Marcus Wilkeson made no effort to discover the writer of the anonymous letter, because he knew that such an effort would be in vain. He called on Mr. Minford once in two or three days now. The inventor always took occasion to refer to the letter, and assured Marcus that it was not worth remembering, or talking about. "Why, then, did he talk about it?" Marcus asked himself. His eyes were not blind to watchful and suspicious glances which the old man directed to him, at times, under cover of those shaggy, overhanging eyebrows. Nor could he help noticing a strange reserve in the bearing of Pet toward him. It was not mere modesty, or timid gratitude, but DOUBT, as he read the signs. Marcus was convinced that the father had put his child on guard against something, though he might not have mentioned the existence of the anonymous letter. This thought distressed him acutely.
But his troubles, as well as his joys, he kept to himself. The miser puts his broken bank notes and his good gold under the same lock and key.
One evening, early in April, Overtop and Maltboy observed a peculiar expression of sadness on the face of their friend. He had eaten nothing at dinner, but had drunk more than his usual allowance of sherry. He had kept his eyes fixed on the table as in a revery, and had scarcely spoken a word. Miss Wilkeson, in her solemn state opposite the boiled chickens, was hardly less social.
After dinner, Marcus took to his pipe with a strange sullenness, and smoked furiously. His two friends, closely regarding him, saw that he was unhappy, but wisely forbore to make him more unhappy still by obtruding their condolence on him. The day had been rainy and cold. They knew that Marcus's spirits were barometrically sensitive to the weather, like those of most persons who look at it through a window.
They had noticed, as they came home, that he was reading that sweetest of elegies, the "In Memoriam" of Tennyson. And the two friends thought that the melancholy weather and the melancholy poem together fully accounted for the gloom on his brow.
Marcus sat for some minutes meditating. Then he heaved a sigh, which was distinctly audible to his two friends. Then he left the room without saying a word, and went up stairs.
Presently he was heard to come down; but, instead of returning to the little parlor, he went into the street, and closed the door with a sharp slam. At the same moment, the cold rain of the April night beat noisily against the window.
"Sly old fellow!" said Maltboy.
"Up to something, depend on it," said Overtop.
Marcus walked rapidly toward the inventor's house. "My fate is decided to-night," he muttered.
His long strides soon brought him to the house. The old building wore a gloomy look. He did not speculate on the reason of this. It was probably because there was no light visible in any of the front windows, and very little light in the street lamps. The gas burned low and blue, and flickered in the wind.
Ringing the bell, Marcus was admitted by one of the numerous children belonging to somebody in the house (Marcus could never determine to whom), and walked up to the inventor's room. His heart beat with strange emotion as he rapped at the door. For a moment he was sorry that he had come.
"Come in," said the inventor, in a voice more sepulchral than usual.
Marcus entered the apartment. The inventor received him with a feeble shake of the hand, bearing no resemblance to the hearty one which he used to bestow in the early days of their acquaintance. Marcus noticed that Mr. Minford's hand was hot. He also observed that his eyes were preternaturally lustrous, and that the circles under them were deep and dark. His cheeks were deathly pale, saving a little red spot in the centres. He looked like a man in a state of fearful mental exaltation and nervous excitement.
Marcus was not in the habit of worrying people upon the subject of their ill health; but the inventor looked so palpably bad, that Marcus could not forbear to say, in a tone of anxiety, "You are unwell, sir."
"Oh, no! Quite well, I assure you," said the inventor, with a weary smile. "Though I should be sick, perhaps, but for the glorious hope that bears me up. I have not eaten, or slept, for forty-eight hours."
"But, my dear sir, this is trifling with your health."
"I acknowledge it. But we must make sacrifices, if we would master the UNKNOWN. Newton lived on bread and water when he wrote his immortal Principia. He condemned himself to the coarse fare of a prison, in order that his intellect might soar untrammelled to the stars. I have improved on Newton--I eat nothing. As for sleep, I grudge a single hour of it which comes between me and the completion of my great work."
"But how long can you stand this dreadful strain upon your powers?"
"Till daylight to-morrow, with safety. By that time I shall have overcome the last obstacle. Of this I am confident. Then, ho! for unbounded wealth and undying fame. The toil has been severe, but the reward will be glorious."
"I congratulate you," said Marcus, "on the near approach of your final triumph. And, in order that I may not delay you a single moment, I will bid you 'good-night.'" Marcus rose, but he hoped that the inventor would ask him to stay.
The inventor did so. "Pray don't hurry, Mr. Wilkeson; I would like to have a brief conversation with you. A few minutes only." He drew a chair to the side of Marcus, and seated himself.
"Mr. Wilkeson," he said, in a deliberate voice, as if he were repeating carefully-considered words, "it is unnecessary for me to say that I have the highest opinion of you. Providence seems to have sent you to me at a time when I was in the greatest need. You saved me from starving. The world will be as much indebted to you for my grand invention, as it was to the generous patronage of Queen Isabella for the discovery of America."
"Pooh!" interrupted Marcus, blushing.
"The praise is none too high," continued the inventor. "It is true, I have repaid your advances of money tenfold, by giving you an interest in my future but certain fortune. But that does not diminish my gratitude."
