"Perhaps—according to most standards. But I was a minister, and my conscience was already active enough from my devotion to science to the neglect of my clerical work. But perhaps you are right. I'll try and not worry."
I joined in with what encouragement I could offer, and when he had calmed somewhat my neighbor said: "You must tell me how you did it, Mr. Mayhew. You killed six worthless heathen, and saved the lives of several white men, by some application of intense cold. I am a student of science, but I cannot understand."
"Very simple," answered our guest. "You know that cold is merely negative heat, and, if reduced to a point, will act like heat, decreasing in strength as the square of the distance."
The old artist chuckled. "I knew it," he said. "Go on."
"And do you notice that the reflector in the picture has the elliptical curve, instead of the parabolic of the usual reflectors?"
I gasped. In painting that object into the picture I had not thought of curves. In fact, knew nothing of conic sections at the time.
"The secondary focus of that reflector," went on Mr. Mayhew, "was about sixty feet away. I had designed it for experimenting with light. In fact, I had invented the searchlight, now in general use, as I have learned by reading up lately. But I have also learned more—that in the fifty years of my darkness the scientific world has not caught up to me. At that time I had not only liquefied the six refractory gases of Clerk Maxwell, but had solidified hydrogen and discovered in advance a gas which I had not named, but which I now find is called helium. I had also succeeded in liquefying this gas."
"And in the focus of that reflector?" inquired the old artist, half rising from his chair.
"Was a small cup of liquefied helium, on which floated a lump of solid hydrogen. It produced a temperature of nearly two hundred and seventy-three minus centigrade—the absolute zero of space."
"And it froze the blood in their veins," commented the artist, reseating himself. "Lucky for me you didn't switch it a little higher."
I shivered, and after a few moments of silence I asked:
"If I did not read your mind, but delved into the infinite, as you say, why didn't I get this too?"
"Didn't have time, my boy. But you may have read the mind of Mr. Mayhew, the subconscious mind of Old Bill—the mind that never sleeps and never forgets, you know, and which retained through the years all that Mr. Mayhew had put into it; for you drew into the reflector the elliptical curve, which Mr. Mayhew conceived, but which never in my life have I considered in conjunction with reflectors."
"But you?" I asked again. "Your picture?"
"I painted from memory, and, if you will remember, left out the reflector. But Mr. Mayhew had also dipped into the infinite, and discovered what no living brain knew. Mr. Mayhew"—he turned to the still shaky old man—"you have lost, it is true, fifty years of your life. But your remaining years will be full of honor, profit, and ease, for the whole scientific world will rise to do you homage. You are still in advance, for you have not only isolated and liquefied helium, the last of the refractory gases, but you will ultimately solidify it."
First, let me introduce myself. I am now an old man, healthy of body and mind—else I could not tell this story—but in late middle life was somewhat feeble-minded. I was an installment collector for a furniture house.
My earnings were small—just sufficient to afford me a hall room in a boarding house, where, with my few books, I maintained my interest in life. I began it as a sailor in deep-water ships, but, because of the small promise of advancement, quit the sea after ten years, and worked on shore. I was ambitious, studious, and fairly well educated. I worked at one thing and another, finally becoming a reader for a magazine; and, later, editor-in-chief. But the strain upon my mind of reading, classifying, and rejecting or accepting for publication the various and multitudinous manuscripts sent to me, wore down my mental powers until there came an utter collapse, and I spent the next few years in sanitariums, with all memory of my past blotted out, except a few salient points, such as the name of my first ship, my first job on shore, my first incursion into literary work, and the final furious quarrel with my employer, when I was discharged as incompetent. Then came my slow recovery to the point where I could obtain and hold my position as collector. So much, in prelude, for myself and history.
Yet there is one more point of my early life that I remembered, but only because my memory of it was refreshed occasionally as I fought my way along in my shore life after leaving the sea—Jack Sullivan, a watchmate on that first ship, who later became a boarding-house runner and afterward a successful boarding and shipping master.
Jack's path in life did not coincide with mine, yet we met often during my struggle for advancement, and each time it was a drink together, and a reminiscent talk about that voyage; and it continued during the years when I was an incompetent neurasthenic, and he a prosperous man with influence at Tammany Hall.
It was after such a meeting with Jack, in which he had paid the bill and clapped me on the back, bidding me to brace up and look ahead, that I wandered into a small playhouse, the bills of which advertised a mesmeric exhibition.
I had never seen such a public performance before, and was extremely interested, as the operator, a tall, bearded man, in evening clothes, called up members of the audience and, after a few passes over their heads and down before them, put them into hypnotic or mesmeric sleep; and then made them perform absurd and ridiculous feats.
I left the theatre, fully impressed, struck with awe at the power of one man over others, and boarded a street car on my way home.
Still wondering, and afflicted with an uneasy struggle of my mind with the idea that I had known of such things before, I was forced to listen to a desultory conversation between two men who sat near me.
They were well-dressed and well-spoken—educated men—and as the talk went on I easily deduced that they were physicians, slightly acquainted—one, a visiting physician of a hospital; the other, a general practitioner.
"A remarkable case," the former was saying, as I began to listen. "He has been there longer than any other patient, and there has been neither improvement nor decline. A complete case of aphasia in some regards, amnesia in others; for we once succeeded in partly hypnotizing him and getting incoherent comments—in the choicest of English, however."
"Is he sane, as regards the present—of passing events?" asked the general practitioner.
"Sane as you or I, except in the relapses. He has illusions and hallucinations, but recovers himself without treatment other than seclusion. It is a case of second personality, no doubt; but there is no prognosis."
"And you cannot classify it?"
"No, except as double personality. He cannot remember his name before the time the police brought him to us. He began all over again, and is now an intelligent man, who reads the papers, and talks sanely."
"Keep up that hypnotic treatment."
"What's the use? We are busy over more modern and vital cases. He is merely a medical and physical curiosity."
"Keep it up. By hypnotic treatment you can obtain his past and restore his memory. You know that. Isn't it worth while—to restore a man's soul to him?"
"Well, perhaps I will; but I am very busy, and he is a hard subject to hypnotize."
The car was approaching my corner. With my mind in a whirl that I could not understand, I arose, and, facing the two doctors, I asked them where this man was confined. "Bellevue," answered the narrator of the story.
I thanked him, and went out, standing for a while on the corner, breathing deeply of the fresh air, and trying to analyze my state of mind. Something within me was beating against my poor, tired brain—something that would not take form and expression; something of truth and fact and experience of my own that I could not remember—something pertaining to my life at sea.
At last I went home and sank into a troubled slumber, from which I wakened in the morning, not with any projects for the welfare of the man in the hospital, but for my own good. Hypnotic operations would restore memory; so the doctor had affirmed. My mind went at once to the successful hypnotist that I had seen at the theater, and, after a day of idleness and musing, I called there before the performance began.
I met him, explained my loss of memory, and he promised to do what he could, appointing a meeting at his apartment at twelve, when the day's work was ended, and his mind and mine were tranquil.
