdropping or playing the spy, and yet i felt there were times when it would be right to do so, and surely that time had come in my history. there was villainy to be unmasked, there was a true, innocent girl to be saved, while my reputation, happiness, and perhaps life were in danger. i determined i would meet stratagem with stratagem. i would hear this conference in the wood that evening. i would seek to undeceive miss forrest, too, whose behaviour was now explained. accordingly, after a few more words with simon, i wended my way back to the house again. i found miss forrest still in the library, together with tom temple and edith gray. all three looked up brightly at my entrance. "we were just talking about you, justin," said tom, as i joined them. "i had been telling these ladies what a terrible woman-avoider you have always been. miss forrest wouldn't believe me at first; but that story of your walking five miles alone, rather than ride in a carriage with some ladies, has convinced her. i thought you had improved the first day or so after you came, but you seem to have fallen back into your old ways." "don't put the fault on me, tom," i said. "the fault has generally been with the ladies. the truth is, i'm not a ladies' man, and hence not liked by them. i have generally been put down as a kind of bore, i expect, and i've never taken the trouble to improve my reputation." "then you ought," said miss gray, laughingly. "it's a shame that you should be under such a ban, because if a man can't make himself pleasant to ladies, what _can_ he do?" "well, i should like to turn over a new leaf," i replied; "but then i don't seem to please. i've no doubt my company is very tiring, and thus i must be left out in the cold." "nonsense," replied tom. "let us have another ride this afternoon, and see whether you can't make miss forrest a pleasant companion." "if miss forrest would allow me, i should be delighted," i said. i expected an excuse, such as a cold, a headache, or some previous engagement, especially as she had looked steadily into the fire while we had been talking. instead of this, however, she frankly accepted my escort, and accordingly the ride was arranged. nothing of importance happened before we started. we had gone out quietly, and had attracted no notice, and rode away towards the ruins of an old castle which tom thought we should like to visit. as i stated, it was a raw, cold day; but i did not feel the biting wind, or notice the weird desolation that was all around. i felt supremely happy as i rode by miss forrest's side. we had gone perhaps two miles from the house, when we found ourselves separated from tom temple and miss gray, and we slackened our horses' speed to a walk. "have you thought my conduct strange since we last rode out together?" she said. "i have indeed," i replied bluntly, "especially as i do not remember having done anything that should merit your evident dislike to me." "i owe you an apology," she said. "i have been very foolish, very unjust. i am very sorry." "but might i ask why you saw fit to change your conduct from friendliness to extreme aversion?" "i'm almost ashamed to tell you, mr. blake, but i will. if there is one thing for which i have aversion and contempt, it is for flirting, coquetry, and the like. if there is any species of mankind that i despise, it is that of a flirt, a society man, a ladies' man." "and have i ever given evidence of belonging to that class, miss forrest?" "no," she replied; "and that is why i am so ashamed of myself. but i listened to some foolish gossip about your boasting of your conquests with ladies and the like. i know i ought not to have listened to it, but i did. i am very sorry; will you forgive me?" she said this frankly, and without hesitation; yet i thought i saw a blush mount her cheek as she spoke. "if there is anything to forgive, i do forgive you," i replied, "especially as i despise that class of individuals as much as you. the vapid, dancing society mannikin is everywhere an object of contempt, while a society girl, as generally accepted, is not a whit more to my taste." i saw she was pleased at this, and i felt i loved her more than ever. did she, i wondered, care anything for me? was there any vestige of interest in her heart beyond that which she felt for any passing acquaintance? "mr. blake," she said, after pausing a second, "do you remember what we were talking about that day when we last rode out together?" "we were talking of mr. voltaire," i said. "have you found out anything more about him?" "no, i have not. is there any mystery connected with him?" "i think there is. i have an indistinct kind of feeling that both he and the egyptian are deceivers, while i am sure that mr. voltaire is--is your enemy." "i have no doubt he is," i said. she looked at me strangely. "i had not been in temple hall two hours before that man had marked me as one that he would fain be rid of." "indeed," she said; "then if that is the case, you should listen to my advice. have nothing to do with him." "but i must have something to do with him, and with his friend the egyptian as well." "don't," she said anxiously; "the two work together, and both are cunning as serpents. i believe," she continued, after a pause, "that the thought-reading and mesmerism were somehow designed to injure you. i think somehow they are acquainted with forces unknown to us, and will use them for evil." "yes, i believe all that," i said. "then why must you have any dealings with them?" "because they will have dealings with me; because they are plotting against me; because there are forces, over which i have no control, drawing me on." "but why will they have dealings with you? why are they plotting against you?" "because voltaire knows that i love, with all my soul, the woman he wants to win for his wife." a curious look shot across her face. what was it? love, astonishment, pain, vexation, or joy? i could not tell; but my tongue was unloosed. "do i annoy you, astonish you, miss forrest?" i said. "forgive me if i do. i have been regarded as a woman-hater, a society-avoider. that is because i never saw a woman in whom i was sufficiently interested to court her society. i have heard it said that such characters fall in love quickly, or not at all. the first day i saw you i fell in love with you; i love you now with all my soul." she looked at my face steadily, but did not speak a word. "voltaire has found out this, and he too wants you for his wife; so he has been trying--is trying--to drive me away from here. how i cannot tell you; but what i have said is true!" i spoke rapidly, passionately, and i saw that her face became alternately pale and red, but she did not reply. "am i bold to speak thus?" i asked. "i think i must be, for i have scarcely known you a week. but i cannot help it. my life is given up to you. if i could but know that my love were not in vain! if you could give me some word of hope!" a beautiful look lit up her eyes; she opened her mouth to speak, when a voice shouted-"come, justin; don't loiter so. we shall not get back in time for dinner, if you do." it was tom temple who spoke, and a turn in the lane revealed him. to say i was sorry would be but to hint at my feelings. but i could not hinder the turn things had taken, so we started our horses into a gallop, i hoping that soon another opportunity might occur for our being alone, when i trusted she would tell me what i desired to know. i do not know how i dared to make my confession of love, for certainly i had but little proof of her caring for me. if i hoped, it was almost without reason; and yet, as we galloped on, my heart beat right joyfully. nothing of importance occurred during the ride. the castle we visited was grim and grey enough; but it was not the kind of afternoon when one could enjoy to the full such a place, so we were not long before we turned our horses' heads homeward. time after time, on our homeward journey, did i contrive to be alone with miss forrest, but always in vain. she kept by the side of edith gray in spite of all my schemes to get her by mine. her lips were compressed, and her eyes had a strange look. i longed to know what she was thinking about, but her face revealed nothing. we came to the house at length, however, and then i hastened from her side to lift her from the saddle. then my heart gave a great throb, for i thought she returned the pressure of my hand. "do be careful about that man," she said hurriedly, and then ran into the house. it was joy and light to me, and i needed it in the dark days that came after. the stable-boy had scarcely taken the horses when a thought struck me. i looked at my watch, and it was almost too dark for me to discern the time, but i saw, after some difficulty, that it wanted but a few minutes to five. in my joy i had forgotten my determination, but now i quickly made my way to the summer-house that stood in the dark fir plantation. chapter ix the hall ghost perhaps some of my readers may think i was doing wrong in determining to listen to the proposed conference between miss staggles and voltaire. i do not offer any excuse, however. i felt that if this man was to be fought, it must be by his own weapons; such, at any rate, as i could use. i remembered the terrible influence he had exercised over me, the power of which might not yet be broken. i remembered miss forrest too. evidently this man was a villain, and wanted to make her his wife. to stop such an event, i would devote my life. something important might be the result of such a conversation. i might hear disclosed the secret of his influence, and thereby discover the means whereby i could be free, and this freedom might, i hoped, make me his master. anyhow, i went. the dark clouds which swept across the sky hid the pale rays of the moon, and, clothed in black as i was, it would be difficult to see me amongst the dark tall trees. i hurried to the summer-house, for i wished to be there before they arrived. i was successful in this. when i came, all was silent; so i got behind a large tree, which, while it hid me from any one entering the house, enabled me to be within earshot of anything that might be said, especially so as the summer-house was a rustic affair, and the sides by no means thick. silently i waited for, i should think, half-an-hour; then a woman came alone. evidently she was cold, for she stamped her feet against the wood floor with great vehemence. minute after minute passed by, and still there was no third party. then i heard a low "hist." "you're late," said the woman's voice, which i recognized as miss staggles'. "yes; and we must not stay long." "why?" "because i think we are watched." "but why should we be watched? surely no one perceives that we are suspicious parties?" "i cannot say. i only know i cannot stay long." "why, again?" "i have much to think about, much to do." "and i have much to tell you." "i can guess it, i think; but i must know. tell me quickly." he spoke peremptorily, as if he had a right to command, while she did not resent his dictatorial tones. "they've been riding together again to-day." "i guessed it. bah! what a fool i've been! but there, that may mean nothing." "but it does; it means a great deal." "what?" "i believe that he's asked her to be his wife. in fact, i'm sure he has." "darkness and death, he has! and she?" "i hardly know; but as sure as we are alive, she likes him." "how do you know this?" "i saw them come in from their ride, and so i guessed that they had become friendly again." "well?" "well, i met her in the hall. she looked as happy as a girl could well look. i am a woman, so i began to put two and two together. i determined to listen. i went up-stairs to my room, which, you know, is close to miss gray's and gertrude's. if you had known girls as long as i, you would know that they usually make friends and confidantes of each other. i found this to be true in the present case. gertrude had not been in their room above five minutes before miss gray came to the door and asked to come in. it was immediately opened, and she entered." "and what then?" "i listened." "just so; i expected that. but what did you hear?" "i could not catch all they said; but i gathered that they had a delightful ride, that mr. blake had made a declaration of love to gertrude." "and her answer?" "i could not catch that; she spoke too low. but i should think it was favourable, for there was a great deal of whispering, and after a while i heard something about that dreadful man being mr. blake's enemy." "ah! how did they know that?" "i gathered that mr. blake told her. look here, herod voltaire; you are playing a losing game." "i playing a losing game? do not fear. i'll win, i'll win, or--or--" here he paused, as if a thought struck him. "why don't you get an influence over her, as you did over blake? then you could manage easily." "i cannot. i've tried; her nature is not susceptible; besides, even if i got such a power, i could not use it. you cannot force love, and the very nature of the case would make such a thing impossible. stay! you know miss forrest well, don't you, her education, and her disposition?" "i've known her long enough." "well, tell me whether i am correct in my estimate of her character. if i am, i do not fear. she's very clear-headed, sharp, and clever; a hater of humbug, a despiser of cant." "true enough; but what's this got to do with the matter?" "in spite of this, however," went on voltaire without heeding miss staggles' query, "she has a great deal of romance in her nature; has a strong love for mystery, so much so that she is in some things a trifle superstitious." "i can't say as to that, but i should think you are correct." "then she's a young lady of very strong likes and dislikes, but at bottom is of a very affectionate nature." "affectionate to nearly every one but me," muttered miss staggles. "she is intensely proud--" "as lucifer!" interrupted miss staggles. "this is her great weakness," went on voltaire. "her pride will overcome her judgment, and because of it she will do things for which she will afterwards be sorry. is this true?" "true to the letter. you must be a wizard, herod voltaire, or you couldn't have summed up her disposition so correctly." "her sense of honour is very great. she would sacrifice her happiness to do what was thought to be honourable." "i believe she would." "then my path is marked out," said he, savagely. from that time i could catch nothing of what was said, although they conversed for five minutes at least. but it was in whispers, so low that i could not catch a word. presently they got up and went away, while i, with aching head and fast-beating heart, tried to think what to do. everything was mystery. i could not see a step before me. why should miss staggles be so willing to help herod voltaire, and what were the designs in his mind? what was his purpose in getting at a correct estimate of miss forrest's character? i went to the house pondering these things in my mind, and, arriving there, heard the hall clock strike the quarter, from which i knew it was a quarter past six. we were to dine at seven that day, and, as i did not usually make an elaborate toilette, i knew i had plenty of time. i felt i could not go in for a few minutes; my brain seemed on fire. i turned to take a walk towards the park gates, when i heard a footstep, and turning, saw simon slowden. "can you give me ten minutes before dinner, sur?" he said. "i dare say," i said. he led me into the room in which we had spoken together before. "there's something wrong, yer honour," he said in a low voice. "how do you know?" "why, that 'ere egyptian hev bin doggin' me all day. he's got a hinklin' as how we're tryin' to match 'em, and reckons as how i'm yer friend. besides, to-day when i see you ride hoff with the young lady, i thinks to myself, 'there's no knowin' what time he'll be back.' i know what 'tis, yer honour; hi've bin in the arms o' wenus myself, and knows as 'ow a hour slips away like a minnit. so as there wur no tellin' if you would get to the summer-house to-night at five o'clock, i thought i'd just toddle up myself. but 'twas no go. i sees they two willains a-talkin' together, and when that 'ere woltaire went off by himself, the other took it 'pon him to keep wi' me. i tried to git 'im off, but 'twas no use; he stuck to me like a limpet to a rock." "perhaps it was all fancy, simon." "no fancy in me, but a lot o' judgment. fact, sur, i've begun to think for the fust time as 'ow some things in the bible ain't true. in the psalms of solomon it reads, 'resist the devil and he'll go away howlin'.' well, i've resisted that 'ere devil, and he wouldn't go away till he'd knowed as how he'd played his little game;" and simon looked very solemn indeed. "is that all, simon?" "all, yer honour. 'tisn't much, you think; but to me it looks mighty suspicious, as i said to my sweetheart when i see her a-huggin' and kissin' the coachman." i went away laughing, but my heart was still heavy. try as i would, i could not dispel the fancy that soon something terrible would happen. during dinner kaffar made himself very disagreeable. this was somewhat unusual, as he was generally very bland and polite, but to-night he was so cantankerous that i fancied he must have been drinking. to me he was especially insulting, and went so far as to hint that i, unlike other englishmen, was a coward; that i hadn't courage to resist a man manfully, but would act towards an enemy in a cunning, serpent-like way. this was not the first occasion on which he had sought to pick a quarrel with me, and i felt like resenting it. i desisted, however, as there were ladies present, and went on quietly talking to my neighbour as if he hadn't spoken. this roused his ire more, while i saw that voltaire watched me with his light glittering eye, as if expecting a scene. after dinner, this being new year's day, we passed a more than usually merry time. stories were told, old ballads were sung, while roger de coverley was danced in downright earnest by most of those who were present. by midnight, however, the old hall was silent; each of us had repaired to his room, and most, i expect, were quietly asleep, when a terrible scream was heard, after which there were shouts for help and hysterical cries. the sounds seemed to come from the direction of the servants' hall, and, quickly putting on some clothes, i hurried thither. i soon found that the noise had roused the whole household, and so, when i arrived, i found a number of the guests had gathered together. on looking into the room, i saw that the housekeeper was lying in a swoon, one of the servants was in hysterics, while simon slowden, who was in the room, and the page boy looked as white as sheets, and were trembling evidently with fear. "what does this mean?" asked tom temple, a little angrily. at this the housekeeper became conscious and said in a hoarse whisper, "is she gone?" "what? who do you mean?" asked tom. "the hall lady," she said fearfully. "we are all friends here," said tom, and i thought i detected an amount of anxiety in his voice. this appeared to assure the housekeeper, who got up and tried to collect her thoughts. we all waited anxiously for her to speak. "i have stayed up late, mr. temple," she said to tom, "in order to arrange somewhat for the party you propose giving on thursday. the work had got behind, and so i asked two or three of the servants to assist me." she stopped here, as if at a loss how to proceed. "go on, mrs. richards; we want to know all. surely there must be something terrible to cause you all to arouse us in this way." "i'll tell you as well as i can," said the housekeeper, "but i can hardly bear to think about it. twas about one o'clock, and we were all very busy, when we heard a noise in the corridor outside the door. naturally we turned to look, when the door opened and something entered." "well, what? some servant walking in her sleep?" "no, sir," said mrs. richards in awful tones. "it looked like a woman, very tall, and she had a long white shroud around her, and on it were spots of blood. in her hand she carried a long knife, which was also covered with blood, while the hand which held it was red. she came closer to us," she went on with a shudder, "and then stopped, lifting the terrible knife in the air. i cannot remember any more, for i was so terribly frightened. i gave an awful scream, and then i suppose i fainted." this story was told with many interruptions, many pauses, many cries, and i saw that the faces of those around were blanched with fear. "do you know what it did, simon," said tom, turning to that worthy, "after it lifted its knife in the air?" "she went away with a wail like," said simon, slowly; "she opened the door and went out. an' then i tried to go to the door, and when i got there, there was nothin'." "that is, you looked into the passage?" simon nodded. "and what did you think she was like?" "like the hall ghost, as i've heard so much about," said simon. "the hall ghost!" cried the ladies, hysterically. "what does that mean, mr. temple?" i do not think tom should have encouraged their superstition by telling them, but he did. he was excited, and scarcely knew what was best to do. "they say that, like other old houses, temple hall has its ghost," he said; "that she usually appears on new year's night. if the year is to be good to those within at the time, she comes with flowers and dressed in gay attire; if bad, she is clothed in black; if there's to be death for any one, she wears a shroud. but it's all nonsense, you know," said tom, uneasily. "and she's come in a shroud," said the servant who had been in hysterics, "and there was spots of blood upon it, and that means that the one who dies will be murdered; and there was a knife in her hand, and that means that 'twill be done by a knife." it would be impossible to describe the effect this girl's words made. she made the ghost very real to many, and the calamity which she was supposed to foretell seemed certain to come to pass. i looked at gertrude forrest and ethel gray, who, wrapped in their dressing-gowns, stood side by side, and i saw that both of them were terribly moved. voltaire and kaffar were both there, but they uttered no word. they, too, seemed to believe in the reality of the apparition. after a great deal of questioning on the part of the lady guests, and many soothing replies on the part of the men, something like quietness was at length restored, and many of the braver ones began to return to their rooms, until tom and i were left alone in the servants' hall. we again questioned the servants, but with the same result, and then we went quietly up-stairs. arriving at the landing, we saw miss forrest and miss gray leaving mrs. temple at the door of her room. tom hurried to miss gray, and took her by the hand, while i, nothing loth, spoke to miss forrest. "there's surely some trick in this," i said to her. i felt her hand tremble in mine as she spoke. "i do not know. it seems terribly real, and i have heard of such strange things." "but you are not afraid? if you are, i shall be up all night, and will be so happy to help you." i thought i felt a gentle pressure of her hand, but i was not sure; but i know that her look made me very happy as she, together with edith gray, entered her room a few minutes after. when they had gone, i said to tom, "i am not going to bed to-night." "no?" said tom. "well, i'll stay up with you." "this ghost affair is nonsense, tom. i hope you will not find any valuables gone to-morrow." "real or not," said tom, gaily, "i'm glad it came." "how's that?" "it gave me nerve to pop the question," he replied. "i told my little girl just now--for she is mine now--that she wanted a strong man to protect such a weak little darling." "and she?" "she said that she knew of no one, whom she liked, that cared enough for her to protect her. so i told her i did, and then--well, what followed was perfectly satisfactory." i congratulated him on his audacity, and then we spent the night in wandering about the first floor of the house, trying to find the ghost, but in vain; and when the morning came, and we all tried to laugh at the ghost, i felt that there was a deep, sinister meaning in it all, and wondered what the end would be. chapter x the coming of the night directly after breakfast i went away alone. i wanted to get rid of an awful weight which oppressed me. i walked rapidly, for the morning was cold. i had scarcely reached the park gates, however, when a hand touched me. i turned and saw kaffar. "i hope your solitary walk is pleasant," he said, revealing his white teeth. "thank you," i replied coldly. i thought he was going to leave me, but he kept close by my side, as if he wanted to say something. i did not encourage him to speak, however; i walked rapidly on in silence. "temple hall is a curious place," he said. "very," i replied. "so different from egypt--ah, so different. there the skies are bright, the trees are always green. there the golden sandhills stretch away, the palm trees wave, the nile sweeps majestic. there the cold winds scarcely ever blow, and the people's hearts are warm." "i suppose so." "there are mysteries there, as in temple hall, mr. blake; but mysteries are sometimes of human origin." as he said this, he leered up into my face, as if to read my thoughts; but i governed my features pretty well, and thus, i think, deceived him. "perhaps you know this?" he said. "no," i replied. "i am connected with no mysteries." "not with the appearance of the ghost last night?" i looked at him in astonishment. the insinuation was so far from true that for the moment i was too surprised to speak. he gave a fierce savage laugh, and clapped his hands close against my face. "i knew i was right," he said; and then, before i had time to reply, he turned on his heel and walked away. things were indeed taking curious turns, and i wondered what would happen next. what motive, i asked, could kaffar have in connecting me with the ghost, and what was the plot which was being concocted? there in the broad daylight the apparition seemed very unreal. the servants, alone in the hall at midnight, perhaps talking about the traditional ghost, could easily have frightened themselves into the belief that they had seen it. or perhaps one of their fellow-servants sought to play them a trick, and ran away when they saw what they had done. i would sift a little deeper. i immediately retraced my steps to the house, where meeting tom, i asked him to let me have simon slowden and a couple of dogs, as i wanted to shoot a few rabbits. this was easily arranged, and soon after simon and i were together. away on the open moors there was no fear of eavesdroppers; no one could hear what we said. "simon," i said, after some time, "have you thought any more of the wonderful ghost that you saw last night?" instantly his face turned pale, and he shuddered as if in fear. at any rate, the ghost was real to him. "yer honour," he said, "i don't feel as if i can talk about her. i've played in 'amlet, yer honour, along with octavius bumpus's travellin' theatre, and i can nail a made-up livin' ghost in a minnit; but this ghost didn't look made up. there was no blood, yer honour; she looked as if she 'ad bin waccinated forty times." "and were the movements of her legs and arms natural?" "no j'ints, master blake. she looked like a wooden figger without proper j'ints! perhaps she 'ad a few wire pins in her 'natomy; but no j'ints proper." "so you believe in this ghost?" "can't help it, yer honour." "simon, i don't. there's some deep-laid scheme on foot somewhere; and i think i can guess who's working it." simon started. "you don't think that 'ere waccinatin', sumnamblifyin' willain 'ev got the thing in 'and?" i didn't speak, but looked keenly at him. at first he did nothing but stare vacantly, but presently a look of intelligence flashed into his eyes. then he gave a shrug, as if he was disgusted with himself, which was followed by an expression of grim determination. "master blake," he said solemnly, "it's that waccinatin' process as hev done it. simon slowden couldn't hev bin sich a nincompoop if he hadn't bin waccinated 'gainst whoopin' cough, measles, and small-pox. yer honour," he continued, "after i wur waccinated i broke out in a kind of rash all over, and that 'ere rash must have robbed me of my senses; but i'm blowed--there, i can't say fairer nor that." "why, what do you think?" "i daren't tell you, yer honour, for fear i'll make another mistake. i thowt, sur, as it would take a hangel with black wings to nick me like this 'ere, and now i've bin done by somebody; but it's the waccinatin', yer honour--it's the waccination. in the proverbs of job we read, 'fool and his money soon parted,' and so we can see 'ow true the teachin' is to-day." "but what is to be done, simon?" simon shook his head, and then said solemnly, "i'm away from my bearin's, sur. i thought when i wur done the last time it should be the last time. it wur in this way, sur. i was in the doctor's service as waccinated me. says he, when he'd done, 'simon, you'll never have small-pox now.' 'think not?' says i. 'never,' says he; and when susan the 'ousemaid heard on it, she says, 'i am so glad, simon.' then, says i, 'susan, when people are married they're converted into one flesh. that's scripter. you get married to me,' says i, 'and you'll be kept free from small-pox, without goin' threw this yer willifyin' process.' wi' that she looks at me, and she says, 'you are purty, and i'll try you for three months; if you don't get small-pox in that time, why then--we'll talk about it.' so i says, 'say yes at once, susan. the doctor says i can't get it, so there's no sort o' fear.' i wur young and simple then, and thowt doctors never made a mistake. well, sur, in two months more i were down wi' small-pox, and when i got up again i wur a sight to behold. as soon as i wur fit to be seen i went to susan to git a mite o' comfort, and then i see 'er a-courtin' wi' the coachman. and i says to myself, 'simon slowden,' i says, 'this yer is the last time you must be ever taken in;' and now i'm right mad that i should 'a bin licked in this yer way." i could not help laughing at simon's story, in spite of my heavy heart, and so i asked him what the doctor said when he found vaccination a failure. "sent me off without a character, sur," he replied grimly. "said he couldn't keep a servant as would be a livin' advertisement as 'ow his pet 'obby wer a failure. and so i allays say as 'ow waccination is my ruin. it's ruined my blood and weakened my brain. still," continued simon, with a sly look, "i reckon as 'ow i'll be a match for that 'ere doubly waccinated ghost as frightened me so." i could get nothing more from him. he had formed some notion about the apparition which he would not divulge, so we devoted our attention to sport, and, after frightening a good many rabbits, we returned to the hall. nothing of importance happened through the day, except an inquiry which tom made among the servants. each declared that they were entirely ignorant as to the appearance of the ghost, and all were evidently too frightened to doubt the truth of their statement. thus when evening came nothing was known of it. kaffar did not speak to me from the time i had seen him in the morning to dinner-time, and evidently avoided me. voltaire, on the contrary, was unusually bland and smiling. he was pleasant and agreeable to every one, especially so to me. after dinner we all found our way to the drawing-room, when the usual singing, flirting, and dancing programme was carried out. suddenly, however, there was comparative silence. one voice only was heard, and that was the egyptian's. "yes," he was saying, "i am what is called a superstitious man. i believe in dreams, visions, and returned spirits of the dead. but, ah! i do not believe in made-up ghosts. oh, you cold-blooded english people, don't mistake the impulsive egyptian; don't accuse him of lack of faith in the unseen. so much do i believe in it, that sometimes i long to be with those who have gone. but, bah! the ghost last night was to deceive, to frighten. got up by some villain for a purpose, and i can guess who he is." "this is serious," said tom temple. "i have inquired of the servants, who all assure me of their entire ignorance of the matter, and i cannot think that any of my guests would assume the person of the traditional ghost for no other purpose than to frighten the housekeeper and two or three servants. i'm by no means superstitious, but i do not see how i can trace it to human origin." "i cannot see why any guest should assume the person of the traditional ghost, but some men have deep designing minds. they are like clever draught-players; they see half-a-dozen moves ahead, and so do that which to a novice appears meaningless and absurd." then i heard another voice, one that caused my heart to beat wildly. it was gertrude forrest's. "mr. kaffar says he can guess who the person is who has personated this ghost," she said; "i think it fair to every guest that he should speak out." "i would not like to say," he said insultingly; "perchance i should wound _your_ tender feelings too deeply." "mr. kaffar will remember he's speaking to a lady, i'm sure," said tom temple. "pardon me," said kaffar, excitedly; "i forgot i was in england, where men are the slaves of the ladies. with us it is different. we speak and they obey. i forgot i was not in egypt. i have done very wrong. i implore the lady's pardon." "i see no meaning in your words," said miss forrest, quietly, "therefore i see nothing to forgive." "ah, i live again. a heavy load is gone from my heart! i have not merited the lady's displeasure." "still i think it right, if you have grounds for suspecting any one, that we should know," said a voice; "otherwise some one may be wrongly accused." "do not ask me," said kaffar. "ask mr. blake." instantly all eyes were turned on me, and, do as i might, i could not help an uncomfortable flush rising in my face. "i do not know what mr. kaffar means," i replied. "i am as ignorant as to the origin of the ghost as he is, perhaps more so." instantly kaffar leapt from his chair, and came up to me, his hands clenched, his black eyes gleaming, his teeth set together as if in a terrible rage. "you are a liar and a villain!" he screamed. "ah, remember this morning. i accused him, gentlemen, of being connected with this ghost only to-day, and he flushed guiltily and was silent. he looked like a judas who betrayed his master." "quietly, please," i replied. "you did come to me this morning with some foolish jargon about my being connected with last night's affair, but i was so surprised by the absurdity and foolishness of such a thing, that i could not answer you before you ran away." "you hear?" shrieked the egyptian. "so surprised, was he? if he was, it was because i had found him out." "this man is mad," i said. "surely he ought to be shut up." "mad, am i?" he shrieked. "yes, and you are a liar, a coward, a villain! you are engaged in a fiendish plot; you are deceiving an innocent lady. ah, i spurn you, spit upon you." "mr. kaffar," said tom temple, "really this cannot be allowed. you must remember you are among gentlemen and ladies. please act accordingly." "ladies there are, gentlemen there are," shrieked the egyptian; "but he"--pointing at me--"is no gentleman. he is at once a viper, a villain, and a coward. i leave this house; i renounce pleasant society; i leave this country--for ever; but before i go i would like to fight hand to hand with that giant, who--ha!" he stood close to me and spat at me. "there!" he cried, and then he struck me in the face with all his strength. instantly i leapt to my feet. this insult was too great. i could scarcely restrain from striking him to the ground. i mastered myself, however, and so did not touch him. "i leave this house," he said wildly. "herod, send on my baggage to cairo. but"--turning to me--"you i challenge--you, with your big body and trained arms! but, bah! you dar'n't fight. you are a mooning coward." he rushed out of the room as he spoke, and a minute later i heard the hall door slammed with vehemence. at that moment i became possessed of a terrible passion. i seemed to be mad. i longed to avenge the insults that had been offered. i looked around the room, and all seemed astounded at the behaviour of the egyptian, save voltaire, who was apologizing in profuse terms for his friend. as i looked at his terrible eyes, my passion became greater, and i felt i could not govern myself if i stayed in the room. i think some one came up to me, and congratulated me on my coolness in dealing with the man who had insulted me so; but i did not listen--i could not. an overmastering impulse laid hold of me to follow the egyptian, and i dimly remember going into the hall and out into the silent night. i knew the probability was that i should be followed, but i did not know where to go, when i seemed to hear voices all around me uttering the words "drearwater pond!" with that i started running with all my might, knowing not where, yet dimly remembering that i had gone the road before. then all memory and consciousness ceased. chapter xi dark dreams and night shadows i suppose i must have gone on blindly for some time, for when i again became conscious i stood beside a river, while tall trees waved their leafless branches overhead. strange noises filled the air. sometimes wailing sounds were wafted to me, which presently changed into hisses, until it seemed as if a thousand serpents were creeping all around me. the waters of the river looked black, while above me were weird, fantastic forms leaping in the stillness of the night. no words were spoken, no language was uttered, save that of wailing and hissing, and that somehow was indistinct, as if it existed in fancy and not in reality. by and by, however, i heard a voice. "onward!" it said, and i became unconscious. * * * * * again i realized my existence in a vague shadowy way. i stood beneath the ruined walls of an eastern temple. huge columns arose in the air, surmounted by colossal architraves, while the ponderous stones of which the temple was built were covered with lichen. large grey lizards crawled in and out among the crevices of the rocks, and seemed to laugh as they sported amidst what was once the expression of a great religious system, but which was now terrible in its weird desolation. by and by the great building seemed to assume its original shape and became inhabited by white-robed priests, who ministered to the people who came to worship. i watched eagerly, but they faded away, leaving nothing save the feeling that a terrible presence filled the place. i heard a noise behind; i turned and saw kaffar, his black eyes shining, while in his hand he held a gleaming knife. he lifted it above his head as if to strike; but i had the strength of ten men, and i hurled him from me. he looked at me with a savage leer. "onward!" said a distant voice. the temple vanished, and with it all my realization of life, save a vague fancy that i was moving somewhere, i knew not where. * * * * * i stood by a well-remembered spot. i was by the side of drearwater pond. around me was a stretch of common land, on which grew heather and furze. in front of me were noiseless waters, a dismal sight at the best of times, but awful as i saw them. across the pond in the near distance loomed the dark fir trees. no sound broke the stillness of the night. the wind had gone to rest, the moon shone dimly from behind the misty clouds. i stood alone. each minute my surroundings became more real. i recognized more clearly the objects which had struck me during my first visit, while the stories which had been told came back to me with terrible distinctness. i remembered how it had been said that the pond had no bottom, and that it was haunted by the spirits of those that had been murdered. the story of its evil influence came back to me, and in my bewildered condition i wondered whether there was not some truth in what had been said. what was that? the waters moved; distinctly moved near to where i stood, and from their dark depths something appeared--i could not at first tell what. what could it be? a monster of frightful mien? the ghost of some murdered man or woman? i could have believed in either just then. it was neither. what then? a human hand, large and shapely, appeared distinctly on the surface of the pond. nothing more, not even the wrist to which it might be attached. it did not beckon, or indeed move at all; it was as still as the hand of death. i stood motionless and watched, while the outline of the hand became more clear; then i gave an awful shudder. _the hand was red._ i gave a shriek, and for a time remembered nothing more. * * * * * i awoke to consciousness, fighting. at first it seemed as if i was fighting with a phantom, but gradually my opponent became more real to me. it was kaffar. i had only a dim hazy idea of what i was doing, except that i sought to wrest from his hand a knife. we clutched each other savagely, and wrestled there on the edge of the pond. weights seemed to hang upon my limbs, but i felt the stronger of the two. gradually i knew i was mastering him--then all was blank. * * * * * a sound of voices. a flash of light. a feeling of freedom, and i was awake! where? still by drearwater pond. no phantoms, no shadow, nothing unreal, save the memory of that which i have but dimly described. that was but as a terrible nightmare--an awful dream. where was kaffar? i could not tell. certainly he was not near; but two other forms stood by me, one bearing a lantern. "is it you, justin?" said a voice. "it is i, tom," i said, looking vacantly around. "and where is kaffar?" said another voice, which i recognized as voltaire's. "kaffar? i--i do not know." "but you have been together." "have we?" i said vacantly. "you know you have. what is that in your hand?" i had scarcely known what i had been saying or doing up to this time, but as he spoke i looked at my hand. in the light of the moon i saw a knife red with blood, and my hand, too, was also discoloured. "what does this mean?" cried voltaire. "i do not know. i am dazed--bewildered." "but that is kaffar's knife. i know he had it this very evening. where is kaffar now?" "is it true?" i remember saying. "have we been together?" "that's his knife, at any rate. and what is this?" voltaire picked up something from the ground and looked at it. "kaffar's," he said. "look, mr. blake; do you recognize this?" i looked and saw a finely-worked neckcloth, on which was written in arabic characters the words "aba wady kaffar." it had every appearance of being soiled by severe wrenching, and on it were spots of blood. my faculties were rapidly returning to me, yet i stood as one in a dream. "you say, mr. justin blake, that you do not know where kaffar is, yet you hold in your hand his knife, which is red with blood. here is his scarf, which has evidently been strained, and on it are spots of blood, while all around are marks indicating a struggle. i say you do know what this means, and you must tell us." i reeled under this terrible shock. what had i done? could it be that i had murdered this man? had i? had i? "i do not know what it means," i said. "i think i am ill." "men usually are when they have done what you have," he said. "why, what have i done?" i said, in a dazed kind of a way. "done!" he repeated. "you know best about that, in spite of the part you play. nevertheless, kaffar has not gone without leaving a friend behind him, and you will have to show how you came by that"--pointing to the knife, which i had dropped with a shudder; "this"--holding up the neckcloth; "you must explain these marks"--pointing to footmarks near the water's edge; "besides which, you will have to produce my friend." a terrible thought flashed into my mind. i had again been acting under the influence of this man's power. by some means he had made me the slave of his will, and i had unknowingly killed kaffar, and he, like the fiend he was, had come to sweep me out of his road. perchance, too, kaffar's death might serve him in good stead. undoubtedly the egyptian knew too much for voltaire, and so i was made a tool whereby he could be freed from troublesome obstacles. the idea maddened me. i would proclaim the story to every one. if i were hanged i cared not. i opened my mouth to tell tom the whole truth, but i could not utter a word. my tongue refused to articulate; my power of speech left me. my position was too terrible. my overwrought nerves yielded at last. i felt my head whirling around, while streams of icy water seemed to be running down my legs. then i fell down at tom temple's feet. for some time after that i remembered nothing distinctly. i have some idea of stumbling along, with tom on one side of me and voltaire on the other, but no word was spoken until we came to temple hall. then i heard tom say-"he's better now. you go into the drawing-room as if nothing had happened, and i'll take him quietly up-stairs to bed." i entered the silent house like one in a dream, and went with tom to my bedroom, where i undressed like a weary child, and soon sunk into a deep dreamless sleep. chapter xii a midnight conference some one was knocking at the door. "who's there?" "tom temple." i sprang out of bed and let him in. he looked very grave, very worried. instantly everything flashed through my mind in relation to our terrible meeting of the night before. "it's nine o'clock, justin." "yes, tom, i suppose it must be," i said confusedly; "but i have only just awoke." "i thought i must come; i want to talk with you." "thank you, tom; i am glad you have come." "how are you this morning? is your mind clear?" "fairly. why?" "i must have some conversation with you about last night. everything is confusion. i can explain nothing." "neither can i." he looked at me keenly and sighed. "were you with kaffar last night after he had so abominably insulted you and left the house?" "i do not know." "do you know where he is now?" "no." "no idea whatever?" "not the slightest." "justin, my friend, this looks very strange. everything is terribly black, terribly suspicious." i tried to tell him all i knew; tried to tell him of my mad passion, and the scenes through which i seemed to go; but i could not. my mind refused to think, my tongue refused to speak, when that was the subject. "i suppose voltaire has told every one the circumstances of last night?" i said at length. "no." "no one?" "no one that will divulge anything. every one else thinks that kaffar has gone back to egypt, as he said, and especially so as voltaire has been making arrangements for his luggage to be sent to cairo." "this is astounding. i do not comprehend in the least; but, tell me, who is this some one to whom you or he has related last night's affair, and why was it done?" "i do not know whether i ought to tell or no, but you are an old friend, and i cannot refuse. after i had come down from here last night, and fancying that every one had retired, for it was quite midnight, i, knowing i was too excited to sleep, made my way to the library. i had just reached the door when i heard voices. i wondered who could be up at that time of the night, but was not left to remain long in doubt." "'mr. voltaire,' said a voice, 'you have been out looking for mr. blake; have you found him?'" "'mr. blake is safe in bed before this, miss forrest--probably asleep,' was his reply." "miss forrest!" i cried. "did she go to him?" "evidently," replied tom. "indeed, i found out afterwards that she had been very anxious. she had seen you go out, and watched voltaire and me, who went in search of you, and would not retire until she knew your whereabouts." "well, what then?" "i went into the room. i could not stand and play the eavesdropper. miss forrest seemed very glad to see me, and said eagerly-"'i came down to ask whether you had found mr. blake. i am glad he is safe.' "'and he must remain safe!' cried voltaire. "'why?' asked miss forrest. "'miss forrest,' cried voltaire, vehemently, 'you have been deprived of your rest to-night in order to know about one who is guilty of what you english people call a foul crime, but which i call a deed that must be avenged.' "'i do not understand you.' "'ah! miss forrest, we easterns are not like you english people. you are cool and considerate; we are warm and impulsive. kaffar was not one that could be loved by you cold people; but i loved him. we were more than brothers. i know he was faulty, i know he dared the anger of your english giant, but i did not think it would come to this.' "'come to what?' she asked eagerly. "'voltaire,' i said, 'is this quite fair?' "'no, no!' he cried; 'but i am so excited that i can scarcely master myself. i will say no more.' "'come to what?' repeated miss forrest. "'i will not say,' replied voltaire. 'i will not wound your tender nature; i will not tell you a tale of villainy; i will not cause a ripple on the even stream of your life. retire to rest, sweet lady, and think that what i have said is a dream.' "'villainy!' cried she. 'tell me what it is. yes, there is villainy, i think. i will be answered! tell me the truth!' "even voltaire was cowed by her words. he stood and looked at her for a minute as if in doubt what to do. then he burst out passionately-"'yes, i will answer you. i will tell you now what all the world must know to-morrow. i had hoped to spare your feelings, but the tone of your demand makes me speak.' "'he has no proof for what he is going to say,' i said. "'proof!' cried voltaire. 'there is sufficient proof for an english court of law, and that law is terribly hard on murderers.' "'murderers!' cried miss forrest. 'what do you mean?' "'this!' cried voltaire. 'you saw kaffar challenge mr. blake in the drawing-room?' "'i saw him insult mr. blake. i saw that mr. blake refrained from crushing him beneath his heel like a reptile. i saw that!' she cried excitedly. "'just so,' said voltaire. 'then kaffar went out, and mr. blake went after him.' "'after him! where?' "'mr. temple and i did not like the look on his face, and we followed him. i traced his footsteps along the high-road for a long while, and then we lost sight of them. we knew not where to go, when mr. temple thought he heard voices away in the distance. we went in the direction of the sound, and came to drearwater pond.' "'drearwater pond? that terrible place to which we rode the other day?' "'the same, gentle lady.' "'and then?' "'when we came there we found mr. blake in a reclining position, with a bloody knife in his hand. i recognized it as belonging to kaffar. i saw something lying on the ground, and, on picking it up, found it to be a scarf which kaffar had been wearing this very night. it was twisted and soiled, and on it were spots of blood. footmarks were to be seen on the edge of the deep pond, indicating a struggle; but kaffar was nowhere to be seen.' "'it cannot be! it cannot be!' said miss forrest. 'but what then?' "'i asked mr. blake questions. i accused him of many things, but he denied nothing.' "'denied nothing?' "'nothing, miss forrest. he tacitly admitted everything. i wish i could think otherwise; but oh, i am afraid my friend, my only friend, lies murdered at the bottom of drearwater pond, and murdered by mr. blake.' "'it cannot be!' cried miss forrest. 'mr. blake could never, _never_ do so. there is some mistake.' "he took something from his pocket which was wrapped in a handkerchief. he removed this wrapping, and there revealed the knife you held in your hand. "'this blood cries out for vengeance,' he said; 'ay, and it shall be avenged too.' "she gave a scream as if in pain. 'why, what will you do?' she cried. "'were i in egypt, my vengeance would be speedy,' he said, his light eyes glittering; 'but i am debarred from that here. still, there is a means of vengeance. your english law is stern. to-morrow the whole country shall shudder because of this dark deed, and to-morrow night that man, justin blake, shall sleep in a felon's cell' "'no, no!' she cried. 'not that. have mercy.' "'yes, yes!' he said, his voice husky with passion. 'what mercy did he have upon my friend? i will have vengeance, and my vengeance is just.'" try as i might, i could not help shuddering at this. a felon's cell! my name mentioned with loathing! 'twas too horrible. i tried to conquer myself, however, and to tell tom to go on with his recital. he continued-"'does any one know of these things besides you two?' she said at length. "'no,' replied voltaire. 'no one has had a chance of knowing.'" tom stopped in his recital, as if he would rather not tell what followed. "what next, tom?" i cried eagerly. "i am thinking whether it is fair to her to tell you, and yet it is right you should know." "what was it, tom?" she threw herself down on her knees before us, and besought us to keep the matter in our own hearts. "'it is not true!' she cried; 'mr. blake would never do such a thing. there is some mistake. promise me no word shall be uttered as to this. mr. kaffar has left, as he said, and gone back to egypt. why, then, should such a terrible suspicion be aroused? i will answer for mr. blake's innocence.' "'you answer, miss forrest?' cried voltaire. 'nay, you cannot. i would i could be merciful, but it must not be. my friend's spirit would haunt me from town to town and land to land.' "'mr. temple,' she cried to me, 'you will not tell, will you? you will not spread such a deceptive story about?' "'no,' i replied, 'i will not. like you, i think there must be a mistake. my friend justin could never do this.' "'there,' she cried to voltaire; 'there's only you to be silent. do it for my sake!'" i could not help feeling a great throb of joy in my heart at this. i was sure now that she loved me. i could bear anything after hearing those words. i was happy in spite of the terrible net that was woven around me. "'for your sake,' said voltaire--'for your sake i could do almost anything. for your sake i could give up home, friends, happiness, life. yes, i say this, here, in the presence of my friend temple. i could forego anything for you. i would sacrifice father and mother for you.'" i gave a great start. "justin, that man trembled like a leaf. his face became ashy pale; his terrible eyes became brighter than ever. "'you ask me much,' he continued. 'you ask me to give up what is now the dearest object of my life--except one. but, ah! i am an eastern. i am selfish; i cannot sacrifice disinterestedly. there is only one thing for which i can give up my scheme of vengeance.' "'tell me what it is,' she cried. "'ah, sweet lady, i dare not tell; and yet i must. it is you. be my wife, miss forrest; let me call you by your name, and i will wipe the blood from this knife, i will destroy every evidence of the dark deed. justin blake shall not lie in a prison cell; his name shall not be a synonym for devilry; he shall not be mentioned with loathing.'" "and what then?" i cried. "what was her answer?" "man, she looked at him with loathing, but he did not see it. "'be your wife?' she said. "'my wife, miss forrest,' he replied. 'love cannot be greater than mine. i love the very ground on which you walk. be my wife and i will be your slave. your every desire shall be granted, and i will give up that which is dear to me.' "'and if i will not?' she said. "'ah, if you will not! then--ah, i am an eastern, and cannot give up everything. if i cannot have love, i must have vengeance.' "'but you have made a mistake. your friend is alive. it is absurd to think that mr. blake is guilty of such a deed.' "he pointed with a trembling hand to the bloody knife. "'i can have no stronger proof than that,' he said, 'and that blood cries out for vengeance now.' "'oh, i cannot,' she said, 'i cannot.' "'you refuse me?' he said quietly. "'i must, i must,' she cried. 'it cannot be!' "he went to the writing-desk that stood near by, and commenced writing. 'if a poor eastern cannot have love, he can still have vengeance,' he said. "'what are you writing?' she cried. "'i am writing a letter to the superintendent of the nearest police station, telling him to come with some men to temple hall to arrest a murderer.' "'have you no mercy?' she said. "'mercy, lady. only the great spirit above knows what i had made up my mind to give up, when i told you the condition on which i would be silent. i loved my friend as jonathan loved david, and he is dead--murdered by an enemy's hand. vengeance is one of the sweetest thoughts to an eastern, and i meant to be avenged. you begged for his life, and i offered it--for your love. i asked you to marry me--me, who would give up everything for you; but you refused. i grieve for you, lady; but since i cannot have love, i must have revenge.' "he went on writing, while miss forrest clasped her hands as if in prayer. "i am relating this very badly, justin. i cannot remember many of the things that were said; i cannot call to mind all the gestures, the tones of voice, or the awful anguish which seemed to possess them both. i can only give you a scrappy account of what passed." i remembered tom's powers of memory, however, for which he had always been remarkable at school, and i knew that the account he gave me was not far from correct, and i begged him to go on. "at length she turned to him again," continued tom. "'i am going to show,' she said, 'that i believe mr. blake innocent. you asked me for love; that i cannot give you. i do not love you, i never shall love you; but such is my belief in mr. blake's innocence that i promise you this: if he is not proved to be guiltless within a year, i will marry you.' "he leapt to his feet, as if to embrace her. "'no,' she said; 'you have not heard all my conditions. within that year you are not to see me or communicate with me.' "'but,' he cried, 'if kaffar is dead, if these terrible evidences of murder are real, then in a year--say next christmas eve; 'twas on christmas eve we first met in england--then you will promise to be my wife?' "'i promise.' "'and your promise shall be irrevocable?' "she turned on him with scorn. 'the promise of a lady is ever irrevocable,' she said. "'ah!' cried voltaire, 'love is a stronger passion than vengeance, and my love will win yours.' "'meanwhile,' she went on without noticing this rhapsody, 'if you breathe one word or utter one sound by which suspicion can fall on mr. blake, my promise is forfeited; if you stay here after to-morrow, or attempt to see me within this and next christmas eve, my promise is also forfeited.' "'what, am i to leave you at once?' "'at once.' "he left the room immediately after," said tom, "while, after saying 'good-night' to me, she too retired to her bedroom." to say that i was astonished at the turn things had taken would not give the slightest idea of my feelings. and yet a great joy filled my heart. the sword of damocles, which seemed to hang over my head, possessed no terror. "is that all, tom?" i said at length. "this morning, as i told you, he arranged for kaffar's luggage to be sent to egypt, while he himself is preparing to depart." "where is he going?" "to london." "and miss forrest?" "she, i hope, will stay with us for some time. but, justin, can you really give no explanation of these things? surely you must be able to?" "i cannot, tom. i am hedged in on every side. i'm enslaved, and i cannot tell you how. my life is a mystery, and at times a terror." "but do you know what has become of kaffar?" "no more than that dog barking in the yard. all is dark to me." tom left me then, while i, with my poor tired brain, tried to think what to do. chapter xiii a mesmerist's spell i found on entering the breakfast-room that my presence caused no surprise, neither did any of the guests regard me suspiciously. it had gone abroad that i had gone out to find kaffar, but was unable to do so; and as voltaire had publicly spoken of kaffar's luggage being sent to cairo, there was, to them, no mystery regarding him. several spoke of his going away as being a good riddance, and declared him to be unfit for respectable society; but i did not answer them, and after a while the subject dropped. voltaire, however, was not in the room; and when, after having breakfasted, i was wondering where he was, i felt the old terrible sensation come over me. i tried to resist the influence that was drawing me out of the room, but i could not. i put on my overcoat and hat, and, drawn on by an unseen power, i went away towards the fir plantation in which the summer-house was built. as i knew i should, i found voltaire there. he smiled on me and lifted his hat politely. "i thought i would allow you to have a good breakfast before summoning you," he said, "especially as this is the last conversation we shall have for some time." i thought i detected a look of triumph in his eyes, yet i was sure he regarded me with intense hatred. "yes," i said, "i am come. what is your will now?" "this. i find that mr. temple has told you about an interview which was held in the library last night." "yes; it is true." "do you know of what you are in danger?" "no--what?" "hanging." "what for?" "for murdering kaffar." "did i kill him? i remember nothing. what was done was not because of me, but because of the demon that caused me blindly to act." "names are cheap, my man, and i don't mind. claptrap morality is nothing to me. yes, you killed kaffar--killed him with that knife you held in your hand. i meant that you should. kaffar was getting troublesome to me, and i wanted to get him out of the way. to use you as i did was killing two birds with one stone. you know that miss forrest has promised to marry me if kaffar be not forthcoming by next christmas eve. that, of course, can never be, so my beautiful bride is safe;" and he looked at me with a savage leer. "have you brought me here to tell me that?" "no; but to tell you a little good news. i have decided to hold you as the slave to my will until the day miss gertrude forrest becomes mrs. herod voltaire, and then to set you free. meanwhile, i want to give you a few instructions." "what are they?" "you are not to take one step in trying to prove that kaffar is alive." "ah!" i cried; "you fear i might produce him. then i have not killed him, even through you. thank god! thank god!" "stop your pious exclamations," he said. "no, you are wrong. you did kill kaffar, and he lies at the bottom of yonder ghostly pool; so that is not the reason. why i do not wish you to search for him is that thereby you might find out things about me that i do not wish you to do. in such a life as mine there are naturally things that i do not wish known. in going to my old haunts, trying to unearth kaffar, you would learn something about them. and so i command you," he continued, in a hoarse tone that made me shudder, "that you do not move one step in that direction. if you do--well, you know my power." from that moment i felt more enslaved than ever. i shuddered at the thought of disobeying him; i felt more than ever a lost man. as i felt at that moment, in spite of my desire to let every one know this man's power over me, i would rather have pulled out my tongue than have done so. "are those all your commands?" i said humbly. "ah! you are cowed at last, are you?" he said mockingly. "you matched your strength with mine; now you know what it means. you did not think i could crush you like a grasshopper, did you? yes, i have one other command for you. you must go to london to-morrow, and go on with your old work. you must not hold any communication with miss forrest, my affianced bride. i myself am going to london to-day, and most likely shall remain there for a while. perhaps i shall want to see you occasionally. if i do, you will quickly know. i shall have no need to tell you my address;" and he laughed a savage laugh. "is that all?" i said. "that is all. you will come to the wedding, mr. blake. you shall see her arrayed for her husband, dressed all in white, as a bride should be. you shall see her lips touch mine. you shall see us go away together--the woman you love, and the man who has crushed you as if you were a worm." this maddened me. by a tremendous effort of will i was free. "that shall never be. somehow, some way, i will thwart you," i cried. "i will free myself from you; i will snap your cruel chain asunder." "i defy you!" he said. "you can do nothing that i have commanded you not to do. for the rest i care not a jot." he went away, leaving me alone, and then all the sensations of the previous nights came back to me. i remembered what the ghost was supposed to foretell, and the evil influence the dark pond was said to have. i saw again the large red hand on the water's surface. i recalled dimly the struggle, the fighting, the strange feeling i had as my senses began to leave me. could i have killed him? if i did, i was guiltless of crime. it was not my heart that conceived the thought; it was not i who really did the deed. i had no pangs of conscience, no feeling of remorse, and yet the thought that i had hurried a man into eternity was horrible. i wandered in the plantation for hours, brooding, thinking, despairing. no pen can describe what i felt, no words can convey to the mind the thoughts and pains of my mind and heart. never did i love miss forrest so much, never was voltaire's villainy so real; and yet i was to lose her, and that man--a fiend in human form--was to wed her. i could do nothing. he had paralyzed my energies. he had set a command before me which was as ghastly as hell, and yet i dared not disobey. i, a young, strong man, was a slave--a slave of the worst kind. i was the plaything, the tool of a villain. i had to do as he told me; i had to refrain from doing what he told me i was not to do. i had done i knew not what. perchance a hangman's rope was hanging near me even now. i could not tell. and yet i dared not rise from my chains, and see whether the things i had been accused of doing were true. i went back to the house. voltaire was gone, while the guests and family were having their lunch. i felt that i could not join them, so i went into the library. i had not been there ten minutes when miss forrest entered. she looked pale and worried. i suppose that i, too, must have been haggard, for she started when she saw me. she hesitated a moment, and then spoke. "the whole party are going for a ride this afternoon. they have just been making arrangements. they are going to ask you to join them. shall you go?" she asked. "no; i shall not go," i replied. "will you come here at three o'clock?" "yes," i said, wondering what she meant; but i had not time to ask her, for two young men came into the room. i went to my room and tried to think, but i could not. my mind refused to work. i watched the party ride away--it was comparatively small now, for several had returned to their homes--and then i found my way to the library. i sat for a while in silence, scarcely conscious of my surroundings; and then i wondered how long miss forrest would be before she came, and what she would tell me. the clock on the mantelpiece began to strike three; it had not finished when she entered the room. i placed a chair for her beside my own, which she accepted without a word. for a minute neither of us spoke; then she said abruptly, "you told me you loved me when we rode out together the other day." "i did," i said, "and i do love you with all the intensity that a human heart is capable of loving; but it is hopeless now." "why?" "you have promised to marry another man." "what do you know of this?" both of us were very excited. we were moved to talk in an unconventional strain. "mr. temple told me of your interview together last night." a slight flush came to her face. "but mr. temple has told you the condition of the promise as well," she said. "yes; but that condition makes me hopeless." "what!" she cried. "but no, i will not entertain such a thought. you are as innocent as i am." "yes, i am innocent in thought, in intent, and in heart; but as for the deed itself, i know not." "i do not understand you," she said; "you speak in words that convey no meaning to my mind. will you explain?" "i cannot, miss forrest. i would give all i possess if i could. i have nothing that i would keep secret from you, and yet i cannot tell you that which you would know." did she understand me? did her quick mind guess my condition? i could not tell, and yet a strange look of intelligence flashed from her eyes. "mr. blake," she said, "my soul loathes the thought of marrying that man. if ever my promise has to be fulfilled, i shall die the very day on which he calls me wife." my heart gave a great throb of joy; her every word gave me hope in spite of myself. "mr. blake," she continued, "i never must marry him." "god grant you may not," i said. "i must not," she said, "and you must keep me from danger." "i, miss forrest! i would give the world if i could: but how can i? you do not know the terrible slavery that binds me, neither can i tell you." "i shall trust in you to deliver me from this man," she went on without heeding me. "you must prove yourself to be innocent." "to do that i must bring this man kaffar. i know nothing of him. i could never find him. oh, i tell you, miss forrest, a thousand evil powers seem to rend me when i attempt to do what i long for." "i shall trust in you," she cried. "surely you are sufficiently interested in me to save me from a man like voltaire?" "interested?" i cried. "i would die for you, i love you so. and yet i can do nothing." "you can do something; you can do everything. you can save me from him." "oh," i cried, "i know i must appear a pitiful coward to you. it is for me you have placed yourself in this position, while i refuse to try to liberate you from it. if i only could; if i dared! but i am chained on every hand." "but you are going to break those chains; you are going to be free; you are going to be happy." her words nerved me. the impossible seemed possible, and yet everything was misty. "only one thing can make me happy," i said, "and that can never be now. i have lost my strength; i am become a pitiful coward." "you are going to be happy!" she repeated. "miss forrest," i said, "do not mock me. my life for days has been a hell. i have had a terrible existence; no light shines in the sky. you cannot think what your words mean to me, or you would not speak them." "will you not, for my sake, if not for your own, exert yourself? will you not think of my happiness a little? the thought of marrying that man is madness." "miss forrest," i cried, "you must think i have lost all manhood, all self-respect, when you hear what i say; but the only thing that could make me think of trying to do what is ten thousand times my duty to do, is that you will give me some hope that, if i should succeed, you will be the wife of such a poor thing as i am." she looked at me intently. she was very pale, and her eyes shone like stars. beautiful she looked beyond compare, and so grand, so noble. she was tied down to no conventionalities; whither her pure true heart led her, she followed. "if you succeed," she said, "i will be your wife." "but not simply from a feeling of pity?" i cried. "i could not let you do that. i have manliness enough for that even yet." "no," she said proudly, "but because you are the only man i ever did or can love." for a minute i forgot my woes, my pains. no ghastly deed taunted me with its memory, no dark cloud hung in the skies. i felt my gertrude's lips against mine; i felt that her life was given to me. i was no longer alone and desolate; a pure, beautiful woman had trusted me so fully, so truly, that hope dawned in my sky, and earth was heaven. "now, justin," she said, after a few minutes of happy silence, "you must away. every hour may be precious. god knows how gladly i would be with you, but it must not be. but remember, my hope lies in you, and my love is given to you. god bless you!" she went away then and left me; while i, without knowing why, prepared to start for london. i had a great work to do. i had, if i was to win gertrude for my wife, to break and crush voltaire's power over me. i had to find kaffar, if he was to be found, and that to me was an awful uncertainty, and i had to bring him to gertrude before the next christmas eve. away from her the skies were dark again, great heavy weights rested on my heart, and my life seemed clogged. still her love had nerved me to do what i otherwise could never have done. it had nerved me to try; and so, with her warm kiss burning on my lips, i hurried off to the great metropolis without any definite idea why i was going. chapter xiv god for the next three months i was an atheist! these are easy words to write, but terrible to realize. no one but those who know can tell the terror of a man who has given up belief in an eternal goodness, in a living god that cares for man. i left yorkshire with some little hope in my heart--the memory of gertrude's words was with me, cheering me during the long ride; but when once alone in my rooms, nothing but a feeling of utter desolation possessed my heart. the terrible night on the yorkshire moors came back again, the dark forbidding waters, the ghastly red hand, the gleaming knife, the struggle--all were real. did i kill him? i did not know. possibly i was a murderer in act, if not in thought. i could not bear to think of it. who can bear to think of having taken away a fellow-creature's life? and he might be lying in drearwater pond even then! then there was the terrible spell that this man had cast upon me. i felt it clinging to every fibre of my being. i was not living a true life; i was living a dual life. a power extraneous to myself, and yet possessing me, made me a mere machine. as the days and weeks passed away things became worse. i promised gertrude to exert myself to find kaffar, to set her free from her promise to voltaire; but i could not do it. his command was upon me. i felt that it was ever in his mind that i should not make any efforts, and i had to obey. and his power was evil, his motives were fiendish, his nature was depraved. still preachers talked of a loving god, of the good being stronger than the evil. it could not be. "try! try! resist! resist! struggle! struggle!" said hope and duty and love; and i tried, i resisted, i struggled. and still i was bound in chains; still i was held by a mysterious occult power. then it ceased to feel to be a duty to rid gertrude of voltaire. why should i struggle and resist? supposing i succeeded, was i any more fit to be her husband than he? what was i? at best a poor weak creature, the plaything of a villain. at any time he could exert his power and make me his slave. but i might be worse than that. i might, with my own hand, have sent a man into eternity. how did i know it was voltaire's power that made me do the deed? might not my blind passion have swept me on to this dark deed? but that could not be. no, no; i could not believe that. besides, voltaire had told me it was because of him. still, i was not fit to be her husband. then her words came back to me, and her pure influence gave me strength. she, so pure, so true, had seemed to understand my position, had bid me hope and be brave. she had told me she loved me--she, whom hundreds of brave men would love to call their own. i would try again. i _would_ brake the chains voltaire had forged; i would hurl from me the incubus that would otherwise crush me. i tried again, and again; and again, and again i failed. i did not pray. i could not. if god cared, i thought, he would help the innocent. i was innocent in thought, and still i was not helped. god did not care, for he helped me not. months had passed away, and i had taken no forward step. i was still enslaved. the preachers were wrong; god did not care for the beings he had made. there was no god. god meant "the good one." "god is eternally good, all-powerful, if there is a god. but there is not," i said. evil was rampant. every day vice triumphed, every day virtue suffered. goodness was not the strongest force. vice was conquering; evil powers were triumphant. why should any exception be made for me? if there is a god, evil would be checked, destroyed; instead of which, it was conquering every day. there could be no god; and if no god, good and evil were little more than names. we were the sport of chance, and chance meant the destruction of anything like moral responsibility. i could not help being constituted as i was, neither could voltaire help his nature. one set of circumstances had surrounded his life, another mine, and our image and shape were according to the force of these circumstances. as for a god who loved us, it was absurd. and yet who gave us love--made us capable of loving? was love the result of chance, which was in reality nothing? and again, whence the idea of god, whence the longing for him? besides, did not the longing for him give evidence of his being? but i will not weary the reader with my mental wanderings; they are doubtless wearisome enough, and yet they were terribly real to me although i have used but a few pages of paper in hinting at them, they caused me to lie awake through many a weary night. still no help came. i went to a church one sunday night. there was nothing of importance that struck me during the service, save the reading of one of the lessons. it was the story of the youth who was possessed with a devil, which the disciples could not cast out. the minister was, i should think, a good man, for he read it naturally, and with a great deal of power; and when he came to the part where jesus came and caused the evil spirit to come out of him, my heart throbbed with joy. was there hope for me? was jesus christ still the same wonderful power? was he here now--to help, to save? that was at the end of three months. i went home and prayed--prayed to be delivered from the evil power which chained me. i might as well have turned my thoughts in another direction for all the good i could see it did me. the old numbing feeling still possessed me. my little spark of faith began to die. it was foolishness to think of god, i said. a week later, i walked in hyde park. an evil influence seemed to draw me in the direction of the marble arch. i had not gone far, when i met voltaire. i knew then that i was more in his power than ever. he did not speak--he only looked; but it was a look of victory, of power. i got into oxford street and got on a 'bus. mechanically i bought a paper, one of the leading dailies. listlessly i opened it, and the first words that caught my eyes were "reviews of books." i glanced down the column, and saw the words, "david elginbrod," by george macdonald. "this book is one of remarkable power," the paper went on to say, "and will appeal to the highest class of minds. its interest is more than ordinary, because it deals with the fascinating subjects of animal magnetism, mesmerism, and spiritualism. moreover, dr. macdonald shows what enormous power, for evil or for good, may be exerted by it; indeed, the principal characters in the story are so influenced by it, that the author is led to make quite a study of these occult sciences." i did not read the review further; what i had read was sufficient to determine me to buy the book. accordingly, on my arrival in the city, i obtained a copy; and then, with all possible haste, i made my way home, and, throwing myself in a chair, sat down to read it. i did not cease reading until i had finished what i regarded then, and still regard, as one of the finest religious novels of the age. this may seem to many extravagant praise; but when i remember the influence it had on my life, i feel inclined to hold to my opinion. putting aside the other parts of the book, that in which i was so fearfully interested might be briefly stated thus:-mesmerism and animal magnetism may be regarded as human forces. those possessing them, and thereby having the power to mesmerize, may subjugate the will of those who are susceptible to mesmeric influences, and hold them in a complete and terrible slavery. the oftener the victim yields to the will of the mesmerist, the stronger will his power become. there is only one means by which the person under this influence can be free. this is by obtaining a strength superior to that of the mesmerist, which is only to be realized by being in communion with a higher life, and participating in that life. only the divine power in the life of the victim can make him possess a power superior to the mesmerist's. possessing that, he becomes free, because he possesses a life superior to mere physical or human power. the victim in the book is led to seek that divine life in her, and although she loses her physical life, she dies freed from the terrible thraldom which has been cursing her existence. that is all i need write concerning the book i have mentioned, i.e. descriptive of its teaching. it turned my mind into a new channel. the teaching seemed scientific and reasonable. if there were a god, who was the source of all life, he could, by entering into the life of any individual, give him such forces as would be superior to any other force. this was true, further, because all evil was in opposition to the laws of the universe, and thus the good must overcome the evil. this, however, i clearly saw: if i would possess the power of god in me, i must submit myself wholly and unreservedly to him. he had made me a free agent, and i must allow him to possess me wholly. i will not describe what followed. it is too sacred a subject to parade. we cannot write on paper our deepest feelings; we cannot describe in words the yearnings and experiences of the soul. were i to try i could give no adequate idea of my hopes and fears, my prayers and struggles. to realize my life, a similar condition must be experienced. i ask, however, that i may be believed when i say this: a month later i really believed in god, and soon i began to realize his power. i felt a new life growing in me, a higher life. i began to be possessed of a power whereby i could conquer myself, subjugate my own will, and be master over my passions. the reader may smile as he or she reads this, but this is true: when i became possessed of a life whereby i became master of my lower self, i felt free from voltaire's power. i realized that to be master over myself meant being a slave to none. i was free, and i knew it. a fuller, richer life surged within me, enabling me to rise above the occult forces of our physical and mental natures. hope lived within me, and confidence as to the future began to inspire me. chapter xv beginning to search no sooner did i begin to feel freed from voltaire's power than i began to exert myself to find kaffar, if indeed he were to be found. there was much in my favour. i possessed freedom; i had plenty of money; i had plenty of time. on the other hand, there was much against me. was he alive? were voltaire's words true? had i in my mesmeric condition yielded to his will in such a degree as to kill the wily egyptian and hurl him in the pond? again, if he were alive, where was he? who could tell? supposing he had gone to egypt, how could i find him? possibly he had a thousand haunts unknown to me. i determined to go to yorkshire, and soon found myself within the hospitable walls of temple hall. the house was very quiet, however for which i was very glad. i wanted to talk quietly with tom; i wanted to investigate the whole matter. when i had finished telling tom my story, he seemed perfectly astounded. "what, justin!" he exclaimed, "do you mean to say that the villain used such means to get you out of his road and win miss forrest for himself?" "i felt he was unscrupulous when i first met him," i replied. "i am sure he guessed my secret, and determined to get me out of the way by fair means or by foul." we talked long concerning the matter; we tried to recall all that had been said and done; but, in spite of all, we could not hit upon any plan of action. "do you think she will marry voltaire," i said, after a short silence, "if i cannot find kaffar or prove that he is alive?" "i am sure she will, justin. never did i meet with any one who has a higher sense of honour than she. i believe she would rather die than do a mean thing." "and yet," i said wearily, "i am almost certain i did not kill kaffar. i can remember nothing distinctly, and yet i have the consciousness that i never struck him a blow." "and i, too, am sure you did not do this, justin," replied tom. "i felt that he was acting, in spite of the terrible evidence against you. but what is the use? if you cannot find the egyptian, he will marry miss forrest, and after that--well, all seems hopeless." "it shall not be hopeless," i said. "if he is alive, he shall be found, and i will bring him back, and she shall see him." "ah, yes; and that reminds me, justin, she bade me tell you that she would be in her own home at kensington until after the next new year." this made me joyful in spite of everything. she still had an interest in me; she still believed me innocent. "by the way, tom," i said, after another short silence, "have you found out anything in relation to the ghost which appeared here during my visit?" "nothing definite. stay, i forgot. simon slowden said he had something particular to tell you when you came to yorkshire again. i asked him the subject of this 'something particular,' and he said it was about the ghost. i tried to make him explain further, but could not." "i'll see simon at once," i said. "i cannot afford to let anything pass without examining it. any little thing might give a clue to the mystery." i sought simon in the stable-yard, and found him as grim and platonic as ever. "glad to see yer honour," said simon, hastily. "i've made up my mind scores of times to write a letter, but i hev had sich bad luck wi' letters, that i 'adn't the necessary quantity o' pluck, you know." "bad luck with your letters, simon? how?" "why, yer see, yer honour, after the doctor experimented on me by waccinatin' me agin' small-pox, cholera, and the measles, together wi' 'oopin' cough and several other baby complaints as 'ev a hinjurious effect upon people as 'ev cut their wisdom teeth, you know as i told yer honour that i caught that 'ere werry disease of small-pox which spiled my beauty for ever. well, as i told yer months ago, i went to the 'ousemaid for a mite 'o comfort, and catches 'er a-courtin' wi' the coachman. so i goes 'ome, and i says i'll write 'er a letter as would charm a dead duck in a saucepan. so i begins my letter this yer way: 'my dearest dear,' i says, 'times es bad, and people be glad to catch anything; so i, thinkin' small-pox better than nothin', catched that. forgive me, and i'll never do so no more. i'm cryin' all the day, as though i got my livin' wi' skinnin' onions. relieve me, my dear, or my feelin's will be too much for me. they be fillin' me faster 'n i can dispose of 'em; and if you don't leave that 'ere coachman and smile on me, i shall either go up like a baloon, or else there'll be a case of combustion.' i went on in that 'ere style, yer know, thinkin' she'd melt like a h'yster in a fryin'-pan, but she didn't; and the next thing i hears wus that the coachman wur at the willage alehouse readin' my letter. since then i've guv up the tender passion and guv up writin' letters." "well, you have had bad luck, simon; but perhaps you'll be more fortunate next time. mr. temple tells me you have something to tell me about the ghost. what is it?" "you ain't a-seen that 'ere hinfidel willain since he went away from 'ere, mr. blake, have 'ee?" "i saw him in hyde park one day, but have never spoken to him." "well, i'm in a fog." "in a fog! how?" "why, i can't understand a bit why that 'ere ghost wur a got up." "you think it was got up, then?" "certain of it, yer honour." "well, tell us about it." "well, sur, after you left all of a hurry like, we had a big party in the house, and all the servants 'ad to 'elp; and no sooner did i git in that 'ere house than i beginned to put two and two together, and then i see a hindiwidual that i beginned to think wur mighty like that 'ere ghost." "and who was that?" "why, that 'ere hancient wirgin, miss staggles." "ah, what then?" "well, i heard somebody tellin' her as 'ow you were gone to london, and i thought she looked mighty pleased. after dinner, i see her come out of the drawin'-room, and go away by herself, and i thought i'd watch. she went up to her room, yer honour, and i got in a convenient place for watchin' her when she comes out. she weren't a minnit afore she wur out, mr. blake, a-carryin' somethin' in her hands. she looks curiously 'round, and then i see her make straight for your bedroom door, and goes into your room. in a minnit more she comes out, with nothin' in her hands. so then i says to myself, 'she's deposited some o' her combustible matter in mr. blake's room.' "it was a bold and dangerous thing to do, yer honour, but i goes into your room and looks around. everything seems right. then i looks and sees that the drawer of the wardrobe ain't quite shut, so i takes a step forward and peeps in." "and what did you see?" "why, i see the trappin's of that 'ere ghost. the shroud, knife, and all the rest on't." "well, simon?" "well, sur, i takes it to my shanty, and puts it in my own box, to show you at 'a convenient season,' as moses said." "is that all?" "not quite. the next mornin' i see her a-airin' her sweet self on the lawn, so i goes up to 'er all familiar like, and i says, 'top o' the mornin', miss staggles.' "'who are you, man?' she says. "'as nice a chap as you ever see,' i said, 'though i am marked wi' small-pox. but that ain't my fault, ma'am; it is owin' to the experimentin' o' a waccinatin' doctor.' "'what do you want with me, man?' she said. "'why, ma'am,' i said, 'i'm young and simple, and i wur frightened wi' a ghost t'other night, and i thought as how you, bein' purty hancient, might assist me in findin' things out about it.' "with that, sur, she looked oal strange, and i thinks i'm on the right track, and i says again, 'that 'ere ghost wur well got up, mum. i've played a ghost myself in a theatre, and i could never git up like you did the other night.' "'me get up as a ghost!' she screamed. 