I was there on time. While well-dressed and well spoken, there was a slight burr to his voice and a roughness of the skin on the back of his neck that—I do not know why—betokens the outdoor, manual worker. He spoke gently to me, asked my name and occupation, and, when I told him that I was a collector, remarked that he had once been a collector himself. First seating me in an easy-chair, he faced me in another, and took my hands in his.
"Now, I am going to mesmerize you," he said, "instead of merely hypnotizing. I am going to put you to sleep by personal or, as some say, animal magnetism. It is more efficient in a case of long duration, but I never use it on the stage, because it is not necessary, and because only I could waken the subjects. Something might happen, you see—a fire, or an injury to myself. But here we are quiet and safe. Now, look me steadily in the eyes, and when you have gone to sleep I will command you, firmly, to remember all your past. That will be all. Very simple."
I obeyed him, looking steadily into his kindly, brown eyes. As I looked they seemed to grow larger, while the pressure of his hands on mine relaxed. Larger and larger grew his eyes, until I seemed to see nothing else; then a tingling sensation crept through my frame—a delicious tremor that soothed me into drooping my eyelids.
"Close your eyes now," he said, and his voice was far away. "You are going to sleep, and, when I waken you, you will remember all that you have forgotten."
I obeyed him, and for a moment or two thought I had slept; but the closing words of his command seemed to arouse me. He was still before me, but in the act of rising. He went into another room, and came out, dressed in rough clothing and smoking a short clay pipe; then the wall containing this door grew blank and white, and in a moment had taken on the exact form of the forward side of a ship's forecastle, while a duplicate door appeared in it.
Sitting quietly there, I watched the strange transformation scene, able to rise if I wanted to, but not wanting to, nor feeling the slightest uneasiness about the phenomena. The pictures left the wall, and faded into nothingness; the mantel to my right hand elongated and took on the form of a ship's rail; then with a rush all else in the room changed.
The floor rose suddenly, and became a fore-hatch, while the place was filled with sailors, known to me by face and name; but among them I could not now see the transformed mesmerist—the only man smoking was Bill Andrus, a young fellow from Australia. To complete the picture, my easy-chair changed into the weather windlass barrel, and a dash of salt spray came over the bow. Being able to move, I left my seat and got out of the way of the water. All seemed natural to me; I was at sea again, and on one of the boats stowed on the house I spelled the name of my first ship.
Of course, it was a dream, even though real to me at the time; and there was no beginning to it. I dropped into that chapter of my life with a full memory of the chapters preceding it, and I went on with it as I had lived it before, with no thought that my seat on the windlass had, a few moments before, been an easy morris chair.
The men around me were my shipmates, and in no sense out of proportion of place or time. It was the last dog-watch, and when eight bells struck I went aft to my trick at the wheel with no self-questioning. And so, I will tell the rest of this story as though I had never forgotten it.
The name of the ship wasChariot, and she was small, well found and manned, with an easy skipper and mates. We were bound to Sydney, and before the trades had been reached each man was on good terms, not only with the others of the crew, but with the cook and steward, skipper and mates. There had not been a blow or a harsh word from the officers since we lifted the anchor in the Horseshoe.
In my watch, besides myself, were Jack Sullivan, an intelligent young Irish-American; Swansen, a big, good-natured Swede—a Sou'wegian, we called him—Wilkinson and Tompkins, two Jerseyites; Andrus, the Australian, the youngest and least efficient of the ship's company, but the most intelligent; and Devlin, an Irish, hot-headed graduate of the Dublin university, who had gone to sea from sheer rebellion against the conventionalities of shore life. We were a congenial, cheerful lot of good fellows, ready for work or play or fight—only there was no occasion for the latter.
We had our afternoon watch and first dog-watch below, a rare condition in American ships, and on Sundays a liberal dinner of duff and good wholesome beef sweetened to the flavor of corned beef by an overnight soaking in fresh water. Each Sunday, while the trades lasted, all hands remained on deck in both forenoon and afternoon watches, to wash clothes, overhaul and air dunnage, to shave or be shaved and to mutually cut hair, all of us confident of a good night's sleep, even on deck; for braces are rarely touched at night while the trades are blowing.
But on a Sunday morning, just after the trades had blown out, the young Irish ne'er-do-well wanted a haircut and a shave. Wilkinson and Tompkins had proved the best barbers, and had done all the work heretofore; but this time they rebelled; they were tired of it, and, besides, a squall was coming. Devlin vociferated and declaimed, saying that he had looked like a dog long enough, and finally, to appease him, young Andrus volunteered the task; so Devlin sat down on the fore-hatch, and Andrus went to work, with mock pitying comments on his doglike face.
"Of course, you're a dog," he would say, "the Skye terrier breed; but I'll make a fox terrier out of you 'fore I'm done. Keep quiet. I can't cut your hair while you're wriggling like a cat in a bathtub. You're not a cat; you're a dog."
Devlin finally ceased his profane comment and wriggling, sitting quiet until the clipping was done; then Andrus, after a walk to the rail and a look at the growing squall to the westward, came back, saying that there was time for a shave—which Devlin needed as badly as a haircut.
"Quiet, you dog!" he said jokingly. "You're a Skye terrier now, and I'll soon make you a fox terrier—just as soon as I get that fur off your face."
He shaved him clumsily but quickly, then stood back.
"Now, Devlin," he said, still carrying on the good-natured raillery, "you're as handsome a dog as I ever saw. Let's hear you bark."
To our astonishment, Devlin emitted a series of canine sounds, and ended with a menacing growl. He still sat quietly on the hatch, however, without a sign or a smile on his face to indicate that he fell in with the joke. Then came a shout from the mate, calling us to halyards, clewlines, and buntlines, to shorten down for the squall.
We answered, and it was not until the squall had passed and sail made again that we noticed that Devlin still sat on the hatch, occasionally giving voice to barks and growls. We spoke to him, but received only growls.
The skipper and mates came forward, and commanded him; he answered by louder barks and deeper growls. We continued for an hour, and at last he became violent. He was put into his berth, voted crazy from some cause inherent in his nature, and ministered unto by all hands.
He grew quiet in a few days, but never regained his senses. We would talk to him, coax him to answer, and even sing the old forecastle songs to him; but all we received in answer were barks and growls, and soon we perceived that he had forgotten the use of his pan, pannikin, and spoon. We sorrowfully taught him to eat.
And we mourned also for another good fellow, from the time of that squall that followed the barbering. Andrus, the Australian, had been lost overboard. At a time when royals and topgallant sails were flapping and fluttering, the ship laid over by the squall until the lee rail was buried, and, with wind abeam, making twelve knots, Andrus had floundered down into the water in the waist to rescue the ship's cat, old Tom, that had been caught unawares and was in danger of floating overboard.
No one knew just how it happened. We only knew that the ship righted for a moment, then sagged back to a farther angle, and, when next she righted, Andrus and the cat were gone.
We let the canvas flap and carry away, while we strove to back the main yards, and the skipper threw over life-buoys and gratings. But in that furious wind we could not gain an inch on the main-brace, and by the time we realized this Andrus and the cat, life-buoys, and gratings must have been a mile astern. There was a ship on the horizon, following in our wake, but it was past all reason that Andrus, who we knew could not swim, should reach a life-buoy or grating and be picked up.