'man, you are mad.' "'not so mad,' i says, 'seein' as 'ow i see you carry that 'ere ghost's wardrobe, and put it in mr. blake's room last night.' "she went off without another word, yer honour, and the next thing i heard 'bout her was that she'd gone to london." "and why did you not tell mr. temple?" "well, mr. blake, he didn't know anything 'bout her evenin' rambles wi' that 'ere hinfidel willain, and wasn't acquainted wi' the things that you and me hev talked about; besides, i thought as 'ow you wer the one that ought to know first of all." i thought long over simon's words, but could not understand them. why should miss staggles pose as a ghost, even at the instigation of voltaire? there could be nothing gained by it, and yet i was sure that it was not without meaning. somehow it was connected with voltaire's scheme; of that i was sure, but at the time my mind was too confused to see how. so far, not one step had been taken to prove whether kaffar was dead or alive, and although i knew nothing of a detective's business, i did not like taking any one into my confidence. i resolved to do all that was to be done myself. in spite of everything, i spent a pleasant evening at temple hall. we talked and laughed gaily, especially as tom was preparing for his wedding with miss edith gray, and when i told mrs. temple how tom had popped the question on the landing at midnight, after the appearance of the famous hall ghost, the merriment knew no bounds. it was after midnight when i retired to rest, but i could not sleep. i could not help thinking about this great problem of my life. how could i find kaffar? how could i tell whether he were alive or dead? after tossing about a long time, i hit upon a plan of action, and then my mind had some little rest. the next morning i bade good-bye to my friends, and started for the station. when i arrived all was quiet. not a single passenger was there, while the two porters were lolling lazily around, enjoying the warmth of the bright may sun. i asked to see the station-master; he was not at the station. then i made inquiries for the booking-clerk, who presently made his appearance. i found that there was a train leaving about midnight, which travelled northward, one that had been running some years. "were you at the booking-office on the day after new year's day?" i asked. "yes, sir," replied the clerk. "do you remember a man coming for a ticket that night who struck you as peculiar?" "what kind of a man, sir?" "a foreigner. small, dark, and wiry, speaking with an accent something like this," i said, trying to imitate kaffar. "no, sir, i don't remember such a person. there were only three passengers that night--i remember it very well, because my brother was here with me--and they were all yorkshire." "this midnight train is a stopping train?" "yes, sir. it stops at every station from leeds." "how far is the nearest station in the leeds direction?" "seven miles, sir. the population is rather thin here, sir. it gets thicker the closer you get to leeds." "and how far the other way?" "only a matter of three miles northward, sir. there's a little village there, sir, has sprung up because of lord ----'s mansion, sir, and the company has put up a station." "and how far is the next station beyond that?" "a long way, sir. it's a junction where some go to catch the night express to leeds. it must be eight miles further on. the train is now due, sir, that goes there." "and it stops at the next station?" "oh yes, sir." i booked immediately for it, and in a few minutes arrived there. it was, if possible, more quiet than the one from which i had just come; a more dreary place one could not well see. i soon found the man who had issued tickets on the night i have mentioned. did he remember such a passenger as i described? "yes, sir," he said, "i do remember such a chap; partly because he was the only passenger, and partly because he looked so strange. he looked as if he'd been fightin', and yet he was quite sober. he was a funny chap, sir; one as i shudd'n like much to do wi'." "and where did he book for?" "dingledale junction, sir." "and he would be able to catch a train from there?" "he would have to wait a quarter of an hour for the express to leeds," replied the man. "and how long will it be before there's another train to dingledale junction?" i asked anxiously. "three hours and a half, sir." this was an awful blow to me. to wait all this time at that roadside station was weary work, especially as i could do nothing. i found, however, that i could hire a horse and trap that would take me there in about two hours. i therefore closed with this offer, and shortly after drove away. i felt sure i had made one step forward. kaffar was alive. the blunt yorkshireman's description of him tallied exactly with the real appearance of the egyptian. of course i was not sure, but this was strongly in favour of his being alive. there was something tangible for which to work now, and my heart grew lighter. dingledale junction proved to be rather a busy place. there were two platforms in the station, and a refreshment room. i found also that mr. smith was actually represented there, in the shape of a small boy, a dozen novels, and a few newspapers. this, however, did not augur so well for my inquiries. the officials here would not be so likely to notice any particular passenger. still there was something in my favour. kaffar would in any circumstances attract attention in a country place. his appearance was so remarkable, that any countryman would stop for a second look at him. after a great many inquiries, i found that kaffar, or a man strongly resembling him, had been there on the night in question, and had taken a ticket for leeds. he had no luggage, and what made the porter in attendance remember him so vividly was the fact of his being angry when asked if he had any luggage to be labelled. so far, then, my inquiries were successful; so far i might congratulate myself on making forward steps. and yet i was scarcely satisfied. it seemed too plain. would kaffar have allowed himself to be followed in such a way? i was not sure. on the one hand, he was very cunning, and, on the other, he knew but little of the means of detecting people in england. i took the next train for leeds, and there my success ended. i could find traces of him nowhere. this was scarcely to be wondered at. leeds is a great commercial centre, where men of every nationality meet, and of course kaffar would be allowed to pass unnoticed. then i began to think what the egyptian would be likely to do, and after weighing the whole matter in my mind i came to this conclusion: either he was in london with voltaire, or he had gone back to egypt. the first was not likely. if kaffar were seen in london, voltaire's plans would be upset, and i did not think my enemy would allow that. of course he might have means of keeping him there in strict secrecy, or he might have a score of disguises to keep him from detection. still i thought the balance would be heaviest on the side of his returning to egypt. i naturally thought he would return to his native land, because i had heard him say he talked none of the european languages besides english and a smattering of turkish. my next step, therefore, was to return to london, and then go to dover, calais, newhaven, and dieppe, to try to see whether kaffar could be traced. at the same time, i determined to have a watch set upon voltaire, and his every step dogged, so that, if he held any communication with kaffar, necessary steps might be taken to prove to miss forrest my innocence, and thus she might at once be freed from the designs of the man she hated. no sooner did i arrive in london, however, and took possession of my easy-chair than i knew voltaire wanted me to go to him, and i knew, too, that a month before i should have had to yield to the power he possessed. i need not say that i did not go. my will was now stronger than his, and by exercising that will i was able to resist him. still, none but those who have been under such a spell can imagine what a struggle i had even then. god only gives us power to use, and he will not do for us what we can do for ourselves. for two long hours i felt this strange influence, and then it ceased. evidently he had failed in his design, and, for the time, at all events, had abandoned it. next morning, when i was preparing to visit scotland yard, a servant came into my room bearing a card on a tray. i took it and read, "herod voltaire." "show him up," i said to the servant. chapter xvi struggling for victory i confess that i was somewhat excited as i heard him coming up the stairs. i was sure that every means he could devise to defeat me would be eagerly used. the man was a villain possessed of a strange and dangerous power, and that power he would not hesitate to exert in every possible way. but i was not afraid; my faith in god had given me life, and so i would dare to defy the wretch. i did not look at him until the girl had shown him in and left the room; then our eyes met. i recognized the steely glitter of those whity-grey orbs, which at times seemed tinted with green. i knew he was seeking to exert his old influence, and once i thought i should have to yield. the power he possessed was something terrible, and i had to struggle to the utmost to remain unconquered. his efforts were in vain, however, and, for the time, at all events, the battle was not with him. "will you sit down, mr. voltaire?" i said, after a minute's perfect silence. he sat down as if in astonishment. "might i ask your business?" i asked as coolly as i could. this question either aroused his anger, or he began to play a part. "yes," he said; "you will know my business at your cost. i thought you had found out before this that i was not the man either to be disobeyed or trifled with." i did not think it wise to speak. "i have come to tell you," he went on, "that you cannot escape my power, that you cannot disobey me and not suffer. remember this: i conquered you, and you are my slave." still i did not think it wise to reply. "you think," he continued, "because you have realized some immunity from the power i wield, that i have left you. i have not, and it is greater than ever. you have dared to leave london; you have dared to do that which i told you not; and now i have come to tell you that you have aroused the anger of a man who laughs at conventional laws, and snaps his fingers at the ordinary usages of society--one who knows nothing and cares nothing for your claptrap morality, and will not be influenced by it." "i am sorry if i have angered you," i replied humbly. "just so, and you will be more than sorry. man, i hold your life in the hollow of my hand. one word from me, and your liberty is gone; you will be dragged through the streets like a common felon." "am i guilty of so much, then?" i said. "did i really kill that man?" he looked at me curiously, as if he suspected something. "kill him?" he replied. "of course you did. but even if you did not, it is all the same. kaffar cannot be found, or proved alive, and thus my power over you is absolute." "i wonder you do not use it," i said quietly. "i do not use it because it does not pay me to do so. my policy is to be quiet. miss forrest is mine because she knows i am master of your life. the months are swiftly passing away, mr. justin blake. it is may now; in december i shall take her to my breast." "but supposing," i said, "that i find kaffar; supposing before christmas eve comes i prove i am innocent of his death. what then?" "it is not to be supposed. you killed my friend; and even if you did not, you could never find him. you dare not, could not, take any necessary steps. you have not the power to ask other people to do it. even now you cannot rise from your seat and walk across the room." without a word i rose from my seat and walked across the room; then i came back and coolly sat down again. "what does this mean?" he asked angrily. "it means," i said, "that you are deceived--mistaken. it means that your villainous schemes are of no effect; that the man whom you thought you had entrapped by a juggler's trick to be your tool and dupe is as free as you are; that he defies your power; that he tells you to do your worst." i felt that again he was trying to throw me into a kind of trance, that he was exerting all his power and knowledge; but i resisted, and i was free. i stood up again and smiled. then a strange light lit up his eyes. "curse you!" he cried, "you defy me, eh? well, you'll see what you get by defying me. in five minutes you will be safe in a policeman's charge." "if i were you i would try and learn the englishman's laws before you appeal to them. the first question that will be asked will be why you have refrained from telling so long, for he who shelters a criminal by silence is regarded as an aider and an abettor of that criminal. then, man, this case will be sifted to the bottom. that pond will be pumped dry, and every outlet examined. besides, what about the booking-clerk that issued a ticket to kaffar two hours after you and mr. temple found me?" "it's a lie!" he cried; "kaffar was never seen." "well, then, if you are so sure, give me in charge. it will not be very much opposed to my wishes, for by so doing you will set the whole machinery of the law of england on kaffar's trail, and i promise you it will find him. english law is hard on murderers, but all evidence is put through a very fine sieve in an english court of justice. kaffar is not an ordinary-looking man, and from scotland yard our police authorities hold communication with all other police authorities in the civilized world. i tell you, man, your trumped-up story would be torn to pieces in five minutes, and in the end you would be safely lodged down at dartmoor for fourteen years." he sat silent a minute, as if in deep thought; then he said slowly, "mr. justin blake, you think you have outwitted herod voltaire! continue to think so. i shall not give you in charge--not because i believe in your paltry story, but because i should lose miss forrest by so doing, and i cannot afford to do that, if for nothing else than to spite you. you think you are free from me. wait. you think kaffar is to be found--well, wait. but, i tell you, you shall repent all this. i will marry the woman you love, and then i will lead you such a life as you never conceived. you shall pray to die, and death shall not come. you shall suffer as never man suffered. the condition of the christians whom nero used as torches shall be heaven to what yours shall be. meanwhile--" all this time he kept looking at me, and his words were uttered with a nervous force and intensity that was terrible. i felt a strange chilling sensation creep over me, and involuntarily i sat down. no sooner had i done so than he gave a savage, exultant yell. "you are mine again!" he cried. it was a terrible struggle. his will and mine fought for the mastery--his strengthened by a knowledge of laws of which i was ignorant, and constant exertion of it; mine, by a new life which i had but lately begun to live, by a strength given me through communion with my maker. for a minute i was chained to the seat. my senses were numbed, and, all the while his terrible glittering eyes rested on mine. then my strength began to return, and i again stood up, and in a few seconds i was master of myself. "coward," i said, "you sought to take me unawares. you have done your utmost, and i am your master, even now. now go, and bear this in mind, that the right and the truth shall be triumphant." i rung the bell as i spoke, and the servant appeared. "show this gentleman out, mary," i said. never shall i forget the look of hatred that gleamed from his eyes as he left the room. if ever a man looked possessed of an evil spirit, it was he; but he did not speak. he walked down the stairs without a word, and then out into the street. i stood and watched him until he was out of sight, and then tried to collect my scattered thoughts. on the whole, i was not pleased with the interview. i had shown my hand. it would have been far better if i could have allowed him still to think i was in his power, but the temptation to show him my freedom was too strong. it would now be a trial of skill between us. if he could have believed that i was unable to do anything to free myself, i should have, perhaps, caught him unawares. now he would be prepared for everything i could do; he would check my every move. if kaffar were alive, he would have a thousand means of keeping him out of my way; if dead--well, then, i did not care much what happened. if the latter, however, i determined to give up my life for miss forrest, to put myself in the hands of the police authorities, and tell of the influence voltaire had exerted over me. meanwhile i must act, and that quickly; so i went straight to a private detective, a man i slightly knew. i refrained from going to scotland yard, as i thought voltaire would be watching me. i gave this detective a description of voltaire, told him his address, which i had ascertained through his letters to temple hall, and explained my wishes to him. he took up my points very quickly, saw what i wanted without any lengthened explanations, and expressed a willingness to serve me. so much pleased was i with this interview, that i had no fear that my enemy would not be well looked after. after that i took train for dover, and prepared to track kaffar, if possible, wherever he had gone, not realizing at the time the task i had proposed for myself. i thought i made a forward step at dover, for, on inquiring at an hotel there, i found that a man answering to kaffar's description had engaged a bedroom for one night, and had gone on to calais by the midday boat, in time to catch the express for paris. "did this gentleman have any luggage?" i asked. the hotel proprietor did not think the gentleman carried any luggage, but he would inquire. on inquiry of the hotel porter, i found that he carried a gladstone bag, rather small and new. this was particularly remembered--first, because the foreign gentleman seemed very particular about it, and, second, because there seemed to be nothing in it. so far so good. i determined to go on to paris; it could do no harm, it might do good. i could speak the french language fairly, and might, by some means, find out the steps he had taken. arrived at paris, i was completely blocked. he was not remembered in the custom house; he was not remembered at some twenty hotels at which i called. again i began to think what he was likely to do. i did not think he would possess very much money, and a man of his temperament would devise some means of getting some. how? work would be a slow process, and not suited to his nature. kaffar would get money by gambling. but that did not help me forward. to search out all the gambling-houses in paris would be a hopeless task; besides, would he gamble in paris, a city of which he knew nothing? i did not think so. where, then? monte carlo! no doubt the reader will smile at my attempts as a private detective, but, realizing the circumstances by which i was surrounded, there may be some excuse for my unbusinesslike way of going to work. besides, i was not sure that kaffar was alive; i only had some vague grounds for thinking he was. i went to monte carlo. i inquired at the hotels; i inquired at the casino--without success. i learnt one great lesson there, however, and that was the evil of gambling. in spite of tinsel and gilt, in spite of gay attire and loud laughter, in spite of high-sounding titles and ancient names, never did i see so much real misery as i saw in the far-renowned gaming palace. for days i tried to think what to do, without avail. kaffar had not been at the casino; he had not stayed at any of the hotels. where was he, then? i began to entertain the idea that he had gone to egypt as he had said. i would do my best to find out. accordingly, i went to all the seaports along the coast of france and italy from which he would be likely to set sail for egypt. i was unsuccessful until i came to brindisi. here i found that inquiries could easily be made. there were only two hotels in the place, one of which was very small. at the smaller of the two, i found on inquiry that a man answering to my description had stayed there a day and a night, waiting for the boat for alexandria. the hotel proprietor said he should not have remembered him, but that he had talked arabic with him. this traveller had also told him he had come from england, the land of luxury and gold, and was going to cairo. he did not remember his name. egyptians often came to brindisi, and to him one name was pretty much like another. he called them all "howajja," and remembered nothing more. he did not keep an hotel register. little and poor as this evidence was, i determined to go to egypt. it was now june, and terribly hot, even at brindisi; i knew the heat must be worse in cairo, but that was nothing. if i could find this man, i should be rewarded a thousandfold. accordingly the next night, when an austrian lloyd steamer stopped at this little old-fashioned seaport on its way to alexandria, i secured a berth and went on board. the voyage was not long, neither was it very tedious; at night, especially, it was glorious. to sit on deck and gaze at the smooth sea, which reflected in its deep waters the bright starry heavens, while the splash of the waters made music on the vessel's side, was to experience something not easily forgotten. arrived in alexandria, i again set inquiries on foot, but with far less chance of success. kaffar was not a marked man here. in this town, where almost every nationality was to be seen, no notice would be taken of him. a thousand men answering to kaffar's description might be seen every day. still i did all i could, and then hurried on to cairo. i have not tried to give any detailed account of my journeys, nor of the alternate feelings of hope and despair that possessed me. this must be left to the imagination of my readers. let them remember the circumstances of the story as i have related them, let them think of how much depended on my discovery of kaffar, let them also try to fancy something of my feelings, and then they will be able to guess at my weary nights and anxious days, they will know how feverishly i hurried from port to port and from town to town. anyhow, i will not try to describe them, for i should miserably fail. cairo was comparatively empty. the heat had driven the tourists away to colder climes. the waiters in the hotels lolled around, with little or nothing to do. only a few guests required their attendance. everything was very quiet. the burning sun fairly scorched the leaves of the acacia trees, which grew everywhere. the nile was exceedingly low, and water was comparatively scarce. the older part of cairo was simply unbearable; the little koptic community dwelling in the low huts, which reeked with dirt and vermin, would, one would have thought, have been glad to have died. i had no success in cairo. a dozen times i was buoyed up with hopes, a dozen times my hopes were destroyed, leaving me more despairing than ever. in spite of the terrible heat, all that could be done i did. recommended by an hotel proprietor, i engaged two of the shrewdest men in this wonderful city to try and find kaffar, but they could discover no trace of him. i went to mosques, to temples, to bazaars--in vain. if he were in cairo, he was hiding. oh, the weary work, the dreadful uncertainty! hoping, despairing, ever toiling, ever searching, yet never achieving! the months were slipping by. it was now august, and i was no nearer finding him than when i started. must i give up, then? should i renounce my life's love? should i yield my darling to voltaire? never! i formed a new resolution. i would go back to england. doubtless i had gone clumsily to work, and thus my failure would be explained. when once back in london, i would engage the cleverest detectives the city could boast of, and i would state the whole case to them. perchance they could do what i had failed to accomplish. this determination i at once carried into practice, and in a little more than a week i again saw the white cliffs of dover. i did not rest. arriving at victoria, i drove straight to scotland yard, and in an hour later two of the most highly recommended officers of the london detective police force were in possession of all the facts that i could give them that would lead to the discovery of the egyptian, providing he lived. then i drove back to my rooms in gower street, weary and sad, yet not hopeless. there were four months in which to act. two clever men were at work, while, thank god, i was free to act and to think. yet the future looked terribly doubtful. would the inquiries be successful? would gertrude be freed from voltaire? and should i be happy? chapter xvii using the enemy's weapons two months passed, and no tidings of kaffar--at least, none that were worthy of consideration. the detectives had done all that men could do; they had made every inquiry possible, they had set on foot dozens of schemes; but all in vain. voltaire, who had been closely watched, was apparently living a quiet, harmless life, and was not, so far as could be seen, in communication with him. i had done all that i could do myself. i had followed in england every possible clue, all of which had ended in failure. three months passed. still no reliable news. one detective fancied he had detected him in constantinople; another was equally certain he had, at the same time, seen him in berlin. i became almost mad with despair. the first of december had come, and i was not a step nearer finding the man whose presence would free me from voltaire's villainous charge. that which troubled me most was the fact that i did not know whether he were alive. even if i did not kill him, perhaps voltaire had got him out of the way so that he might fasten the guilt on me. "what, after all," was the thought that maddened me, "if he should be lying at the bottom of drearwater pond?" there were only twenty-four days now. three weeks and three days, and i knew not what to do. if i failed, my love would marry the man who was worse than a fiend, while i, for whom she was to suffer this torture, was unable to help her. and yet i had tried, god alone knows how; but only to fail. still, there were twenty-four days; but what were they? kaffar, if he were alive, might be in africa, australia--no one knew where. i saw no hope. a week more slipped by. there were only seventeen days left now. i was sitting in my room, anxiously waiting for the continental mail, and any telegrams which might arrive. i heard the postman's knock, and in a minute more letters were brought in. eagerly i opened those which came from the detectives, and feverishly read them. "still in the dark; nothing discovered"--that summed up the long reports they sent me. i read the other letters; there was nothing in them to help me. still another week went by. only ten days were wanting to christmas eve, and i knew no more of kaffar's whereabouts than i did on the day when i defied voltaire and started on my search. again reports from the detectives came, and still no news. no doubt, by this, voltaire was gloating over his victory, while i was nearly mad with despair. only ten days! i must do something. it was my duty, at all hazards, to free gertrude forrest from voltaire. that was plain. i could not find the egyptian, and thus it was probable i had killed him as had been said. what must i do? this, and this only. i must go to scotland yard, and relate to the authorities my whole story. i must tell them of voltaire's influence over me, and that it was probable i had, while held under a mesmerist's spell, killed the man i had been trying to find. this was all. it _might_ bring this villain under suspicion, and, if so, it would hinder him from exacting the fulfilment of gertrude forrest's promise. it was at best but an uncertain venture, but it was all i could do. i owed it to the woman i loved. it was my duty to make this sacrifice. i would do it. i wasted no time; i put on my overcoat and walked to scotland yard. i put my hand upon the door of the room which i knew belonged to one of the officials, to whom i determined to report my case. i thought of the words i should say, when-"stop!" i am sure i heard that word, clear and distinct. where it came from i knew not; but it was plain to me. an idea flashed into my mind! mad, mad, i must have been, never to have thought of it before. ten days! only ten days! but much might be done even yet. i rushed away, and got into st. james's park, and there, in comparative quietness, i began to think. the clouds began to dispel, the difficulties began to move away. surely i had hit upon a plan at last, a plan on which i should have thought at the outset. i walked on towards westminster abbey, still working out my newly conceived idea, and when there jumped into a cab. yes, i remembered the address, for i had seen it only the day before, so i told the cabman to drive to ---street, chelsea. i was right. there on the door was the name of the man i had hoped to find--professor von virchow. i paid the cabman, and knocked at the door with a beating heart. a sallow-faced girl opened the door, and asked my business. was professor virchow at home? yes, he was at home, but would be engaged for the next quarter of an hour; after that, he could see me on business connected with his profession. i was accordingly ushered into a musty room, which sadly wanted light and air. the quarter of an hour dragged slowly away, when the sallow-faced girl again appeared, saying that professor von virchow would be pleased to see me. i followed her into an apartment that was fitted up like a doctor's consulting-room. here i found the man i had come to see. he was a little man, about five feet four inches high. he had, however, a big head, a prominent forehead, and keen grey eyes. he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and was evidently well fed and on good terms with himself. "you are a professor of mesmerism and clairvoyance, i believe?" i began. "that is my profession," said the little man, "then i am in hopes that you may be able to help me in my difficulty." "i shall be pleased to help you," he said, still stiffly. "can you," i went on, "tell the whereabouts of a man whom i may describe to you?" "that is very vague," was the reply. "your description may be incorrect, or a hundred men might answer to it. i would promise nothing under such conditions." "perhaps i had better tell my story," i said. "i think you had," said the little professor, quietly. "on the 2nd of january of the present year," i said, "a man disappeared in the night from a place in yorkshire. he is an egyptian, and easily distinguished. a great deal depends on finding him at once. ever since may, endeavours have been made to track him, but without success." "perhaps he is dead," said the professor. "perhaps so; but even then it is important to know. can you help me to find out his whereabouts?" "undoubtedly i can; but i must have a good photograph of him. have you one?" "i have not." "could you obtain one?" "i think not." "but this man has been seen by many people. could not some one you know, and who knows him, sketch a faithful likeness from memory?" "i do not know of any one." "then i could not guarantee to find him. you see, i cannot work miracles. i can only work through certain laws which i have been fortunate enough either to recognize or discover; but there must ever be some data upon which to go, and, you see, you give me none that is in the least satisfactory." "perhaps you can," i said, "if i relate to you all the circumstances connected with what is, i think, a somewhat remarkable story." i had determined to tell this little man every circumstance which might lead to kaffar's discovery, especially those which happened in yorkshire. it seemed my only resource, and i felt, that somehow something would come of it. i therefore briefly related what i have written in this story. "that man who mesmerized you is very clever," said the professor quietly, when i had finished. "it was very unfortunate for you that you should have matched yourself with such a one. his plot was well worked out in every respect. he only made a mistake in one thing." "and that?" "he thought it impossible that you should ever be freed from his power without his consent. still it was a well-planned affair. the story, the ghost, the quarrel--it was all well done." "i fail to see what part the ghost had in the matter," i said. the professor smiled. "no?" he said. "well, i should not think it was a vital part of his plan, but it was helpful. he calculated upon the young lady's superstitious fancies. he knew what the particular form in which the ghost appeared portended, and it fitted in with his scheme of murder. evidently he wanted the young lady to believe in your guilt, and thus give him greater chance of success. ah, he is a clever man." "but," i asked anxiously, "can you tell me kaffar's whereabouts now?" "no, i cannot--that is, not to-day." "when, then?" "i may not be able to do so at all. it all depends on one man." "who is he?" "simon slowden, i think you called him." "simon slowden! how can he help us?" "evidently he is susceptible to mesmeric influences, and he knows the man you wish to find. but the difficulty lies here. is he sufficiently susceptible?" "is that the only hope?" "all i can see at present. i was going to suggest that you be thrown into a mesmeric sleep; but you could not be depended on. the experiences which you have had would make you very uncertain." "then your advice is--" "send for this man at once. if he fails--well, i have another alternative." "may i know what?" "no, not now." "answer me this. do you think i killed kaffar, the egyptian?" "no, i do not; but your enemy intended you should." "why did i not, then?" "because the egyptian also possessed a mesmerist's power, and hindered you. at any rate, such is my opinion. i am not sure;" and the little man looked very wise. "expect us early to-morrow morning," i said, and then went away to the nearest telegraph office, with a lighter heart than i had known for many long months. the little professor had given me some hope. the matter was still enshrouded in mystery, but still i thought i had found a possible solution. "_send simon slowden to me at once_" i telegraphed. "_extremely important. wire back immediately the time i may expect him_." anxiously i waited for an answer. although the message was flashed with lightning speed, it seemed a long time in coming. at length it came, and i read as follows: "_slowden will come by train leaving leeds 11.38. meet him at st. pancras_." i immediately caught a cab and drove to gower street, and, on looking at my time-table, i found that the train mentioned in the telegram arrived in london at 5.15. this would do splendidly. i could get simon to my room and give him some breakfast, and then, after a little rest, drive direct to the professor's. i need not say i was early at st. pancras the following morning. i had scarcely slept through the night, and anxiously awaited the appearance of the train. it swept into the station in good time, and, to my great relief and delight, i saw simon appear on the platform, looking as stolid and imperturbable as ever. we were not long in reaching gower street, where simon enjoyed a good breakfast, after which we drew up our chairs before the cheerful fire and began to talk. "did you have a good journey, simon?" i asked. "slept like the seven sleepers of the patriarch, sur, all the way from leeds." "and you don't feel tired now?" "not a bit, yer honour." "then," i said, "i want to explain to you a few things that must have appeared strange." accordingly i told him of voltaire's influence over me, and what came out of it. "why, sur," said simon, when i had finished, "that 'ere willain must be wuss nor a hinfidel; he must be the old nick in the garret. and do you mean to say, sur, that that 'ere beautiful miss forrest, who i've put down for you, is goin' to git married to that 'ere somnamblifyin' waccinatin' willain, if his dutiful mate ain't a found before christmas eve?" "only nine days, simon." "but it mustn't be, yer honour." "so i say, simon; and that's why i've sent for you." "but i can't do nothink much, sur. all my wits hev bin waccinated away, and my blood is puddled like, which hev affected the workin' o' my brains; and, you see, all your detective chaps have failed." "but i shan't fail, if you'll help me." "help you, mr. blake? you know i will!" "simon, you offered to be my friend, now nearly a year ago." "ay, and this 'ere is a lad as'll stick to his offer, sur, and mighty proud to do so." "well, then, i'm in hopes we shall succeed." "how, yer honour?" "by fighting voltaire with his own weapons." "what, waccinatin'?" "by mesmerism and clairvoyance, simon." "and who's the chap as hev got to be waccinated--or mesmerized, as you call it?" "you, if you will, simon." "me, sir?" said simon, aghast. "if you will." "well, i said after that 'ere willain experimented on me in yorkshire, i never would again; but if it's for you, sur--why, here goes; i'm purty tough. but how's it to be done?" then i told him of my interview with the professor, and how he had told me that only he--simon--could give the necessary help. "let's off at once, yer honour," cried simon. "i'm willin' for anything if you can git the hupper 'and of that 'ere willain and his other self. nine days, sur--only nine days! let's git to the waccinator. i'd rather have small-pox a dozen times than you should be knocked overboard by sich as he." i was nothing loth, and so, although it was still early, we were soon in a cab on our way to the professor's. on arriving, we were immediately shown in, and the little man soon made his appearance. "ah! you've brought him?" said he. "i'm glad to see you so prompt. would you mind taking this chair, my friend?"--to simon. "that's it, thank you. you've been travelling all night and are a little tired, i expect. no? well, it's well to be strong and able to bear fatigue. there, look at me. ah, that's it!" with that he put his fingers on simon's forehead, and my humble friend was unconscious of what was going on around him. "he's very susceptible; but i am afraid he has not been under this influence a sufficient number of times for his vision to be clear. still, we'll try.--simon!" "that's me," said simon, sleepily. "do you see kaffar, the egyptian?" he looked around as if in doubt. his eyes had a vacant look about them, and yet there seemed a certain amount of intelligence displayed--at any rate, it seemed so to me. "i see lots of people, all dim like," said simon, slowly; "but i can't tell no faces. they all seem to be covered wi' a kind o' mist." "look again," said the professor. "you can see more clearly now." simon peered again and again, and then said, "yes, i can see him; but he looks all strange. he's a-shaved off his whiskers, and hev got a sort o' red cap, like a baisin, on his head." my heart gave a great bound. kaffar was not dead. thank god for that! "where is he?" "i am tryin' to see, but i can't. everything is misty. there's a black fog a-comin' up." "wait a few minutes," said the professor, "and then we'll try him again." presently he spoke again. "now," he said, "what do you see?" but simon did not reply. he appeared in a deep sleep. "i thought as much," said the little man. "his nature has not been sufficiently prepared for such work. i suppose you had breakfast before you came here?" i assured him that simon had breakfasted on kidneys and bacon; after which he had made considerable inroads into a cold chicken, with perchance half a pound of cold ham to keep it company. besides which, he had taken three large breakfast cups of chocolate. "ah, that explains somewhat. still, i think we have done a fair morning's work. we've seen that our man is alive." "but do you think there is any hope of finding him?" "i'm sure there is, only be patient." "but what must i do?" "well, take this man to see some of the sights of london until three o'clock, then come home to dinner. after dinner he'll be sleepy. let him sleep, if he will, until nine o'clock; then bring him here again; but let him have no supper until after i have done with him." "nine o'clock to-night! why, do you know, that takes away another day? there will only want eight clear days to christmas eve." "i can't help that, sir," said the little professor, testily; "you should have come before. but that is the way. our science, which is really the queen of sciences, is disregarded; only one here and there comes to us, and then we are treated as no other scientific man would be treated. never mind, our day will come. one day all the sciences shall bow the knee to us, for we are the real interpreters of the mysteries of nature." i apologized for my impatience, which he gravely accepted, and then woke simon from his sleep. "where am i?" cried simon. "where've i been?" "i can't tell," said the professor; "i wish i could, for then our work would be accomplished." "have you bin a-waccinatin' me?" said simon. the little man looked to me for explanation. "he calls everything mysterious by that name," i said. "'cause," continued simon, "i thought as how you waccinators, or mesmerists, made passes, as they call 'em, and waved your hands about, and like that." "did that mr. voltaire, i think you call him, make passes?" asked the professor. "he!" said simon. "he ain't no ordinary man. he's got dealin's with old nick, he hev. he didn't come near me, nor touch me, and i wur sleepin' afore i could think of my grandmother." "just so; he is no ordinary man. he's a real student of psychology, he is. he has gone beyond the elements of our profession. i despise the foolish things which these quacks of mesmerism make billy people do in order to please a gaping-mouthed audience. it is true i call myself a professor of mesmerism and clairvoyance, but it would be more correct to call me a practical psychologist. you'll attend to my wishes with regard to our friend, won't you? good-morning." i will not try to describe how i passed the day. it would be wearisome to the reader to tell him how often i looked at my watch and thought of the precious hours that were flying; neither will i speak of my hopes and fears with regard to this idea of finding kaffar's whereabouts by means of clairvoyance. suffice it to say i was in a state of feverish anxiety when we drove up to the professor's door that night, about half-past nine. we did not wait a minute before operations were commenced. simon was again in a mesmeric sleep, or whatever the reader may be pleased to call it, in a few seconds after he had sat down. von virchow began by asking the same question he had asked in the morning: "do you see kaffar, the egyptian?" i waited in breathless silence for the answer. simon heaved a deep sigh, and peered wearily around, while the professor kept his eye steadily upon him. "do you see kaffar, the egyptian?" repeated he. "yes, i see him," said simon at length. "where?" "that's what i'm trying to find out," said simon. "the place is strange; the people talk in a strange tongue. i can't make 'em out." "what do you see now?" said the professor, touching his forehead. "oh, ah, i see now," said simon. "it's a railway station, and i see that 'ere willain there, jest as cunnin' as ever. he's a gettin' in the train, he is." "can you see the name of the station?" "no, i can't. it's a biggish place it is, and i can't see no name. stay a minute, though. i see now." "well, what's the name?" "it's a name as i never see or heard tell on before. b-o-l-o--ah, that's it; bologna, that's it. it is a queer name though, ain't it?" "well, what now?" "why, he's in the train, and it's started, it is." "do you know where he's going?" "no." "but he has a ticket; can't you see it?" "course i can't. it's in his pocket, and i can't see through the cloth, i can't." "and what's he doing now?" "why, he's in for makin' hisself comfortable, he is. he's got a piller, and he's stretchin' hisself on the seat and layin' his head on the piller. there, he's closed his eyes--he's off to sleep." the professor turned to me. "i am afraid we can do no more to-night," he said. "evidently he is on a journey, and we must wait until he arrives at his destination." "but can't slowden remain as he is and watch him?" "the thing would be at once cruel and preposterous, sir. no, you must come again in the morning; then, perchance, he will have finished his journey;" and accordingly he proceeded to awake simon. after all, it did not matter so much. it was now ten o'clock, and i could do nothing that night, in any case. "i do not know but that i am glad that things are as they are," continued the professor. "this second sleep will enable him to see more clearly to-morrow. meanwhile, consider yourself fortunate. if the egyptian stops anywhere in italy, it will be possible for you to reach him and bring him back within the time you mention. take heart, my friend. good-bye for the time. i shall expect you early to-morrow." no sooner were we in the street than simon began to ask me what he had told me, for i found that he was entirely ignorant of the things he had said. "who'd 'a thought it?" he said musingly, when i had told him. "who'd 'a thought as 'ow i should hassist in a waccinatin' business like this 'ere! tell 'ee, yer 'onour, i shall believe in ghosts and sperrits again soon. fancy me a-seein' things in italy and tellin' 'em to you without knowin' anything about it! well, but 'twill be grand if we can find 'im, yer honour, won't it then?" i spent a sleepless night, harassed by a thousand doubts and fears. there, in the quiet of my room, all this mesmerism and clairvoyance seemed only so much hocus-pocus, which no sensible and well-educated man should have anything to do with. still, it was my only hope, and it only wanted eight days to christmas eve. only one little week and a day, that was all, and then, if i did not produce kaffar, all was lost. it would be no use to go to miss forrest's house in kensington and tell her that simon slowden had, while in a mesmeric sleep, seen kaffar in italy. no, no; that would never do. i must produce him, nothing else would suffice. we were early at the professor's the following morning, and found him waiting and almost as anxious as we were. again simon submitted to the influence of the little man, and soon answered his questions far more readily than he had hitherto done. did he see kaffar? "yes," was the reply. "where is he now?" he was in a beautiful town. the houses were white, the streets were white; the town was full of squares, and in these squares were many statues. such was simon's information. "do you know what country the town is in?" "no," said simon, shaking his head. "could you not by any means find out? there's a railway station in the town; can you not see the name there?" "yes, there's a railway station, a fine one. ah, i see the name now. t-o-r-i-n-o. torino, that's it." "torino!" i cried, "turin! that's a town in italy, some distance beyond the french border." the professor beckoned me to be quiet. "kaffar is at torino, is he?" said the professor. "that's it--yes." "what is he doing?" "talkin' with a man who keeps an hotel." "what does he say?" "it's in a foreign language, and i can't tell." "can you repeat what he said?" "it sounded like this--'_je restey ici pour kelka jour_;' but i can't make out what it means." the professor turned to me. "he's speaking french. i did not know kaffar knew french; perhaps he's learned it lately. the words mean that he will stay there for some days." "can you describe the street in which this hotel is?" continued von virchow. simon began to describe, but we could make nothing of it. "we can't understand," replied the professor. "can you draw a sketch of the road to it from the railway station?" and he put a piece of paper and pencil in simon's hand. without hesitating, simon drew a sketch, a facsimile of which is given on the opposite page. i had been to turin, and remembered some of the places the sketch indicated. it might be far from perfect, but it was sufficient for me. it would be child's play to find kaffar there. "that will do," i said to the professor. "i'll start at once. thank you so much." "ah, that will do, will it?" he said, with a smile. "then i'll wake up this man." simon woke up as usual, rubbing his eyes, and asked whether any good had been done. "everything's been done," cried i. "come, professor, allow me to write you a cheque. how much shall it be?" "not a penny until your work is accomplished," replied the little man, with dignity. "that is not fair," i said. "i don't know what may happen, and you must not be defrauded. anyhow, here's something on account;" and i put a twenty-pound note in his hand. he smiled as he looked at it, while i took my hat, and stated my intention to start for turin at once. "beggin' yer pardon," said simon, "but this 'ere waccination business is awfully wearyin', and i should like to--that is--" "the very thing," i replied, anticipating his request. "you shall go with me." half-an-hour later, we were at gower street, making preparations for our journey to turin--simon calm and collected, i feverish and excited. chapter xviii nearing the end there were, as i said, eight days in which to find kaffar and bring him to london, counting the day on which we started our journey. it was wednesday; by the following wednesday, at midnight, i must prove to gertrude that voltaire was a villain and a liar. it should be done easily. it was but little more than a thirty hours' ride to turin--that is, providing everything went smoothly. to put it at the outside, it was only a forty-eight hours' journey, allowing time for a sleep on the way. thus four days would suffice for travelling, and i should have more than three days in which to find kaffar. it was true turin was a large town, but in three days i was sure i could find him. in that time i thought i could hunt every lodging-house and hotel in the city. i shall say little of the journey. mostly it was cold and wearisome enough. from dover to paris it was fairly comfortable, but from paris to the italian border we were travelling through a snowstorm, and thus, when we came to this our last stopping-place before going through the famous mont cenis tunnel, we were four hours late. it was terribly cold there. everything was ice-bound. brooklets, waterfalls, rivers, all were held fast by the ice-king. simon was much impressed by the scenery. the great giant mountains towering up on every hand were a revelation to him, and he stood open-mouthed, gazing at what is perhaps among the grandest sights in france. we swept through mont cenis tunnel, and then, with a cry of gladness, we entered the sunny land of italy. what a change it was! here the warm sun, which had been hidden on the other side by the high mountain range, had melted the snow, and so bright streams of water came rushing down the mountain sides, laughing as if in glee. the cottagers sat outside their doors, singing in the sun. the vine-covered hills, although not yet clothed with their green garment, were still beautiful, while away in the distance spread a broad italian plain, dotted with villages, out of whose midst a modest church spire ever lifted its head. i had seen all this before, but to simon it was a marvel of beauty. in england the streets were muddy, and a yellow fog hung over london, and yet in forty-eight hours we were beneath sunny skies, we were breathing a comparatively humid air. but i must not stay to write about this, for my story is not about italian scenery, or beautiful sights of any sort. it is my work now to tell about my search after kaffar. we arrived in turin on friday evening, about fifty-one hours from the time we started from london. we had spent some little time in paris, or we could have done it more quickly. we found turin lit up with a pure bright light, and, as simon declared, "looking one of the most purtiest places like, as ever he'd clapped his eyes on." we stayed at hotel trombetta. we had several reasons for doing this. first, it was a good hotel. i had stayed there before, and so i knew. it was also near the station, and fairly near the place where, according to simon's sketch, kaffar was staying. we got into the hotel just in time for dinner. simon declared that he "dar'n't go into the dining-room amo' the swells like; it would take away his appetite jist like waccination did;" but as i insisted, he gave way, and certainly did not draw any one's attention by his awkwardness. i had got him a perfectly fitting suit of clothes in paris, in which he looked a respectable member of society. directly after dinner i went out, to try to find kaffar's whereabouts; but although turin is beautifully built, and the streets very straight, i found i had to put off my search until the morning. every hour of waiting was, as the reader may imagine, of great anxiety to me. i was now making my great move. if i missed in this, all was lost. was kaffar in turin? was he or had he been there? was all this mesmerism so much hocus-pocus and nonsense to deceive me, a credulous fool? and yet i was sure simon would not be a party in deceiving me. but might not i have been deceived by the professor? could he not make my friend say, not what really existed, but what existed in his own mind? and yet the little man seemed honest! anyhow, i could do no more, and it was my only hope. there could be no harm in trying. if i failed, well, i could not help it; i had done my best. i would go back and face voltaire and miss forrest, and--well--i knew not what--! but if i found the egyptian! ah, it was too good to be true. i dared not dwell upon the thought. it was not for me to build castles in the air, and weave bright fancies; but to work, until i had accomplished the work i had set out to do. and so i went quietly to bed, and, much to my astonishment, slept long and soundly. the sun was shining in at my window when i awoke, and this italian city looked wondrously beautiful as it lay there this clear december morning, in the light of the bright sun. we wasted no time after breakfast before setting out--i with beating heart, simon still calm and collected, looking with critical eyes on the sketch he had drawn in his mesmeric sleep. "after all," remarked simon, slowly, "it shows us how a feller can live away from his body, don't it, then? we are fearfully and terribly made, as solomon said to the people on mount sinai." i did not reply to simon's philosophy, nor to his wonderful scriptural quotations. i was too anxious to get to this hotel, where i hoped kaffar would be staying. we came to the great square in which stood the palace of the king, but i paid no heed to the imposing building nor to the magnificently carved monuments that stood around in the square. i was too anxious to turn down the street in which my hopes lay. i went slowly down, till i came to the bottom of it, where a narrow road branched off, leading to a kind of observatory; but i saw nothing of an hotel. my heart became like lead. simon's sketch of the streets had not been a false one. if any of my readers have been to turin, they will remember the long street leading from the station; they will also recognize the two squares which simon indicated in his plan. true, he had sketched them out of proportion, while the street was far more straight than he had drawn it. still, it bore a close resemblance to that particular part of the city. but there was no hotel, nor sign of one in the street. we walked up and down again and again, with no success. could it be that i had come all these weary miles again only for a bitter and terrible disappointment? the thought almost drove me mad. i would not give up, however! there might be no hotel, but it was possible kaffar stayed in a lodging-house, or even in a private house. i would knock at every house in the street, and make inquiries, before i would give up. the italian language was not altogether strange to me. i could not by any means speak it fluently, but i knew it enough to enter into an ordinary conversation. so, seeing a soldier pass up the street, i saluted him and asked him whether he knew a lodging-house or private boarding establishment in the street? no, the soldier said, he did not know any at all in that street, or, indeed, in that part of the town; but if i would go with him, he would direct me to a splendid place, marvellously convenient, marvellously clean, and marvellously cheap, and, best of all, kept by his mother's sister. i cannot say i felt either elated or depressed by this answer. evidently this was a keen youth, trying to get a suitable customer for his relations. another youth came up to me soon after, offering to sell me photographs of some of the principal sights in turin. could he tell me of any boarding or lodging establishment in the street? yes, he knew of three or four. for a franc he would give me their history and lead me to them. was there one about the middle of the street? yes, there were two close together. should he take me? i closed with the youth's offer, and accordingly we walked down the street together. he entered a tobacconist's shop, assuring me that this was a lodging-house. a young italian girl stood behind the counter, as if waiting for an order; so i asked to see the proprietor of the place. she immediately went out of the shop and gave a shout, and a minute after a matronly woman entered, about fifty years of age, and who, from her close resemblance to the dark-eyed girl, was probably her mother. was she the proprietor of this establishment? she was. did she keep a boarding-house? she did--for well-behaved people. she had no husband? the blessed virgin had taken him home. and a man did not conduct her business? certainly not. she was a capable woman, able to attend to the wants of her guests, while her daughter was a universal favourite because of politeness to customers and the good tobacco she sold. should she have the pleasure of selling me some? i did not reply except by a smile, which this italian maiden evidently took for an assent to her mother's proposition, and accordingly proceeded to make some cigarettes for me. meanwhile her mother assured me that her house was convenient and comfortable, and asked permission to show me some vacant rooms, and give me an idea of the attendance i should receive. i accordingly followed her, and found rooms which, while not altogether according to my english tastes, did her credit. "have you many lodgers now?" i asked. "four," was the reply. "gentlemen?" "all gentlemen." "might i ask their nationality?" i said. "they are all italian," was the reply. my hopes had risen high, but they were by this answer dashed to the ground. then i remembered that simon had described kaffar as being in a room with a man. so, after thanking the lady for her kindness and paying for the cigarettes, i asked the boy, who was waiting for his franc, to show me to the other lodging-house close by. "oh, sir," said the proprietress of this establishment, "don't go there! it's a bad house; it really is! the lodgers are bad men, and they are bad people." she said this evidently in earnest, while the little girl behind the counter hoped i should not go among those thieves. i was not displeased at this. i did not think kaffar would be very particular as to his society, and he would be more likely to stay at this disreputable place than in a respectable lodging-house. accordingly, i told the good lady that i should not take lodgings there, and, if i took apartments in any place in the city, hers should have the first consideration. this considerably mollified her, so my guide proceeded to lead the way to the other lodging-house. this was also a tobacconist's shop, but a dirty old woman stood behind the counter. she was very polite, however, and quickly called down the proprietor of the establishment. this was a lodging-house, was it not? he assured me that my surmise was correct, and forthwith began to enumerate the advantages received by those who were fortunate enough to be received as lodgers. "have you many lodgers at present?" i asked. "five," was the reply. my heart began to beat violently now, for i felt i was near the time when my labours would be rewarded by success, or i should have to give up my search in despair. "are they all europeans?" i asked. "no. there was one turk, one frenchman, two italians, and one egyptian." my heart gave a great bound. surely i had been guided aright; i should find him at last. "are they at home during the day?" "no," was the reply; "they are mostly out." "but they come home at night?" "yes, they come home at night, all except one." which was he? the egyptian. did he stay at home during the day? he really could not say. he only came a little more than two days ago, and his habits seemed uncertain. "and is the egyptian at home now?" "no," said the man, eyeing me keenly. "might i ask when he will be home?" i asked eagerly. "i do not think it right to answer questions about my lodgers," said the man, sharply. "you have asked a great many; i must know your reasons for so doing before i answer any more." i began to chide myself for my folly. i had raised suspicions, and now i might not be able to get the information i wanted. "i did not intend to be offensive," i said. "if i mistake not, this egyptian gentleman is acquainted with a man in england whom i know, and i have a message of great importance to convey." "to mr. kaffar's advantage?" asked the italian, eagerly. no words can express what i felt as the man unthinkingly uttered kaffar's name. i had not come on a false report. the egyptian bore the name of the man i wanted to find. "he can turn it to his advantage," i replied. "mr. kaffar is not in turin at present," he said confidentially. "could you tell me where he is?" i said, with beating heart. "i cannot. you see--" and the italian put his face close to mine. "might i ask if you are somewhat of a--well, a gentleman fond of play?" i did not reply. "ah, i thought so," said he, cunningly. "at first i was afraid you were a detective fellow, but i see now. well, you will perhaps know that mr. kaffar is a very accomplished gentleman, and he left yesterday afternoon for a little tour--where i don't know. another accomplished gentleman went with him. we have a jolly house, and you englishmen would enjoy a few nights here. come up to-night and win some of our italian gold." "when will mr. kaffar be back?" "he said he might be back on monday night--on tuesday morning at latest." "i daren't come and play till he comes," i said. "will he let you know when he is coming back?" "yes; he said he'd telegraph." "would you mind letting me know the train? i am staying at the hotel trombetta." "yes, yes, i shall be delighted; and then, when he comes, we'll--but what name shall i write on my message?" "herod voltaire," i said. i went away then, and began to think. i found the man, and yet i had not. nothing was certain yet. it was now saturday, and he would not return until monday night or tuesday morning, and i must be in london by wednesday at midnight, or all was lost. say he came back on tuesday by noon, there would then be only thirty-six hours left in which to get to london. thirty-six hours, and many hundreds of dreary, weary miles between! or if he should not come at all! if the italian were deceiving me! i shall not try and relate what happened the next two days, except to say that i set simon to watch every train that came into turin station, while i did all i could to discover whether he were hiding in turin. neither of us saw kaffar, nor did we hear anything of him. monday night came. i had received no message from the lodging-house keeper, neither had i heard any news. the suspense was becoming terrible. six o'clock! seven o'clock, and no news! "simon," i said, "go to that lodging-house and ask whether any message has been received." the willing fellow, still with a smile on his face and a cheery look, started to do my bidding. i do not know how i should have borne up during those two terrible days, but for my faithful friend. he had not been gone above half a minute before he came bounding back to my room. "a message jist 'a come, yer honour!" he cried. eagerly i snatched it, and read--"_expect me home to-night by the midnight train.--kaffar._" i caught up a time-table and anxiously scanned it. the telegram was from _nice_. there was a train due from this fashionable seaport at 12.30. the lodging-house keeper had kept his word, and kaffar would be safe. it was become intensely real, intensely exciting! five hours to wait--five hours! only those who have felt as i did can know what they meant. at twelve o'clock i sent simon to the station, while i went to the lodging-house to await kaffar's arrival. "mr. kaffar will have supper, i suppose?" i said to the proprietor of the house. "yes, i shall prepare supper." "where?" "in his own room." "just so. could you manage to put me in a room where i can see him at supper without being observed? i should like to enter quietly and give him a surprise." "you mean nothing wrong?" "on my honour, i do not." "it is said," mused the italian, "that an english gentleman's honour is like english cloth; it can always be depended on. the adjoining room is empty, sir." "thank you," i replied, while he led the way to the room. i had not been there long before i heard some one enter with the landlord. the two rooms, like many we find in french hotels, could easily be made one, as a doorway led from one to the other. i had arranged my door to be slightly ajar, so was able to see. the man with the landlord was kaffar! i found that kaffar could not speak italian. he spoke french enough to make himself understood, and, as his host was proficient in that language, french was the tongue in which they conversed. "has any one been asking for me?" asked kaffar. "yes, sir." "who?" "a gentleman from england." "from england! what kind of a man?" "a giant, with brown hair." "a giant, with brown hair! man, where is he now?" "how can i say?" said the italian. kaffar held down his head for a minute, and then said hastily, "and his message?" "something to your advantage, sir." "my advantage? can it be he? did he give his name?" "herod voltaire!" "voltaire! never! he dare not come near me; i'm his master for many reasons--he dare not come! but--" he checked himself, as if he were telling the italian too much. the host then left the room, while kaffar went on with his supper. i opened the door noiselessly and went into the room, and said distinctly, "good evening, mr. kaffar." he looked up and saw me. never, i think, did i see so much terror, astonishment, mingled with hate, expressed on a human face before. he made a leap for the door. i caught him, and held him fast. "no, mr. kaffar, you must not escape," i said, leading him back to his chair. "you cannot--kill me--here!" he gasped. "i mean no wrong--to you. i--ah, you've followed me for revenge." for an answer i went to the door and locked it. "have mercy!" he said. "don't kill me. i--you don't know all! voltaire's your enemy, not i." "you knew i was following you, did you?" i said. "yes. voltaire said you were mad for my life; that you swore to be revenged; that you would pull me limb from limb! ah, you do not know." surely i had found out the man's nature. he was a coward, and stood in deadly fear of me. he had been voltaire's tool, who had frightened him to do his every bidding. now i must use his fear of me to make him do my will. "well, i have found you out," i said. "you thought you would master me, didn't you?" "well, i'm master of you both. voltaire's influence over me is gone, and now he is in my power; while you--" "ah, mr. blake, have mercy," he whined. "i only did what he told me, and he has treated me like a dog." "yes; he intended me to kill you, while both of you tried to ruin me." "curse him! i know he did. oh, i am not his friend now. mr. blake, forgive me. ah, say--" i felt that if i allowed this man to think my welfare depended on his doing my will, he would defy me. i must use means suitable to the man. "kaffar," i said, "had i a heart like you egyptians, you know what i should do; but--well, i will be merciful on one condition." "oh, what-what?" "that you will come back to england with me at once." "i cannot; i dare not. he has promised to take my life-blood if i do." "no harm shall happen to you, i promise." "you will not allow him to touch me?" "he shall not." "then i will go." my point was gained. the man had promised to accompany me willingly, while i had expected a difficult matter in getting him to england. early the next day we were on our way to england, simon and i taking turns in watching the wily egyptian. chapter xix the second christmas eve the skies were clear when we left turin, and the air pure and free. we had not got far into france, however, when we found everything changed. it was snow--snow everywhere. on ordinary occasions i should not have minded much, but now everything depended on my getting to london at a certain hour. how slowly the train seemed to creep, to be sure; and how long we stopped at the little roadside stations! simon did his best to cheer me, while kaffar furtively watched us both, as if in fear. i was silent and fearful, for i felt sure the egyptian meditated escape. the laughter of the light-hearted french people, who were preparing for christmas festivities, grated on my ears; for, although i had succeeded almost beyond my hopes, a great fear rested upon me that i should fail even yet. especially was this realized when i knew that our train was hours late, and i knew that did we not arrive in paris at something like reasonable time, we should miss the express trains for england. when we got to the french metropolis we were nearly five hours late. it was not to be wondered at, for the snow fell in blinding drifts, until, in some cases, the railways were completely blocked. the wonder was how we got to paris so soon, when we considered what had to be contended with. anxiously i inquired after trains by which i could catch the boats for england, but the replies were vague. first, it was now christmas eve, which at all times caused the general traffic to be delayed; and, second, the weather was so bad that to state times of arrival was impossible. it was now wednesday morning, and i started from paris with sixteen hours before me in which to get to london. ordinarily i should have had time enough and to spare, but everything was delayed and confused. i had thought of going back by dieppe and newhaven; but a storm was blowing, and i knew that meant a longer sea-passage, so i went to calais, thus riding through one of the most uninteresting parts of france. it was five o'clock on christmas eve when we arrived at this little french seaport, and then it took us two hours to cross the straits, although we happened to be on one of the fast-sailing steamers. we had now five hours to get to kensington. i was getting terribly anxious now. if there should be a breakdown, or if anything should happen to hinder us! we were so near, and yet so far. once i thought of telegraphing and telling of my success, but i refrained from that. i wanted to tell of my victory in person, and thus, if needs be, destroy voltaire's last hope. the usual time for an express train to run from dover to victoria is about two hours; but it was christmas eve, special trains were running, and passengers crowded on every hand, thus we were more than three hours in accomplishing the journey. the train swept into victoria at a quarter-past ten. there was one hour and three-quarters to go to kensington. "this way to the custom house," shouted one of the officials. i had forgotten this part of the programme, but i determined not to wait for my luggage. i would sooner lose it a thousand times over than be late in reaching kensington. i accordingly got the keys from kaffar and simon, and pointing out the portmanteaus to an official, gave him a sovereign to see them examined and sent on to my address in gower street. i hailed a hansom, but the cabby refused to take the three of us, upon which kaffar offered to go in another; but i dared not risk him out of my sight, so we got into a rumbling old four-wheeler, and i offered the cabby a sovereign if he would get me at the address i gave him in half-an-hour. "couldn't do it for ten sovereigns, sir," said the cabby. "the streets is as slippery as glass, and as crowded as herrin's in a barrel. i'll do it in _three-quarters_ for a quid, yer honour." it was now nearly half-past ten; that would make it a quarter-past eleven. to me it was drawing it terribly fine, but i consented. if he were not spurred on by thought of reward, short as the distance was, there was no knowing how long he would be. at length the cab stopped. it was a quarter-past eleven, and as i got out i noticed that we stood in front of one of those tall noble-looking mansions which are so common in kensington. "wait a minute," i said to the cabby; "i want to be certain this is the right house." meanwhile i noticed that my constant friend simon held kaffar by the arm. i rang the bell violently, and a servant appeared at the door. did miss gertrude forrest live there? yes. was she at home? yes. could i see her? the servant was not sure, but would ascertain. miss forrest was then engaged. i stopped the man, for i did not wish to appear in the way that matters seemed to promise. meanwhile simon had paid the cabby, and so the three of us stood together in the hall. "i am an old friend of miss forrest's," i said to the man; "i want to be shown to the room where she is, without her being apprised of my presence." "i daren't," he replied; "it would be as much as my place is worth." "no, it would not," i replied. "you would not suffer in the slightest degree." "but there are several people in the room," he said, eyeing a sovereign i was turning over in my hand. "how many?" "there's miss forrest, her aunt, and miss staggles, besides a gentleman that came early in the evening." "that gentleman's name is herod voltaire," i said. "yes, sir, that's the name. well, i'll do as you wish me." i followed the servant, while simon kept fast hold on kaffar. the man knocked at the door, while i stood close behind him, and the moment he opened the door i entered the room. never shall i forget the sight. evidently voltaire had been claiming the fulfilment of her promise, for he was earnestly speaking when i entered, while miss forrest, pale as death, sat by an elderly lady, who i concluded to be her aunt. miss staggles also sat near, as grim and taciturn as ever. "it is nearly twelve o'clock," i heard voltaire say, "and he's not here. he dare not come; how dare he? he has left the country, and will never return again." "but i am here," i said distinctly. they all turned as i spoke, and miss forrest gave a scream. i had been travelling incessantly for forty hours, so i am afraid i did not present a very pleasant appearance. no doubt i was travel-stained and dusty enough. "who are you?" demanded voltaire. "you know well enough who i am," i said. "begone!" he cried; "this is no place for murderers." "no," i said, "it is not." no sooner had miss forrest realized who i was, than she rushed to my side. "oh, are you safe--are you safe?" she said huskily. i looked at her face, and it was deathly pale, while her eyes told me she had passed sleepless nights. "no, he's not safe," said voltaire, "and he shall pay for this with his life." "is it manly," i said to him, "to persecute a lady thus? can't you see how she scorns you, hates you, loathes you? will you insist on her abiding by a promise which was made in excitement to save an innocent man?" "innocent!" he sneered, and i noticed a look of victory still in his glittering eye. "innocent! yes, as innocent as nero or robespierre; but you shall not come here to pollute the air by your presence. begone! before i forget myself, and send for the police to lock you up. ah, i long for vengeance on the man who murdered my dear friend." "then you will not release miss forrest?" "never!" "then i shall make you." "you make me?" he cried savagely. meanwhile miss forrest had clung tremblingly to my arm; miss forrest's aunt had looked fearfully, first at voltaire, then at me; while miss staggles had been mumbling something about showing me out of doors. "yes," i said; "i shall make you." "you cannot," he jeered. "i have it in my power now to lodge you safe in a felon's gaol, and bring you to a hangman's noose." "ay, and i would too," cried miss staggles. "you are too kind, too forbearing, mr. voltaire." "oh, leave me," cried miss forrest, clinging closer to me; "i will suffer anything rather than you should be--be--" "ring the bell for a servant," i said; and miss forrest's aunt tremblingly touched a button close beside her. the man who had showed me in immediately answered the summons. "show my friends in," i said. a minute more and simon entered, carefully leading kaffar. voltaire gave a yell like that of a mad dog, while miss forrest gave a scream of delight. "there, villain," i said, "is the man whom you say i've murdered." "how dare you come here?" said voltaire to kaffar. "because i brought him," i said, "to save this lady and expose you. now, where is your power, and where are the charges you have brought?" had he a pistol i believe he would have shot me dead. his ground was cut from under him. the man who destroyed his every hope stood before us all, and refuted his terrible charges. for a minute he stood as if irresolute; then he turned to miss forrest and spoke as coolly as if nothing had happened. "may i claim your pardon, your forgiveness?" he said. "believe me, lady, it was all because i loved you that i have acted as i have. say, then, now that all is against me, that you forgive me." she hesitated a minute before replying; then she said slowly, "it is difficult for me to speak to you without shuddering. never did i believe such villainy possible; but--but i pray that god may forgive you, as i do." "then i will leave you," he said, with a terrible look at me. "no," i said; "you will not leave us so easily. know, man, that you are punishable by the law of england." "how?" "you are guilty of many things that i need not enumerate here; some kaffar has told me about, some i knew before. so, instead of my lying in a felon's cell, it will be you." then we all received a great shock. miss staggles arose from her chair and rushed towards me. "no, no, mr. blake," she cried; "no, not for my sake. he's my only son. for my sake, spare him." "_your_ only son? _yours?_" cried miss forrest's aunt. "mine," cried this gaunt old woman. "oh, i was married on the continent when quite a girl, and i dared not tell of it, for my husband was a gambler and a villain; but he was handsome and fascinating, and so he won me. herod, this son of mine, was born just the day before his father was killed in a duel. oh, spare him for my sake!" i need not enter into the further explanations she made, nor how she pleaded for mercy for him, for they were painful to all. and did i spare him? yes; on condition that he left england, never to return again, besides stipulating for kaffar's safety. he left the house soon after, and we all felt a sense of relief when he had gone, save miss staggles, or rather mrs. voltaire, who went up to her room weeping bitterly. need i relate what followed that night? need i tell how i had to recount my doings and journeyings over again and again, while simon and kaffar were asked to give such information as i was unable to give, and how one circumstance was explained by another until all was plain? i will not tax my readers' patience by so doing; this must be left to their own imagination. after this, mrs. walters insisted that we must have refreshments, and bustled away to order it, while a servant conducted simon and kaffar to a room where food was to be obtained; and so i was left alone with the woman i loved. "well?" i said, when they were gone. "well?" she replied, looking shyly into my face. "i have done your bidding," i said, after a minute's silence. "i have freed you from that man." "thank god, you have!" she said, with a shudder. "oh, if you only knew how i have prayed and hoped and thought!" "and i had a promise, too," i said; "will it be painful for you to keep it?" "painful, justin?" she cried. "you know i will gladly be your wife." i will not write of what happened then. it is not for the eyes of the world to see. tears come into my eyes now as i remember how her new-found happiness lit up her eyes with joy, and how the colour came into her beautiful cheeks. god alone knows how happy we were. we had been kept asunder by a cruel hand, and had been brought together again by long and bitter struggles, struggles which would never have been but for the love of god and the love in our hearts. then, when our joy was fullest, a choir from a neighbouring church began to sing-"christians, awake, salute the happy morn, whereon the saviour of mankind was born." it was indeed, a happy christmas morn to us. the darkness had rolled away, and the light of heaven shone upon us. when i left shortly after, i asked whether i should come the next day, or rather when daylight came, and spend christmas day with her. "you must not be later than nine o'clock," she said, with a glad laugh, while my heart seemed ready to break for joy. i have nearly told my story now; the loving work of months is almost at an end, and soon i must drop my pen. i am very happy, happier than i ever hoped to be. my new-found strength not only brought me freedom from my enemy, not only enabled me to accomplish my purpose, but gave me fuller and richer life. gertrude and i live under brighter skies than we should do had i not been led through so terrible an experience. thus the eternal goodness brings good out of evil. voltaire is on the continent. i do not think that he has ever returned to england; while his mother, who still lives the same kind of life as of yore, supplies him with money. it appears that she has means which were unknown to her friends, and thus she keeps him supplied. of course the relationship between them explains their being in league in yorkshire. she was ever seeking to serve him then; she is still trying to do the same. she never speaks to me. but for me, she says, her son would have married gertrude, and then she would have lived with her herod, who would have been a country gentleman, not the poor outcast he is now. kaffar has gone back to egypt. he stayed in london a few days after the scene on christmas eve, and i gave him house-room in my old lodgings; but he tired of england, so i sent him back to cairo. i think he is a far better man than he was, but i am not at all sorry that he dislikes england. he writes sometimes, but i never receive his letters without thinking of the terrible night on the yorkshire moors--of the dark waters, the red hand, and the terrible struggle. although i am now entirely free from any such influences, i cannot help fearfully wondering at the awful power one being can exert over another. how an evil man could almost deplete me of my own self, and make me see according to his will and act according to his desires, is to me beyond explanation. truly does our greatest poet say- "we are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep." tom temple is married, and lives happily at temple hall. tom attributes all his happiness to the ghost. he should never have had the pluck to ask edith gray to be his wife, he says, had not his lady-love been so fearful. "but you found no difficulty in getting her consent, tom?" i said one day at temple hall. "difficulty!" laughed tom. "she said 'yes' before i had stuttered out my little speech." "i couldn't bear to see you in such an agony of pain," blushingly replied his happy little wife. ah, well, tom deserves his happiness, because he makes those around him happy. simon slowden lives with gertrude and me. he declared that he couldn't bear the idea of leaving us, after he'd gone through so much to bring us together. we are not sorry for this, for he has been an incalculable help to me in many ways. but for him, perhaps, i should never have the treasure i now possess, the truest and noblest wife god ever gave to man; but for him, i might have dragged out my weary life, disappointed and almost broken-hearted. of course this might not be so; but i know that simon was one of my greatest helpers in making me the happiest man on earth. i will close my story with a secret. yesterday, simon came to me, looking very grave. "if i remember aright, yer honour," he said, "i told you as 'ow i'd completely finished wi' all belongin' to the female persuasion." "you did, simon." "well, i've changed my mind. i used to think after that waccinatin' business gived me small-pox, that i was done for; but that 'ere emily the 'ousemaid 'ev bin waccinated, and she 'ev had small-pox too. well, 't seems to me as 'ow it must hev bin special providence as hev brought us together, as we read in the book of job; and not likin' to go 'gin providence, i axed her to change her name to slowden." "well, simon, what was her reply?" "she seed the force o' my reasonin's in a minute, and so, as you may say, 'there'll be good brought out o' evil,' even the evil o' waccinatin'; for it's give us both small-pox, and we both live. our faces be a bit pitty, but kisses ain't none the less sweet for that." "and when is it to come off, simon?" "i'm goin' to the registrar's now, yer honour, so three weeks to-morrow i shall be took in and done for, and all threw waccination." the end transcriber's notes: 1. page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/watchersnovel00masorich the watchers the watchers a novel by a. e. w. mason author of "the courtship of morrice buckler," etc. new york frederick a. stokes company publishers _copyright, 1899_. _by frederick a. stokes company_. contents chap. i. tells of a door ajar and of a lad who stood behind it. ii. dick parmiter's story. iii. of the magical influence of a map. iv. describes the remarkable manner in which cullen mayle left tresco. v. the adventure in the wood. vi. my first night upon tresco. vii. tells of an extraordinary incident in cullen mayle's bedroom. viii. helen mayle. ix. tells of a stain upon a white frock and a lost key. x. in which i learn something from an ill-painted picture. xi. our plans miscarry upon castle down. xii. i find an unexpected friend. xiii. in the abbey grounds. xiv. in which peter tortue explains his intervention on my behalf. xv. the lost key is found. xvi. an unsatisfactory explanation. xvii. cullen mayle comes home. xviii. my perplexities are explained. xix. the last. the watchers chapter i tells of a door ajar and of a lad who stood behind it i had never need to keep any record either of the date or place. it was the fifteenth night of july, in the year 1758, and the place was lieutenant clutterbuck's lodging at the south corner of burleigh street, strand. the night was tropical in its heat, and though every window stood open to the thames, there was not a man, i think, who did not long for the cool relief of morning, or step out from time to time on to the balcony and search the dark profundity of sky for the first flecks of grey. i cannot be positive about the entire disposition of the room: but certainly lieutenant clutterbuck was playing at ninepins down the middle with half a dozen decanters and a couple of silver salvers; and mr. macfarlane, a young gentleman of a scottish regiment, was practising a game of his own. he carried the fire-irons and lieutenant clutterbuck's sword under his arm, and walked solidly about the floor after a little paper ball rolled up out of a news sheet, which he hit with one of these instruments, selecting now the poker, now the tongs or the sword with great deliberation, and explaining his selection with even greater earnestness; there was besides a great deal of noise, which seemed to be a quality of the room rather than the utterance of any particular person; and i have a clear recollection that everything, from the candles to the glasses on the tables and the broken tobacco pipes on the floor, was of a dazzling and intolerable brightness. this brightness distressed me particularly, because just opposite to where i sat a large mirror hung upon the wall between two windows. on each side was a velvet hollow of gloom, in the middle this glittering oval. every ray of light within the room seemed to converge upon its surface. i could not but look at it--for it did not occur to me to move away to another chair--and it annoyed me exceedingly. besides, the mirror was inclined forward from the wall, and so threw straight down at me a reflection of lieutenant clutterbuck's guests, as they flung about the room beneath it. thus i saw a throng of flushed young exuberant faces, and in the background, continually peeping between them, my own, very white and drawn and thin and a million years old. that, too, annoyed me very much, and then by a sheer miracle, as it seemed to me, the mirror splintered and cracked and dropped in fragments on to the floor, until there was only hanging on the wall the upper rim, a thin curve of glass like a bright sickle. i remember that the noise and hurley-burley suddenly ceased, as though morning had come unawares upon a witches' carnival and that all the men present stood like statues and appeared to stare at me. lieutenant clutterbuck broke the silence, or rather tore it, with a great loud laugh which crumpled up his face. he said something about "old steve berkeley," and smacked his hand upon my shoulder, and shouted for another glass, which he filled and placed at my elbow, for my own had disappeared. i had no time to drink from it, however, for just as i was raising it to my lips mr. macfarlane's paper ball dropped from the ceiling into the liquor. "bunkered, by god!" cried mr. macfarlane, amidst a shout of laughter. i looked at macfarlane with some reserve. "i don't understand," i began. "don't move, man!" cried he, as he forced me back into my chair, and dropping the fire-irons with a clatter on to the floor, he tried to scoop the ball out of the glass with the point of clutterbuck's sword-sheath. he missed the glass; the sheath caught me full on the knuckles; i opened my hand and---"sir, you have ruined my game," said mr. macfarlane, with considerable heat. "and a good thing too," said i, "for a sillier game i never saw in all my life." "gentlemen," cried lieutenant clutterbuck, though he did not articulate the word with his customary precision; but his intentions were undoubtedly pacific. he happened to be holding the last of his decanters in his hand, and he swung it to and fro. "gentlemen," he repeated, and as if to keep me company, he let the decanter slip out of his hand. it fell on the floor and split with a loud noise. "well," said he, solemnly, "i have dropped a brooch," and he fumbled at his cravat. another peal of laughter went up; and while it was still ringing, a man--what his name was i cannot remember, even if i ever knew it; i saw him for the first time that evening, and i have only once seen him since, but he was certainly--more sober than the rest--stooped over my chair and caught me by the arm. "steve," said he, with a chuckle,--and from this familiarity to a new acquaintance i judge he was not so sober after all,--"do you notice the door?" the door was in the corner of the room to my right. i looked towards it: the brass handle shone like a gold ball in the sun. i looked back at my companion, and, shaking my arm free, i replied coldly: "i see it. it is a door, a mere door. but i do not notice it. it is not indeed noteworthy." "it is unlatched," said my acquaintance, with another chuckle. "i suppose it is not the only door in the world in that predicament." "but it was latched a moment ago," and with his forefinger he gently poked me in the ribs. "then someone has turned the handle," said i, drawing myself away. "a most ingenious theory," said he, quite unabashed by my reserve, "and the truth. someone _has_ turned the handle. now who?" he winked with an extreme significance. "my dear sir, who?" i looked round the room. mr. macfarlane had resumed his game. two gentlemen in a corner through all the din were earnestly playing putt with the cards. they had, however, removed their wigs, and their shaven heads gleamed unpleasantly. others by the window were vociferating the chorus of a drinking song. lieutenant clutterbuck alone was near to the door. i was on the point of pronouncing his name when he lurched towards it, and instantly the door was closed. "it was someone outside," said i. "precisely. steve, you are not so devoid of sense as your friends would have me believe," continued my companion. "now, who will be lieutenant clutterbuck's timorous visitor?" he drew his watch from his fob: "we may hazard a guess at the sex, i think, but for the rest---is it some fine lady from st. james's who has come in her chair at half-past one of the morning to keep an appointment which her careless courtier has forgotten?" "hardly," i returned. "for your fine lady would hurry back to her chair with all the speed her petticoats allowed. she would not stay behind the door, which, i see, has again been opened." the familiar stranger laid his hand upon my shoulder and held me back in my chair at arm's length from him. "they do you wrong, my dear steve," said he, gravely, "who say your brains are addled with drink. your"--his tongue stumbled over a long word which i judged to be "ratiocination"--"is admirable. never was logician more precise. it is not a fine lady from st. james's. it will be a flower-girl from drury lane, and may i be eternally as drunk as i am to-night, if we do not have her into the room." with that he crossed the room, and seizing the handle suddenly swung the door open. the next instant he stepped back. the door was in a line with the wall against which my chair was placed, and besides it opened towards me so that i could not see what it was that so amazed him. "here's the strangest flower-girl from drury lane that ever i saw," said he, and lieutenant clutterbuck turning about cried: "by all that's wonderful, it's dick parmiter," and a lad of fifteen years, with a red fisherman's bonnet upon his head and a blue jersey on his back, stepped hesitatingly into the room. "well, dick, what's the news from scilly?" continued clutterbuck. "and what's brought you to london? have you come to see the king in his golden crown? has captain hathaway lost his _diodorus siculus_ and sent you to town to buy him another? come, out with it!" dick shifted from one foot to another; he took his cap from his head and twisted it in his hands; and he looked from one to another of lieutenant clutterbuck's guests who had now crowded about the lad and were plying him with questions. but he did not answer the questions. no doubt the noise and the lights, and the presence of these glittering gentlemen confused the lad, who was more used to the lonely beaches of the islands and the companionable murmurs of the sea. at last he plucked up the courage to say, with a glance of appeal to lieutenant clutterbuck: "i have news to tell, but i would sooner tell it to you alone." his appeal was received with a chorus of protestations, and "where are your manners, dick," cried clutterbuck, "that you tell my friends flat to their faces they cannot keep a secret?" "are we women?" asked mr. macfarlane. "out with your story," cried another. dick parmiter shrank back and turned his eyes towards the door, but one man shut it to and leaned his shoulders against the panels, while the others caught at the lad's hesitation as at a new game, and crowded about him as though he was some rare curiosity brought by a traveller from outlandish parts. "he shall tell his story," cried clutterbuck. "it is two years since i was stationed at the scilly islands, two years since i dined in the mess-room of star castle with captain hathaway of his majesty's invalids, and was bored to death with his dissertations on _diodorus siculus_. two years! the boy must have news of consequence. there is no doubt trouble with the cray fish, or adam mayle has broken the head of the collector of the customs house----" "adam mayle is dead. he was struck down by paralysis and never moved till he died," interrupted dick parmiter. the news sobered clutterbuck for an instant. "dead!" said he, gaping at the boy. "dead!" he repeated, and so flung back to his noise and laughter, though there was a ring of savagery in it very strange to his friends. "well, more brandy will pay revenue, and fewer ships will come ashore, and very like there'll be quiet upon tresco----" "no," interrupted parmiter again, and clutterbuck turned upon him with a flush of rage. "well, tell your story and have done with it!" "to you," said the boy, looking from one to other of the faces about him. "no, to all," cried clutterbuck. the drink, and a certain anger of which we did not know the source, made him obstinate. "you shall tell it to us all, or not at all. bring that table, forward, macfarlane! you shall stand on the table dick, like a preacher in his pulpit," he sneered, "and put all the fine gentlemen to shame, with a story of the rustic virtues." the table was dragged from the corner into the middle of the room. the boy protested, and made for the door. but he was thrust back, seized and lifted struggling on to the table, where he was set upon his feet. "harmony, gentlemen, harmony!" cried clutterbuck, flapping his hand upon the mantelshelf. "take your seats, and no whispering in the side boxes, if you please. for i can promise you a play which needs no prologue to excuse it." it was a company in which a small jest passed easily for a high stroke of wit. they applauded lieutenant clutterbuck's sally, and drew up their chairs round the table and sat looking upwards towards the boy, with a great expectation of amusement, just as people watch a bear-baiting at a fair. for my part i had not moved, and it was no doubt for that reason that parmiter looked for help towards me. "when all's said, clutterbuck," i began, "you and your friends are a pack of bullies. the boy's a good boy, devil take me if he isn't." the boy upon the table looked his gratitude for the small mercy of my ineffectual plea, and i should have proceeded to enlarge upon it had i not noticed a very astonishing thing. for parmiter lifted his arm high up above his head as though to impress upon me his gratitude, and his arm lengthened out and grew until it touched the ceiling. then it dwindled and shrank until again it was no more than a boy's arm on a boy's shoulder. i was so struck with this curious phenomenon that i broke off my protest on his behalf, and mentioned to those about me what i had seen, asking whether they had remarked it too, and inquiring to what cause, whither of health or malady, they were disposed to attribute so sudden a growth and contraction. however, lieutenant clutterbuck's guests were only disposed that night to make light of any subject however important or scientific. for some laughed in my face, others more polite, shrugged their shoulders with a smile, and the stranger who had spoken to me before clapped his hand in the small of my back as i leaned forward, and shouted some ill-bred word that, though might he die of small-pox if he had ever met me before, he would have known me from a thousand by the tales he had heard. however, before i could answer him fitly, and indeed, while i was still pondering the meaning of his words. lieutenant clutterbuck clapped his hands for silence, and dick parmiter, seeing no longer any hope of succour, perforce began to tell his story. it was a story of a youth that sat in the stocks of a sunday morning and disappeared thereafter from the islands; of a girl named helen; of a negro who slept and slept, and of men watching a house with a great tangled garden that stood at the edge of the sea. cullen mayle, parmiter called the youth who had sat in the stocks, son to that adam whose death had so taken lieutenant clutterbuck with surprise. but i could not make head or tail of the business. for one thing i have always been very fond of flowers, and quite unaccountably the polished floor of the room blossomed into a parterre of roses, so that my attention was distracted by this curious and pleasing event. for another, parmiter's story was continually interrupted by intricate questions intended to confuse him, his evident anxiety was made the occasion of much amusement by those seated about the table, and he was induced on one excuse and another to go back to the beginning again and again and relate once more what he had already told. but i remember that he spoke with a high intonation, and rather quickly and with a broad accent, and that even then i was extremely sensible of the unfamiliar parts from which he came. his words seemed to have preserved a smell of the sea, and through them i seemed to hear very clearly the sound of waves breaking upon a remote beach--near in a word to that granite house with the tangled garden where the men watched and watched. then the boy's story ceased, and the next thing i heard was a sound of sobbing. i looked up, and there was dick parmiter upon the table, crying like a child. over against him sat lieutenant clutterbuck, with a face sour and dark. "i'll not stir a foot or lift a finger," said he, swearing an oath, "no, not if god comes down and bids me." and upon that the boy weakened of a sudden, swayed for an instant upon his feet, and dropped in a huddle upon the table. his swoon put every one to shame except clutterbuck; everyone busied himself about the boy, dabbing his forehead with wet handkerchiefs, and spilling brandy over his face in attempts to pour it into his mouth--every one except clutterbuck, who never moved nor changed in a single line of his face, from his fixed expression of anger. dick parmiter recovered from his swoon and sat up: and his first look was towards the lieutenant, whose face softened for an instant with i know not what memories of days under the sun in a fishing boat amongst the islands. "dick, you are over-tired. it's a long road from the scillies to london. very like, too, you are hungry," and dick nodded "yes" to each sentence. "well, dick, you shall eat here, if there's any food in my larder, and you shall sleep here when you have eaten." "is that all?" asked parmiter, simply, and clutterbuck's face turned hard again as a stone. "every word," said he. the boy slipped off the table and began to search on the ground. his cap had fallen from his hand when he fell down in his swoon. he picked it up from beneath a chair. he did not look any more at clutterbuck; he made no appeal to anyone in the room; but though his legs still faltered from weakness, he walked silently out of the door, and in a little we heard his footsteps upon the stone stairs and the banisters creaking, as though he clung to them, while he descended, for support. "good god, clutterbuck!" cried macfarlane "he's but a boy." "with no roof to his head," said another. "and fainting for lack of a meal," said a third. "he shall have both," i cried, "if he will take them from me," and i ran out of the door. "dick," i cried down the hollow of the staircase, "dick parmiter," but no answer was returned, save my own cry coming back to me up the well of the stairs. clutterbuck's rooms were on the highest floor of the house; the stone stairs stretched downwards flight after flight beneath me. there was no sound anywhere upon them; the boy had gone. i came back to the room. lieutenant clutterbuck sat quite still in his chair. the morning was breaking; a cold livid light crept through the open windows, touched his hands, reached his face and turned it white. "good-night," he said, without so much as a look. his eyes were bent upon memories to which we had no clue. we left him sitting thus and went down into the street, when we parted. i saw no roses blossoming in the streets as i walked home, but as i looked in my mirror at my lodging i noticed again that my face was drawn and haggard and a million years old. chapter ii dick parmiter's story i woke up at mid-day, and lay for awhile in my bed anticipating wearily the eight limping hours to come before the evening fell, and wondering how i might best escape them. from that debate my thoughts drifted to the events of the night before, and i recollected with a sudden thrill of interest, rare enough to surprise me, the coming of dick parmiter, and his treatment at clutterbuck's hands and his departure. i thought of his long journey to london along strange roads. i could see him tramping the dusty miles, each step leading him farther from that small corner of the world with which alone he was familiar. i imagined him now sleeping beneath a hedge, now perhaps, by some rare fortune, in one of russell's waggons with the falmouth mails, which at nightfall he had overtaken, and from which at daybreak he would descend with a hurried word of thanks to get the quicker on his way; i pictured him pressing through the towns with a growing fear at his heart, because of their turmoil and their crowds; and i thought of him as hungering daily more and more for the sea which he had left behind, like a sheep-dog which one has taken from the sheep and shut up within the walls of a city. the boy's spirit appealed to me. it was new, it was admirable; and i dressed that day with an uncommon alertness and got me out to clutterbuck's lodgings. i found the lieutenant in bed with a tankard of small ale at his bedside. he looked me over with astonishment. "i wish i could carry my liquor as well as you do," said he, taking a pull at the tankard. "has the boy come back?" i asked. "what, dick?" said he. "no, nor will not." and changing the subject, "if you will wait, steve, i will make a shift to get up." i went into his parlour. the room had been put into some sort of order; but the shattered remnant of the mirror still hung between the windows, and it too spoke to me of dick's journey. i imagined him coming to the great city at the fall of night, and seeking out his way through its alleys and streets to lieutenant clutterbuck's lodgings. i could see him on the stairs pausing to listen to the confusion within the rooms, and in the passage opening and closing the door as he hesitated whether to go in or no. i became all at once very curious to know what the errand was which had pushed him so far from his home, and i cudgelled my brains to recollect his story. but i could remember only the youth cullen mayle, who had sat in the stocks on a sunday morning, and the girl helen, and a negro who slept and slept, and a house with a desolate tangled garden by the sea, and men watching the house. but what bound these people and the house in a common history, as to that i was entirely in the dark. "steve," said clutterbuck--i had not remarked his entrance--"you look glum as a november morning. is it a sore head? or is it the sight of your mischievous handiwork?" and he pointed to the mirror. "it's neither one nor the other," said i. "it's just the recollection of that boy fumbling under the table for his cap, and dragging himself silently out of the room, with all england to tramp and despair to sustain him." "that boy!" cried clutterbuck, with great exasperation. "curse you, berkeley. that boy's a maggot, and has crept into your brains. we'll talk no more of him, if you please." he took a pack of cards from a corner cupboard, and, tossing them on the table, "here, choose your game i'll play what you will, and for what stakes you will, so long as you hold your tongue." it was plain that i should learn nothing by pressing my curiosity upon him. i must go another way to work. but chance and lieutenant clutterbuck served my turn without any provocation from myself. i chose the game of picquet, and clutterbuck shuffled and cut the cards; whereupon i dealt them. clutterbuck looked at his hand fretfully, and then cried out: "i have no hand for picquet, but i have very good putt cards." i glanced through the cards i held. "make it putt, then," said i. "i will wager what you will my hand is the better;" and clutterbuck broke into a laugh and tossed his cards upon the table. "you have two kings and an ace," said he, "i know very well; but i have two kings and a deuce, and mine are the better." "it is a bite," said i. "and an ingenious one," he returned. "it was cullen mayle who taught it to us in the mess at star castle. for packing the cards or knapping the dice i never came across his equal. yet we could never detect him, and in the end not a soul in the garrison would play with him for crooked pins." "cullen mayle," said i; "that was adam's son." clutterbuck had sunk into something of a reverie, and spoke rather to himself than to me. "they were the strangest pair," he continued; "you would never take them for father and son, and i myself was always amazed to think there was any relationship between them. i have seen them sitting side by side on the settle in the kitchen of the 'palace inn' at tresco. adam, an old bulky fellow, with a mulberry face and yellow angry eyes, and his great hands and feet twisted out of all belief. his stories were all of wild doings on the guinea coast. cullen, on the other hand, was a stripling with a soft face like a girl's, exquisite in his dress, urbane in his manners. he had a gentle word and an attentive ear for each newcomer to the fire, and a white protesting hand for the oaths with which adam salted his speech. yet they were both of the same vindictive, turbulent spirit, only cullen was the more dangerous. "i have watched the gannets often through an afternoon in hell bay over at brehar. they would circle high up in the air where no fish could see them, and then slant their wings and drop giddily with the splash of a stone upon their prey. they always put me in mind of cullen mayle. he struck mighty quick and out of the sky. i cannot remember, during all the ten years i lived at the scillies, that any man crossed cullen mayle, though unwittingly, but some odd accident crippled him. he was the more dangerous of the pair. with adam it was a word and a blow. with cullen a word and another and another, and all of them soft, and the blow held over for a secret occasion. but it fell. if ever you come across cullen mayle, berkeley, take care of your words and your deeds, for he strikes out of the sky and mighty quick." this clutterbuck said with an extreme earnestness, leaning forward to me as he spoke. and even now i can but put it down to his earnestness that a shiver took me at the words; for nothing was more unlikely than that i should ever come to grips with cullen mayle, and the next moment i answered clutterbuck lightly. "yet he sat in the stocks in the end," said i, with as much indifference as i could counterfeit; for i was afraid lest any display of eagerness might close his lips. lieutenant clutterbuck, however, was hardly aware that he was being questioned. he laughed with a certain pleasure. "yes. a schooner, with a cargo of brandy, came ashore on tresco. cullen and the tresco men saved the cargo and hid it away, and when the collector came over with his men from the customs house upon st. mary's, cullen drove him back to his boats with a broken head. cullen broke old captain hathaway's patience at the same time. hathaway took off his silver spectacles at last and shut up his _diodorus siculus_ with a bang; and so cullen mayle sat in the stocks before the customs house on the sunday morning. he left the islands that night. that was two years and a month ago." "and what had dick parmiter to do with cullen mayle?" said i. "dick?" said he. "oh, dick was cullen mayle's henchman. but it seems that dick has transferred his allegiance to----" and he stopped abruptly. his face soured as he stopped. "to the girl helen?" said i, quite forgetting my indifference. "yes!" cried clutterbuck, savagely, "to the girl helen. he is fifteen years old is dick. but at fifteen years a lad is ripe to be one of cupid's april fools." and after that he would say no more. his last words, however, and, more than his words, the tone in which he spoke, had given me the first definite clue of the many for which my curiosity searched. it was certainly on behalf of the girl, whom i only knew as helen, that dick had undertaken his arduous errand, and it was no less certain that just for that reason lieutenant clutterbuck had refused to meddle in the matter. i recognised that i should get no advantage from persisting, but i kept close to his side that day waiting upon opportunity. we dined together at locket's, by charing cross; we walked together to the "cocoa tree" in st. james's street, and passed an hour or so with a dice-box. clutterbuck was very silent for the most part. he handled the dice-box with indifference; and, since he was never the man to keep his thoughts for any long time to himself, i had no doubt that some time that day i should learn more. indeed, very soon after we left the "cocoa tree" i thought the whole truth was coming out; for he stopped in st. james's park, close to the mall, which at that moment was quiet and deserted. we could hear a light wind rippling through the leaves of the poplars, and a faint rumble of carriages lurching over the stones of pall mall. "it is very like the sound of the sea on a still morning of summer," said he, looking at me with a vacant eye, and i wondered whether he was thinking of a tangled garden raised above a beach of sand, wherein, maybe, he had walked, and not alone on some such day as this two years ago. we crossed the water to the spring gardens at vauxhall, where we supped. i was now fallen into as complete a silence and abstraction as clutterbuck himself, for i was clean lost in conjectures, i knew something now of adam mayle and his son cullen, but as to helen i was in the dark. was her name mayle too? was she wife to cullen? the sight of clutterbuck's ill-humour inclined me to that conjecture; but i was wrong, for as the attendants were putting out the lights in the garden i ventured upon the question. to my surprise, clutterbuck answered me with a smile. "sure," said he, "you are the most pertinacious fellow. what's come to you, who were content to drink your liquor and sit on one side while the world went by? no, she was not wife to cullen mayle, nor sister. she was a waif of the sea. adam mayle picked her up from the rocks a long while since. it was the only action that could be counted to his credit since he came out of nowhere and leased the granite house of tresco. a barque--a venetian vessel, it was thought, from marseilles, in france, for a great deal of castile soap, and almonds and oil was washed ashore afterwards--drove in a northwesterly gale on to the golden bar reef. the reef runs out from st. helen's island, opposite adam mayle's window. adam put out his lugger and crossed the sound, but before he could reach st. helen's the ship went down into fourteen fathoms of water. he landed on st. helen's, however, and amongst the rocks where the reef joins the land he came across a sailor, who lay in the posture of death, and yet wailed like a hungry child. the sailor was dead, but within his jacket, buttoned up on his breast, was a child of four years or so. adam took her home. no one ever claimed her, so he kept her, and called her helen from the island on which she was wrecked. that was a long time since, for the girl must be twenty." "is she french?" i asked. "french, or venetian, or spanish, or what you will," he cried. "it matters very little what country a woman springs from. i have no doubt that a hottentot squaw will play you the same tricks as a woman of fashion, and with as demure a countenance. well, it seems we are to go to bed sober;" and we went each to his lodging. for my part, i lay awake for a long time, seeking to weave into some sort of continuous story what i had heard that day from lieutenant clutterbuck and the scraps which i remembered of parmiter's talk. but old adam mayle, who was dead; cullen, the gannet who struck from the skies; and even helen, the waif of the sea--these were at this time no more to me than a showman's puppets; marionettes of sawdust and wood, that faced this way and that way according as i pulled the strings. the one being who had life was the boy parmiter, with his jersey and his red fisherman's bonnet; and i very soon turned to conjecturing how he fared upon his journey. had he money to help him forward? had he fallen in with a kindly carrier? how far had he travelled? i had no doubt that, whether he had money or no, he would reach his journey's end. his spirit was evident in the resolve to travel to london, in his success, and in the concealment of any weakness until the favour he asked for had been refused. i bought next morning one of the new maps of the great west road and began to pick off the stages of his journey. this was the second day since he had started. he would not travel very fast, having no good news to lighten his feet. i reckoned that he would have reached the "golden farmer," and i made a mark at that name on the map. every day for a week i kept in this way an imagined tally of his progress, following him from county to county; and at the end of the week, coming out in the evening from my lodging at the corner of st. james's street, i ran plump into the arms of the gentleman i had met at clutterbuck's, and whose name i did not know. but his familiarity was all gone from him. he bowed to me stiffly, and would have passed on, but i caught him by the arm. "sir," said i, "you will remember a certain night when i had the honour of your acquaintance." "mr. berkeley," he returned with a smile, "i remember very much better the dreadful morning which followed it." "you will not, at all events, have forgotten the boy whom you discovered outside the door, and if you can repeat the story which he told, or some portion of it, i shall be obliged to you." he looked at his watch. "i have still half an hour to spare," said he; and he led the way to the "groom porters." the night was young, but not so young but what the bassett-table was already full. we sat down together in a dark corner of the room, and my companion told me what he remembered of parmiter's story. it appeared that cullen mayle had quarrelled with his father on that sunday night after he had sat in the stocks and had left the house. he had never returned. a year ago adam mayle had died, bequeathing his fortune, which was considerable, and most of it placed in the african company, to his adopted daughter helen. she, however, declared that she had no right to it, that it was not hers, and that she would hold it in trust until such time as cullen should come back to claim it. he did not come back, as has been said; but eight months later dick parmiter, on an occasion when he had crossed in his father's fishing boat to cornwall, had discovered upon penzance quay a small crowd of loiterers, and on the ground amongst them, with his back propped against a wall, a negro asleep. a paper was being passed from hand to hand among the group, and in the end it came to dick parmiter. upon the paper was written adam mayle's name and the place of his residence, tresco, in the scilly islands; and dick at once recognised that the writing was in cullen mayle's hand. he pushed to the front of the group, and stooping down, shook the negro by the shoulder. the negro drowsily opened his eyes. "you come from mr. cullen mayle?" said dick. "yes," said the negro, speaking in english and quite clearly. "you have a message from him?" "yes." "what is it?" asked dick; and he put a number of questions eagerly. but in the midst of them, and while still looking at dick, the negro closed his eyes deliberately and fell asleep. "see," cried a sailor, an oldish white-haired man, with a french accent; "that is the way with him. he came aboard with us at the port of london as wide awake as you or i. bound for penzance he was, and the drowsiness took him the second day out. at first he would talk a little; but each day he slept more and more, until now he will say no more than a 'yes' or a 'no.' why, he will fall asleep over his dinner." dick shook the negro again. "do you wish to cross to tresco?" "yes," said the negro. dick carried him back to scilly and brought him to the house on tresco, where helen mayle now lived alone. but no news could be got from him. he would answer "yes" or "no" and eat his meals; but when it came to a question of his message or cullen mayle's whereabouts he closed his eyes and fell asleep. helen judged that somewhere cullen was in great need and distress, and because she held his money, and could do nothing to succour him, she was thrown into an extreme trouble. there was some reason why he could not come to scilly in person, and here at her hand was the man sent to tell the reason; but he could not because of his mysterious malady. more than once he tried with a look of deep sadness in his eyes, as though he was conscious of his helplessness, but he never got beyond the first word. his eyelids closed while his mouth was still open to speak, and at once he was asleep. his presence made a great noise amongst the islands; from brehar, from st. mary's, and from st. martin's the people sailed over to look at him. but helen, knowing cullen mayle and fearing the nature of his misadventure, had bidden parmiter to let slip no hint that he had come on cullen's account. so the negro stayed at tresco and spread a great gloom throughout the house. they watched him day by day as he slept. cullen's need might be immediate; it might be a matter of crime; it might be a matter of life and death. the gloom deepened into horror, and helen and her few servants, and dick, who was much in the house, fell into so lively an apprehension that the mere creaking of a door would make them start, a foot crunching on the sand outside sent them flying to the window. so for a month, until dick parmiter, coming over the hill from new grimsby harbour at night, had a lantern flashed in his face, and when close to the house saw a man spring up from the gorse and watch him as he passed. from that night the house was continually spied upon, and helen walked continually from room to room wringing her hands in sheer distraction at her helplessness. she feared that they were watching for cullen; she feared, too, that cullen, receiving no answer to his message, would come himself and fall into their hands. she dared hardly conjecture for what reason they were watching, since she knew cullen. for a week these men watched, five of them, who kept their watches as at sea; and then dick, taking his courage in his hands, and bethinking him of lieutenant clutterbuck, who had been an assiduous visitor at the house on tresco, had crossed over to st. mary's and learned from old captain hathaway where he now lived. he had said nothing of his purpose to helen, partly from a certain shyness at speaking to her upon a topic of some delicacy, and partly lest he should awaken her hopes and perhaps only disappoint them. but he had begged a passage in a ship that was sailing to cornwall, and, crossing thither secretly, had made his way in six weeks to london. this is the story which my acquaintance repeated to me as we sat in the "groom porters." "and clutterbuck refused to meddle in the matter," said i. "poor lad!" i was thinking of dick, but my companion mistook my meaning, for he glanced thoughtfully at me for a second. "i think you are very right to pity him," he said; "although, mr. berkeley, if you will pardon me, i am a trifle surprised to hear that sentiment from you. it is indeed a sodden, pitiful, miserable dog's life that clutterbuck leads. to pass the morning over his toilette, to loiter through the afternoon in a boudoir, and to dispose of the evening so that he may be drunk before midnight! he would be much better taking the good air into his lungs and setting his wits to unknot that tangle amongst those islands in the sea. but i have overstayed my time. if you can persuade him to that, you will be doing him no small service;" and politely taking his leave, he went out of the room. i sat for some while longer in the corner. i could not pretend that he had spoken anything but truth, but i found his words none the less bitter on that account. a pitiful dog's life for lieutenant clutterbuck, who was at the most twenty-four years of age! what, then, was it for me, who had seven years the better of lieutenant clutterbuck, or rather, i should say, seven years the worse? i was thirty-one that very month, and clutterbuck's sodden, pitiful life had been mine for the last seven years. an utter disgust took hold of me as i repeated over and over to myself my strange friend's words. i looked at the green cloth and the yellow candles, and the wolfish faces about the cloth. the candles had grown soft with the heat of the night, and were bent out of their shape, so that the grease dropped in great blots upon the cloth, and the air was close with an odour of stale punch. i got up from my corner and went out into the street, and stood by the water in st. james's park, if only some such summons had come to me when i was twenty-four as had now come to clutterbuck!