We taught and trained Devlin as we would train a dog, and he learned readily. He first learned to pull a rope with us, and soon understood the meaning of "belay." He learned to sweep and scrub decks, and, after a few trips aloft with us, learned to furl, to reef, and to "loose" a sail. He remembered every word spoken to him, and would repeat them at the right time; but we had rounded the Cape before he could converse, and then in short, jerky sentences; yet he learned to speak much more rapidly than could a child.
We called him Devlin until we understood that he could not remember it as his name; then we addressed him as "Say." Little by little he learned the ropes, the compass, and the use of marlinespikes and deck gear, and, though still stupid, was in a fair way to become an able seaman again, but for an unfortunate speech of one of our number—I think it was Swansen—who, at our forecastle supper, jokingly called him a dog.
Devlin immediately became a dog, snapping, snarling, barking, and growling, with all his tutelage gone from him.
We mobbed Swansen, but it did not help the case; Devlin remained an imbecile until we reached port, where he went to a hospital.
So, with our spirits clouded, we were glad to quit that good ship at Sydney, and separate, each going his own way. Mine led to other voyages until, as I have said, I quit the sea to work on shore; then, on through my struggles for a livelihood to the time of my mental breakdown; and I even remembered and lived the experience of the night at the theater and my visit to the hypnotist. And then I awoke, to find him standing over me, making passes upward and over my head.
"Well," he said, as I glanced confusedly around the room, "how do you feel?"
"Feel?" I answered. "Why, professor, I've dreamed of my whole life—only, it is fading away. Let me think. The ship—Swansen—the squall—no, it is going. I cannot remember. I cannot."
"Go home," he said kindly, "and sleep all you can. Each morning will bring back fresh recollections, and in time your memory will be thoroughly restored."
He was right. Next morning I recalled the incidents of my boyhood and my early seafaring experience, culminating in my signing able seaman in theChariot. And as I viewed my face in the glass, I marveled at the change; I knew it as my face, and remembered it, but now remembered the face of my youth, which gave no promise of the worn and wasted features in the glass.
Yet the following morning brought back more recollections of that voyage, and the next and the next still more, until at the end of a week I could review my past, perhaps with a keener memory than that of the ordinary man who has tired his brain and memory without the relief that had come to me. I called down blessings upon the head of that hypnotist, and in my gladness of heart thought of the poor devil in Bellevue Hospital, and went to see him.
But I was not admitted. I was not acquainted with him, and had no plausible excuse for wishing to see him. So I went to Sullivan, my old shipmate, and explained the case, at the same time telling him of my wonderful cure, and my wish to secure to him the services of the kindly man who had served me.
"Won't let you in?" he cried. "I'll see about that. Just come along wi' me up to Tammany Hall, an' I'll see if a fri'nd o' Jack Sullivan is to be barred out of any public institution in this burg."
We started, and as our way led past the apartment of the professor, I suggested that we stop and endeavor to take him along, as, if all went well, the thing could be done in a few moments.
Luckily we found him at home, packing up for the road. His engagement was ended, and he would leave town that evening; but, when I had explained about the poor fellow at Bellevue, whose case was worse than my own, his kindly brown eyes lit up with a fellow sympathy, and he came with us.
We took a cab, and Jack and I occupied the forward seat, while the professor sat opposite. As we rode along, I noticed that he furtively glanced into Jack's seamy face, and occasionally, and as furtively, into mine, while a doubtful, thoughtful expression stole over his own. But he uttered no word during that ride, and indeed there was hardly a chance, for Jack kept the atmosphere sulphurous with his comments on the insolence of the doctors at Bellevue.
At Tammany Hall Jack went in, and what he said or did in there I do not know; but he soon came out, waving a pass to the hospital, and still swearing.
We soon reached Bellevue, and were readily admitted and led to the ward containing the hopelessly insane. And here we were at a loss as to which of the fifty or more patients was our man. The one nurse there did not know the pathology of a single case in the ward; but he went to inquire, and brought back the visiting physician whom I had met in the car. He recognized me, heard my story, was introduced to Jack and the professor, and said to the latter:
"If you have restored this man's memory, sir, you may succeed with our man. I am perfectly willing you should try. We have always failed. I suppose you want a quiet room. Come with me, and I will send for the man."
He led us into a small, vacant bedroom, containing, beside the bed, a washstand and one chair. The doctor called for more chairs, and then said:
"It is best perhaps that you should know something about him before he arrives, as he is intelligent and sensitive in his present personality. Besides his utter loss of memory, he carries the strangest antipathy to cats and dogs—"
And here, as though in confirmation of the description, a huge cat bounded into the room, followed by a frenzied-eyed man, who uttered incoherent snarls and growls, as he endeavored to catch the cat.
"That's the man," said the doctor. "Look out."
Following the maniac was the nurse, who endeavored to stop the chase; but he could not hold the violent patient, though the cat had a moment's reprieve. It glared at its enemy from a corner; then, as the pursuer bounded toward it, the cat sprang to my head and shoulders, spitting and snarling defiance, and from my head, which was rather bald, it leaped to the head of the doctor—which was balder—thence to the floor, and out of the room. The patient pursued, but was stopped and held by the doctor and nurse.
"Sit down in that chair," said the doctor, "and behave yourself."
The frenzy left the man's eyes, and he quietly obeyed.
"I have told you often enough," said the doctor to the nurse, "to keep that cat out of this ward." He wiped the blood from his bare scalp. "Why are not my instructions carried out?"
"It was not my fault, sir," answered the nurse. "I do not know who let the cat in."
"Never let it happen again. Bring those chairs in."
"Wait, doctor," said the professor. "Can you send in a bench about a foot high, or, if not, a bucket or pail. I want to seat this man on something hard."
There was no such bench, he was informed, but a large pail came in with the chairs.
I had been studying the patient. He was a middle-sized, middle-aged man, with a careworn face and gray hair and beard, and he sat tremblingly in his chair, and looked pleadingly at the doctor.
"I could not help it, doctor," he said. "I hate them—they madden me."
"Never mind, Monson," answered the doctor kindly; "but we're going to try again to take it out of you. You must sit still and be hypnotized."
"What! More of that foolishness! It never did any good."
"Not hypnotized this time—mesmerized. This gentleman thinks he can put you to sleep. If he succeeds, you will remember your past. Isn't it worth trying? Come, now; be sensible."
He looked at the professor doubtingly, and I also looked at him, noticing perhaps what the doctor did not—that he was trembling from head to foot, and that the muscles of his mouth twitched; but he pulled himself together and approached the patient.
"Yes, my poor fellow," he said, in his kindly voice, "it can be done. I have never failed. You will remember your former name and all your early life."
"I have studied this thing a little," answered Monson, "and I understand that it is done by suggestion to the subconscious mind."
"You are right. And as you seem to be a well-informed, intelligent man, it will be all the easier. Come over here, and sit down on the upturned pail."
He changed his seat, and the professor, warning us to perfect silence, made a few passes over the man's head and down before him.