--well, very likely i should have turned a deaf ear to it, even as he had done! and--and, at all events, i was thirty-one and the summons had not come to me, and there was an end of the matter. to-morrow i should go back to the green cloth and not trouble my head about the grease blots; but to-night, since clutterbuck was twenty-four, i would try to do him that small service of which the stranger spoke, and so setting out at a round pace i made my way to clutterbuck's lodging. chapter iii of the magical influence of a map i did not, however, find lieutenant clutterbuck that night. he was out of reach, and likely to remain so for some while to come. he had left his lodgings at mid-day and taken his body-servant with him, and his landlady had no knowledge of his whereabouts. i thought it probable, however, that some of his friends might have that knowledge, and i thereupon hurried to those haunts where of an evening he was an habitual visitor. the "hercules pillars" in piccadilly, the "cocoa tree" in st. james's street, the "spring gardens" at vauxhall, "barton's" in king street, the "spread eagle" in covent garden,--i hurried from one to the other of these places, and though i came upon many of clutterbuck's intimates, not one of them was a whit better informed than myself. i returned to my lodging late and more disheartened than i could have believed possible in a matter wherein i had no particular concern. and, indeed, it was not so much any conjecture as to what strange tragical events might be happening about that watched and solitary house in tresco which troubled me, or even pity for the girl maddened by her fears, or regret that i had not been able to do clutterbuck that slight service which i purposed. but i took out the map of the great west road, and thought of the lad parmiter trudging along it, doing a day's work here among the fields, begging a lift there upon a waggon and slowly working his way down into the west. i had a very clear picture of him before my eyes. the day was breaking, i remember, and i blew out the candles and looked out of the window down the street. the pavement was more silent at that hour than those country roads on which he might now be walking, or that hedge under which he might be shaking the dew from off his clothes. for there the thrush would be calling to the blackbird with an infinite bustle and noise, and the fields of corn would be whispering to the fields of wheat. i came back again to my map, and while the light broadened, followed parmiter from the outset of his journey, through knightsbridge, along the thames, between the pine-trees of hampshire, past whitchurch, and into the county of devon. the road was unwound before my eyes like a tape. i saw it slant upwards to the brow of a hill, and dip into the cup of a valley; here through a boskage of green i saw a flash of silver where the river ran; there between flat green fields it lay, a broad white line geometrically straight to the gate of a city; it curved amongst the churches and houses, but never lost itself in that labyrinth, aiming with every wind and turn at that other gate, from which it leaped free at last to the hills. and always on the road i saw dick parmiter, drunk with fatigue, tottering and stumbling down to the west. for awhile he occupied that road alone; but in the end i saw another traveller a long way behind--a man on horseback, who spurred out from london and rode with the speed of the wind. for a little i watched that rider, curious only to discern how far he travelled, and whether he would pass dick parmiter; then, as i saw him drawing nearer and nearer, devouring the miles which lay between, it came upon me slowly that he was riding not to pass but to overtake; and at once the fancy flashed across me that this was clutterbuck. i gazed at my map upon the table as one might gaze into a magician's globe. it was no longer a map; it was the road itself imprisoned in hedges, sunlit, and chequered with the shadows of trees. i could see the horseman, i could see the dust spirting up from beneath his horse's hoofs like smoke from a gun-barrel. only his hat was pushed down upon his brows because of the wind made by the speed of his galloping, so that i could not see his face. but it was clutterbuck i had no doubt. whither had he gone from his lodging? now i was convinced that i knew. there had been no need of my night's wanderings from tavern to tavern, had i but looked at my map before. it was clutterbuck without a doubt. at some bend of the road he would turn in his saddle to look backwards, and i should recognise his face. it was lieutenant clutterbuck, taking the good air into his lungs with a vengeance. he vanished into a forest, but beyond the forest the road dipped down a bank of grass and lay open to the eye. i should see him in a second race out, his body bent over his horse's neck to save him from the swinging boughs. i could have clapped my hands with sheer pleasure. i wished that my voice could have reached out to parmiter, tramping wearily so far beyond; in my excitement, i believed that it would, and before i knew what i did, i cried out aloud: "parmiter! parmiter!" and a voice behind me answered: "you must be mad, berkeley! what in the world has come to you?" i sat upright in my chair. the excitement died out of me and left me chilly. i looked about me; i was in my own lodging at the corner of st james's street, outside in the streets the world was beginning to wake, and the voice which had spoken to me and the hand which was now laid upon my shoulder were the voice and the hand of lieutenant clutterbuck. "what's this?" said he, leaning over my shoulder. "it is a map." "yes," i answered, "it is a mere map, the map of the great west road;" and in my eyes it was no longer any more than a map. clutterbuck, who was holding it in his hand, dropped it with a movement and an exclamation of anger. then he looked curiously at me, stepped over to the sideboard and took up a glass or two which stood there. the glasses were clean and dry. he looked at me again, his curiosity had grown into uneasiness; he walked to the opposite side of the table, and drawing up a chair seated himself face to face with me. "i hoped you were drunk," said he. "but it seems you are as sober as a bishop. are you daft, then? has it come to a strait-waistcoat? i come back late from twickenham. i stopped at the 'hercules pillars.' there i heard that you had rushed in two hours before in a great flurry and disorder, crying out that you must speak to me on the instant. the same story was told to me at the 'cocoa trees.' my landlady repeated it. i conjectured that it must needs be some little affair to be settled with sharps at six in the morning; and so that you might not say your friends neglect you, i turn from my bed, and hurry to you at three o'clock of the morning. i find that you have left your front-door unlatched for any thief that wills to make his profit of the house. i come into your room and find you bending over a map in a great excitement and crying out aloud that damned boy's name. is he to trouble my peace until the judgment day? are you daft, eh, steve?" and he reached his hand across the table not unkindly, and laid it on my sleeve. "are you daft?" i was staring again at the map, and did not answer him. he shifted his hand from my sleeve and took it up and away from my eyes. he looked at it himself, and then spoke slowly, and in quite a different voice: "it is a curious, suggestive thing, the map of a road, when all's said," he observed slowly. "i'll not deny but what it seizes one's fancies. its simple lines and curves call up i know not what pictures of flowering hedgerows; a little black blot means a village of stone cottages, very likely overhung with ivy and climbed upon with roses." he suddenly thrust the map again under my nose, "what do you see upon the road?" said he. "parmiter," i answered. "of course," he interrupted sharply. "well, where is parmiter?" and i laid a finger on the map. "between fenny bridges and exeter," said he, leaning forward. "he has made great haste." he spoke quite seriously, not questioning my conjecture, but accepting it as a mere statement of fact. "that is a heath?" he asked, pointing to an inch or so where the map was shaded on each side of the high-road. "yes, a heath t'other side of hartley row; i know it. there should be a mail-coach there, and the horses out of the shafts, and one or two men in crape masks and a lady in a swoon, and the driver stretched in the middle of the road with a bullet through his crop." "i do not see that," i returned. "but here, beyond axminster----" "well?" he leaned yet further forward. "there is a forest here." "yes." "i saw a man on horseback ride into it between the trees. he has not as yet emerged from it." "who was he? did you know him?" "i thought i did. but i could not see his face." clutterbuck watched that forest eagerly, and with a queer suspense in his attitude and even in his breathing. every now and then he raised his eyes to mine with a question in them. each time i shook my head, and answered: "not yet," and we both again stared at the map. then clutterbuck whispered quickly: "what if his horse had stumbled? what if he is lying there at the roadside beneath the tree?" he tore himself away from the contemplation of the map. "the thing's magical!" he cried. "it has bewitched you, steve, and by the lord it has come near to bewitching me!" "i thought the horseman was yourself. why don't you go?" said i, pointing to the map. lieutenant clutterbuck rose impatiently from his chair. "there must be an end of this. once for all i will not go. there is no reason i should. there is reason why i should not. you do not know in what you are meddling. you are taken like a schoolboy by an old wife's tale of a lonely girl trapped in a net. you are too old for such follies." "i was too old a fortnight ago," i returned, "but, by the lord, these last days i have grown young again--so young that----" i stopped suddenly. not until this instant had the notion occurred to me, but it came now, it thrilled through me with a veritable shock. i leaned back in my chair and stared at clutterbuck. he understood, for he in his turn stared at me. "the rider!" said he breathlessly, tapping the map with his forefinger, "the man whose face you did not see!" i nodded at him. "what if the face were mine?" said i. "you could never believe it." "i believe that i have even enough youth for that," i cried, and i bent over the map, trying again to fashion from its plain black and white my picture of the great high-road, climbing and winding through a country-side rich with all the colours of the summer. but it was only a map of lines and curves, nor could i any longer discover the horseman who spurred along it--though i had now a particular reason to wish for a view of his face,--or the wood into which he disappeared. "well, has your cavalier galloped into the open yet?" asked clutterbuck. he spoke with sarcasm, but the sarcasm was forced. it was but a cloak to cover and excuse the question. i shook my head. "no, and he will not," said clutterbuck. "is that so sure?" i asked. "what if the face were mine?" "you are serious!" he cried. "you would go a stranger and offer your unsought aid? it would be an impertinence." "suppose life and death are in the balance, would they weigh impertinence?" "it might be _your_ life and _your_ death!" and as he spoke, it seemed to me that all my last seven years rose up in their shrouds and laughed at him. "and what then?" i cried. "would the world shiver if i died? would even a tavern-keeper draw down his blinds? perhaps some drunkard in his cups would wish i lived, that he might take my measure in a drinking-bout. there's my epitaph for you! good lord, clutterbuck, but i would dearly love to die a clean death! there's that boy parmiter tramping down his road. he does a far better thing than i have ever done. you know! why talk of it? you know the life i have lived, and since that boy flung his example in my eyes, upon my word i sicken to think of it. twelve years ago, clutterbuck, i came to london, a cadet with a cadet's poor portion, but what a wealth of dreams! a fortune first, if i slaved till i was forty, and then i would set free my soul and live! the fortune came, and i slaved but six years for it. the treaty of aix and a rise of stocks, and there was my fortune. you know how i have lived since." clutterbuck looked at me curiously. i had never said so much to him or to any man in this strain. nor should i have said so much now, but i was fairly shaken out of my discretion. for a little clutterbuck sat silent and motionless. then he said gently: "shall i tell you why i will not go? yes, i will tell you," and he told me the history of that sunday, two years ago, when cullen mayle sat in the stocks, or at least as much of it as had come within his knowledge. the events of that day were the beginning of all the trouble, indeed, but lieutenant clutterbuck never knew more of it than what concerned himself, and as i sat over against him on that july morning and listened to his story while the world awoke, i had no suspicion of what the passage of that sunday hid, or of the extraordinary consequences which it brought about. chapter iv describes the remarkable manner in which cullen mayle left tresco "it was my business," he began, "to fetch cullen mayle from tresco over to st. mary's where the stocks were set. it was an unpleasant business, and to me doubly and damnably unpleasant." "i understand!" said i, thinking of how he had before spoken to me of adam mayle's adopted daughter. "i took a file of musquets, found the three of them at breakfast, and, with as much delicacy as i could, explained my errand. helen alone showed any distress or consciousness of disgrace. cullen strolled to the window, and seeing that i had placed my men securely about the house and that my boat was ready on the sand not a dozen yards away, professed himself, with an inimitable indifference, willing to gratify my wishes; while adam, so far from manifesting any anger, broke out into a great roar of laughter. "'cullen, my boy,' he shouted, like a man highly pleased, 'here's a nasty stumble for your pride. to sit in the stocks of a sunday morning, when all the girls can see you as they come from church! to sit in the stocks like a common drunkard; and you that sets up for a gentleman! oh, cullen, cullen!' he wagged his head from side to side, and so brought his fist upon the table with a bang which set all the plates dancing. 'devil damn me,' said he, 'if i don't sail to church at st. mary's myself and see how you look in your wooden garters.' cullen glanced carelessly towards me. 'an unseemly old man,' said he; and we left adam still shaking like a monstrous jellyfish, and crossed back to st. mary's from tresco. "sure enough adam kept his word. they were singing the _nunc dimittis_ in the church when adam stumped up the aisle. he had brought helen with him, and she looked as though she wished the brick floor to open and let her out of sight. but adam kept his head erect and showed a face of an extraordinary good humour. you may be certain that the parson got the scantiest attention imaginable to his discourse. for one thing, adam mayle had never set foot in st. mary's church before, and for another, every one was agog to see how he would bear himself afterwards, when he passed on his way to the quay across the little space before the customs house. "there was a rush to the church door as soon as the benediction was pronounced, and it happened that i was one of the last to come out of the porch. the first thing that i saw was adam walking a little way apart amongst the gravestones with a stranger, and the next thing, helen talking to dick parmiter." here i interrupted clutterbuck, for i was anxious to let no detail escape me. "had dick crossed with adam mayle from tresco?" "i think not," returned clutterbuck. "he was not in the church. i do not know, but i fancy he brought the stranger over to st. mary's afterwards." "and who was this stranger?" "george glen he called himself, and said he had been quartermaster with adam mayle at whydah. he was a squat, tarry man, of adam's age or thereabouts, and the pair of them walked through the gates and crossed the fields over to the street of hugh town. i made haste to join helen," clutterbuck continued, and explained his words with an unnecessary confusion. "i mean, i would not have it appear that she shared in the disgrace which had befallen cullen mayle. so i walked with her, and we followed adam down the street to the customs house, where it seemed every inhabitant was loitering, and where cullen sat, with his hat cocked forward over his forehead to shield him from the sun, entirely at his ease. "it was curious to observe the behaviour of the loiterers. some affected not to see cullen at all; some, but those chiefly maidens, protested that it was a great shame so fine a gentleman should be so barbarously used. the elders on the other hand answered that he had come over late to his deserts, while a few, with a ludicrous pretence of unconsciousness, bowed and smiled at him as though it was the most natural thing in the world for a man in a laced coat to take the air in the stocks of a sunday morning. "into the midst of this group marched adam mayle, and came to a halt before his son. he had composed his face to an unexceptionable gravity, and as he prodded thoughtfully with his stick at the sole of cullen's shoe, "'this is the first time,' he said, 'that ever i saw a pair of silk stockings in the stocks.' "'one lives and learns,' replied cullen, indifferently; and the old man lifted his nose into the air and said dreamily: "'there is a ducking-chair, is there not, at the pier head?' and so walked on to the steps where his boat was moored. he went down into it with mr. glen, and the two men set about hoisting the sail. i was still standing on the pier with helen. "'you will come too?' she said with a sort of appeal. 'i do not know what may happen when cullen is set free and comes back, i should be very glad if you would come.'" lieutenant clutterbuck broke off his story and walked uneasily once or twice across the room as though he was troubled even now with the recollection of her appeal and of how she looked when she made it. "so i went," he continued suddenly, and with a burst of frankness. "you see, steve, she and i were very good friends; i never saw anything but welcome in her eyes when i crossed over to tresco, and the kindliness of her voice had a warmth, and at times a tenderness, which i hoped meant more than friendship. indeed, i would have staked my life she was ignorant of duplicity; and with cullen she seemed always at some pains to conceal a repugnance. well, i was young, i suppose; i saw with the eyes of youth, which see everything out of its due proportion. i crossed to tresco, and while we were seated at dinner, about two hours later, cullen mayle strolled in and took his chair. dick parmiter had waited for him at st. mary's until such time as he was set free, and had brought him across the road. "i cannot deny but what cullen mayle bore himself very suitably for the greater part of the time we were at table. adam's blatant jests were enough to set any man's teeth on edge, yet cullen made as though he did not hear a word of them, and talked politely upon indifferent topics to us and mr. glen. adam, however, was not to be silenced that way. his banter became coarse and vindictive; for one thing he had drunk a deal of liquor, and for another he was exasperated that he could not provoke his son. i forget what particular joke he roared out from the head of the table, but i saw cullen stretch his arm out over the cloth. "'i see what is amiss,' he said, wearily, and took away the brandy bottle from his father's elbow. he went to the window, and opening it, emptied the bottle on to the grass beneath the sill. then he came back to his seat and said suavely to mr. glen: 'my father cannot get the better of his old habits; he is drunk very early on sundays--an unregenerate old put of a fellow as ever i came across.' "the quarrel followed close upon the heels of that sentence, and occupied the afternoon and was renewed at supper. adam very violent and blustering; cullen very cool and composed, and only betraying his passion by the whiteness of his face. he used no oaths; he sat staring at his father with his dark sleepy eyes, and languidly accused him of every crime in the newgate calendar, with a great deal of detail as to time and place, and adding any horrible detail which came into his mind. the old man was routed at the last. about the middle of supper he got up from his chair, and going up the stairs shut himself into a room which he had fitted up as a cabin, and where he was used to sit of an evening. "we were all, as you may guess, inexpressibly relieved when adam left the parlour, for here it seemed was the quarrel ended. we counted, however, without cullen. he looked for a moment or two at his father's empty chair, and stood up in his turn. "'here's an old rogue for you,' he said in a gentle voice. 'he has no more manners than a nasty pig. i'll teach him some,' and he followed his father up the stairs and into the cabin above. what was said between them we never heard, but we gathered at the foot of the stairs in the hall and listened to their voices. the old man bellowed as though he was in pain, and shook the windows with his noise; cullen's voice came to us only as a smooth, continuous murmur. for half an hour perhaps we stood thus in the hall--interference would have only made matters worse--and i own that this half hour was not wholly unpleasant to me. helen, in a word, was afraid, and more than once her hand was laid upon my coat-sleeve, and, touching it, ceased to tremble. she turned to me, it seemed, in that half hour of fear; i was fool enough to think it. "at length we heard a door opening. cullen negligently came down the stairs; adam rushed out after him as far as the head of the stairs, where he stopped. "'open the door, one of you!' he bawled. 'kick him out, clutterbuck, and we'll see what damned muck-heap his fine manners will lead him to.' "the outcry brought the servants scurrying into the hall. adam repeated his order and one of the servants threw open the door. "'will you fetch me my boots?' said cullen, and sitting down in a chair he kicked off his shoes. then he pulled on his boots deliberately, stood up and felt in his pockets. from one pocket he drew out five guineas, from a second two, from a third four. these eleven guineas he held in his open hand. "'they belong to you, i think,' he said, softly, poising them in his palm; and before any one could move a step or indeed guess at his intention, he raised his arm and flung them with all his force to where his father stood at the head of the stairs. two of the guineas cut the old man in the forehead, and the blood ran down his face; the rest sparkled and clattered against the panels behind his head, whence they fell on to the stairs and rolled one by one down into the hall. no one spoke; no one moved. the brutal violence of the action for the moment paralysed every one; even adam stood shaking at the stair head with his wits wandering. one by one the guineas rolled down the staircase, leaping from step to step, rattling as they leaped; and for a long time it seemed, one whirred and sang in a corner as it span round and settled down upon the boards; and when the coin had ceased to spin, still no one moved, no one spoke. a murmur of waves breaking lazily upon the sand, a breath of air stirring a shrub in the garden, the infinitesimal trumpeting of a gnat, came through the window, bringing as it were tales of things which lived into a room of statues. "cullen himself was the first to break the enchantment. he took his watch from his fob and holding it by the ribbon twirled it backwards and forwards. it was a big silver watch, and as he twirled it this way and that, it caught the light, seemed to throw out little sparks of fire, and flashed with a dazzling brightness. the eyes of the company were caught by it; they watched it with a keen attention, not knowing why they watched it; they watched it as it shone and glittered in its revolutions, almost with a sense of expectation, as though something of great consequence was to happen from the twirling of that watch. "'this, too, is yours,' said cullen, 'but it was no doubt some dead sailorman's before you stole it;' and ceasing to twirl the watch he held it steady by the ribbon. then he looked round the hall and saw helen staring at the watch with a queer intentness. i remember that her hand was at that moment resting upon my sleeve, and i felt it grow more rigid. i looked at her; her face was set, her eyes fixed upon cullen and his glittering watch. i spoke to her; she did not answer, she did not hear." clutterbuck interrupted his story and sat moodily lost in his recollections, and when he resumed it was with great bitterness. "i think," he continued, "that when cullen spoke, he spoke with no other end than to provoke his father yet more. you must know that the old man had just one tender spot in his heart. cullen could have no other aim but to set his heel on that. "'i will come back for you, helen,' he said, bending his eyes upon her and making as if there was much love between them; and to everybody's surprise helen lifted her eyes slowly from the watch until they met cullen's, and kept them there. she did not answer him in words, there was no need she should, every line of her body expressed obedience. "even cullen was puzzled by her demeanour. boy and girl, maid and youth, they had lived side by side in the house with indifference upon his part and all the appearance of aversion upon hers. yet here was she subdued in an instant at the prospect of his departure! it seemed that the mere thought that cullen was henceforth an outcast tore her secret live and warm from her heart. "cullen was plainly puzzled, as i say, but he was not the man to miss an advantage in the gratification of his malice. he shot one triumphant look at his father and spoke again to helen. "'you will wait for me?' "her eyes never wavered from his. "'yes!' she answered. "it was a humiliating moment for me as you may imagine. it must have been more humiliating for adam. with a hand upon the rail he lumbered heavily down a couple of the stairs. "'no!' he cried, with a dreadful oath and in a voice which was strangely moved. "'but i say yes,' said cullen, very quietly. the smile had gone from his face; a new excitement kindled it. he was pitting his will against his father's. i saw him suddenly draw himself erect. 'or, better still, you shall come with me now,' he cried. he reached out his arm straight from the shoulder towards her. "'come! come with me now.' "his voice rang out dominant like the clang of a trumpet, and to the consternation of us all, helen crossed the floor towards him. i tried to detain her. 'helen,' i cried, 'you do not know what you are doing. he will drag you into the gutter.' "'lieutenant clutterbuck,' said cullen, 'you are very red in the face. you cannot expect she will listen to you, for you do not look well when you are red in the face.' "i paid no heed to his gibes. "'helen,' i cried, again. she paid no more heed to my prayers. 'what will you do? where will you go?' i asked. "'we shall go to london,' answered cullen, 'where we shall do very well, and further to the best of our means lieutenant clutterbuck's advancement.' "humiliation and grief had overset my judgment or i should not have argued at this moment with cullen mayle. i flung out at him hotly, and like a boy. "'when you are doing very well in london, cullen mayle, lieutenant clutterbuck will not be so far behind you.' "'he will indeed be close upon my heels,' returned cullen as pleasantly as possible, 'for most likely he will be carrying my valise.' "with that he turned again to helen, beckoned her to follow him, and strode towards the open door. she did follow him. cullen was already in the doorway; in another second she would have crossed the threshold. but with a surprising agility adam mayle jumped down the stairs, ran across the hall, and caught the girl in his arms. she did not struggle to free herself, but she strained steadily towards cullen. the old man's arms were strong, however. "'shut the door,' he cried, and i sprang forward and slammed it to. "'lock it! bolt it!' "adam stood with his arms about the girl until the heavy bar swung down across the door and dropped into its socket with a clang. now do you understand why i will not go down to tresco? i can give you another reason if you are not content. when i spoke to helen two days later, and taxed her with her passion for cullen,--would you believe it?--she was deeply pained and hurt. she would not have it said that she had so much as thought of following cullen's fortunes. she outfaced me as though i had been telling her fairy tales, and not what my own eyes saw. no, indeed, i will not go down to tresco! i am not the traveller who has ridden into your wood upon the great west road." lieutenant clutterbuck took up his hat when he had finished his story, "the girl, besides, is not worth a thought," said he. "i am not thinking of her," said i. of lieutenant clutterbuck, of myself, above all of dick parmiter, i was thinking, but not at all of helen mayle. i drew the map towards me. clutterbuck stopped at the door, came back and again leaned over my shoulder. "has your traveller come out from that wood?" he asked. "no," i answered. "it is an allegory," said he. "the man who rides down on this business to the west will, in very truth, enter into a wood from which he will not get free." chapter v the adventure in the wood a loud roll of drums beneath my windows, the inspiriting music of trumpets, the lively measured stamp of feet. the troops with general amherst at their head were marching down st. james's street on their way to embark for canada, and the tune to which they marched sang in my head that day as i rode out of london. the beat of my horse's hoofs kept time to it, and at brentford a girl singing in a garden of apple-trees threw me a snatch of a song to fit to it. she sang, and i caught the words up as i rode past. the sparkle of summer was in the air, and an indian summer, if you will, at my heart. i slept that night at hartley row, and the next at down house, and the third at a little inn some miles beyond dorchester. a brook danced at the foot of the house, and sang me to sleep with the song i had heard at brentford, and, as i lay in bed, i could see out of my window the starlight and the quiet fields white with a frost of dew and thickets of trees very black and still; and towards sunset upon the fourth day, i suddenly reined in my horse to one side and sat stone-still. to my left, the road ran straight and level for a long way, and nowhere upon it was there a living thing; on each side stretched fields and no one moved in them, and no house was visible. that way i had come, and i had remarked upon the loneliness. to my right, the road ran forward into a thick wood, and vanished beneath a roof of overhanging boughs. it was the aspect of that wood which took my breath away, and it surprised me because it was familiar. there was a milestone which i recognised just where the first tree overhung the road; there was a white gate in the hedge some twenty paces this side of the milestone. i knew that too. just behind where i sat there should be three tall poplars ranged in a line like sentinels, the wood's outposts; i turned, and in the field behind me, the poplars reached up against the sky. i had no doubt they would be there, yet the sight of them fairly startled me. i had seen them--yes, but never in my life had i ridden along this road before. i had seen them only on the map in my lodging at st. james's street. the sun dropped down behind the trees, and the earth turned grey. i sat there in the saddle with i know not what superstitious fancies upon me. i could not but remember that the traveller had ridden into the wood, and had not ridden out and down the open bank of grass upon the other side. "what if his horse has stumbled?" clutterbuck had asked. "what if he is lying at the roadside under the trees?" i could see that picture very clearly, and at last, very clearly too, the rider's face. i looked backwards down the road with an instinctive hope that some other traveller might be riding my way in whose company i might go along. but the long level slip of white was empty. all the warmth seemed to have gone from the world with the dropping of the sun. a sad chill twilight crept over the lonely fields. a shiver caught and shook me; i gathered up the reins and rode slowly among the trees, where already it was night. i rode at first in the centre of the highway, and found the clatter of my horse's hoofs a very companionable sound. but in a little the clatter seemed too loud, it was too clear a warning of my approach, it seemed to me in some way a provocation of danger. i drew to one side of the road where the leaves had drifted and made a carpet whereon i rode without noise. but now the silence seemed too eerie--i heard, and started at, the snapping of every twig. i strained my ears to catch the noise of creeping footfalls, and i was about to guide my horse back to the middle of the road, when i turned a corner suddenly, and saw in front of me in a space where the forest receded and let the sky through, lights gleaming in a window. i set spurs to the horse and galloped up to the door. the house was an inn; the landlord was already at the threshold, and in a very short while i was laughing at my fears over my supper in the parlour. "am i your only guest to-night?" i asked. "there is one other, sir," returned the landlord as he served me, and as he spoke i heard a footstep in the passage. the door was pushed open, and a young man politely bowed to me in the entrance. "you have a very pretty piece of horseflesh, sir," said he, as he came into the room. "i took the liberty of looking it over a minute ago in the stables." "it is not bad," said i. there was never a man in the world who did not relish praise of his horse, and i warmed to my new acquaintance. "we are both, it seems, sleeping here to-night, and likely enough we are travelling the same road to-morrow." the young man shook his head. "i could wish indeed," said he, "that we might be fellow-travellers, but though it may well be we follow the same road, we do not, alas, travel in the same way," and he showed me his boots which were thickly covered with dust. "my horse fell some half-a-dozen miles from here and snapped a leg. i must needs walk to-morrow so far as where i trust to procure another--that is to say," he continued, "if i do not have to keep my bed, for i have taken a devilish chill this evening," and drawing up his chair to the empty fireplace, he crouched over an imaginary fire and shivered. now since he sat in this attitude, i could not but notice his boots, and i fell to wondering what in the world he had done with his spurs. for he wore none, and since he had plainly not troubled to repair the disorder of his dress, it seemed strange that he should have gone to the pains of removing his spurs. however, i was soon diverted from this speculation by the distress into which mr. featherstone's cold threw him. featherstone was his name, as he was polite enough to tell me in the intervals of coughing, and i told him mine in return. at last his malady so increased that he called for the landlord, and bidding him light a great fire in his bedroom said he must needs go to bed. "i trust, however," he continued politely to me, "that you, mr. berkeley, will prove a samaritan, and keep me company for a while. for i shall not sleep, upon my word i shall not sleep a wink," and he was so positive in his assurances that, though i was myself sufficiently tired, i thought it no more than kindness to fall in with his wishes. accordingly i followed him into his bedroom, where he lay in a great canopied bed, with a big fire blazing upon the hearth, and a bottle of rum with a couple of glasses upon a table at the bedside. "it is an ague," said he, "which i caught upon the gambia river, and from which i have ever since suffered many inconveniences;" he poured out the rum into the glasses, and wished me with great politeness all prosperity. it was no doubt, also, because he had voyaged on the gambia river that he suffered no inconvenience from the heat of the room. but what with the hot august night, and the blazing fire, and the closed window, i became at once so drowsy that i could hardly keep my eyes open, and i wished him good-night. "but you will not go," said he. "we are but this moment acquainted, and to-morrow we shall wave a farewell each to the other. let us, mr. berkeley, make something of the meanwhile, i beg you." i answered him that i did not wish to appear churlish, but that i should most certainly appear so if i fell asleep while we talked, which, in spite of myself, i was very likely to do. "but i have a bottle of salts here," said he, with a laugh, as he reached out of bed and fumbled with his coat. "i have a bottle of salts here which will infallibly persuade you from any thought of sleep," and he drew out from the pocket of his coat a pack of cards. "well, what do you say?" he continued, as i did not move. "it is some while since i handled a card," said i slowly. "a game of picquet," he suggested. "it is a good game," said i. he flipped the edges of the cards with his thumb. i drew nearer to the bed. "well, one game then," said i. "to be sure," said he, shuffling the cards. "and the stakes must be low." "i hate a gambler myself." he cut the cards. i sat down on the bedside and dealt them. "it is your elder," said i. he looked disconsolately at his hand. "upon my word," said he. "deuce take me if i know what to discard. i have no hand for picquet at all, though as luck will have it i have very good putt cards." i glanced through my hand. "i have better putt cards than you," said i. "it is not likely," he returned. "i'll make a wager of it," i cried. "your horse," said he, leaning up on his elbow. he spoke a trifle too eagerly, he sprang up on his elbow a trifle too quickly. i looked again through my hand, and i laid the cards down on the counterpane. "no," said i quietly. "it is very likely you are right: i have two treys and an ace, but you may have two treys and a deuce." "why, this is purely magical," he exclaimed, with the most natural burst of laughter imaginable. "two treys and a deuce! those are indeed the cards i hold." he fell back again in the bed, and we played our single game of picquet. he won the game. indeed, he could not but win it, for i paid no attention whatever to the cards which i held, or to how i should draw, or--and this perhaps was my most important omission--to how mr. featherstone shuffled and dealt. the truth is, i had suddenly become very curious about mr. featherstone. i had recalled his great politeness of manner. i remarked his face, which was of an almost girlish delicacy. i reflected that here was a man in a great hurry to travel by the same road as myself, and i remembered how i had learned that trick by which he had tried to outwit me of my horse. even as it was i had all but fallen into the trap. i should most certainly have done so had not lieutenant clutterbuck once explained it to me on a particular occasion. i remembered that occasion very clearly as i sat on the bed playing this game of picquet by the light of a single candle, and i wondered whether i could fit mr. featherstone with another name. "i am afraid," said he, "that this is a capote," as i played my last card. "but the loss is trifling," said i, "and i have kept my horse." "very true," said he, whistling softly between his teeth. "you have kept your horse," and as i wished him good-night, he added, "you will be careful to shut the door behind you, won't you?" but before the words were out of his mouth, he was seized with so violent a paroxysm of shivering that he could barely stammer out the end of the sentence. "these infernal fevers," said he, with a groan. "i notice, however," i returned, "that they are intermittent," and latching the door as he again requested me, i went off to my own room. i could not but wonder what trickery the fire was intended to help, for until the last fit of the ague had seized him, he had given no sign of any sickness since he had brought out the cards. however, there was a more important question to occupy my mind. i had little doubt that mr. featherstone was cullen mayle: i had little doubt that he was hurrying as fast as he could to the scillies, since he had received no answer to the message which he sent with the negro. but should i tell him of the men who watched for his coming, keeping their watches as at sea? on the one side their presence meant danger to cullen mayle, it could hardly mean anything else; and since it meant danger he should be warned of it. on the other hand, the watchers might have tired of their watching and given it up as profitless. besides i was by no means sure in what light cullen himself was to be regarded. was his return to tresco, a prospect to be welcomed or deplored? did he come as a friend to that distracted girl alone in the lonely house by the sand? i could not answer these questions. i knew cullen to be a knave, i knew that the girl cared for him, and these two items made the sum of my knowledge. i turned over in my bed and fell asleep, thinking that my course might be clear to me in the morning. and in the morning it was clear. i woke up with a mind made up. i had a horse; cullen travelled on foot; since he had come so far on foot, it was not likely that he had the money to purchase a horse, for the story of the stumble and the broken leg i entirely disbelieved, and with the best of reasons. i had travelled myself along that road yesterday, and i had passed no disabled horse upon the way. i had therefore the advantage of cullen. i would journey on without saying a word to him of my destination. i would on arriving take council with dick parmiter and helen mayle and seek to fathom the trouble. i should still have time to cross back to the mainland and hinder cullen from attempting the passage. thus i planned to do, but the plan was never put to the test of action. for while i was still dressing, a loud hubbub and confusion filled the house. i opened my door. the noise came from the direction of cullen's room. i hastily slipped on my coat and ran down the passage. i could hear cullen's voice very loud above the rest, a woman or two protesting with a shrill indignation and the landlord trying to make all smooth, though what the bother was about i could not distinguish. it seemed that the whole household was gathered in the room, though mr. featherstone still lay abed. the moment that i appeared in the doorway, "ah! here's a witness," he cried. "mr. berkeley, you were the last to leave me last night. you closed the door behind you? i was particular to ask you to close the door?" "i remember that very well," said i, "for i was wondering how in the world you could put up with the door closed and a blazing fire." "there!" cried featherstone turning to the landlord. "you hear? mr. berkeley is a gentleman beyond reproach. he shut the door behind him, and this morning i find it wide open and my breeches gone. there is a thief, sir, in your inn, and we travellers must go on our way without breeches. it is the most inconsiderate theft that ever i heard of." "as for the breeches, sir," began the landlord. "i don't care a button for them," cried featherstone. "but there was money in the breeches' pockets. fifteen guineas in gold, and a couple of bills on mr. nossiter, the banker at exeter." "the bills can be stopped," said the landlord. "we are but eighteen miles from exeter." "but how am i to travel those miles; do you expect me to walk there in my shirt tails. no, i stay here in bed until my breeches are found, and, burn me, if i don't eat up everything in the house," and immediately he began to roar out for food. "i will have chops at once, and there's a great sirloin of beef, and bring me a tankard of small ale." then he turned again to me, and said pathetically, "it is not the breeches i mind, though to be sure i shall cut a ridiculous figure on the highroad; no, nor the money, though i have not a stiver left. but i woke up this morning in the sweetest good-humour, and here am i in a violent passion at nine o'clock in the morning, and my whole day spoilt. it is so discouraging," and he lay back upon the pillow as though he would have wept. the landlord offered him his sunday breeches. they were of red cloth, and a belted earl might wear them without shame. "but not without discomfort," grumbled mr. featherstone, contemplating the landlord who was of a large figure. "they will hang about me in swathes like a petticoat." "and as for the fifteen guineas," said i, "my purse is to that amount at your disposal." "that is a very gentlemanly offer, mr. berkeley," said he, "from one stranger to another. but i have a horror of borrowing. i cannot accept your munificence. no, i will walk in my host's red cloth breeches as far as rockbere, which to be sure is no more than twelve miles, quite penniless, but when i reach my friends, upon my word, i will make such a noise about this inn as will close its doors, strike me dead and stiff, if don't." his threat had its effect. the landlord, after the usual protestations that such an incident had never occurred before, that he had searched the house even to the servants' boxes, and that he could make neither head nor tail of the business, wound up his harangue with an offer of five guineas. "it is all i have in the house, sir," said he, "and of course i shall charge you neither for food nor lodging." "of course not," said mr. featherstone indignantly. "well, i must make the best of it, but oh! i woke up with so happy a disposition towards the world;" and dismissing the women he got up and dressed. the landlord fetched the five guineas and his red cloth breeches, which featherstone drew on. "was ever a man so vilely travestied?" he said. "sure, i shall be taken for a hollander. that is hard for a person of some elegance," and he tied his cravat and went grumbling from the room. "this is a great misfortune, sir, for me," said my host. "i have lived honest all my days. there is no one in the house who would steal; on that i would stake my life. i can make nothing of it." "mr. featherstone is quite recovered from his ague," said i slowly. i crossed over to the empty fireplace heaped with the white ashes of the logs which had blazed there the night before. "the fire no doubt did him some benefit." "that is precisely what i was thinking," said i, and i knelt down on the hearth-rug and poked amongst the ashes with the shovel. suddenly, the landlord uttered an exclamation and threw up the window. i heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs upon the road. i got up from my knees and rushed to the window. as i leaned out mr. featherstone rode underneath and he rode my horse. "stop!" i shouted out. "mr. berkeley," he cried, airily waving his hand as he rode by, "you may hold very good putt cards, but you haven't kept your horse." "you damned thief!" i yelled, and he turned in his saddle and put out his tongue. it is, if you think of it, a form of repartee to which there is no reply. in any case i doubt if i could have made any reply which would have reached his ears. for he had set the horse to a gallop and was far down the road. i went back to the hearth where the landlord joined me. we both knelt down and raked away the ashes. "what's that?" said i, pointing to something blackened and scorched. the landlord picked it up. "it is a piece of corduroy." "and here's a bone button," said i. "the ague was a sham, the fire a device to rob you. he came here without a penny piece and burnt his breeches last night. he has robbed you, he has robbed me, and he will reach the scilly islands first. how far is it to rockbere?" "twelve miles." "i must walk those twelve miles?" "yes." "will i get a horse there?" "it is doubtful." "he has a day's start then at the least." so after all, though the horse did not stumble, nor the rider lie quiet by the roadside, he did not ride out of the forest at a gallop, and down the green bank into the open space beyond. chapter vi my first night upon tresco i walked that day into rockbere, and taking the advice of the innkeeper with whom i lodged, i hired a hack and a guide from him the next morning and struck across country for the sea; for he assured me that i should most likely find a fishing smack at topsham whose master would put me over to the scillies, and that if the wind did but favour me i should reach the islands sooner that way than if i had the quickest horse under me that was ever foaled. it was of the greatest urgency that i should set foot on tresco before cullen mayle. i had to risk something to achieve that object, and i risked the wind. it was in the northeast when i started from rockbere and suited my purpose finely if it did but hold; so that i much regretted i was not already on the sea, and rode in a perpetual fear lest it should change its quarter. i came to honiton clyst that night, and to topsham the next day, where i was fortunate enough to find a boat of some thirty tons and to come to an agreement with its master. he had his crew ready to his hand; he occupied the morning in provisioning the smack; and we stood out of the harbour in the evening, and with a steady wind on our quarter made a good run to the start point. shortly after we passed the start the wind veered round into the north, which did us no great harm, since these boats sail their best on a reach. we reached then with a soldier's breeze, as the saying is, out to the eddystone rock and the lizard point. it was directly after we had sighted the lizard that the wind began to fall light, and when we were just off the point it failed us altogether. i remember that night as well as any other period in the course of these incidents. i was running a race with cullen mayle, and i was beginning to think that it was not after all only on account of his peril that it was needful for me to reach tresco before he did. these last two days i had been entirely occupied with the stimulation of that race and the inspiriting companionship of the sea. the waves foaming away from the bows and bubbling and hissing under the lee of the boat, the flaws of wind blistering the surface of the water as they came off the land towards us, making visible their invisible approach; the responsive spring of the boat, like a horse under the touch of a spur--these mere commonplaces to my companions had for me an engrossing enchantment. but on that evening at the lizard point the sea lay under the sunset a smooth, heaving prism of colours; we could hear nothing but the groaning of the blocks, the creaking of the boom's collars against the masts; and the night came out from behind the land very peaceful and solemn, and solemnly the stars shone out in the sky. all the excitement of the last days died out of me. we swung up and down with the tide. now the lights of falmouth were visible to us at the bottom of the bay, now the lizard obscured them from us. i was brought somehow to think of those last years of mine in london. they seemed very distant and strange to me in this clean air, and the pavement of st. james's street, which i had daily trodden, became an unacceptable thing. about two o'clock of the morning a broad moon rose out of the sea, and towards daybreak a little ruffing breeze sprang up, and we made a gentle progress across the bay towards land's end; but the breeze sank as the sun came up, and all that day we loitered, gaining a little ground now and then and losing it again with the turn of the tide. it was not until the fifth evening that we dropped anchor in the road between st. mary's island and tresco. i waited until it was quite dark, and was then quietly rowed ashore with my valise in the ship's dinghy. i landed on tresco near to the harbour of new grimsby. it was at new grimsby that dick parmiter lived, clutterbuck had told me, and the first thing i had to do was to find dick parmiter without arousing any attention. now on an island like tresco, sparsely inhabited and with no commerce, the mere presence of a stranger would assuredly provoke comment. i walked, therefore, very warily towards the village. one house i saw with great windows all lighted up, and that i took to be the palace inn, where adam mayle and cullen used to sit side by side on the settle and surprise the visitors by their unlikeness to one another. there was a small cluster of cottages about the inn with a lane straggling between, and further away, round the curve of the little bay, were two huts close to the sea. it would be in one of these that dick parmiter lived, and i crept towards them. there was no light whatever in the first of them, but the door stood open, and a woman and a man stood talking in the doorway. i lay down in the grass and crawled towards them, if by any chance i might hear what they said. for a while i could distinguish nothing of what they said, but at last the man cried in a clear voice, "good-night, mrs. grudge," and walked off to the inn. the woman went in and closed the door. i was sure then that the next cottage was the one for which i searched. i walked to it; there was a light in the window and the sound of voices talking. i hesitated whether to go in boldly and ask for dick. but it would be known the next morning that a stranger had come for dick; no doubt, too, dick's journey to london was known, and the five men watching the house on merchant's point would be straightway upon the alert. besides dick might not have reached home. i walked round the hut unable to decide what i should do, and as i came to the back of it a light suddenly glowed in a tiny window there. i cautiously approached the window and looked through. dick parmiter was stripping off his jersey, and was alone. i tapped on the window. dick raised his head, and then put out the light, so that i could no longer see into the room; but in a moment the window was slowly lifted, and the boy's voice whispered: "is that you, mr. mayle?" i drew a breath of relief. i was ahead of cullen mayle, though he had stolen my horse. "no," said i; "but i have come on cullen mayle's business." the boy leaned out of the window and peered into my face. but voices were raised in the room beyond this cupboard, and a woman's voice cried out, "dick, dick!" "that's mother," said dick to me. "wait! i will come out to you." he closed the window, and i lay down again in the grass, and waited there for perhaps an hour. a mist was coming up from the sea and thickening about the island; the starlight was obscured; wreaths of smoke, it seemed, came in puffs between myself and the house, and at last i heard the rustling of feet in the grass. "dick," said i in a whisper, and the lad came to me. "i remember you," he said. "you were at lieutenant clutterbuck's. why have you come?" "upon my word," said i, "i should find it difficult to tell you." indeed, it would have taken me half the night to explain the motives which had conjoined to this end. "and now that you are come, what is it you mean to do?" "dick," i returned, "you ask the most disconcerting questions. you tramp up to london with a wild story of a house watched----" "you come as a friend, then," he broke in eagerly. "as your friend, yes." dick sat silent for a moment. "i think so," he said at length. "and here's a trifle to assure you," i said. "cullen mayle is not very far behind me. you may expect him upon tresco any morning." dick started to his feet. "are you sure of that? you do not know him. how are you sure?" "clutterbuck described him to me. i overtook him on the road, and stayed the same night with him at an inn. he robbed me and robbed the landlord. there was a trick at the cards, too. not a doubt of it, cullen mayle is close on my heels. are those five men still watching the house?" "yes. they are still upon tresco. they lodge here and there with the fishermen, and make a pretence to burn kelp or to fish for their living; but their business is to watch the house, as you will see to-night. there are six of them now, not five." he led me as he spoke towards the "palace inn," where a light still burned in the kitchen. the cottages about the inn, however, were by this time dark, and we could advance without risk of being seen. dick stopped me under the shadow of a wall not ten yards from the inn. a red blind covered the lower part of the window, but above it i could see quite clearly into the kitchen. "give me a back," whispered dick, who reached no higher than my shoulder. i bent down and dick climbed on to my shoulders, whence he too could see the interior of the kitchen. "that will go," said he in a little, and slid to the ground. "can you see a picture on the wall?" "yes." "and a man sitting under the picture--a squat, squabby man with white hair and small eyes very bright?" "yes." "that is the sixth man. he came to tresco while i was in london. i found him here when i came back two days ago. but i had seen him before. he had come to tresco before. his name is george glen." "george glen!" said i. "wait a bit," and i took another look at the man in the kitchen. "he was quartermaster with adam mayle at whydah, eh? he is the stranger you brought over to st. mary's church on the day when cullen mayle sat in the stocks." "yes," said dick, and he asked me how i knew. "clutterbuck told me," i replied. from the inn we walked some few yards along a lane until we were free of the cottages, and then leaving the path, mounted inland up a hill of gorse. dick gave me on the way an account of his journey homewards and the difficulties he had surmounted. i paid only an indifferent attention to his story, for i was wholly occupied with george glen's presence upon the island. glen had come first of all to visit adam mayle, and was now watching for cullen. what link was there between his two visits? i was inclined to think that george glen was the clue to the whole mystery. in spite of my inattention, i gathered this much however from dick. that tramp of his to london was well known throughout the islands. his mother had given him up for dead when he went away, and had thrashed him soundly when he returned, but the next day had made him out a great hero in her talk. she did not know why he went to london, for dick had the discretion to hold his tongue upon that point. so much parmiter had told me when he suddenly stopped and listened. i could hear nothing, however much i strained my ears, and in a moment or two dick began to move on. the mist was very thick about us--i could not see a yard beyond my nose; but we were now going down hill, so that i knew we had crossed the ridge of the island and were descending towards the harbour of new grimsby and the house under merchant's rock. we had descended for perhaps a couple of hundred yards; then dick stopped again. he laid a hand upon my arm and dragged me down among the gorse, which was drenched with the fog. "what is it?" said i. "hush," he whispered; and even as he whispered i saw a sort of brown radiance through the fog a long way to my left. the next instant a speck of clear light shone out in the heart of this radiance: it was the flame of a lantern, and it seemed miles away. i raised myself upon my elbows to watch it. dick pulled my elbow from beneath me, and pressed me down flat in the grass; and it was fortunate that he did, for immediately the lantern loomed out of the fog not a dozen yards away. i heard it rattle as it swung, and the man who carried it tramped by so near to me that if i had stretched out my hand i could have caught him by the ankle and jerked him off his feet. it was the purest good fortune that he did not detect us, and we lay very still until the rustle of the footsteps had altogether died away. "is that one of them?" i asked. "yes; william blads. he lodges with mrs. crudge next to our cottage." we continued to descend through the gorse for another quarter of an hour or so until an extraordinary sound at our feet brought us both to an halt. it was the strangest melancholy screeching sound that ever i had heard: it was so harsh it pierced the ears; it was so wild and eerie that i could hardly believe a voice uttered it. it was like a shrill cry of pain uttered by some live thing that was hardly human. it startled me beyond words, and the more so because it rose out of the fog directly at our feet. dick parmiter trembled at my side. "quick," he whispered in a shaking voice; "let us go! oh, let us go!" but he could not move for all his moaning. his limbs shook as though he had the fever; terror chained him there to the ground. had i not known the boy under other circumstances, i should have set him down for a coward. i took a step forward. dick caught hold of my arm and muttered something, but his voice so wavered and gasped i could not distinguish what he said. i shook his arm off, and again stepped forward for one, two, three paces. as i took the third pace the ground suddenly sloped, my feet slipped on the wet grass; i let go of my valise, and i fell to my full length upon my back, and slid. and the moment i began to slide my feet touched nothing. i caught at the grass, and the roots of it came away in my hands. i turned over on my face. half my body was now hanging over the edge. i hung for a second by my waist, and as i felt my waist slipping, i struck out wildly upon each side with my arms. my right arm struck against a bush of gorse; i seized hold of it, and it bent, but it did not break. i lifted a knee carefully, set it on the edge, and so crawled up the slope again. dick was lying on his face peering down towards me. "my god," said he, "i thought you had fallen;" and reaching out his hands, he caught both my arms as though he was afraid i should slip again. "oh, quick," he said, "let us go!" and again i heard the shrill screech rise up from that hollow into which i had so nearly fallen. it was repeated and repeated with a regular interval between--an interval long enough for dick to reiterate his eager prayer. "it has begun again," said i. "it has never ceased since we first heard it," said dick, and no doubt he spoke the truth; only i had been deaf to it from the moment my foot slipped until now. "let us go," and picking up my valise he hurried me away, turning his head as he went, shuddering whenever he heard that cry. "but it may be some one in distress--some one who needs help." "no, no," he cried; "it is no one. i will tell you to-morrow." we skirted the top of the hollow, and once more descended. the fog showed no sign of clearing, but parmiter walked with an assured tread, and in a little time he began to recover his spirits. "we are close to the house," said he. "dick, you are afraid of ghosts," said i; and while i spoke he uttered a cry and clung to my arm. a second later something brushed past my hand very quickly. i just saw it for an instant as it flitted past, and then the darkness swallowed it up. dick blurted out this fable: the souls of dead drowned sailormen kept nightly tryst on castle down. "that was no spirit," said i. "play the man, dick. did you ever meet a spirit that trod with the weight of a body?" i could hear the sound of feet rustling the grass beneath us. dick listened with his hand to his ear. "the tread is very light," said he. "that is because it is a woman who treads." "no woman would be abroad here in this fog at this time," he protested. "nevertheless, it was a woman; for i saw her, and her dress brushed against my hand. it was a woman, and you cried out at her; so that if there is any one else upon the watch to-night, it is very likely we shall have him upon our heels." that argument sobered him, and we went forward again without speaking to each other, and only halting now and again to listen. in a very short while we heard the sea booming upon the beach, and then dick stepped forward yet more warily, feeling about with his hands. "there should be a fence hereabouts," said he, and the next moment i fell over it with a great clatter. a loud whistle sounded from the beach--another whistle answered behind us, and i heard the sound of a man running up from the sand. we both crouched in the grass close by the palisade, and again the fog saved us. i heard some one beating about in the grass with a stick, but he did not come near us, and at last he turned back to the sea. "you see," said dick, "i told lieutenant clutterbuck the truth. the house is watched." "devil a doubt of it," said i. "do you go forward and see if you can get in." he came back to me in a little space of time, saying that the door was barred, and that he could see no light through any chink. he had stolen all round the house; he had rapped gently here and there at a window, but there was no one waking. "and what are we to do now?" said he. "if i make a clatter and rouse the house, we shall rouse cullen's enemies, too." "it would not be wise to put them on the alert, the more particularly since cullen mayle may be here to-morrow. i will go back to the 'palace' inn, sleep the night there, and come over here boldly in the morning." and i got up and shouldered my valise again. but dick stopped me. "i have a better plan than that," said he, "for george glen is staying at the 'palace' inn. what if you slept in the house here to-night! i can come over early to-morrow and tell miss helen who you are, and why you have come." "but how am i to get into the house, without you rouse the household?" "there is a window. it is the window of cullen mayle's room. you could get through it with my help." it seemed in many ways the best plan that could be thought of, but certain words of clutterbuck's that my meddling at all in the matter would be nothing but an impertinence came back very forcibly to me. but i heard dick parmiter speaking, and the thought slipped instantly from my mind. "i helped cullen mayle through the window, the night his father drove him from the house," said he, "and----" "what's that you say?" i asked eagerly. "the night that cullen mayle was driven from the house, he climbed back into his room!" "yes!" "tell me about it, and be quick!" said i. i had my own reason for urging him, and i listened with all my attention to every word he spoke. he told me the sequel of the story which clutterbuck had related in my lodging at st. james's street. "i was waiting for him outside here on the beach," said he; "and when the door was closed behind him, he came straight towards me. 'and where am i to sleep to-night, dick?' said he. i told him that he could have my bed over at new grimsby, but he refused it. 'i'm damned if i sleep in a rat-hole,' he said, 'when by putting my pride in my pocket i can sleep in my own bed; and with my help he clambered on to an outhouse, and so back into his own room." "when did he leave the island, then?" i asked. "the next morning? but no one saw him go?" "no," answered dick. "i sailed him across the same night. about three o'clock of the morning he came and tapped softly upon my window, just as you did to-night. it was that which made me think you were cullen come back. he bade me slip out to him without any noise, and together we carried my father's skiff down to the water. i sailed him across to st. mary's. he made me swear never to tell a word of his climbing back into his room." "oh, he made you swear that?" "yes, he said he would rip my heart out if i broke my oath. well, i've kept it till to-night. no one knows but you. i got back to tresco before my father had stirred." "and cullen?" "a barque put out from st. mary's to cornwall with the first of the ebb in the morning. i suppose he persuaded the captain to take him." parmiter's story set me thinking, and i climbed over the palisade after him without further objection. he came to a wall of planks; dick set himself firmly against it and bent his shoulders. "this is an outhouse," said he. "from my shoulders you can reach the roof. from the roof you can reach the window. you can force the catch of the window with a knife." "it will be an awkward business," said i doubtfully, "if i wake the house." "there is no fear of that," answered dick. "with any other window i would not say no. the other rooms are separated only by a thin panelling of wood, and at one end of the house you can almost hear a mouse scamper at the other. mr. cullen's room, however, is a room built on, its inner wall is the outer wall of the house, it is the one room where you could talk secrets and run no risk of being overheard." "very well," said i slowly, for this speech too set me thinking. "i will risk it. come over early to-morrow, dick. i shall cut an awkward figure without you do," and getting on to his shoulder, i clambered up on to the roof of the outhouse. he handed my valise to me; i pushed back the catch of the window with the blade of my knife, lifted it, threw my leg over the sill and silently drew myself into the room. the room was very dark, but my eyes were now accustomed to the gloom. i could dimly discern a great four-poster bed. i shut the window without noise, set my valise in a corner, drew off my boots and lay down upon the bed. chapter vii tells of an extraordinary incident in cullen mayle's bedroom i was very tired, but in spite of my fatigue it was some while before i fell asleep. parmiter had thrown a new light upon the business tonight, and by the help of that light i arrayed afresh my scanty knowledge. the strangeness of my position, besides, kept me in some excitement. here was i quietly abed in a house where i knew no one; clutterbuck might well talk about impertinence, and i could not but wonder what in the world i should find to say if dick was late in the morning. finally, there was the adventure of that night. i felt myself again slipping down the wet grass and dangling over the precipice. i heard again that unearthly screeching which had so frightened dick and perplexed me, it perplexed me still. i could not for a moment entertain dick's supposition of a spirit. this was the middle of the eighteenth century, you will understand, and i had come fresh from london. ghosts and bogies might do very well for the island of tresco, but mr. berkeley was not to be terrified with any such old-wives' stories, and so mr. berkeley fell asleep. at what precise hour the thing happened i do not know. the room was so dark that i could not have read my watch, even if i had looked at it, which i did not think to do. but at some time during that night i woke up quite suddenly with a clear sense that i had been waked up. i sat up in my bed with my heart beating very quick; and then with as a little noise as i could i gathered myself up in the shadow of the bed-hangings, at the head. the fog was still thick about the house, so that hardly a glimmer of light came from the window. but there was some one in the room i knew, for i could hear a rustle as of stealthy movements. and then straight in front of me between the two posts of the bed-foot, i saw something white that wavered and swayed this way and that. only an hour or so before i had been boasting to myself that i was london-bred and lived in the middle of the eighteenth century. but none the less my hair stirred upon my head, and all the moisture dried up in my throat as i stared at that dim white thing wavering and swaying between the bed-posts. it was taller than any human being that i had seen. i remembered the weird screeching sound which i had heard in the hollow; i think that in my heart i begged dick parmiter's pardon for laughing at his fears; i know that i crouched back among the hangings and shuddered till the bed shook and shook again. and then it made a sound, and all the blood in my veins stood still. i thought that my heart would stop or my brain burst. for the sound was neither a screech like that which rose from the hollow, nor a groan, nor any ghostly noise. it was purely human, it was a kecking sound in the throat, such as one makes who gasps for breath. the white thing was a live thing of flesh and blood. i sprang up on the bed and jumped to the foot of it. it was very dark in the room, but through the darkness, i could see, on a level with my face, the face of a woman. her eyes were open and they stared into mine. i could see the whites of them; our heads were so near they almost touched. even then i did not understand. i wondered what it was on which she stood. i noticed a streak of white which ran straight up towards the ceiling from behind her head, and i wondered what that was. and then suddenly her body swung against my legs. she was standing on nothing whatever! again the queer gasping coughing noise broke from her lips, and at last i understood it. it was a gasp of a woman strangling to death. that white stiff streak above her head--i knew what it was too. i caught her by the waist and lifted her up till her weight rested upon my arm. with the other arm i felt about her neck. a thick soft scarf--silk it seemed to the touch--was knotted tightly round it, and the end of the scarf ran up to the cross-beam above the bed-posts. the scarf was the streak of white. i fumbled at the knot with my fingers. it was a slip knot, and now that no weight kept it taut, it loosened easily. i slipped the noose back over her head and left it dangling. the woman i laid down upon the bed, where she lay choking and moaning. i flung up the window and the cold fog poured into the room. i had no candle to light and nothing wherewith to light it. but i remembered that my foot had knocked against a chair to the right of the window, as i climbed into the room. i groped for the chair and set it to face the open night. then i carried the woman to the window and placed her in the chair, and supported her so that she might not fall. outside i could hear the surf booming upon the sand almost within arm's reach, and the air was brisk with the salt of the sea. such light as there was, glimmered upon the woman's face. i saw that she was young, little more than a girl indeed, with hair and eyes of an extreme blackness. she was of a slight figure as i knew from the ease with which i carried her, but tall. i could not doubt who it was, for one thing the white dress she wore was of some fine soft fabric, and even in that light it was easy to see that she was beautiful. i held her thus with the cold salt air blowing upon her face, and in a little, she began to recover. she moved her hands upon her lap, and finally lifted one and held her throat with it. "very likely there will be some water in the room," said i. "if you are safe, if you will not fall, i will look for it." "thank you," she murmured. my presence occasioned her no surprise and this i thought was no more than natural at the moment. i took my arm from her waist and groped about the room for the water-jug. i found it at last and a glass beside it. these i carried back to the window. the girl was still seated on the chair, but she had changed her attitude. she had leaned her arms upon the sill and her head upon her arms. i poured out the water from the jug into the tumbler. she did not raise her head. i spoke to her. she did not answer me. a horrible fear turned me cold. i knelt down by her side, and setting down the water gently lifted her head. she did not resist but sank back with a natural movement into my arms. her eyes were closed, but she was breathing. i could feel her breath upon my cheek and it came steadily and regular. i cannot describe my astonishment; she was in a deep sleep. i pondered for a moment what i should do! should i wake the household? should i explain what had happened and my presence in the house? for helen mayle's sake i must not do that, since helen mayle it surely was whom i held in my arms. i propped her securely in the chair, then crossed the room, opened the door and listened. the house was very still; so far no one had been disturbed. a long narrow passage stretched in front of me, with doors upon either side. remembering what dick parmiter had told me, i mean that every sound reverberated through the house, i crept down the landing on tiptoe. i had only my stockings upon my feet and i crept forward so carefully that i could not hear my own footfalls. i had taken some twenty paces when the passage opened out to my right. i put out my hand and touched a balustrade. a few yards farther on the balustrade ceased; there was an empty space which i took to be the beginning of the stairs, and beyond the empty space the passage closed in again. i crept forward, and at last at the far end of the house and on the left hand of the passage i came to that for which i searched, and which i barely hoped to find--an open door. i held my breath and listened in the doorway, but there was no sound of any one breathing, so i stepped into the room. the fog was less dense, it hung outside the window a thin white mist and behind that mist the day was breaking. i looked round the room. it was a large bedroom, and the bed had not been slept in. a glance at the toilette with its dainty knick-knacks of silver proved to me that it was a woman's bedroom. it had two big windows looking out towards the sea, and as i stood in the dim grey light, i wondered whether it was from one of those windows that adam mayle had looked years before, and seen the brigantine breaking up upon the golden ball reef. but the light was broadening with the passage of every minute. with the same caution which i had observed before i stole back on tiptoe to cullen mayle's room. helen mayle was still asleep, and she had not moved from her posture. i raised her in my arms, and still she did not wake. i carried her down the passage, through the open door and laid her on the bed. there was a coverlet folded at the end of the bed and i spread it over her. she nestled down beneath it and her lips smiled very prettily, and she uttered a little purring murmur of content; but this she did in her sleep. she slept with the untroubled sleep of a child. her face was pale, but that i took to be its natural complexion. her long black eyelashes rested upon her cheeks. there was no hint of any trouble in her expression, no trace of any passionate despair. i could hardly believe that this was the girl who had sought to hang herself, whom i had seen struggling for her breath. yet there was no doubt possible. she had come into the empty room--empty as she thought, and empty it would have been, had not a fisher-boy burst one night into lieutenant clutterbuck's lodging off the strand--when every one slept, and there she had deliberately stood upon the bed, fastened her noose to the cross-bar and sprang off. there was no doubt possible. it was her spring from the bed which had waked me up, and as i returned to cullen's room, i saw the silk noose still hanging from the beam. chapter viii helen mayle a loud rapping on the door roused me. the mist had cleared away, and out of the open window i could see a long sunlit slope of gorse all yellow and purple stretching upwards, and over the slope a great space of blue sky whereon the clouds sailed like racing boats in a strong breeze. the door was thrust open and dick parmiter entered. "you keep london hours, sir," said he, standing at the foot of the bed, and he happened to raise his eyes. "what's that?" he asked. _that_ was the silk scarf still dangling from the cross-bar, and the sight of it brought back to me in a flash my adventure of the night. with the clear sunlight filling the room and the bright wind chasing the clouds over the sky, i could hardly believe that it had really occurred. but the silk scarf hung between the posts. "my god," i cried out. "what if i had never waked up!" there would have been the sunlight and the wind in the sky as now, but, facing me, no longer swaying, but still, inert, horrible, i should have seen--and i clapped my hands over my face, so distinct was this unspeakable vision to me, and cried out again: "what if i had not waked up! "you have not waked up very early," said dick, looking at me curiously, and recovering my self-possession i hasten to explain. "i have had dreams, dick. the strange room! i am barely awake yet." it appeared that i was not the only one to keep london hours that morning. it was close upon mid-day and dick had not waked me before, because he had not before had speech with the mistress of the house. helen mayle had risen late. but she knew now of my presence in the house and what had brought me, and was waiting to offer me her thanks. in spite of this news that she was waiting, i made my toilette very slowly. it would be the most awkward, embarrassing meeting imaginable. how could one bow and smile and exchange the trivial courtesies with a girl whom one had saved from that silk noose some eight hours before? with what countenance would she greet me? would she resent my interference? dick, however, had plainly noticed nothing unusual in her demeanour; i consoled myself with that reflection. he noticed, however, something unusual here in my room, for as i tied my cravat before the mirror i saw that he was curiously looking at the silk scarf. "perhaps you have seen it before," said i without turning round. dick started, then he coloured. "i was wondering why it hung there," said he. "it _is_ curious," said i calmly, and i stood upon the bed and with some trouble, for the knots were stiff, i took it down and thrust it into the pocket of my coat. "it is yours?" cried dick. "one silk scarf is very like another," said i, and he coloured again and was silent. his silence was fortunate, since if he had asked to what end i had hung it above my bed, i should have been hard put to it for an answer. "i am ready," said i, and we walked along the passage to the balustrade, and the head of the stairs where i had crept on tiptoe during the night. i noticed certain marks, a few dents, a few scratches on the panels of the wall at the head of the stairs, and i was glad to notice them, for they reminded me of the business upon which i had come and of certain conjectures which dick had suggested to my mind. it was at the head of the stairs that adam mayle had stood when he drove out his son. the marks no doubt were the marks of that handful of guineas which cullen had flung to splatter and sparkle against the wall behind his father's head. i was glad to notice them, as i say, for the tragical incident in which i had borne a share that night had driven cullen mayle's predicament entirely from my thoughts. i saw the flutter of a dress at the foot of the stairs, and a face looked up to mine. it was the face which i had seen on a level with mine in the black gloom of the night, and as i saw it now in the clear light of day, i stopped amazed. it wore no expression of embarrassment, no plea for silence. she met me with a grateful welcome in her eyes as for one who had come unexpectedly to do her a service, and perhaps a hint of curiosity as to why i should have come at all. "dick has told me of you," she said, as she held out her hand. "you are very kind. until this morning i did not even know the reason of dick's journey to london. i was not aware that he had paid a visit to lieutenant clutterbuck." there was a trifle of awkwardness in her voice as she pronounced his name. i could not help feeling and no doubt expressing some awkwardness as i heard it. lieutenant clutterbuck had not hesitated to accuse her of duplicity; i at all events could not but acknowledge that she was excellently versed in the woman's arts of concealment. there was thus a moment's silence before i answered. "you will accept me i hope as lieutenant clutterbuck's proxy." "we had no right," she returned, "to expect any service from lieutenant clutterbuck, much less from----" and she hesitated and stopped abruptly. "from a stranger you would have said," i added. "we shall count you a stranger no longer," she said, with a frank smile, and that i might not be outdone in politeness, i said: "if dick had lacked discretion and told you all that he might have told, you would understand that the obligation is upon my side. for whereas i do not know that i can render you any service whatever, i do know that already you have rendered me a great one." "that is very prettily said," she returned, as she walked into the parlour. "truth at times," i answered lightly as i followed her, "can be as pretty as the most ingenious lie." so that first awkward meeting was past. i took my cue from her reticence, but without her success. i could not imitate her complete unconsciousness. it seemed she had no troubles. she sat at the table in a flow of the highest spirits. smiles came readily to her lips, and her eyes laughed in unison. she was pale and the pallor was the more marked on account of her dark hair and eyes, but the blood came and went in her cheeks, and gave to her an infinite variety of expression. i could hardly believe that this voice which was now lively with contentment was the voice which had uttered that kecking sound in the night, or that the eyes which now sparkled and flashed were the eyes which had stared at me through the gloom. no doubt i looked at her with more curiosity than was convenient; at all events she said, with a laugh: "i would give much to know what picture dick painted of me, for if i may judge from your looks, mr. berkeley, the likeness is very unlike to the original." i felt my cheeks grow hot, and cast about for a reason to excuse my curiosity. her own words suggested the reason. "dick told me," i said, "of a woman in great distress and perplexity, whose house was watched, who dreaded why it was watched----" "and you find a woman on the top of her spirits," she broke in, and was silent for a little, looking at the cloth. "and very likely," she continued slowly, "you are disposed to think that you have been misled and persuaded hither for no more than a trivial purpose." "no," i protested. "no such thought occurred to me," and in my anxiety to free myself from the suspicion of this imputation i broke through that compact of silence upon which we seemed silently to have agreed. "i have no reason for pride, god knows, but indeed, madam, i am not so utterly despicable as to regret that i came to tresco and crept into your house last night. already,--suppose there was nothing more for me to do but to wish you a good-morning and betake myself back to town--already i have every reason to be glad that i came, for if i had not come----" and i stopped. helen mayle listened to me with some surprise of manner at the earnestness with which i spoke and when i stopped so abruptly, she blushed and her eyes again sought the table. "yes," she said quietly, "mr. berkeley, you have guessed the reason of my good spirits. if you had not come, a woman in great distress and perplexity would be wandering restlessly about the house, as she did yesterday." her eyes were still fixed upon the table, or she must have remarked my astonishment and the pretence would at once and for all have been torn away from between us. i leaned back in my chair; it was as much as i could do to stifle an exclamation. if i had not come, a woman's spirit might be wandering to-day restlessly from room to room, but the woman--i had the silk scarf in my coat-pocket to assure me she would not. "the distress and perplexity," she continued, "are not done with, but to-day a hand has been stretched to me out of the dark, and i must think, to some good end. it could not be otherwise," and she lifted her eyes to mine. i did not doubt their sincerity. "and--shall i tell you?" she continued with a frank smile. "i am glad, though i hardly know why--i am glad that the man who stretched out his hand was quite unknown to me and himself knew nothing of me, and had not so much as seen my face. he helps a woman, not _one_ woman. i am more grateful for that, i take it to be of good augury." and she held her hand to me. i took the hand; i was tempted to let her remain in her misapprehension. but sooner or later she would learn the truth, and it seemed to me best that she should learn something of it from me. "madam," i said, "i should account myself happy if i could honestly agree, but i fear it was not on a woman's account that i travelled down to tresco. dick i think had something to do with it, but chiefly i came to do myself a service." "well," she answered as she rose and crossed to the window "that may be. you are here at all events, in the house that is watched" and then she suddenly called me to her side. "look," said she, "but keep well behind the curtain." i looked across the water to a brown pile of rocks which was named norwithel, and beyond norwithel over st. helen's pool to the island of st. helen's. "do you see?" she asked. i saw the bare rock, the purple heather of st. helen's, to the right a wide shining beach of tean, and to the left stretching out into the sea from the end of st. helen's a low ridge of rocks like a paved causeway. i pointed to that causeway. "that is the golden ball reef," said i. "yes," she answered, "dick told you the story. you would not see the reef, but that the tide is low. but it is not that i wanted to show you. see!" and she stretched out her hand towards the rock pile of norwithel. i looked there again and at last i saw a man moving on the rocks close by the sea. "he is cutting the weed," said i. "that is the pretence," said she. "but so long as he stays there no one can enter this house without he knows, no one can go out without he knows." "unless one goes in or out by the door i used." "that door is within view of the castle down. there will be some man smoking his pipe, stretched on the grass of the castle down." "you have never spoken to them?" "yes! they wanted nothing of me. they only watch. i know for whom they watch. i could learn nothing by questioning them." "have you asked captain hathaway's help?" helen smiled. "no. what could he do? they do no one any hurt. they stand out of my way when i pass. and besides--i am afraid. i do not know. if these men were questioned closely by some one in authority, what story might they have to tell and what part in that story does cullen play?" i hesitated for a few moments whether to risk the words which were on my lips. i made an effort and spoke them. "you will pardon the question--i have once met cullen mayle--and is he worth all this anxiety?" "he had a strange upbringing in this house. there is much to excuse him in the eyes of any one. and for myself i cannot forget that all which people say is mine, is more rightly his." she spoke very gently about cullen, as i had indeed expected that she would, but with sufficient firmness to prove to me that it was not worth while to continue upon this strain. "and the negro?" i asked. "he has not spoken?" for answer she led me up the stairs, and into a room which opened upon the landing. the negro lay in bed and asleep. the flesh had shrivelled off his bones, his face was thin and peaked, and plainly his days were numbered. helen leaned over the bed, spoke to him and pressed upon his shoulder. the negro opened his eyes. never in my life had i seen anything so melancholy as their expression. the conviction of his helplessness was written upon them and i think too an appeal for forgiveness that he had not discharged his mission. "speak to him," said helen. "perhaps a stranger's voice may rouse him if only to speak two words." i spoke to him as she bade me; a look of intelligence came into the negro's face; i put a question to him. "why does george glen watch for cullen mayle?"