"Sit up, now," he commanded, "and don't fall over." Monson stiffened straight, and the professor continued his passes until Monson's eyes took on a fixed expression. Then the mesmerist began twitching and pulling his patient's hair, sometimes gently, and again roughly. Then he took a chair, seated himself before Monson, as he had done in my case, and, taking his hands in his own, commanded him to stare at his eyes.
Monson obeyed, and, in a few moments, his eyelids drooped. Soon he was asleep. But the professor continued the passes and the occasional twitching of the hair for fully five minutes; then he stood up and stepped back. The sweat was running down his face, and he wiped it off with his handkerchief.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I have him in the somnambulistic stage, but it may be necessary to send him deeper. I will try. Monson, answer me," he commanded in a sharp voice.
"Yes, sir," answered the sleeping man.
"Do you hate cats?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
The professor made more passes, waited a few minutes; then made more, and again asked sternly: "Monson, do you hate cats?"
There was no answer.
The professor looked at us with a smile. "I think I have found him," he said. He again began the hair twitching, and after a few moments again questioned him. And the question brought Sullivan and me, gasping and choking, to our feet.
"Devlin," he said, in a joking tone, "am I cutting your hair to your satisfaction?"
"You are not," answered the sleeper. "I was doggy enough before, but ye're making a hairless Mexican poodle o' me 'stead of a fox terrier."
"Devlin," shouted the professor, as he drew away his hands, "you are not a dog. You never have been a dog, and you never will be a dog. You are a man, and your name is not Monson. It never was Monson, and it never will be Monson. When you waken you will remember every event of your past life up to and after the time of the squall aboard theChariot. You will remember everything. Wake up, Devlin, wake up, and don't count your trouble against me, old shipmate. I did not know my power then. I nearly drowned before that ship astern picked me up. Wake up, Devlin. Wake up."
The professor was making furious passes upward.
Slowly the man's eyes opened, and, with the daze of sleep still in them, he looked at the professor.
"You're a bum barber, Andrus," he said. "I wouldn't give ye hell room."
The professor did not catch his train that evening. Four old shipmates dined together; and the dinner lasted until it became a supper, and finally a breakfast.
At the proper age and condition he developed the usual habit of forming mental pictures while looking into a grate fire, and enjoyed the usual introspective calm and comfort therein; but in him, the primordial inheritance also found expression at an age so early that it might have formed a part of his infant reproduction of the Stone Age. From the time he could crawl he loved the fire with the fixed, passionate devotion of the cat, and, like the cat, he would lie contentedly for hours on the rug before the hearth, or, to the scandal of the cook, remove the kitchen stove lids and scorch his face over the glowing coals.
He seemed to possess a salamander-like immunity from its effects; again and again he was burned, but never to the point of fear, utterly disproving the theory that burned children dread the fire. He loved fire, and played with it, setting the carpet of his play-room in flames at the age of three. At five he had made a bonfire of his toys, at seven burned the barn down, and at ten was a past master in the art of building camp fires in the woods—fires without smoke, fires of green wood, wet wood, and rotten wood; fires of great heat and little flame, and fires that went out without constant attention.
In playing Indian he was a valuable comrade, and though we did not meet until the mutations of schoolboy life brought us together in the same class—his early history coming to me later—I found this proficiency the one asset in George Morton's character. He was a high-strung, nervous lad, morbid and erratic at times, cowardly except in reference to fire, and a bully when he dared be. He even lacked the school-boy's sense of honor, which permits stealing anything eatable, and lying for any purpose except self-defense.
Our first meeting was momentous, determining and fixing our mutual attitude, and our nearly common interest in a third person, who was to strongly influence us both. I was crossing a vacant lot which was part of his wealthy father's property when I found him tormenting a small girl of four. He had rigged her doll to the tail of his kite, and was laughing gleefully at her anguish as the inanimate pet soared aloft. I claim no chivalric impulses at the time; I was bad boy of the village—a title I had earned by my health, strength, and willingness to fight—and here was a chance for a fight.
A short conflict ended in victory for me and a new emotion born of the child's happy smile as the doll was restored to her arms. It was solely paternal and protective in its nature, and had I not taken note of the wonderful beauty of the tot it would have remained so; but the pure little face stamped itself on my mind as an earthly picture of the super-human, and, though it made no sexual appeal, it protected me for years against the love affairs of boyhood and youth. She became my goddess, and has remained so.
But I was brought to earth by the impact of a stone on my head, and the whimpering voice of my late victim coming from a distance.
"That's my sister," he said, "and you leave her alone and mind your own business."
My pursuit of him was fruitless, for his legs were longer than mine; but it seemed to have aroused in him the same protective regard for his sister as had animated me, for from that time on he never teased her, and often left the boys to lead her away from possible annoyance from them—and from probable contact with me. There was danger from the latter, for on many occasions I "played hooky" to loll away the day in the bushes, satisfied with one glimpse of the child playing near the door. And I always returned to school bettered by the experience; for I studied harder, realizing my seafaring father's ambition that I should have an education, and responding to his advice that if I "mustbe a sailor, to be the right kind—a naval officer." He, with his blood, his example, and his talk, had impressed upon me his love of the sea, but instead of crawling in the hawsepipes as he had done I compromised by winning, in a competitive examination, an appointment to Annapolis, at the age of sixteen.
My closest competitor was George Morton, from whom I received half-friendly hints that he would get even, and my warmest admirer his young sister, now about ten, to whom I, in my new capacity of prospective hero, had officially been introduced. She thought I was going to war, and earnestly asked me to be careful and not be killed.
Morton spent two years more at school before going to college, and in this time made good his threat to get even. He was a popular hero many times over before I had become sure that I could hold my own in study, and he acquired this distinction by timely use of his one talent. In the exclusive, restricted community of wealthy families there was little of the material from which firemen are drawn, and as a consequence a volunteer fire company had been formed, with palatial quarters, gorgeous uniforms, and an up-to-date equipment. Fires were so scarce, however, that its activity had found vent in parades, dinners, and balls, until George Morton joined it. Then, as though in response to the presence of its lover and master, fires broke out here and there in the manor, all of which he attended, and most of which were extinguished by his efforts or advice. He intuitively knew the thing to do—just where to play the stream, just when to pull down a wall. In six months he was made foreman, and in this time had saved much property and a few lives.
But his notable feats were performed later, and these were told me by his sister Grace, when I had finished my second year, and George was ready for college. My parents had died since my appointment, but I took my vacations at home, just to meet and be near her.
"He is brave as a lion," she said, with twelve-year-old enthusiasm. "Why, when Mr. Mills' big house burned down he went up a ladder to the third story, which hadn't caught fire yet, and went all through the building until he had found and brought out three servants who were unconscious from the smoke. Then he even went back for the dog, and saved him."
"That was good work," I responded, rather vacantly.
"And then," she went on, "when the big, new schoolhouse caught fire he happened to be right there to notice it from the outside, and after getting all the children out safely he entered the building at the head of his fire company and extinguished the fire. He went right into the blazing basement with a fire extinguisher and put it out himself. None of the rest wanted to go in, either."
I grunted my approval. I had never liked him, but evidently had misjudged him. The child continued:
"But the bravest thing he did was when the seminary caught fire at night. He was asleep when the alarm sounded and he rushed to the fire half clothed. The whole lower story was afire, and above were the dormitories with over a hundred girls fast asleep; but he went up, right through the flames coming from the windows, and wakened everybody. Then he pulled up ladders with a rope, and helped the girls down. He was the last to come out, and just in time, for the walls fell in a moment later."
"You have a fine brother," I responded, joining the girl in her enthusiasm, and willing to do him justice. "I never thought he had courage at all, but he certainly has proved it."
"Oh, he has," she rejoined. And then, with sisterly single-mindedness, she gave me this: "He isn't afraid of you any more, and says he is going to thrash you."
"Me—why?" I asked in amazement. "What for?"
"Oh, papa says the same, too. They say that a man of your age ought to be thrashed for talking to a girl of twelve. But I don't see why. I like to talk toyou."
The disparity in our ages had not influenced me when younger, and as it was growing less each day that we lived I had not given it a thought. But this new attitude of her father and brother compelled me to, and in helpless anger and chagrin—for I was either the same bad boy of the village, or, still worse, a man playing the boy—I forswore her society and went back to my third term at the academy, resolved not to seek her again until she was of age. And with me on the train, as it pulled out of town, was George Morton, bound for college, but we did not speak.
I manfully held to my resolution until I had finished my course at the academy and my two years of sea service. Then I graduated, a commissioned officer of the United States Navy, and with this backing, and the heart hunger strong upon me, I returned to my old home, bound to see my boyhood divinity at any cost. But I did not see her; instead, I saw her brother at the door, and the stormy scene that followed assured me that conventional social relations with her were impossible. So, convinced that he had nursed the old antagonism through the years, I fumed and sulked while waiting for sea orders, and even half-heartedly planned unconventional relations—I sought to meet her outside her home. But before I had met with any success, orders came from Washington, sending me, not to a seagoing ship, but into retirement until possible war should make my services of value to my country.
With my career ended in the navy, and without friends, money, or influence, I did the next best thing in the way of a livelihood. I went to sea in the merchant service, beginning as third mate, and learned real seafaring, which is good for sulks and heartaches. In three years I was first mate, with the confidence of my skipper and owners, and the prospect of a command; which attainment, and my assured education and social position as a graduate of Annapolis, might give me hope and courage to again approach my goddess. But, gradually and imperceptibly—unknown to myself because there was none to tell me—the little niceties and refinements of speech, manner, and dress acquired at the academy, and which make a naval officer eligible to any society in the world, had worn away from me under the harder work and rougher associations of the merchant service; so that, when paid off at Philadelphia in my twenty-sixth year, I was as hardy a specimen of the typical "Yankee mate" as could be found on the water front. I shaved for comfort, not appearance, and wore my clothes for utility rather than beauty.
Thus arrayed and conditioned I killed time while waiting for word to join my ship, and one day ran over to Asbury Park, finding the huge resort half deserted, as it was in October; but there was enough of life there to suit me, the air was clean and salt as that at sea, and I decided to remain a few days.
I remained too long for my peace of mind and immediate welfare. The quiet and solitude brought back the old morbid melancholy, and in this mood I wandered about the beach and through the streets lined with deserted cottages, fighting with myself and reviling the fates that had made sport of my life and ideals. In this mood I was ripe for any adventure, and spying, late at night, a figure slinking by me in the darkness, that reminded me of George Morton, I softly followed, keeping him in sight, but not letting him see me. He entered a dark, two-story house in a row of other dark cottages, and I mechanically walked on, halting before the house, with a hazy idea that perhaps itwasGeorge Morton, and that his family lived there. No light appeared from within, however, and I slowly retraced my steps, pausing at the next street lamp to fire up my pipe.
While puffing at the half-lit tobacco a dark figure darted from across the street and joined me in the lamplight. It was a girl, all but her face hidden by a hooded cloak, and this face was so white, drawn, and terror-haunted, that I could barely recognize in it some little resemblance to that of the child I had loved. Then she spoke, and before my brain had grasped the fact that Grace Morton must have grown up, I knew her voice. And the next moment, without leave or ceremony, I had her in my arms, and kissed the frightened face until she struggled free.
"Oh, Jack," she said brokenly, "and it is really you, after all! I saw you to-day from the parlor of the hotel, but I could not be sure—you have changed so much. Where have you been all these years? I have needed you so much,so much, and I could trust no one but you. You must help me to-night, Jack."
"Of course," I answered. "What is it?"
"My brother—you know him. Did you know?—no, you couldn't. Jack, he has gone into the house there—the house we have lived in all summer; and I think, I almost know, he is setting fire to it. You followed him. I saw you. Did you notice a bundle?"
"Setting fire!" I exclaimed in amazement. "Why, I thought—"
"Yes," she interrupted. "We all thought him a fire hater, because he did not fear it. But he loves it. He set fire to every house and building that he later helped put out; Mr. Mills' house—remember—and the school, and the seminary. He joined the church since then, and confessed to father and me. But father is dead now, and I am alone with him. Come, you must stop him. Stop him by force, before it is too late. Come! I am afraid of him alone. He is insane—at these times."
She seized my hand and hurried me back, puzzled and astounded at this new revelation of human nature.
"He carried a bundle under his arm," she whispered as we reached the door. "It is very likely a can of kerosene, purchased in Philadelphia, where he went this morning. I was to go to New York, but I suspected him and came back."
She opened the door with a key and we softly passed in. At once I detected a faint odor of kerosene, but there was no light, no sound. Grace led me through the lower rooms, but there was no sign of fire, smoke, or firebug. We opened the cellar door and peered down into the blackness, and the cool, odorless air told us that he was not there with his oil.
"Upstairs," she whispered.
"Why not sing out?" I asked, in her ear. "It'll stop him."
"Don't you see?" she answered. "I want to catch him in the act, to shock him, overwhelm him—and cure him."
I acquiesced, and we climbed the stairs, making no noise and sensing more strongly as we went the rank smell of kerosene. She led me into the front room, the door of which stood open. All was dark, and there was no significant odor.
"This is his room," she whispered. "He must be in mine, in the rear."
We passed into the hall and peeped into this room. From a lighted house on the next street a faint illumination showed up every corner in it; and there in the middle, stooping low over his work, was George Morton, laying a trail of oil from the nozzle of a can, back and forth across the carpet. This done, he made a neat pile of newspapers against the wall, emptied the can upon it, and applied a match. A nudge from the girl started me and I walked in upon him. He uttered one snarling yell as he glared into my face, then sprang upon me.
I was a strong, healthy man, large of frame, heavy, and well-trained in most forms of personal combat; but I soon realized that I was fighting a maniac. He writhed, twisted, and bent himself, forcing me again and again to change or renew my hold upon him. Even though I held him at arm's length, I could not retain my grip without help from the other hand, and then I would likely feel one or both of his feet on my chest. It was like wrestling with a panther. I shook him, and, flail-like, whirled him around me, but I could not conquer him without hurting him, and this I did not wish to do. As the fight resolved itself into a struggle of endurance, I heard a few broken words from Grace, barely distinguishable above the noise of the scuffle, and a later glance around told me that she was gone.