--and before i had completed the sentence his eyelids closed languidly over his eyes and he was asleep. i looked at him as he lay there, an emaciated motionless figure, the white bedclothes against his ebony skin, and as i thought of his long travels ending so purposelessly in this captivity of sleep, i was filled with a great pity. helen uttered a moan, she turned towards me wringing her hands. "and there's our secret," she cried, "the secret which we must know and which this poor negro burns to tell and it's locked up within him! bolts and bars," she burst out, "what puny things they seem! one can break bolts, one can sever bars, but a secret buried within a man, how shall one unearth it?" it just occurred to me that she stopped with unusual abruptness, but i was looking at the negro, i was still occupied with pity. "heaven send my journey does not end so vainly as his," i said solemnly. i turned to helen and i saw that she was staring at me with a great astonishment, and concern for which i could not account. "i have a conjecture to tell you of," said i, "i do not know that it is of value." "let us go downstairs," she replied, "and you shall tell me," but she spoke slowly as though she was puzzled with some other matter. as we went downstairs i heard dick parmiter's voice and could understand the words he said. i stopped. "where is dick?" "most likely in the kitchen." when we were come to the foot of the stairs i asked where the kitchen was? "at the end of that passage across the hall," she answered. upon that i called dick. i heard a door open and shut, and dick came into the hall. "the kitchen door was closed," said i, "i do not know but what my conjecture may have some value after all." helen mayle walked into the parlour, dick followed her. as i crossed the hall my coat caught on the back of a chair. whilst i was disengaging my coat, i noticed that an end of the white scarf was hanging from my pocket and that the initials "h. m." were embroidered upon it. i recollected then how helen mayle had abruptly ended her outcry concerning the bolts and bars, and how she had looked at me and how she had spoken. had she noticed the scarf? i thrust it back into my pocket and took care that the flap of the pocket should hide it completely. then i, too, went into the parlour. but as i entered the room i saw then helen's eyes went at once to my pocket. she had, then, noticed the scarf. it seemed, however, that she was no longer perplexed as to how i came by it. but, on the other hand, it was my turn to be perplexed. for, as she raised her eyes from my pocket, our glances crossed. it was evident to her that i had detected her look and understood it. yet she smiled--without any embarrassment; it was as though she thought i had stolen her scarf for a favour and she forgave the theft. and then she blushed. that, however, she was very ready to do upon all occasions. chapter ix tells of a stain upon a white frock, and a lost key helen drew a chair to the table and waited with her hands folded before her. "dick," said i, turning to the lad, who stood just within the door, "that oath of yours." "i have broken it already," said he. "there was never priest in the world who would refuse to absolve you. the virtue of it lies in the forswearing. now!" and i turned to helen. "but i must speak frankly," i premised. she nodded her assent. "very well. i can make a consecutive sort of story, but i may well be at fault, for my knowledge is scanty, and if i am in error over the facts, i beg you, miss mayle, to correct me. old mr. mayle's talk ran continually about his wild doings on the guinea coast, in africa. there can be no doubt that he spent some considerable portion of his life there, and that he managed to scrape together a sufficient fortune. it is likely, therefore, that he was engaged in the slave trade, and, to be quite frank, miss helen, from what i have gathered of his manner and style, i am not indisposed to think that he found an occasional diversion from that pursuit in a little opportune piracy." i made the suggestion with some diffidence, for the old man, whatever his sins, had saved her life, and shown her much affection, of which, moreover, at his death he had given her very tangible proofs. it was necessary for me, however, to say it, for i had nothing but suspicion to go upon, and i looked to her in some way, either by words or manner, to confirm or confute my suspicions. and it seemed to me that she confirmed it, for she simply pressed the palms of her hands to her forehead, and said quietly, "you are very frank." "there is no other way but frankness, believe me," i returned. "now let us come to that sunday, four years ago, when cullen mayle sat in the stocks and george glen came to tresco. it was you who took george glen to st. mary's church," i turned to dick parmiter. "yes," said he. "i was kicking my heels in the sand, close to our cottage, when he came ashore in a boat. he was most anxious to speak with mr. mayle." "so you carried him across to st. mary's, and he told you, i think, that he had been quartermaster with adam mayle at whydah, on the guinea coast?" "yes." "did he name the ship by any chance?" "no." "he did once, whilst we were at supper," interrupted helen, "and i remember the name very well, for my father turned upon him fiercely when he spoke it, and mr. glen immediately said that he was mistaken and substituted another name, which i have forgotten. the first name was the _royal fortune_." "the _royal fortune_," said i, thoughtfully. the name in a measure was familiar to me; it seemed familiar too in precisely this connection with the guinea coast. but i could not be sure. i was anxious to discover george glen's business with adam mayle, and very likely my anxiety misled me into imagining clues where there were none. i put the name away in my mind and went on with my conjecture. "now on that sunday george glen met adam mayle in the churchyard, you, miss mayle, and lieutenant clutterbuck were of the party. together you sailed across to tresco. so that george glen could have had no private word with mr. mayle." "no," helen mayle agreed. "there was no opportunity." "nor was there an opportunity all that afternoon and evening, until cullen left the house." "but after cullen had gone," said she, "they had their opportunity and made use of it. i left them together in my father's room. "the room fitted up as a cabin, where every word they spoke could be heard though the door was shut and the eavesdropper need not even trouble to lay his ear to the keyhole." "yes, that is true," said helen. "but the servants were in bed, and there was no one to hear." at that dick gave a start and a jump, and i cried: "but there was some one to hear. tell your story, dick!" and dick told how cullen mayle had climbed through the window, and how some hours after he had waked him up and sworn him to secrecy. "now, do you see?" i continued. "why should cullen mayle have sworn dick here to silence unless he had discovered some sort of secret which might prove of value to himself, unless he had overhead george glen talking to adam mayle? and there's this besides. where has cullen mayle been these last two years? i can tell you that." "you can?" said helen. she was leaning across the table, her face all lighted up with excitement. "yes. there's the negro above stairs for one thing, cullen's servant. for another i met cullen mayle on the road as i was travelling here. he counterfeited an ague, which he told me he had caught on the guinea coast. the ague was counterfeit, but very likely he has been on the guinea coast." "of course," cried dick. "not a doubt of it," said helen. "so this is my theory. george glen came to enlist adam mayle's help and adam mayle's money, in some voyage to africa. cullen mayle overheard it, and got the start of george glen. so here's george glen back again upon tresco, and watching for cullen mayle." "see!" cried helen suddenly. "did i not tell you you were sent here to a good end?" "but we are not out of the wood yet," i protested. "we have to discover what it was that glen proposed to mr. mayle. how shall we do that?" "how?" repeated helen, and she looked to me confidently for the answer. "i can think of but one way," said i, "to go boldly to george glen and make terms with him." "would he speak, do you think?" "most likely not," i answered, and so in spite of my fine conjecture, we did not seem to have come any nearer to an issue. we were both of us silent for some while. the very confidence which helen displayed stung me into an activity of thought. helen herself was sunk in an abstraction, and in that abstraction she spoke. "you are hurt," she said. my right hand was resting upon the table. it was cut in one or two places, and covered with scratches. "it is nothing," said i, "i slipped on the hill yesterday night and cut it with the gorse;" and again we fell to silence. "what i am thinking is this," she said, at length. "you overtook cullen upon the road, and you reached the islands last night. at any moment then we may expect his coming." "why, that's true," said i, springing up to my feet. "and if dick will sail me across to st. mary's, we'll make a shift to stop him." helen mayle rose at that moment from her seat. she was wearing a white frock, and upon one side of it i noticed for the first time a red smear or two, as though she had brushed against paint--or blood. i looked at my hand scratched and torn by the gorse bush. it would have been bleeding at the time when a woman, coming swiftly past us in the fog, brushed against it. the woman was certainly hurrying in the direction of this house. "you have told me everything, i suppose," i said--"everything at all events that it concerns me to know." "everything," she replied. we crossed that afternoon to st. mary's. there was no sign of cullen mayle at hugh town. no one had seen him or heard of his coming. he had not landed upon st. mary's. i thought it possible that he might not have touched st. mary's at all, but rowed ashore to tresco even as i had done. but no ship had put into the road that day but one which brought castile soap from marseilles. we sailed back to tresco, and ran the boat's nose into the sand not twenty yards from the door of the house on merchant's point. a man, an oldish, white-haired man, loitering upon the beach very civilly helped us to run the boat up out of the water. we thanked him, and he touched his hat and answered with something of a french accent, which surprised me. but as we walked up to the house, "that's one of the five," dick explained. "he came on the boat with the negro to penzance. peter tortue he is called, and he was loitering there on purpose to get a straight look at you." "well," said i, "it is at all events known that i am here," and going into the house i found helen mayle eagerly waiting for our return. i told her that cullen mayle could not by any means have yet reached the scillies, and that we had left word with the harbour master upon st. mary's to detain him if he landed; at which she expressed great relief. "and since it is known i am here," i added, "it will be more suitable if i carry my valise over to new grimsby and seek a bed at the 'palace' inn. i shall besides make the acquaintance of mr. george glen. it is evident that he and his fellows intend no hurt to you, so that you may sleep in peace." "no," said she, bravely enough. "i am not afraid for myself." "and you will do that?" "what?" she asked. "sleep in peace," said i; and putting my hand into my pocket as if by accident, i let her see again the corner of her white scarf. her face flushed a little as she saw it. "oh, yes," she answered, and to my surprise with the easiest laugh imaginable. "i shall sleep in peace. you need have no fear." i could not understand her. what a passion of despair it must have needed to string her to that act of death last night! yet to-day--she could even allude to it with a laugh. i was lost in perplexity, but i had this one sure thing to comfort me. she was to-day hopeful, however much she despaired yesterday. she relied upon me to rescue cullen from his peril. i was not sure that i should be doing her the service she imagined it to be, even if i succeeded. but she loved him, and looked to me to help her. so that i, too, could sleep in peace without fear that to-night another scarf would be fetched out to do the office this one i kept had failed to do. i gave dick my valise to carry across the island, and waited until he was out of sight before i started. then i walked to the palisade at the end of the house. i found a spot where the palisade was broken; the splintered wood was fresh and clean; it was i who had broken the palisade last night. from that point i marched straight up the hill through the gorse, and when i had walked for about twenty minutes i stopped and looked about me. i struck away to my left, and after a little i stopped again. i marched up and down that hill, to the right, to the left, for perhaps the space of an hour, and at last i came upon that for which i searched--a steep slope where the grass was crushed, and underneath that slope a sheer descent. on the brink of the precipice--for that i judged it to be--i saw a broken gorse-bush. i lay down on my face and carefully crawled down the slope. the roots of the gorse-bush still held firmly in the ground. i clutched it in my left hand, dug the nails of my right through the grass into the soil and leaned over. my precipice was no more than a hollow some twenty feet deep, and had i slipped yesterday night, i should not have fallen even those twenty feet; for a sort of low barn was built in the hollow, with its back leaning against the perpendicular wall. i should have dropped perhaps ten feet on to the roof of this barn. i drew myself up the hill again and sat down. the evening was very quiet and still. i was near to the summit of the island. over my left shoulder i could see the sun setting far away in the atlantic, and the waves rippling gold. beneath me was the house, a long one-storied building of granite, on the horn of a tiny bay. the windows looked across the bay; behind the house stretched that tangled garden, and at the end of the garden rose the merchant's rock. as it stood thus in the evening light, with the smoke curling from its chimneys, and the sea murmuring at its door, it seemed quite impossible to believe that any story of turmoil and strife and tragedy could have locality there. that old buccaneer adam mayle, and his soft-voiced son cullen, whom he had turned adrift, seemed the figures of a dream and my adventure in cullen's room--a hideous nightmare. and yet even as i looked footsteps brushed through the grass behind me, and turning i saw a sailor with a brass telescope under one arm and a black patch over one eye; who politely passed me the time of day and went by. he was a big man, with a great beard and hair sprouting from his ears and nostrils. he was another of the five no doubt, and though he went by he did not pass out of sight. i waited, hoping that he would go, for i had a great desire to examine the barn beneath me more closely. it was from the barn that the unearthly screeching had risen which had so terrified dick parmiter. it was between the barn and the house that a girl had brushed against my wounded hand and taken a stain of blood upon her dress. the hollow was only a break in the steep slope of the hill. the barn could easily be approached by descending the hill to the right or the left, and then turning in. i was anxious to do it, to try the door, to enter the barn, but i dared not, for the sailor was within sight, and i had no wish to arouse any suspicions. helen had told me everything, she had said--everything which it concerned me to know. but had she? i found myself asking, as i got to my feet and crossed the hill down towards new grimsby. the sun had set by this time, a cool twilight took the colour from the gorse, and numberless small winged things flew and sung about one's face; all round a grey sea went down to a grey sky, and sea and sky were merged; and at my feet the lights began to twinkle in the little fishing village by the sea. i hired a bed at the "palace" inn, bade them prepare me supper and then walked on to parmiter's cottage for my valise. there was a great hubbub going on within; dick's voice was explaining, and a woman's shrill voice overtopped his explanation. the cause of his offence was twofold. he had not been near the cottage all day, so that it was thought he had run away again, and the key of the cottage was gone. it had not been seen since yesterday, and dick had been accused of purloining it. i explained to mrs. parmiter that it was my fault dick had kept away all day, and i made a bargain with her that i should have the lad as my servant while i stayed upon the island. dick shouldered my valise in a state of considerable indignation. "what should i steal the key for?" said he. "it only stands in the door for show. no one locks his door in tresco. what should i steal the key for?" and he was within an ace of whimpering. "come, dick," said i, "you mustn't mind a trifle of a scolding. why, you are a hero to everybody in these parts, and to one man at all events outside them." "that doesn't hinder mother from chasing me about with an oar," he answered. "it is the fate of all heroes," said i, "to be barbarously used by their womenfolk." "then i am damned if i want to be a hero," said dick, violently. "and as for the key--of what consequence is it at all if you never lock your door?" "of no more consequence than your bruises, dick," said i. but i was wrong. you may do many things with a key besides locking a door. you can slip it down your back to stop your nose bleeding, for instance; if it's a big key you can weigh a line with it, and perhaps catch a mackerel for your breakfast. and there's another use for a key of which i did not at this time know, or i should have been saved from considerable perplexity and not a little danger. chapter x in which i learn something from an ill-painted picture i took my supper in the kitchen of the palace inn, with a strong reek of tobacco to season it, and a succession of gruesome stories to make it palatable. the company was made up for the most part of fishermen, who talked always of wrecks upon the western islands and of dead men drowned. but occasionally a different accent and a different anecdote of some other corner of the world would make a variation; and doing my best to pierce the haze of smoke, i recognised the speaker as peter tortue, the frenchman, or the man with the patch on his eye. george glen was there too, tucked away in a corner by the fireplace, but he said very little. i paid, therefore, but a scanty attention, until, the talk having slid, as it will, from dead men to their funerals, some native began to descant upon the magnificence of adam mayle's. "ay," said he, drawing a long breath, "there _was_ a funeral, and all according to orders dictated in writing by the dead man. he was to be buried by torchlight in the abbey grounds. i do remember that! mortal heavy he was, and he needed a big coffin." "to be sure he would," chimed in another. "and he had it too," said a third; "a mortal big coffin. we carried him right from his house over the shoulder of the island, and down past the abbey pond to the graveyard. five shillings each we had for carrying him--five shillings counted out by torchlight on a gravestone as soon as the grave was filled in. it was all written down before he died." then the first speaker took up the tale again. "a queer, strange man was adam mayle, and queer strange sights he had seen. he would sit in that corner just where you be, mr. glen, and tell stories to turn a man cold. crackers they used to call him on board ship, so he told us--'crackers.'" "why crackers?" asked george glen. "'cause he was that handy with a marlinspike. a queer man! and that was a queer notion of his about that stick"; and then he appealed to his companions, who variously grunted their assent. "what about the stick?" asked glen. "you may well ask, mr. glen. it was all written down. the stick was to be buried with him in his coffin. it was an old heavy stick with a great brass handle. many's the time he has sat on the settle there with that stick atween his knees. 'twas a stick with a sword in't, but the sword was broken. i remember how he loosened the handle once while he was talking just as you and i are now, and he held the stick upside down and the sword fell out on to the ground, just two or three inches of steel broken off short. he picked it up pretty sharp and rammed it in again. well, the stick was to be buried with him, so that if he woke up when we were carrying him over the hill to the abbey he might knock on the lid of his coffin." "but i doubt if any one would ha' opened the lid if he had knocked," said one, with a chuckle, and another nodded his head to the sentiment. "there was five shillings, you see," he explained, "once the ground was stamped down on top of him. it wasn't quite human to expect a body to open the lid." "a queer notion--about that stick." and so the talk drifted away to other matters. the fishermen took their leave one by one and tramped heavily to their homes. peter tortue and his companion followed. george glen alone remained, and he sat so quiet in his corner that i forgot his presence. adam mayle was the only occupant of the room for me. i could see him sitting on the settle, with a long pipe between his lips when he was not holding a mug there, his mulberry face dimly glowing through the puffs of tobacco, and his voice roaring out those wild stories of the african coast. that anxiety for a barbaric funeral seemed quite of a piece with the man as my fancies sketched him. well, he was lying in the abbey grounds, and george glen sat in his place. mr. glen came over to me from his corner, and i called for a jug of rum punch, and invited him to share it, which he willingly did. he was a little squabby man, but very broad, with a nervous twitting laugh, and in his manner he was extremely intimate and confidential. he could hardly finish a sentence without plucking you by the sleeve, and every commonplace he uttered was pointed with a wink. he knew that i had been over at the house under merchant's rock, and he was clumsily inquisitive about my business upon tresco. "why," said i, indifferently, "i take it that i am pretty much in the same case with you, mr. glen." at that his jaw dropped a little, and he stared at me utterly discountenanced that i should be so plain with him. "as for me," said he in a little, "it is plain enough. and when you say"--and here he twitched my sleeve as he leaned across the table--"'here's old george glen, that battered about the world in ships for fifty years, and has come to his moorings in a snug harbor where rum's cheap, being smuggled or stole', says you--well, i am not denying you may be right;" and here he winked prodigiously. "and that's just what i said," i returned; "for here have i battered about london, that's worse than the sea, and ages a man twice as fast----" mr. glen interrupted me with some astonishment, and, i thought, a little alarm. "why," says she, "this is no place for the likes of you--a crazy tumbledown of a tavern. all very well for tarry sailor folk that's never seen nothing better than forecastle. but you'll sicken of it in a week. sure, you have not dropped your anchor here." "we'll call it a kedge, mr. glen," said i. "a kedge, you say," answered mr. glen, with a titter, "and a kedge we'll make it. it's a handy thing to get on board in a hurry." he spoke with a wheedling politeness, but very likely a threat underlay his words. i thought it wise to take no notice of them, but, rising from my seat, i wished him good night. and there the conversation would have ended but for a couple of pictures upon the wall which caught my eye. one was the ordinary picture which you may come upon in a hundred alehouses by the sea: the sailor leaving his cottage for a voyage, his wife and children clinging about his knees, and in the distance an impossible ship unfurling her sails upon an impossible ocean. the second, however, it was, which caught my attention. it was the picture of a sailor's return. his wife and children danced before him, he was clad in magnificent garments, and to prove the prosperity of his voyage he carried in his hand a number of gold watches and chains; and the artist, whether it was that he had a sense of humour or that he merely doubted his talents, instead of painting the watches, had cut holes in the canvas and inserted little discs of bright metal. "this is a new way of painting pictures, mr. glen," said i. mr. glen's taste in pictures was crude, and for these he expressed a quite sentimental admiration. "but," i objected, "the artist is guilty of a libel, for he makes the sailor out to be a sneak-thief." mr. glen became indignant. "because he comes home with wealth untold?" he asked grandly. "no, but because he comes home with watches," said i. whereupon mr. glen was at some pains to explain to me that the watches were merely symbolical. "and the picture's true," he added, and fell to pinching my arm. "there's many a landsman laughs; but sailors, you says, says you, 'comes home with watches in their 'ands more than they can 'old and sets up for gentle-folk,' says you." "like old adam mayle, i adds," said i; and mr. glen dropped my arm and stood a little way off blinking at me. "you knew adam?" he said, in a fierce sort of way. "no," i answered. "but you know of him?" "yes," said i, slowly, "i know of him, but not as much as you do, mr. glen, who were quartermaster with him at whydah on the ship _royal fortune_." i spoke at random, wondering how he would take the words, and they had more effect than i had even hoped for. his face turned all of a mottled colour; he banged his fist upon the table and uttered a horrible oath, calling upon god to slay him if he had ever set foot on the deck of a ship named the _royal fortune_. "and when you says, says you," he added, sidling up to me, "old george never see'd a _royal fortune_, says you--why, you're saying what's right and fair, and i thanks you, sir. i thanks you with a true sailor's 'eart "; at which he would have wrung my hand. but i had no hand ready for him; i barely heard his words. whydah--the guinea coast--the ship _royal fortune!_ the truth came so suddenly upon me that i had not the wit to keep silence. i could have bitten off my tongue the next moment. as it was i caught most of the sentence back. but the beginning of it jumped from my mouth. "at last i know"--i began and stopped. "what?" said mr. glen, with his whole face distorted into an insinuating grin. but he was standing very close to me and a little behind my back. "that my father thrashed me over twenty years ago," said i, clapping my hand to my coat tails and springing away from him. "and you have never forgotten it," said he. "on the contrary," said i, "i have only just remembered it." mr. glen moved away from the table and walked towards the door. thus he disclosed the table to me, and i laughed very contentedly. mr. glen immediately turned. he had reached the door, and he stood in the doorway biting shreds of skin from his thumb. "you are in good spirits," said he, rather surlily. "i was never in better," said i. "the motions of inanimate bodies are invariably instructive." i was very willing he should think me half-witted. he went grumbling up the stairs; i turned me again to the picture of the sailor's return. whydah--the guinea coast--the ship _royal fortune!_ it may have been in some part the man's eagerness to deny all knowledge of the ship; it was, no doubt, in some part the picture of those gold watches, which awakened my memories. watches of just such gold were dangling for sale on a pedler's stall when first i heard of the ship _royal fortune_. the whole scene came back to me most vividly--the market-place of an old country town upon a fair day, the carts, the crowds, the merry-go-rounds, the pedler's stall with the sham gold watches, and close by the stall a ragged hawker singing a ballad of the _royal fortune_, and selling copies of the ballad--a ballad to which was added the last confessions of four men hung for piracy at cape coast castle within the flood-marks. it was well over twenty years since that day, but i remembered it now with a startling distinctness. there was a rough woodcut upon the title-page of the ballad representing four men hanging in chains upon four gibbets. i had bought one that afternoon, and my father had taken it from me and thrashed me soundly for reading it. but i had read it! my memory was quickened now to an almost supernatural clearness. i could almost turn over the pages in my mind and read it again. all four men--one of them was named ashplant, a second moody--went to the gallows without any sign of penitence. there was a third so grossly stupid--yes, his name was hardy--so stupid that during his last moments he could think of nothing more important than the executioner's tying his wrists behind his back, and his last words were before they swung him off to the effect that he had seen many men hanged, but none with their hands tied in this way. the fourth--i could not recall his name, but he swore very heartily, saying that he would rather go to hell than to heaven, since he would find no pirates in heaven to keep him company, and that he would give roberts a salute of thirteen guns at entrance. there was the story of a sea-fight, too, besides the ballad and the confessions and it all cost no more than a penny. what a well-spent penny! the fourth man's name, by-the-bye, was sutton. but the sea-fight! it was fought not many miles from whydah between his majesty's ship _swallow_ and the _royal fortune_; for the _royal fortune_ was sailed by captain bartholomew roberts, the famous pirate who was killed in this very encounter. how did george glen or adam mayle or peter tortue (for he alone of glen's assistants was of an age to have shipped on the _royal fortune_) escape? i did not care a button. i had my thumb on george glen, and was very well content. there was no doubt i had my thumb on the insinuating george. there was adam mayle's fortune, in the first place; there was adam's look when george glen let slip the name of the ship when he first came to tresco; there was glen's consternation this evening when i repeated it to him, and there was something more than his convincing than his consternation--a table-knife. he had come very close to me when i mentioned the _royal fortune_, and he had stood a little behind me--against the table at which i had eaten my supper. i had eaten that supper at the opposite side of the table, and how should a table-knife have crawled across the table and be now lying so handily on this nearer edge unless george had doubts of my discretion? yes, i had my thumb upon him and as i went upstairs to bed i wondered whether after all helen would be justified of her confidence in believing that i had been sent to tresco to some good end. her face was very present to me that night. there was much in her which i could not understand. there was something, too, to trouble one, there were concealments, it almost seemed there was a trace of effrontery--such as lieutenant clutterbuck had spoken of; but to-night i was conscious chiefly that she set her faith in me and my endeavours. does the reed always break if you lean upon it? what if a miracle happened and the reed grew strong because some one--any one--leaned upon it! i kept that trustful face of hers as i had seen it in the sunlight, long before my eyes in the darkness of the room. but it changed, as i knew and feared it would,--it changed to that appalling face which had stared at me out of the dark. i tried to drive that picture of her from my thoughts. but i could not, until a door creaked gently. i sat up in my bed with a thought of that knife handy on the table edge to the grasp of george glen. i heard a scuffle of shoeless feet draw towards my door, and i remembered that i had no weapon--not even a knife. the feet stopped at my door, and i seemed to hear the sound of breathing. the moon had already sunk, but the night was clear, and i watched the white door and the white woodwork of the door frame. the door was in the wall on my right; it was about midway between the head and the foot of my bed, and it opened inwards and down towards the foot; so that i should easily see it opening. but suddenly i heard the stair boards creaking. whoever it was then, had merely stopped to listen at my door. i fell back on my bed with a relief so great as to surprise me. i was surprised, too, to find myself cold with sweat. i determined to buy myself a knife in the morning, for there was the girl over at merchant's point who looked to me. i had thus again a picture of her in the sunlight. and then i began to wonder at that stealthy descent of the stairs. and why should any one wish to assure himself i slept? this was a question to be looked into. i got out of bed very cautiously, as cautiously opened the door and peered out. there was a light burning in the kitchen--a small yellow light as of a candle, but i could hear no sound. i crept to the head of the stairs which were steep and led directly to the very threshold of the kitchen. i lay down on the boards of the landing and stretching my head down the stairs, looked into the room. george glen had taken the sailor with the watches, down from the wall. he was seated with the candle at his elbow, and minutely examining the picture. he looked up towards the stairs, i drew my face quickly back; but he was gazing in a complete abstraction, and biting his thumb, very much puzzled. i crept back to bed and in a little i heard him come shuffling up the stairs. he had been examining that picture to find a reason for my exclamation. it was a dull-witted thing to do and i could have laughed at him heartily, only i had already made a mistake in taking him to be duller-witted than he was. for he was quick enough, at all events, to entertain suspicions. chapter xi our plans miscarry upon castle down the next morning, you may be sure, i crossed the hill betimes, and came down to the house under merchant's rock with my good news. i told her the news with no small elation, and with a like elation she began to hear it. but as i related what had occurred at the palace inn, she fell into thought, and now smiled with a sort of pride, and now checked a sigh; and when i came to the knife upon the table's edge she shuddered. "but you are in danger!" she cried. "every minute you are in danger of your life, and on my account!" "nay," said i lightly, "you exaggerate. the best of women have that fault." but she did not smile. she laid a hand upon my arm, and said, very earnestly: "i cannot have it. i am very proud you count the risk so little, but you must go." "no," said i, "they must go, and we have the means to make them march. we have but to inform captain hathaway at the garrison that here are some of bartholomew robert's fry, and we and the world will soon be quit of them for ever." "but we cannot," she exclaimed, "for then it would be known that my"--she hesitated for a second, or rather she paused, for there was no hesitation in her voice, as she continued--"my father also was of the band. it may be justice that it should be known. but i cannot help it; i guard his memory. besides, there is cullen." it was to cullen that she always came in the end, and with such excuses as a girl might make who was loyal to a man whom she must know not to be worth her loyalty. the house in which she lived, the money which she owned were his by right. she dreaded what story these men, if captured, might have to tell of cullen--she could not be persuaded that glen and his friends had not a motive of vengeance as well as of gain,--and that story, whatever it was, would never have been enacted, had not cullen been driven penniless from tresco. it did not occur to her at all that this house was not cullen's by any right, but belonged to the scattered sons of many men with whom the ship _royal fortune_ had fallen in. she repeated her arguments to me as we walked in the grass-grown garden at the back of the house. a thick shrubbery of trees grew at the end of the garden, and behind the trees rose the merchant's rock. on one side the castle down rolled up towards the sky, on the other a hedge closed the garden in, and beneath the hedge was the sea. over the hedge i could see the uninhabited island of st. helen's and the ruined church upon the summit, and a ship or two in st. helen's pool; and this side of the ships the piled boulders of norwithel. it was at norwithel that i looked as she spoke, and when she had done i continued: "i do not propose that we should tell captain hathaway, but i can make a bargain with glen. i can find out what he wants, and strike a bargain with him. we have the upper hand, we can afford to speak freely. i will make a bargain with him to-night, of which one condition shall be that he and his party leave tresco and nowhere attempt to molest cullen mayle." but she stopped in front of me. "i cannot have it," she said, with energy. "this means danger to you who propose the bargain." "i shall propose it in the inn kitchen," said i. "and the knife on the table's edge?" she asked; "that too was in the inn kitchen. oh, no! no!" she cried, in a voice of great trouble. there was great trouble too in her eyes. "madam," i said, gently, "i never thought that this would prove a schoolboy's game. if i had thought so, i should be this instant walking down st. james's. but you overrate my peril." i saw her draw herself erect. "no; it is i who will propose the bargain and make the conditions. it is i who will charge them with their piracy." "how?" i asked. "i will go this morning to the palace inn." "george glen went out this morning before i rose." she looked over to norwithel. "there is no one to-day on norwithel," said i. "i shall find peter tortue on the castle down." "but i crossed the castle down this morning----" and i suddenly stopped. there had been no one watching on the castle down. there was no one anywhere upon the watch to-day. the significance of this omission struck me then for the first time. "what if already we are quit of them!" i cried. "what if that one tiny word _royal fortune_ has sent them at a scamper into hiding?" helen caught something of my excitement. "oh! if it only could be so!" she exclaimed. "most like it _is_ so," i returned. "no man cutting ore-weed upon norwithel! no man lounging on the castle down! it must be so!" and we shook hands upon that likelihood as though it was a certainty. we started guiltily apart the next moment, for a servant came into the garden with word that dick parmiter had sailed round in a boat from new grimsby, and was waiting for me. "there is something new!" said helen, clasping her hands over her heart, and in a second she was all anxiety. i hastened to reassure her. dick had come at my bidding, for i was minded to sail over to st. mary's, and discover if there was anywhere upon that island a record of the doings of the _royal fortune_. to that end i asked helen to give me a letter to the chaplain there, who would be likely to know more of what happened up and down the world than the natives of the islands. i was not, however, to allow that i had any particular interest in the matter, lest the rev. mr. milray should smell a rat as they say, and on promising to be very exact in this particular and to return to the house in time for supper, i was graciously given the letter. i found the rev. mr. milray in his parsonage at old town, a small, elderly man, who would talk of nothing but the dampness of his house since the great wave which swept over this neck of land on the day of the earthquake at lisbon. i left him very soon, therefore, and went about another piece of business. i had travelled from london with no more clothes and linen than a small valise would hold. on setting out, i had not considered, indeed, that i should be thrown much into the company of a lady, but only that i was journeying into a rough company of fisher-folk. yesterday, however, it had occurred to me that i must make some addition to my wardrobe and the necessity was yet more apparent to-day. i was pleased, therefore, to find that hugh town was of greater importance than i had thought it to be. it is much shrunk and dwindled now, but then ships from all quarters of the world were continually putting in there, so that they made a trade by themselves, and there was always for sale a great store of things which had been salved from wrecks. i was able, therefore, to fit myself out very properly. i sailed back to the palace inn, dressed with some care, and walked over to sup at merchant's rock--little later perhaps. helen mayle was standing in the hall by the foot of the stairs. i saw her face against the dark panels as i entered, and it looked very white and strained with fear. "there is no news of cullen at st. mary's," i said, to lighten her fears; and she showed an extravagant relief, before, indeed, she could barely have heard the words. her face coloured brightly and then she began to laugh. finally she dropped me a curtsey. "shall i lend you some hair-powder?" she asked, whimsically; and when we were seated at table, "how old are you?" "i was thirty and more a month ago," said i, "but i think that i am now only twenty-two." "as much as that?" said she, with a laugh, and grew serious in an instant. "what did you discover at st. mary's besides a milliner?" "nothing," said i, "except that the rev. milray suffers from the rheumatics." she remained in the same variable disposition during the whole of that supper, at one moment buoyant on a crest of light-heartedness and her eyes sparkling like stars, at another sunk into despondency and her white brows all wrinkled with frowns. but when supper was over she went to a cabinet, and taking from it a violin, said: "now, i will play to you." and she did--out in that tangled garden over the sea. "the violin came to the scillies in a ship that was wrecked upon the stevel rock one christmas. but the violin will tell you," she said, with a smile. "my father bought it at st. mary's and gave it to me, and an old pilot now dead taught me;" and she swept the bow across the strings and the music trembled across the water, through the lucent night, up to the stars, a voice vibrating with infinite wisdom and infinite passion. it seemed to me that i had at last got the truth of her. all my guesses, my suspicions of something like duplicity, even my recollection of our first meeting were swept out of my mind. she sat, her white face gleaming strangely solemn under her black wealth of hair, her white hand flashing backwards and forwards, and she made the violin speak. it spoke of all things, things most sad and things most joyous; it spoke with complete knowledge of the heights and the depths; it woke new, vague, uncomprehended hungers in one's heart; it called and called till all one's most sacred memories rose up, as it were from graves, to answer the summons. it told me, i know, all my life, from my childhood in the country to the day when i set out with my cadet's portion to london. it sang with almost a pã¦an of those first arduous years--set them to a march,--and then with a great pity told of those eight wasted years that followed--years littered with cards, stained with drink; years in which, and there was the humiliation of it, my fellow-drunkards, my fellow-gamblers had all been younger than myself--years in which i grew a million years old. that violin told it all out to me, until i twisted in my chair through sheer shame, and i looked up and the girl's eyes were fixed upon me. what it was that compelled me to speak i could never tell, unless it was the violin. but as she looked at me, and as that violin sobbed out its notes, i cried in a passionate excuse: "you asked me how old i was. do you know i never was young--i never had the chance of youth! when the chance came, i had forgotten what youth can do. that accounts, surely, for those eight years. i was tired then, and i was never young." "until to-night," she said quietly, and the music quickened. i suppose that she was right, for i had never spoken so intimately to any one, whether man or woman; and i cursed myself for a fool, as one does when one is first betrayed into speaking of one's secret self. she took the violin from her shoulder, and the glory of the music died off the sea, but lingered for a little faintly upon the hills. i rose up to go and helen drew a breath and shivered. "this afternoon," said i, "a brig went out from the islands through crow sound, bound for milford. i'll wager the five were on it." "but if not?" "there's the 'palace' kitchen." "speak when there are others by, not within hearing, but within reach! you will? promise me!" i promised readily enough, thinking that i could keep the promise, and she walked back with me through the house to the door. there is a little porch at the door, four wooden beams and a slate roof on the top, and half a dozen stone steps from the porch to the garden. helen mayle stood in the porch, with her violin still in her hand. she wished me "good-night" when i was at the bottom of the steps, but a little afterwards, when i had passed through the gateway of the palisade and had begun to ascend the hill, she drew the bow sharply across one of the strings and sent a little chirp of music after me, which came to my ears, with an extraordinarily friendly sound. the air was still hereabouts, though from the motion of the clouds there was some wind in the sky, and the chirp came very clear and pretty. it was a few minutes short of ten when i left the house, and i set off at a good pace, for i was anxious to keep my promise and make my bargain with george glen, quietly in a corner, before the fishing-folk had gone home to bed. a young moon hung above the crest of the hill, a few white clouds were gathering towards it, and the gorse at my feet was black as ink. i walked upwards then steadily. i had walked for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when i heard a low, soft whistle. it came to me quite as clearly as the chirp of the violin, but it had not the same friendly sound. it sounded very lonesome, it set my heart jumping, it brought me to a stop. for i had heard precisely that whistle on one occasion before, on the night when i first crossed this hill with dick parmiter down to merchant's rock. the whistle had sounded from below me and from no great distance away. i turned and looked down the slope, but i could see no one. it was very lonely and very still. whoever had whistled lay crouched on the gorse. and then the whistle sounded again, but this time it came from above me, higher up the slope. immediately i dropped to the ground. the gorse which hid them from me might well hide me from them. a few paces above me the gorse seemed thicker than it was where i lay. i crawled laboriously, flat upon my face, till i reached this patch. i forced myself into it, holding my face well down to keep the thorns out of my eyes, until the bushes were so close i could crawl no further. then i lay still as a mouse, holding my breath, listening with every nerve. i had eluded them before in just this way, but i got little comfort from that reflection. there had been a fog on that night, whereas to-night it was clear. moreover, they had a more urgent reason now for persevering in their search. i possessed some dangerous knowledge about them as they were aware--knowledge, too dangerous; knowledge which would harden into a weapon in my hand if--if i reached the palace inn alive. i lay very still, and in a little i heard the brushing of their feet through the grass. they were closing down from above, they were closing up from below; but they did not speak or so much as whisper. i turned my head sideways, ever so gently, and looked up to the sky. i saw to my delight that the clouds were over the moon. i buried my face again in the grass, lest they should detect me by its pallor against the black gorse. i was very thankful indeed that i had not accepted that proffered loan of hair-powder--i was dressed in black, too, from head to foot; i blessed the good fortune which had led me to buy black stockings at st. mary's, and, in a word, my hopes began to revive. the feet came nearer, and i heard a voice whisper: "it was here." the voice was peter tortue's, as i knew from the french accent, and the next instant a stick fell with a heavy thud not a foot from my head. if only the clouds hung in front of the moon! round and about they tramped--the whole five of them. for in a little they began in low tones to curse, first of all me, and afterwards peter tortue, who had whistled from below. let them only quarrel amongst themselves, i thought, and there's a good chance they will forget the reason of their quarrel. it seemed that they were well on the road to a quarrel at last; a man, quite young as i judged from his voice, flung himself down on the grass with an oath. "but he is here, close to us," said peter. "i heard the girl thrum good-night to him on her fiddle, and then i saw him, and followed him, and whistled." "well, it is your business, not mine. yours and george glen's," the other returned. i learned later that his name was nathaniel roper. "i was never on no _royal fortune_, devil damn me." "whist, you lousy fool"--and this was george glen speaking. i am sure he was winking and pinching the fellow's arm,--"we are all in the same boat whether we've sailed in the _royal_----" and he stopped. all at once there was a dead silence. i have never in my life experienced anything so horrible as that sudden, complete silence. i could not see what caused it, for my face was buried in the grass, and i dared not move. one moment i had a sensation that they were gazing at my back, and i felt--it is the only way i can express it--i felt _naked_. another moment i imagined it to be a ruse to beguile me into stirring; and it lasted for ever and ever. at length one sound--not a voice--broke the silence: the man who had thrown himself down was getting to his feet. but when he had stood up he made no further movement; he stood motionless, like the others, and the silence began again and again it lasted for ever and ever. all sorts of tremors began to creep over my body; the muscles of my back jerked of their own accord. the suspense was driving me mad. i had to move, i had to see, if only to hinder myself from leaping to my feet and making a headlong rush. very slowly i turned my head sideways; i looked backwards along the ground, until i saw. the moon had swum out from the clouds, and the five men were standing in arrested attitudes with their eyes fixed upon something that glittered very bright upon the ground. i could see it myself through the gorse glittering and burning white, like a delicate flame, and my heart gave a great leap within me as i understood what it was. it was a big silver shoe-buckle that shone in the moonlight, and the shoe-buckle was on my foot. the game was up. i thought that i might as well make a fight of it at the last, and i jumped to my feet suddenly, with a faint hope that the suddenness of the movement might startle them and let me through. but there was to be no fighting for me that night. it is true that the men all scattered from about me, but a voice a few yards to my right thundered, "stand!" and i stood stock-still, obedient as a charity-school boy. for peter tortue was standing stock still too, with his right arm stretched out in a line with his shoulder and the palm of his hand upturned. on the palm of that hand was balanced a long knife with an open blade, and the moonlight streaked along that blade in flame, just as it had burned upon my shoe-buckle. george glen rubbed his hands together. "you will lie down, mr. berkeley," said he, with his most insinuating smile. "you will down, 'flat on my face,' says you." "but i have only just got up," said i. glen tittered nervously, but no one else showed any appreciation of my sally. i thought it best to lie down flat on my face. "cross your hands behind your back," said george glen, and i knew he was winking. "any little thing like that, i am sure," i murmured, as i obeyed. "only too happy," and in a trice i was nothing more than a coil of rope. it cut into my wrists, it crushed my chest, it snaked round my legs, it bit my ankles. "to be sure," said i, "they mean to send me somewhere by the post." mr. george glen sniggered and mentioned my destination, which was impolite, though he mentioned it politely; but roper thumped me in the small of the back, and thrust my handkerchief into my mouth. so i had done better to have kept silence. two of the men lifted me up on their shoulders and staggered up hill. in a moment or two they descended a small incline, and i saw that i was being carried into the hollow where the shed stood. glen pushed at the door of the shed and it fell open inwards. a great cavern of blackness gaped at us, and they carried me in and set me down unceremoniously on the floor. "brisk along with that lantern, nat roper," said glen, and the young fellow who had flung himself down on the grass struck a light and set fire to the candle. the shed was divided by a wooden partition, in which was a rickety door hardly hanging on its hinges. "in there!" said glen, swinging the lantern towards the inner room. my bearers picked me up again and carried me to the door. one of them kicked at the door, but it did not yield. "it's jammed," said the other, "there's some-thing 'twixt it and the floor," and raising a great sea boot, he kicked with all his might. i heard a metallic clinking, as though a piece of iron was hopping across the stone floor, and the door flew open. they carried me into the inner room and set me down against the partition. there was no furniture of any sort, not even a bucket to sit upon; there was no window either, a thatched roof rested upon heavy beams over my head. they placed the lantern at my feet, four of them squatted down about me, the fifth went out of the shed to keep watch. it was, after all, not in the inn kitchen of the palace inn that any bargain was to be struck. i could not deny that they had chosen their place very well. not a man in tresco but would give this shed the widest of berths, and if he saw the glint of this lantern through a chink, or heard, perhaps, as he was like to do, one loud cry--why, he would only take to his heels the faster. the ropes, too, made my bones ache. i would have preferred the kitchen at the palace inn. chapter xii i find an unexpected friend glen bade roper take the handkerchief from my mouth, and when that was done his creased face smiled at me over the lantern. "about the _royal fortune?_" he said smoothly. peter tortue nodded, and absently cleaned the blade of his knife upon the thighs of his breeches. there was no reply for me to make, and i waited. "you were over to st. mary's to-day?" "yes." "what did you do there?" "i bought a pair of silk stockings and some linen." george glen sniggered like a man that leaves off a serious conversation to laugh politely at a bad joke. "but it's true," i cried. "did you speak of the _royal fortune?_" "no," and, as luck would have it, i had not--not even to the rev. mr. milray. "not to a living soul?" "no." "did you go up to star castle?" "no." "did you speak to captain hathaway?" "no." "'there's poor old george,' you said. 'old george glen,' says you, 'what was quartermaster with cap'n roberts on the _royal_----'" "no," i cried. "did you mention peter tortue?" said the frenchman. "no. would you be sitting here if i had? there would be a company of soldiers scouring the island for you." "that's reasonable," said tortue, and the rest echoed his words. in a little there was silence. tortue set to work again with his knife. it flashed backwards and forwards, red with the candle light as though it ran blood. it shone in my eyes and dazzled me, and somehow, there came back to me a recollection of that hot night in clutterbuck's rooms when everything had glittered with an intolerable brightness, and dick parmiter had been set upon the table to tell his story. i was vaguely wondering what they were all doing at this moment in london, clutterbuck, macfarlane, and the rest, when the questions began again. "you came back from st. mary's to new grimsby?" "yes." "did you tell parmiter?" "no." "from st. mary's you crossed the island to merchant's point?" "yes." "did you tell the girl?" here a lie was obviously needful, and i did not scruple to tell it. "no." peter tortue leaned forward to me with a shrewd glance in his keen eyes. "you are her lover," he said. "you told her." i lifted my eyes from his knife, looked him in the eyes, and sustained his glance. "i am not her lover," i said; "that is a damned lie." he did not lose his temper, but repeated: "you told her," and george glen looked in again with his whole face screwed into a wink. "you said to her, 'my dear,' says you, 'there's old george,'" and at that i lost my temper. "i said nothing of the kind," i cried. "am i a parrot that i cannot open my lips without old george popping out of them? but what's the use of talking. do what you will, i have done. if i had betrayed your secret, do you think i should be walking home alone, and you upon the island? but i have done. i had a bargain to strike with you, i thought to find you all at the inn--but i have done." to tell the truth, i had no longer any hope of life. glen, for all his winks and smiles, would stop short of no cruelty. peter tortue quietly polished his knife upon his thigh. he was a big brittany man, with shrewd eyes and an unchanging face. the rest squatted and stared curiously at me. the light of the lantern fell upon their callous faces, they were lookers-on at a show, of which perhaps, they had seen the like before, they were not concerned in this affair of the _royal fortune_ nor how it ended. "so you told no one." "no one." i closed my eyes and leaned back against the partition. i was utterly helpless in their hands, and i hoped they would be quick. i remember that i regretted very much i could send no word to the girl at merchant's rock, and that i was very glad she had not delayed her music till tomorrow night, but both regret and gladness were of a numbed and languid kind. then glen asked me another question, and it spurred my will to alertness. "how did you know that i was quartermaster on the _royal fortune?_" i could not remind him that he had let the ship's name drop from his lips four years ago. it would be as much as to say that helen had told me. it would confess that i had spoken with her of the _royal fortune_. yet i must answer, and without the least show of hesitation. i caught at the first plausible reason which occurred to me. i said: "cullen mayle told me," and that answer saved my life. for glen remarked, "yes, he knew," and nodded to tortue: tortue lifted the knife in his hand, and again i closed my eyes. but the next thing i heard was a snap as the blade shut into the handle, and the next thing after that tortue's voice deliberately speaking: "george glen, you never had the brains of a louse. you can smirk and wriggle, and you're handy with a weapon, but, you never had no brains." i opened my eyes pretty wide at that, and i saw that the three younger faces were now kindled out of their sluggishness. it was that mention of cullen mayle which had wrought the change. these three took no particular interest in the _royal fortune_, but they had every interest in the doings of cullen mayle, and they now alertly followed all that tortue said. george glen leaned forward. "who's cap'en here, peter tortue?" said he. "was you with us on the sierra leone river? nat roper there, blads, you james skyrm, speak up, lads, was he with us?" "my son was," said tortue calmly. "and what sort of answer is that? 'tis lucky for you cap'en roberts isn't aboard this shed. he wouldn't have understood that language, not he--and he wouldn't have troubled you for an explanation neither. here's a fine thing, lads! if a man dies, his father, what's been lying in the lap of luxury at home, is to have his share. that's a nice new rule for gentlemen adventurers, and not content with his share, wants to set up for cap'en. i have a good mind to learn you modesty, peter, just as roberts would have learnt you." he was talking quite smoothly, with a grin all over his face, but i never saw a man that looked so dangerous. peter tortue, however, was in no way discomposed. "why, you blundering fool," he answered, "where would you ha' been but for me? no, i wasn't on the sierra leone river with you, or you wouldn't be eating your hearts and your pockets empty upon tresco. no, i am not your captain, or you wouldn't never have lost track of cullen mayle at wapping." there were four faces now alertly watching peter tortue, and the fourth was mine. it was not merely that my life hung upon his predominance, but there was the best of chances now that i might get to the bottom of the mystery of their watching. "you talk of roberts," he continued, "well you're not the only man that knew roberts, and would roberts have let cullen mayle slip through his fingers--at wapping too? good lord, it makes me sick to look at you, george glen!" and he turned to roper, "who was it found the track for you; was it him or me?" he cried. "who was it found the nigger and sailed from the port o' london to penzance, ay, and would ha' found out the nigger's message if he hadn't had the sickness on him. was it him or was it me? why the nigger knowed you all! would he ha' sailed to penzance on that boat if he had seen a face on board that he had known? not he." "that's true," said roper. "who brought you all to tresco, eh? who hindered you from rushing the house, ay, hindered you in the face of your captain, and a deal you'ld ha' found if you had rushed the house. a lot he knows, your captain. p'raps he thought adam mayle was the man to leave a polite note on his mantelshelf, telling us where to look. who told you to wait for cullen mayle?" "we have waited," answered glen. "how long are we to wait? where is cullen mayle?" peter tortue threw up his hands. "no wonder you all dry in the sun at the end of it," he cried, "my word! we haven't got cullen mayle, but haven't we got the man as knows him? what's he doing at tresco if he wasn't sent by cullen mayle who daren't show his face because we're here? not worth my share, ain't i? and you that can't add two and two! see here! dick parmiter goes to london, don't he? he goes after the nigger come; what for, but to find cullen mayle, and say as we're here? he knows where cullen's to be found, and down comes the stranger here. and we ha' got him tucked up comfortable, and we know tricks that roberts taught us to make him speak, don't we? and you want to jab a knife into him. you make me sick, george glen--fair sick! suppose you do jab a knife into him, and bury him here under the stones, do you think the girl'll take it quite easy and natural? or will you go down the hill and rush the house? and then if you please, what'll you all be doing to-morrow? well, you are captain, george glen, but what has your crew to say to this? come! am i to talk to mr. berkeley, or will you set your own course, and steer for execution dock?" there was no hesitation in the answer. with one accord they leaned to tortue's proposal. i could not see that i was in a much better case. tortue was to put to me questions, the very questions which i wished to ask, and i was expected to answer them. i should have to answer them if i was to come off with my life. the men sat hungrily about me awaiting my answers. it would not take them long to discover that i was tricking them, that i had no knowledge whatever about their concerns beyond that one dangerous item that glen and tortue had sailed on the _royal fortune_, and when that discovery was made, why, out of mere resentment they would let glen have his way. however, i was still alive, and the girl was still at merchant's point. these men were plainly growing impatient of their long stay upon the island; and once i was out of the way, who was to stand between them and the girl? i summoned my wits together, and ran quickly over my mind what i did know. i had a few fresh hints from tortue's arguments to add to my knowledge. i knew why they were watching for cullen mayle. he was to show them where to look for something. it was that something about which glen had talked to adam mayle the night cullen was driven away; cullen had overheard, and he had gone out in search of it to the sierra leone river. glen and his companions had done likewise. it was in some degree apparent now what that something was: namely, treasure of some sort from the royal fortune, and buried on the banks of the sierra leone river. they had not found it, and their presence here, and certain words, told me why. adam mayle had been first with them. so much i could venture to think of. for the rest i must wait upon the questions; and, fortunately for me. glen was a man of much garrulity. "you spoke of a bargain," said tortue. "what do you propose?" "halves!" said i, as bold as brass. there was an outcry against the proposal, and it mightily relieved me, for it proved to me i was right. it was treasure they were after, but of what kind? i had now to puzzle my brains over that. was it specie? hardly, i thought, for adam mayle would not have hidden money upon tresco. was it a treasure of jewels, then? "halves," said george glen with a titter. "a very good proposal, mr. berkeley, by daylight, with a company of soldiers within call." jewels, i thought: yes, jewels--jewels that might be recognized, jewels that adam mayle would keep hidden to himself so long as there was no pressing need to dispose of them. "as it is," continued glen, "we take all, but we give you your life. that's a fair offer." "yes, that's fair," said roper. i hazarded it. "very well," said i. "you can find your jewels for yourselves." i expected an explosion of wrath; i met with only mute surprise. "jewels!" said roper at length. "well, isn't the cross thick with them?" said tortue to roper. "it wouldn't be of much use to us without," sniggered glen. "lord, but that was a clever stroke of roberts'--the cleverest thing he ever done. right under the guns of the african comp'ny's fort she lay in sierra leone harbour--a portuguese ship of twenty guns. at a quarter to eleven there was her crew, as many as might be--we could hear 'em singing and laughing as we pulled across the water to 'em--and at ten minutes past three there wasn't a mother's son of them all alive; and no noise, mind you. rich she was, too. sugar--we had run short of sugar for our punch, and welcome it was--sugar, skins, tobacco, ninety thousand moidors, and this cross with the diamonds for the king of portugal. roberts himself said he had never seen stones like it, and he was a good judge of stones was roberts. he was quick, too. why, we had that cross on the dinghy and were well up the sierra leone river before daybreak, just the three of us--roberts, me, and adam mayle--kennedy he called himself then, being a gentleman born and with more sense than the rest of us. he buried the cross, two days sail up the sierra leone river, and roberts made a chart of its bearings. he gave it to me on the deck of the _royal fortune_ when he was mortally wounded, and i kept it all the time we were in prison. i showed it to adam mayle when we escaped, but we had no means to get at it--at least, i hadn't. adam, he was a gentleman born, and had got his savings placed all safe in his own name." i hoped glen would go on in this strain until my slip was forgotten. i was, besides, acquiring information. but roper cut him short. "it was a cross--it wasn't jewels," said he, suspiciously; and suddenly tortue interrupted. "'halves' was what you said, i think," he remarked, rather quickly, and i could almost have believed that he was trying to cover up my mistake. i took advantage of his interruption as quickly as he had made it. "half for you, half for cullen," said i; and immediately tortue flung out in an extravagant passion. he threatened me, he threatened cullen, he opened his knife and gesticulated, he cursed, until i began to wonder: was he acting? was this anger a pretence to divert attention finally from my unlucky guess? i could not be sure. i could conceive no reason for such a pretence. but certainly, whether he intended it or not, he brought about that result; for his companions began to fear he would make an end of me before they had got the information where the cross was hid, and so busied themselves with appeasing him. he permitted himself at the last to be appeased, and george glen took up the argument. "look you here, mr. berkeley," said he, "we're reasonable men, and it's no more than fair you should be reasonable too, seeing as how you are uncomfortably placed. that was took up by adam mayle, and he never meant his son to finger it. 'a damned ungrateful, supercilious whelp,' says he to me in the lad's own bedroom; yes, in his own bedroom"--for, as may be imagined, i had started. here was the explanation of how cullen discovered george glen's business. i hoisted myself up against the partition as well as i could. how i prayed that glen would go on! he was sufficiently garrulous, if only he was not interrupted, and he was arguing for all of them. "'a damned ungrateful, supercilious whelp,' he said; 'and george,' said he, as i read out the chart, 'i'd sooner let the cross rot to pieces in the sierra leone mud than fetch it home for him to have a share of. i've enough for myself and the girl. i'll not stir a finger,' says he, 'and if it was here now i'd have it buried with me.' those were his very words, which he spoke to me not half an hour after he had driven cullen from the house, and in the lad's own bedroom, where we couldn't be overheard." "but you were overheard," said i, "cullen mayle overheard you." glen jumped on to his feet, his mouth dropped, he stood staring at me in a daze, and then he thumped one fist down into the palm of the other. "by god it's true," he said, "he was in the curtains." "he was in bed," said i. "by god it's true," repeated glen, and he sat down again on the floor. "so that's how cullen mayle found out. i was mightily astonished to find him at sierra leone on the same business as ourselves. but it's true. i remember there was a noise, and i cried out, 'what's that?' with a sort of jump, and adam he says, pleasant like, 'it's the hangman, george;' but it wasn't, it was cullen mayle." i think that every one laughed as glen ended, except myself. i could even at that moment, but be sensible what a strange picture it made; those two old ruffians sitting over against each other in the bedroom, and cullen waked up from his sleep in bed to lie quiet and overhear them. "so you see, it isn't reasonable cullen should have half since his father never meant him to have any," he continued. "but without cullen you would get nothing at all," said i. "why not since we have you?"--and then i made a slip--i answered: "but cullen mayle told me where the cross is." "but cullen mayle doesn't know," said roper, "else would he have gone hunting to sierra leone for it?" "told him where to look for the plan, he means." tortue interrupted again. this time i could not mistake. he glanced at me with too much significance. for some reason, he was standing my friend. "of course," said i, "where to look for the plan." so it was a plan they needed, a plan of the spot where adam mayle had buried the cross. where could that plan be, in what unlikely place would adam have hid it? i ran over my mind the rooms, and the furniture of the house. there was no bureau, no secretaire. but i had to make up my mind. this last slip had awakened my captor's suspicions. the faces about me menaced me. "well, where is the plan?" i thought over all that glen had said to-night--was a clue to be got there? "i haven't it," said i, to gain time. "but where are we to look for it?" again asked roper, and he put his hand in his coat-pocket. "speak up," said tortue, and i read his meaning in the glance of his eyes. he meant--"name some spot, any spot!" but i knew! it had come upon me like an inspiration, i had no shadow of doubt where that plan was. i said: "where are you to look for the plan? glen has told you. adam mayle would rather have had the cross buried with him than that cullen should have it. he couldn't have the treasure buried with him, but he could and did the plan. look in adam mayle's grave. you will find a stick with a brass handle to it--a sword stick, but the sword's broken off short. in the hollow of that stick you'll find the plan." tortue nodded at me with approval. the rest jumped up from the ground. "we have time to-night," said roper, and stretching out a hand he pulled my watch from my fob. "it is eleven o'clock," and he put the watch in his own pocket. "where's adam mayle buried?" asked another. "in the abbey grounds," said i. "but we want spades," objected tortue, "we want a pick." "they are here," said glen, with an evil smile, "we had them ready," and he grinned at me. "mr. berkeley comes with us, i think," said he smoothly, "untie his legs." "yes," said roper with an oath. he was in a heat of excitement. "and if he has told us wrong, good god, we'll bury him with adam mayle." but i had no doubt that i was right. i remembered what clutterbuck had told me of adam's vindictiveness. he would hide that plan if he could, and he could have chosen no surer place. no doubt he would have destroyed that plan when he knew that he was dying, but he was struck down with paralysis, and could not stir a finger. he could only order the stick to be buried with him. they unfastened my legs. roper blew out the lantern, and we went out of the shed, on to the hillside. glen despatched blads upon some errand, and the man hurried up the hill towards new grimsby. glen leisurely walked along the slope of the hill. i followed him, and the rest behind me. the moon had gone down, and the night, though clear enough, was dark. we walked on for about five minutes, until some one treading close upon my heels suddenly tripped me up. my hands were still tied behind my back, so that i could not save myself from a fall. but tortue picked me up, and as he did so whispered in my ear: "is the plan there?" i answered, "yes." i would have staked my life upon it; in fact, i was staking my life upon it. chapter xiii in the abbey grounds we kept along the ridge of hill towards the east of the island, and met no one, nor, indeed, were we likely to do. i could look down on either side to the sea. i saw the cottages on the shore of new grimsby harbour on the one side, and on the other the house at merchant's point, and the half-dozen houses scattered on the grass at old grimsby, that went by the name of dolphin town, and nowhere was there a twinkle of light. tresco was in bed. we descended a little to our left, and rounded the shoulder of the hill at the eastern end of the island, through a desolate moorland of gorse; but once we had rounded the shoulder, we were in an instant amongst trees of luxuriant foliage, and in a hollow sheltered from the winds. the abbey ruins stood up from a small plateau in the bosom of the trees, its broken arches and columns showing very dismal against the sky, and everywhere fragments of crumbling wall cropped up unexpected through the grass. the burial ground was close to an eel pond, which glimmered below, nearer to the sea, and a path overgrown with weeds wound downwards to the graves. i could not tell in which corner adam mayle was buried, so roper was sent forward with the lantern to look amongst the headstones. for half an hour he searched; the flame of the candle danced from grave to grave as though it were the restless soul of some sinner buried there. the men who remained with me grew impatient, for opposite to us, across the road, lay st. mary's and the harbour of hugh town; and on this clear night the speck of light in the abbey grounds would be visible at a great distance. i was beginning to wonder whether adam had a headstone at all to mark his resting-place, when a cry came upwards to our ears and the lantern was swung aloft in the air. one loud, unanimous shout answered that cry. "come," shouted glen, and seizing hold of the end of the rope where it went round my chest, he began to run down the path. the others jostled and tumbled after him in an extreme excitement. all discretion was tossed to the winds. they laughed, shouted, and leaped while they ran as though they already had the cross in their keeping. what with glen tugging at the end in front and the others pushing and thrusting at me from behind, it was more than i could do to keep my feet. twice i fell forward on my knees and brought them to a stop. glen turned upon me in a fury. "loose his hands then, george," said tortue. "no," returned george, with an oath, and he plucked on the rope until somehow i stumbled on to my feet, and we all set to running again. things were taking on an ugly look for me. those men were growing ten times more savage since the grave had been discovered; they were in a heat of excitement. in their movements, in their faces, in their words, a violent ferocity was evident. they had made their bargain with me, but would they keep it once they had the plan in their hands? i had no doubt their arrangements were made for an instant departure from the islands. one could not be a day upon tresco without hearing some hint of the luggers which did a great smuggling trade between scilly and the port of roscoff in brittany. no doubt glen and tortue had made their account with one of these to carry them into france. i was the more sure of this when blads returned. i could not but think he had been sent so that a boat might be ready, and it seemed unlikely they would leave me alive behind them when the mere scruple of a bargain only held their hands. we were now come to the grave. it had a headstone but no slab to cover it; only a boulder from the seashore by which adam had lived was with a pretty fancy imposed upon the mound. roper hung the lantern on to a knob of the headstone; and already glen had snatched the pick and thrust it under the boulder. it needed but one heave upon the pick, and the boulder tottered and rolled from the grave with a crash. it stopped quite close to my feet. i looked at it, then i looked at the grave, and from the grave to the sailors. but they had noticed nothing; they were already digging furiously at the grave. in their excitement they had noticed nothing; even tortue was kneeling in the lantern-light watching the gleam of the spades, sensible of nothing but that each shovelful cast up on the side brought them by a shovelful nearer to their prize. and they dug with such furious speed, taking each his turn, each anticipating his turn! for before one man had stepped, dripping with sweat from the trench, another had leaped in, and the spade fell from one man's grasp into the palm of another. once a spade jarred upon a piece of rock, and the man who drove it into the earth cursed. i had a sudden flutter of hope that the spade was broken, and that by so much the issue would be delayed, but the digger resumed his work. i looked over to st. mary's, but the town was quiet; one light gleamed, it was only the light at the head of the jetty. and even in tresco such infinitesimal chance of interruption as there had ever been had disappeared. for the men had ceased even from their oaths. there was not even a whisper to be shared amongst them; there was no sound but the laboured sound of their breathing. they worked in silence. i had no longer any hope. i saw now and again roper, as he slapped down a spadeful of earth beside me, look with a grim significant smile at me, and perhaps his fellow would catch the look and imitate it. i noticed that george glen, as he took down the lantern from time to time and held it over the trench, would flash it towards me; and he, too, would smile and perhaps wink at roper in the trench. the winks and smiles were easy as print to read. they were agreeing between themselves: the unspoken word was going round; they did not mean to keep their part of the bargain, and when they left the abbey grounds the mound upon adam's grave would be a foot higher than when they entered them. but this unspoken understanding had no longer any power to frighten me. i tried to catch peter tortue's attention; i shuffled a foot upon the ground; but he paid no heed. he was on all fours by the grave-side peering into the trench, and i dared not call to him. i wanted to contradict what i had said outside the shed upon the hillside. i wanted to whisper to him: "the plan you search for is not there." if they were meaning to break their part of the bargain it mattered very little, for i was unable to keep mine. i had suspected that from the moment the boulder was uprooted; i knew it a moment after the lantern was hung upon the headstone. the stone had rested on that grave for two years, yet at the fresh pressure of the pick it had given and swayed and rolled from its green pedestal. it had tumbled at my feet, and there was not even a clot of earth or a pebble clinging to it. moreover, on the grave itself there was grass where it had rested. for all its weight, it had not settled into the ground or so much as worn the herbage. yet it had rested there two years! the lantern was hung upon the headstone, and its light showed to me that close to the ground the headstone had been chipped. it was as though some one had swung a pick and by mistake had struck the edge of the headstone. moreover, whoever had swung the pick had swung it recently. for whereas the face of the granite was dull and weatherbeaten, this chipped edge sparkled like quartz. the aspect of the grave itself confirmed me. some pains had been taken to replace the sods of grass upon the top, but all about the mound, wherever the lantern-light fell, i could see lumps of fresh clay. the grave had been opened, and recently--i did not stop then to consider by whom--and secretly. it could have been opened but for the one reason. there would be no plan there for glen to find. roper uttered an exclamation and stopped digging. his spade had struck something hard. glen lowered the lantern into the trench, and the light struck up on to his face and the face of the diggers. i hazarded a whisper to tortue, and certainly no one else heard it, but neither did tortue. roper struck his spade in with renewed vigour, and a stifled cry which burst at the same moment from the five mouths told me the coffin-lid was disclosed. i whispered again the louder: "tortue! tortue!" and with no better result. the pick was handed down at roper's call. i _spoke_ now, and at last he heard. he turned his head across his shoulder towards me, but he only motioned me to silence. the pick rang upon wood, and now i called: "tortue! tortue!" still no one but tortue heard. this time, however, he rose from his knees and came to me. glen looked up for an instant. "see that he is fast!" he said, and so looked back into the grave. "what is it?" asked tortue. "the plan has gone. loose my hands!" i could no longer see roper; he had stooped down below the lip of the trench. "gone!" said tortue. "how?" "some one has been here before you, but within this last week, i'll swear. loose my hands." "some one!" he exclaimed savagely. "who? who?" and he shook me by the arms. "i do not know." "swear it." "i do. loose my hands." "remember it is i who save you." his knife was already out of his pocket; he had already muffled it in his coat and opened it; he was making a pretence to see whether the end was still fast. i could feel the cold blade between the rope and my wrist, when, with a shout. roper stood erect, the stick in one hand, a sheet of paper flourishing in the other. he drew himself out of the trench and spread the paper out on a pile of clay at the graveside. glen held his lantern close to it. there were four streaming faces bent over that paper. i felt a tug at my wrists and the cord slacken as the knife cut through it. "take the rope with you," whispered tortue. the next moment there were five faces bent over that paper. "on st. helen's island," cried glen. "let me see!" exclaimed tortue, leaning over his shoulder. "three--what's that?--chains. three chains east by the compass of the east window in the south aisle of the church." and that was the last i heard. i stepped softly back into the darkness for a few paces, and then i ran at the top of my speed westwards towards new grimsby, freeing my arms from the rope as i ran. once i turned to look back. they were still gathered about that plan; their faces, now grown small, were clustered under the light of the lantern, and tortue, with his flashing knife-blade, was pointing out upon the paper the position of the treasure. ten minutes later i was well up the top of the hill. i saw a lugger steal round the point from new grimsby and creep up in the shadow towards the abbey grounds. i spent that night in the gorse high up on the castle down. i had no mind to be caught in a trap at the palace inn. from the top of the down, about an hour later, i saw the lugger come round the lizard point of tresco and beat across to st. helen's. as the day broke she pushed out from st. helen's, and reaching past the golden ball into the open sea, put her tiller up and ran by the islands to the south. there was no longer any need for me to hide among the gorse. i went down to the palace inn. no one was as yet astir, and the door, of course, was unlocked. i crept quietly up to my room and went to bed. chapter xiv in which peter tortue explains his intervention on my behalf as will be readily understood, when i woke up the next morning i was sensible at once of a great relief. my anxieties and misadventures of last night were well paid for after all. i could look at my swollen wrists and say that without any hesitation, the watchers had departed from their watching, and what if they had carried away the king of portugal's great jewelled cross? helen mayle had no need of it, indeed, her great regret now was that she could not get rid of what she had; and as for cullen, to tell the truth, i did not care a snap of the fingers whether he found a fortune or must set to work to make one. other men had been compelled to do it--better men too, deuce take him! we were well quit of george glen and his gang, though the price of the quittance was heavy. i would get up at once, run across to merchant's point, and tell helen mayle---my plans came to a sudden stop. tell helen mayle precisely what? that adam mayle's grave had been rifled? i lay staring up at the ceiling as i debated that question, and suddenly it slipped from my mind. that grave had been rifled before, and quite recently. i was as certain of that in the sober light of the morning as i had been during the excitement of last night. why? it was not for the chart of the treasure, since the chart had been left. and by whom? so after all, here was i, who had waked up in the best of spirits too, with the world grown comfortable, confronted with questions as perplexing as a man could wish for. it was, as cullen mayle had said, at the inn near axminster, most discouraging. and i turned over in bed and tried to go to sleep, that i might drive them from my mind. i should have succeeded too, but just as i was in a doze there came a loud rapping at the door, and dick parmiter danced into the room. "they are gone, mr. berkeley," he cried. "i know," i grumbled; "i saw them go," and stretched out my arms and yawned. "why, you have hurt your wrist," dick exclaimed. "no," said i, "it was george glen's shake of the hand." "they are gone," repeated dick, gleefully, "all of them except peter tortue." "what's that?" i cried, sitting up in the bed. "all of them except peter tortue." "to be sure," said i, scratching my head. now what in the world had peter tortue remained behind for? for no harm, that was evident, since i owed my life to his good offices last night. i was to remember that it was he who saved me. i was, then, to make some return. but what return? i threw my pillow at parmiter's head. "deuce take you, dicky! my bed was not such a plaguey restful place before that it needed you to rumple it further. well, since i mayn't sleep late i' the morning like a gentleman, i'll get up." i tried to put together some sort of plausible explanation which would serve for helen mayle while i was dressing. but i could not hit upon one, and besides parmiter made such a to-do over brushing my clothes this morning that that alone was enough to drive all reasoning out of one's head. "dick," said i as he handed me my coat, "you have had, if my memory serves me, some experience of womenfolk." dick nodded his head in a mournful fashion. "mother!" said he. "precisely," said i. "now, here's a delicate question. do you always tell womenfolk the truth?" "no," said he, stoutly. "do you tell them--shall we say quibbles,--then?" "quibbles?" said dick, opening his mouth. "it is not a fruit, dicky," said i, "so you need not keep it open. by quibbles i mean lies. do you tell your womenfolk lies, when the truth is not good for them to know?" "no," said dick, as steadily as before, "for they finds you out." "precisely," i agreed. "but since you neither tell the truth nor tell lies, what in the world do you do?" "well," answered dick, "i say that it's a secret which mother isn't to know for a couple of days." "i see. and when the couple of days has gone? "then mother has forgotten all about the secret." i reflected for a moment or two. "dick." "yes." "did you ever try that plan with miss helen?" "no," said he, shaking his head. "i will," said i, airily, "or something like it." "something like it would be best," said dick. the story which i told to helen was not after all very like it. i said: "the watchers have gone and gone for ever. they were here not for any revenge, but for their profit. there was a treasure in st. helen's which cullen mayle was to show them the way to--if they could catch him and force him. they had some claim to it--i showed them the way." "you?" she exclaimed. "how?" "that i cannot tell you," said i. "i would beg you not to ask, but to let my silence content you. i could not tell you the truth and i do not think that i could invent a story to suit the occasion which would not ring false. the consequence is the one thing which concerns us, and there is no doubt of it. the watchers did not watch for an opportunity of revenge and they are gone." "very well," she said. "i was right after all, you see. the hand stretched out of the dark has done this service. for it is your doing that they are gone?" i did not answer and she laughed a little and continued, "but i will not ask you. i will make shift to be content with your silence. did dick parmiter come with you this morning?" "yes," i answered with a laugh, "but he was not with me last night." helen laughed again. "ah," she cried! "so it was your doing, and i have not asked you." then she grew serious of a sudden. "but since they are gone"--she exclaimed, in a minute, her whole face alight with her thought--"since they are gone, cullen may come and come in safety." "oh! yes, cullen may come," i answered, perhaps a trifle roughly. "cullen will be safe and may come. indeed, i wonder that he was not here before this. he stole my horse upon the road and yet could not reach here first. i trudged a-foot, cullen bestrode my horse and yet tresco still pines for him. it is very strange unless he has a keen nose for danger." my behaviour very likely was not the politest imaginable, but then helen's was no better. for although she displayed no anger at my rough words--i should not have cared a scrape of her wheezy fiddle if she had, but she did not, she merely laughed in my face with every appearance of enjoyment. i drew myself up very stiff. here were all the limits of courtesy clearly over-stepped, but i at all events would not follow her example, nor allow her one glimpse of any exasperation which i might properly feel. "shall i go out and search for him in the highways and hedges?" i asked with severity. "it would be magnanimous," said she biting her lip, and then her manner changed. "he rode your horse," she cried, "and yet he has fallen behind. he will be hurt then! some accident has befallen him!" "or he has wagered my horse at some roadside inn and lost! it was a good horse, too." she caught hold of my arm in some agitation. "oh! be serious!" she prayed. "serious quotha!" said i, drawing away from her hand with much dignity. "let me assure you, madam, that the loss of a horse is a very serious affair, that the stealing of a horse is a very serious affair----" "well, well, i will buy it from you, saddle and stirrup and all," she interrupted. "madam," said i, when i could get my speech. "there is no more to be said." "heaven be praised!" said she. "and now it may be, you will condescend to listen to me. what am i to do? suppose that he is hurt! suppose that he is in trouble! suppose that he still waits for my answer to his message! suppose in a word that he does not come! what can i do? he may go hungering for a meal." i did not think the contingency probable, but helen was now speaking with so much sincerity of distress that i could not say as much. "unless he comes to tresco i am powerless. it is true i have bequeathed everything to him, but then i am young," she said, with a most melancholy look in her big dark eyes. "neither am i sickly." "i will go back along the road and search for him," and this i spoke with sincerity. she looked at me curiously. "will you do that?" she asked in a doubtful voice, as though she did not know whether to be pleased or sorry. "yes," said i, and a servant knocked at the door, and told me parmiter wished to speak with me. i found the lad on the steps of the porch, and we walked down to the beach. "what is it?" i asked. "the frenchman," said he, with a frightened air. "peter tortue?" "yes." i led him further along the beach lest any of the windows of the house should be open towards us, and any one by the open window. "where is he?" dick pointed up the hill. "at the shed?" i asked. "yes. he was lying in wait on the hillside, and ran down when he saw that i was alone. he stays in the shed for you, and you are to go to him alone." "amongst the dead sailor-men?" said i, with a laugh. but the words were little short of blasphemy to dick parmiter. "well, i was there last night, and no harm came to me." "you were there last night?" cried dick. "then you will not go?" "but i will," said i. "i am curious to hear what tortue has to say to me. you may take my word for it, dick, there's no harm in peter tortue. i shall be back within the hour. hush! not a word of this!" for i saw helen mayle coming from the house towards us. i told her that i was called away, and would return. "do you take dick with you?" she asked, with too much indifference. she held a big hat of straw by the ribbons and swung it to and fro. she did that also with too much indifference. "no," said i, "i leave him behind. make of him what you can. he cannot tell what he does not know." the sum of dick's knowledge, i thought, amounted to no more than this--that i had last night visited the shed, in spite of the dead sailor-men. i forgot for the moment that he was in my bedroom when i rose that morning. the door of the shed was fastened on the inside; i rapped with my knuckles, and tortue's voice asked who was there. when i told him, he unbarred the door. "there is no one behind you?" said he, peering over my shoulder. "nay! do you fear that i have brought the constables to take you? you may live in tresco till you die if you will. what! should i betray you, whose life you saved only last night?" peter opened the door wide. "a night!" said he, with a shrug of the shoulders. "one can forget more than that in a night, if one is so minded." i followed him into the shed. here and there, through the chinks in the boards, a gleam of light slipped through. outside it was noonday, within it was a sombre evening. i passed through the door of the partition into the inner room. the rafters above were lost in darkness, and before my eyes were accustomed to the gloom i stumbled over a slab of stone which had been lifted from its place in the floor. i turned to tortue, who was just behind me, and he nodded in answer to my unspoken question. the spade and the pick had stood in that corner to the left, and this slab of stone had been removed in readiness. the darkness of the shed struck cold upon me all at once, as i thought of why that slab had been removed. i looked about me much as a man may look about his bedroom the day after he has been saved from his grave by the surgeon's knife. everything stands as it did yesterday--this chair in this corner, that table just upon that pattern of the carpet, but it is all very strange and unfamiliar. it was against that board in the partition that i leaned my back; there sat george glen with his evil smile, here tortue polished his knife. "let us go out into the sunlight, for god's sake!" said i, and my foot struck against a piece of iron, which went tinkling across the stone floor. i picked it up. "they are gone," said i, with a shiver, "and there's an end of them. but this shed is a nightmarish sort of place for me. for god's sake, let us get into the sun!" "yes, they are gone," said tortue, "but they would have stayed if they dared, if i hadn't set you free, for they went without the cross." i was still holding that piece of iron in my hand. by the feel of it, it was a key, and i slipped it into my pocket quite unconsciously, for tortue's words took me aback with surprise. "without the jewelled cross? but you had the plan," said i, as i stepped into the open. "i heard you describe the spot--three chains in a line east of the east window in the south aisle of the church." "there was no trace of the cross." "it was true then!" i exclaimed. "i was sure of it, even after roper had found the stick and the plan. it was true--that grave had been rifled before." "why should the plan have been put back, then?" "god knows! i don't." "besides, if the grave had been rifled, the spot of ground on st. helen's island had not. there had been no spade at work there." "are you sure of that?" "yes." "and you followed out the directions?" "to the letter. three chains east by the compass of the eastern window in the south aisle of st. helen's church, and four feet deep! we dug five and six feet deep. there was nothing, nor had the ground been disturbed." "i cannot understand it. why should adam mayle have been at such pains to hide the plan? was it a grim joke to be played on cullen?" there was no means of answering the problem, and i set it aside. "after all, they are gone," said i. "that is the main thing." "all except me," said tortue. "yes. why have you stayed?" tortue threw himself on the ground and chewed at a stalk of grass. "i saved your life last night," said he. "i know. why did you do it? why did you cover my mistakes in that shed? why did you cut the rope?" "because you could serve my turn. the cross!" he exclaimed, with a flourish. "i do not want the cross." he looked at me steadily for an instant with his shrewd eyes. "i want a man to nail on the cross, and you can help me to him. where is cullen mayle?" the words startled me all the more because there was no violence in the voice which spoke them--only a cold, deliberate resolution. i was nevermore thankful for the gift of ignorance than upon this occasion. i could assure him quite honestly, "i do not know." "but last night you knew." "i spoke of many things last night of which i had no knowledge--the cross, the plan----" "you knew where the plan was. flesh! but you knew that!" "i guessed." "guess, then, where cullen mayle is, and i'll be content." "i have no hint to prompt a guess." tortue gave no sign of anger at my answer. he sat upon the grass, and looked with a certain sadness at the shed. "it does not, after all, take much more than a night to forget," said he. "i am telling you the truth, tortue," said i, earnestly. "i do not know. i never met cullen mayle but once, and that was at a roadside inn. he stole my horse upon that occasion, so that i have no reason to bear him any goodwill." "but because of him you came down to tresco?" said tortue quickly. "no." tortue looked at me doubtfully. then he looked at the house, and "ah! it was because of the girl." "no! no!" i answered vehemently. i could not explain to him why i had come, and fortunately he did not ask for an explanation. he just nodded his head, and stood up without another word. "i do not forget," said i pointing to the shed. "and if you should be in any need----" but i got no further in my offer of help; for he turned upon me suddenly, and anger at last had got the upper hand with him. "money, is it not?" he cried, staring down at me with his eyes ablaze. "ay, that's the way with gentlefolk! you would give me as much as a guinea no doubt--a whole round gold guinea. yes, i am in need," and with a violent movement he clasped his hands together. "virgin mary, but i am in need of cullen mayle, and you offer me a guinea!" and then hunching his shoulders he strode off over the hill. so helen mayle's instinct was right. out of the five men there was one who waited for cullen's coming with another object than to secure the diamond cross. would he continue to wait? i could not doubt that he would, when i thought upon his last vehement burst of passion. tortue would wait upon tresco, until, if cullen did not come himself, some word of cullen's whereabouts dropped upon his ear. it was still urgent, therefore, that cullen mayle should be warned, and if i was to go away in search of him, helen must be warned too. i walked back again towards merchant's point with this ill news heavy upon my mind, and as i came over the lip of the hollow, i saw helen waiting by the gate in the palisade. she saw me at the same moment, and came up towards me at a run. "is there more ill-news?" i asked myself. "or has cullen mayle returned?" and i ran quickly down to her. "has he come?" i asked, for she came to a stop in front of me with her face white and scared. "who?" said she absently, as she looked me over. "cullen mayle," i answered. "oh, cullen," she said, and it struck me as curious that this was the first time i had heard her speak his name with indifference. "because he must not show himself here. there is a reason! there is a danger still!" "a danger," she said, in a loud cry, and then "oh! i shall never forgive myself!" "for what?" she caught hold of my arm. "see?" she said. "your coat-sleeve is frayed. it was a rope did that last night. no use to deny it. dick told me. he saw that a rope too had seared your wrists. tell me! what happened last night? i must know!" "you promised not to ask," said i, moving away from her. "well, i break my promise," said she. "but i must know," and she turned and kept pace with me, down the hill, through the house into the garden. during that time she pleaded for an answer in an extreme agitation, and i confess that her agitation was a sweet flattery to me. i was inclined to make the most of it, for i could not tell how she would regard the story of my night's adventures. it was i after all who caused old adam mayle's bones to be disturbed; and i understood that it was really on that account that i had shrunk from telling her. she had a right to know, no doubt. besides there was this new predicament of tortue's stay. i determined to make a clean breast of the matter. she listened very quietly without an exclamation or a shudder; only her face lost even the little colour which it had, and a look of horror widened in her eyes. i told her of my capture on the hillside, of tortue's intervention, of the cross and the stick in the coffin. i drew a breath and described that scene in the abbey grounds, and how i escaped; and still she said no word and gave no sign. i told her of their futile search upon st. helen's, and how i had witnessed their departure from the top of the castle down. still she walked by my side silent, and wrapped in horror. i faltered through this last incident of tortue's stay and came to a lame finish, amongst the trees at the end of the garden. we turned and walked the length of the garden to the house. "i know," i said. "when i guessed the stick held the plan, i should have held my tongue. but i did not think of that. it was not easy to think at all just at that time, and i must needs be quick. they spoke of attacking the house, and i dreaded that.... i should not have been able to give you any warning.... i should not have been able to give you any help ... for, you see, the slab of stone was already removed in the shed." "oh, don't!" she cried out, and pressed her hands to her temples. "i shall never forgive myself. think! a week ago you and i were strangers. it cannot be right that you should go in deadly peril because of me." "madam," said i, greatly relieved, "you make too much of a thing of no great consequence. i hope to wear my life lightly." "always?" said she quickly, as she stopped and looked at me. i stopped, too, and looked at her. "i think so," said i, but without the same confidence. "always." she had a disconcerting habit of laughing when there was no occasion whatever for laughter. she fell into that habit now, and i hastened to recall her to tortue's embarrassing presence on the island. "of course," said i, "a word to the governor at star castle and we are rid of him. but he stood between me and my death, and he trusts to my silence." "we must keep that silence," she answered. "yet he waits for cullen mayle, and--it will not be well if those two men meet." "why does he wait? do you know that, too?" i did not know, as i told her, though i had my opinion, of which i did not tell her. "the great comfort is this. tortue did not make one upon that expedition to the sierra leone river, but his son did. tortue only fell in with george glen and his gang at an ale-house in wapping, and _after_--that is the point--after glen had lost track of cullen mayle. tortue, therefore, has never seen cullen, does not know him. we have an advantage there. so should he come to tresco, while i go back along the road to search for him, you must make your profit of that advantage." she stopped again. "you will go, then?" "why, yes." she shook her head, reflectively. "it is not right," she said. "i am going chiefly," said i, "because i wish to recover my horse." she always laughed when i mentioned that horse, and her laughter always made me angry. "do you doubt i have a horse?" i asked. "or rather _had_ a horse? because cullen mayle stole it, stole it deliberately from under my nose--a very valuable horse which i prized even beyond its value--and he stole it." the girl was in no way impressed by my wrath, and she said, pleasantly: "i am glad you said that. i am glad to know that with it all, you are mean like other men." "madam," i returned, "when cullen mayle stole my horse, and rode away upon it, he put out his tongue at me. i made no answer. nor do i make any answer to the remark which you have this moment addressed to me." "oh, sir!" said she, "here are fine words, and here's a curtsey to match them;" and spreading out her frock with each hand, she sank elaborately to the very ground. we walked for some while longer in the garden, without speech, and the girl's impertinence gradually slipped out of my mind. the sea murmured lazily upon the other side of the hedge, and i had full in view st. helen's island and the ruined church upon its summit. the south aisle of the church pointed towards the house, and through the tracery of a rude window i could see the sky. "i wonder who in the world can have visited the abbey burial-ground and rifled that grave?" the question perplexed me more and more, and i wondered whether helen could throw light upon it. so i asked her, but she bent her brows in a frown, and in a little she answered: "no, i can think of no one." i held out my hand to her. "this is good-bye," said i. "you go to-day?" she asked, but did not take my hand. "yes, if i can find a ship to take me. i go to st. helen's first. can i borrow your boat; dick will bring it back. i want to see that east window in the aisle." a few more words were said, and i promised to return, whether i found cullen mayle or not. and i did return, but sooner than i expected, for i returned that afternoon. chapter xv the lost key is found it happened in this way. i took dick parmiter with me and sailed across to st. helen's. we beached the boat on the sand near to the well and quarantine hut, and climbed up eastwards till we came to the hole which glen's party had dug. the ground sloped away from the church in this direction; and as i stood on the edge of the hole with my face towards the side of the aisle, i could just see over the grass the broken cusp of the window. it was exactly opposite to me. it occurred to me, however, that glen had measured the distance wrong. so i sent dick in the boat across to tresco to borrow a measure, and while he was away i examined the ground there around; but it was all covered with grass and bracken, which evidently had not been disturbed. here and there were bushes of brambles, but, as i was at pains to discover, no search for the cross had been made beneath them. in the midst of my search dick came back to me with a tape measure, and we set to work from the window of the church. the measure was for a few yards, so that when we had run it out to its full length, keeping ever in the straight line, it was necessary to fix some sort of mark in the ground, and start afresh from that; and for a mark i used a big iron key which i had in my pocket. three chains brought us exactly to the hole which had been dug, and holding the key in my hand, i said: "they made no mistake. it is plain the plan was carelessly drawn." and dick said to me: "that's the key of our cottage." i handed it to him to make sure. he turned it over in his hand. "yes," said he, "that's the key;" and he added reproachfully, with no doubt a lively recollection of his mother's objurgations: "so you had it all the time." "i found it this morning, dick," said i. "where?" "in the shed on the castle down. now, how the deuce did it get there? the dead sailormen had no use for keys." "it's very curious," said dick. "very curious and freakish," said i, and i sat down on the grass to think the matter out. "let me see, your mother missed it in the morning after i came to tresco." "that's three days ago." and i could hardly believe the boy. it seemed to me that months had passed. but he was right. "yes, three days ago. your mother missed it in the morning. it is likely, then, that it was taken from the lock of the door the night before." "that would be the night," said dick, suspiciously, "when you tapped on my window." "the night, in fact, when i first landed on tresco. wait a little." dick sat still upon the grass, and i took the key from his hand into mine. there were many questions which at that moment perplexed me--that hideous experience in cullen mayle's bedroom, the rifling of adam mayle's grave, the replacing of the plan in it and the disappearance of the cross, and i was in that state of mind when everything new and at all strange presented itself as a possible clue to the mystery. it seemed to me that the key which i held was very much more than a mere rusty iron key of a door that was never locked. i felt that it was the key to the door of the mystery which baffled me, and that feeling increased in me into a solid conviction as i held it in my hand. i seemed to see the door opening, and opening very slowly. the chamber beyond the door was dark, but my eyes would grow accustomed to the darkness if only i did not turn them aside. as it was, even now i began to see dim, shadowy things which, uncomprehended though they were, struck something of a thrill into my blood, and something of a chill, too. "the night that i landed upon tresco," i said, "we crossed the castle down, i nearly fell on to the roof of the shed, where all the dead sailormen were screeching in unison." "yes!" said dick, in a low voice, and i too looked around me to see that we were not overheard. dick moved a little nearer to me with an uneasy working of his shoulders. "do you remember the woman who passed us?" i asked. "you said it was a woman." "and it was." i had the best of reasons to be positive upon that point. i had scratched my hand in the gorse and i had seen the blood of my scratches the next day on the dress of the woman who had brushed against me as she passed. that woman was helen mayle. had she come from the shed? what did she need with the key? "is that shed ever used?" i asked. "not now." "whom does it belong to?" he nodded over towards merchant's rock. "then adam mayle used it?" "cullen mayle used it." "cullen!" i sprang up to my feet and walked away; and walked back; and walked away again. the shadowy things were indeed becoming visible; my eyes were growing indeed accustomed to the darkness; and, indeed, the door was opening. should i close, slam it to, lock it again and never open it? for i was afraid. but if i did shut it and lock it i should come back to it perpetually, i should be perpetually fingering the lock. no; i would open the door wide and see what was within the room. i came back to dick. "what did cullen mayle use it for?" "he was in league with the brittany smugglers. brandy, wine, and lace were landed on the beach of a night and carried up to the shed." "were they safe there?" dick laughed. here he was upon firm ground, and he answered with some pride: "when cullen mayle lived here, the collector of customs daren't for his life have landed on tresco in daylight." "and at night the dead sailormen kept watch." "there wasn't a man who would go near the shed." "so cullen mayle would not have needed a key to lock the shed?" "no, indeed!" and another laugh. "could he have needed a key for any other purpose? dick, we will go slowly, very slowly," and i sat for some while hesitating with a great fear very cold at my heart. that door was opening fast. should i push it open, wide? with one bold thrust of the hand i could do it--if i would. but should i see clearly into the room--so clearly that i could not mistake a single thing i saw. no, i would go on, gently forcing the door back, and all the while accustoming my vision to the gloom. "has that shed been used since cullen mayle was driven away?" "no." "you are certain? oh, be certain, very certain, before you speak." dick looked at me in surprise, as well he might; for i have no doubt my voice betrayed something of the fear and pain i felt. "i am certain." "well, then, have you, has any one heard these dead sailormen making merry--god save the mark--since that shed has been disused?" dick thought with considerable effort before he answered. but it did not matter; i was certain what his answer would be. "i have never heard them," he said. "nor have met others who have?" "no," said he, after a second deliberation, "i don't remember any one who has." "from the time cullen mayle left tresco to the night when we crossed the down to merchant's rock? there's one thing more. cullen was in league with the brittany smugglers. he would be in league, then, with smugglers from penzance, who would put him over to tresco secretly, if he needed it?" "he was very good friends with all smugglers," said dick. "then," said i, rising from the ground, "we will sail back, dick, to tresco, and have another look into that shed." i made him steer the boat eastwards and land behind the point of the old grimsby harbour, on which the block house stands, and out of sight of merchant's point. it was not that i did not wish to be seen by any one in that house. but--but--well, i did not wish at that moment to land near it--to land where a voice now grown familiar might call to me. from the block house we struck up through dolphin town on to the empty hill, and so came to the shed. i pushed open the door and went in. dick followed me timidly. the floor was of stone. i had been thinking of that as we sailed across from st. helen's. i had been thinking, too, that when i was carried into the inner room the door of the partition was jambed against the floor, that roper had kicked it open, and that, as it yielded, i had heard some iron thing spring from beneath it and jingle across the floor. that iron thing was, undoubtedly, the key which i held in my hand. i placed it again under the door. there was a fairly strong wind blowing. i told dick to set the outer door wide open to the wind, which he did. and immediately the inner door began to swing backwards and forwards in the draught. but it dragged the key with it, and it dragged the key over the stone floor. the shed was filled with a harsh, shrill, rasping sound, which set one's fingernails on edge. i set my hand to the door and swung it more quickly backwards and forwards. the harsh sound rose to a hideous inhuman grating screech. "there are your dead sailormen, dick," said i. "it was cullen mayle who took the key from your door on the night i landed on tresco--cullen mayle, who had my horse to carry him on the road and smuggler friends at penzance to carry him over the sea. it was cullen mayle who was in this shed that night, and used his old trick to scare people from his hiding-place. it was cullen mayle who was first in the abbey burial ground. no doubt cullen mayle has that cross. and it was cullen mayle whom the woman---but, there, enough." the door was wide open now, and this key had opened it. i could see everything clearly. my eyes were, indeed, now accustomed to the gloom--so accustomed that, as i stepped from the shed, all the sunlight seemed struck out of the world. it was all clear. helen mayle had come up to the shed that night. she had told cullen of the stick in the coffin--yes, she must have done that. she told him of the men who watched. what more had passed between them i could not guess, but she had come back with despair in her heart, and, in the strength of her despair, had walked late at night into his room--with that silk noose in her hand. that she loved him--that was evident. but why could she not have been frank with me? cullen had spoken with her, had been warned by her, had left the island since. why had she kept up this pretence of anxiety on his account, of fear that he was in distress, of dread lest he return unwitting of his peril and fall into glen's hand? clutterbuck's word "duplicity" came stinging back to me. i sent dick away to sail the boat back to merchant's point, and lay for a long while on the open hillside, while the sun sank and evening came. it was only yesterday that she had played in her garden upon the violin. i had felt that i knew her really for the first time as she sat with her pale face gleaming purely through the darkness. why could she not have been frank to me? the question assailed me; i cried it out. surely there was some answer, an answer which would preserve my picture of her in her tangled garden, untarnished within my memories. surely, surely! and how could such deep love mate with duplicity? i put the scarf into my pocket, and crossed the hill again and came down to merchant's point. i could not make up my mind to go in. how could i speak of that night when i slept in cullen mayle's bedroom? i lay now upon the gorse watching the bright windows. now i went down to the sea and its kindly murmurings. and at last, about ten o'clock of the night, a white figure came slowly from the porch and stood beside me. "you have been here--how long?