And still I fought on, endeavoring to master the firebug without hurting him—just why, I have never been able to explain to myself. Possibly, I dimly felt at the time that his sister would not like it, for I spared him the weight of my fist and the throttling clutch that would have ended the fight in a moment, even though his own hands had torn my coat to shreds, and my face was scorched and smeared with kerosene in one of my whirling lunges toward his bonfire. He, too, must have felt the heat, for his snarling utterances took on a note of pain, and for a few moments he struggled in my grasp more furiously than ever; then he paused, became limp in my hands, and seemed to sink down. It was a clever ruse, for no sooner had I relaxed my hold than he broke away and shot out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street. I let him go, but looked around; the room was in flames on two sides, while several trails of burning oil traversed the floor.
I believe that some men in my position would have followed him; but I know that any fireman, policeman, soldier, or sailor would have done exactly as I did—remain to put out the fire. I dragged the blankets from the bed, whipped the flames from the walls and windows as I could, and when they were burned beyond use threw the fragments on to the still burning bonfire to smother it. As I labored I heard shouts of "Fire!" in the streets, and welcomed the news that assistance was coming. Then I heard the clatter and clang of the engines and voices and footsteps on the stairs. I whipped away at the flames, and just as I laid the last damaged blanket on the now smouldering fire, a policeman burst into the room and seized me.
"Caught wi' the goods, hev! Stand still," he said. "Stand still, or I'll fan you."
I ceased my momentary struggle with him as firemen came in with hose and an extinguisher, and stopped myself in a half-uttered sentence of explanation. This was a matter of family honor that need not be made public.
"It's a job all right, isn't it, Bill?" asked the officer of a fireman who was calmly playing a small stream from the extinguisher on the remaining flames.
"Surest job I ever saw," answered the man, turning for a look at me in the darkening light. "Pretty tough-looking customer. Don't belong to this town. Smell the kerosene?"
"I smell it all right. You can smell it a mile, and he's got it on his clothes, too. Come on wi' me, my jewel. You're good for a few years at Trenton."
Under a fictitious name I spent the night in jail, and in the morning, before the time for court to open, received a visit from Mr. George Morton.
"Want to get at the person higher up, Mr. Morton?" asked the jailer, as they appeared before my cell. "Well, I can give you about half an hour."
"Yes, yes," answered my visitor. "I want to talk with him privately; so, leave us alone, if you will. But don't get beyond call, please—not too far away."
"Right. I'll come if I hear from you."
He admitted Morton and locked him in with me, then left us alone. Morton was clean and well-dressed, with only a nervousness of speech and movement to indicate that a few hours before he had fought for liberty and honor with the man he was now facing. He took a seat at the end of my plank, while I sat at the other end, and took his measure; thinner and older, of course, than when I had known him at school, but with the same graceful figure, and handsome, though unpleasant, face.
"Well," I said, with what sarcasm I could command. "Are you here to get me to tell who hired me to set fire to your house?"
"Not exactly," he answered, eying me closely. "I'm here to find out what you mean to do."
"I'm waiting on you," I said sharply. "I've kept quiet on your sister's account, but I expect you to clear up this matter, in any way you can."
"How? By pleading guilty myself? I am also interested in my sister, and I do not think she would like it."
I looked at him.
"It lies between you and me," he went on. "The evidence at present is all against you, while there is nothing against me, and nothing in my record to indicate that I would set fire to the house I had lived in, but did not own."
"But if your record was known," I growled, "there would be indications bearing upon this."
"I see. You have listened to my sister. Do you think she would come into court and swear away the liberty of her brother?"
A chill passed through me at this, but I answered doggedly: "Don't know. It depends, I suppose, upon how much she thinks of her precious brother."
"And also," he said softly, "upon how muchyouthink ofher. She took you—in my behalf, of course, though that might not be proved—into her home at midnight when I was supposed to be in Philadelphia. Do you care to have her cross-examined upon that point, first by the prosecuting attorney who will try you, and then by my lawyer in case I am tried?"
"Damn your wretched heart and soul!" I yelled. "Would you shield yourself behind your sister's good name? Would you permit it, even to save your miserable life?"
"Not so loud, please. I answer that question in kind. Would you?"
"No!" I thundered. "A thousand times no!"
"Then plead guilty. My sister, who is a very resourceful and self-possessed girl, turned in the fire alarm as the quickest way to end our little difficulty, and she is in New York this morning, believing that you and I walked out. But it was I who notified the policeman of my discovering a firebug at work in my deserted home. You have given a wrong name, and she will not be interested in the little noise your trial will make—unless, I suppose, you arouse that interest."
He got up to call the warden, and I was upon him as the words left his lips. But I did not harm him much; I had not the time. I dropped him at the muzzle of the warden's pistol, and cooled down at my leisure.
I did not plead guilty; I remained doggedly silent, however, and not even the efforts of the lawyer appointed to defend me availed to mitigate my sentence. I had been caught red-handed, had made a furious assault upon the kindly disposed tenant of the house I had fired, and this, indicating a deep, dark vengeance based upon some real or fancied wrong, brought me the swift, harsh decree of Jersey justice—five years in the Trenton penitentiary. And so not even notifying my captain, I sank out of sight as completely as though I had signed for a voyage and sailed.
Five years behind the bars will alter the character—yes, even the soul—of any man living. And I do not claim that mine was changed for the better. I began that five years with the faint hope that, somehow, Grace Morton would learn of my plight and devise means to free me. Then, as this hope left me with the passing of the months, a dull, apathetic inertia took possession of me, and I worked, ate, and slept as mechanically as an animal. Then came the meridian of my imprisonment, when two years and a half had expired, and I could look forward to release. With this prospect in view my mind woke to a keener activity than it had ever known under the spur of ambition; for that ambition was based upon a love for a girl that was now eclipsed by a hatred for her brother. I looked forward to freedom, not that I might win that girl, but that I might find that man—somewhere, and alone.
As for Grace Morton, the doubt often came to my mind as to whether I ever had loved her. I had really known her only as a prattling child; I had met her once, as a woman, and in the fervor of my sudden emotion had embraced and kissed her. Was that love? Was her acquiescence the sign of a mental invitation, or only the acceptance of a matter of course? Was the sister of such a brother worth loving?
Yet these unsettled doubts invariably crystallized unto the hope that she would so prove herself, and with this hope in mind my plans for vengeance never embraced the killing of my enemy, only the meeting with him, alone in some secluded place, where I could use my superior strength and skill and thrash him within an inch of his life.
In one way my imprisonment had refined me, or rather, worn off the rough spots acquired at sea. Good behavior had brought no commutation of my five years' sentence, but it had brought me light tasks instead of hard ones, and one of these was the care of the prison library, which gave me communion with many good books.