--i have watched you," she said very gently. "what is it? why didn't you come in?" i took both her hands in mine and looked into her eyes. "will you be frank with me if i do?" "why, yes," she said, and her face was all wonder and all concern. "you hurt me--no, not your hands, but your distrust." chapter xvi an unsatisfactory explanation we went into the house, but no farther than the hall. for the moment we were come there she placed herself in front of me. i remember that the door of the house was never shut, and through the opening i could see a shoulder of the hill and the stars above it, and hear the long roar of the waves upon the beach. "we are good friends, i hope, you and i," she said. "plain speech is the privilege of such friendship. speak, then, as though you were speaking to a man. wherein have i not been frank with you?" there must be, i thought, some explanation which would free her from all suspicion of deceit. else, how could she speak with so earnest a tongue or look with eyes so steady? "as man to man, then," i answered, "i am grieved i was not told that cullen mayle had come secretly to tresco and had thence escaped." "cullen!" she said, in a wondering voice. "he was on tresco! where?" i constrained myself to answer patiently. "in the abbey grounds, on st. helen's island, and--" i paused, thinking, nay hoping, that even at this eleventh hour she would speak, she would explain. but she kept silence, nor did her eyes ever waver from my face. --"and," i continued, "on castle down." "there!" she exclaimed, and added, thoughtfully, "yes, there he would be safe. but when was cullen upon tresco? when?" so the deception was to be kept up. "on the night," i answered, "when i first came to merchant's point." she looked at me for a little without a word, and i could imagine that it was difficult for her to hit upon an opportune rejoinder. there was one question, however, which might defer her acknowledgments of her concealments, and, to be sure, she asked it: "how do you know that?" and before i could answer, she added another, which astonished me by its assurance. "when did you find out?" i told her, i trust with patience, of the key and the various steps by which i had found out. "and as to when," i said, "it was this afternoon." at that she gave a startled cry, and held out a trembling hand towards me. "had you known," she cried, "had you known only yesterday that cullen had come and had safely got him back, you would have been spared all you went through last night!" "what i went through last night!" i exclaimed, passionately. "oh, that is of small account to me, and i beg you not to suffer it to trouble your peace. but--i do not say had i known yesterday, i say had i been _told_ yesterday--i should have been spared a very bitter disappointment." "i do not understand," she said, and again she put out her hand towards me and drew it in and stretched it out again with an appearance of distress to which even at that moment i felt myself softening. however, i took no heed of the hand. "in some way you blame me, but i do not understand." "you would, perhaps, find it easier to understand if you were at the pains to remember that on the night i landed upon tresco, i came over castle down and past the shed to merchant's point." "well?" and she spoke with more coldness, as though her pride made her stubborn in defiance. no doubt she was unaware that i was close to her that night. it remained for me to reveal that, and god knows i did it with no sense of triumph, but only a great sadness. "as i stood in the darkness a little this side of the shed, a girl hurried down the hill from it. she was dressed in white, so that i could make no mistake. on the other hand, my dark coat very likely made me difficult to see. the girl passed me, and so closely that her frock brushed against my hand. now, can you name the girl?" she looked at me with the same stubbornness. "no," she said, "i cannot." "on the other hand," said i, "i can. one circumstance enables me to be certain. i slipped on the grass that night, and catching hold of a bush of gorse pricked my hand." "yes, i remember that." "i pricked my hand a minute or two before the girl passed me. as i say, she brushed against my hand, which was bleeding, and the next day i saw the blood smirched upon a white frock--and who wore it, do you think?" "i did," she answered. "ah! then you own it. you will own too that i have some cause of discontentment in that you have played with me, whose one thought was to serve you like an honest gentleman." and at that the stubbornness, the growing resentment at my questions, died clean out of her face. "you would have!" she cried eagerly. "you would indeed have cause for more than discontent had i played with you. but you do not mean that. you cannot think that i would use any trickeries with you. oh! take back your words! for indeed they hurt me. you are mistaken here. i wore the frock, but it was not i who was on castle down that night. it was not i who brushed past you----" "and the stain?" i asked. "how it came there i do not know," she said. "but this i do know,--it was not your hand that marked it. i never knew that cullen was on tresco. i never saw him, much less spoke to him. you will believe that? no! why should i have kept it secret if i had?" and her head drooped as she saw that still i did not believe. there was silence between us. she stood without changing her attitude, her head bent, her hands nervously clasping and unclasping. the wind came through the open door into the hall. once in the silence helen caught her breath; it was as though she checked a sob; and gradually a thought came into my mind which would serve to explain her silence--which would, perhaps, justify it--which, at all events, made of it a mistaken act of kindness. so i spoke with all gentleness--and with a little remorse, too, for the harshness i had shown: "you said we were good friends, you hoped; and, for my part, i can say that the words were aptly chosen. i am your friend--your good _friend_. you will understand? i want you also to understand that it was not even so much as friendship which brought me down to tresco. it was dick's sturdy example, it was my utter weariness, and some spark of shame dick kindled in me. i was living, though upon my soul _living_ is not the word, in one tiresome monotony of disgraceful days. i had made my fortune, and in the making had somehow unlearnt how fitly to enjoy it." "but this i know," interrupted helen, now lifting her face to me. "i never told you." "but my violin told me. do you remember? i wanted to know you through and through, to the heart's core. so i took my violin and played to you in the garden. and your face spoke in answer. so i knew you." it was strange. this confession she made with a blush and a great deal of confusion--a confession of a trick if you will, but a trick to which no one could object, by which anyone might be flattered. but that other more serious duplicity she could deny with an unwavering assurance! "you know then," i went on. "it makes it easier for me. i want you to understand then that it was to serve myself i came, and i do verily believe that i have served myself better than i have served you. why, i did not even know what you were like. i did not inquire of clutterbuck, he drew no picture of you to persuade me to my journey. thus then there is no reason why you should be silent concerning cullen out of any consideration for me." she looked at me in perplexity. my hint had not sufficed. i must make myself more clear. "i have no doubt," i continued, "that you have seen. no doubt i might have been more circumspect. no doubt i have betrayed myself this last day. but, believe me, you are under no debt to me. if i can bring cullen mayle back to you, i will not harbour a thought of jealousy." did she understand? i could not be sure. but i saw her whole face brighten and smile--it was as though a glory shone upon it--and her figure straighten with a sort of pride. did she understand at the last that she need practise no concealments? but she said nothing, she waited for me to say what more i had to say. well, i could make the matter yet more plain. "besides," i said, "i knew--i knew very well before i set out from london, clutterbuck told me. so that it is my own fault, you see, if when i came here i took no account of what he told me. and even so, believe me, i do not regret the fault." "lieutenant clutterbuck!" she exclaimed, with something almost of alarm. "he told you what?" "he told me of a night very like this. you were standing in this hall, very likely as you stand now, and the door was open and the breeze and the sound of the sea came through the open door as it does now. only where i stand cullen mayle stood, asking you to follow him out through the world. and you would have followed, you did indeed begin to follow----" so far i had got when she broke in passionately, with her eyes afire! "it is not true! how can men speak such lies? lieutenant clutterbuck! i know--he told me the same story. it would have been much easier, so much franker, had he said outright he was tired of his--friendship for me and wished an end to it. i should have liked him the better had he been so frank. but that he should tell you the same story. oh! it is despicable--and you believe it?" she challenged me. "you believe that story. you believe, too, i went to a trysting with cullen on castle down, the night you came, and kept it secret from you and let you run the peril of your life. you will have it, in a word, whatever i may say or do," and she wrung her hands with a queer helplessness. "you will have it that i love him. pity, a sense of injustice, a feeling that i wrongly possess what is rightly his--these things you will not allow can move me. no, i must love him." "have i not proof you do?" i answered. "not from clutterbuck, but from yourself. have i not proof into what despair your love could throw you?" and i took from my pocket the silk scarf. "where did i get this?" she took it from my hands, while her face softened. she drew it through her fingers, and a smile parted her lips. she raised her eyes to me with a certain shyness, and she answered shyly: "yet you say you were not curious to know anything of me in london before you started to the west." the answer was no answer at all. i repeated my question: "how do i come to have that scarf?" "i can but guess," she said; "i did not know that lieutenant clutterbuck possessed it. but it could be no one else. you asked it of lieutenant clutterbuck in london." for a moment i could not believe that i had heard a right. i stared at her. it was impossible that any woman could carry effrontery to so high a pitch. but she repeated her words. "lieutenant clutterbuck gave it to you no doubt in london, and--will you tell me?--i should like to know. did you ask him for it?" should i strip away this pretence? should i compel her to own where i found it and how i came by it? but it seemed not worth while. i turned on my heel without a word, and went straight out through the open door and on to the hillside. and so this was the second night which i spent in the gorse of castle down. one moment i was hot to go back to london and speak to no woman for the rest of my days. the next i was all for finding cullen mayle and heaping coals of fire upon helen's head. the coals of fire carried the day in the end. as morning broke i walked down to the palace inn fully resolved. i would search for cullen mayle until i found him. i would bring him back. i would see him married to helen from a dark corner in st. mary's church, and when the pair were properly unhappy and miserable, as they would undoubtedly become--i was very sorry, but miserable they would be--why then i would send her a letter. the writing in the letter should be "ha! ha!"--not a word more, not even a signature, but just "ha! ha!" on a blank sheet of paper. but, as i have said, i had grown very young these last few days. chapter xvii cullen mayle comes home the search was entirely unsuccessful. through the months of november and december i travelled hither and thither, but i had no hint as to cullen mayle's whereabouts; and towards the end of the year i took passage in a barque bound for st. mary's, where i landed the day before christmas and about the fall of the dusk. it was my intention to cross over that night to tresco and report my ill-success, which i was resolved to do with a deal of stateliness. i was also curious to know whether peter tortue was still upon the island. but as i walked along the street of hugh town to the "dolphin" inn, by the customs house, a band of women dancing and shouting, with voices extraordinarily hoarse, swept round the corner. i fell plump amongst them, and discovered they were men masquerading as women. moreover, they stopped me, and were for believing that i was a woman masquerading as a man; and, indeed, when they had let me go i did come upon a party of girls dressed up for sea captains and the like, who swaggered, counterfeiting a manly walk, and drawing their hangers upon one another with a great show of spirit. the reason of these transformations was explained to me at the "dolphin." it seems that they call this sort of amusement "a goose-dancing," and the young people exercise it in these islands at christmas time. i was told that it would be impossible for me to hire a boatman to put me over to tresco that night; so i made the best of the matter, and to pass the time stepped out again into the street, which was now lighted up with many torches and crowded with masqueraders. they went dancing and singing from house to house; the women paid their addresses with an exaggeration of courtly manners to the men, who, dressed in the most uncouth garments that could be devised, received them with a droll shyness and modesty, and altogether, what with liquor and music, the festival went with a deal of noise and spirit. but in the midst of it one of these false women, with a great bonnet pulled forward over her face, clapped a hand upon my shoulder and said in my ear: "mr. berkeley, i hope you have been holding better putt cards of late;" and would have run on, but i caught him by the arm. "mr. featherstone," said i, "you stole my horse; i have a word to say to you." "i have not the time to listen," said he, wrenching his arm free as he flung himself into the thick of the crowd. i kept close upon his heels, however, which he perceived, and drawing into a corner he suddenly turned round upon me. "your horse is dead," said he. "i very much regret it; but i will pay you, for i have but now come into an inheritance. i will pay you for it to-morrow." "i did not follow you to speak of the horse, or to mr. featherstone at all, but to mr. cullen mayle." "you know me?" he exclaimed, looking about him lest the name should have been overheard. "and have news for you," i added. "will you follow me to the 'dolphin?'" i went back to the inn, secured from my host a room where we could be private, and went out to the door. cullen mayle was waiting; he followed me quickly in, hiding his face so that no one could recognise him, and when the door was shut-"how in the world did you come to know of my name?" said he. "i cannot think, but i shall be obliged if you will keep it secret for a day or so, for i am not sure but what i may have some inconvenient friends among these islands." "those inconvenient friends are all gone but one," said i. "you know that too," he exclaimed. "indeed, mr. berkeley, you seem to be very well acquainted with my affairs; but i cannot regret it, since you give me such comforting news. only one of my inconvenient friends left! why, i am a match for one--i think i may say so without vaunting--so it seems i can come to tresco and take up my inheritance." with that he began briskly to unhook the cotton dress which he had put on over his ordinary clothes. "inheritance!" said i. "you mentioned the word before. i do not understand." "oh," said he, "it is a long story and a melancholy. my father drove me from the house, and bequeathed his fortune to an adopted daughter." "yes," said i quickly, "i know that too." "indeed!" and he stopped his toilette to stare at me. "perhaps you are aware then that helen mayle, conscious of my father's injustice, bequeathed it again to me." "yes, but--but--you spoke of an immediate inheritance." "ah," said he, coolly, "there is something, then, i can inform you of. helen mayle is dead." "what's that?" i cried, and started to my feet. i did not understand. i was like a man struck by a bullet, aware dimly that some hurt has come to him, but not yet conscious of the pain, not yet sensible of the wound. "hush!" said cullen mayle, and untying a string at his waist he let his dress fall about his feet. "it is most sad. not for the world would i have come into this inheritance at such a cost. you knew helen mayle, perhaps?" he asked, with a shrewd glance at me. "a girl very staunch, very true, who would never forget a _friend_." he emphasised that word "friend" and made it of a greater significance. "indeed, i am not sure, but i must think it was because she could not forget a--friend that, alas! she died." i was standing stupefied. i heard the words he spoke, but gave them at this moment no meaning. i was trying to understand the one all-important fact. "dead!" i babbled. "helen mayle--dead!" "yes, and in the strangest, pitiful way. i cannot think of it, without the tears come into my eyes. the news came to me but lately, and you will perhaps excuse me on that account." his voice broke as he spoke; there were tears, too, in his eyes. i wondered, in a dull way, whether after all he had really cared for her. "but how comes it that you knew her?" he asked. i sat down upon a chair and told him--of dick parmiter's coming to london, of my journey into the west. i told him how i had come to recognise him at the inn; and as i spoke the comprehension of helen's death crept slowly into my mind, so that i came to a stop and could speak no more. "you were on your way to tresco," said he, "when we first met. then you know that she is dead?" "no," i answered. "when did she die?" "on the sixth of october," said he. i do not think that i should have paid great heed to his words, but something in his voice--an accent of alarm--roused me. i lifted my eyes and saw that he was watching me with a singular intentness. "the sixth of october," i repeated vaguely, and then i broke into a laugh, so harsh and hysterical that it seemed quite another voice than mine. "your news is false," i cried; "she is not dead! why, i did not leave tresco till the end of october, and she was alive then and no sign of any malady. the sixth of october! no, indeed, she did not die upon that day." "are you sure?" he exclaimed. "sure?" said i. "i have the best of reasons to be sure; for it was on the sixth of october that i first set foot in tresco," and at once cullen mayle sprang up and shook me by the hand. "here is the bravest news," he said. his whole face was alight; he could not leave hold of my hand. "mr. berkeley, i may thank god that i spoke to you to-night. 'helen!'"--and he lingered upon the name. "upon my word, it would take little more to unman me. so you landed on the sixth of october. but are you sure of the date?" he asked with earnestness. "i borrowed your horse but a few days before. you would hardly have travelled so quickly." "i travelled by sea with a fair wind," said i. "it was the sixth of october. could i forget it? why, that very night i crossed castle down to merchant's point; that very night i entered the house. dick parmiter showed me a way. i crept into the house, and slept in your bedroom----" i had spoken so far without a notion of the disclosure to which my words were leading me. i was not looking at cullen mayle, but on to the ground, else very likely i might have read it upon his face. but now in an instant the truth of the matter was clear to me. for as i said, "i slept in your bedroom," he uttered one loud cry, leapt to his feet, and stood over against me, very still and quiet. i had sufficient wit not to raise my head and betray this new piece of knowledge. that sad and pitiful death on the sixth of october, of which he had heard with so deep a pain--he had never heard it, he had _planned_ it, and the plan miscarried. he knew why, now, and so was standing in front of me very still and quiet. he had seen helen that night on castle down; there, no doubt, she had told him how in her will she had disposed of her inheritance; and he had persuaded her, working on her generosity--with what prepared speeches of despair!--to that strange, dark act which it had been my good fortune to interrupt. it was clear to me. the very choice of that room, wherein alone secrecy was possible, made it clear. he had suggested to her the whole cunning plan; and a moment ago i had almost been deceived to believe his expressions of distress sincere! "i told you i was nearly unmanned," i heard him say; "and you see even so i underrated the strength of my relief, so that the mere surprise of your ingenious shift to get a lodging took my breath away." he resumed his seat, and i, having now composed my face, raised it full to him. i have often wondered since whether, as he stood above me, motionless and silent during those few moments, i was in any danger. "yes," said i, "it was no doubt surprising." this, however, was not the only surprise i was to cause cullen mayle that night. he proposed immediately that we should cross to tresco together, and on my objecting that we should get no one to carry us over-"oh," said he, "i have convenient friends in scilly as well as inconvenient." he looked out of the window. "the tide is high, and washes the steps at the back of the inn. do you wait here upon the steps. i will have a boat there in less than half an hour;" and on the word he hooked up his dress again and got him out of the inn. i waited upon the steps as he bade me. behind me were the lights and the uproar of the street; in front, the black water and the cool night; and still further, out of sight, the island of tresco, the purple island of bracken and gorse, resonant with the sea. in a little i heard a ripple of water, and the boat swam to the steps. i was careful as we sailed across the road to say nothing to cullen mayle which would provoke his suspicion. i did not even allow him to see i was aware that he himself had been upon tresco on the sixth of october. it was not difficult for me to keep silence. for as the water splashed and seethed under the lee of the boat, and tresco drew nearer, i had to consider what i should do in the light of my new knowledge. it would have been so much easier had only helen been frank with me. tresco dimly loomed up out of the darkness. "by the way," said cullen mayle, who had been silent too, "you said that one of the watchers had remained. it will be george glen, i suppose." "no," i answered. "it is a frenchman, peter tortue," and by the mere mention of the name i surprised cullen mayle again that evening. it is true that this time he uttered no exclamation, and did not start from his seat. but the boat shot up into the wind and got into irons, as the saying is, so that i knew his hand had left the tiller. but he said nothing until we were opposite to the blockhouse, and then he asked in a low trembling voice: "did you say peter tortue?" "yes." there was another interval of silence. then he put another question and in the same tone of awe: "a young fellow, less than my years----" "no. the young fellow's father," said i. "a man of sixty years. i think i should be wary of him." "why?" "he said, 'i am looking, not for the cross, but for a man to nail upon the cross,' and he meant his words, every syllable." again we fell to silence, and so crossed the old grimsby harbour and rounded its northern point. the lights of the house were in view at last. they shot out across the darkness in thin lines of light and wavered upon the black water lengthening and shortening with the slight heave of the waves. when they shortened, i wondered whether they beckoned me to the house; when they lengthened out, were they fingers which pointed to us to be gone? "since you know so much, mr. berkeley," whispered cullen mayle, "perhaps you can tell me whether glen secured the cross." "no, he failed in that." "i felt sure he would," said cullen with a chuckle, and he ran the boat aground, not on the sand before the house but on the bank beneath the garden hedge. we climbed through the hedge; two windows blazed upon the night, and in the room sat helen mayle close by the fire, her violin on a table at her side and the bow swinging in her hand. i stepped forward and rapped at the window. she walked across the room and set her face to the pane, shutting out the light from her eyes with her hands. she saw us standing side by side. instantly she drew down the blinds and came to the door, and over the grass towards us. she came first to me with her hand outstretched. "it is you," she said gently, and the sound of her voice was wonderful in my ears. i had taken her hand before i was well aware what i did. "yes," said i. "you have come back. i never thought you would. but you have come." "i have brought back cullen mayle," said i, as indifferently as i could, and so dropped her hand. she turned to cullen then. "quick," she said. "you must come in." we went inside the door. "it is some years since i trod these flags," said cullen. "well, i am glad to come home, though it is only as an outcast; and indeed, helen, i have not the right even to call it home." it was as cruel a remark as he could well have made, seeing at what pains the girl had been, and still was, to restore that home to him. that it hurt her i knew very well, for i heard her, in the darkness of the passage, draw in her breath through her clenched teeth. cullen walked along the passage and through the hall. "lock the door," helen said to me, and i did lock it. "now drop the bar." when that was done we walked together into the hall, where she stopped. "look at me," she said, "please!" and i obeyed her. "you have come back," she repeated. "you do not, then, any longer believe that i deceived you?" "there is a reason why i have come back," i answered. it was a reason which i could not give to her. i was resolved not to suffer her to lie at the mercy of cullen mayle. fortunately, she did not think to ask me to be particular about the reason. but she beat her hands once or twice together, and-"you still believe it, then!" she cried. "with these two months to search and catch and hold the truth, you still hold me in the same contempt as when you turned your back on me and walked out through that door?" "no, no!" i exclaimed. "contempt! that never entered into any thought i ever had of you. make sure of that!" "yet you believe i tricked you. how can you believe that, and yet spare me your contempt!" "i am no philosopher. it is the truth i tell you," i answered, simply; and the face of cullen mayle appeared at the doorway of the parlour, so that no more was said. chapter xviii my perplexities are explained there is no need for me to tell at any length the conversation that passed between the three of us that night. cullen mayle spoke frankly of his journey to the sierra leone river. "mr. berkeley," he said, "already knows so much, that i doubt it would not be of any avail to practise mysteries with him. and besides there is no need, for, if i mistake not, mr. berkeley can keep a secret as well as any man." he spoke very politely, but with a keen eye on me to notice whether i should show any confusion or change colour. but i made as though i attached no significance to his words beyond mere urbanity. he told us how he made his passage to the guinea coast as a sailor before the mast, and then fell in with george glen. it seemed prudent to counterfeit a friendly opinion that the cross would be enough for all. but when they discovered the cross was gone from its hiding place, he took the first occasion to give them the slip. "for i had no doubt that my father had been beforehand," said he. "had i possessed more wisdom, i might have known as much when i heard him from my bed refuse his assistance to george glen, and so saved myself an arduous and a perilous adventure. for my father, was he never so rich, was not the man to turn his back on the king of portugal's cross." of his father, cullen spoke with good nature and a certain hint of contempt; and he told us much which he had learned from george glen. "he went by the name of kennedy," said cullen, "but they called him 'crackers' for the most part. he was not on the _royal fortune_ at the time when roberts was killed, so that he was never taken prisoner with the rest, nor did he creep out of cape corse castle like george glen." "then he was never tried or condemned," said helen, who plainly found some relief in that thought. "no!" answered cullen, with a chuckle. "but why? he played rob-thief--a good game, but it requires a skilled player. i would never have believed adam had the skill. roberts put him in command of a sloop called the _ranger_, which he had taken in the harbour of bahia, and when he put out to sea on that course which brought him into conjunction with the _swallow_, he left the _ranger_ behind in whydah bay. and what does adam do but haul up his anchor as soon as roberts was out of sight, and, being well content with his earnings, make sail for maryland, where the company was disbanded. i would i had known that on the day we quarrelled. body o' me, but i would have made the old man quiver. well, adam came home to england, settled at bristol, where he married, and would no doubt have remained there till his death, had he not fallen in with one of his old comrades on the quay. that frightened him, so he come across to tresco, thinking to be safe. and safe he was for twenty years, until george glen nosed him out." thereupon, cullen, from relating his adventures, turned to questions asking for word of this man and that whom he had known before he went away. these questions of course he put to helen, and not once did he let slip a single allusion to the meeting he had had with her in the shed on castle down. for that silence on his part i was well prepared; the man was versed in secrecy. but helen showed a readiness no whit inferior; she never hesitated, never caught a word back. they spoke together as though the last occasion when they had met was the night, now four years and a half ago, when adam mayle stood at the head of the stairs and drove his son from the house. one thing in particular i learned from her, the negro had died a month ago. it was my turn when the gossip of the islands had been exhausted, and i had to tell over again of my capture by glen and the manner of my escape. i omitted, however, all mention of an earlier visitant to the abbey burial grounds, and it was to this omission that i owed a confirmation of my conviction that cullen mayle was the visitant. for when i came to relate how george glen and his band sailed away towards france without the cross, he said: "if i could find that cross, i might perhaps think i had some right to it. it is yours, helen, to be sure, by law, and----" she interrupted him, as she was sure to do, with a statement that the cross and everything else was for him to dispose of as he thought fit. but he was magnanimous to a degree. "the cross, helen, nothing but the cross, if i can find it. i have a thought which may help me to it. 'three chains east of the east window in south aisle of st. helen's church.' those were the words, i think." "yes," said i. "and glen measured the distance correctly?" "to an inch." "well, what if--it is a mere guess, but a likely one, i presume to think,--what if the chains were cornish chains? there would be a difference of a good many feet, a difference of which george glen would be unaware. you see i trust you, mr. berkeley. i fancy that i can find that cross upon st. helen's island." "i have no doubt you will," said i. cullen rose from his chair. "it grows late, helen," said he, "and i have kept you from your sleep with my gossiping." he turned to me. "but, mr. berkeley, you perhaps will join me in a pipe and a glass of rum? my father had a good store of rum, which in those days i despised, but i have learnt the taste for it." his proposal suited very well with my determination to keep a watch that night over helen's safety, and i readily agreed. "you will sleep in your old room, cullen," she said, "and you, mr. berkeley, in the room next to it;" and that arrangement suited me very well. helen wished us both good-night, and left us together. we went up into mayle's cabin and cullen mixed the rum, which i only sipped. so it was not the rum. i cannot, in fact, remember at all feeling any drowsiness or desire to sleep. i think if i had felt that desire coming over me i should have shaken it off; it would have warned me to keep wide awake. but i was not sensible of it at all; and i remember very vividly the last thing of which i was conscious. that was cullen mayle's great silver watch which he held by a ribbon and twirled this way and that as he chatted to me. he spun it with great quickness, so that it flashed in the light of the candle like a mirror, and at once held and tired the eyes. i was conscious of this, i say, and of nothing more until gradually i understood that some one was shaking me by the shoulders and rousing me from sleep. i opened my eyes and saw that it was helen mayle who had disturbed me. it took me a little time to collect my wits. i should have fallen asleep again had she not hindered me; but at last i was sufficiently roused to realise that i was still in the cabin, but that cullen mayle had gone. a throb of anger at my weakness in so letting him steal a march quickened me and left me wide awake. helen mayle was however in the room, plainly then she had suffered no harm by my negligence. she was at this moment listening with her ear close to the door, so that i could not see her face. "what has happened?" i asked, and she flung up her hand with an imperative gesture to be silent. after listening for a minute or so longer she turned towards me, and the aspect of her face filled me with terror. "in god's name what has happened, helen?" i whispered. for never have i seen such a face, so horror-stricken--no, and i pray that i never may again, though the face be a stranger's and not one of which i carried an impression in my heart. yet she spoke with a natural voice. "you took so long to wake!" said she. "what o'clock is it?" i asked. "three. three of the morning; but speak low, or rather listen! listen, and while you listen look at me, so that i may know." she seated herself on a chair close to mine, and leant forward, speaking in a whisper. "on the night of the sixth of october i went to the shed on castle down and had word with cullen mayle. returning i passed you, brushed against you. so much you have maintained before. but listen, listen! that night you climbed into cullen's bedroom and fell asleep, and you woke up in the dark middle of the night." "stop! stop!" i whispered, and seized her hands in mine. horror was upon me now, and a hand of ice crushing down my heart. i did not reason or argue at that moment. i knew--her face told me--she had been after all ignorant of what she had done that night. "stop; not a word more--there is no truth in it." "then there is truth in it," she answered, "for you know what i have not yet told you. it is true, then--your waking up--the silk noose! my god! my god!" and all the while she spoke in a hushed whisper, which made her words ten times more horrible, and sat motionless as stone. there was not even a tremor in the hands i held; they lay like ice in mine. "how do you know?" i said. "but i would have spared you this! you did not know, and i doubted you. of course--of course you did not know. good god! why could not this secret have lain hid in me? i would have spared you the knowledge of it. i would have carried it down safe with me into my grave." her face hardened as i spoke. she looked down and saw that i held her hands; she plucked them free. "you would have kept the secret safe," she said, steadily. "you liar! you told it this night to cullen mayle." her words struck me like a blow in the face. i leaned back in my chair. she kept her eyes upon my face. "i--told it--to cullen mayle?" i repeated. she nodded her head. "to-night?" "here in this room. my door was open. i overheard." "i did not know i told him," i exclaimed; and she laughed horribly and leaned back in the chair. all at once i understood, and the comprehension wrapped me in horror. the horror passed from me to her, though as yet she did not understand. she looked as though the world yawned wide beneath her feet. "oh!" she moaned, and, "hush!" said i, and i leaned forward towards her. "i did not know, just as you did not know that you went to the shed on castle down, that you brushed against me as you returned,--just as you did not know of what happened thereafter." she put her hands to her head and shivered. "just as you did not know that four years ago when cullen mayle was turned from the door, he bade you follow him, and you obeyed," i continued. "this is cullen mayle's work--devil's work. he spun his watch to dazzle you four years ago; he did the same to-night, and made me tell him why his plan miscarried. plan!" and at last i understood. i rose to my feet; she did the same. "yes, plan! you told him you had bequeathed everything to him. he knew that tonight when i met him at st. mary's. how did he know it unless you told him on castle down? he bade you go home, enter his room, where no one would hear you, and--don't you see? helen! helen!" i took her in my arms, and she put her hands upon my shoulders and clung to them. "i have heard of such things in london," said i. "some men have this power to send you to sleep and make you speak or forget at their pleasure; and some have more power than this, for they can make you do when you have waked up what they have bidden you to do while you slept, and afterwards forget the act;" and suddenly helen started away from me, and raised her finger. we both stood and listened. "i can hear nothing," i whispered. she looked over her shoulder to the door. i motioned her not to move. i walked noiselessly to the door, and noiselessly turned the handle. i opened the door for the space of an inch; all was quiet in the house. "yet i heard a voice," she said, and the next moment i heard it too. the candles were alight. i crossed the room and squashed them with the palm of my hand. i was not a moment too soon, for even as i did so i heard the click of a door handle, and then a creak of the hinges, and a little afterwards--footsteps. a hand crept into mine; we waited in the darkness, holding our breath. the footsteps came down the passage to the door behind which we stood and passed on. i expected that they would be going towards the room in which helen slept. i waited for them to cease that i might follow and catch cullen mayle, damned by some bright proof in his hand of a murderous intention. but they did not cease; they kept on and on. surely he must have reached the room. at last the footsteps ceased. i opened the door cautiously and heard beneath me in the hall a key turn in a lock. a great hope sprang up in me. suppose that since his plan had failed, and since tortue waited for him on tresco, he had given up! suppose that he was leaving secretly, and for good and all! if that supposition could be true! i prayed that it might be true, and as if in answer to my prayer i saw below me where the hall door should be a thin slip of twilight. this slip broadened and broadened. the murmur of the waves became a roar. the door was opening--no, now it was shutting again; the twilight narrowed to a slip and disappeared altogether. "listen," said i, and we heard footsteps on the stone tiles of the porch. "oh, he is gone!" said helen, in an indescribable accent of relief. "yes, gone," said i. "see, the door of his room is open." i ran down the passage and entered the room. helen followed close behind me. "he is gone," i repeated. the words sounded too pleasant to be true. i approached the bed and flung aside the curtains. i stooped forward over the bed. "helen," i cried, and aloud, "out of the room! quick! quick!" for the words _were_ too pleasant to be true. i flung up my arm to keep her back. but i was too late. she had already seen. she had approached the bed, and in the dim twilight she had seen. she uttered a piercing scream, and fell against me in a dead swoon. for the man who had descended the stairs and unlocked the door was not cullen mayle. chapter xix the last mesmer at this date was a youth of twenty-four, but the writings of van helmont and wirdig and g. maxwell had already thrown more than a glimmering of light upon the reciprocal action of bodies upon each other, and had already demonstrated the existence of a universal magnetic force by which the human will was rendered capable of influencing the minds of others. it was not, however, till seventeen years later--in the year 1775, to be precise--that mesmer published his famous letter to the academies of europe. and by a strange chance it was in the same year that i secured a further confirmation of his doctrines and at the same time an explanation of the one matter concerned with this history of which i was still in ignorance. in a word, i learned at last how young peter tortue came by his death. i did not learn it from his father. that implacable man i never saw after the night when we listened to his footsteps descending the stairs in the darkness. he was gone the next morning from the islands, nor was any trace of him, for all the hue and cry, discovered for a long while--not, indeed, for ten years, when my son, who was then a lad of eight, while playing one day among the rocks of peninnis head on st. mary's, dropped clean out of my sight, or rather out of helen's sight, for i was deep in a book, and did not raise my head until a cry from my wife startled me. we ran to the loose pile of boulders where the boy had vanished, and searched and called for a few minutes without any answer. but in the end a voice answered us, and from beneath our feet. it was the boy's voice sure enough, but it sounded hollow, as though it came from the bowels of the earth. by following the sound we discovered at last between the great boulders an interstice, which would just allow a man to slip below ground. this slit went down perpendicularly for perhaps fifteen or twenty feet, but there were sure footholds and one could disappear in a second. at the bottom of this hole was a little cave, very close and dark, in which one could sit or crouch. on the floor of this cave i picked up a knife, and, bringing it to the light, i recognised the carved blade, which i had seen tortue once polish upon his thigh in the red light of a candle. the cave, upon inquiry, was discovered to be well known amongst the smugglers, though it was kept a secret by them, and they called it by the curious name of issachum-pucchar. this discovery was made in the year of 1768, and seven years later i chanced to be standing upon the quay at leghorn when a vessel from oporto, laden with wine and oil, dropped anchor in the harbour, and her master came ashore. i recognised him at once, although the years had changed him. it was nathaniel roper. i followed him up into the town, where he did his business with the shipping agent and thence repaired to a tavern. i entered the tavern, and sitting down over against him at the same table, begged him to oblige me by drinking a glass at my expense, which he declared himself ready to do. "but i cannot tell why you should want to drink with me rather than another," said he. "oh! as to that," said i, "we are old acquaintances." he answered, with an oath or two, that he could not lay his tongue to the occasion of our meeting. "you swear very fluently and well," said i. "but you swore yet more fluently, i have no doubt, that morning you sailed away from st. helen's island without the portuguese king's cross." his face turned the colour of paper, he half rose from his chair and sat down again. "i was never on tresco," he stammered. "who spoke of tresco, my friend?" said i, with a laugh. "i made mention of st. helen's. yet you were upon tresco. have you forgotten? the shed on castle down? the abbey burial ground?" and then he knew me, though for awhile he protested that he did not. but i persuaded him in the end that i meant no harm to him. "you were at sierra leone with cullen, maybe," said i. "tell me how young peter tortue came by his death?" and he told me the story which he had before told to old peter in an alehouse at wapping. peter, it appeared, had not been able to hold his tongue at sierra leone. it became known through his chattering that glen's company and cullen mayle were going up the river in search of treasure, and it was decided for the common good to silence him lest he should grow more particular, and relate what the treasure was and how it came to be buried on the bank of that river. george glen was for settling the matter with the stab of a knife, but cullen mayle would have none of such rough measures. "i know a better and more delicate way," said he, "a way very amusing too. you shall all laugh to-morrow;" and calling peter tortue to him, he betook himself with the whole party to the house of an old buccaneering fellow, john leadstone, who kept the best house in the settlement, and lived a jovial life in safety, being on very good terms with any pirate who put in. he had, indeed, two or three brass guns before his door, which he was wont to salute the appearance of a black flag with. to his house then the whole gang repaired, and while they were making merry, cullen mayle addressed himself with an arduous friendliness to peter tortue, taking his watch from his fob and bidding the frenchman admire it. for a quarter of an hour he busied himself in this way, and then of a sudden in a stern commanding voice he said: "stand up in the centre of the room," which peter tortue obediently did. "now," continued cullen, with a chuckle to his companions, "i'll show you a trick that will tickle you. peter," and he turned toward him. "peter," and he spoke in the softest, friendliest voice, "you talk too much. i'll clap a gag on your mouth, you stinking offal! to-morrow night, my friend, at ten o'clock by my watch, when we are lying in our boat upon the river, you will fall asleep. do you hear that?" "yes," said peter tortue, gazing at mayle. "at half-past ten, as you sleep, you will feel cramped for room, and you will dangle a leg over the side of the boat in the river. do you hear that?" "yes!" "very well," said cullen. "that will learn you to hold your tongue. now come back to your chair." peter obeyed him again. "when you wake up," added cullen, "you will continue to talk of my watch which you so much admire. you will not be aware that any time has passed since you spoke of it before. you can wake up now." he made some sort of motion with his hands and peter, whose eyes had all this time been open, said: "i'll buy a watch as like that as a pea to a pea. first thing i will, as soon as i handle my share." cullen mayle laughed, but he was the only one of that company that did. the rest rather shrank from him as from something devilish, at which, however, he only laughed the louder, being as it seemed flattered by their fear. the next day the six men started up the river in a long-boat which they borrowed of leadstone, and sailed all that day until evening when the tide began to fall. thereupon cullen, who held the tiller, steered the boat out of the channel of the river and over the mudbanks, which at high tide were covered to the depth of some feet. here all was forest: the great tree-trunks, entwined with all manner of creeping plants, stood up from the smooth oily water, and the roof of branches over head made it already night. "i have lost my way," said cullen. "it will not be safe to try to regain the channel until the tide rises. it falls very quickly here, leadstone tells me, and we should get stuck upon some mudbank. let us look for a pool where we may lie until the tide rises in the morning." accordingly they took their oars and pulled in and out amongst the trees, while cullen mayle sounded with the boathook for a greater depth of water. the tide fell rapidly; bushes of undergrowth scraped the boat's side, and then mayle's boathook went down and touched no bottom. "this will do," said he. it was nine o'clock by his watch at this time, and the crew without any fire or light made their supper in the boat as best they could. meanwhile the tide still sank; banks of mud rose out of the black water; the forest stirred, and was filled with a horrible rustling sound, of fish flapping and crabs crawling and scuttering in the slime; and on the pool on which the boat lay every now and then a ripple would cross the water as though a faint wind blew, and a broad black snout would show, and a queer lugubrious cough echo out amongst the tree-trunks. "crocodiles, peter," said cullen gaily, and he clapped tortue on the shoulder. "it would not be prudent to take a bath in the pool. hand the lantern over, glen!" and when he had the lantern in his hand he looked at his watch. "five minutes to ten," said he. "well, it is not so long to wait." "four hours," grumbled tortue, who was thinking of the tide. "no, only five minutes, my friend," cullen corrected him, softly; and sure enough in five minutes peter stretched himself and complained that he was sleepy. cullen laughed with a gentle enjoyment and whistled a tune between his teeth. but the others waited in a sort of paralysis of horror and amazement. even these hardened men were struck with a cold fear. the suggestions of the place, too, had their effect. above them was a black roof of leaves, the close air was foul with the odour of things decaying and things decayed, and everywhere about them was perpetually heard the crawling and pattering of the obscene things which lived in the mud. peter tortue stirred in his sleep, and cullen held up the face of his watch in the light of the lantern so that all in the boat might see. it was half-past ten. peter lifted his leg over the side and let it fall with a splash in the water. it dangled there for about five minutes, and then the man uttered a loud scream and clutched at the thwart, but the next instant he was dragged over the boat's side. roper told me this story, and the horror of it lived again upon his face as he spoke. "well," said i, "the father took his revenge. he stabbed cullen mayle to the heart as he lay in bed. there is one thing more i would like to know. can you remember the paper with the directions of the spot where the cross was buried?" "yes," said he; "am i likely to forget it?" "could you write them out again, word for word and line for line, as they were written?" "yes," said he. i called for a sheet of paper and a pen and ink, and set them before roper, and he wrote the directions laboriously, and handed the paper back to me. there were only two lines with which i was concerned, and they ran in this order: "the s aisle of st. helen's church. three chains east by the compass of the east window." "are you sure you have made no mistake?" i asked. "this is a facsimile of the paper which you took from the hollow of the stick. look again!" i gave it back to him and he scratched his head over it for a little. then he wrote the directions again upon a second sheet of paper, and when he had written, tore off a corner of the paper. "ah!" said i, "that is what i thought." he handed it to me again, and it ran now:-"the s aisle of s. helen's church. three chains east by the compass of the east window." on that corner which had been torn a word had been written. i knew the word. it would be "cornish." i knew, too, who had torn off the corner. the cross still lies then three cornish chains east of that window, or should do so. we at all events have not disturbed it, for we do not wish to have continually before our eyes a reminder of those days when the sailors watched the house at merchant's point. even as it is, i start up too often from my sleep in the dark night and peer forward almost dreading again to see the flutter of white at the foot of the bed, and to hear again the sound of some one choking. the end. professor huskins by lettie m. cummings [illustration: logo] boston: richard g. badger toronto: the copp-clark co., limited. copyright 1916 by richard g. badger all rights reserved the gorham press, boston. u. s. a. to my mother whose love and profound interest in my work was an inspiration and encouragement professor huskins chapter one "here is a complication i know not how to solve and unravel. three different persons in equally quiescent condition, and equally good 'subjects,' are placed in a comatose state by the same operator, who leaves them unbiased by his personal opinions, thinking to obtain in the mesmerized condition, (with their material bodies completely subjugated and inactive,) truth, upon a subject that man in his normal state cannot positively ascertain nor agree upon. each of these 'subjects' gives a different opinion, and as all can be argued with more or less fluency, there are, seemingly, reasonable points in all. how can the discrepancies be reconciled? that is the question. "i have thought the subject over seriously ever since the experiment, and the only way i can see is to mesmerize other persons, until two are found who do agree. it is a scientific problem of which we need an explanation. "there must be a law of uniformity governing the universe; otherwise such perfect order would not exist. but who can determine what that law is? "i cannot understand the cause of so much variance in the answers. if i had held any preconceived ideas upon the subject, it would be different entirely, as i would then know my personal opinion upon it had colored the minds of my subjects. in such a case, however, there would be uniformity of opinion and avowal, while now there is almost utter variance. "there seems to be logical reasoning on the part of each of them, but it is impossible to reconcile their statements. one says practically the opposite of the other. which is right? are any of them right, and what is the cause of this diversity of opinion? i confess i am as much interested in the cause of their disagreement as in the question itself. "i believe myself to be a true student of life; that is, a person desirous of obtaining and mastering a true knowledge of the exact laws of existence, and hold myself aloof from all such preconceived plans of my own brain's concoction as may prejudice me, looking always for reasons and facts which teach me methods better than i know. "my soul sickens at the word 'consistency.' some of my colleagues seem to regard consistency as the essence of wisdom, but i cannot understand it that way. to me, consistency implies a clinging to old ideas and customs, and is therefore a symbol of negativeness instead of progression. i want to advance:--to grow in wisdom and knowledge, though that advancement means the abandonment of every past idea, however choice and excellent that idea may have seemed, either at the time of its acceptance or now. "a true student aspires to gain truth however much it may wound his past thoughts, and i can only regard life as a school of experience, wherein what to-day we consider precious, may tomorrow become valueless. there is where i differ from my colleagues. i am willing to admit that two of them at least are far beyond me in technical knowledge, but it seems to me the further they advance in technical knowledge, the less pliable and elastic are their ideas. "somehow, i cannot comprehend advancement or progression without change,--'change,' of course, means the adoption of new ideas. if i believe the same as when a mere child, how can i have gained in wisdom? i cannot rid myself of the idea that consistency, that is, always believing what you used to believe, instead of being the essence of wisdom, is rather a pronounced indication of ignorance. "everything, so far as i am able to distinguish facts from that (to me) inestimable book, nature, tells me to continually search for and demand new complications and expressions of types of life. "the same law must hold good with man. how can i plan and work successfully under the same conditions that would have furnished my father success? i cannot do it, for the forces necessary and sufficient, at even that recent date would be totally inadequate and impotent to meet and overcome conditions the present produces. advancement in science, invention and education has made a corresponding advancement in thought and methods of achievement imperative. strict consistency to my father's methods might, it is true, bring me some degree of success, but if i wish to be found among the successful men of the present, i must study existing conditions as closely as he did those of his time, striving to keep my methods up to present advancement, appreciating the value of his labor and methods, and knowing the suitability of them as compared to the conditions he was called upon to operate. as he strove to improve upon the methods of his predecessors, so must i strive to improve upon his, adopting those which he demonstrated to be successful, and applying them as stepping stones to higher accomplishment. "such a procedure cannot be called 'consistency,' but i know despite what my colleagues say, that my own deductions upon this subject are correct, for all nature bears me out in the assertion. "strict consistency to past methods never led any life to the goal of higher understanding. i am not a man to be satisfied with what others say or have said, though they may have acquired a reputation of infallible authority, beyond whose assertions no man ought to seek confirmation. i want to know personally; i want to know the exact truth, though i renounce every idea men have in the past asserted. "i am convinced after my experience of to-day, that there are scientific as well as spiritual martyrs, but i shall, nevertheless, express my opinions if it means social and professional ostracism. "lacking much wisdom and many graces my colleagues possess, i have one quality which they lack, that is, absolute fearlessness of any person's opinion. i am acknowledged by so-called experts (i use the term advisedly) to be in advance of their most wisely proficient selves in power, and for that reason i am growing extremely doubtful of their expertness: possibly that is the very reason i doubt their wisdom, for i realize how ignorant i am. "all i know are facts gained by experience, and the longer i experiment, the more non-plussed and doubtful i become, regarding even the efficacy of that science i once declared infallible. if these so-called experts acknowledge my supremacy over them, always calling upon and consulting me when they know not how to proceed, surely they must have less knowledge than i and they have no right to be called experts, for such a term implies proficiency, and here are several experts completely defeated by these mesmerized subjects whom they consider negative and weak. it does not speak very forcibly for their expertness--this rebuff they have received. "my whole life since i entered manhood, has been one long study and experiment; i never allowed any condition to elude me without finding some logical reason for its existence, and this problem shall not escape me without my having determined the principles which underlie the phenomenon. how long it will take, i have no idea, but that is an immaterial point. what am i living for, but to learn? "dr. h----, next to myself, the most powerful mesmerist, suggests that we impress the minds of the 'subjects' with the theories so far generally accepted, concerning the questions we ask, but i do not approve of such an idea. there must be some way to determine the truth. this experiment was planned and entered into for the express purpose of trying to discover facts confirmative of old opinions, coming through the organisms of persons totally ignorant of the subject, whose minds must, therefore, be uncolored by past opinions. "so far, we have met with blank failure, but that fact, instead of discouraging me, as it has some of the others, only adds zest to the work, and though they should all relinquish the task we have begun, i shall go on, alone if need be, until i reach some conclusion that satisfies me. "the 'subject' whom i chose for this experiment is the best i have ever used, and i felt positive he would answer the question better than any other, but i am not cast down nor discouraged by this most unlooked for result. unlike the rest, i look not so much to present satisfaction (especially to the confirmation of my preconceived ideas), as to the acquirement of truth and knowledge. "my 'subject' really gave less than some of the others, while i expected him to give more, but i am convinced that the cause of this is the fact i left his mind entirely unbiased. knowing nothing, he could give nothing, in the negative (by his unusual dumbness) he answered the question which i so strenuously advocated, that the soul of man, in whatever stage of unfoldment, contains all knowledge, and all that is necessary to bring this knowledge into material manifestation, is to mesmerize the body allowing the soul to speak forth, untrammeled by the physical influence. "i am proven to be wrong by this day's work. of course my pride suffered a little as the truth became apparent that my public teachings and deductions were erroneous, but i hope i am too thoroughly sincere in my quest for truth, by which i may help humanity, to permit any more than transient disappointment to influence me. "strange to say, there was not one other operator present who seemed to notice the great discrepancies between the assertions made in our investigations of mesmerism, and the proofs before us. had any one of us been teaching a class of students in psychology, he would unhesitatingly have said 'subdue the consciousness of your subject, and he will intelligently answer any question you may give him.' we should have believed it too, but our science, faith and belief has not changed one iota the disappointing result. "i realize i am entering a sphere of investigation where new revelations are in store for me. i rejoice in the prospect, but earnestly wish i knew precisely the conditions that would be most propitious to usher in the new wisdom. how gladly would i comply with them, even though they should call for much sacrifice on my part. i have consecrated my life to the search for truth, and i will conform to whatever conditions those powers who so zealously guard the realm of wisdom may demand. "i shall never be satisfied to use any but the subject i chose myself for this experiment, as i am inclined to believe the minds of the others had been somewhat impressed regarding the subject before they came this time. "possibly i made a mistake in selecting my subject after all my care and deliberation upon the work. i know that women are considered the best subjects, but it seemed to me that a man's brain was better suited to receive and transmit scientific problems than a woman's; theirs seeming fitted especially for spiritual work. "i confess i am at a loss how to proceed, but longer reflection will probably give me some clue to work upon. there is no use lingering over it longer now, for all new suggestions will come to me as the old ones have, unexpectedly and suddenly. "i will take some recreation. music always soothes and rests me,--especially singing. there is a renowned singer here, and i will go and hear her, giving my undivided attention to the witchery and enchantment of the human voice. "i will take merle with me; he needs the change after having been held so long in the trance condition. i noticed he seemed quite exhausted, and he felt sincere sorrow to learn that our experiment had not been a success, seeming to think our failure might be due in part to some defect in him or his development. i think differently and want him to know i am perfectly satisfied with him as a subject. "he is a pure, clean fellow, one whose place it would be hard for me to fill. he is always ready to be used for any of my experiments, and every signal success has pleased him even more than myself. it is singular how attached he has become to me. he has unlimited confidence in my powers, thinking no feat too extravagant for me to perform. every soul hungers for pure love, and his love for me affords me a degree of pleasure i would be loth to admit to anyone. were he my own boy, i could feel no greater pride in him. "there is nothing that affords him so much pleasure as for me to invite him to join me in some excursion where we go alone. it seems to make no difference where we go or what we do, if we are by ourselves. he knows i dislike crowds and empty compliments, and that i only attend social functions when the call seems imperative. we are both happier alone. i will send him word to be ready when i call for him. we shall have a rich treat in music, and forget the work and disappointment of the day. somehow we will work out the problem as we have others before. au revoir, care and perplexity, i go to court pleasure and harmony." chapter two the huge edifice was almost filled when william huskins and his subject, merle millard, arrived. the audience was composed of persons who represented the affluent portion of society in ----, drawn together by the fame and genius of the gifted woman who was to entertain them with (reputation said) a matchless voice, under perfect control. this singer had never been heard here, and curiosity and a desire to witness the first appearance of so distinguished an artist in their location were conflicting emotions in every person present. she was a star who had but recently attracted the attention of musical critics, and was now lauded with every variety of praise the ingenuity of such men could devise. this splendid audience was the visible manifestation of their regard and labor to bring her into prominence. when professor huskins, as he was called, and the young man were being shown to their seats, the entire audience was divided between their expectancy of witnessing the beginning of the entertainment, and watching the advent of those who came later than themselves. a man so distinguished as the professor for wisdom, and a power which, to most persons seemed little short of miraculous, could not fail to create a marked degree of interest and enthusiasm among so many people wholly engrossed in looking for change and excitement. he was scarcely less interesting than the artist they had come to see. many hoped to receive from him some token of recognition, that would declare to those around that they were friends of so famous a man, but few were so privileged, as the professor's thoughts were upon any subject but his own importance, and his gaze was not traveling in search of acquaintances. he looked straight before him, taking the appointed place with no idea as to what impression he might create. it was not to be wondered at so many cast admiring glances at the two men, for they were indeed goodly men to look upon. they were a little above the average height, but their height ended all similarity in their appearance. both had unusual faces, such as, once seen, are never forgotten. the professor had a vigorous physique of seemingly perfect proportions, and every movement of his body indicated power and strength. his face was difficult to describe, as its great variance from the faces of ordinary men laid largely in the contour of his head, which, to a student of phrenology would have indicated well and evenly developed organs, with few marked points of protrusion; in other words, a man of understanding, who had command of many lines of thought. a well centered brain, showing no abnormal propensities in any line. it was a head pleasant to study, covered with a thick growth of dark brown hair, almost verging on black, which he always wore closely cut and brushed back from his face. he wore no beard, thus bringing his mouth into plain view. he had what might be called a large mouth, with lips set firmly together over a chin that no person could mistake to mean other than firmness and decision. his smile was pleasant, and when he laughed or talked he disclosed a set of even white teeth. but while his physique and carriage were sufficiently marked with grace and symmetry to attract notice wherever he went, it was his eyes more than anything else that lifted him out of the likeness to common men. there are no words that will truthfully and fully portray their beauty and brilliancy. in color, they were gray when his more than active mind was in repose, but with each varying emotion, they expressed a different hue, and few persons who knew him agreed upon their actual shade, the most general opinion being that they were very dark or black. they were eyes all children trusted, but many men could not look into them. he was always scrupulously attired. merle was as dark as the professor, but unlike him had rosy cheeks. he was slender in figure, the very expression of grace in movement. he wore no beard, and copied the professor in the arrangement of his hair--an arrangement that displayed to the best possible advantage their well-shaped foreheads. there was, however, a very marked difference in the shape of their heads, and the color and expression of their eyes. merle's face was longer and thinner, while his eyes were a decided brown, large, pensive and beautiful, fringed with long, thick, dark lashes. the two men might easily have passed for brothers, and almost any person, if asked for an opinion of the two, would have said, "the younger is the handsomer, and you can approach him easier, but the older is the one i would go to in trouble." there was not so great a difference in their ages as many persons supposed, but the firmness and sternness habitual to the professor's face made him look older than he really was. as you become better acquainted with them, you will be able to picture them far more clearly than my words can possibly do. * * * * * there is a perceptible hush and awe passing over the large audience. they are awaiting the rhythmic harmony that only such musicians as those now before them can produce, for these men represent the very acme of excellence in their various lines. they are all in their places, and only await the movement of their leader to burst forth into one of their inimitable performances. instinctively all eyes are riveted upon the stage, and all seem to hold their breaths, as there is borne into their ears such an influx of sweet and soothing symphony as transports them from the present, with all its agitation and conflicting influences, and carries them to that realm where harmony and concord reign supreme. it is over. the professor and merle instinctively seek each other's gaze, each drawing a long sigh of satisfaction. "wasn't that glorious?" asked merle, and the professor, with one of those flashes of his brilliant and dazzling eyes replied "it rewards us for all our arduous work for the day. let us drink our fill of this nectar of the gods, for it will give us new life and courage." this was said with the joyous candor of a boy, and was the expression of a side of his nature few persons were privileged to witness, or even believed him to possess. they appeared to enjoy to the full the musical treat, until suddenly merle was stricken faint and ill, so much so indeed, that, despite the professor's efforts to restore him to his usual strength, they were obliged to leave the scene. merle had seemed well and happy all through the entertainment and appeared to look forward with keen expectation to the advent of the singer, (her name was rosalie earle) but just as she entered, he was looking toward some friends whom he had discovered at a distance, when a loud burst of applause drew his attention to her. he shuddered, grew cold and faint, but as he looked in her direction, he could see nothing clearly; everything became dark and distant and in the fading light he could not see the woman. he heard singing, but it seemed far away, and indistinct. where was william? he had the power to restore him. his voice rang out, clear and trenchant--"william! william!" then he sank to unconsciousness. so enraptured was the professor with the marvelous singing he did not hear the first cry, and it was hard for him to realize the exact condition of his friend when the second had reached him. his mind was temporarily absent when merle's head dropped heavily upon his shoulder, and he even hesitated before he turned his gaze upon him. after a while merle stirred and lifted his head, saying he could not breathe nor see. the professor bade him to be quiet until the song was finished, when they would go out. it was soon over, but merle was then unable to walk, and the professor was obliged to help him. it seemed strange to him to be unable to see. his body was trembling and icy cold, and william, who had so often cured him, seemed powerless to dispel the awful sensation which had stricken him so suddenly. still, above all his suffering there came the thought he was depriving william of a well loved pleasure, and as he regarded him with the strongest veneration and affection, he exerted his will to the limit, that he might regain his strength to such a degree his master might stay and hear the beautiful singer whose sweet tones he had heard, but whom he could not see. he strove as never before in his life to gain his lost power over the physical body to animate and control it, but despite his efforts, he sank down at william's feet, inanimate and cold. william raised him in his arms and helped carry him to a carriage, and they were soon at merle's home, where his mother and sister were waiting for him. they obeyed the professor's every command, reverencing him almost to the point of worship, but morning found them still at merle's bedside, as he revived from one fainting condition only to sink into another, with a season of high fever between. the professor's power seemed incapable of producing more than transient relief, and he confessed himself at a loss to understand the illness, unless it might be that merle had been overworked the day before, but that seemed improbable, as he had been entranced many times for a longer period. finally he sank into a deep sleep, induced by the professor's power, and william, advising mother and sister to seek repose, went to his own home, assuring them that all immediate danger was over, and promising to return soon. he instructed them, however, to send for him at once should merle awake and resume the alternate fever and chills. they promised to do so, and went to seek sleep, for their confidence in his power was absolute. he had used merle as a subject for years, had always been good to him and them, and to question his will never occurred to them, so they left merle and went to their beds, while william went home to study and think. chapter three after leaving merle, william walked slowly and thoughtfully to his home, which was at some distance, but instead of resting or sleeping, after the labors and excitement of the day, he went immediately to his private study, and plunged into thought. the expression of his eyes at this time was not charming, betokening not only doubt and suspense, but some intensity of feeling that, to an outside observer would have been nameless. "let me think. my brain seems in a maze; i cannot command my thoughts! i cannot even speculate. what a day this has been. will its memory ever be effaced from my soul? my thoughts, even, elude my wishes. i, who prided myself on the cogency of my reasoning, my control over my thoughts, am reduced to the same condition of blank vacancy as is a new born babe, looking, wondering, speculating possibly, but unable to realize or reason. "i who am acknowledged to be the strongest mesmerist of the age, have twice in one day been completely baffled by my usually passive 'subject,' through no desire of his own to disobey. i am sure of that, as he has been too faithful a subject for me to doubt for one instant his loyalty. he wishes to please me. this night's work mystifies me more than the day's, and i regarded that as an epoch in my life. "let me think how it all happened, and why i lost all control over him to whom, ordinarily, i have but to suggest a thought or desire, and he hastens at once to obey, whether in a trance or not. "there is no doubt the boy is very ill, overcome by some powerful influence, which, temporarily at least, is stronger than my will over him. "i feel shame,--the deepest of shame--that i, who usually glory in the fact of calm nerves, invulnerable to the rudest shocks, should thus be suddenly deprived of all self-control, and that before a multitude of persons who will naturally say 'professor huskins must be losing his power to allow his acknowledged best subject to create such a sensation in a public place.' "no wonder they would think so after all the tests many have seen this same subject put through, he obeying implicitly my every thought, silent or spoken. i could not only not prevent this public portrayal of my weakness, but it required all of the will power i possessed to quiet and subdue the disturbance after i had got him to his home where everything was perfectly tranquil. "this is not a very flattering picture to contemplate, and i walked home purposely to cool my head and control my thoughts. if sentence of death were to be passed upon me, if i could not tell one rational thought that passed through my brain since i left home, until i arrived here again, i should have to pay the penalty. "all is confusion--doubt--chaos. i realize that i have no firm foundation upon which to stand. where i thought i was strong i find i am weak; miserably and pitifully weak--so weak i feel acute shame for myself. "enough of this. i must and will know the cause of merle's sudden illness. i know that, deny though he may, that sickness had its foundation in the woman's appearance and nowhere else. just before that he was talking animatedly to me about his sister, and the thought went through my mind 'how well he looks; all the fatigue of the day has gone, and he is his old self again, quaffing enjoyment like a child.' "i felt a sense of envy that he could be so light-hearted, and for just one moment could have wished myself a negative subject instead of a positive operator, but before that wish had been fully formulated in my mind, the singer appeared and almost simultaneously rang out his distracted cry 'william!' (the name by which he never addresses me except in private) and that in so loud a tone as to penetrate, it seems to me now, every portion of that immense auditorium. "i heard the cry, still i seemed unable to turn away from that woman's face; when, immediately there came another cry, so full of suffering it broke the spell that bound me, but i could do no more than to calm and quiet him. "was it selfishness on my part to remain that i might hear her sing just once more, or was it really an unselfish desire not to disturb others by going out while she was singing? i hope it was the latter. is any man capable to analyze correctly his own thoughts? if so, i am not one of them. why should merle be stricken so ill by just one fleeting glance at her? she is as beautiful as a poet's dream. there must be something in their lives of more than ordinary acquaintance. he knows her;--he must.--but even so, why should he be so affected? i shall know. he shall tell me--if not waking, i will entrance him. "it seems impossible that merle has had any love experience with a woman, yet there is no other way to account for the incident. i must be wrong. he has been my subject now almost ten years; i know that in all that time he has been free from any attachments with women, for he has been continually under my care. before that time, he was only a boy, incapable of generating any strong attachment, still she would have been a girl about his own age. "probably they met, and, like every other true-hearted man, he has remembered and suffered, while she, with her beauty, has gone on wounding new hearts. i will find out about it. he is too good a boy to be the victim of a designing woman. i have warned him times enough, and thought he heeded me. "this is another proof of one man's inability to dominate the entire consciousness of another so as to know for a certainty his exact thoughts and emotions. "i thought i was aware of all the principal traits, wishes and events of merle's life, while the strongest and most potent force of all probably, was entirely undreamed of. "i thought before i went to that concert, i had a difficult problem before me,--one that would try my patience, ingenuity and knowledge, but i am likely to find that one simple, compared to the last. "however intricate, i will solve it. there is only one way to do it; i will go to him as soon as i can get away from the consultation with my colleagues, when we have arranged to talk over our failure. "they must not notice the ravages that yesterday has made upon me. it is useless for me to try to sleep; neither do i feel any inclination to eat, but i will go and take a good cold plunge. that will restore me to my customary equilibrium of mind sooner than anything else. then i will walk to dr. h----'s office. by that time i will get myself into my ordinary shape. william, you told yourself some years ago that you were impervious to shocks; you had control of your nerves and body; now here you stand, trying to keep yourself from trembling, and unable, even, to eat or sleep! "wonderful power to possess! i congratulate you upon its possession! only yesterday, you prided yourself in one thing that your colleagues did not possess--fearlessness of public criticism;--you have been as nervous as a woman, thinking what impression merle's disability will produce upon the persons present at the concert. "no wonder you are an advocate of inconsistency! you know no better example of it than yourself. you surely have more to learn than you thought." * * * * * chapter four punctual to his appointment, william was ushered into the private office of dr. harrington, which was a small, gloomy room barren of all beauty; a fitting symbol of the uses for which it was designed, as its interior was only known to those who were drawn there by sickness, anxiety or discouragement. with thoughts dark and grewsome, they sought this place in the hope of obtaining benefit or relief. like being eternally attracted to like, such persons would be out of place where brightness or beauty or the fragrance of flowers or other cheerful conditions exist, for such things harmonize only with health and happiness, not with sickness and despair. the doctor greeted william cordially, and with that punctilio that a man offers to one whom he recognizes as his superior. after a few common and casual remarks about the weather and kindred topics, the doctor remarked that william did not look as well as usual, and expressed the hope that he had not allowed a student's anxiety to acquire wisdom (followed by a rebuff) to cause him uneasiness. "not at all," replied william, "i have really thought very little about the experiment since i left you. merle has been very ill, and i remained with him most of the night. i feel grieved he should be stricken just at this time, which is most inopportune, as i calculated to use him every day for a while, that i might finish the book i am working on. i depend upon his co-operation for much of the information i am putting into it, as i am compiling a series of personal experiences with him. very likely i have used him a little too much, although i have tried to be cautious. as matters stand i think i shall be compelled to drop that work for a time, and give him a good rest. "i have been, as i told you before, developing his sister, for the purpose of determining the spiritual qualities and possibilities of man; i have no faith in the dogmas of theology, but still i do not feel that i can avow agnosticism or materialism. "i took this girl when she was very young, and have developed her with the greatest care i have ever used upon any subject, allowing her mind to be biased by no teachings of faith of any kind, thus leaving her entirely unprejudiced. "she lives a very secluded life, seeing only her mother, merle and myself, is ignorant of the world, and is the best instrument that could be found to give clear and unprejudiced answers to the questions that i want answered. "i shall employ an assistant who will come in after she has been put to sleep, and take down every word she utters, so the public (for i intend to publish her answers and my questions) will not be compelled to accept my unsupported statements. in that case, many would think that i had changed or modified her answers to suit my own ideas. "so far, although i have mesmerized her often for many years, i have refrained from questioning her while entranced, permitting her to talk or not as she felt inclined.--that reminds me of a symbol she gave me the last time she was in the trance. she was silent a long time, then she became suddenly very restless, and began to beat something away with her hands. i felt her heart beating very rapidly, and said, 'what is it, alice? can i help you? do you wish to waken?' she answered, 'yes. i cannot help you now, but i will by and by, for you have been so good to mother and merle and me. we do not want you to suffer. i can go through it when it comes, but merle cannot, for i see him failing, while i have a desire to go into it.' "'go into what?' i said. she answered, 'that awful, black cloud that envelops you so i can scarcely see you. i will find you and bring you out.' i saw she was becoming so agitated i brought her back rather than see her suffer, especially on my account. she, of course, had no remembrance upon awaking of anything that had transpired in the trance, still i knew something would come, as she has always been accurate in her prophecies and symbols. "it must be that as merle's sickness has unfitted him to do the work i had planned, she is going to take it up, rather than have me disappointed. the mother, sister and brother have all loyal hearts. wonderful, isn't it, what surprises and knowledge the investigation of the science of magnetism imparts." "indeed it is," replied dr. harrington, "and this age is to be congratulated it has such a man as yourself to elucidate it, who has devoted years to experiments, and speaks, therefore, from accurate knowledge. only a man such as yourself could afford to devote his entire time and attention to investigation and research. few such would do it, and i wish to express my appreciation of the grand work you are doing for humanity. "ministers' and missionaries' work pale into insignificance compared with what you are accomplishing. i am proud to be reckoned among your acquaintances. you have done much for me by your advice and instructions." "there! there! you know my antipathy for compliments. my motives in working as i have are far more selfish than you give me credit for. baxter is late as usual,--probably he has met some 'charming woman' as he always says, and thinks we 'poor men' should be pleased to wait while he converses with her. every man has some weakness, and baxter's most glaring one is certainly women. "women and science do not work well together i have found. ah, here he is now. don't apologize, baxter. it is altogether unnecessary, as we know you intended to be here promptly as you promised, but some perfectly irresistible creature, clothed in the habiliments of a woman, crossed your path, temporarily erasing the memory of so insignificant an affair as a scientific consultation, from your mind. beauty and love before science is your motto. come, own up. you are forgiven; the offense is not such a grievous one, after all." "i own up to the cause of my absence being a woman, and a most charming one at that, but huskins, i do dislike to admit my estimable self was not the object of her visit and solicitation and imploration. for once, i have you where you have so often had me 'cornered.' oh, you are a sly fox! we have never been keen enough to discover the scent you were on, but we know now too well to believe that there is now, or has been no woman in your life. i wouldn't take money for this opportunity to return your banterings (whether in private or public). but your day is over. we are quits." "baxter, you are daft. one would think you had been imbibing too liberally if he did not know you as well as i. what do you mean by implying some woman kept you from an appointment for my sake? go on. tell all you know, for there is not a woman on the earth i would turn my head to look at, so you can't banter me. we have work to do; merle is ill, and i am anxious to go to him. he is more to me than your charming detainer. speak out, for you will not be in a condition to work until you have had your say." "proud boaster, how little you appreciate the great boon i have in store for you. you do not deserve it. i would give several years of my life to be in your place. do not look at me that way; i am going to tell you fast as words will let me. "i was called away from home early this morning. when i came back, before i had a chance to eat, the colored boy came to me saying, 'there is the most beautiful lady i ever saw waiting for you in the reception room.' she wished to see me immediately, but would send up no card nor name. she told him to tell me she would not detain me long. her own time was limited. "as you may imagine, his glowing description of her beauty chased away all fatigue and irritation that would naturally result from a man's not having had anything to eat for nearly a day. i literally flew to her presence, that i might relieve her of whatever pain she might be enduring. pain is so disfiguring that even beauty shows its ravages. "i was prepared by the boy's account to expect something more than ordinary, but i was not quite prepared to see such a vision of loveliness as confronted me. an angel could not be more beautiful. i know, huskins, i must have stared when i saw her. "she approached me eagerly, and asked, 'do i speak to the celebrated dr. baxter?' i can feel my heart beat now at the remembrance of the sweet music of her voice. i never realized what a beautiful name i had before. i assured her i was dr. baxter, and the thought came to me irresistibly but joyously, 'what have i ever done, that such an angel of beauty has deigned to come to me for guidance and help?' no words can express the joy that pervaded my whole being at the thought of how wise i was in choosing a physician's career which would make me of service to such beautiful and suffering women. when she reached out that little hand for me to grasp in my big--" "enough of your effusions, come to the point. i am in a hurry." "huskins, you are a great mesmerist, but you lack a touch of sentimentality. i think with that you would be almost a god." "then you had better let your suppositions rest until you are ruminating by yourself. what connection has the woman with me? please answer briefly. i am in a hurry." "you are too hasty, but i will endeavor to tell you in a short way what it took us a long time to talk over. she had come to me to implore you (on my bended knee if necessary) to gain your permission to mesmerize her, and you shall do it if i have to hypnotize you in order to make you." "you must excuse me for laughing, my dear baxter, but it is really a capital joke. is it not, harrington? cannot you see the point? she has used me as a catspaw to get into your good graces. you are the objective point, not me, otherwise, she would have come to me immediately. i couldn't count the number who have given me urgent invitations to do the same for them. you see, she was a little embarrassed about asking you to do that for her, but she was hoping you would volunteer, for everyone knows that you are accounted an expert professional mesmerist. i wonder at your denseness of understanding. you are ordinarily very keen and shrewd. "harrington and i make no pretensions to gallantry toward the ladies, yet either of us could see through that gauze of deception. eh, harrington?" "you are right, huskins. i can see no reason for his attacking you in such a manner." "but you haven't it all. do not be hasty in your conclusions. she told me she had long been interested in the study of psychology, and the fame of prof. huskins had reached her in several places she had visited. she had always thought she would like to study upon the subject, and the only way to do was to be put to sleep herself. she was not willing to experiment with all persons, but would feel perfectly safe to be mesmerized by such an adept in the science as the professor. she had likewise been informed that, being a rich man, and only practising the power for his own pleasure, it would be extremely difficult to reach him. some kind person had told her i was an intimate friend of his, and might be able to influence him to see her, and possibly experiment with her, although she felt she would not be easily influenced. her stay is brief, and she was not accustomed to sue for favors, as she assured me, but rather to be sued." "there you are, running off on a tangent again. you may convey to your fair charmer my compliments, and state i am sorry to disappoint her, but just at present, i am too busy to comply with her wishes. if i were to mesmerize all the women who wish me to, i should have no opportunity to benefit science by any valuable experiments. let us dismiss the subject without further talk." "but, huskins, you have not heard her name. she is a very noted woman." "that makes no difference to me. i have neither time nor patience to exhaust upon her." "you must see her, because i have promised to bring her to your home, which report declares to be such an example of beauty and refinement." "really, baxter, you are going a little too far. you know i consider my home a place of refuge and enjoyment, where i am free from all intrusion. you and harrington are always welcome, as i think i have proven to you, but i do not pose as a curiosity or freak to be exhibited at any time to any of your friends or his who happen to want to look at me." "i shall tell you her name, whether you wish to hear it or not. she is the famous singer, rosalie earle. oh! you are surprised. so was i, huskins. think what a rude thing it would be to refuse her the hospitality of your home. i know you think too much of me to place me in so embarrassing a position as to go to her and say 'my friend, prof. huskins, refuses to permit us to enter his house.' do let her call upon you, even though you do not practice your power for her." "pardon my gruffness, baxter; you may bring the lady by all means. i will make every condition as agreeable as lies in my power. you come too, harrington;--possibly we can arrange with the siren to sing for us. i must go now. we will talk over the business we have met here to discuss at my house. baxter has monopolized the time we were to give to it here. i must go to see merle, and i know harrington should look after patients. i will look for you both. let us hope the amiable and distinguished lady will be satisfied with her visit. au revoir!" "how quickly huskins changed his mind, when he knew who the woman was! i thought i was going to be in a deuce of a fix, he was so obstinate. he is a good fellow. i wish you would come with me to visit a patient. i want your opinion. it is a severe case with conflicting symptoms, and you may be able to suggest something of benefit. can you go right away?" "yes. i will be glad to accommodate you." chapter five william went directly from dr. harrington's to merle's home, where he was greeted by mrs. millard, who said, "i am so glad you have come, professor, as merle does not seem at all well. he is feverish and nervous, and has said every little while, 'i wish the professor would come.' he will be so glad to see you. you look pale yourself; i hope you are not ill." "thank you, mrs. millard, i am well, but have just come from a professional conference. i am sorry that merle is not feeling well. i will soon help him. shall i go right up to his room?" "oh! he would get up and dress. he is in the parlor lying down. go right in." "see that no one disturbs us until i speak to you. i shall put him to sleep." "no one will enter; i will see to that. i hope you will have time to see alice, too--she also acts strangely. i do not like to intrude upon your time; you have been so good to us,--but mothers are nervous, weak creatures." "it will be a pleasure to do anything that lies in my power for alice, after i have restored merle, and i will see her then. you must never hesitate to ask favors of me, mrs. millard. it gives me real pleasure to be of assistance to you at all times. now i will look at merle." "i am sorry to see you looking so weak and sick, merle. what do you suppose caused your sudden faintness at the concert? you were apparently well and rested before the singer's entrance. it wasn't a case of love at first sight, was it? we may as well jest as look upon the dark side of the picture." "you don't know how grieved i was to be the means of depriving you of the pleasure of hearing so exquisite a singer as miss earle, knowing, as i do, your love of music. i think the very thought of how disappointed you must have been has helped to make me sick. i would like to be instrumental in bringing you happiness, but my weakness robbed you of a special delight. really, i tried not to give up, but an irresistible wave of power seemed to pass over me." "i understand. do not think of me at all. my concern for you and your health supplanted every other feeling. merle, your father is dead, and though i am not old enough in years to fill his place, my love and interest in you are sufficiently strong to warrant me a father's privilege of questioning you as to the cause of this undue illness. you know me well enough to be sure that whatever you may say to me will never be repeated. i would not ask you any questions except in the interest of science, but i want to find out what has caused this condition. you were apparently well and happy until the singer appeared, then you were taken suddenly and seriously sick. merle, what is she to you?" "what is she to me? nothing. i did not even see her." "then what made you ill?" "i do not know." "think well, merle. tell me every sensation you remember." "i cannot recall anything but a clutching sensation at my heart, as though some one had it in his hand, and tightened his hold until i could neither see nor hear, and a loud rumbling sounded in my ears." "what caused these sensations? that is what i want to know. tell me, merle, did not the appearance of the woman evolve some painful recollection?" "how could it? i did not see her. i do not know whether she was young or old, light or dark, large or small." "i shall be obliged to put you into the trance state to find out the exact cause. you know, merle, i never permit a result to elude me. are you willing i should try to find the cause? i confess i am as ignorant of it as you." "you know i am always willing to be of any assistance to you, and if i knew the cause, i would tell you more quickly than my own father, but i do not." "very well. now sleep. speak. merle, are you all right?" "yes." "i am glad. now i want to know what was the cause of your physical weakness at the concert." "i do not know." "you do not know? do not answer me that way. i want the truth, and will have it. what made your body faint and sick?" "i do not know." "merle, you have been a faithful, truthful subject for almost ten years. i have always chosen you when some severe and important test was before me. never yet have you failed to respond to my wishes. do not let this be the first occasion of your disobedience. you know what made your heart stop beating. tell me. i demand it. what is that woman to you?" "what woman? i did not see any woman." "merle, you are lying to me. do you think you can make me believe such an assertion as that? you can not deceive me. tell me the truth." "i am telling you the truth." "merle, i will you; tell me what that woman is to you." "what woman?" "i cannot tell you how it grieves me to find you so untruthful; no man on earth could have convinced me of the fact that you would ever give me anything but truthful answers. probably you were afraid i would reprimand you, if you were to tell the exact truth, but i will not. it makes no difference into what conditions you may have been led, or what you have done, i will remain ever your staunch friend. be frank, be the merle i have so long loved and trusted. what made you ill?" "i do not know." "what is that woman to you?" "what woman?" "i have good patience, but you are trying it too far. you shall tell me the truth." "i am telling you the truth." "you know the woman who sang." "i do not know her." "you do." "i do not." "i say you do. where have you seen her before last night?" "nowhere." "i say you have, and you shall tell me. merle, why do you not speak? what makes you act in this contrary manner? speak. you know this woman." "yes." "i knew it. did the sight of her make you ill?" "yes." "just what i thought. what is she now, or what has she formerly been to you?" "i was her lover." "ah!" "she said she loved me and urged me on, but finally i discovered i was only one of several admirers. when she appeared, the shock of seeing her thus unexpectedly, made me faint." "why did you not tell me this when i first asked you?" "i was afraid." "you would have pleased me much more in telling the truth. there is no disgrace in loving a beautiful woman. where did you meet her and woo her?" "i do not know." "of course you know. tell me the truth." "i feel as though it were a long time ago, and everywhere there was sunshine and flowers, but i don't know where it was." "you do;--tell me." "i cannot." "do you hear me, merle? what ails the boy? i never saw him like this before. merle, answer me. where did you first meet the woman?" "i never saw her." "you just told me you were her lover. where did you know her?" "i do not know her." "you do, and i will you to tell me the truth. again, where did you first meet the woman?" "i am tired." "tell me the truth and then you shall rest." "i do not know any more. i cannot get it." "get what?" "where she was." "where were you?" "with you." "no; with her. merle, you must be very ill when you talk so irrationally and untruthfully. you, whom i believed to be the soul of honor and rectitude. sleep awhile. i will return, and then you will tell me truthfully. whom can i trust, if not merle? yet, he persists in telling me lies, and defies my suggestions for truth. this proves to me that i have yet much to learn of men's souls. i would have given much rather than have this occur, for i can never again feel the same degree of confidence in anything he may give me in the trance state. heretofore i have always put implicit faith in any assertions he made, but i am grievously disappointed at this. women are the source of all man's iniquity. she has made him this, and yet he tries to shield her. he was a good boy until her influence poisoned him. i will take him in his normal condition and teach him to avoid women. i will obliterate her memory even from his mind, for he is too good a boy to be ruined by a frivolous woman's fancy. sleep sweetly till i bid you wake, merle; i will go and see what ails alice. it is strange she should also be affected at this time. a few more experiences like this, and i shall have good reason to believe that i have very little knowledge of the human mind and mechanism." "mrs. millard, i have put merle to sleep. he will waken calm and refreshed. i would like alice to come here.--ah! here she is. let me see what is troubling you." "i do not feel ill, professor. i am just nervous and weak." "shall i put you to sleep?" "i wish you would." "mrs. millard, i will see you before i go. sleep, alice. that is well." "poor merle." "why alice, what makes you say 'poor merle?' he is sleeping quietly, and will awake refreshed and cheerful." "poor merle! poor merle!" "there alice, that will do. do not try to talk; just rest." "but i want to talk; i know what made merle sick." "you do? what did make him sick?" "you did." "i? why alice, i am making him well, not ill." "you made him sick." "what power is working to make you and merle talk so strangely to-day?" "i say that you made him ill." "there, you had better sleep now, you are in no condition to talk." "you think the beautiful woman's influence affected him, but it was your own that overcame him. that is the reason you could not control him. had your own mind been at rest and at peace, you could have prevented his present sickness." "you talk enigmas, alice. merle acknowledged while in the trance state that he knew the woman, and that the sight of her overcame him." "then he told you an untruth. he does not know the woman." "which of you shall i believe?" "me." "under similar conditions, he would answer the same. i know not which to trust. balancing the two testimonies, at their intrinsic values, any man would unhesitatingly accept merle's as the more reliable. how did you get your information that i caused his sickness? if my influence made him ill, what agitated me so, leaving no sign of impression upon me, yet causing another person to suffer? you have given me some strange assertions, which you cannot hope to have me believe, unless you give me logical reasons for so doing." "it is very hard to get close enough into your magnetism to sense the exact causes of your emotions, but i know that your own surprise at seeing the face of that woman produced such a shock, the influence was reflected upon merle's body. you could control yourself by strong will force, but merle could not guard against the powerful wave of magnetism your surprise generated. you have mesmerized him so much he is sensitive to your every thought, either spoken or silent, and he cannot help it." "why should he be so strangely affected just at the present time? he never exhibited such a tendency before." "you have never been affected so strongly before, as you were at the concert." "why was i so affected at the sight of a strange woman as to warrant such an explanation of merle's sickness as you have given me?" "she was not a strange woman to you. you were not pleased to see her there." "why?" "i do not know. it is all dark before me now, but i will yet go into the clouds as i promised you. i told you merle could not do the work for you, for i saw him falling down before it. i can--after a few times trying. i cannot see the woman myself. i feel just as you feel, almost numb from a severe shock. i cannot get any more now. do not be impatient nor vexed with merle. he loves you, and told you the truth, but your stronger will (believing he knew the woman) compelled him to say that he did. he will not be well again until you become calm in your own mind, for all the sensations that sway your soul will be reflected in him. you are a very powerful man, but even you cannot set aside infinite law." "before you go, alice, try to tell me something about the lady. try to see her." "i cannot see her. the only sensation is sadness. oh, so deep!" "she looked anything but sad, when i saw her. i think you have not gotten into her influence at all. she was the personification of cheerfulness." "you saw only the body of the woman, which was compelled to laugh, at her desire to appear well. how do you know when a person smiles that it is a sign of happiness? you laugh--i always knew you were not happy. would anyone have thought to have seen you at the concert, looking so fine, your heart was aching as it did?" "try once more to see her. i will wait patiently." "i shall not see her until you have again. i feel sorry for her. you are so kind, and i feel you are going to be as cruel as your nature will allow." "there, alice, wake up cheerful and strong. you have talked enough. wake up. there, you are feeling better; i know by the healthful flush upon your face. merle is still sleeping. leave him as he is. i will be back again to-day. he will soon be himself again." "i am glad to hear you say that; mother and i have been quite worried about him; he acted so unlike himself, but we felt you could cure him. i will speak to mother; you may tell her anything you want done." "mrs. millard, you may relieve your mind of all anxiety concerning merle. see how rosy and well alice is looking. i will have merle the same. there is nothing you can do for him, any more than to keep him perfectly quiet. i will come back later in the day. i have an appointment at my home, so i must be going." "a mother's loving gratitude will follow you, professor. my constant wish is that you may be as happy yourself as you make others." as william walked briskly away from merle's home to his own, mrs. millard's parting words followed him, causing him to think sadly. "happy--me happy! does a happy man work as i work, who has money enough to gratify his every whim, but concentrates every thought and interest upon science, experiment and work, just to lose sight of himself? i flattered myself years ago that i had conquered myself; stifled every sensation and emotion common to youth and man, transformed myself into a student of science, and grew gradually to believe myself quite a power in the use of psychology. after all my work, i am, in a day, brought face to face with my great ignorance and weakness, at the very time i seemed nearest to the goal i have so long held before me, while all my boasted calmness and control over my nerves and body were instantaneously dispelled by a woman's presence. "no man could have made me believe i was so weak. i will overcome this humiliating weakness, as i have similar ones in the past. it must have been the suddenness of her appearance before me that temporarily shattered all my self-control. "who would have expected to see her in the famous singer whom everyone is adoring? praise, flattery and homage! well, that will make her happy for a while, then she will find how empty and worthless it all is. what reason can she possibly have for coming to see me, of all persons? "i may as well acknowledge the truth to myself. i would have allowed merle to suffer before i would have gone out, while she stood there. she would have thought i felt shocked to see her, but she will find me entirely calm and collected;--master of myself. "to think that now, of all times, merle fails me! if i ever wanted his help, it is now. i ought to be strong enough and shrewd enough to compete with a woman. i cannot collect my thoughts sufficiently to even try to conjecture the cause of merle's and alice's inconsistency in talk. truly, inconsistency, you never had a more ardent and faithful pupil than i. my whole bearing is an example of inconsistency, without modification. i am glad no person can know from my outward appearance, the great tumult sweeping over my soul. "happy? poor woman, she did not mean to be sarcastic, for she was sincere in her wish, but my worst enemy could not give me a keener thrust. now to tell james. he and mrs. c---must not be seen by her. i seem pursued by fate, yet i have always been an honorable man. sometimes i am almost convinced those who try least to be so are blessed with the greatest happiness." chapter six when william reached his home, he went directly to his private apartment, telling the attendant who let him in to send james to him at once. he had no more than removed his coat, when there was a rap on the door, and in answer to his "come in" an aged man appeared, small in stature, but very erect, the personification of neatness and exactness. looking at this man, one would not suppose he had ever made an error in system, or forgotten any of the rules respecting cleanliness and order. it was easily to be seen at a single glance his whole soul bowed down in admiration and homage to his master, whom he loved with that degree of fervor that passes the bounds of ordinary affection, and servitude, and enters the realm of adoration or reverence. the horizon of his present and future was bounded by this man's pleasure and displeasure. his eyes fastened themselves at once upon his master's when he was bidden to enter. the most careless observer would have said, could he have obtained but one glimpse of his attitude and deportment, "that man is a slave to his master, still i would not want to stir the depths of his nature towards me as an antagonist, for he is no ordinary character, but a power whichever way he may incline." for a brief interval after he entered, no word was spoken by either. james, the newcomer, was looking at his master, while william hesitated and seemed confused. finally he spoke, but anyone would have noticed the hot flush which diffused his face, and which was a very foreign expression to his usually pale and colorless hue. "james, i have sent for you to impart a most unusual command. ever since you came into my service, you have been faithful, loyal and considerate of my every pleasure and comfort. not once have i had any occasion to censure you or doubt your loving service. such faithfulness demands recognition. during the darkest days of my life, you guided and thought for me, when i was unable to think coherently or strongly for myself. such service can never be rewarded. "i hope i have proved myself to be, at least, a kind and considerate master. if i have failed in any respect, it is because i lacked wisdom to express myself, as my heart has overflowed with gratitude." "do not say any more, professor. never was a poor servant blessed with so kind a master before as i have been here. i have been with you too long not to read the expression of your face aright. you are in sore trouble. this is a chance for me to show the depths of my devotion to you. bid me make any sacrifice, ask me to perform any work, however delicate or dangerous, and you shall see how much james loves you. believe me, professor, i know only one aim and object in life,--that is to further and guard your happiness, or i should say your bodily comfort, for i know you are not happy, though the gods have given you riches, power and wisdom. "you are too good a man not to have somewhere in store for you the same amount of pleasure you are always striving to give to someone else. surely, you are ill--i will bring you some wine." "no, james, i do not want it." "but you have eaten nothing at home for a whole day. your bed has not been disturbed, and you tremble so i know that you are not well. let me send for dr. harrington." "no." "there, i implore you, take some wine. rest, and i will see no one disturbs you." "sleep! i feel as though i could never sleep again. wine is impotent to restore my calmness, james. only a powerful exercise of will can do that. by and by i will gain it. i sent for you to help me pass a darker condition than has heretofore entered my most disappointing and troubled life. you have never yet failed me and i do not think you will now. i would not have permitted any other person to see me so unmanned, but when you came in just then, it brought too forcibly for me to control myself, those old times, when your coming was the signal for my happiness, and now the contrast is so great, it for a time overcame me. i will be myself again soon." "pardon an old man's inquisitiveness. you know it can only arise from my love for you, for i have given as good a test as one man can give another of my faithfulness. i have never seen you so agitated and upset since that awful time you forbade me to ever mention. i have been as silent as the grave, but i feel you could not be so upset but by something connected with that or some tidings of it. forgive my speaking of it when you have commanded my silence, for this is my first disobedience in all these years." "james, clarissa is coming here to-day." "master--do my ears deceive me? my little clarissa? my beloved clarissa? my beautiful lady?" "james, are you beside yourself?" "how can i be calm when i shall welcome my blessed lady? you say she is coming. blessed be the day when her feet cross your--" "that will do. i see you still love her better than me, who have tried to be your friend, when she forsook and forgot you. such is the gratitude of this world." "there is no test or sacrifice any man can pass through, i would not gladly and cheerfully endure to prove my loyalty to you. you tell me clarissa is coming here, then condemn me for rejoicing, when there hasn't been a day passed for years i have not prayed for this very thing. how can i help rejoicing at your happiness? why do you look so serious? i know--my god! they will bring her poor dead body here. poor child, we will cover it with flowers. i will cut all those we were saving for the public exhibition. you will not care, will you professor? it is the last favor a poor old servant can do. you know i always keep one plant of her favorite blossoms growing. there is only one spray of them, but she would like them in her hand. i always felt she would come, and i wanted her to find them in season, or out of season her flowers, a fit sign of the constancy of the love we felt for her." "stop! you are giving her more credit than i feel is her due. your love for her is stronger than i had dreamed. it is well you have not told me before of your keeping a particular blossom among my plants for her, otherwise you would not have preserved the plants, and remained in my service. if your love for her is stronger than for me, i will release you from your allegiance to me, and you had better seek her service." "remember, i am an old man, no longer quick to understand. let that fact be my excuse. no other master will i ever serve willingly. i know not how to talk or act. you say she is coming, yet you are angry when i feel joy. why does she come, if not dead?" "by her own wish." "i always told you she loved you." "she is not coming because she loves me. she has heard i am a powerful mesmerist, and wishes me to mesmerize her." "no! no! you do not mean to say she is coming here unbidden and unwelcomed by you." "you may be sure i have extended her no invitation. i suppose she thinks she can deal with me as before. if she can come unbidden, i am a very weak man, if i cannot act the part of an hospitable host." "there must be some mistake here; clarissa is too proud to place herself in such a place. she does not know whom you are." "why doesn't she? she went to dr. baxter and solicited his influence to do for her what she knew i would not." "my poor old brain is numb; but i know that clarissa has some motive good and true, or she would not humble herself to you. i know she thinks by bending her pride, you will forget and forgive. she knows you too well to believe you will seek her, although we all were to die of lonesomeness and sorrow. that is the way she used to do when she was small. be imperious and wilful as a little queen, then come and--" "there,--reminiscences are not interesting to me. they might be to her. you have the privilege to choose between her and me, as you did once before. there will be the same conditions attached to the bargain. you cannot serve both. consider yourself entirely free to choose. you have served me well--i appreciate your faithfulness, but could not hope to vie--" "do not say any more,--my head is going round and round. won't you tell me why she is coming here?" "i have told you." "master, you do not think that is the only reason? i know she is hungry to see you. you will not go to her, so she is coming to you. she is proud, and must have suffered awfully before she could do it. when you see her, you will forget what she did, same as i used to when she had picked all my choice--" "enough. there is not the slightest resemblance between a man's heart and a flower, though she does seem to think so. i told you merle was sick, and you professed to be sorry, as you said you thought him to be an unusually fine young man." "i meant it. he is, next to yourself, the best man i ever saw." "what do you suppose caused his illness?" "how could i know?" "your idol of admiration and worship--clarissa." "no, it cannot be so. she would not make an insect to suffer. i remember--" "i do not care to hear remembrances. he told me so himself. he had been her lover at one time, and the knowledge he was only one of several ruined his life. he had not seen her for some time, but, coming suddenly into her presence, being weak from long entrancement, he received such a shock he has been weak and feverish ever since. the same old story, you see!" "i do not think merle would lie, professor, but i cannot believe clarissa would willingly ruin any man's life. everything seems to be tending to a more dense darkness. when she comes, i will take her the bunch of flowers i have raised for her, and tell her how perplexed i am. she will explain. she always told the truth, no matter what she did." "how she must have changed since childhood." "do not laugh like that." "that was a droll remark. she always told the truth, no matter what she did.--well, time is flying. she will soon be here. which are you going to be loyal to, her or me? you have not much time to decide. that is her fault, not mine. if you conclude to remain in my service, you must make a quick decision, as i shall insist upon both you and your wife's shutting yourselves up in your own apartments while she is here, that she may neither see you nor know you are here." "not even see her? not one glance?" "no. not and remain in my service; furthermore, your wife must not even know she is coming. i do not trust women. she might promise secrecy, but would yield to the temptation to look at her, to see how she had changed. while she was looking, the famous miss earle would see her, and then such a scene would follow as i don't wish baxter and harrington to see. what are you looking at me like that for?" "you do not mean that miss earle, the great singer, is clarissa?" "none other, james. time makes many changes. but quick,--you must choose." "i never did, nor never will condemn or believe anything against her." "then you decide to go to her? no doubt she will be glad to have you with her again." "i did not say that. i said i trusted her, and i do. she had reasons i did not know, and probably never shall, for doing what she did. i shall serve you lovingly and faithfully as long as breath remains in my old body, unless you send me away. i had rather die than know that she was here though, and not hear the sound of her sweet voice, or feel the touch of her soft, white hands, but i will follow your directions, and so shall nancy. i will keep her working. may i ask just one question?" "i have never refused to answer you, have i?" "shall you mesmerize her? if you do, may i not take just one look at her? she will not know it." "i shall have nothing to do with her." "but, master, everyone says you have wonderful power. i do not understand it. couldn't you mesmerize her and find out why she left us?" "nonsense. i know well enough." "if you wanted to do so, could you make her tell you in that way? "yes." "then why do you not do it?" "it is not worth the trouble. i want to thank you for your loyalty to me. you will never be the loser, james. i trust you to keep both yourself and your wife from sight while she is here. to reward you, i will tell you the principal account she gives of herself during the interview, after she has gone. i am done with you now. do not look so solemn, james; your part is far easier than mine." "if you should mesmerize her, may i see her?" "i can easily promise you that--" "i will put those flowers in the library, under your picture, just where she loved to see them. she will know she isn't forgotten here. when you want me, tell robert to come to my private room. nancy and i will be there.--i was only saying to send robert to my room when you wanted me, as nancy and i would be there." * * * * * as the door closed, william threw himself into the nearest chair, repeating james's words "rather die than know she was here and not hear the sound of her sweet voice, or feel the touch of her soft, white hands." his lips closed firmer and firmer together, as he felt how much easier it was not to see her than to meet her as he must; as a stranger; calm and collected, while his whole being was swaying with emotions so varied and conflicting; he could not separate nor enumerate them himself. of all the bitter lessons life had furnished him, this was certainly the bitterest. then came the thought, "i must control my thoughts. i will be brave and calm--apparently satisfied and happy with my lot in life. if she has the heartlessness to seek me, she shall witness no ravages her perfidy has made upon me. she shall not gloat over my misery. i will dress now. i will show her that there is at least one man who can resist the witchery of her presence, despite her fame." chapter seven when william had dressed, and entered his library to attend to the writing which the day's excitement had caused him to neglect, not even the most careful observer of human nature could have discovered signs of a disturbed mind in either his face or his bearing. he seated himself, and immediately began to critically examine the papers which awaited his attention, and before the bell announcing the arrival of his guests rang, he had done quite an amount of work. he arose at once, and went to the reception hall to greet them. there was not the least perceptible tremor in his voice when he bade them welcome, and acknowledged the introduction to the lady who came with dr. baxter. after the usual salutations were over, he invited them into the adjoining room, and dr. baxter said,-"you see we were right on time, huskins. one of my pet foibles, you know, is punctuality. miss earle, unlike most of her sex, was promptness itself, waiting for me, instead of keeping me waiting for her. harrington sent his regards, as he was unable to join us. he was suddenly called from town, to be gone several days. i hope i will not prove 'de trop' at this interview; if so, however, consider me yours to direct. i will go into another room, and remain until you have finished. miss earle, you look very pale, and you are trembling violently. you are nervous. there is no occasion for fearing huskins; he is a royal good fellow. most women are nervous toward him. eh, huskins?" miss earle spoke up quickly. her voice was calm, though she trembled visibly. "i have no fear of prof. huskins. far from it; but i am troubled considerably with this most distressing form of nervousness. i shall soon recover." "you work harder than you should, perhaps. it is no uncommon thing for women, and sometimes men, to be seized with a sort of vertigo when they first meet huskins. they seem to feel that he has some mysterious power; their doubts and fears temporarily control them. you will feel more at ease after you have talked with him a while. his power is just the thing to remove your nervousness. it was wisdom upon your part that prompted you to come to him to be mesmerized. medicine could not do what he can for you. would you feel freer to talk if i were to leave the room?" "you will please me best by remaining here. both of you gentlemen have doubtless heard, and probably believe, that women are but living types of contradiction and inconsistency. i shall be to you but another proof of the adage. yesterday, i had but one absorbing thought--to be mesmerized; and i naturally desired to be taken to the most renowned exponent and operator. my exorbitant wish granted, my enthusiasm, strange to state, entirely vanished. i am very sorry that any whim of mine has discommoded you whose time is so valuable." "not at all, miss earle, it has afforded me great pleasure to be of service to you, and huskins has any quantity of time at his disposal. he only works when he feels like it. i am sure your enthusiasm only failed you because you are uncertain of the sensation accompanying the trance condition. it is not unpleasant. i know that you would be a good 'subject' and could be put to sleep easily. am i not right, huskins?" "miss earle has a temperament very susceptible to magnetic influence, and would experience no unpleasant sensations while passing to sleep. i am sure i could remove the nervous disorder." "i appreciate your kindly interest in me, gentlemen, but all my desire for personal experience with magnetic sleep has gone, never to return: i feel now. it may seem strange to you,--i came to you, to two strangers, for such an experiment, without bringing with me an attendant, or obtaining your services through the intervention of mutual acquaintances. the reason for my singular action was, i wanted no one to know about it. your reputations were both such i knew you to be gentlemen. really, i did not pause to think how it would look. it seemed to me as though i was going to a physician. it is quite proper to go there unattended." "such an apology is unnecessary. do not allow such a trifling obstacle to interfere with the accomplishment of your wish, for huskins' housekeeper is a venerable and estimable woman. she often assists him. she is a woman you would trust as a mother. you may never have such an opportunity again, for i had considerable work to gain the professor's consent to mesmerize you. i imagine, however, your remarkable singing last night had more to do with it, after all, than any persuasion on my part. who could refuse anything to the possessor of so matchless a voice?" "allow me to express the admiration i felt at the rendering of the first number you sang--doubtless all were equally good. unfortunately for me, one of my subjects who went with me was taken violently ill, and we were compelled to leave. he is a friend of yours, he tells me." "you flatter me by your encomiums. i am pleased you enjoyed the song. you say the gentleman who was with you was a friend of mine. may i ask his name?" "merle millard." "merle millard? that is a strange name to me. i have no recollection of ever having met him. no person who works in public can hope to remember all the estimable people whom they meet. i hope he has recovered from his indisposition." "i am sorry to say he has not. it is strange you do not recall him at all. he told me today he once knew you intimately." "i have had few intimate acquaintances in my life. i have no recollection of ever having heard that name before. i may have met him at some reception, and forgotten him; more than that, i do not know him. i hope he will have a speedy recovery. i will not intrude longer on your time." "can we say nothing to induce you to carry out your original intention?" "no, dr. baxter; i thank you sincerely and earnestly for your kindness and courtesy." "they are ever at your disposal. would it be overstepping the bounds of politeness to ask you to sing just one song? the professor is quite a musician, himself, and has a piano in perfect order; for i know he is so susceptible to discords. i have never had the pleasure of hearing you sing. granting my wish, i shall always regard this day in my memory as one of the most fortunate in my life. i know the professor will gladly accompany you on the piano." "you have been too kind for me to refuse. i owe you both some return for the patience you have shown my varying moods. i will not trouble the professor to play for me, as i am used to playing my own accompaniments. i will sing you a song from memory, if that will be your pleasure." "we will adjourn at once to the music room. the professor is not a married man, but he keeps an establishment of as many rooms as though he had a large family. he is a lucky man:--rich, happy, powerful and talented. how he has managed to escape designing mothers and beautiful daughters, is a continual problem to his friends." "science is a jealous mistress, and is at present the wife of my choice; the presiding mistress of the house. i hope, miss earle, you will find the instrument in fairly good tune. had i known i was to be so highly honored, i should have had it especially tuned for you, but i know that you are too gracious not to make allowances for any defects that may be found." * * * * * "what an exquisite voice! words fail to express my gratitude for this feast of music; i shall never forget it. permit me to offer you these flowers which have been placed beneath huskins' picture. such music is only fitly rewarded by flowers." "it is a beautiful bouquet. i appreciate your compliment and kindness. these waxy, white tuberoses are very rare at this season of the year. they are beautiful flowers, but their odor affects me unpleasantly. singers, you know, are very sensitive to the fragrance of flowers. may i ask the professor if he will kindly send them to the sick gentleman, with my compliments and best wishes? flowers bring such a cheerful influence to the sick room. permit me to thank you for your hospitality, professor, and to apologize for my unseemly intrusion. believe me, i truly appreciate all your kindness." "it affords me great pleasure if i have been of any service to you, miss earle; may success attend you always. i will call at your office sometime tomorrow, baxter. au revoir." after watching his guests depart, william strode quickly back to the music room. any person seeing him would have known that some strong emotion was raging in his soul. his eyes flashed with that brightness that only shows itself under stress of strong feeling, and he walked straight to the bouquet which miss earle had left upon the table, near where she had stood. he took it up, and throwing it upon the floor, crushed the sweet flowers under his feet until all their beauty was gone, but the whole room was filled with their fragrance. "she dared ask me to carry these to her old love. she dared ask me! me! is she not satisfied with past torture, and must she add present insult to it? i carry flowers from her to another man? why did i not crush them here before her? she does not like their odor--they affect her unpleasantly. she has changed her mind since i can remember. once they affected her differently. she was nervous and trembling like a child. what sent her here? she shall not defy or humiliate me in the future. she is a rarely organized sensitive. i am an expert mesmerist. i will her to come and beg me to mesmerize her. first, i will refuse, then, when i am ready, i will influence her. she shall see, think and act just as i will her. i will put every particle of force in my soul into the work. i will make her my obedient slave. ask me to carry flowers to your old lover! you dared to look me calmly in the eye, and to say without a quiver, 'carry them, with my compliments and best wishes to the sick man.' my flowers, i was to carry to him. think of it! my flowers with her compliments. if there is any power in magnetism, and i have proven its efficacy, i will crush out of your heart the pride that prompted that insult, as thoroughly as i have the beauty of these flowers. "not one throb of pity for you. you are weaving a net for baxter, too, probably. make the most of your time, for i solemnly swear i will make you suffer just as much as you have made me. i have made a success of every work i have ever undertaken, and i will make one of this. these flowers make me feel faint and dizzy. i will go and walk and get the air. her presence has polluted the very atmosphere of the whole house." chapter eight after leaving prof. huskins, dr. baxter escorted miss earle to her temporary home, and by every means in his power, sought to make her cheerful and at her ease. despite his efforts she seemed a different woman, than she had been when he conducted her to the professor's house. he painted in the most glowing colors the remarkable wisdom and power of the professor, recounting all his virtues, and his singular manner of living, acknowledging him to be the very "prince of men," of all his large acquaintance. to his keen disappointment, she seemed not at all interested in his narration, and it might have been plainly evident to the most careless observer her thoughts and interests were far from the subject under consideration. his pride had been considerably wounded, but she was far too beautiful and distinguished a woman toward whom to cherish any animosity. he was conscious of the fact that he had been signally honored by her seeking his aid to reach the professor, and he attributed her sudden change of purpose entirely to womanly fickleness of nature, being convinced in his own mind that, desiring a mesmeric sleep or state of unconsciousness, the presence of so austere and dignified a personage as the professor had inspired her with a degree of awe and fear that, for the time, was uncontrollable. he did not wonder greatly at this, for in all his acquaintance with the professor, he had never seem him appear to so great a disadvantage. he was always affable and pleasing, especially when he desired to secure a person's approbation to being psychologized. in this interview, he had scarcely been hospitable, speaking only when he was actually spoken to or necessity demanded. he had a degree of deference and respect for prof. huskins that he felt for none other of his acquaintances, knowing him to be superior, from a moral standpoint, to all the rest, and he did not want an unpleasant impression to be left in this woman's mind. huskins had appeared to a disadvantage, and he endeavored, so far as lay in his power, to remove the unsatisfactory impression from her mind, but the woman did not appear to recover from the agitation, that the sight of the professor had produced, although to most women, he was not only agreeable but captivating. arriving at her destination, she thanked him for his kindness to her, and his intercession with his distinguished friend, in a most charming manner, and he went away feeling well repaid for all his efforts. he felt sure that, had he been the professor, she would not have refused to be mesmerized. it was well for his egotism, and the peace of his mind, that he could not see the woman when she had reached her private apartments. no audience ever had or ever would see her portray such a tempest of emotion as swayed and shook her soul. her whole body quivered, like the single petal of a flower that has been drawn into the fury of a gale, and cannot control its action, but is swept hither and yon by an irresistible force. finally the tempest of tears and grief subsided, leaving her languid and weak. only then did her thoughts become cogent, and they ran something like this: "what did he think? what could he think? he must have believed i knew whom he was, and went to see him, hoping for a reconciliation. how cold and stern and unrelenting his whole bearing was! how well i remember that expression in his eyes. i would have passed through any torture, rather than put myself in such a position; even death itself. "how could i know that the distinguished prof. huskins was william? the two persons who quoted him, said he was an old man, a scientist who had experimented years, and was capable of removing all bodily infirmities. "it was only natural my thoughts should turn to augustus, who, while gifted with remarkable talent, is afflicted with a weak and impotent body. my one thought and ambition has been to so improve his physical condition as to make it easier for him to express his talent, and hearing of the professor's power, i thought perhaps he could help augustus. i would gladly be a martyr to benefit him in any way. he is the one object of my interest and love upon earth. i have tried every kind of physician, and, hearing of this man's marvelous and wonderful powers, i resolved to submit myself to his influence, to test its power and to see what it was, and if it was good, to secure his services for augustus, even though it required all the money i had. "how could i know that he was augustus' own father? what power, what fate placed me in so embarrassing a position? what have i done that i should be subjected to such humiliation and chagrin? i have been a patient, faithful and devoted mother while he has enjoyed pleasure and renown. if there is a god of justice, why have i been compelled to enter this cruel, selfish and heartless man's home in search of my poor child's health? "how well i knew that expression in his eyes. he thought me a woman who seeks men of renown; he was as jealous and exacting as when his taunts and suspicions separated us. "i thank the giver of all good that william did not know the real object of my going to him for the exercise of his powers. "if there is a good god, and i sometimes question it, i pray that william may class me as he used to do with wicked and depraved women, for that would be preferable to the truth of a loving mother seeking her child's strength. if he believed augustus to be his child, he would take him away from me, or i should at least have to divide augustus' love. i will never do that, if it costs my life. he is mine. all mine. i would gladly suffer the torments of hades to bring him one throb of joy. "he shall never know his father's perfidy and treachery, if my suffering can prevent it. how glad he will be to see me! augustus, it is for you i sing; not for the public who pay me. in me you must find both father and mother. no power but my love for you would have given me strength to resist the magnetism of your father's eye, which, in times past, has so influenced me. "my body trembled, but when the two loves of my soul were placed in the balance, the mother's love was purer and stronger, and outweighed the wife's. it is useless to deny i love william; the very sight of him set every nerve aquiver, throbbing with an almost exquisite delight. i could not have controlled that condition, had there not come to my mind the memory and presence of one whom he denied, and who depends entirely upon my strength, fortitude and love. "this memory gave me the strength to conquer my woman's love, and only manifest a mother's. the love of a wife, that is, of a true wife, is enduring, but that of a mother is the nearest infinite love that can be. a wife's love may wane and weaken by facts of infidelity, but a mother's only strengthens with every token of weakness. "just in proportion to augustus' physical infirmity, does my affection increase in force and intensity. i once thought william the center of interest in the world, but the love i had for him pales into insignificance beside that for augustus. "william was jealous of me today; i saw it in his eyes, whose expression i know so well. once such a look would have controlled not only my actions, but my very thoughts as well. his influence over me has not waned. i am well aware of that by the weakness i manifested;--i actually trembled visibly;--but there has come into my life a newer and stronger influence--a mother's love, and that has rendered the other impotent. i was weak and negative to him until i had placed in my arms a babe who depended upon me for every comfort and shelter as i had depended upon william. "this dependence has generated in me a love and power he can neither overcome nor remove. he loves me yet. i saw and read the fact in his eyes. he appeared cold and unconcerned, but i know him too well to be deceived. no other woman has filled my place. he would have been glad to mesmerize me, and i am sure that i could never have resisted the power of his influence over me, had it not been for my thoughts of augustus. a wife may be strong, but a mother is stronger, and i am to augustus both mother and father. he shall never know the sacrifice i made for him this day. his father denied him, but his mother will be as true as his father is false. "i defy the power which has made him famous. my heart refused to beat regularly while i was there. i know it was due to the sudden shock i received. he could not have entranced me against my will, nor made me tell of augustus. "he knew my condition when i left him, and he has never tried to find trace of my child, nor whether we both died; still i am weak enough to yield to the magic influence of his presence. such a weakness shall not be repeated. by all the powers of my soul i defy it. i am augustus' only natural protector, and my love shall be the insurmountable barrier that shall separate him from his father. "at the time when my very life blood seemed to stop, there came a piercing cry that stirred the depths of my soul. since that time, i have known but one object in life--one only ambition and interest:--to be famous for my darling's sake. if i could only purchase by suffering his bodily freedom of action, i would endure the fiercest torture without a murmur. it would be impossible to endure more excruciating agony than i have experienced this day. why was i, an innocent victim from the beginning, compelled to encounter the humiliation of going to william's house? "i had almost rather that my darling augustus, my heart's idol, remained a hopeless invalid than have him rescued by his father's power. his cruelty made augustus a cripple, and me a hopeless and despairing woman. that power which has been our scourge, can never be our hope of release. better the hatred of our crudest enemy than the influence of william's love in our lives. "i will leave this city. i cannot breathe the same atmosphere i know is feeding him and live. i bid every idol but the image of my boy to depart from my soul. i will go where he is; there i shall find peace and happiness. how sharp love's eyes are! i must calm myself; i will be cheerful and happy; otherwise, augustus will note the difference, and ask the cause. "never was a mother blessed with so noble a son as mine. i will be his protector though the legions of ignorance and evil conspire against him and me. nothing can daunt my love. i will calm myself for your sake, augustus. mother will come to you, and we will be happy despite your father's influence. i feel it now. i will, augustus, break this annoying sensation." saying this, she arose with a visible effort, apparently suffering from great lassitude, and went into an adjoining apartment to write her son, where we will leave her while we follow the movements of william. chapter nine before william left his home after the interview, there came a hurried messenger from merle, asking his immediate presence, as there was a decided change for the worse in his condition. william knew such tidings must mean a serious state of affairs, as in all the time he had been using merle as a subject, he had never before been summoned by his people. on the contrary, merle had improved physically ever since he had been controlling him. he hastened to mrs. millard's house as quickly as possible, trying to keep merle in his mind as manifesting strength, health and calmness, yet, when he arrived, mrs. millard, who had been eagerly awaiting him, let him in, he saw by the expression of her countenance, which was clearly dejected, that his thought waves had thus far been futile. despite his own anguish and torture of mind, there arose the spectacle of what a blow it would be to science, if he, one of its advocates and acknowledged experimentors, should allow his principal subject to sicken and possibly die. he tried to the utmost of his will to focus his mind upon the thought, "merle shall and is manifesting health." how many times, when other men's minds had failed and their courage had flagged and waned, had his shone forth like a bright and radiant light, illumining the darkness and bringing out congenial conditions. somehow he did not seem to really know himself. he no longer felt secure or sure of anything, still he greeted mrs. millard with words of encouragement, and asked to be shown immediately into merle's presence. arriving there, he was astonished to note how weak and feverish merle was. even his presence did not seem to awaken him or to especially attract his attention. he asked mrs. millard to leave them alone. he would have been loth to admit how long a time it took him to gain sufficient power to put merle into a peaceful and refreshing sleep, but at length he accomplished it, and passing out of that apartment, asked if alice was willing to be mesmerized, while her mother went to watch by merle's bedside. in that house his word was law, and alice was soon put into the trance condition. her first utterances were all of merle, but by gradual degrees her thoughts were directed into different channels. after several questions, she was able to tell william that he had had two callers, when he had expected three, and the visit of these two had been productive of disappointment instead of satisfaction. he could not find out from his questioning why such a condition existed. he asked every variety of question he could think of, but, beyond what he already knew, he could get no enlightenment. this exasperated him greatly, for he was not in search of what he already knew, but striving to obtain information upon a point about which he was ignorant. why had miss earle come to him?--that was the question he wanted answered, but all he could get from alice was "she came to get help for him she loves." such a declaration, repeated over and over, by no means calmed william's troubled mind. finally she said: "do not force me. i do not know whom she loves, but i know she loves someone better than you. your power, which is strong enough to influence merle and me, is not strong enough to penetrate through the other love, yet she loves you better than her life." realizing how futile it was to force her further, william bade her awaken, and, after looking in to see merle again, and leaving such instructions as he thought it necessary to follow, left the house and walked toward his own home. his thoughts traveled rapidly, and the expression of his eyes showed that anger or some kindred feeling was one of the most potent forces operative in his spirit at the time. his thoughts ran something like this:--"she came to me to get help for him she loves.--she loves me better than her life, still there is one dearer yet.--my power is not strong enough to penetrate through this other love.--that remains to be proven; i think differently; i prophecy her idol will fall separate himself from her, and she be compelled to come to me for assistance. how she must love herself when she loves me more! love! she does not know what love is, but she shall know, and shall suffer, even as she has made me suffer--and merle. the boy is very ill, and is weakening instead of growing stronger. i had hard work to put him to sleep. his illness means the indefinite postponement of our scientific researches. i am in no condition to conduct them now even if merle were well, so his illness does not really interfere with the matter. i shall know no rest, but devote my every energy and power to the bending and breaking of clarissa's proud spirit. i will help her loved one. oh, yes, i will help him--to grow weak and negative, and the very antipathy of her desires, and she shall come to me humbly, and sue for help. she will never again ask me to carry flowers to her past lovers. i swear it." chapter ten six months have passed since we last saw william. during that time a noticeable change has taken place in his appearance. he seems many years older, and his eyes appear incapable of expressing anything but sternness. in a way these changes add to his dignity in a manner not altogether pleasant to contemplate. since last we saw him, his time has been given to the task of controlling clarissa's spirit, by silent thought suggestion, but so far he had been unable to bring her to him by their power. having experimented so long and thoroughly with mesmeric power, he was able to distinguish at a single glance those persons who were sensitive to his influence, consequently knew her to be a sensitive of an unusually susceptible and refined order, and he naturally thought that by concentrating upon her with the entire strength of his will he would cause her to gravitate to his presence, drawn by an irresistible force, in a very short time, as many others had before. there had been no lack of interest upon his part, as he had thrown into this work all the force and intensity of his power, but so far as he could see, there was no sign of clarissa's yielding, and she made no movement to seek his presence. such a result was exasperating in the extreme, and humiliating to him. almost every day he had questioned either merle or alice, after putting them into a trance state, concerning her movements, but he only received the most vague and indefinite replies, not one of which was satisfactory. alice had said several times that she would never come to him, and told him to go to her, but the idea seemed preposterous to him. he go to her? no--she should come to him. this at first, but after a while he added "or send for him," and now, here he was in search of her. it was easy to trace her movements, as her singing at any particular place was advertised in all directions. he kept in close touch with her movements, hoping to find a trace of the person whom she wished him to assist, but so far he had been unsuccessful in his search. the last reports he had had of her announced that she was in poor health as the result of overwork, which necessitated a complete rest from all public work. he was not deceived by this report, as he knew his constant thought was affecting her nervous system and undermining her strength, and this was not wholly unpleasant knowledge. he made a sudden resolution to go to her. it was useless for her to resist, so he immediately started on the journey, and we now find him entering the hotel where he had learned she was stopping. all the way, he had been devising plans as to how he should get into her presence. if he sent up his own name, she would claim she was indisposed, refuse him admittance, and he was a man who disliked to be thwarted in his plans. he would be compelled to send some name to her, and it must be someone whom she would want to see, as, naturally in this nervous condition, she would not see many people. she would see him though--in that he was determined. he had pictured exultingly the shock it would be to her, and trusted a great deal in the fact that the force of the shock would be in his favor. finally he decided to send up the name of dr. baxter. he had two reasons for the selection,--dr. baxter was a noted expert in nervous disorders, a man whom one in her condition would be glad to see, and she had expressed herself as indebted to him for her intrusion upon his time and patience to satisfy her whim. everything transpired exactly as he had anticipated, and he was soon following a guide to her apartments. his countenance had that impassive expression that usually characterizes so-called distinguished persons, but he was innately far removed from the calmness and immobility that his appearance indicated. it seemed to him his heart beats might be plainly heard by the young man ahead of him, and pausing when he had arrived at his destination to calm himself, he felt as though his strength were oozing out of his usually vigorous body, and he noticed his hands were actually trembling. he soon regained control over his nerves, however, and gave the signal announcing his arrival. the door was opened almost immediately, and as he stepped forward, in the natural perturbation of his mind, he failed to notice who it was who opened the door. all his attention was fixed upon the coming ordeal, but just as he passed the threshold he heard someone say in a hushed and awed tone, vibrant with emotion: "master william! master william!!" he turned quickly toward the speaker, and as he saw the expression of not only wonder but pleasure on the face of the colored woman, his own eyes filled with tears, for he was just in the mood, wrought up and nervous as he was, that any unexpected noise or temporary shock would agitate him. he held out his hands to her, but no words came. it was different with the woman; her face seemed to beam with happiness, as she carried his outstretched hands to her lips, murmuring, "master william has come; now mistress will get well.--augustus will be right back, and oh, master william, we have been powerful sad and lonely. bless your heart, you are looking fine! i will go and tell mistress you are here; you don't want me to tell mistress? well, joy don't kill even sick people. i reckon your face and love will do her more good than medicine.--that's her voice--she's right in there and you shall not be disturbed only when augustus comes." this unexpected welcome, too honest and sincere to be doubted for a moment, did what nothing else could have done for william. he seemed to break away from the cold sensation that had for so long been clutching at his heart, and held every emotion in its relentless grasp. this expression of faithfulness and these words of welcome when he had schooled himself to look for and expect coldness, hauteur, and possibly defiance, had defeated the man who had come there by dint of force, carrying him back in fancy to scenes of past happiness, and had unwittingly unlocked the volcano of love and emotion, which he had so long repressed. his whole countenance underwent an immediate change; his eyes shone with a lustre almost dazzling, and his step quickened. he could not control his voice to speak, but he pressed the hand of the servant tightly, and with a quickness and agility of movement a youth might envy removed his outer garments, and started for the place that the servant had pointed out to him. he met clarissa just at the door, for she had risen to greet dr. baxter as she supposed. as his glance fell upon her, he advanced yet more quickly, and before she had time even to think, he clasped her in his arms, drawing her tenderly to him. neither was conscious of what transpired, and of that scene there only remained in her memory in later times the feeling of such happiness as deprived her of speech and emotion, while in her ear was murmured words to her at the time unintelligible. the shock was so great she was powerless to resist and when he turned his eyes toward hers, they seemed to hold her irresistibly. it seemed to her he had never before been so handsome. how good it was to feel his arms about her. she was sick and weak.--closer and closer came his face to hers, and when his lips met hers, there was neither power nor wish to resist or repulse him. without knowing or realizing what she was doing, she raised her arms and placed them around his neck, and her head nestled closer to his breast, instead of shrinking she gave kiss for kiss. just then there came a joyous laugh, which was quickly shut out by the closing of a door, but a large st. bernard dog leaped upon william with a savage growl. before the dog entered william felt a change in clarissa; she was apparently changed from a loving woman to a rigid statue. he had not noticed the boyish laugh, as his mind had but one thought. he only knew he held clarissa in his arms--the only woman he had ever loved instead of repulsing had yielded lovingly to his embraces and answered his caresses. her eyes fed his hungry, starving soul, and shed the glances and promises of love. the whole world might have quivered and shaken at this time, and he would have still been oblivious, but, looking into her eyes with all the eagerness of his soul, and revelling in the unexpected happiness he felt, he saw a change, that like some magical influence extinguished from her countenance its expression of love, loosened her closely clasping arms, and rendered cold and irresponsive the lips that had been so warm. he did not try to analyze the cause, but instinctively drew her more closely to him. his eyes gleamed more brightly, as he pressed his lips more firmly to hers, and then came the shock of the dog's attack upon him, and the low sullen growl. clarissa spoke quickly and sharply, and the dog moved slowly away, while she strove to free herself from william's embrace, but though she struggled, he drew her more tightly to him, and he felt a quiver as of a strong emotion pass over her. then for the first time he remembered her illness, and a feeling of shame came to him that he had startled her so. probably the shock of his sudden appearance had made her faint. he had been the cause of her suffering--he would remove it. he lifted her easily in his arms, and placed her upon the couch from which she had risen when he entered. her face was wan and pale, and her body seemed cold and inanimate, but her color returned as a voice said, "come, rex--get your supper." then a door shut, and he heard no more. with a sudden bound, and eyes flashing, clarissa arose and confronted him. the change was so sudden he was wholly unprepared for it, and seeing the great struggle she was making to speak, he could only account for it by the supposition she was enraged because he had come upon her so unexpectedly, compelling her to admit by her acts if not by her words that her love for him had not waned any more than his for her. her pride was wounded. he would not notice whatever she might say;--he would soon have her back in his arms again. finally she spoke. her voice sounded cold and strange, and her words came slowly, and distinctly, but there was an apparent effort: "you will excuse me if i retire. i am ill.--i will ring for my maid to escort you out, and so long as we live, never enter my home again." the expression of william's face never changed. he opened his arms and approached her, intending to draw her to him, but something in her eyes stopped him before he reached her; they stood there looking at one another fixedly and neither spoke. she pointed her finger significantly toward the door. this position, which william made no move to change, became unbearable, and she exclaimed sharply: "if you have any of the instincts of a gentleman, you will not wait to be again asked to leave my presence." every word she uttered made a visible change in william's look and manner; all the gladness fled from his face, and he seemed to strengthen and expand, while his eyes glowed like orbs of fire. "i have always understood that the customs and usages of the best society permitted a gentleman to remain in the presence and home of his wife." "william, go--i beg of you--don't look at me that way.--i feel faint and dizzy." "then my arms are your proper resting place. see--i will forgive your sharp words. i know you are not well. there, rest against me.--you won't kiss me? you struggle to get away, but just now you nestled close to me as you used to do. be still. i have power; you shall be strong again." "mistress, augustus is home and insists upon seeing you. shall i let him in?" "no--i will be out very soon." when the servant spoke, william released clarissa, but his eyes did not leave her face. when she had gone, he strode to her, and grasping her arm in no gentle manner, said: "who is augustus? why don't you answer me? another of your innumerable lovers, i suppose. well, there have been a few kisses since he left that did not go to him. they were as warm and tender as any you ever gave him, and you may assure him, with my compliments, that they are not the last i shall have either. a fool's paradise is better than none. you belong to me by every law of god or man, and no one shall ever again come between us, for i have the power to slowly kill him.--do you realize what that means? i will put him or any other person out of my way as i would kill a viper. you need not turn pale--i mean it. your beloved augustus shall die. i swear it." "william, take that back." "oh, you plead for him, do you? i register a solemn vow to heaven--" "william! you shall not say it--it is too horrible.--say that you do not mean it.--see, my arms are around you.--do not speak." "do not speak? i do not need to. my thought has power to blast him, soul and body. now--this very day. you need not cling to me. i will not share your embraces with him.--he shall die.--i am not the first man who has murdered for the sake of a woman. the sight of you has crazed me. i swear--" "mother, dinah said i might bring you these flowers. may i come in?" at that word "mother," uttered by a voice in the distance, which kept coming nearer, accompanied by the barking of a dog and the sound of wheels, william stopped abruptly and looked at clarissa, with severely questioning eyes. her face lit up at the sound of the voice, then her whole body shivered and shook, threatening to prevent her standing, and her hand went to her heart while she struggled for breath. "mother dear, may i come?" the voice and dog stopped, for the boy would not enter till he was bidden. william's eyes did not leave her face. he said coldly: "why do you not answer? it is evidently you who are addressed." no wonder she trembled as she looked at him. she made a visible effort and said, "what is it, dear? i will come presently." "but, mamma, i want you to wear these, they are so pretty. just let me put them in your dress, and i will go back to dinah." by this time, william's eyes blazed, and his voice was calm as he said, "bid him enter." clarissa seemed under a spell as she said with a vacant expression, "come, augustus." the words had scarcely left her lips, when the voice began, the dog barked, and a young boy, guiding a wheeled chair, came into the room. he was a remarkably handsome child, probably about twelve years old, a cripple. his cheeks were flushed, his eyes glowing, and he looked more like an animated picture than a real boy. being the personification of refinement and beauty, he needed only a robust body to appear a miniature god. one glance at the boy, a sudden start, and a complete change took place in william's countenance. all the anger and jealousy and uncontrollable rage faded away, and so kindly a light came into his eyes it attracted the boy's attention. rolling his chair to his mother's side, he put his arm around her, and rising to his feet, with the other hand he placed in her dress a bunch of tuberoses, and gave her a loving kiss. then he quickly sat down in his chair, bowed to william, and said "come, rex," at the same time starting for the door. "will you not speak to me, or give me a flower, or at least tell me your name?" said william. "yes, sir. my name is augustus earle, and i will buy flowers with all my money and bring them to you,--i won't even buy a picture or anything if you will just cure my mamma. dinah said you were a doctor, come to cure her, and we are going to have a jolly time when she gets strong again." "your father must be very proud of you; such a bright boy as you are." "i have no father. didn't mamma tell you? no? papa is dead, and aunt dinah and rex and i take care of mamma. aunt dinah says i look like my father and have his temper, but you must not think he was a bad man, for mamma says he was grand and good and noble. i would like to be like my father when i am a man, only of course he could walk and i can not without crutches. but i don't care, only sometimes. have you any little boys or girls?" "yes; i have one boy." "i suppose he can walk and run and jump and swim. you just wait, i like you--i am going to send your little boy a present, for you are going to cure mamma, i know. how old is your little boy?" "he is twelve years old." "just the same age i am. how do you suppose he would like a horse? do you think he would rather have a dog? oh, i don't mean a truly one--only one i draw. you tell him, when you give it to him, augustus earle, a boy who can't run and walk like him, drew it, and sends his love with it.--i will not be gone long." after augustus had left, neither spoke for some time; not till the clatter of his chair was lost, then william said, and his voice was low and gentle: "clarissa, why did you not tell me of this years ago?" she made no reply. "why did you let me remain ignorant that i was a father?--won't you speak?" "he does not belong to you." "clarissa, you don't realize the significance of what you say. that is my son--i know it, and it is useless to deny it. why you should try to i cannot understand.--what is the cause of his lameness? i may be able to cure him, and make him so he can walk. he is a handsome boy." "i say you shall not cure him;--i have cared for him so long, and--" "here i am, dr. baxter, i think i will send both of these, then he will be sure to be pleased. i am so glad you are going to eat with us--aunt dinah has put an extra plate, and made me promise to be on my best behavior. you see, aunt dinah forgets that i am not a baby because i cannot walk, but i can play and sing and draw better than boys that can play games. i have a boat--i will go fetch it. do you know, rex has learned to swim and sail it for me, and i sit and watch it. it is a good boat, for a fisherman told me so. rex, go and get my boat. now doctor, you just see if he does not fetch it. he knows what i want, for he takes care of me.--there is aunt dinah calling. i have to go and let her fuss over me. she rubs my face and hands, and combs my hair just as they do a baby's, and if i get angry and wash myself, she says i am not clean.--if i do not go, she will come for me, and rub soap and water into my mouth and eyes and say, 'you are the perfect acting image of your father, you are.' i will be ready by the time supper is; i am so glad you are going to stay. i will show you my drawings, and sing for you too. mamma says i sing splendidly.--there's dinah again.--we will have a jolly time, and you can tell me all about your little boy." various expressions had chased one another over william's face while the boy was talking, and anyone watching his countenance would hardly have believed it capable of expressing any but the kindliest of emotions, and solicitude for others. tears were in his eyes, and his voice trembled as he thanked augustus for the drawings he had given him, and as he started to wheel himself away, william stooped to kiss him; but, as though she had the power to divine his thoughts, clarissa, who had remained silent during the boy's last entrance, moved quickly between them, herself kissing his animated face, and pushed his chair toward the door, saying: "dinah will be cross with you--go quickly.--remain in your room until i call you--i wish to talk with the doctor, alone." "all right, mamma; do not be long--i want to hear all about his little boy." clarissa watched him until he had passed from sight into another room, then turned, like an avalanche, upon william. the intensity of her feelings seemed to lend her strength. "if there was ever one faint spark of interest--i will not desecrate the name of love by calling any feelings you may have entertained toward me by that title, but if you have ever had even a passing interest, i implore you by the remembrance of it, to leave my home immediately, and so long as my child and i may live, never bring your unwelcome presence to us again. go.--you don't move? whatever other feelings i may have had for you, i always give you the credit of possessing the ordinary courtesy of a gentleman.--you will compel me to resort to very rude measures, and as i am not very strong, and this interview is not only taxing my patience, but my strength--" "why should i go, clarissa? heretofore, there has been only one loved object in my life; now i find another, unexpectedly, it is true, but none the less dear. where these two are, there i wish ever to be. you both need me and i need both of you." "you are mistaken. we do not need you, and love is a sentiment unknown to your soul. do not longer parley with words. go--or i shall lose what little respect i still have for you--" "i cannot leave you ill." "who has made me so? i know you have. i know very little about the science that has made your name illustrious, but i know enough of it to know your power lies in the concentration of thought. have i not been pursued by your image and influence, sleeping or waking, ever since the day i entered your house? do not flatter yourself this image has been welcome, for it has been far from it, and i have had but one means of banishing it. "it has been this continual struggle to throw off this unwelcome influence that has shattered my nervous system. i am gaining upon the power to throw it off, however. i thought, one while, i would surely die, as at times my heart would cease beating, and everything begin to turn black. you would have succeeded in your nefarious scheme, but for the remembrance of my helpless boy, who has no one but me to depend upon. i cannot and will not leave him alone.-"nights, when i have felt your evil power so strong, i could almost see you before me; i would rise and go to augustus, and, kneeling beside his bed, i would pray for the powers of good to give me strength to live and care for my blessed child. these prayers have been answered; i no longer fear either your image, your influence, or your actual presence. "a mother's love has strength to overcome every evil for her child's sake. i defy you and your boasted power. i did wrong to ask you not to try it upon augustus; the power of my love will counteract any influence you can send him. will you leave us now?" "i make all due allowance for your condition, and rather than cause you more suffering, i will go immediately, leaving you by yourself to think it over and reflect if you have not been a little harsh to me. think over the early days of our marriage; how happy we were. can you recall one act of mine that was not an expression of my loving solicitude for you? had i one thought beyond you and our home? "since you went away, i have lived the isolated life of a student. no woman's smile has caused me a moment's thought. i have been as true a husband to you as in those happy days so long ago. the misery and suffering have made me old before my time, but i am clean in every thought so far as women are concerned. "isn't that proof of some love? i see by your face you do not believe me, but i will prove it to you.--come home with me.--james and nancy are with me, and always have been. you will believe them, even though you doubt me. they know my life. we will nurse you back to health--possibly i can do much for my son--" "stop. i told you before that augustus was not your son." "i know he is. his every look and movement proclaims it. it is useless to deny that i am his father. why do you want to put such a stigma upon the child?" "i am telling you the truth. his father is dead, just as he told you." "then how do you account for his remarkable likeness to me?" "probably the dislike i had for you before he was born marked him with your features." "clarissa, i do not believe you. if i am not his father, who was?" "that is nothing to you." "nothing to me? are you mad?" "no. i was never more sane in my life. i can look you straight in the eye, without the quiver of an eyelash, and say, you, william huskins, are not the father of my boy. can a person telling an untruth do that? would it be natural for a mother to acknowledge her child to be illegitimate, when she might presume upon a man's credulity to claim him as his son and heir, unless she wanted to be honest?" "i can only account for your words by that fact." as he spoke the words he moved toward her, and she kept receding, with her eyes fixed upon his. paler and paler she grew, and larger and larger became the pupils of her eyes, which were gradually so dilated that they seemed to hide the other portions of them; still he gazed at her with an unwavering and stern expression till, finally, she clasped her right hand over her heart, and sank, without a word. she would have fallen prostrate upon the floor had not william sprung quickly to her as she fell. immediately he felt her helplessness, all the stern, steady look vanished from his face as though by magic, and in its place there shone all the eager ardor of a lover. time and the memory of the past both seemed to have been obliterated from his mind, and he was conscious of but one fact. clarissa, the only woman he had ever loved or who had ever held either his heart or senses captive, was again in his arms;--was his. the thought made him tender and kind as a mother to her first born babe, whom she believes to be the answer vouchsafed to her prayers for a living example of her love for her husband; for this babe she would offer her life, a willing sacrifice, without one thought of hesitation, even if the sacrifice meant physical torture. her love could generate the power necessary to endure any kind of personal torment if she knew her suffering would purchase the release or happiness of the child which was dearer to her than her own pleasure or welfare. so william felt, when his arms encircled the object of his love, and he would gladly have endured any discomfort or suffering clarissa had been subjected to while the combat of their wills had been waging. he realized as only a man whose experience had been as vast as his could realize, that her nervous condition, combined with the unexpected shock of his sudden appearance, had been a great ally to his cause, for without these, despite her naturally susceptible temperament, he would have had a severe struggle. he lifted her easily and bore her to the couch from which she had arisen upon his entrance. she looked so white and rigid and still and cold--so much like one prepared for burial--that, despite his vast experience with mesmeric sleep, he felt anxious. he was loth to admit, even to himself, he was nervous--supposing she was dead! supposing her spirit had actually fled, leaving him alone again:--deserted--while her soul was transported into conditions of which he knew nothing, and he could not reach her? the thought was agonizing. he immediately drew her to him, thinking to warm her cold, inanimate body by contact with his own which was warm and vigorous. those lips that had but a short time before responded so tenderly and lovingly to his were now cold and unresponsive. for a time, the scientist was lost, while the husband caressed, loved and suffered. he kept repeating "clarissa--clarissa--speak to me," and after a long interval of silence she spoke. "did you speak to me, william?" if the voice of one dead had answered him, he would not have been more startled. the shock broke the spell that bound him, and the man of science was once more alert. he lifted her head, looked intently into her eyes, rather at her eyes which were closed, and said-"clarissa, do you hear me? are you awake?" there was a brief pause, then she replied, but her voice sounded far away. "yes." "do you know who is talking to you?" "yes--william." "have you anything to say to me?" no answer,--then he said timidly but tenderly, "clarissa, do you love me?" no words passed the cold, impassive lips, but her arms were raised and entwined themselves about his neck, and her head nestled lovingly and confidently against him. the answer seemed to satisfy him, and for a while, he made no effort to talk, apparently quaffing the enjoyment fate furnished him.--the past and future were a blank to him, and the present was fraught with such exquisite bliss, that he heeded not when dinah spoke to him. "master william." not receiving an answer, she entered, spoke again, and not now receiving a reply, and seeing her mistress and him in so fond an embrace, she reverted to the rules of the past and touched him instead of speaking to clarissa. he looked up at the touch and smiled so pleasantly it seemed they were all back in the past. "master william, the doctor is here to see mistress. i have your dinner all prepared. what shall i tell him? he insists upon seeing her. i told him she was engaged. i would not come in. do not look so cross, master william, but he said he would have to see her, and you know she has great faith in him. aint you, honey?" "dinah, tell him to go." "but, master, he is waiting just outside here with augustus." "augustus, my baby, mamma is coming,--mamma is coming." as these words came from clarissa's lips, william felt a great change pass over her. he had put her to sleep by his power, but she was no longer rigid, and her arms, which had clung so tightly and lovingly about his neck, loosed their hold, and warmth and animation diffused themselves to every portion of her being. she rose erectly and tried to waken, but encountered a mighty resistance. "tell the doctor to remain where he is. i will come to him," said william, while he tried to restrain clarissa from rising. "sleep,--sleep,--sleep," he repeated, but his mind had been unsteadied by the happiness of thoughts of his brief intoxication. his commands seemed to have no significance for the woman who struggled to free herself from his grasp. "augustus--i am coming--mother hears." this was all she said, but it required all william's strength to hold her on the couch, and a feeling of jealousy (which he was at the time ashamed of feeling) overmastered him, and held him in thrall, and he repeated over and over again, "sleep--sleep--sleep" his vigor increasing as his jealously gained the advantage over his judgment, and she finally collapsed into a comatose state. dinah had watched her struggles, but, feeling her mistress was in safe hands, had not interfered in her behalf, although she could not understand the purport of what she saw. when she saw her mistress settle back again, like one dead, she said-"master william, shall i show the doctor in? she sure has fainted." she received such a look from william as she was not likely to forget, and he replied: "dinah, your mistress is sleeping peacefully and well. take me to the doctor." she offered no objections, but led him to a room where augustus and a man of mature age were waiting. when he had reached there, william's eyes would have been a study for any man. he acknowledged the usual salutation of introduction, but his head was visibly elevated from the position it should have held considering the august presence of so distinguished a practitioner as dr. goullard;--in fact, he could not control his feelings sufficiently to remember they were both gentlemen, and said abruptly, "dr. goullard, your services are no longer required; i am here as miss earle's representative, and will at once discharge her obligations to you for services rendered if you will advise me as to the amount of her indebtedness." "who are you, who presume to represent miss earle? i only accept dismissal at her injunction. i demand to see her. if she bids me to visit her no more, very well, but i must receive some sign from her." all the time dr. goullard was talking, william's face showed a scornful expression, and when he had finished, william said, "i presume her husband has some right to choose a physician?" "certainly," replied the doctor quickly, "but miss earle's husband is dead, therefore, as she has called me regularly for a long time, i consider myself privileged to pass into her presence immediately." "not without my permission," replied william, and no person could have mistaken the meaning of his expression. the doctor looked at him interrogatively and he continued: "i presume you have heard of william huskins, the scientific expert upon nervous difficulties, or diseases; i am he. i see you know of my reputation by your expression. well, i am miss earle's husband. ah, that startles you.--it is the truth.--i am this boy's father." "i am acknowledged as an expert practitioner for difficulties and disorders of the nerves, consequently, my wife can have no further need of your services. doubting my claims as husband to miss earle, and father to augustus, you may refer to dinah, who has been an attendant of miss earle since she was a young miss--" "prof. huskins, i do not pretend to doubt your assertions, but you will, i think, admit that it was quite natural i should make the mistake, as i have been told by miss earle personally her husband was dead. i have attended her for some time, and i should be pleased to offer her my congratulations upon having so distinguished a husband as you. i will not long intrude upon the privacy of your glad reunion." williams' mind had cleared while the doctor was speaking. he realized his conduct thus far had not been such as would naturally be expected from one of his reputation. he was too proud to apologize, still he knew some concession upon his part was necessary, and, throwing his head back with that impetuous movement dinah knew so well, at the same time pushing the hair back from his forehead with his hand, he said, quickly and courteously, "my wife is sleeping now; i have just placed her in a trance condition, from which i shall awaken her shortly, calmed and refreshed, and much stronger. i will take you to her if you desire it." "i should consider it a great favor for you to do so. i have heard much of your marvelous power, of which i must confess i know very little, but of which i should be pleased to learn more." without another word, william turned and walked from the apartment, followed by the doctor, leaving augustus and dinah alone. while the men had been talking, augustus' eyes had not left william's face. he made no effort to speak, now that william had gone, but fixed his gaze upon dinah. she said nothing and there was a long silence. finally he said abruptly, "dinah, _is_ he my father?" "yes, honey." "i want to see mamma." "wait, honey, till the doctor goes, and your father will take you to her. he is a right good man, but he hasn't much patience. you are just like him, honey;--i always said so. no, you cannot go now. we must wait till we are called, child." chapter eleven after he had seen the doctor leave, william, instead of going to augustus, returned directly to clarissa. he only felt secure regarding her when he could see her. all the varied scenes through which he passed seemed like a dream, and he could not rid himself of the impression he would awaken and find clarissa gone, leaving him alone again. he had entirely forgotten augustus, and in his distracted state of mind the thought of the shock and surprise it must have been to the boy to have him declare himself, a comparative stranger, as his father, did not occur to him. his mind seemed incapable of comprehending or holding more than one image; he felt the deepest chagrin that he, an expert thought concentrator, had so lost control of himself as to make such a scene as he had just gone through with clarissa to mesmerize her. he had been obliged to use upon her that which he had never used before upon any subject he had ever put to sleep:--physical force. why was it she resisted his power so strongly, when she had been so loving and obedient to his very thoughts but a short time before? as he reached the couch and looked down upon her, a long, deep sigh escaped him, and the thought passed through his mind: suppose she had not been here, but had gone out of his life again: how sad and lonely and miserable it would be. the very thought was unendurable. he quickly sank down beside her, holding her close to him, that he might have the double assurance of sight and touch, of her actual presence with him. so engrossed was he with the thought, he was unaware of augustus' entrance, though the wheel chair made some clatter. he had paused at the door, expecting an invitation to enter, but receiving none, he came directly to them and said: "mamma,--" a tremor passed over clarissa, so strong as to attract william's notice, while at the same time a hand touched his arm. as he felt the tremor of clarissa's body, he tightened his hold, even as he turned his head. he was impatient of interruption and his eyes did not express the most pleasant mood as he turned toward the intruder, but when he saw who it was, his entire countenance changed; he quickly noted the pallor of the boy, and the brilliant flashing of his eyes, that told so plainly his intense agitation. he immediately removed one arm from clarissa, and before augustus could divine his purpose, had lifted him from his chair and drawn him close to his heart. "my son--my boy and clarissa's." augustus, taken completely by surprise, said nothing for a time, but his eyes traveled quickly to his mother's face, which was cold and white and rigid, then his voice rang out sharp and piercing--"mamma--mamma--speak to me--i am here--augustus--speak to me." there was no response. never having seen his mother thus, as she always devoted her undivided attention to him, he did not understand her apathy and inattention to his call; he made up his mind she was dead, and this man had killed her. that thought brought such a wave of anger and fury, that for all his frailness of body, he had for the time strength to release himself from william's clasp, and throwing both arms about her neck, he tried to lift her, repeating over and over, "mamma,--mamma dear, look at me." the sight of the boy's suffering brought tears to william's eyes, and he said, "your mother is sleeping; she cannot hear you. she will waken soon, and--" "i hate you. she is not sleeping. she is dead, and you have killed her." "augustus, you will be sorry for such a speech. she is sleeping; gaining strength to make us both happy. have you no greeting for your father, who loves you so dearly? i am proud to--" "if you were very proud, you would go home, and not stay here where you are not wanted. mamma--dinah--mamma is dead, and--" "be quiet, augustus. do not shake your mother;--you will? then i shall be compelled to use force. i didn't want to do that, but you compelled me to. sit quiet and i will wake your mother." anyone having the slightest degree of doubt as to the parentage of this child would have been quickly convinced, if they could have studied their faces as william and augustus confronted each other; augustus' excited and distorted face was a perfect miniature likeness of his father's. eyes flashed into eyes. for all the seriousness of the condition, william thought, "what a perfect counterpart of my own temper. he favors me much more than his mother." he needed no proofs this was his boy, and he felt a thrill of pride. he had an intense nature that no one understood. most persons thought him cold and distant, while in truth, he possessed an unusually affectionate temperament, but was too proud to admit to anyone how he really hungered for love. all persons could not supply this want; the whole force of his nature had centered itself upon one object. she became his wife and no other woman had ever had power to sway his thoughts and life. he was regarded as austere and cold, yet could be influenced by this woman's smile, to do anything man could do, and the pitiful, angered face which looked into his was his child,--and hers. for all time he must have second place in her heart, and the pleasure of wife and child should be his study from this moment. such thoughts produced a very different expression upon his face, and he said tenderly and affectionately, "clarissa--clarissa--awake." slowly her eyes opened. her face pictured happiness and contentment as she saw william's smiling welcome; who would have believed his proud, haughty head could have bowed so humbly as it did when he saw the bright, glad gleam in her eyes? he stooped to kiss her as though she was just awakening from a natural sleep. as his arms encircled her, her own entwined themselves once more around his neck, and with a happy sigh she gave him kiss for kiss. augustus was, for the time, forgotten by both of them, but his eyes and ears were active; for a time, he remained silent, then a tempest of jealousy swept over him. he had ever been first in his mother's thoughts; now he was forgotten for a stranger. his spirit had not been disciplined to expect only his proper share of any one's attention, for from the earliest time in his recollection, he had been the principal object of attention in his home. his very infirmity and physical weakness spared him criticisms of even the most wholesome nature; one and all around him had known but one object in life--to please him. he was totally unaccustomed to being overlooked in this manner, and his was not a nature to endure this state of things. with all the might of his uncultivated and ungoverned will, he hated this man who was engrossing his mother's attention and love. he raised himself erect by the help of his hands, and rage nearly choked him as he said--"mamma!" was there magic in his voice? if not, why did she draw so coldly and quickly from william's grasp? "mamma,--send that man away. i hate him." "yes, dear. do not get nervous, augustus. there--mamma's little man is not angry--" "mamma--i hate him. send him home. he is not my father, is he? you told me my father was everything noble--everything i loved--i hate that man--i hate him. mamma, i will not have him for a father--i will not--" "hush, dear." "i will not hush if he stays here. i will not live with him. come, mamma, let us go away and leave him here--i will make you a fine picture. come, mamma, don't look at him--he is wicked. he sent dr. goullard away--i hate him--hate him." "augustus, you will make yourself ill. hush, dear." "don't kiss me all the time. tell him to leave here. this is our home, and we don't want him. i will get ill. i will get nervous. when i get sick, you will know you are to blame for it. if you do not send him off, i will be ill. he lied. he is not my father--i will not have him for a father." "no, dear;--there, be quiet. i will take you to dinah." "i will not go to dinah unless you stay with me. tell him to go home." "yes, dear; only calm yourself. there, the bell is ringing. some one is coming, and my little man must not be seen like this. be yourself, and you shall have anything you want. here comes dinah; let us see who is here. dinah, who has called? augustus is nervous. you had better take him, and give him some of that medicine for his nerves at once." "i will not take it. i will not;--not unless you come too." "master william, it be someone to see you, and i let him in. here he is." william and clarissa both looked toward the door. there stood james with a parcel in his hand, his face beaming with pleasure. clarissa quickly reached him, and gave him her outstretched hands. he tore off the covering of the package he carried, offering her a large bunch of her favorite flowers. this token of affection brought joyful tears to her eyes, and, still holding one of his hands, she led him to augustus, saying, "this is my son, augustus. augustus, this is the man of whom i have so often told you, who was so good and kind to me when i was a mischievous and wilful girl. these are my favorite flowers; he always kept them for me, and you will have to hear him tell all about my girlhood. will you not, darling? james can tell such lovely stories. he will tell you the same ones he used to tell me. i feel as though i were a girl again. bid him welcome, augustus." "i love you because you were so good to mamma. i welcome you to our home--" "bless your heart, honey,--that is what we always called your mother--there were never two persons who looked so much alike as you and your father. i will tell you stories that will make your pretty eyes stick out, all about your mother's naughtiness, picking my choicest flowers. i remember every one. i never expected to be so happy as i am this very minute." "we will have a jolly time. you can wheel me out and tell me the stories. do you like my father? was he a good man? you said i looked like him, so you must have known him." "did i know your father? was he a good man? there was never his equal. he is the grandest, noblest, wisest--" "that will do, james; possibly you can bring your thoughts away from the past, to the seemingly insignificant present long enough to tell me what has brought you here, and how you knew where to find me." at the sound of william's voice, which was severe, james turned at once and replied, "forgive me, master, but you told me yourself that our miss clarissa was the famous miss earle, the singer, and everyone knows where she lives. i know no other person would make you leave home and come so far, so i reckoned i would find you where she was. when you stayed so long, and there was a telegram came for you, soon followed by another, i knew it must be something of importance, and i thought i would bring them to you. i hope you are not angry, sir." "if you believed them to be so important, why did you not give them to me at once?" "here they are. i admit i was wrong--but i am so happy to see miss clarissa--" "that is the most disagreeable man i ever saw. he shall not scold you. do not mind him. you come with me; i want you to tell me all about my mother when she was little. i will show you all my pictures. i am so glad you have come. you just push my chair. dinah will show you where to go. you will send him away, and come right along, will you not, mamma?" "yes, dear." "come: i cannot walk, but i can stand up. i can paint, and draw and sing. those were pretty flowers you brought mamma--" the rest was lost by the closing of a door, which shut out further sound. clarissa had kept her eyes upon william's face, ever since augustus left her side; there was little to be gleaned from it. his eyes had not once left the paper before him. as the door closed, he lifted them and looked straight and steadily at her. there was sufficient power there to make her shiver. her hand went quickly to her heart, but her gaze did not falter--she looked as steadily at him as he did at her. it was an uncomfortable pause, and william was first to break it. "i have sad news for you. your lover, one of the numerous galaxy, is very ill. i am sent for to restore him to health. do not looked so shocked and worried. i will not let him die, as he is my best subject, and science would receive too rude a blow if prof. huskins' acknowledged best subject should sicken and die, and he be powerless to prevent it. he shall live; but as i stand here talking to you, i have the power and will obliterate the memory of every other man from your mind. pardon me for so noisy a laugh, but the thought came to me quickly: 'william huskins, you have devoted the best years of your life to science and won the distinction of being the most powerful demonstrator of mesmeric influence living: now the sole use you find for it is to vanquish the remembrance of past lovers from a fickle woman's mind, that you may enjoy her embraces.' ludicrous enough to make anyone laugh, isn't it?" "you are talking enigmas. i have and have had no lovers. your coarse suggestions are an insult to my womanhood and motherhood. i am truly sorry for any man who depends upon you for his life; he had better die--" "beware how you try me. you have no idea of the power i possess. pshaw! you are doubtless tired of him, and would feel better if he were dead. i will that he shall not die. he shall live. possibly your memory can be refreshed sufficiently to recall the fact that you requested me,--your husband,--to carry him your favorite flowers, which oppressed you at the time." "i shall answer but one assertion you have made--" "mamma, come,--i want you to hear something." "yes, augustus, i will be there directly. you said you were my husband; you are not." "it would not astonish me much if you told me that i was the second man who had passed through the marriage ceremony with you." "you are the only man who has ever entered my life. it is not necessary for you to wear that sneering and sarcastic smile. i ought to know the symptoms of your unreasonable jealousy by this time. once it hurt me; now i defy you. i am a mother, but i was never a wife. that is the reason i said that augustus was not your son. when i told him his father was dead, i told him the truth. his father was the man whom i idolized as men worship gods. keep away. do not touch me. that man was not the william huskins the world knows. he was what i thought you were. "your ardor worked upon my ignorant mind, until it created there an image of a man whose only existence was in my heart, while you, who passed for him, was in reality his exact opposite. now you understand why i say that i am a mother but no wife, for i believe, from the depths of my soul, that marriage only exists where there is mutual love between man and woman. i meant well, but--" "clarissa, i am going to forget every word you have just said, and trust you in spite of all the dark appearances; remembering only what you have said of your love for me before we were married--" "i never loved nor married you; it was only the image of a man that i had in my mind. never for one moment in all your life, have you known what it was to love me, and we were, therefore, never married. my child is illegitimate. as this fact has come clearer to me, i have striven to the best of my ability to bring as much happiness into his life as lay in my power. "the bible says 'what god has joined together, let no man put asunder.' i believe that god is love. you never loved me, and i loved only the image of a man who had no real existence. not you, william huskins. there was no love in our union, and god never sanctioned it; it was not a real marriage." "you do me a great injustice, clarissa, when you say i never loved you. how can you say so, when the memory of the past is in your mind? if i lacked in loving demonstration, it was because of ignorance how to express myself. you have seen a side of my nature no one else knows to exist. surely i proved myself a loving slave while you stayed with me. in your greatest anger, you must admit i was ever beside you, never bestowing even a passing thought upon any other woman. your pleasure and presence made up for me the sum of life's happiness, and words can never express the black desolation of my heart since you left me." "love! what do you know of love! let me tell you how you have loved me. you were affectionate, happy and kind just so long as we were alone; let me pet an animal, speak to a man or even a woman, with the most common courtesy, and that kindness was replaced by a demon of jealousy that would listen to no reason, but reviled me without--" "clarissa, i know i was hasty, possibly cruel; i did not mean to be so. it was my great love for you that made me jealous. i will admit it was torture for me to see you engrossed with any one, but surely there must be some excuse for me when you think it was love that made me so. i do not pretend i am blameless. i know jealousy changed me from a sane man to a mad one, but i swear to you, give me your love again, and you shall nevermore witness such scenes, for, should i feel the demon's influence coming to me again, i will go away from your presence and only return when i can bring you as much happiness as you give me, when you yield yourself to--" "that is just it, william,--so long as i yield, so long as i amuse you and gratify your wishes, you are happy, and accept those signs as the offerings of love. stand where you are till i finish,--your idea is that a woman's love is only expressed by a blind obedience to her husband. "what is man, that he expects from a woman that which he will not give in return? you believe now just as you have in the past; that is,--if i loved you, i would see, think, feel and act according to your ideas of how a woman should, consigning to your guardianship and care my conscience and opinions, even as i would my body. you have no right to expect from me anything that you would not do yourself. i learned what love was when i became a mother. do you think my love for augustus demands his giving up all his desires and expectations? no;--my love for him is so strong i would endure with a smile and never a moan, if i knew that my suffering would purchase his happiness. i do not want him to see, feel and think as i do; i want him to have perfect freedom of choice. i do and always will find my greatest happiness in witnessing his joy." "a mother's love is different from a husband's." "so i have found them. since augustus was first placed in my arms, i have known but one thought, one desire;--that was to please him. it is for him i always sing; never for the public. i always feel he will be proud to think, in after life, his mother was a gifted and talented woman." "are you not a little selfish yourself, when you have left me sad and lonely all these years since you have had our boy?" as he said this, there resounded a peal of boyish laughter, ringing clear and distinct. william hesitated, then resumed: "i make no pretentions to goodness, but there are a few facts i have a right to state. when you left my home, every ray of brightness faded out of my life. i doubted everybody and everything;--i was proud--too proud to want anyone's pity or sympathy, so i sought to hide my suffering beneath a mask of indifference and coldness. what i suffered, no one but myself will ever know. it has made an old man out of a young one;--it has so completely crushed my pride i am willing now to sue for a second place in your affections, when the first is filled by my son. it is impossible for me to go back to my lonely home and endure what i have. if i have been cruel, harsh and unjust to you whom i love better than my life, i ask to be forgiven, and promise that, coming to me again, you shall be the guiding influence of our home. give me one chance to show the depth and earnestness of my love. few men have given women the fidelity i have shown you. that ought to be a factor in my favor." "william, i believe you have been true to me. i have heard you called a woman-hater everywhere, but why have you been? you have not seen another woman who happened to please you as i did. it was no sacrifice upon your part, as you were not strongly attracted to them. i believe i am just and honest with you when i say the feeling you held for me, and which you called love, was only a physical attraction, and that was the cause of your suffering so from jealousy. do not interrupt me--i know that you do not believe it, but i do, and with good reason." "i must have been a most cruel husband indeed." "no, william, i know you have not meant to be, and i am willing to acknowledge i, too, have made many mistakes; we have both been at fault, but you might at least have come and asked me to stay in your home, when you knew my delicate condition." "clarissa! as there is a good judge in the infinite, i did not know it." "you did know it, for i told you so myself, during that last quarrel." "i will not dispute your words, that would be useless, but will admit much of that interview is a blank in my memory. you know, as well as i, when jealousy or rage controlled me i was not always responsible for what i might do or say. if i were to be weighed in the balance of infinite justice, however, i should firmly declare that, had i known your condition, i should have humbled my pride and sought your presence, shielding you from your pain and suffering so far as lay in my power." "you are the cause of augustus' infirmity, and every time i see him looking longingly at other boys who can run and walk and play, how do you suppose i feel?" "how can i be blamed for that, clarissa? surely, i injured you in no way." "you never struck me with your hands, but you struck my heart; pride, fears, disappointment, anguish of mind, and, yes, i may as well admit it, lonesomeness produced such an effect upon me that, for a while, i was unable to walk; my body would tremble and shake so that i could not support myself. "when my boy,--my idol came, he was physically perfect. how proud i was of him; but when the time came all other children walk, mine could not stand alone! he was called upon to pay the penalty of our sins. my love for him increased when i knew i was the cause of his affliction; i could not help feeling bitter and angry toward you, for without your senseless and unreasonable jealousy, our boy might have been like others, only brighter, for every one admits that he is unusually talented." "if i could take his infirmity from him, i would gladly do so, but i cannot. every reparation man can make, however, i will make, if you will give me a chance. you have been in my home. won't you and augustus come there to live? i promise upon my honor to be guided by your judgment and wishes. you will not believe me till you test it, but i know my love is strong enough to bear any test. you think a mother's love is purest, but that love which a good man offers the woman he wants to make his life complete, cannot be exceeded by any sentiment possible to souls of earth. "show me a test of endurance you would undergo for augustus;--i will double it for you without a murmur. will you not give me one trial, clarissa? come--how you tremble! i must go and leave you--kiss me before i go. i will go ahead, for merle is very ill and needs me. i will either come back for you, or you and augustus may come on with james. nancy will have everything in readiness. we will begin anew. which will you do?" "we will come with james, william." "when?" "just as soon as we can get ready." "i cannot realize you are really coming to me again, clarissa;--i fear i will awake and find it is only a dream, as i have so many times before. look me straight in the eye, and swear you will come.