So I emerged at last with none of the working sailor about me except in my mind, and none of the prisoner except the cropped hair and cell pallor. These last I got rid of in a short coasting voyage before the mast, and then, with my chest, money, and discharges replevined from the Philadelphia boarding master who had faithfully cared for them, I visited my old home. Here I learned that my imprisonment was not known and that George Morton and his sister were traveling in Europe for the shattered health of the former. Then, with the unregenerate hope that soon it would be given me to shatter that health still further, I went back to my battle of life, for in love, war, or work a man must live.
Luck was with me from the start. I signed before the mast and filled a sick second mate's place before the ship had reached the line. And at Hongkong found my old captain, who had a first mate's berth vacant, and was glad to get me back without asking questions. A few questions to him, however, brought out the reason of this delicacy.
"If you young fellows knew," he remarked dryly, "all that you surely learn later, you'd let the stuff alone. I'm part owner here, and when you went on that drunk and quit me I had made up my mind to put you in command. 'Tend to business, now, and you can take her out next voyage."
"I'll make good, sir," I answered, pleased with the prospect, and willing to be thought an ex-drunkard rather than an ex-convict.
"But keep still about it," he said. "The principal owner is on board for the trip home. Your job is to impress him before the proposition is put up to him. He's somewhat crotchety and queer."
I joined the ship—a big, black, skysail yarder, filled to the hatches with sugar and jute—as she was lifting her anchor. We went to sea in a gale, and for two days and two nights I had not time to unpack my chest, much less to take note of my surroundings and the impression I was creating as a first mate fitted to command. I saw the owner occasionally in the brief lulls of shortening down—a tall, spare figure, muffled to the nose in a hooded mackintosh—but I did not meet him until the morning of the third day out, when, after an hour or two of sleep, I turned out for a look around before going to breakfast, and there, in the forward companion, ran plump into him. The next moment I had him by the throat, position, prospects, honor, love, and liberty going down before the uprush of rage and hatred.
There flashed into my mind at that moment a memory from boyhood, forgotten through the years, of his father being largely interested in shipping, but it was futile, irrelevant, and left me as it came; then, while he sagged under my grip, there came to me the picture of Grace Morton's frightened face as she had turned it up to me in the lamplight. But I forced it from me. That love is dead, I thought, and I hissed the thought through my teeth with my curses. Then, thinking of the long, bitter years in prison, the suffering and the shame, the thwarted hopes and plans, the struggle to maintain my integrity for the sake of a girl that had forgotten me, and knowing only that the cause of it all was right here, in my hands, I felt what I had not felt before—the impulse, the desire, and the self-justification to kill.
But I did not kill him. I relaxed my hold and looked into the same frightened face that had appealed to me once before. Older now, with lines of care and trouble in it, but more womanly and commanding. She stood in the dining-room door, and had commanded me to stop; and I obeyed her. Her brother slunk past her into the dining-room. The second mate was on deck, the steward had not come aft with the breakfast. The captain had not come through from the after cabin. None but the girl had seen the assault.
"Go to your room, George," she called to him through the door. "Wait for me, and say nothing to the captain."
Then she turned, and calmly regarded me. On my part, I stood before her like a culprit, trembling, and with my tongue dry against the roof of my mouth.
"Jack," she said, "I have watched you through this window since we sailed, watched you in your strength and mastery of your calling. And I have listened to your voice, that roused me from sleep on the first night, and which I recognized as yours. And I said to myself that you were a man, that you must be a man, and that I may have misjudged you. But here, you assault an invalid for a quarrel over five years old, that began in my behalf, I admit, but which ended in your own."
"An invalid," I managed to say. "A quarrel—in my behalf? Go on, please, Miss Morton."
"In your own," she repeated. "Of course, I do not know how men feel, and what the best may say at times about—about a woman. But could you not let it drop, instead of resuming it here, on this ship, where I am a passenger?"
"Please explain. You letmedrop, Miss Morton, when I needed you; but I have not complained. It seems that the slightest inquiry must have apprised you of my extremity. It seems that something might have been done that would not compromise you."
It was her turn to be mystified. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Do you deny me dignity, self-respect, pride, or confidence in myself? Could Iinquireabout a man who had taken advantage of my momentary weakness and boasted of it? Not only boasted, but threatened to a member of my family that he would follow up his advantage for revenge at a beating?"
"Boasted! Revenge at a beating! Grace, explain yourself. You are accusing me of something. What is it? Boasting that I kissed you?"
"That," she said, looking defiantly into my face, while two red spots came to her cheeks. "That, and threatening my brother, after your defeat at his hands, with making your mastery complete."
"The damnable scoundrel!" I said explosively. "Did he tell you that lie? Did he say that he defeated me?"
"I saw him getting the best of you," she said, with a little doubt in her face.
"Because I did not want to hurt your brother. Did you turn in an alarm?"
"Yes."
"Before the firemen came your brother had got away from me and ran. Then I, remaining to extinguish the fire, was arrested for causing it."
"Arrested?" Her eyes opened in wonder and alarm.
"And the best proof, Miss Morton," I said grimly, "that I am too much of a man to boast about a woman, is that I served five years in Trenton prison rather than call upon you to clear me."
"You did? Jack!"
Tears started to her eyes, but I went on relentlessly:
"The case was well outlined to me by your brother on the morning after my arrest. He had sent the policeman into the house after me, and having succeeded so far, called upon me in jail to carry it further. I was to plead guilty so as not to attract attention to him. The evidence was against me. I was caught adding fuel to the fire, and with my face and clothing smeared with oil. My only chance was that the girl that I loved would come forward. She did not, and I could not ask her. No doubt, your brother told you that lie to kill any interest or curiosity you may have felt concerning me."
For a moment I thought she was going to faint. She paled to the tips of her small ears, staggered back, and leaned against the bulkhead, her lips parted and her eyes staring at me in wonder and horror.
"Why—why," she gasped, "why did you not tell me?"
"To ask that you save me at your brother's expense?" I answered. "To place you on the stand, where the lawyers could bait you? To compromise you? To shield myself behind a woman's good name? No, Miss Morton, whatever I may have become under the influence of stripes and confinement, I was, at that time, a graduate of Annapolis—an officer and a gentleman."
She shrank away from me and seemed about to fall. Then, having spoken my mind, the bitterness left me, and I would have gone back to prison could I have unsaid my words. The old love replaced the hate, and I reached forward, just to touch her hand, if I might; but she drew it away.
"Don't," she whispered weakly. "Don't. I didn't know; I didn't know." She was not speaking to me, and for a moment I hesitated. Then I forcibly turned her face to mine and looked into her eyes, swimming with tears. "It's all right, Grace," I said huskily. "Never mind."
"I would have come," she said, in a firmer voice, "but I did not—"
I had my arms around her now, and for a moment she lay unresisting, her face close to mine; but the next moment she struggled free.
"The girl that you loved," she said softly, accenting the last word.
"And love now," I rejoined, seizing her again. Then I flung her from me and bolted into my room, on the port side of the passage.
The captain had appeared in the dining-room, and seven bells—breakfast time—rang on deck. When she reached the deck I went in to my breakfast.
That evening, in the last dog-watch, Grace came to me at the weather-mizzen rigging.