--i believe it now. i will not disturb james and augustus. he was frightened and thought you were dead. thinking i had killed you, he disliked me, but you will influence him to love me. won't you write me while you have to stay here? i will leave a check at my apartments for all you will need. james will fetch it to you. think of me sometimes, even though i am unworthy." when he left clarissa, william walked quickly from the house, and sought his own apartments, preparatory to going to merle, who, as the telegrams stated, was seriously ill. chapter twelve happiness is a great beautifier and youth imparting power, and when william reached home, he looked so different even the servants noticed the change. he made only a short stop at his home, and sending for nancy, without any explanations broke the tidings that james was shortly to come, bringing clarissa and her son with him; she must, therefore, have everything in readiness that was best in his home. leaving her flustrated and nervous, he hurried to merle's home, where mrs. millard greeted him with visible joy and said, "we are so happy to see you again, professor,--merle is much better; we have thought several times he was dying. he seemed to start to improve quite suddenly, and now he is looking almost his natural self. so much so, i am afraid you will think we have intruded needlessly." "not at all. not at all, mrs. millard. i am only too glad to know he is improved. how are alice and yourself? i see you look particularly fatigued." "that is from so much anxiety about merle. alice is the same." "i will go and see merle, then i will treat alice. when they are both better, you will feel better.--well, merle, i am sorry to see you here so ill, but am glad indeed to learn you are getting better. you look better than i expected to see you. my thoughts must have reached you soon after i received the news of your sickness." "you do not know how glad i am to see you. i was sure it was your power that gave me strength again. i was feeling so despondent and weak and discouraged. i would be ashamed to acknowledge how badly off i was, when, all of a sudden, there passed over me a wave of courage, cheerfulness and hope, and from that moment, i began to gain steadily. now life looks bright and cheery, and i believe i shall soon be in condition for you to finish our experiments, if you wish to do so." "do not worry about them, merle." "you have been so kind to me, i dislike to feel i am the cause of any disappointment to you. is it because you have been away, or is it the fancy born of a sick brain, for really you seem to have changed since i saw you. you look younger and happier and more powerful." "i think you must be turning flatterer. i have a surprise for you when you are a little stronger. my silent and absent treatments are taking good effect. i will not put you to sleep this time. i am a little hurried, so i will go to alice, then i must hasten home, as i have some business there, and i will come in and see you again before i go to sleep." "professor, your eyes are fairly dazzling they are so bright. you must be happy, for i feel a desire to laugh or sing." "i am happy, and i want everyone to participate in my joy. you must make haste and get well, so your family will all be in condition and position to celebrate my happiness. it will be an occasion that does not require the services of nurses." "i will gain just as rapidly as i can. i am so glad you are happy, and hope you will always be as happy as you are now." "thanks, merle, for your good wishes. au revoir. mrs. millard, where shall i find alice? oh, here she is now." "yes, professor, and we are so glad you have come back. how well you look! does he not, mother?" "yes indeed, sir, you do." "i am glad to know you think so. alice, as merle is not in a condition to be used, and there are some things i am anxious to know about, would you mind my putting you into the trance state? i will not keep you long." "i would be glad to do it for you. shall we go into the parlor, or do you prefer that i remain here?" "we will stay here, and mrs. millard will go and sit with merle." mrs. millard went out, and william immediately placed alice in a trance. "alice, are you waking?" "yes." "can you tell me what my wife is doing?" "i did not know you had a wife." "find her. tell me what she is doing. what is she thinking?" there was a long pause. "alice, can you find her?" "yes. but i do not want to tell you what she is thinking." "why not?" "it would make you unhappy." "does she love me, alice? do not hesitate to tell me the truth. i want it, and demand it. i am no coward." "she loves you dearly." "then why do you hesitate to tell me what she is thinking?" "because you could not understand her feelings." "why not?" "you cannot place yourself in her position. she is trying to discover which she loves better, and oh, i see so much misery. i want to wring my hands. please take it away." "no, alice, tell me exactly what she is thinking. you must and shall. who stands between her and me?" "a boy." "thank god! now, alice, you have been a truthful subject,--i know you love me and wish me well; help me pass this crisis in my life creditably and right, for i begin to suspect my own powers of penetration and wisdom." "that means you are growing in knowledge. only ignorant persons place implicit confidence in their opinions. you are a grand man, but all finite beings are fallible. this woman is an equally grand and noble woman, but her thoughts are obscured by doubt at this time. she wants to do just what is right, she is afraid to trust her own desires." "desires for what? be very careful in answering, as the happiness of several lives may depend upon your answer." "she loves you, and wants to come to you, but the boy does not. she is afraid her desire to be with you is a selfish one. she would do for him what she would not do for herself; unless you use force, he will defeat you--" "how can he? she has promised to come to me." "she wants to, but she feels in some way indebted to him, anyway, i know she is struggling between the two influences, and if you do not go to her quick,--right off--she will go away with him, a long way,--where he wants to go, and you will be unable to reach her for a long time. hurry, for she does not want to go; she is crying, but he will make her go if you do not go right off. she is afraid of him." "but, alice,--she promised to come here." "and he insists on going there." "you are sure, alice, it is a boy who comes between us?" "yes." "whose boy is it?" "her boy,--and if you do not hurry, they will go on the boat. go to her. she is ill and suffering." "if she is ill and suffering, she knows where to send for me." "she dare not." "why? she knows i love her." "no, she does not know it." "i say she does." "but she does not. oh, hurry! please go to her." "i will not go a step. she promised to come to me. if she does not care to do so, i shall never urge her more." "she does want to come, but the boy does not." "then let her choose between us." "no. go to her. heed my warning. go at once. you will arrive in time to save suffering to many. the boy is selfish. he is influencing her to do what she does not want to do. if you go to her, she will mind you." "i do not want her to come to me if she is forced to do so." "she loves you. she is sick. go to her, and you will never be sorry. merle is going to be ill again, but do not stay here, for it is your suffering that affects him, and makes him so. you have magnetized him so often, and he is so strongly charged with your magnetism, that whatever affects you, influences him and affects him physically. you will come out all right if you will only heed my warning, and go to her. remember i told you you were going through a cloud, and i would guide you. you must follow my advice, otherwise i cannot guide you. go as quickly as you can. she needs you. if you love her, you will put away pride, and go to her." "why should i do all the seeking? i have given her proof enough of my love. if she does not want to come to me, and prefers his love to mine, i shall not interfere." "you shall. you must. she wants to be with you, but she feels it is selfish upon her part to wish to. the boy is selfish, and you will both be miserable. do not be harsh with her. show your love. make her see it is not selfishness to wish to be with you, and that it would cause both herself and you so much suffering to gratify the boy. you need each other, and the boy needs discipline." "alice, are you sure she wants to be with me?" "yes, i am sure. will you not go to her now,--right away? she is sick,--heart-sick as well as physically." "yes; i will go. if i find conditions as you say, you have earned my lasting gratitude;--i do not know what to think, what to believe, what to do. you have always been truthful, so was merle for ten years, then he told me untruths; perhaps you are doing the same. if i find you have deceived me, it will be another of life's lessons well learned. i have always advocated truth could always be obtained from an entranced subject, if their minds were left totally unbiased by the operator's will. i can never again teach that, nor place implicit confidence in any assertions i may receive. my book i have put the work of years into is practically valueless, for all i shall now give to the public will be what merle gives me, eradicating all my own views upon the subject." "why do you not go to your wife instead of staying here? i do not believe you love her after all." "alice! silence." "you are making her suffer. you want to spare anyone you love from suffering." "there is no logic nor reason in your utterances. i seem to have struck a cross tide, that brings me no good. wake up, alice." "promise you will go to her right away." "yes, i will go. probably i shall find i have been duped, but i will go, for i am weak enough to want to see her before me all the time. wake up.--wake up.--there, you are yourself again. i think it would do you and merle good to go out in the air and sunshine. i will send a carriage for you. your mother can go with you, too.--mrs. millard,-"mrs. millard, i have been telling alice i think a ride in the air and sunshine would be beneficial to both her and merle. you had better go with them, and see they do not over-exert themselves. on your way home, call at my house for a luncheon and a bouquet of flowers. i will send a carriage for you and notify mrs. c---to have the food and flowers ready when you call. i am going away again for a very short time. if you need me, send for me." "what a good man you are, professor huskins,--always trying to make others happy. the good god above ought to shower happiness upon you. we shall miss you while you are away, but we always say, we hope you are enjoying yourself. we can never even hope to repay your goodness to us, but a mother's prayers ever follow you, because of the good you have done me and mine." "there, mrs. millard, you praise me beyond my deserts. i must go now. i am glad to find merle so much improved. enjoy yourselves as much as possible, and you will soon find me back with you. do not hesitate to send for me if i am needed. i will not speak to merle before i go." chapter thirteen when william reached his wife's apartments, dinah let him in as she had upon his previous visit. her face seemed to beam with happiness. he put his finger to his lips, and, divining his wish to surprise clarissa, she said nothing, but pointed to a door beyond and, smiling, nodded and disappeared. leaving his outer garments in the hall, he quickly traversed the distance between him and the door, and without pausing to be announced, opened and entered clarissa's private room. she lay prostrate upon the bed, crying and moaning piteously, and as she had not heard him enter, was only aware of his presence when she felt his arms about her and saw his face as he bent over her. it seemed like a pleasant dream to feel his lips upon her own,--his arms encircling her, and for a moment, she gave herself unrestrainedly to the happiness she felt. her perfect abandonment to his embrace was the strongest proof william had ever had of her love for him. her greeting left no room for him to doubt her sincerity, and for a while both were oblivious to time and their surroundings. clarissa was first to speak. "did you come in answer to my prayer?" "i hope so. tell me what it was, dear." "i prayed i might be guided to do what was right, and not be influenced by any selfish motive to gain my own happiness. i do not wish to be selfish." "clarissa, let your heart speak, for our future happiness depends upon your answer. is my love and presence capable of bringing you any joy? am i ever necessary to you?" "always, william--always. i was never truly happy when you were absent. even when augustus came, i wanted you to share my joy. i have been so lonely and miserable. you will not leave me again, will you? i am sick;--a weak and feeble woman." "i never left you, clarissa; you know that. you left me. i have been thinking it over. i do not doubt my love was often obtrusive and selfish, but i never meant it to be so. let me now give you the benefit of my riper judgment. all i ask is to see you and to know you are present in my home, which has been so desolate without you. i promise you, i will not obtrude myself upon you unless you ask me to do so. i was selfish, but you know it was only my jealousy that got the better of me. when such tempests come, i have not the power to resist; do not heed my looks nor words, for they are not true to the real man, but come to me, and place your arms around me as you have them now. the touch will restore to me my lost senses. i do not doubt your honesty, clarissa, but at times, there sweeps over my soul such a wave of power i cannot resist it, depriving me even of my reason. if any man were to come to me and even hint that i should doubt you, i should resent it as a gross insult. i do trust you, still, i do not. you cannot understand me; i do not really understand myself. just have patience. help me to overcome this monster. really, i only doubt my power to please and satisfy you, and i wish to be dearer to you than all else in life. will you not help me to conquer this demon who rules and governs me, and renders me insane for the time? the touch of your arms and lips will always dispel him if you will but have patience with me. try to realize how i love you. tell me, dearest, why were you sobbing when i came?" "i am afraid to." "if you have one spark of love for me in your soul, never think--much less say that you are afraid to tell me anything. whatever is to be told, tell me, and let us work out the problem together. i have thought over carefully all you said to me in our last interview, and acknowledge i have often been selfish and exacting, still you were wrong, for god is love, and love has the power to sanction the union of the sexes. my soul was wedded to yours; we were married in the highest sense of the word. i may have made exorbitant demands upon you and your patience then, but, clarissa, your love will give you patience to restrain my selfishness, and hold me where i ought to be. whatever i say,--whatever i do, only come and put your arms around me as they are now, and you will find, instead of a dictator, you will have a slave." "i believe you, william. the assurance of your love makes me the happiest woman upon earth, but what am i to do with augustus? i cannot help feeling i am responsible for his infirmity; therefore, i ought gladly and willingly to sacrifice every desire of my heart to be with him, doing what he wants me to do. i do not want to be selfish, william, am i not so when i find my only happiness in your presence and your love?" "no, dear; love--real love--cannot be selfish." "you ask me one thing, he asks me another totally different. each says if i love him, i will do as he wishes; i love you both, and i want to go to your home, william, i am tired of struggling alone. i want your care and love, but augustus wants to go elsewhere, and thinks if i do not do as he wishes i do not love him. when i see his helplessness, i feel that i am to blame for it, and ought to do whatever he asks me. i cannot please you both. i cannot do what both want. i love you both far dearer than myself; what shall i do? can you not help me, william? am i selfish when i long to put my trust in you,--to have you think for me? tell me what to do. i want to do for augustus all that a mother could do, but my soul hungers for you and your love." "clarissa, how can the love of man and wife be selfish? augustus is our child--i would gladly offer my life for him, but he can never be to me what you are; i may be wrong, but it seems to me the love of husband and wife is the strongest that can be expressed. can a child's love for its mother outbalance her husband's? not if she loves her husband. as i understand the infinite law, man and woman blend their loves to make a complete whole, while a child leaves its parents to unite itself with its opposite. a mother's love may be strong and powerful, but i believe the true love of husband or wife outweighs in power that of a mother, or even of a child. tell me truly;--which love satisfies you better--a child's or a husband's?" "do not ask me, william, for i am so weak a woman, that my soul cries out for your love and appreciation, and will not be stilled, although i know my boy ought to engross every sentiment of my life." "why should he engross your whole attention any more than other children? are they the sole thought of their mothers? is it not selfish for him to make us both miserable simply because he took a dislike to me for putting you to sleep? he was frightened. i was to blame for announcing myself as his father with no preparation. he liked me at first, and will again. we will make it the study of our lives to make him happy. where does he want to go?" "to australia." "australia?" "yes, william. how did you happen to come back just now, when you expected us to come to you? i was just going to write you that you need not expect us, and by the time you would have received my letter, we should have left here. that was why i was crying. augustus would have made himself ill if i had not promised him he should go.--now he has gone out, happy; james is with him. he loves james. how did you happen to come now? is the young man better? james has told me all about his family, and how you have lived since i went away." "merle was much better when i got there. i wanted so much to hear from you, and how you were getting on, i asked alice if i might entrance her; she told me to leave at once and hurry back to you, for you were thinking of going away where i could not reach you for a long time. i left at once, and here i am, for i do not intend you shall leave me again if i can help it." "tell me; how could she know i intended going? i do not understand much of your power." "i cannot explain it to you now. when we have more time, i will teach you the science. there is augustus. his voice sounds happy. what makes you tremble so? surely, you are not afraid of your child! i will deal with him." "no! no! you must not. it would make him so nervous he would be ill. we have to be very careful not to allow him to become excited. we have tried to spare him suffering in every way since he was a baby." "you do not think i intend to be cross with him, do you?" "no; but when he makes up his mind to do a thing, you cannot refuse him, he gets so nervous. william, could not you go to australia for a journey? you have nothing to keep you here, and that would pacify him,--to know you were willing to please him. i am sure we could soon reconcile him to your going." "clarissa, i am surprised that you who were so fearless with me, so impatient of dictation, should be governed by a mere child. your own boy! if i thought you, or he, either, really needed the change, or that it would do you good, i would gladly go, no matter what i left behind, for it shall be the object of my life to make you both happy.--as it is, this is but a childish whim, and you will both be much more comfortable in my home. you need rest and quiet. do not look so pained and sad. i will manage the boy easily, and promise that he shall not be ill." "you do not know him, william, but i will promise him a pony that he can drive himself. that may please him. he wants one--" "you never tried so hard to please me.--there;--that was unkind--i will take it back. now let me make you sleep a while. you will wake rested and calm. do not resist. i will not make augustus ill. sleep. sleep and gain strength.--now for augustus. no wonder alice said he needed discipline. i shall need all my power to rule my home." having arranged her comfortably, william left the apartment, and following the sound of voices, entered without announcing himself, speaking pleasantly to augustus and james and dinah. james was delighted to see him, but augustus' face darkened at once. he did not offer to return his father's greeting, but said quickly to dinah, "where is mamma? i want to see her." he started to leave the room, but william stood in his way, looking him steadily in the eyes with a calm, quiet gaze. "get out of my way, or i will hurt you. i am going to see my mother. she will send you away." "your mother is tired and sleeping. you do not want to disturb her. have you no welcome for me?" "i hate you. i will not stay where you are. i will wake mamma. she will make you leave. i will run my chair against you if you do not move. i tell you i want to go to my mother. james, push him away." "honey, do not get nervous and sick; if you do, you can not go away." "james, i tell you to make him move out of my way, or he will wish he had." dinah went to the boy and tried to smooth his hair and pacify him. he only pushed her away, glaring all the time with the might of his will at his father. he was becoming very much excited. william had expected an unpleasant scene, but not quite such as this. if it continued long, the boy would make himself ill. what an indomitable will he had! he was fairly choking with rage and anger. "dinah and james, you may retire. leave us alone." "they shall not go. they belong to mother. you have no right to tell them what to do. you had better go yourself. move out of my way, or i will hurt you." "james--dinah,--leave us. i do not wish to speak to you again." the tone of william's voice left no room for doubt he meant what he said, and they closed the door behind them without a word. as they did so, augustus pushed his chair forward; william's face was white. he stood with folded arms, right in the path, his eyes gleaming brilliantly. they were stubborn wills that conflicted, but william's had all the advantage, as he knew how to direct his thoughts clearly, while augustus was spending his wildly. just as the chair reached him, william put out his hand and stopped it right in front of him. that he should be stopped so enraged augustus, who had always been accustomed to seeing everyone bow to his wishes, that, raising himself to his feet, and supporting himself with one hand, he struck william with all the force of his strength. william seized the wrist with one hand and holding it firmly, with the other he forced the boy back into his chair. augustus was trembling in every limb. the unconquered force of will was shining in his eyes, but his body was too frail and weak to support it. he struggled to speak several times before he could articulate. "let me go. i will be sick and frighten mamma so she will send you away. mamma! dinah! james! let me go, i say. if i were a man, i would be ashamed to hold a sick boy. mamma!" "i am not holding a sick boy, but a cross one. do not call your mother or anyone else again. they will not come to you." "what are you going to do, kill me? mamma--mamma!" "do not dare to call her again. when you and i have finished, we will both go to her. stop. stop struggling. you are powerless to get away. calm yourself and listen to me." "i will not be calm. i shall be sick, and mamma will wish she had listened to me. she is always scared--" "you are not going to be ill." "i will. i am sick. i feel my heart beating fast; that always means i am going to be awful sick. why are you looking at me that way? you are hurting my wrist. i cannot breathe, i am--" "you are feeling well. see, you are not trembling so much; augustus, look at me. there, there,--you cannot get away, so you may as well obey me. be a good boy and we will go to your mother. let us tell her we are friends. i know you are tired;--i will carry you." "what will you give me if i won't be sick?" "i shall not allow you to be ill. come; you are exhausted. i will carry you in my arms to your mother. you may rest beside her when you have told me you are sorry for your behavior, and are ready to come home with me." "i shall never say i am sorry. we are not going home with you." "you shall sit right where you are until you do say so." suddenly augustus burst forth into a perfect tempest of crying. he shook from head to foot, and every little while he called "mamma--dinah!" william stood beside him, offering no remarks or assistance, but when the fury had spent itself he said quietly, "it is useless for you to try to frighten me. we will stay right here until you do what i say." "mamma will come soon. she will hate you for making me sick." william said no more, but his face showed, even to the boy, he had no intention of changing his mind, and they continued to look at one another. augustus was weak and exhausted, but he would not give in and say he was sorry. as time slipped by, his head began to droop; the excitement was too much for him. he was used to winning his battles quickly, and this was a new experience for him. seeing he was tired, william spoke again. "shall i take you to your mother now?" "yes." "then say you are sorry and will go home with me." "i will not. i will never say it." there was another long wait. augustus' eyes drooped heavily. at last he gave his head a toss and said: "if you cure mamma, i will go home with you. then i may be sorry i struck you." william could not help smiling at this answer. it was hard to give in, and the boy wanted to get away. this was the best compromise he could think of, but, having started to conquer him, william felt it his duty to finish, as it would save that much trouble later. "that is not what i asked you to say." there was another silence. william pitied the boy, he was so tired and weak. after a time augustus said: "i am sorry you made it necessary for me to strike you." as he looked in his father's face, he saw no signs of relenting. this time the pause was longer. finally he looked up with a pitiful expression and held out his hands, saying: "please take me to mamma. i will tell her i have been naughty and cross." william lifted him easily; as he laid his head against his shoulder, augustus clasped his neck and nestled down, wan and tired. that was the hardest task he had ever done. he was thoroughly conquered, and looked up with a pleasant smile when he felt his father's kiss upon his face, and was soon lying by his mother's side fast asleep. william was content to watch them, and as he sat there, he thought what a blessing alice's advice had been to him. he had his family back now. could he keep them? if love would hold them he would. he was tired himself, but he must go and consult with james and dinah. so he left them together and went out to perfect his plans for their future happiness. chapter fourteen it was not long before william had his family domesticated in his home. for a while it required most of his time and attention to restore them and merle to even seemingly well conditions. by the time one was better another would fail, yet this was the happiest period so far in his life, and his contented mind showed forth in his every expression and act. not that every condition was precisely what he desired, for there were often conflicts between stubborn wills, but he had been disciplined in the stern, hard, rigid school of experience. the loneliness he had endured in the beautiful home that was the envy of so many, will never be known to any save himself. his wife can never realize it, for she has had her child to occupy her attention. his was a nature hard to understand, as he possessed a pride so deep and strong it was easier for him to endure suffering than to accept pity or sympathy. the darkest season of his life had been lived alone. in early youth he had been left an orphan, inheriting vast riches. his remembrances of his parents were very vague, and he had neither agreed with nor respected his guardian. he had been practically unrestricted and developed an imperious, haughty temperament, expecting his words and wishes to always command obedience and attention because they always had. when he met clarissa, she embodied, to his mind, just the qualities with which he had endowed his ideal of woman. she was beautiful in person, gracious and graceful in deportment, cultured, refined, and gifted with a glorious voice that cultivation had rendered little less than marvellous in power and richness. he immediately gave her all the love that was in his hitherto unexpressed nature, and cherished only one thought--to call her his. the force and power of his intense nature was great. from his earliest recollections he had been accustomed to obtain everything he had desired, and this fact lent extra power to his purpose to win this woman for his wife. never having learned to curb his desires, nor to experience failure, his thoughts went forth ardent and strong, with never a doubt he should win her, and his thoughts were therefore charged with unusually strong magnetism. his wooing was short and ardent, for his imperious nature was unwilling to await patiently what he might desire, and his world of happiness was encompassed within the radius of her presence and affection. he was impatient of any intrusion upon their privacy, and being accustomed to consider his word and wishes as law, he had believed a husband was master and arbiter of his wife's fate and life, and became furiously jealous, exacting and unreasonable. some women would have yielded submissively to the demands he made upon her, but clarissa had herself been nurtured and developed under a regime of independence similar to his own, and likewise thought her wishes should always be consulted. her beauty and talent had brought her admiration, flattery and homage, and it was impossible that she should be content or satisfied with one person's favor. she was proud of her husband, loving him beyond all else on earth, but she had ever been used to command--not to obey. dictation brought forth all the resistance and ire of her nature, and she would not yield. she loved to be noticed, flattered and praised, and william's extreme jealousy was therefore a tax upon her patience. neither would change to suit the methods of the other, for each thought the other wrong. finally there came a climax, unusually severe. clarissa, thinking herself greatly injured, left him, and taking dinah, who had been her nurse in childhood, returned to her father. james and nancy had also been servants in her father's house, following her when she married, and went into her new home. james' sympathy, however, was with his young master, whom he idolized, and he remained with him, trusting in a speedy reunion, but william and clarissa were too proud to seek each other's forgiveness. each believed the other to be entirely at fault. william never had known he was a father, believing she had left him because she preferred a man whom he bitterly hated, therefore never sought to trace or find her. that people should not think he was weak enough to suffer through a fickle woman, he immediately left the place, and sought a new home, where he devoted all his time, wealth and energy to the study of mesmeric influence, the efficacy of which he had heard much. his pride continually said to him--"she has left you of her own choice.--she has disgraced you.--you must never admit you suffer." when angry, he was actually irresponsible for many of the things he did, and the words he uttered. to so impetuous a nature, no other feeling could be so strong as jealousy, which seemed to render him temporarily insane. in the very vortex of his passion, clarissa told him she was about to become a mother. under any other conditions, how happy such a revelation would have made him! under such as those in which she had imparted the information, however, she might as well have gone to a person incapable of understanding as to expect him to remember what she said after they had ceased their quarrel. of course, she believed he remembered what she had told him, and because it did not soften his anger, making him loving and tender to her, she rushed to the conclusion he did not want to acknowledge the child as his own. such injustice angered and irritated her, and she had returned to her father, telling him her side of the story. her father, having always indulged her every whim, felt william was unjust, so made no effort to reconcile the conditions. while augustus was very young, he passed away, leaving them alone, with plenty of money to care for themselves. thus both she and william suffered, never learning, even in the severe school of life, to curb the haste of their uncontrolled natures. there could be no better illustration of their attitude toward one another than that of two positive chemicals, which the chemist of love was trying to assimilate and compound into united action. being equally positive, they held one another at bay, or at least, at such a distance as to preserve their individualities from the influence of the other, consequently were never drawn into concerted action as the object of each seemed to be to enhance his or her individuality. neither being wholly right or wholly wrong, both did as well as they understood, and the stern discipline of suffering was needed to refine their souls and bring into prominence their real value and worth. in like manner as a diamond when taken from the ground contains within itself all the beauty and excellence it can be made to show, they were obliged to pass through the tests of true love, which declare its real worth, and bring forth such proofs of its superiority over mere physical attraction, as the passage of the diamond through the fierce tests of heat and fire, which proclaim its value beyond that of the ingenious and skillful imitations, for while they become disintegrated and their beauties are destroyed, the real gems only gleam the brighter because of the severity of the test. like the diamond, the jewel of true love must always possess the ability to rise superior to those conditions which quench and destroy the flame of physical attraction often masquerading under the guise of love. the stronger and purer the love, the greater and more severe the tests it can withstand. both william and clarissa had suffered much; instead, however, of estranging their souls, or, as many would say, their hearts, it only served to draw them nearer together, though they were physically far apart. no other woman could satisfy william's ideals, and no other man could fill william's place in clarissa's affections, although they were unable to agree or satisfy one another, neither would acknowledge any wrong, so while each longed for the other's love and confidence, neither would make advances toward a reconciliation. the fires of the furnace of suffering had destroyed much dross in both their natures, while the real jewel of their loves gleamed brighter and brighter as time passed. augustus passed his embryotic development and birth under such conditions, while his mother was suffering and smarting from the wounds of supposedly unappreciated love. clarissa tried to the best of her knowledge to fill the place of both mother and father to him, going to the opposite extreme, mistaking indulgence for the expression of love. in so doing she was quite as selfish as william, who had expected so much from her, finding her own happiness in augustus' pleasure, deceiving herself into the belief she was unselfish. such sentiments can never be unselfish, for does not unselfishness mean the unalloyed pleasure of giving, lovingly and generously to another, without consulting one's own aspirations, that the happiness which they enjoy may be for their good and betterment? chapter fifteen less than a year has elapsed since william's reunion with his family. merle, alice and augustus are visibly stronger and healthier, but clarissa seemed to fluctuate between better and worse for a considerable length of time. for quite a while after she came to william's home, she appeared greatly improved, almost like a girl again, until after about six months, she suddenly began to show peculiar symptoms. usually the soul and life of the home, all, from william to the humblest servant looked to her for approbation, happy when she was happy, and uneasy when she was sad. from her entrance into the home, she had brought sunshine, not only to william's heart, but to his servants and merle's family as well. mrs. millard and her children rejoiced in william's happiness as though it had been their own, even more. he had been a friend in need, and they regarded him as their adviser and guardian. gladly would any of them have suffered to purchase or enhance his happiness. the knowledge he had a family was a great surprise to them. they were much pleased to learn of his good fortune in being reunited to them, and would have found anyone whom he had claimed as his family pleasing and agreeable, whatever their characteristics might have been. as it was, a wife and son, possessing as they did talents and qualities of mind that commanded their esteem, had become, if possible, still greater objects of veneration than the professor himself. clarissa's marvellous voice charmed and fascinated them beyond expression; to them she was more than a mere woman. augustus' infirmity endeared him to them; he would have been loved had he not possessed other characteristics, but added to that, he possessed more than ordinary beauty, also great skill in drawing and music. they vied with one another to entertain and humor him, and this deference to his wishes was just what he sought and enjoyed. he spent much of his time with them, and in their home he was king. his slightest whim was law. they were so accustomed to bound their lives by the professor's work, that they recounted to him such marvelous tales of his father's power and skill, the boy had grown to think him the wisest and most powerful man on earth. when augustus wanted to gain some favor or especial promise, he appealed to his mother, whom he knew how to coerce, but no words of love or praise she could bestow upon him filled him with such pride and genuine satisfaction as he knew when his father expressed his approbation of what he did. he grew to watch his father's face very closely, soon acquiring the perception to know whether he was pleased or annoyed even though such sensations were never expressed in words. he possessed a very sensitive nature. the shock of seeing his mother in a mesmeric sleep, which he had mistaken for death, was an experience he could never forget, and while he was very proud of his father's reputation as the strongest and most powerful mesmerist of the age, he feared seeing anyone in that state; still, his mind was too active and vigorous not to desire to know the principles underlying the phenomena that terrified him, so he frequently questioned his father as to the nature of it, although he could not be urged nor persuaded to either be influenced himself or to see others placed in the trance state. william was very anxious to place augustus in a mesmeric condition, believing that by so doing he could restore his physical vigor, and knowing the boy's aversion to being, or seeing anyone else placed there, he strove to control him without his knowledge. he soon found the process did not conduce to improve the boy's health, however, as he became exceedingly irritable and nervous, so much so indeed, that on one occasion, when he had persisted in concentrating his thoughts upon him, augustus had become hysterical, and nearly gone into convulsions. he would undoubtedly have done so had his father persisted in his resolve. this was a condition william did not comprehend. he sought by every method to reconcile augustus to the idea to be mesmerized willingly, hoping by means of the trance state to obtain some explanation of the strange phenomenon, as the boy's personality promised him an unusual subject if he could only subjugate his prejudice. he was the most difficult subject he had ever encountered. this was not because he did not possess the power to conquer his resistance either waking or sleeping, but he disliked to evoke the conditions necessary to control his individuality by force. when augustus sickened, he not only had this condition to combat, but clarissa and merle's family and the servants all became agitated and alarmed, and looked upon him as the source of relief. thus, to control augustus, he was obliged to control them all. strange to say, he could control all far easier than he could augustus. he tried to bribe him to see merle or alice in a trance, hoping in this way to take from his consciousness all thoughts of fear, but he was never successful. augustus could not separate the trance state from thought of death. while in a stranger william would not have humored a repugnance, he, like clarissa, felt the boy's infirmity was due in part to his fault, although unwittingly so, therefore thought it his duty to make all possible excuses for him. his best judgment was never exercised toward augustus. thus, when clarissa began to show the desire to retire by herself, the father and son naturally grew nearer and nearer to one another, in thought and deed, while neither would acknowledge the vast difference they noted in her actions. both were sensitive, we might even say, jealous, because they realized their presence was no longer necessary to her happiness. she sought seclusion, throwing them more and more into companionship, but both were too proud to own the keen agony they felt, and as they realized more and more deeply this lack of the necessity of their affections to her, a common instinct seemed to draw them closer and closer together. augustus, like his father, was peculiarly sensitive and loved to be made much of, but they both feared to intrude themselves upon her. it was not because she loved them less, however, she sought seclusion, nor could she have told why she wished to be alone. she only knew she desired complete solitude, where, unmolested by anyone, she questioned and requestioned facts she knew to be true. she was as irresponsible for her actions as a person bereft of mind or consciousness. being shut so much from her presence, william came to confide more and more in augustus, who opened his heart toward his father in corresponding measure, and each finding the other was not preferred more than himself, they joined in mutual resistance. as clarissa drew herself further and further from her husband and her child, she clung more closely to mrs. millard and alice, and it seemed as though she either desired to be entirely alone or in their company. she only sang when begged to do so, and even then did not do herself justice. dr. baxter and others of her husband's friends who had been most agreeable to her at first, seemed now to only irritate her--she could not herself tell why. she had never loved william and augustus more than now, still they caused her much irritation, and although she meant to be patient and loving, she was the exact opposite, and the more congenial and pleasant and agreeable she endeavored to be, the more her strength deserted her. she was an enigma to herself as well as to her family. had anyone told her she could ever be wearied or exhausted by augustus she would a short time before have resented it, now she found his very voice and presence often vexing. she fought with herself valiantly, and william watched, sad and distressed as her infirmity gained upon her. it was a condition that, with all his skill, he could not meet. he worked patiently and lovingly, picturing her in his mind to represent health, vigor, cheerfulness and happiness, but the harder he worked, the greater became the ravages of nervousness upon her. he had tried mesmeric sleep, but despite his confident thoughts she would wake with calmness, peace and contentment, he could clearly see before she vented her feelings in words that she awoke nervous and irritable, and shrank from his love and embraces. it was inexplicable. once he would have hastened to the conclusion she did not love him, and jealousy would have forced him into unkind measures with her, but when he saw augustus suffering a like banishment, the boy's suffering was so acute, he felt he must amuse him, and think of him and until clarissa should again be herself, be both father and mother to him. they were almost continuously together; both suffered, each pitied the other, and tried to make the other forget. william gave up his scientific researches completely; he had no heart nor interest for it while clarissa continued in her present state, and despite his vast experience with nervous difficulties, he could not account for the peculiar phases of her sickness. had she shunned him and clung to augustus, it would have seemed less inexplicable. in a way he would have suffered more, for his keenest suffering now was modified by the fact that he must amuse augustus and save him from suffering. the boy could not understand why he was forbidden his mother's presence, as he had been taught from earliest infancy to expect his wishes to be regarded as law by her and the servants. now clarissa, although still kind, no longer made him the center of her attention or interest. he was sensitive, and his pride as well as his affections was hurt. one day clarissa had not appeared at the morning meal, but pleading illness, had gone to mrs. millard's and remained till after the time for him to retire. he became so aggrieved he wanted sympathy, and, although during all the time they had been growing nearer and dearer they had neither of them ever referred to what they considered their common sorrow, when it became time for augustus to go to bed, and his mother had not returned, he went quietly with dinah without a word, but noting his father's pained expression, after he had been undressed and prepared to sleep, he suddenly resolved to go back to him and tell him that he loved him and not to grieve. dinah could not control him, but she insisted in wrapping him with shawls to keep him warm, and, placing him in his chair, promised to remain where she was till his return. with the help of one of the other servants, he soon reached the room where he had left his father, and entered. william sat quietly looking straight before him, so did not notice him at first, but afterward, hearing the noise of his chair, he looked up, surprised and perplexed. "why, augustus, i thought you were sleeping. are you ill?" there was no answer, but william saw the tears in the boy's eyes. he said no more,--his heart ached for sympathy, and it was a relief to have him near to lavish his affection upon. he lifted augustus from his chair into his arms, and as the boy's head went to his shoulder, his arms wound around his neck in a tight embrace. for quite a time neither spoke, then augustus, lifting his head and looking piteously into his father's face, said: "she does not love us any more." william could not speak; he only held his son closer to him.--so they sat when the door opened and clarissa entered. they both heard her--neither moved. each seemed to feel a comfort in knowing that the other suffered too. there was someone with her,--mrs. millard,--and they went directly by the room where father and son were sitting. they strained their ears to hear if she inquired for them, but were unrewarded. her voice sounded cheerful to them. they instinctively clung closer to each other, and neither spoke. the voices grew fainter and fainter, and finally died away altogether, and left them sitting there,--miserable, unhappy and forgotten. william bowed his head over his son until their faces touched; he thought he had known misery before, but as he felt the boy's suffering by the deep drawn sighs which were almost sobs, he realized that only now had he touched the bitter cup. jealousy was no factor in his sufferings now, and no one could ever know what consolation there was for him in those clinging arms and the companionship of his boy. he knew they made him a better man, and resolved to do for him what he could not do for himself. that close embrace seemed to feed his hungry heart, and after a while augustus slept. william rejoiced. still he preferred to hold him rather than be alone with his sorrow. he tried to think where he had failed to win clarissa's love. not only he had failed, but his boy also, who had previously been the center of her interest. neither of them was now necessary to her happiness. what a void! who could compass it?--he felt a touch upon his shoulder, and before he could bring his mind to realize her actual presence, clarissa's arms were encircling them both, and her kisses, warm and fervent, were upon his lips. as he looked up, her eyes gleamed bright and tenderly into his, and his first thought was, "i wish augustus could see her." he knew the boy's heart was as hungry as his own, and that clarissa, the old loving clarissa, was before him. he removed one arm from augustus, placing it tenderly and closely about her, and drawing clarissa nearer said, "kiss him." what volumes the words implied! they proved how his nature had broadened. instead of thinking of his own happiness, he thought first of augustus. to be sure he was his child, but the time had been when even his own child would not have come first. not that he loved her less, for he loved her more, but he was beginning to learn what love really was. the boy did not stir as his mother kissed him, and clarissa said, "why is not augustus in bed?" "he went," said william, "then came back to comfort me, i think, although he did not say so." as he said this, he looked up at her with a pleasant smile, and she seemed to recognize its significance, for she bent over and, kissing him, placed her arms above augustus' around his neck. a bright flush mounted to william's cheek as he drew her still closer to him; his eyes sought hers eagerly, but hers sank before him. he held the boy nearer and nearer, with a long drawn sigh that made clarissa sad, and she said quickly: "william, do you doubt my love?" no answer. "william, tell me;--do you doubt my love?" there was no response in words, but his arms held her a little closer. the power of speech seemed to have left him. again she asked, "william,--you know i love you?" after a pause he spoke. "if you love augustus, why do you not remain with him? see, he has come to me for sympathy and love. clarissa, even though you shun me, give our boy your love. he must not be blamed for his father's--" "william! william! do you not understand?" "no, clarissa; i do not. i only know my heart is desolate, and augustus suffers. i have not questioned your motive. probably, augustus, like his father, has failed to satisfy you." "enough, william. see; i am pleading humbly. no,--do not try to raise me. i promised mrs. millard i would tell you the truth. i--" "clarissa!" "do not--do not touch me. do not wake augustus. i want to talk with you,--alone. i love you, william. do you believe me when i say i love you?" "yes, clarissa, though i sometimes have my doubts when you shrink from me and my embraces. my love makes me desire your constant presence, but you draw away when i come--" "do not say any more, william;--i cannot understand myself. i never loved you nor augustus more, yet i cannot endure your embraces. will you not have patience with me, knowing my condition? i want your affection. i feel i must have it. still, i want to be alone. i do not know why, but augustus' voice even, makes me irritable. william, i am a very weak woman; will you not help me? you are the father of my children. have patience. think for me. believe me, william, i never loved you as i do now, yet there is some power beyond my control that makes me long to be alone. i long so many times to have your arms around me. i want a lover, not a husband. do you not understand?" "i cannot separate the two, clarissa. i am your husband, and have always been your lover since i first saw you. i am as much so now and more, than ever before. you were never so beautiful to me, so loving--" "william, if i were suddenly to lose the beauty you love, would you still love me?" william was surprised to see the concern and anxiety in her face, and said confidently, "yes, clarissa. why do you question me? you have made me very happy by your admission of your coming motherhood. it means a new happiness in our lives. let me share your feelings now. i was not privileged to be with you before augustus was born. you have relieved my heart of a great burden. i thought you had grown weary of me, but now i have a new joy. i am so glad you have told me. lift your head, clarissa. let us seal our new joy with a kiss. one for augustus, too. poor child, he and i have suffered much. why have you not told me before?" clarissa suddenly burst into such a torrent of tears that her sobs awoke augustus; he clung to her, half asleep, half awake; then sank back upon his father's shoulder. william smiled and said: "kiss mamma. i will tell dinah you are going to remain with me tonight. let her put you in my bed. i will come soon." without speaking to clarissa, he went out with augustus. before long he returned and without a word he clasped her in his arms. soon she ceased her sobbing, and he said: "clarissa, let us go and thank mrs. millard. i feel she has sent you to me. she knows the strength of my love better than you do. in the future, don't draw away from me; do not fear me. give me the privilege of sharing all your experiences. i will never obtrude upon you. come, let us go to mrs. millard,--then to augustus. we three will unite in thanksgiving for the new love we are to have." "you are pleased, william?" "pleased is a faint word. knowing the cause of your eccentricities, i shall not grieve, though you exclude me entirely from your presence." "william, what will augustus say?" "he is too much my boy not to rejoice too. trust us, clarissa; we are jealous, exacting, and imperfect, but our loyalty and love are unswerving. you are our all. try to have patience with our shortcomings." "i am afraid augustus will be grieved." "you have made me most happy by your confidence. in all future times come to me with your difficulties, even though i am the cause of them, and permit me to change my methods when i am wrong. act your own will. just love us, and i will prepare augustus for the revelation. i know he will rejoice too. he and i have grown very near one another in these few days. we are much alike. i am glad to see you smile, even if it is at my expense. just a word, and then we will go to mrs. millard. "forget the past selfishness upon my part. i will try in the future to do just what you want. anything but isolation. if you prefer lover to husband, i will be that; when you want neither, i will try to make augustus happy. your smile makes me glad. how much i owe alice and her mother,--yes, and merle, too! come, let us go." chapter sixteen the revelation which clarissa had made to william wrought a great change in him. even the next day he felt cheerful, and upon waking and finding augustus still asleep, he said to him: "come, augustus, we must rise, for i have some work to do. i promised your mother i would bring you to her early. she is not well, and we are to shield and care for her. shall i carry you just as you are, and put you beside her while she is sleeping? perhaps we can surprise her. shall we try?" there was such jovial pleasure in his face that augustus was surprised and he looked at him suspiciously, and asked: "did she ask for you or me to come?" "both of us, boy. she came in and kissed you after you were asleep, and said she wanted us to come and see her before i went out." "where are you going? may i go? i get so lonesome here with only dinah and james." "you may go if you wish. i should like to have you. you love merle. i am going to him, and try to finish my book upon science." "father, are you going to make him look dead?" "i am going to put him in a trance, augustus. you are too brave a boy to be afraid of anything your father does. do you think i would injure merle?" "no; but mamma looked as though she were dead. i do not want to go." "you will always be nervous, augustus, until you have watched the process of mesmeric influence. when you know what i am doing, you will not feel as you did, when, without warning, you found your mother in a mesmeric state. come, my boy, be brave. i like to have you with me, if you will come. i will take you to the theatre after my work is done, and we will ask merle to go with us. merle loves me. would he love me if i did him any injury?" "no; but it makes me nervous just to think of it." "all that nervousness will go when you see me work. will you come?" "may i go away if i do not like it?" "yes. now let's go to mamma; we will not bother with the chair. let's surprise her. i will put you beside her before she awakes. we will go very quietly." "will she want us?" "i think so. come." * * * * * later in the day, augustus went with his father, but not without many misgivings. he wanted to go, but he was afraid. he and merle were the best of friends, yet he felt a sense of nervousness about seeing him entranced, although he was ashamed to acknowledge it to his father. he did not doubt his father's power nor think that william would hurt merle, even temporarily, but the first shock he had received had prejudiced him. he was very fond of his father, and had he heard anyone doubt his abilities or powers, he would have resented it. he was glad his father had asked him to go with him, while he was working upon the evidence for his book, still, would have given much to have been somewhere else at the time. arriving at merle's house, each member of the family vied with the others to entertain him, and after a while william said, "come, merle, let's get to work." "all right, professor," responded merle. they started toward another room, and william said, "come, augustus." augustus took his crutches and started to follow them. his father was ahead, thus did not see the boy's agitation and paleness, but alice did, and said, "don't you think augustus had better stay with mother and me while you work, professor?" william did not turn his head, but said, "no, alice; he wants to be with me." alice said no more; it seemed to her that it was anything but a joyous expression upon augustus' face. she was accustomed to obey the professor implicitly and without comment. it did not occur to her that the boy was afraid. she thought he was displeased. william had just begun to work upon merle. as he said "you are waking, merle?" he heard a noise behind him, but did not turn in time to prevent augustus from falling. he was insensible when his father reached him. william's first thought was "what will clarissa do if he is dead!" he had not realized the terror the child felt at seeing a comrade pass through the successive stages between consciousness and trance obedience. custom had inured william to such scenes, but fear pictured each transition in intensified colors to augustus. when he saw the pallor and rigidity which merle assumed, he could not help but think he was dead, and fell forward, without a word, in a deep swoon. merle was forgotten for the moment, and william was aghast at the condition in which he found augustus. he called quickly and sharply and both mrs. millard and alice responded. augustus looked worse than merle. william rubbed him vigorously and continuously, calling "come, augustus;--augustus; wake up my boy, wake up. mother is waiting for us." they gave him air, water and stimulants, and finally he began to show signs of life. william continued to talk to him. "augustus, my boy,--augustus, look at me." finally, as william raised him, his eyes opened and looked into his father's, then wandered to merle. such a piercing cry rang out as they will never forget, and he sank back, rigid and still. william, the calm man of science, was visibly disturbed. anxiety was plainly written upon his countenance, and, holding augustus closely to him, he bade merle awake. merle was very soon himself again, and astonished at seeing augustus in his father's arms, with mrs. millard and alice rubbing him. the condition was very soon explained to him, and he took his stand directly beside the boy, so when he regained consciousness he would be relieved of his fears, finding merle well and smiling. when augustus finally revived from this second swoon, and saw all the loving solicitude upon the faces around him, his first feeling was of shame he had shown fear, and although he had a weak body, he had a strong will when he set about a thing, and the thought caused him to try to raise himself. he threw his arms around william's neck, trying thus to support himself, and looking earnestly into his father's eyes, said: "i do not want to be a coward." "do not think about it, augustus;--mrs. millard, will you and merle and alice leave us alone for a little while? there, boy; rest. keep perfectly quiet. you shall not be frightened so again." william lifted the child, and seating himself in a chair, held him closely to him. the boy's head drooped upon his shoulder and everything was quiet. after a long pause, augustus spoke, but without lifting his head. "father, are you very much ashamed of me?" "not a bit, boy. i only regret i caused you to suffer so. you are a brave little fellow to stand so much without a word. i am proud of you. try to calm yourself; then we will do whatever you wish." with a sigh of relief, augustus relapsed into silence, and william communed with himself. by the expression upon his face it was evident that his thoughts were not altogether to his liking. he had many questions to ask himself that could not be answered satisfactorily. where now was his boasted calmness? even now, it was only by the exercise of all his force of will that he kept from trembling, and all because a boy had swooned. that it was his boy was no reasonable excuse, for love should have made him stronger instead of weaker. why was it that he could not mesmerize augustus, who ought to be an unusually good subject? why did clarissa draw away from him and augustus at the time of all others when she should be most dependent upon them for love and care? if, before his family returned to him, another man had come to him with similar difficulties, he would, without hesitation, have explained the cause and offered to adjust the condition. he had tried all the methods he knew upon his wife and child, and instead of bringing about the desired results, clarissa shrank more and more from him. he knew that it was not because she did not love him. there was no other way to account for it than by her physical condition. he felt an almost irresistible impulse to give vent to a sarcastic laugh. "science baffled by a pregnant woman's whim and a child's fear. wonderful exponent of it i am!" as he thought this, william threw his head back quickly and scornfully. augustus said: "what is it, father?" "nothing, my little man. how are you feeling now?" "better. i wish i could go riding out of doors." "you may. there are your crutches. go ahead of me, and ask merle and alice to join us. they will feel relieved to know that you are well enough to come to them; they were very anxious." "father, i would not want mamma and dinah to know that i was afraid." "all right, boy. you go and ask merle and alice to go with us, and i will go and get a carriage." chapter seventeen after the members of his household had retired that night, william sat thinking as he had never thought before. he believed he had solved the cause of various phenomena through the use of mesmeric influence. he was able to demonstrate their basic principles to his friends or indeed to strangers, by the application of his knowledge, without relying upon theories or conjectures, and to perform marvelous feats by the aid of his powers, yet he was completely non-plussed by two members of his own family, who, although they did not doubt the efficacy of his powers, exhibited the very opposite traits to what he desired when he endeavored to work upon them. while he sat there, deep in thought, he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and, looking up, saw clarissa standing before him. "william, why are you not in bed and sleeping? does anything trouble you? you looked so sad when i came in--" "i am a little perplexed, but not troubled. how came you here, dear? can you not sleep? are you ill?" "no; i went to sleep, directly i went to bed. i dreamed you were here, alone and troubled, and i have little, if any recollection of leaving or coming here, but here i am. william, did you will me to come to you?" "no, clarissa; i supposed you were sleeping, and i would not disturb your sleep." "then how did i come here? i did not know you were here. i remember dreaming you were here; that is all." "you must have felt i was lonely, and your goodness of heart brought you here to comfort me. that thought makes me happy. you must go back, or you will take cold." "but, william, when i first asked you, you said that you were not troubled; now you say you are." "only troubled to understand myself, and some scientific problems that have been brought to my attention." "you are wise, william; i wish you would explain to me some of the things i have seen since i have been ill. oh! i don't mean right now; tomorrow;--any time when you are not engaged." "certainly;--i will do my best. clarissa, are you happier here than you were before you came back to me?" "yes." "now i will go and stay with you until you are sound asleep. here is dinah. did you think she was lost, dinah?" "no, master; but she acted so strange i was afraid that she was sick." "acted strange when?" "why, master, she went to sleep right after she retired and seemed so quiet like, i thought i would go and see augustus. then i remembered he wanted me to do an errand for him--i promised not to tell what it was,--as i was going back to him, i met mistress clarissa coming down here. i spoke to her, but she did not answer me, and said, 'yes, william i know--i am coming.' i touched her, but she didn't look around, only said, 'yes, william.' i thought sure she was walking in her sleep, and i ought to watch her, but if i had known you were here, master william, i would not have come in." "you did just right, dinah;--i am glad you watched her. now go to augustus. i will stay with her till she sleeps soundly and well." "william, i do not remember meeting dinah; surely, you must have willed me to come to you, or i would not have known where to find you, nor failed to see dinah when she spoke. did you not call me, william?" "no, clarissa; no more than i do always when you are absent. your image is never away from my consciousness, and whatever subject may claim my attention, you are always present in my mind. i did not will you. i hoped with all the power of my soul you were enjoying a sweet and dreamless sleep." "i think it strange. i did not know you were here. i came here without knowing it, and you say you did not call me." "no; but do not worry about it. i am going back with you, and will stay until you are sound asleep. do not try to explain your coming here. we will do that together later. i always want you near me; possibly when you were sleeping, you became sensitive to that thought. come. you will be ill tomorrow." chapter eighteen the night's experience furnished william with still another problem to study, all the more perplexing because of the fact that clarissa had come to him without his having concentrated upon her doing so, and apparently of her own will, while she had shrunk away, cold and unresponsive when he had tried to bring her. what was the power that had brought her to him? it must have been strong, although she had no remembrance of coming, nor of meeting dinah. long after she was asleep, he weighed cause after cause; there was no disputing the fact he was becoming nervous, and, when her regular and low breathing proclaimed beyond all doubt she was sleeping sweetly and soundly, he would not move, nor leave her, fearing she might again rise and walk about in her sleep. if she had come to him at almost any other time, he would not have been surprised, as she was so constantly in his mind; then he would have thought his silent suggestions, finding her negative, had drawn her to him, by the same law that a hypnotist draws a subject, but just at this particular time he had been very deeply engrossed in other thoughts. according to his ideas, there was only one way to account for it; that was to ascribe it to her physical condition, making her negative and sensitive; possibly producing a state of somnambulance, and that he was in her mind in her dreaming, she had been guided to him by that strangely inexplicable, but none the less true instinct that guides all somnambulists if left unrestricted in their movements. this nervous state might last throughout the entire period of her pregnancy. at another time she might be drawn to augustus, or any other person or place. persons have been known to drown themselves in such a state, so he would watch her. he knew somnambulance sprang from nervous excitement, and in her condition, there was no telling what phases might develop. this had been a harmless and pleasing incident, but there was nothing to guarantee its repetition would be the same. it was not only his right, but his duty to watch over her while she was in this negative condition, for if harm should come to her, he could never forgive himself. there was danger when she would seek him in an apartment he was unaccustomed to be in,--especially at that time of night. her very accuracy was, perhaps, the most alarming feature. women in her condition are apt to exhibit very peculiar traits, and these usually entirely foreign to their natural instincts. he would, therefore, watch her very closely during the interval, doing what he could to help her, but he must be careful she did not discover his surveillance. how little he realized what an advancement he was making in true love! once he would have wanted her to know of every sacrifice he made, and had she not desired his constant presence, he would have become jealous,--perhaps furiously so--and felt she had no love for him. he had learned much. he had learned love means more than attention even more than endearing words and close embraces. these could all be supplied by subterfuge, even while love was totally absent. real love may exist without these outward demonstrations. he understood all this as he was compelled to hide his own affections more and more, and as he witnessed augustus' suffering upon being banished from his mother's presence. he had been educated to believe himself the one object of interest in the home, and it came harder to him, therefore, than it did to william, to relinquish her constant solicitude. altogether, it was a dreary season for them, full of heartaches, but to william, even this, compared to the time when he was alone in his beautiful home, was a veritable paradise, for now he had augustus and his love and clarissa's presence. humble indeed were his present requirements as compared to his past exactions, and this state of humbleness proved his great growth in wisdom, for ignorance is always aggressive and egotistic, encroaching largely upon both possibilities and the actual, while real wisdom, like charity, "vaunteth not itself." for some unknown reason, william felt he wanted to talk with alice when she was entranced. until clarissa came to him, he had turned to merle in all seasons of doubt and perplexity, but now, he felt alice could best furnish him the information he desired. augustus clung to his father's companionship a large portion of the time, even in the matter of education the family felt that they could best supply him with knowledge, for they were even more sensitive about his infirmity than himself. they were unwilling he should mingle with boys about his own age, taking especial care in cultivating his taste for music and art, which was far beyond the ken of children of his age. william felt he must also devote more of his time to him, so, on the day following asked him if he would like to go with merle for a long ride that would occupy some time, calling for him upon the way back, when they would all go to the theatre, where augustus loved so well to go. when his mother had swayed and thrilled such vast audiences by the magic of her beautiful voice, she had rarely allowed him to be present; she loved to think she was singing for him, and he was the one object in her mind, but she felt she could do better when he was not actually present. this very fact probably made augustus all the more fond of public performances, for he always thought "my mother can do better than that." he was very proud of her reputation as a singer while his father was extremely sensitive about it. william would have been loth to admit it to anyone, but, growing to believe he had no other rival in clarissa's affection save this boy, he transmitted his hatred of supposed rivals to her public achievements, and could not endure the thought of them. what gave augustus joy in this respect, gave him jealousy. he did not like to think of her as singing to multitude, the object of their unstinted admiration, therefore her reputation as a peerless musician and singer brought him no whit of pleasure. few of her hearers could appreciate her singing as he, for he was a fine musician himself, still he could not endure the thought of her singing for public approval or money. music, to him, was a sacred gift, and although he gloried in her abilities, he deplored the attention it brought to her publicly. of all things, the knowledge she was working for financial reasons was the most exasperating, and he was particularly and peculiarly sensitive upon this point, not liking to hear her spoken of as a public entertainer, while that was very pleasing to augustus. whenever he attended a public performance, he invariably said that it was good, but mamma could do better, deriving much pleasure from the thought, though the mere mention of clarissa's achievements and attempts to win public favor was torture to his father. just now, however, william desired to see augustus happy, so he planned for every condition he felt would add to his pleasure, and while he and merle were riding, he would talk with alice, thus both father and son would be occupied and partially happy. chapter nineteen william felt relieved when the boys had started upon their pleasure trip, and he was left alone with alice and mrs. millard. the millards seemed very near to him, and he felt almost as much solicitude for them as for his own family. alice was glad to be of service to him, and this cheerfulness upon her part was, perhaps, one of the strongest factors in her ability to do good work for him. merle was equally desirous of pleasing him, passing willingly at any and all times into the trance state. william had never felt as much pride in his work or the results accruing from it as merle did, and never had found another "subject" upon whom he could so fully rely. there was no doubt the congeniality of their souls had much to do with the success of their achievements. it gave merle particular pleasure to know william eclipsed all other demonstrators of mesmeric power, feeling flattered to be chosen by so wise a man as his principal subject. he never dreaded to pass into the trance state, and had, in so far as it was possible for him to do so, followed the injunctions he had been given at the outset, to try and eliminate all personal opinions, holding no personal prejudices, and offering no resistance. not a little of william's prestige depended upon the evidence merle had given him in the trance condition, and alice was equally zealous, but had never been used for any public work. she, also, felt flattered to think the professor should select her to assist him in his investigations instead of merle, whom she considered to be her superior as a subject, and whose reputation as a subject was as great as the professor's as a demonstrator. she had no realization of the difference in the kind or nature of the work done through them, nor, indeed, had she ever speculated upon that point. mrs. millard excused herself, leaving william and alice alone, and he soon placed her in a trance. she said nothing until he questioned her. "alice, are you waking?" "yes, professor." "can you see my wife? tell me what she is doing." "she looks very thoughtful. i do not know whether she is sad or not." "why should she be sad?" "i do not know that she is sad." "then why do you speak of it?" "i do not know." "alice, can you read her thoughts? you ought to. try." "ask her to come here. she will be here soon. i feel she will help you more than i can. there she is." "alice, i cannot bring her. you ought to know that." "you must. ask her." "her health will not permit it." alice shook her head thoughtfully, then she said: "i want to see her." "but, alice, i tell you that she is not in condition--" "i want to see her. ask her. did i not help you to get her? ask her." that last assertion alone moved william; he remembered how skeptical he had been when she had advised him to return to clarissa; she was right then, and he had no reason to question her until he had found her advice to be incorrect, at least once. the first thought to arise in his mind was "why did clarissa come here?" she had sent word to him and augustus she was ill and could not join them in their morning meal, but she was evidently not too ill to visit comparative strangers, so he had no desire to force his presence upon her, but alice said she wanted to see her. he remained silent for a while, then said, "if you want to see her, go to her." the words were scarcely out of his mouth, when alice arose with closed eyes and walked out of the room. william hardly knew what to do; he wanted to follow her to see what transpired, but his sensitive pride said "she will think you forced the girl to come," and that thought determined his action. he did not move. he waited and waited, still she did not come. what was she doing? why did they not come to him, knowing he was waiting? still he waited, too proud to go to them; then he thought that alice ought not to be controlled so long. as this thought entered his mind, she came into the room, alone. she looked wan and tired, and walked past him to the place of her entrancement, and, drawing a long sigh as she laid her head back, said "i am going to her tomorrow. she will not come here," then her head drooped wearily. he did not feel he ought to force her further, although he was filled with a jealous longing to know what had transpired. she said nothing more, although he allowed her to remain in a trance condition for some time. how keen his disappointment at the result of the interview he had looked forward to was, no one save himself would ever know. he hoped clarissa was as pleased as he was disappointed. he would have liked to know what had passed between them. as he was thinking thus, he felt arms around his neck, drawing him closely and affectionately, and looking up, surprised and astonished, he saw--clarissa. she bent over him quickly, and drawing him closer still, and said, "wake her, william, she must be tired." he would have gone cheerfully, even to his execution, while she held him thus, looking into his eyes with that expression of love. his arms went around her, and he said, almost unconsciously, "wake, alice. alice, are you awake?" he did not notice her answer, and alice, feeling confused at seeing them in their fond embrace, at once left the room, without being noticed by either. they were engrossed with their own feelings. clarissa spoke first. "william,--she helped me so much. will you not try to help me be what she says i can be? do not move, dear. i have not finished yet. i promised her i would tell you how much i loved you, but i cannot keep that promise, for words do not express the full sentiment of the heart. i love you more than words can tell. you know that, even if i am irritable and distant." "clarissa, you and i have much to thank alice for;--how little i realized when i was developing her as a subject, what a flood of happiness she would bring into my life! what did she mean when she said that she was going to see you tomorrow?" "that is our secret. she is coming to our home. you will entrance her for me and then leave us alone, will you not?" "with pleasure." "there is augustus. mrs. millard has invited us to remain and spend the evening. would you like to?" "yes--if you would." "then let's go and see what the boys have to say. before long, william, i will tell you the secret." it was a happy gathering in mrs. millard's house that evening. each thought the others appeared to the best advantage, and they separated only when augustus became so tired that, despite his most heroic efforts, his eyes would close. it had been a happy day for him. chapter twenty from the day she had talked with alice, there had been a noticeable improvement in clarissa. she became less nervous, and, instead of shutting herself away from her family, she devoted most of her time to them, at times appearing almost like a young girl, full of enthusiasm for whatever she was doing. nearly every day since that time, alice had been with her for awhile, but no one except clarissa knew what transpired. william would have been most impatient at this had it not been for the change that had come over clarissa;--she was again the light and life of the home. three times, when he believed the entire household asleep, he had sat alone, trying to straighten out in his mind the perplexing questions that had presented themselves since that memorable night when he and merle had gone to hear the great singer who had proven to be his wife. from that time to this, there had been one continual sequence of surprises for him, few of which he was able to satisfactorily explain, even to himself. until then, he had logically deduced the cause of every circumstance occurring around him. now he lacked that degree of confidence with which he had previously undertaken their solution. one point in this long chain of events always held him spellbound; that was his finding clarissa at the concert. supposing he had not gone to that concert;--what then? it was by the merest chance he had gone, and nothing could have been further from his mind than that he should find clarissa there. not going to that concert would have meant living alone for him, as he had done so long. the life had been so lonely and desolate it was only endurable when he worked continually. his resolve to go had been hasty and unpremeditated; what good influence had been working in his life just at that particular time, that he now had-the interruption to this soliloquy was a pleasant one, for clarissa's entrance had finished his retrospection. "why are you here all alone, william? are you troubled in any way?" "no; i was only thinking, and was unaware that time was passing. how did you know that i was here? i thought you were sleeping long ago." "so i was; but i awoke suddenly, and had a strong inclination to know where you were and what you were doing. i suppose it was imagination, but i thought you called me." "i did not. it would be selfish indeed, to call you from your sleep. you were probably tired and nervous; thus your sleep was not sound nor refreshing. come, i will return with you, and put you to sleep again." on two other occasions, under quite similar circumstances, she had come to him when he had been trying to unravel the same problem. the strangest part of the whole occurrence was that, when he had sat there on several previous occasions, willing her to come to him, he had sent her such suggestions as "clarissa, come to me," she had failed to respond, although he knew the thoughts had carried sufficient power to draw her. he was only a man; well meaning, but faulty and imperfect as all men are. it hurt his pride to be thwarted when he knew the strength of his power, so he threw all the force of his will into the demand, ashamed, even while he was doing it, to use so much power upon a sensitive, pregnant woman, but the disappointment was so great he rebelled against reason. he made up his mind he would not stop until she did come. he saw, later, that, while in the first instance, he was really anxious for her presence, as time passed, and she did not come, his feeling was unworthy a loving husband, bringing forth the practiced hypnotist who disliked to be disobeyed by a negative subject. his strongest efforts were unsuccessful, however, and what was worse, clarissa sent word she could not join the family at their meals, and made no appearance during the entire day. when she came, he was surprised at her appearance; she was pale, and visibly uneasy, and darkly settled under the eyes; she shrank from him when he offered to treat her, saying all she needed was quiet repose alone. the repetition of this furnished another problem for william to solve. not only his pride but his love was humiliated, and he secretly resolved that his book of personal experiences should not be finished and given to the public until he was a wiser man than he then was; he had thought he knew much, but he now realized that he understood only very little of the science upon which he had worked so zealously. it was a pitiable condition, when he had no faith in either his subjects or himself, for he had always believed faith and confidence were the greatest requisites for a mesmerist. his years of hard and patient study seemed to have only brought him to this;--a state of general doubt. merle, who had been his most trusted subject, had proven false, and he could never again place implicit confidence in any one. in the past, any assertion that merle had made was accepted without comment or doubt, but now, that he had been untruthful in the trance condition, being honest and trustworthy in his normal state, he knew absolute faith in a subject's assertions would never again be his. time passed rapidly. one night, as he was sitting alone, planning an excursion of pleasure for augustus and merle and alice, knowing clarissa was with her son, she came to him with a large book in her hand, and said: "here, william, is an exact account of all that transpired while alice was entranced. read it carefully, and see if she was correct when she told me we would give you knowledge you could not obtain for yourself, because of reasons she has explained. i have not placed one word of my own in it; everything is just as alice gave it. you will see i have asked very few questions, permitting her to choose her own subjects. i bring it to you now, as i feel i shall soon be ill, and no one knows, at such times, exactly how it will terminate. do not look so surprised; i am not afraid--i think all will be well, but i wanted you to have this with my explanations. according to alice's statements, we, working together, have obtained better results in technical points and causes of the various phenomena than you could; we have not obtained the highest nor sublimest wisdom possible, but our united work of love (and that is what this book is) is but designed to be a stepping-stone for you, who have so much more knowledge and power in this line. she says you will glean from it such facts as will enable you to become a still greater power and more illustrious man in the realm of science. it is the work of love of two loyal hearts. i hope it will be to you all that she has prophesied. i cannot help the tears, william;--i am nervous." "come, you had better retire. you are trembling. how much pleasure you have given me by this loving work, i shall not try to express in words, but i will honestly try from the depths of my soul, to be the man you want me to be. it is a very faulty foundation, clarissa, but with your love and patient help, i will do my best to be worthy of the wife who was never equaled upon earth, i think. you deserve a better man--" "william, your words fill me with shame, for i am just one mass of weakness.--i am cross and irritable with both you and augustus, but, william, if anything should happen to me, will you not try to forget all my faults, remembering only my love--" "clarissa! clarissa! i will not listen even to your suggestion. come, let me try to put you to sleep. i am so happy i want to be with you. you are never going to leave me again." the next morning augustus slept later than usual. he had been away with merle all day. he woke fractious and nervous, and nothing seemed just right to him; dressing him was a slow and patient task to dinah, who was patience itself. after several prolonged altercations, when she had great difficulty in appeasing him, she said: "you just wait, honey; dinah has something for you that will make you just the proudest boy she ever saw. you just wait and see what dinah brings you." she passed quickly from the room, and soon returned with a small bundle in her arms. augustus did not look up when she entered, so did not notice his father was in the room. he was decidedly cross and petulant; he felt he was going to have something he liked to eat proffered to him, and had made up his mind firmly in advance that he would not eat it, no matter what it was. the first thing he knew, dinah placed the bundle in his arms, and opening the covering, showed him a wee, tiny baby's face. one expression chased another so rapidly over his face, that, keenly as william and dinah watched him they were both unable to distinguish the predominating thought. they had all been anxious to know how augustus would feel toward the little stranger. william wanted to be present when he first saw it, to assure him no one could possibly occupy his place in the affections of either father or mother, and was just about to step forward and speak, when the baby began to cry. at the first sound of that cry, augustus looked up at dinah, his face a perfect picture of wrath, and said: "if you do not know how to take care of that baby, i do; i tell you it wants something to eat." this was such an unexpected result william burst into a laugh, and, bending, kissed first augustus and then the baby, saying, "well, my son, see what has been given to us to love." augustus paid little attention to his father, but turned, instead, to dinah, holding the baby close to him. "is that the way you treated me? it is a wonder i lived. it shall have something to eat, if i have to go and get it myself. you wait; i will go and tell mamma." from that minute, there was only one anxiety about augustus and the baby in any of their minds;--that was he would smother it or feed it. he would watch it sleeping, and drew it in every way. if it cried, he was anxious. he was a greater trouble than the baby. it had been expected he would be sensitive and jealous when the baby came, for he had been such an object of attention himself. they were totally unprepared for the real result. he and dinah were in a state of perpetual and continual combat, from his rising to his sleeping. it seemed to him there was never such another babe as that; he could not trust dinah to care for it. all his boyish plans for the future were changed, and everything was gauged by "when sister is big enough." he insisted that she should be named for his mother;--the dearest name in the world to him. chapter twenty-one during clarissa's illness, william devoted all the available time he could find to the study of the book she had brought him. he had many interruptions, for augustus appealed to his father in his altercations with dinah, when they were too severe for him to conquer by might of his own will. there were many visitors, who came to inquire the health of clarissa and her babe. clarissa seemed very nervous if william was long away, so he did most of his reading near her. she said this uncontrollable desire to know he was close beside her arose from the mental suffering she had endured from his absence when augustus was born. she suffered keenly then, and the same conditions brought similar sensations. she was perfectly satisfied to remain quiet if she saw him present, but if he remained long from her, she was pursued by fears and thoughts that she would not tell even him. in her weakened condition, they quickly showed themselves in her physical depletion. she was annoyed at her weakness, but her sufferings were none the less acute because she knew that they were visionary. she was not a weak woman in any sense of the word, but just now her husband's presence furnished her a sense of security; his absence brought weakness. the fact she had had no long or severe confinement made it still harder to account for her subsequent nervousness. doctors baxter and harrington had for some time been trying to get william to perform an experiment in psychology for them. he put them off from time to time by different excuses, because he was unwilling to leave clarissa for a long enough time, knowing her confinement was near. not having been with her at the time of augustus' birth, and having no experience in such cases, he was more concerned about it than he would admit. after her easy and well nigh painless delivery, he felt so relieved the next day but one, he went with them. he was gone almost the entire day, as the physicians asked him to visit a patient of each, who was suffering from nervous troubles, which eluded their powers, and which they felt he could relieve. they were situated at quite a distance one from the other, so it consumed considerable time to visit them. william felt perfectly easy in his mind regarding clarissa. he had told her where he was going, and she said she was proud he could do what others failed to do. she was comfortable and happy, when he left, laughing gaily at augustus' concern because baby slept so long. she had an arm around each as he took his last look at them before leaving the room. that picture of home and happiness had been with him all day. once he would not have thought that day's work an arduous one, as he sought for years to crush every sentiment and interest but scientific research. the more work he had before him, the more contented he was; now he could not help thinking, even while he worked, of his family. both doctors remarked how quickly he placed each subject in a trance state; in the last instance, especially, it was very noticeable, as the sick girl was a peculiarly sensitive person, but being entirely ignorant of mesmeric power was consumed by fear, exhibiting traits bordering upon convulsions. she did the same when william began to work. her heart exhibited such erratic tendencies of action, the three men united in the verdict it was better not to force her further. as he witnessed the girl's suffering, he thought of his own baby girl, similarly terrorized, for it was only terror that caused the condition. immediately the scientist and man of force was submerged, and the father was the predominating man. without any thought but loving sympathy, he placed his hand upon the girl's head and said: "poor child;--do not worry;--you shall not be molested, nor forced by me, any more than i want my baby girl so treated." he smoothed her head, and she gave him such a look of gratitude as he could not soon forget, then closed her eyes. he saw she was passing into a comatose state, without his forcible dictation. once placed there, he gave her the customary suggestions, telling her to wake at a certain time, then left the doctors to return home, feeling tired, but cheered by the knowledge of the presence of the three loved ones who were awaiting him. how he pitied the two men whom he had just left, who were going to their elegant homes, but for whom there was no wife or children waiting. often the three had communed together in the past, upon their good fortune in having a place of quiet and repose, where they would be unmolested, and free to think. now william knew that, whatever conditions of perplexity, even of discord and confusion awaited him in his home, it was infinitely sweeter and preferable to the quiet and peace they had pretended to like, for while he joined them in congratulations upon this condition, his soul had hungered for his wife's presence. how did he know there was no similar episode in each of his two friends' lives? they believed him when he had lied. yes. there was no escaping the truth; he might as well own up to himself, if he would not to anyone else. he, a truthful man, in all other respects, lied rather than reveal a heartache he felt to be a weakness. no one but himself knew he lied. how did he know that baxter and harrington were not lying too, actuated by the same motive--their inability to secure the companionship of the particular woman they loved. as he thought of his own heartaches, when alone, he felt a profound pity for them, while respecting the motives that kept them silent. it was as natural for man to love woman, as it was to breathe the air into his lungs. yes, there must be some tragedy in each of his friends' lives. his earnest wish was they might terminate as happily as his had. he had arrived home by the time he had reached this conclusion, and, for all his fatigue, he ascended the steps with the buoyancy and elasticity of a youth, he was so anxious to look at his treasures. his animation and joy received a rude shock, when he saw james' face, and he happened to be the first person he met. there was such a look of anxiety and sadness there, as was not to be mistaken by anyone who knew him well. without waiting for william to ask him the cause, he said: "oh, master, i am so glad you have come! mistress clarissa was stricken suddenly very ill. we are much concerned about her, long ago sending to both doctors baxter and harrington, thinking to bring them and you. she isn't quite herself, sir. won't you hasten?" no need for this last injunction, for william was already ascending the stairs with rapid strides, not waiting for all the steps. soon he was in clarissa's room, where he found both dinah and nancy; dinah was holding the babe while nancy tried by every means she knew to coax and divert clarissa's attention. one glance showed william the condition of affairs. she had a high fever; her face was red, and her eyes sparkled with an unnatural brilliancy. she was talking rapidly but disconnectedly. how he felt, he could have told no one, and, unlike his usually calm and sensible self, he rushed at once to the conclusion this was that dangerous and weakening fever that so often accompanies childbirth. the sudden reversion from thoughts of happiness to those of acute anxiety was too great for him to immediately overcome, for like most anxious persons, he pictured the worst. like a horrible panorama, there came before his consciousness, instantaneously, the spectacle of her death. for the time being, he lost sight, entirely, of his power to control such conditions, and instead of being calm and collected, he was anxious, and full of thoughts of doubt and suspense. he spoke in a quick, agonized way: "clarissa--clarissa." she listened, then answered: "yes, william; what is it?" "are you suffering?" "no, william; now you have come. i thought i was alone again. that thought made me so miserable! will you not sit with me a while until i become calm?" "you may be sure i shall not leave you again. now try to sleep." he was fast gaining control of himself; as he gained in this respect, she grew more quiet and soon was fast asleep. the doctors both came in answer to the summons, but james told them that their services were unnecessary, so they returned to their homes. after this episode, knowing the cause of the difficulty, william remained almost constantly with clarissa, taking a large measure of happiness from the knowledge his presence was necessary to her happiness. he kept her as quiet and cheerful as possible. as he studied the book she had given him, he discussed many points with her, when she was awake, acknowledging frankly his surprise at her quick understanding. he told her the truth when he said he enjoyed talking science with her better than with any man he had met, for her perception was very keen and accurate, though she had little knowledge of mesmerism, as a practical and demonstrated science. she proved herself capable to reason, and interpret some points obscure to him, owing to the fact his mind had been trained in a certain groove of thought, and was thus prejudiced and partial; having no certainly defined theories, she could absorb and embrace new and higher facts far more quickly than he. whenever a new assertion was presented to him, he could not help but compare it with his past work or ideas, and was prejudiced in their favor when the balance was nearly equal, owing to the fact he had performed such feats of power by following the guidance of former schools of wisdom: on the other hand, clarissa had supreme faith in every word alice had given her, so she tried to make william believe all the book contained. her will was untrained, while his was, and developed to the highest degree. what she lacked in training, she made up in persistence. she was a staunch ally of alice's assertions, striving by every ingenuity of her mind to successfully pit alice's ideas against william's tried experiments. both were stubborn;--william, because he felt actual experience was of more value than theory; clarissa, because she knew both her own and alice's mind was unprejudiced when the facts in the book were given. william had entranced alice every time, and, in fact, brought her out. alice had never known for what reason she was entranced and did not now know she had been instigating intelligence to produce a book upon mesmeric influence. clarissa knew her mind had not prejudiced alice in the slightest, as she knew too little of the science to do so; thus when it came to a conflict of faith between william and alice, she always advocated alice's assertions with the full might of her power. that book had been a work of love, upon their part. alice had said while in the trance, that the acceptance of those facts would make william a greater and more illustrious man. clarissa believed it, and used all her power of persuasion and logic to make him understand and accept them. she was successful, far beyond her hopes. he listened to her arguments and reasons as he would have done to no man's. when their ideas clashed, he tried by all the arguments he knew to convince her. take a man and woman of equally developed wisdom, and the woman's mind has been acknowledged by the most competent judges to be the more subtle and intuitive, avowing, often, upon the impulse, precepts and assertions convincing to their listeners, which, if called upon to explain, they would be powerless to do so. this fact has given birth to the axiom "men reason logically;--women intuitively." thus it was that clarissa could confound, perplex and convince william, while the deep basic principles underlying the effects she so strenuously asserted, were entirely unknown to her. william never acknowledged, even in after times, how much real knowledge clarissa imparted to him, and as her one thought had been to avouch and do justice to alice's work, she did not give herself the due amount of praise. when she succeeded in convincing william, upon a point of disagreement, she gave the credit instinctively to alice. in this communion and the almost constant conflict of wills both were growing immensely, without their consciousness of the fact, but clarissa could never hope to be the practical demonstrator of the science that william was, and would be. she could acquire through sensitiveness, knowledge he could manifest, but could never gain originally. this is a good proof of the law that all finite lives are fallible, one excelling in one branch of knowledge or execution, and another, in other branches. one eternally leans upon and depends upon the other for something, as it is only the infinite that embraces all there is within itself. the word "infinite" implies all; therefore, all individual or finite lives are faulty and fallible, furnishing less developed lives with power and knowledge, while they are, themselves, compelled to depend upon other lives still higher in the evolutionary chain of existence for similar favors. clarissa and william were both positive and strong souls, and the union of their forces and intellects meant a much stronger power than either could ever hope to reach alone. the very fact they took opposite views of the question was a beneficial factor to both. the conflict of wills drew from both higher wisdom than they knew they possessed. neither wanted to be defeated, so each tried to bring forth the most persuasive and logical powers. the natural result was that both were benefited and advanced. chapter twenty-two it is unnecessary to give here all the assertions made by alice in the trance state. we will simply review and examine the most prominent and salient points, one of which was "thought, being the offspring or expression of the individual's desire, or, as some persons prefer to state it, the soul's desire; it must partake of all the predominating chemical characteristics animating the generator at the time of its conception and birth; therefore, it was no vague, tangible force, but actual, tangible chemical substance as much as the atmosphere." one man, if he is in normal condition, can see another one, but he cannot see the potent chemicals that compose the atmosphere; still, the force stored up and vented through the invisible agency (so far as man's sight is concerned), is capable to, and does do much damage to man and all material conditions, by this one demonstration, proving beyond the shadow of a doubt, its superiority as we might say, in chemical substance, as a weaker force can never injure a stronger one. if there was no substance or substantiality in the atmosphere, it could not affect and destroy substance, for, without tangibility, it would pass through substances, creating no visible disturbance. vague nothingness never yet compelled obedience from solid matter. that which disturbs and moves is much more powerful than that which is disturbed and moved. thought, upon whatever plane of action we consider life, is the creator and controller of all conditions. there is not, never was, nor ever will be, a type of life so low in the evolutionary scale, as to be devoid of some kind or specie of thought. in the humblest and simplest types, this thought can vent itself in no higher form than a desire for the presence of kinds similar to itself. thought is subject to evolution and progression as much as any form of infinite life. from this one thought of desire, springs, in diversified and innumerable channels, all kinds and manners of thought. one and all having their primary origin in this humble beginning, the same as all the high achievements and possibilities man can hope to accomplish in the infinite ages, lie dormant in the embryo babe. the babe, while in the state of embryo development, can express very few and limited powers; but its soul, or spirit, must contain all the latent essential powers the man will manifest throughout eternity. otherwise, circumstances, however potent and powerful, could not materialize the effects which are observable. there is no power, be it ever so strong, that can evoke and bring forth from a life, qualities and characteristics foreign to it. those same characteristics may be magnified, enlarged or intensified, until their true proportions are lost sight of, but is there a new factor infused into the soul? no. a hypnotist, or psychologist, when we view them in a scientific light, is nothing but a magnet, which, consciously or unconsciously, influences and controls many, who possess similar innate traits of spirit upon different planes or stages of development. to the minds of many, a hypnotist or psychologist is one who, by a firm and determined exercise of will, acquires the power, when they choose to assert it, to influence less self-centered minds. it is, of course, to be understood that many men who call themselves wise, believe not at all in the efficacy of one man's mind to control another man's consciousness, but all students of life know it is not what one, many, or indeed, all men believe to be true, that is the motive power of progression, but what the infinite law directs. those men who deny the creative power of thought, attributing all favorable results to the fiat dictation of a supreme personal intelligence, are to be pitied rather than censured. one might as well deny a rose seed will bring forth a rose, if it brings forth any result at all, as to say "thought is not the motive cause of every expressed result." without a foregoing cause, there would be no motion or action of any kind. man never moves his limbs without a thought "i want to go to such a place"; he would not have food in his stomach, if there was not the thought of hunger, which causes him to carry food from his hands to his mouth, and so on. there might be the most bountiful of feasts spread before him, and if his desire could not inspire activity and motion in his arms and hands, he might starve with plenty of edibles in sight, unless some person were inspired to feed him. his arms, hands and limbs will not operate until there has been a foregoing thought. if his thought or desire is strong, the physical members are but humble instruments that obey his will as operator. enough of this;--a hypnotist or psychologist influences and controls not only those persons they will to obey their desires, but many others whom they have not the slightest desire nor intention of influencing. they are in precisely the same position as is a material magnet which is surrounded by a large number of negatives; it becomes the centre of attraction to whatever negatives are within the radius of its magnetism or influence. it may not want those negatives, but there is no escape from their vampirage unless there is the conscious knowledge on the part of the psychologist of how to throw off undesirable influences or negatives. it is possible for so many negatives to attach themselves to a material magnet they draw away, or sap, all the individual magnetism and strength of the magnet, making that which was previously strong and forceful to become weak and impotent itself; so a man who has been a strong and powerful psychologist, may become a centre of attraction to so many negative lives he may be drained of his self-centered energy, thus, instead of being a commanding life, he assumes the position of a negative himself. those men who are familiar with the modes and characteristics of material magnets know that, after a certain number of negatives have attached themselves to it, the magnet must either be recharged from a lodestone, or it will become a negative itself. every negative person within the radius of a psychologist's influence feels the same draw toward them, that material negatives do toward a magnet. the reader, of course, understands that both the material magnet and the psychologist can only draw or attract similar natures, or chemicals to themselves. there was never yet a hypnotist so strong he could draw or attract to himself persons who were endowed with varying or opposite characteristics from his own. you can control another's personality in those qualities or habits you could control, did they come into your own life; possibly you might, by force of will, govern and control, a condition you had never faced nor felt an inclination for in your own life, but you may be sure you cannot control this in another person's life, if you could not have conquered the same condition, had it arisen in your own. many persons measure what you may do by what you have done; such is neither fair nor accurate judgment. no man knows surely and positively what he would do under the severe and stern test of temptation, until he has been actually subjected to the same. he may have many theories and ideas, but these dissipate and vanish like mist before the sun, when stern realities appear. the man who thinks he would do best, often does the worst, while he who doubts his ability to rise superior to temptation, will, because he wants to prove himself better than his judgment, rise superior to the wave that wrecks and drowns him who was too confident of his personal abilities. in answer to the question (from whence flowed the wisdom and knowledge voiced by alice?): she gave this seemingly ambiguous answer to persons who have no knowledge of the science of thought and creation--(i glean from the highest wisdom generated by man as a mass, then for higher knowledge i am limited to the kindness and wisdom of those individuals among whom i am thrust by the will of the temporary projector. if the question is one that is cogent to, and can be answered by embodied man, i am instinctively attracted to him, from his aura or influence, attaining the answer desired; if not, i am compelled to seek higher from disembodied individuals, but by far the strongest factor is the public thought or prejudice. the reason i give higher wisdom to professor huskins' wife's thought is, being unprejudiced, but desirous of wisdom, she draws from my spirit more power to probe and penetrate into the aura of those persons who possess the knowledge requisite to answer the questions from a standpoint of experience rather than theory.) the acquisition of all known facts can only be by the absorption from a higher source. the height of the plane of absorption depends on the state of receptiveness of the hypnotist more than the subject. it is impossible to control the consciousness of another individual and not prejudice and limit him to a certain degree by the opinions of the operator. the operator may have no desire to do so, and may strive to the full extent of his will to leave the subject free and untrammeled by any of his preconceived opinions, but if he did not project a certain amount of his personality into the being of the subject, he could not control him. the subject therefore cannot hope to rise in execution above the capacity of the hypnotist, provided the hypnotist has developed his full powers. a mesmerized subject is irresponsible for whatever sentiments he may express in a trance. in that condition he is no longer a normal person but acts as a sensitive plate to picture and reproduce the strongest influences bearing upon him at a given time. he is the reflector of the thoughts and opinions of others and no more to be censured for what he gives forth than is a mirror that pictures the likeness of an ugly and exceedingly unpleasant face. the fault is not the mirror's, for another, stopping before it, will reflect a handsome and pleasing picture. the mirror is limited to, and bound to reflect just such peculiarities as the object which is before it may possess, and the mesmerist's subject acts as just such a reflector for thought impressions. several psychologists, using the same subject equally desirous of obtaining knowledge upon the same lines, can and frequently do receive very dissimilar results; so widely different in sense as to make assimilation between them impossible. this is due to the fact each directing will, compelling the subject to go forth in search of knowledge, varies in its capability to send him to a certain point or location. the magnetism then absorbed which deadened their own consciousness, limits their search for knowledge to just those spheres of action where they find similar kinds and classes of chemicals operative. no two men generate precisely the same kind of magnetism; therefore, no two can bring forth the same results from the same subject, unless they, by the exercise of will force, compel them to utter words and assertions they wish them to. one must also take into consideration the varying susceptibility of the subject to the influences of different persons. a negative and good subject will manifest very different characteristics under different persons' influence. the concord and harmonious feeling between operator and subject means more than most men think, if real wisdom is to be gleaned. the psychologist who uses only will power, considering his subject in nearly the same light he would a material object, that could further his plans, and wishes, will never acquire progressive wisdom upon abstruse subjects that elude his own or his colleagues' understanding. he can to an attentive audience who are ignorant of the principles governing psychology, or mesmerism, perform through his subjects what i call "physical phenomena," confounding the audience with facts of power they can neither understand nor deny. he can fill them with awe, even horror or fear, but he is limited to feats of physical prowess, or those that are familiar to the majority of men. request him to have a subject perform some mental feat equally wonderful, and wholly beyond his (the operator's) knowledge, and there follows a dismal failure. to be sure, the subject may answer it to the understanding and satisfaction of both questioner and operator; but compare that answer with demonstrated scientific facts, and it will often be found faulty and inaccurate, because the projecting will had only the power to force the subject into the aura of persons possessing little knowledge upon the desired subject. a small amount of knowledge is always faulty and defective, being tinctured so much with ignorance. in the case we are considering, clarissa had not the power to entrance alice, as she had never practiced in this line, and knew almost nothing of the science. like everyone who becomes interested in its efficacy, having no experience by which to gauge her aspirations, she expected more than demonstrated facts could illustrate. her buoyancy of faith in alice's utterances while in the trance state, furnished the best of conditions for alice to work in, considering especially the refinement and goodness of clarissa's soul. her natural aspirations and desires were high and worthy of attention for their own sakes. she was ambitious, progressive and desirous of learning, she had little prejudice to overcome as she had almost no knowledge of the efficacy of thought and she loved alice for her own pure self. alice had had a peculiar life and development. she had been kept quite isolated; and knew little of the turmoil of material life, while the love she bore clarissa bordered upon worship. all her family loved william, and had looked to him for years as the zenith of their lives; he embodied to them all that was noble, excellent, grand and good. never once had he failed to be a loyal, staunch foundation. both merle and alice looked to him as they would their father, having supreme and unfaltering faith in his every declaration. their love may not have been wise and judicious, but it was sincere and earnest. the fact they made such excellent subjects was due to their love and the desire to do whatever he wished. it was never a task nor an inconvenience for them to do what he desired. they found their greatest happiness in working for and pleasing him. whenever either of them went into a trance, it was gladly and willingly, and with the thought of being honored by being selected by so distinguished a man as the professor. they thought him not only the most honorable, but the wisest and most powerful man living. their sole anxiety was to please him and to do his bidding, if by their quiescent obedience to his desire or will force they could bring contentment or satisfaction, they were not only satisfied but happy. alice was favored beyond merle in this respect. she had not been forced nor coerced, even in a trance. william had been a long time developing her, but he had never asked her many questions, nor presumed upon her negative state to yield him desired knowledge. with merle it had been different; he had been used, from the beginning, to acquire knowledge of which the professor was either ignorant, or about which he had his doubts; merle consequently partook of more of the professor's characteristics than alice. if clarissa had tried to use merle, although he was the acknowledged best subject, he could not possibly have given her the same knowledge alice did. loving the professor as they did, merle and alice actually adored his family; clarissa and augustus were not common individuals in their eyes. you can see what an effect of inspiration or almost superhuman power this produced in alice's life. she enjoyed any test imposed upon her for the professor's sake, through him or his family. he was wise and good, his family were more. her sincere love and admiration for clarissa made her an obedient slave, through love and not force. both subject and operator being actuated by sentiments of love, were enabled to gather facts william, with all the force of his powers could not obtain, owing to the fact he drew limits to possibilities and actualities, judging by past or previous experiences, while clarissa, having no past theories, offered no prejudices to obstruct the flight of alice's imagination or inquiry. she only waited patiently for answers to questions she furnished, having the most complete faith and belief in the facts alice avouched. not having definite ideas or theories upon the subject, she accepted without comment, or prejudice, what william would have disputed. william's mind brought into the balance, would have outweighed any new facts that she gave. alice and clarissa were actuated by love both for william and for science, and the desire to do the best that lay in their individual spirits, prompted them to rise above the limits, temporarily, of their own possible achievements. neither of them, reading the accounts of what they had done, would have or could have valued it the same as he did, or as any other person who possessed knowledge upon that line of thought. they could acquire this knowledge, but could not practice it owing to the same principle that causes the mirror to be capable of producing the reflection, but not the tangible object which it may transiently picture. clarissa did not pretend to understand the laws governing the phenomena alice avouched. this fact made her cling all the more tenaciously to them. she knew her own mind or will had not, consciously or unconsciously, influenced her, and her confidence and faith mounted higher because of this fact. william did not like to acknowledge the fallacy and fallibility of thought as a creative power, and clarissa, knowing less of its power, gave full credence to all that alice said. the united action or combination of these two loving and loyal souls produced a large amount of evidence or truth of life's actual manifestation. this truth, william could neither deny nor condemn; he could not understand all the narrated assertions or facts at once. upon those points where he felt to disagree, there was always some assertion or illustration he could not refute, which drew his mind away from old theories, compelling him to accept, even against his desires and will, the assertions as given. he never acknowledged the advance in wisdom he made at this time; possibly it was well he did not, as, if he had acknowledged himself in error or faulty, they might have ceased to contemplate him as their hero. this hero-worship was the principal factor that had brought about the best results, lifting their souls out of the ordinary grooves, and endowing them with momentary powers they could not live up to, but he, their hero, gleaning knowledge of these facts, could live up to and practice them. studying life closely, we find that the most fluent talkers lack executive ability. both are needed to materialize the most perfect results. there must first come the realization of possibility beyond all phases of expressed life that have been. it is the province of a concentrator to materialize these possibilities. chapter twenty-three as william and clarissa talked over these scientific problems, the mother's anxiety and perplexity kept presenting new problems to william. his love for clarissa, as well as for his children, made him negative and receptive to many thoughts and conjectures of theirs he would not have noticed in a stranger. one of the principal factors and questions occurring to clarissa's mind was, having children of her own, a boy and a girl, would she wish to see them influenced and controlled by another and outside influence from their own, the same as merle and alice were? she knew her husband's motives were worthy and excellent, that he would not impel them to do any deed he would not inspire his own child to do, but he was only one man, and all men are not as honorable and trustworthy as he. many men, having the same degree of power, would have used it for less honorable purposes. she knew just enough of it, to know that the subject is not responsible and ought never to be blamed (where justice is rife,) for the motive or intent that inspired the operator. before her range of vision was continually rising the picture of augustus or her baby girl, controlled and influenced by some powerful mind concentrator. how did she know what such a person might make them do? this one thought haunted her like an unwelcome and unbidden guest, and as her latest darling, the baby girl, lay close to her breast, she pondered upon the subject more than she ever had with augustus. once there had been a time when she had courted this influence, thinking it might possibly, by some agency not known to her, restore strength and vigor to his limbs. to obtain the power of locomotion for him had been her supreme thought and desire. to gain this, she would have offered herself a glad and willing sacrifice upon any altar that might have presented itself between her and her goal. when her girl baby was given her, for her keeping, its presence, enriched by her husband's love and solicitude, her thoughts instead of passing into the groove or channel of personal disappointment, roamed into the path of conjecture and speculation of what might happen in the babe's life. she was still prejudiced by the popular thought, that will excuse in a man's life that which they will not endeavor to condone in a woman's. as she would hold that small, helpless baby close to her, finding satisfaction in the intimate association of touch, she could not help but think of the time or season when augustus and this child would mature and reach conditions proximate to those of merle and alice. somehow, there was an innate horror in her mind, when she thought of their being in as complete subjection to the will and dictation of others as merle and alice were to that of her husband. this thought did not arise from anything she had seen either suffer, or pass through at her husband's dictation; on the contrary, so far as man's sight is privileged to scan material conditions, they had been benefited and assisted by his presence and power in their lives; still, that was no guarantee that every mesmerist wrought equally good effects in his subjects' lives. for a while, she kept these conjectures to herself, but the more she reasoned, the less certain she felt, and finally she concluded to consult william upon the subject. she knew he would laugh at her, and that was the reason she had not consulted him before; possibly his ridicule might relieve her anxiety. one morning, they all (except clarissa, who was still confined to her bed,) sat watching dinah wash and dress the baby. augustus was now always up and present at that occasion, causing dinah no end of trouble and annoyance by his countless questions and absurd directions. he seemed to think the babe was his particular charge, and suffered keen jealousy if he were not allowed to hold her as long as he thought the rest did. she was the one topic of interest and conversation of which he never wearied, although he tried the patience of others recounting her excellence. this morning, he had been unusually quiet and docile, so much so, that when the baby was dressed, dinah put her into his arms, kissed him and patted his head before she went out. to her faithful heart, he would never be anything but a baby of a larger growth. she knew something was troubling him, and thought the baby would do him good. his father and mother were quietly watching what was to them a lovely picture, for augustus was an unusually handsome child, and the baby gave promise of being equally attractive, even at this early stage of its development, although it must be confessed, it (of course) looked similar to other equally young babies. for quite a time, nothing was said. the parents were filled with pride and happiness as they looked at that fair picture; those darlings were theirs; the offsprings of their love for each other. the thought caused each to seek the other's eyes. william rose to go to clarissa, meaning to tell her how happy he was. as he passed his children he stooped to kiss them, for his heart was very warm just then. naturally, he kissed augustus first and was surprised to see the boy trembling, and as he turned to look in his face, he found the child's eyes swimming in tears. he drew his arm more tightly around him and said: "my boy, what is it that troubles you? tell me. let me share your grievance, or remove it." the look that answered his loving inquiry haunted william for a long time, and he was glad that clarissa had not seen it. it was a look of torture as keen as one might expect to see in some animal, wounded to the death, and who makes no moan while its life blood oozes away. the cause of such a look was more than he could divine. he drew both children closely to him, and spoke again: "augustus, tell me." the tears which ran down the boy's face were his only reply, while william plainly felt the trembling of the child's body increase. the sight of the boy's suffering was excruciating torture to him. he loosed his hold upon augustus, taking the baby from him, and carrying it to clarissa, who looked wonderingly at him for an explanation. he had none to offer. augustus had not tried to resist when his father took his charge from him, which was a new thing for him. placing the babe beside its mother, william returned quickly to augustus, without kissing them both as was his wont, and lifting the boy out of his chair, bore him in his arms to his own private room. he let the tempest of tears vent itself without comment, contenting himself by holding the boy close to him and stroking his head. when he felt that augustus was becoming calmed, he said: "now, augustus, will you tell me of your sorrow?" no answer, but augustus' arms clung closer about his neck, and his head nestled restlessly from one place to another, but he would not look his father in the face. william waited patiently, knowing the boy's nervous temperament, then spoke again, tenderly and lovingly: "can not my boy trust his father's love?--" he never finished the utterance; the answer was so unexpected, and so poignant of torture, it deprived him, temporarily, of both speech and logical thought. "father, will she be ashamed of me when she gets older?" "ashamed of her brother? what an odd question! she will be proud of you,--what thought prompted such a question?" "father, do you think she will ever walk?" "yes, my boy." "when she sees all the other boys walking, will she be ashamed her brother has to be wheeled around?" william answered promptly: "no; my son." but that was the keenest pain he had ever felt, to witness the boy's suffering, who was paying the price or the penalty of his own ignorance and selfishness. the boy suffered keenly, but the father more as he had a larger capacity for suffering. there was one thought that brought a small degree of light; it was that clarissa was spared this suffering. how his heart ached for the boy, words cannot express. they had tried in every possible way since augustus' birth to reconcile him to his infirmity. when he had expressed envy for boys who could run and play, they had told him of the gifts and talents he possessed, and that they were far more estimable and valuable than those the boys whom he envied had. so much care had been taken with him, he had not thought of his inability to walk in the light of shame, until he had thought of what that tiny babe, whom he idolized and whom he wanted to think he was as dear to as she was to him, would think of him, who could not guide her faltering steps, because he could not steady and control his own. he could not endure the thought that others could do for her what he could not; no one loved her better (he thought, none so well,) yet they could do for her what he could not; following this train of thought, it flashed upon his consciousness she might be ashamed of him because he was not like other boys. the thought was too strong and horrible for him to bear without giving some sign of suffering. she was his idol; all his plans were made from the point of her supposed pleasure or displeasure; if she pitied him, he could not endure it. he would rather she hated him. he could endure pity from some one he did not care for, but never from baby clarissa. he had not realized the enormity of his affliction until now. in the past, he had been petted and loved, indulged and looked up to, and accustomed to this homage from his birth, he had grown to believe it to be only his due; his just deserts. now there was a new factor and force come into his life, dearer far than himself. he had felt, since the baby's coming, he must watch over her and care for her, and his anxiety for her comfort so far transcended his own, he forgot himself, a thing he had never done before, and probably never would even now were it not for this helpless little stranger who had come into his life. never having walked nor played, he did not fully realize the many pleasures from which he was debarred, but it was borne home to his consciousness suddenly and forcibly by the fact that the might of his love would not permit him to do what a common stranger with no personal interest in her might do. it was unbearable. stinging horror filled his soul at the thought of the comparison she might draw between himself and other boys. he longed so ardently to be her ideal and hero among boys, the same as she was and would always be among girls, that jealousy became a fiery tormentor. there was a time when his mother had been the principal object of his interest and inspirations. it seemed as though all the force of his nature, disappointed in his mother's loyalty to him as the one point of interest on the earth, had been transplanted to this babe, gaining intensity from the change, rather than losing it. not even his parents realized the strength of this devotion. he could not help but partake of all the ardor and enthusiasm of their souls, and this ardor, in the present state of his development, showed itself in the admiration he felt for his baby sister, and as a consequence, his suffering was both keen and loyal. when his father, whom he considered the grandest and wisest upon the earth (having heard so many eulogies upon his powers and prowess,) assured him that baby clarissa would esteem him, and honor him, he brought forth a deep sigh of satisfaction. he believed more fully in what his father said than what his mother did. this was probably due to the fact that his father had compelled from him that which his mother never tried to exact. those persons who have made life a deep and profound study, have ever found masters to be admired while servants are endured. augustus had governed and ruled, thus made servants of persons whom he had come in contact with, until he had met his father. his father conquered his imperative will, consequently his admiration had increased in proportion to the degree he was conquered. when he was a little more himself, william told him how proud clarissa would be of his art and music. those boys who could romp and play could not do what he could, and his sister would be as proud of his talent as his parents were. he soon became cheerful and contented again. then with a mutual promise of secrecy concerning this interview, they returned to clarissa's room. the baby was sleeping, but clarissa was anxious to know what had disturbed augustus, still, being told that the interview was to be a secret between father and son, and seeing augustus cheerful, she desisted from her inquiries, thinking it was some boyish whim william had granted. william had, however, received a pang of remorse he would not soon forget. augustus was the innocent sufferer for a lifetime for his own hasty, unreasonable temper, while he, the cause, was a physically perfect and happy man, coming forth from his past sufferings a better one, while his boy paid the heavy price of his baseness. the thought was nearly unbearable. from that time he became very sensitive to augustus' affliction. he resolutely made up his mind the boy should walk if there was remedial virtue in magnetism. it should become his one duty and ambition to study those limbs until they should bear up, unsupported, the boy's body. he would never rest until he had accomplished it. he was the cause of the boy's suffering, and he would be his healer. if it was possible, his love increased for augustus from this time. chapter twenty-four merle came to take augustus out, and william and clarissa were left alone; for a time both were silent, each wanting to impart to the other the thoughts that were troubling them, but scarcely knowing how to begin. before the recent interview with augustus, william would not have hesitated referring to his condition and declaring his intention to try to remove it, but now he felt a sense of embarrassment hard to explain, and none the less excruciating because of that fact. he could not overcome the thought he was a coward to let an innocent child suffer for him, and felt deep shame. unconsciously a deep sigh escaped him which attracted clarissa's attention. she was likewise deep in meditation, wondering how william would receive her avowal of dislike to have either of her children mesmerized. hearing the sigh, she said: "what is troubling you, william?" "nothing," said william. "but you gave such a deep sigh--something unpleasant provoked it surely.--probably you think i cannot understand or appreciate it. well, i hope it will not trouble you long." "i hope not, clarissa;--i am going to try and make augustus walk. the cause of his inability to do so is nerve enervation. thus the chords and muscles are not supplied with sufficient energy to support his body. i believe by the infusion of new and powerful magnetism, they will perform the necessary and customary functions. it would be vastly different were he not perfectly formed. his limbs are as perfect as any child's could be; they are simply weak and impotent. another great factor to his disadvantage is his thought and the thought of all those around him that he cannot walk. i intend to eradicate that thought from his consciousness, making him have faith in the ability of his limbs to support him. i think, clarissa, i never suffered so, thinking of our boy's weakness, as i did just now when he went out with merle.--merle buoyant and well, but a needed support to my son, who is physically perfect as he. i will take from augustus the thought he cannot walk. i will will myself to see him walking, running, and playing like other children, then i will make him see himself as i see him. think how happy we shall be, clarissa, when that boy steps. i feel responsible for his weakness; therefore, i am glad i have studied mind power so thoroughly; if i had not done so, our boy, whom we love so well, would have suffered all his life; now i believe i can cure him--" "shall you hypnotize him to do this?" "certainly." "then i prefer him to be as he is--" "clarissa! you do not know what you are saying." "yes, i do, william;--that is why i say that i should prefer him lame or impotent rather than have him mesmerized." "i do not know what to make of that assertion.--it sounds as though you doubted my ability to do what i have in mind." "i do not doubt your ability in the slightest degree, but i do not want augustus nor our baby mesmerized as you do merle and alice." "clarissa, you astonish me.--i gave you credit for possessing intellectual powers beyond the ordinary woman. now you object to what most women would hail with joy. why do you not want our children mesmerized by their own father, who loves them not one whit less than you do? you imply by your remark i have in some manner injured merle and alice by my power. i cannot help resenting that remark, as i have been using merle for years, and he has not, in all that time, done one thing but was worthy of a gentleman. i kept him well until the time when i suffered so acutely at seeing you so unexpectedly, that my mental torture reflected upon him. even that experience taught me a valuable lesson, so a similar condition will never occur again. go to the millards; ask them if i have brought anything into their lives they regretted, or anything but good. mrs. millard is not afraid to trust her children to me after our long experience together, but you, the mother of my own children, do not dare to trust me with yours. think of it! would i not gladly, think you, offer myself, a living sacrifice, before harm should come to either of them? my desire is to remedy the evil and wrong i unconsciously did years ago, and for which an innocent and irresponsible person is suffering. why, even you, yourself, came to me, a stranger, and wanted my help to do the very thing i propose to do now. you would have trusted our boy to a stranger, but will not to his own father. i--" "that is enough, william. i can see that you are still the same william i married. hasty--rushing to conclusions--" "who would not rush to conclusions? i never pretended to be a saint--" "if you did, persons would not believe it who saw you just now--" "probably they would give that distinguished title to you, who are so much more estimable in all ways. my memory is sufficiently clear to remember you always sought--" "william, have you no sense of either love or shame? you talk to me this way when i am ill, and our baby here beside me." "what love have you for me, when you do not trust my own boy to me?" "i love you as my husband, but i am not willing my children shall either of them be mesmerized, even by their father." "you are not willing? may i ask you how you are going to help it if i feel inclined to do so? i can mesmerize you any time i want to. how are you going to protect your children from what you cannot protect yourself from?" "by the might of my mother's love." "ha--ha! so you think a mother's indulgent, negative love a secure protection from positive and well directed thoughts. wonderful logic, that. it is worthy a woman's brain. you may be, as i know you are, a proficient musician, but you have much to learn about science. like all ignorant persons, you talk loquaciously where you know nothing, and possess no power. it is really ludicrous. you, a negative sensitive, defy me. why, i could, if i chose to exert the might of my will, make you shrink from the embraces of both of your children, as though they were serpents; yet you say i shall not mesmerize my own children.--excuse me, i cannot help laughing." while william had been talking, he had not been looking at clarissa. when she spoke, he turned his eyes to her, and he would not admit to anyone his surprise at the strength of character he found there. he was too thorough a master of his work, not to recognize positive resistance when he met it. if anyone had told him clarissa could have looked him firmly, unflinchingly in the eye, and dared him to use his will, he would not have believed it. she spoke calmly and slowly: "i defy your power; now when i am sick and weak, or at any future time, to influence me in the slightest degree. you may be sure you will never affect my children by any thought suggestions while my brain is clear and in normal condition. try it.--begin upon me.--i not only do not fear you.--i defy you and your boasted power.--you shall never mesmerize augustus. if i knew you had the power (which i doubt) to make him walk, and that was the price to pay, i should say, 'leave him as he is; a cripple,' but you cannot mesmerize him." as she spoke, clarissa had risen to a sitting position in the bed. her eyes shone with a feverish lustre. an impartial observer would have recognized the fact that here were two positive souls clashing in no ordinary encounter. undoubtedly they would have given the credit of the final outcome to william, as he was working from the tried basis of experience, while she was voicing the natural sentiments of a loving mother's heart. scientists have seen equally zealous mothers changed so they would have felt very similar to william. he thought he knew clarissa, but he had yet some points to learn about her. the baby woke, disturbed by the unwonted voices, and began to cry.--clarissa reached down, and drew her close up to her, then looked defiantly up at william, and continued: "you--you brave man of science, say you can make me dread my baby's influence. do it. now is as good an opportunity as any man could ask, for we are alone. i hold her lovingly to me--i defy you to make me put her down. you are a coward--i see by your eyes you do not intend to try. only cowards talk without acting. your words sound well to any person who is afraid of you; i am not. i only feel i am chagrined and ashamed to look my children in the face, and say, 'i chose and gave you such a coward of a man for a father.' i--" "clarissa, stop; you will make yourself ill." "i will not stop. i will tell you my opinion of you.--i defy you and your power to influence me, or my children. you have yet to learn what power and might there lies in a mother's love. i have not your power or experience. i may not use my thoughts as scientifically as to furnish my name with the lustre which surrounds yours, but i have power to protect my children from yours, or any other man's thoughts, or the united thoughts of them all. put your mind upon me. you can hypnotize me any time, can you? do it now. make me fear my baby. do not dare approach my bed, nor touch this child.--i do not care to listen to your further conversation. this is my apartment. if you have left the faint shadow even, of a gentlemanly instinct, you will leave it now, and forbear to thrust your unwelcome presence upon me again until i am able to take my children and leave." "clarissa--clarissa!--you will not--" "have i not asked you to leave me and my baby alone? if you come one step nearer--" "but, clarissa, you are making yourself ill. i cannot leave you in this way." "i cannot breathe the same air with you. my children appear serpents to me! you are the serpent. if you do not leave this room at once, my child and i will." "calm yourself." "not while you are here. i have all the strength of a lioness battling for her young. openly or secretly, you can never control or mesmerize a child of mine. try it, if you think you are stronger than i. you have taunted me with negativeness. words are easily spoken. i ask you to substantiate that claim. negatives, as i understand it, cannot look a hypnotist in the eye without quailing. we will see who has the stronger power, you or i. i am looking at you fixedly. why do you not influence me? you who are so proud of your power, ought not to falter when only confronted by a sick woman." "clarissa, you will really make yourself ill. i did--" "do not talk to me.--your presence is unbearable. go by yourself; put your mind upon me and my darlings, but never thrust--" "i will not listen. you will not banish me again?" "so long as eternity lasts, may i never--" "you shall not say those words." "i will--" "i say you shall not." "see your face--" "clarissa, you are not yourself. i will go. calm yourself." "may this be the last time my eyes rest upon your form." "my god! you do not mean that--" "i mean every word--" "you will not leave me again?" "not one step nearer. do not dare try to touch me nor one of my children. with all your boasted power, you will have no difficulty making me do what you want me to. just now, while you are getting there, i prefer your room to your company; if you persist in remaining, i shall leave." "i cannot go without--" "your excuses are unnecessary.--go.--after you reach your apartments put your whole power of science upon me and my children; you will not affect one of us three." "clarissa! i wanted to help augustus--" "leave here now, or i will." "do not try to rise, dear--" "then leave me; and so long as life lasts, never enter my presence again, unless you have me under such perfect mesmeric influence, i am as you have said, 'afraid of my own children.' will you go or shall i?" "do not rise. you are not able." "then leave me." "not this way.--you misunderstood me--" "you are mistaken. i understood you perfectly." "clarissa, do not banish me." "coward! i thought you were going to do all manner of things with me.--go;--either you or i leave here. i cannot endure your presence. i cannot--" "i cannot live without you again--" "where is the power of which you have boasted so much? i thought you said you could mesmerize me any time you chose. this pleading does not balance well with your large assertions; i must have some proof of them. i throw you a challenge. we will see who has the stronger power; i say i shall leave you and your home just as soon as i am able to do so. if you are as strong as you pretend, capable of controlling me at any time, you need not worry. if you want me to stay, all you have to do is to will me to, making me dislike my children.--go.--your presence is like a pestilence to me. i do not want my babe to breathe it.--go--" "i cannot--" "then i have more power than you." before william could divine her purpose, she had risen from the bed, and, with the babe in her arms, she left the room. he started after her, alarmed at the results that might follow; but he met dinah, who resisted him, by saying: "mistress clarissa is anxious to stay in augustus' room, and does not want to see anyone." to the servant, this seemed to be only one of the vagaries of the sick woman. she had heard it said: "a very sick person turns against the one he loves best." so when her mistress said that only augustus was to be admitted to see her, she felt her master's banishment was only one of the symptoms of her sickness. she was loyal to both, but clarissa's sickness naturally appealed to her more than william's opinions and prejudices. how precious this sympathy was just at this time, nobody knew but clarissa herself. clarissa naturally felt that she was the sole protector and guardian of her children, whom she loved better than herself. she had no reason to doubt william's affection for his family. her present attitude toward him was the result of her fear of mesmeric influence, not her husband himself. he, being the strongest exponent of the science of whom she knew, and telling her of his intention to mesmerize augustus had caused her (fearing that he would do so) to picture in william, all the possible evil to be wrought by such a power, exercised by an unscrupulous man. fear was the artist and conjurer that distorted to her eyes even william's visage, as well as his intentions. without her being conscious of the fact, her fears had produced a state of self-psychology, consequently, she could not see clearly nor truly, but beheld only those points in william of which she was afraid. a little knowledge of anything is often productive of harm. clarissa had but a limited knowledge of her husband's power, thus gave him credit for possessing more than he really had. while defying him, she exaggerated his possible power, but was sincere in her assertions she would protect herself and her children. she was not afraid of him; it was her children she worried about. unconsciously, william had been responsible for this condition. when he said he could make her shrink from her children's embraces as though they were serpents, he gave her such a shock of horror, to think there was any power that could so change the channel of natural affection, she went directly to the opposite extreme, and saw william as the serpent because he had suggested the possibility of so horrible a thing. it is impossible to talk and reason with a psychologized person when they have an opposite opinion in mind, and clarissa, being self-psychologized, by fear, was no more amenable to reason than if she had been put into the condition by another person. she loved william, but in this highly wrought nervous state, she could not see her kind and loving husband, who was an indulgent and thoughtful father. she could not believe he was actuated by a worthy motive when he spoke of mesmerizing augustus. she pictured him selfish, commanding and cruel, and no amount of reasoning could change her. if the children were not with her all the time, she felt he had taken them away to punish her. keeping augustus confined so much made him restless and nervous when the baby was sleeping. he was contented enough while he could hold her. when he began to manifest unrest, clarissa imagined his father's mind was upon him, trying to draw him away from her, and she struggled with all the might of her soul to amuse and please him. to augustus, his father was a wonderful man. he loved to talk of him and what persons said of him. he often said "let us call father." he did not understand his father's banishment from his mother's room, for he had been almost a constant presence there. every time he mentioned his father, clarissa thought "that is william's mind affecting him." finally, she would not permit the boy to leave the room, telling him that, being sick, she enjoyed having him always with her. this pleased him, so he would draw while the baby slept, or dinah and his mother would tell him stories of their past life. the sound of william's step or voice affected clarissa's nerves so visibly as to be plainly observable to anyone. sometimes she saw him right before her, then she would draw the baby close, set her teeth firmly together, looking at the image defiantly until it would disappear, when she would sink back, weak and despondent. life was a perpetual nightmare and horror to her, and she often thought "how long can i live this way?" then "i must gain strength for the children's sake. we will go away soon now." she wondered if her voice had been affected by the birth of her babe. she almost dreaded testing it, still, if it had entirely gone, her children were more to her than her voice. her joy was complete when, upon testing it, allowing for physical weakness, she was aware that her tones were, if anything, richer than of old. that fact gave her courage. she was not afraid to face life alone again, nor did she regret having returned to william, for she now had another treasure added to her life. the thoughts of how william would suffer, being left alone again, did not occur to her. her whole thought was bounded by her children's presence. chapter twenty-five william's feelings during this time would be impossible to portray in words. sometimes anger, sometimes love, sometimes discouragement, sometimes hope swayed him. there was only one fact of which he was always sure; he had never before known what abject misery was. he used to think his home desolate; now he knew the much keener torture of having his loved one in the same habitation and yet being sternly and completely banished from her presence. it was even more disheartening than to have her at a distance. he worried about clarissa's health, and the effect so much excitement might have just at this time, especially, when she had gained strength so slowly under happier conditions. sitting alone, he would work himself into a rage thinking of her injustice to him, when he had meant to do augustus the most good that lay in his power. then the thought would come "this nervous shock may make her sick, possibly take her from me." dinah's assertions did not satisfy him. he wanted to see her. dinah told him how his voice and step affected her, and he therefore used extreme caution about walking within range of her hearing, or speaking loudly. augustus' companionship would have been a welcome relief, but he dared not insist upon it, knowing clarissa well enough to know she would misconstrue his motive and come after the boy, if the exertion meant her death. twice he reached the limit of his patience, and he made up his mind to hypnotize her. he would rather be with his family if they were all hypnotized, than to be isolated from them. how could he tell what she would do? she was liable to go away, even before she was able, taking the children with her. this thought haunted him until he dared not leave the house. he felt that he had been a good, loving father and husband; a sick woman's whim should not separate them and ruin their lives again. it surprised him to know that merle and alice, who had always been such welcome visitors, were not admitted to see her or the children, and that augustus was not permitted to go with them to their home. he felt he had been lenient long enough. she needed discipline, and he would give it to her. never before had he so completely thrown his whole heart and soul into concentration, as he did now, thinking "she shall do me credit. she shall send for me." the whole force of his soul was put into the demand. before beginning, he had made up his mind he would not pause nor rest till dinah came with a message from clarissa for him to come to her. one thing that enraged him to use his power was he had himself plucked her some rare blossoms, putting them, fraught with the influence of love, beside the food dinah was carrying to her. he felt those flowers would carry to her the thought of his loneliness, and surely she would send him some token of remembrance. he watched, expecting dinah would have at least a message for him when she returned. he saw her coming, but did not wait for her to reach him, as he saw his flowers, lying undisturbed where he had placed them. disappointment, so keen that it became rage, consumed his soul. he vowed he would break that haughty, and (he felt) unjust spirit, so he set himself to the task. how long he sat there he never knew. he waited for dinah to call him, and did not notice the approach of augustus. he started up as a man in a dream when he heard the agonized cry: "papa, come quick; mamma is dying. quick. something is the matter with baby; that is what frightened mamma so. do not let them die." william heard the words. he saw distinctly the boy's horrified and suffering face, but he could not bring his mind back to the actualities of the present. "papa,--mamma is dying, and sister is dead--" without stopping to console or speak to augustus, william strode rapidly from the apartment, ascending the stairs with long bounds, and was soon in his wife's room. no wonder they thought she was dying. he will never forget that drawn, suffering face. she was sitting up in the bed, sustained by pillows, panting and gasping for breath, and holding closely to her, her rigid baby, lifeless and cold. she did not notice him when he entered, for despite her own suffering, her eyes never left the baby's face. "clarissa." at the sound of his voice, new strength seemed to come to her. her eyes flashed, even while her breathing came shorter and shorter. the words were separated owing to her difficulty to breathe, but they were clear and calm. "you have killed one. are you satisfied?" "clarissa! my god! you think i killed my child?" "i know it." "my god! oh, my god! clarissa, do not look like that. you shall not die.--i say you shall not die. clarissa--clarissa--you shall not die cursing me. clarissa, i defy death to take you. my will is stronger than yours. live.--breathe. clarissa, i will you to breathe regularly. breathe, i say. breathe. you cannot and shall not leave me. i will you to breathe." with his right hand placed upon her heart, he repeated over and over this command, telling dinah occasionally to give her stimulants. it was a fierce struggle, and more than once he felt the utter cessation of her heart's action. he shook her roughly, even, rubbed her and willed her to breathe, until he was finally rewarded by noting the heart's action was becoming more normal and regular, though her eyes had set fixedly, and her arms refused to support the babe, as in one fierce struggle to breathe, she put one hand to her throat. that let the baby fall, and dinah caught it. she was so distracted herself, she did not think when she gave it to augustus, who had just entered. the boy thought she was dead and his mother was dying. he hugged her close to him. she was cold; he tried to warm her by the heat of his own body; he was so frightened he felt no sense of terror, which would have been the natural sensation with him under different circumstances. he wanted sympathy he was so frightened, so he held his sister clasped tightly to him, with his eyes fastened upon his father and mother. william worked as never before in his life, and gained the victory, seeing clarissa pass into a natural sleep. then only did he realize the amount of strength he had expended. when he saw a natural perspiration break out upon her forehead, and her eyes close in sound, refreshing sleep, he was seized with a strong vertigo. dinah brought him a stimulant, and even while he was drinking it, his eyes did not leave clarissa's face, and the unmistakable symptoms of returning physical vigor, as evidenced by her regular breathing, did more to restore his equanimity than the stimulant itself. the thought of his children had not once occurred to him. augustus had been watching him closely, and knew by the expression upon his face his mother was not dying, but better. that fact had no more than made itself clear to him, relieving him from one horror, than he became aware of the cold dead babe in his arms. his idol, his sister was dead! as that thought bore itself home to him, there came an accompanying one. "mamma was dying," he thought, "father saved her. he can do what other men cannot. he can bring her back to life." his faith in his father was supreme. death and science were both mysteries to him, but he had faith in his father's ability to conquer; he had seen him do it just now. knowing his mother was all right by the expression on his father's face, he felt a strong resentment no one, not even dinah, had noticed the baby. he was her only friend. he thought of her if no one else did. he would see to it she had as much attention as his mother. women could take care of themselves better than babies. he hugged it closer to him, growing angry instead of sad, as he felt how cold she was. he had not one doubt as to his father's ability to do as well for it as for his mother. he quickly directed his chair, with one hand, to his father, who did not look up as he approached, but stooped over clarissa to test her heart's action again, although he knew from her breathing it was all right. he had been under such a tension, such a nervous strain, he was in just that mental condition where one goes from one extreme to the opposite, therefore feeling a touch upon his arm, he looked around to see augustus with such a look of injured pride upon his face as caused him to feel a sense of humor. a glad smile brightened his face and he spoke cheerfully. "she is going to stay with us a long time yet, my boy. if you had been a little later--my god! dead!" without a word, augustus passed the baby forward for his father to take. william had not thought of the baby. there it lay in his arms, inanimate, cold--undoubtedly dead. that was what clarissa had meant when he entered. why should she condemn him for murdering it? he had not thought of the baby so much as he should have done. what would clarissa say when she awoke and found her baby dead? one thing he knew; she would always hold him responsible for her death, though he was as innocent of it as augustus. the dead baby between them meant the loss of clarissa forever. the children had always come between them. her best love was theirs. he at once made the resolve clarissa must find that babe alive and warm beside her when she awoke. he never paused to consider he could not raise the dead. this new obstacle restored to him his customary self-control, and stooping with the babe in his arms, he kissed clarissa softly and tenderly, and without a word, placed the baby back in augustus' arms, who clasped it tightly to him, looking at his father with that same injured look william did not try to explain or understand. his mind was too busy with other thoughts. he had determined the child should waken. he could not, and would not bear the unjust stigma of its death. he hastily explained to dinah he would soon bring the child to her, and commanded her not to leave clarissa, telling her to let him know if there was any change in her. dinah's faith in william was as strong as that of augustus, and, as he had said that he would bring the baby to her well, she believed him implicitly. that feat would be no more wonderful than what he had just done for mistress clarissa. after giving his directions, william leaned over with a pleasant smile, and took both children in his arms, carrying them to his private room. on his way, he met james and a strange gentleman. they were going towards clarissa's room. to william's surprised look, james answered, "master, this is the doctor mistress sent for. she told me to bring him to her at once." a hot wave of emotion passed over william's face, that a strange physician should be consulted, and have the privilege of entering his wife's room without his consent. without looking at the doctor, he said: "show him into the reception room. i will be there soon." "mistress clarissa said for me to bring him to her at once." "she is sleeping. i just left her, and do not wish her disturbed. i will come to the doctor in--" "father! she moved--she moved!" there was such exultation in augustus' voice when he spoke, that james and the stranger, despite their best efforts to look and appear unconcerned, could not help showing astonishment. "it is gone now, but she did. hurry, father, hurry. make her move again." the boy was beside himself with emotion. he was sure he had felt a nestling motion in his idol. he was impatient to see her eyes open. she was still cold. he thought she was not quite so cold as she had been. william noted the looks of astonishment, but felt no desire to explain. he spoke sharply to james: "take the doctor to the reception room. i will come there as soon as i have attended to augustus, who is nervous and excited." james dared not disobey his master, so he led the physician back, while william, with his children, went into his study. augustus was so excited that his face flushed and his whole body trembled; his eyes flashed brilliantly. "she did move, father,--i felt it. make her move again. she is not so cold as she was. i want to see her eyes open, father." "yes, my son. now remain quiet. what! you will not trust her to me?" "i want to hold her." "do not hold her so tightly. i cannot work on her if you do. there; now you can rub her feet, while i do her spine." "she moved again, father. i felt it. make her open her eyes." "no, my boy, we will be content if she sleeps, like her mother. she is becoming less rigid. rub them vigorously. there. her eyes opened just as her lungs did. we cannot feed her. what shall we do?" "i knew you would save her, father. i love to hear her cry. she shall have something to eat. will you carry us back to mamma, now?" without comment, william took them up, and started back, happy that clarissa would find her baby beside her, warm and living, when she woke. just before they reached her room, augustus spoke: "father, i think sister will have as bad a temper as mine. i like to hear her cry, but i think she is angry; do not you?" "it sounds like it, my son." "i expect she does not realize she would have died if you and i had not taken care of her. it's a wonder i ever lived to grow up when dinah is so careless." hearing the baby crying, dinah immediately took her from augustus, and put her beside her mother, who was still sleeping. william put augustus in his chair, where he could watch both mother and babe. he turned toward the bed just in time to see the glad surprise upon clarissa's face as she heard the fretful cry of the baby. never was music so sweet as that. she drew the baby to her, and as she leaned to kiss her, william left the room. he went directly to the reception room, where the doctor was waiting for him. he was by no means pleased a strange physician had been called in. if she was ill and unwilling to have him treat her, why did she not send for baxter or harrington? what would they think if they heard of this? what a position it placed him in. he could not, and would not explain to any person (even them) this last estrangement in his family. he would conquer clarissa's haughty spirit. now was a good time for him to begin. entering the room, he bowed and said: "i am happy to inform you the indisposition from which my wife was suffering when she summoned you, has passed away. she is now resting comfortably. we appreciate your compliance. i will now discharge our obligation and indebtedness to you, if you will apprise me of the amount." the doctor was surprised at his dismissal, without even a look at the patient, but no more so than at the summons to go to the professor's house. he thought it very strange that he should be called there, knowing the professor was the intimate friend of several prominent practitioners. he felt greatly flattered at the call, but now he was dismissed without so much as seeing the patient. he quickly took his leave, after expressing gratification at the recovery of mrs. huskins, and receiving a larger fee than he had asked "as a reward for his promptness," as william told him. relieved of his presence, william went back to his study to try to work out to his own satisfaction, the cause of the horrible scene he had just passed through. that seemed the only word capable of expressing the torture of mind he endured when he saw that look so closely resembling death upon clarissa's face. how he had fought to conquer that condition. how many more such problems must he meet? could he always conquer them as he had this? chapter twenty-six think as he would, william could not account for this latest condition of clarissa and her babe. the thought of the babe had not once recurred to him. from the time of her birth she had appeared to be physically a well child. what could be the cause of this close resemblance to death, which had temporarily deceived such keen eyes as his. this was not the most perplexing problem either, although this was unanswerable in his present state. the child's passing into this deathlike state was not so remarkable, owing to clarissa's physical weakness and nearness to death, (for he knew how much the condition of the mother affects the small and negative babe) as was its return to health and vigor, without apparent labor upon his part first, for augustus had declared, while his mind had been taken up with james and the strange physician, that the babe had moved. to be sure, he had worked hard upon it after he had taken the two children alone to his room, but what made her move before he had worked upon her? he believed augustus when he said she did move. how to account for this apparent death and recovery was what baffled him. had he been the only one deceived, he would have thought his fears and anxiety for clarissa had rendered him temporarily nervous and fearful, but dinah and augustus were equally deceived, and united in the assertion. it was the baby's coldness and rigidity that had alarmed and produced in clarissa the condition of a seeming death struggle. what could it be that had caused this? he asked himself that one question until his mind and brain was a complete tangle of conjecture, but not one plausible or satisfying answer came to his consciousness. while he was seeking the solution to it, let us try to account for the same. william was a practised and proficient psychologist. he was accustomed to control the individuality and personality of others, by force of will, or, as some persons prefer to say, mind suggestions; use whatever words you will, it all resolves itself to one point. he temporarily dominated the consciousness of others, making them, for the time being, obey and express his own thoughts and desires. being shut out from the association and companionship of his family, he chafed, fretted and suffered as only such a nature as his can suffer. he was pursued by pictures of clarissa's leaving him again and misery of the darkest type settled upon his soul. his wife was the one object of adoration in his life. he loved his children as well as any man loves his children, and would gladly have suffered to spare them suffering, but never could they occupy their mother's place in his affections, or satisfy his soul's hunger. they could do this better than another woman could, because they were hers; they were a part of her--an expression of their mutual love; therefore, he prized their comfort and welfare beyond his own, but clarissa was the object of his veneration. her smile and approval gauged his happiness. that he was not equally necessary to her tortured him. never had she bestowed upon him the same degree of affection he had proffered her. he was satisfied and happy if he had her, but she was not equally contented; after the children came, her first thought was of them, and their happiness, and what time and affection they did not require, she gave to him. he was an unusually jealous and exacting man, and could not help feeling jealous of even his children, for he wanted to be first in her affections and interest, and the thought she should again leave him alone was simply maddening. this second separation would be incomparably worse than the first. his love for her as a bride had not approached the degree and depth of the ardor he felt for the mother of his children. having for so many years been deprived of her presence and love, he prized it more highly now than he could possibly have done in their early married days. when he found no man had stepped between them in that first separation, he felt so relieved, so happy, so proud of his boy, he thought at first, he would be content with second place in her love; when little clarissa came, she was only another object upon which to bestow his warm love, and he fervently believed her coming would cement and strengthen clarissa's love for him, the father of her children. his hopes had been rewarded in her early sickness, furnishing him a degree of happiness he had never before known; to be thus positively assured his presence was necessary to their happiness, and then, without warning, when he was planning to do his boy the greatest good possible to perform for him, she turned upon him like a tigress, banishing him from her presence, threatening to take her children and leave him again. the first desolation had been bad enough, but the second would be infinitely worse. had he been selfish, cross, jealous or exacting, he could have endured this new and unexpected banishment better, but so far as he knew how, he had striven to make his family happy, consulting, in every instance, their pleasure before his own. since she had returned to him, clarissa herself had been the dictator; he had faithfully kept his promise she should reign and not he, only intruding upon her presence and life when she gave him permission. they had both, he knew, been happier in their reunion than in their first union, or marriage. clarissa had proven her love to him many ways. he could not doubt her loyalty to him, and that was what puzzled him. he had not the smallest shadow of a doubt she loved him only, considering other men as his opponents but why--why did she threaten to leave him, when he spoke of trying to heal augustus? he repeated over and over to himself that he would not be jealous of his own children, knowing he had no occasion to be jealous of anyone else. he was sorry he had spoken so harshly to her. she was ill and nervous and knew very little about mesmeric influence. truly, he had no real distinct memory of what he had said. when she was a little stronger, he would go to her and ask her pardon and assistance to help augustus, that he, an innocent victim, should not pay his father's debt of jealousy and injustice. as william thought this out, he did not realize what a growth in real true love it proclaimed. studying them from a psychologist's standpoint, it is easy to understand the cause of the phenomena that disconcerted and puzzled him. he was, at the time of the baby's sickness, throwing the full and complete might of his practiced will into the thoughts of demanding his wife to send for him, thinking he would rather be in her presence even though she were psychologized than banished from it as he was now. she was holding the baby close to her, just at that time, thinking how she should plan out the future so her darlings should be best situated. suddenly she felt the strong, magnetic power which she knew so well from her experience with it, producing in her head, a dizzy sensation. believing he was going to carry out his threat to make her fear her children's presence, (for she knew it was his thought waves), she drew her baby still closer to her, in defiance, while her eyes at once sought augustus' face to see if he was in any way affected. she had no concern for the baby who was feeding from her breast; her one thought was of augustus. he was the one his father had threatened to mesmerize; he should not do it while she was alive. augustus sat drawing before her. he was irritable and cross, for he had wanted to go and see merle, but his mother had insisted upon his staying with her. well as he loved to draw, the enjoyment vanished when he was crossed in his desires and compelled to draw. his face was the picture of disappointment. his mother's anxious scrutiny marked the pallor and symptoms of yielding to what she thought his father's mesmeric influence. she could not fully understand and comprehend the boy's reluctance to forcible restraint. she watched his face eagerly and saw that he was nervous and uneasy, and strove to defeat the dreaded condition by the might of her will. augustus finally threw down his utensils impetuously, and said, "i am going to my father"; starting to move his chair back. this was a perfect confirmation of her fears. she instinctively tried to rise, saying in a harsh tone, "you cannot go." but as she arose, she became suddenly aware of the babe and that it had stopped nursing, and looking down, she saw it lay quiet and limp in her arms. her anxious, overwrought nerves rushed her to the quick conclusion that william's power had killed her baby. being weak, this sudden shock threw her into such a vertigo her heart became erratic in its movement, and she was fast sinking away, believing that her baby had preceded her, when william came, compelling her to live and breathe normally. coming to consciousness and finding both children well, and hearing augustus' and dinah's glowing accounts of william's powers, which were largely exaggerated by their love for him and their ignorance of what had produced these results, she began to feel her ire towards him vanishing, and it was soon supplanted by a longing to see him. why should he work so to save her and her baby, if he had no love for them? she longed for his presence, whether as father, husband or hypnotist. should she send for him? she was proud, and hesitated and promised herself to do so the next day. she would not admit how nervous she was, even to dinah. she fought with her inclination to see william all day. she had no more trouble with augustus, for he could not be coaxed from the room. when it came time for him to retire, his mother granted his request that he might this once sleep with the baby, and as she was sleeping he clasped her close to him, seeming to be nervous about her. clarissa felt such pride in seeing the children sleeping, she wished william could see them too. that was the most beautiful picture she had ever seen. augustus had the baby close to him in a loving embrace; looking at her treasures, she wondered if any other mother had such cause for pride as she. she turned over upon her side, that she might look easily at them. the picture of their happiness soothed her troubled nerves, and she fell into a refreshing sleep. how long she slept, she did not know. she was vaguely conscious of an arm passing around her shoulder, and holding her lovingly and close. she knew that it was william's, without opening her eyes. she felt such a sense of security in that embrace, she would not open her eyes, though she was awake and conscious whose arm it was. she felt if she spoke, she must censure him, and she was, at present, so content she did not want to argue, or even talk; so she seemingly slept on. william had felt so strongly he must see his treasures, he had sent word to dinah to apprise him when they were asleep. she did so. he told her to lie down in her own apartments and he would call her when there were any signs of their awakening. she was glad of a reprieve, and he was happy to be with his family. for a time, it seemed enough to look at them, then he felt a longing to touch clarissa. sitting beside the bed, he leaned over, resting his head near hers, while one arm passed over her. afraid to waken her, he did not dare to draw her to him, so his head moved closer to hers. he thought her sleeping, and unaware of his presence. his position soon became uncomfortable, yet he was afraid to change it, for fear she should awaken and banish him. she seemed to be sleeping soundly like the children, and he ventured as she made an uneasy movement of the head, to as easily as possible pass the other hand and arm under her head, at the same time, forsaking the sitting posture for a reclining position beside her. her back was toward him, as she faced the children, but there was a certain security in feeling his arms close around her. she must be asleep, as she made no movement. the pride of both prevented their speaking, and perfect quiet reigned until the baby began to cry, waking augustus, who was all concern for his sister. without speaking to william, nor attempting to move from his embrace, clarissa reached over and took the babe to her. william did not speak nor move, except to reach out his hand and draw augustus as well as the baby into his embrace. to augustus' query "is that you, father?" he answered "yes, my boy. now go to sleep, that you and sister may be good natured tomorrow." putting one arm around his sister, and hearing her regular breathing, augustus was soon fast asleep. neither william nor clarissa spoke; each was waiting for the other to make the first advances; both too proud to acknowledge themselves in error. finally, clarissa fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. dinah found them so when she came, early the next day. william offered no objections, when she ordered him to leave, for he felt his banishment would not be long. clarissa knew that he was there before she went to sleep; she did not censure him, nor bid him depart, therefore, she did not hate him. it was probably her sickness that had made her hasty and harsh to him. that sickness was largely his fault, so he would be patient. small babes are but sensitive plates upon which are reflected the strong emotions of the mother. clarissa was nervous and weak, and feeling the strong magnetism flowing from william's thought, she was consumed by actual fear, in her secret soul giving him credit for more power than he possessed. the nursing babe imbibed all her nervous condition, but, unlike her, had not sufficient power to throw off the depression, and therefore it succumbed to a swoon. clarissa thought she was dead, and her anxiety produced an effect deeper still, owing to the fact that it was only picturing her thoughts. all physicians know that many of the illnesses of small babies are the result of the nervousness or real sickness of the mothers; set the mother's mind or body at rest and ease, and the baby revives as quickly as a dry and parched plant, supplied with water. so much for the cause of babies' sickness. the cause of its resuscitation and movement, without visible aid, was due to precisely the same cause that had made it sick;--its mother's thought. when william had succeeded in placing clarissa in a sound, refreshing sleep, there was no further depressing magnetism flowing towards it. dinah and augustus had perfect faith he could restore the babe, and he was determined she should not die, knowing clarissa would always hold him responsible for its death, though he was as innocent of it as the baby herself. like any negative, a babe will reproduce the strongest power coming to it at a given time. as it had no power to put away thoughts of depression, it was equally powerless to thrust from it cheerful and healthful ones. the strongest waves of thought at that time said "live," and it began to manifest symptoms of life, while in close contact with those two who had insisted it must and should live;--augustus and william. it was only a case of temporary suspended animation, as the child was physically well. many psychologists would have made a similar mistake as william, for while they can easily dominate the consciousness of others, there are many subtle phases of thought and action they cannot understand nor account for. the realm of thought action is as infinite in its scope as is the universe. chapter twenty-seven the next day clarissa thought william would come to her, knowing she was waking while he was there the night before, as she did not rebuke him nor send him away. this thought pleased her and she determined he should feel proud of his family when he came. dinah marveled at the orders she received, but she said nothing, thinking her mistress ill and notional. she was too glad to have her mistress improved to care how much work she was called upon to do. first, there was the baby and augustus to wash and dress, with clarissa directing and insisting upon their being arrayed with unusual care and elegance. this was no easy task, for mother and son did not always agree, especially about the baby. this over, clarissa insisted upon having herself robed with great care, and having her room changed in several ways; finally all was arranged to her fancy, and dinah drew a long sigh of relief. it had been a trying time to her. baby was asleep, and dinah left mother and son talking; augustus coaxing to go and see merle. clarissa was continually listening for william's footsteps, believing, with her usual faith in conquering conditions, he would come early to see her. she wanted him to find both children there. few fathers had such beautiful children. he must be proud of them as she was; so she coaxed augustus to remain, under one pretext or another, but there were no signs of william. she grew restless and uneasy. suddenly it dawned upon her that he expected her to ask him to come to her. he wanted to make her humble herself; her pride arose at once. she would not do it. thinking it over, she grew restless and feverish--even anxious. augustus kept plying her with questions. he wanted to go to see merle; he would come home by the time baby sister would wake. why could he not go? thinking it over, clarissa thought "here is a chance to reach william without really sending for him," so she said cheerfully: "you may go ask your father if merle is at home and disengaged to-day, also if he does not think baby sister ought to have some of james' choice flowers." before she could say more, augustus was out of range of her voice. she lay thinking how she would greet william when he came in; she was sure he would bring the flowers as a peace offering to her. he had been rude and harsh to her; she would appear cold and distant to him to show that she resented his conduct, and she would tell him just what she thought of his mesmeric power. she was not afraid of him; he should see that. if she acted pleased to see him, he would think his power had influenced her, and that was not the impression she wanted him to have, so when she heard augustus' chair coming, and the boy talking animatedly to his father, she quickly turned her back toward the door, and feigned arranging the baby more comfortably. the chair soon stopped beside the bed, and augustus said, "see, mamma, what father sent to sister. james did not want to cut them yet, but father said that nothing he owned was too good for her, and of course he owned them, so james had to do it. he said he was growing them to get a prize from the public exhibition, but father said sister's pleasure was more to him than any prize. are they not beauties, mamma? this one is for you; he told me i could have it to give you. you are to wear it while we are gone, and think of me. father is going to take merle and me to see all the lovely pictures somewhere. i forget where. then we are going to have dinner and go to the theatre. won't that be jolly? he says i look very nice this morning. he wants me to kiss baby for him. good bye, mamma." before she had time to remonstrate, he was gone. how deep was her disappointment, she was unwilling to admit, even to herself. she had been sure william would come with the flowers himself. he had sent the baby rare flowers and allowed augustus to give her one (they were her favorite tube-roses, which james always kept in bloom). he had sent her nothing, and was going away to stay all day, seeking pleasure with augustus and merle, leaving her at home, ill in bed, without even a question as to how she had recovered from her indisposition of yesterday. this thought produced anger that supplanted all the softness and tenderness she had so lately felt. she heard them go, and drew her baby to her with a sigh of injured pride. they were forgotten; she was ill, but he could go and enjoy himself. she did william an injustice. he thought if he went to her without an invitation, she would consider it as an intrusion, after what she had said at their last interview. when augustus came with his request to go to merle, and said mamma asked him for flowers for sister, he thought he saw signs of clarissa's forgiveness, and he would have given anything his money could have bought to prove to her how glad he was that she had sent to him for a favor. he had not dared to leave the house after her threat to leave him, for, being there, she could not go;--even if it was necessary to use force. he would not be left again. he knew she would not leave without augustus, so he thought to please her by making the boy happy therefore he had planned to give augustus and merle a holiday. he knew if clarissa had intended to see him or send for him, she would have sent her message by augustus. he thought she would see his love in the selection of the flowers. he was disappointed not to have been called in when he went to the very door of her room with augustus; she knew he was there, for he had purposely talked all along the passage. he was anxious to see how fully she had recovered from yesterday's illness, and was not satisfied to take augustus' and dinah's words concerning her health. she might be taken suddenly ill again while he was gone, and die before he could be reached. augustus was away now, if he had not come to him so quickly, she would have died. these unpleasant thoughts began to haunt him about as soon as he closed the door of his house. he said nothing to augustus, for the boy was all enthusiasm, but long before father and son had reached mrs. millard's, he had concluded to go back at once. he would run no risk. arriving at the millard's, he pleasantly asked them to join augustus in a day of recreation and pleasure, doing so in such a way he seemed to consider it a favor for them to care for augustus, and entertain him. he planned out the programme, gave them the necessary money, and departed, telling them that he had business that should be attended to, but must first go home for something he had forgotten. he would send the carriage back. arriving home, he ran up the steps, he was so anxious to know that all was well. he met no one. removing his street garments as quietly as possible, and hoping that he would not be heard, he ascended the stairway that led to clarissa's room, looking for dinah, whom he wished to tell he was at home, and would remain there; thus she was to call him if anything was wrong. the door was open, but no dinah was in sight. he hesitated then approached the door, trying to make no noise. he wanted to look in;--and did, undiscovered. clarissa had been crying; that was easily seen. there was too much color in her face. was it fever or nervousness? he was glad that he had come home. his gaze was so steady she looked up quickly and saw him just as he tried to dodge from her sight. she was so surprised she spoke before she thought. "william!" at the sound of his name, he stepped back into the room. "where is augustus?" "at merle's." "why are you not with him? he said you were going with him." "i did." "what brought you back?" "you want to know the exact truth?" "yes. of course i do." "you." "me?" "yes; i was afraid you might be ill again--" "probably you mean you wanted to work upon me again. well, i am not afraid of you." "what do you mean?" "you need not get angry; it was you, and you alone, that almost killed baby and me." "clarissa, you do not know what you are saying. i make you sick!--never. it was i who cured you." "william, let us not get angry with each other, but try to find out the truth. were you or were you not thinking of me when i was stricken yesterday?" "i was." "i knew it. i told you you made me ill." "i deny it. i was thinking of anything but your being ill. i swear my only thought was you should send for me to come to you. i wanted to be with you. i was lonesome and desperate at the thought you would leave me again. i never thought of the baby. i am as blameless of the cause of her sickness as you." "it was the sight of her that frightened me so." "i do not wonder, clarissa. i have tried and tried to account for her close resemblance to death, when she is physically such a perfect specimen of health. try to do me justice. i am not so unnatural a man as to torture any person." "you threatened to make me fear my children." "i did no such thing. only a vicious coward would do that. what a husband i must have been to you, when you suspect me of doing such things!" "you did say so, william; that was what alarmed me." "i say i did not. i said i could do it." "i say you cannot." "i shall never try. you are no more proud of the children than i, and you may be sure if they never suffer injury or injustice at any but their father's hands, they will have a pleasant life. tell me why you were so angry, when i wanted to help augustus. can you not realize how i feel, when i know he is passing through life maimed for my sin? is it not a duty i owe him to use every means in my power to assist him to walk? no person has ever been injured by my influence." "merle has." "merle? how?" "you made him lie." "that very experience brought me wisdom. i was jealous. i could not account for his sudden sickness upon seeing you. can you not forgive me my indiscretions?" "knowing the cause;--yes. but has your gain in knowledge given merle any more power? william, think well. think well. the power you use, i am afraid of. do not speak yet. listen. you are a good man. merle is a truthful boy. you made him tell a lie, and then believed it, placing the responsibility upon an innocent person. if a good man can make such a blunder, what great evil a bad man could do with it! knowing what you do now, would you want augustus or baby or me to be mesmerized, and subject to the thought of any man you know? think what it means, william. would you? answer from the depth of your spirit." the thought of the children did not so strongly impress him, but when he thought of clarissa's being subject to the commands of any man he knew, he started as though he was stung by a wasp. "no." "what right then, have you to influence other men's wives and children?" "none, i suppose. i had never thought of it that way. i honestly believed i was doing good. help me to unravel this problem. you have shown me a picture i know is faulty, but i cannot detect the weak points. alice has said, and you seemed proud enough of it, that i should be an illustrious exponent of science. i used to think it an infallible power; now i do not know what to think of it. if it is true that i have made my best subject lie, and almost killed my wife and babe--i who am considered an expert in practice,--you are right. i do not want to think of its force in the use of corrupt men. after all my study, and all my work, i admit i know nothing. i am discouraged." "come look at baby. she has just awoke. is she not a treasure? you have not kissed her for days. do you not want to?" "nor her mother either. clarissa, what shall i do? i want to be just the man you respect and admire." "wait until i am well, william, then you shall explain to me the science of mesmeric control, and we will work together with alice to find out those facts that you do not know. somehow, i feel you are really stronger and wiser than you have ever been, though you do feel discouraged just now." "clarissa, you will not leave me?" "no. i took you for better or worse, and i shall stand by the contract. i have been trying to think how you could help augustus." "how, dear?" "by magnetic treatments the whole length of his spine and limbs. he is only weak there; not deformed. i was the same before he was born; but you will not mesmerize him, will you?" "never." "has she grown since you have seen her? she looks much as augustus did at her age, dinah and i think, so she must look like you." * * * * * peace was restored, and a happier family would be hard to find than that of william huskins. with his wife's help, he became a noted writer and exponent of mesmeric influence, reasoning from the effects or phenomena, back to the basic principles which produce them. they worked together, and he told his friends she was the inspiring genius; he but the crude expresser. they both grew in character, making it a study how they should and might do for others, as they would wish their children done by. augustus, through his father's treatment, acquired sufficient strength in his limbs to forsake the wheel chair and crutches, as manhood approached, and was able to walk with a cane. he gave promise of being unusually talented in art and music. his parents sought in every manner to develop it. baby clarissa was a mischievous child. james said she was the exact counterpart of her mother. the entire household set their happiness by her. the wonder is she was not spoiled and wilful, but, instead, she was winsome, and charming, doing her mischief in such a way it added, rather than detracted from her excellence. having passed through the fiery furnace of suffering, and coming forth grander and nobler for it, let us leave william and clarissa with our best wishes that their children may represent them in worthiness of heart and character. 