"I have questioned him, Jack, and at last he admitted it," she said. "He is a nervous wreck, has been so for a year, and now I know why. Your term was coming to an end and for fear of you he has dragged me all over Europe and the Orient. He had you watched and knew by cable that you had shipped for Hongkong, but did not imagine that you would join this ship, which he found here on our arrival. He did not expect you here for a month."
"We made a fast passage out," I answered. "But what about him? What is to be done with him? Is he still a pyromaniac?"
"I do not know. It is congenital, and may break out at any time. But at any rate, I am through with him. He has forfeited all my regard. When we get home I shall remain there."
"And I suppose you do not want the captain informed of his weakness for fire?"
"Not unless you think it necessary, Jack."
"I think not," I said. "He is very properly scared and subdued, and knows that I will be watching him."
There was little further intercourse between George Morton and myself. He appeared on deck occasionally, but usually in my watch below, and when we met he would turn his head away, much to the chagrin of the captain, who had no knowledge of conditions. He was pale, emaciated, and fidgety in his manner, evidently a very sick man, and beyond all thought of punishment; but I felt no regret at the loss of my vengeance—I had won something better, and was content.
His attitude toward his sister, however, was one of doglike devotion and apology, while hers was one of toleration and contempt. He would hasten to meet her at the companion, to help her to a seat, to bring rugs or books, satisfied if she murmured a mere word of thanks. Then he would banish himself and look at her hungrily, waiting to be called. There is no doubt that, up to the limits of his narrow soul, he loved his sister; but it was a love based upon possession—the property instinct, the love of a dog for a cached bone, a bird for its perch, a cat for those who have housed and fed her. He had lost something, and wanted it back; and as it was lost forever I feared for that other love that was part of his being—his love of fire.
I could not watch him when asleep, nor depute the task to others—all I could do was to overhaul the deck and force pumps, make up an extra supply of draw-buckets, and examine all approaches to the inflammable jute in the hold. In that last I found nothing to alarm me. It could not be reached except through the hatches, which were all battened down. And it was all in the lower hold; on top of the ballast tiers of sugar, and above it, stowed in the 'tween deck, was the rest of the sugar. He could not set fire to the sugar, even if he reached it.
Yet in the hot, blistering heat of the Indian Ocean, when we had lain for days in a calm that was harder on our nerves than a hurricane, smoke filtered up through the seams in the cabin flooring—smoke with the pungent odor of burning jute; and the first man to notice it was George Morton.
"Done it, by heavens!" I growled, as I turned out in answer to the captain's quiet call.
There was a consultation in the cabin of the after-guard, to which were called the cook and steward, carpenter and sailmaker, and the two boatswains from the forecastles. All of these reported the smell of smoke in the compartments of the forward house, and the boatswain said that it was plainly noticeable at the fore and main hatches. Grace and her brother were listening; in Grace's face were uncertainty and apprehension, in her brother's, as he darted furtive glances at me, the deadly fear of immediate denunciation; but whether there was guilt or not I could not determine.
No one could guess how the fire had started, and only two points were elucidated from the discussion, both bearing upon the captain's opinion that nothing could be done at present but to keep the hatches on and smother it. The carpenter ventured the opinion that the fire could not be smothered. "For the ship is a sieve, captain," he said. "You know I told you so in Hongkong, and wanted you to calk her, topsides, deck, and all. There's millions of little holes to let the air in."
"And even so," added Morton, "the interstices between the barrels of sugar hold air that can be drawn upon."
"Right," said the captain impatiently, and a little sadly. "But it's too late to calk every seam in this ship, and if it don't smother out, and we can't make port, this ship is gone. All we can do is wait, for if we open hatches and jettison sugar to get at it, we'll only give it more draft."
So, we waited, but while waiting, headed the ship toward Calcutta, if not to save our lives, at least to meet with some craft that could deluge our jute with water—a large steamer, with power pumps and hose. But nothing came our way, and the days and weeks went on, with the deadening calm still engulfing us, and the deck growing hotter each hour. Soon the smoke became visible, curling up in countless little spirals, where the minute holes gave it egress.
Morton faced me one day, his eyes wide open and his face twitching. "I know what you think," he stammered. "You think I set fire to the cargo. But I swear by all I reverence that I did not. My sister believes in me."
"Mr. Morton," I answered, steadily as I could, for I never was my real self in his presence, "perhaps you did not. But all that makes me think so is my utter inability to comprehend how you could do it. A man who will fire a seminary will fire a ship at sea."
He slunk away from me, so pitiable and wretched an object that immediately I was sorry for my words. After that I spoke kindly to him whenever it was necessary to speak at all.
Work went on as usual; not that, in this doomed ship, painting and scrubbing were necessary, but to keep the crew's minds off the danger and the formulating of futile plans and suggestions—which always comes of idleness. But in spite of this, mutterings of discontent were heard, and in the interests of peace, I abolished all work except the continuous washing down of the hot deck, night and day. And at this monotonous work men would go to sleep in their tracks, waking when they fell over.
I had long noticed the peculiar mental effect of the jute smoke on myself, at first a tendency to day-dreams and a lazy, sleepy indifference to our danger; later a trancelike condition in which voices were not heard, or if heard not noticed, and the whole inner consciousness busy with serene contemplation of the past, the present, and the future, mingled with visions of green trees and flowers, sounds of tinkling water, and music that seemed not of earth.
All this brought no misgiving to my mind until I wakened, prone upon the blistering deck one night, with no recollection of my falling. Then I regarded it as serious, and in the morning spoke to the captain.
"Yes, we must quit," he said mournfully, "while we have our senses. It is the soporific principle of the jute, akin to that of hasheesh, which is made from Indian hemp. No one could sleep below without that continuous narcotic, and such sleep is dangerous. I had trouble waking you yesterday. Capsize the boats and provision them. The ship may burst into flames at any moment, and when she does, she'll go quickly. She's dry as a chip."
We numbered about thirty, all told, and to accommodate this many we had three good boats, upside down on the forward house. These I soon had over the side, floating light upon the smooth sea at the ends of their painters, and we provisioned them as heavily as was safe with our added weight. When all was ready I reported.
"And none too soon," answered the captain. "Look there!" He pointed forward, where the tarpaulin of the main hatch had lifted like a great bubble from the pressure of hot air and gases beneath. "There is dunnage under the hatch and it is afire, Mr. Morton," he said, turning to our passenger, "you and your sister will go in the boat with me. I will bring her up when I bring my papers."
I had no mind for this. I turned away, and while directing the manning of the boats, did some deep and desperate thinking. Put her in an open boat with a lunatic brother and a doddering old skipper, I fumed? Not much.
As the men swarmed down, Grace appeared in the forward companion. I beckoned to her, and she came. We had already rigged a whip from the fore yardarm, and in a "bosun's chair" at the end of this I quickly hoisted her over the side and into my boat. George, leaving his sister to the captain's care, had descended to his boat on the other side. When all were over but the captain and myself, the former appeared on deck.
"Where is Miss Morton?" he called. "I cannot find her."
"In the boat, captain," I truthfully yelled. "Hurry up, sir. There's no time to lose."
I pointed, as he had done, to the main hatch. The bubble had burst, and up from the rent rose a column of smoke.