Marcus knew that this flattering exordium meant something serious. It was a favorite theory of his, that danger, or any kind of anticipated, disagreeable thing, was best met halfway. So he said, with a feeble attempt at a smile:
"I infer from this ominous opening that you have received another lying anonymous letter about me. If I am right, Mr. Minford, be good enough to let me see it at once, according to your promise."
"You have guessed correctly, Mr. Wilkeson. I have received a second anonymous letter, which I intended showing to you after a further brief explanation. But I can readily appreciate your anxiety to read it without delay. Here it is." He drew forth a letter, and handed it to Marcus.
Marcus immediately recognized the envelope and the address as similar to those of the first letter, which he still had in his possession.
He pulled the letter nervously from its yellow sheath, and read as follows:
MR. MINFORD:DEAR SIR,--Pardon me for intruding on you a second time. But, as a friend of virtue, I must warn you of continued danger to your daughter from the acquaintance of Mr. Wilkeson, your pretended benefactor. If you are any longer in doubt as to the vile intentions of this man, conceal yourself from observation within sight of Miss Pillbody's school, any fair afternoon, about half past two o'clock, and watch his actions. If his suspicious conduct, at that time and place, does not give a sufficient significance to my warnings, then take the trouble to go to ----, Westchester Co., where he was born, and search into his infamous history. Take heed--I warn you again--lest, in your devotion to science, you forget that you are a father.ONE WHO WOULD SHIELD THE INNOCENT.
While reading this letter, Marcus was conscious that the eyes of the inventor were fixed piercingly upon him. That consciousness caused his head to bow, and his cheeks to crimson with shame. It is the curse of this morbid sensibility, that righteous indignation at a foul slander upon one's good name springs up only after the victim has shown all the accepted evidences of guilt.
There was one reason why a man much less sensitive than Marcus should have been thrown off his balance by this letter. It was a fact that every afternoon, at half past two o'clock, rain or shine, with bachelor-like punctuality, he passed up and down in front of Miss Pillbody's school, and looked sentimentally at the closed blinds, thinking unutterable things. He was also addicted to standing at the hydrant on the corner, and gazing hard at the house, wishing that he could see through its brick walls. Then he would cross the street, and pace up and down on that side, taking views of the house at every variety of angle. This was precisely what the boy Bog did daily about an hour and a half later. Now, although Marcus felt, in his heart, that these pedestrian exercises--absurd to everybody but a lover--were perfectly harmless in their purpose and effect, he was aware that, to a man like Mr. Minford, looking at them suspiciously, they would appear to be connected with some stealthy and base design.
As to the imputations upon his former history, Marcus could freely challenge the closest scrutiny; which is more than most men can do into that long record of juvenile frailties and escapades which ushers in the sober book of manhood. But here again the devil of sensitiveness asserted his supremacy. Marcus had had a twin brother (who died years before), a duplicate of himself in all respects but two. Marcus was quiet, studious, honest, and frank; while Aurelius was quiet, studious, less honest, and infinitely crafty. Marcus had, on several occasions in his boyhood, been accused of petty offences which Aurelius had committed, but which that cunning youth had unblushingly denied. These, so far as Marcus supposed, were nothing more serious than robbing orchards or melon patches. Still it was possible that some graver wrong--more worthy of the title "infamous"--committed by his wild, shrewd brother, might be brought to light by some deep explorer among the traditions of his native village, and charged upon himself. This possibility, and the difficulty of refuting a serious accusation under such circumstances, brought a second flush of guilt to the face of Marcus Wilkeson as he read the letter.
These harassing thoughts, which fill so much space, written out, are but a small part of those which were suggested with electric suddenness.
Marcus's first impulse was to say: "I love your daughter, Mr. Minford, with my whole heart and soul. It is my first and my only love, singular though this confession may sound from the lips of a man of thirty-six years. The proudest and happiest day of my life would be that on which I could marry her, with her dear love and your fatherly consent. This love, which is as pure as the angelic creature upon whom it is lavished, fully explains my visits here, and whatever else is mysterious in my conduct. But, before declaring myself to your daughter, or asking her hand of you, I have desired to see whether it were possible to inspire her with love for a man so much older than herself. For, much as I love her, I would not seek to marry her without a return of love--not mere respect, esteem, or gratitude. That is the problem I have been waiting to solve."
A confession to this effect was on the tip of his tongue. To have made it, would have been like tearing open his breast and showing his heart. But he would have made it, whatever the pain, if, on looking nervously up from the letter, which he had now finished, he had not met the cold, searching eyes of the inventor. He instantly shut his lips upon the outcoming confession, and said, with as much indifference as he could awkwardly assume:
"I hope, sir, you have taken the trouble to investigate these ridiculous charges." But Marcus inwardly hoped he had not.
"I have sir," responded the inventor, gravely. "Had the accusations been vague, like those in the first letter from this unknown person, I should have dismissed them from my mind with a laugh. But they were so specific, and the truth or falsity of them was so easily ascertained, that I thought it my duty, in justice to my daughter, yourself, and to me, to look into them. It was a painful task, but I have done it."
"And what have you learned?" asked Marcus, making a transparent feint to look at ease.
"I will tell you frankly; though I wish to say, in advance, that my discoveries, though they might justify some suspicion, do not prejudice me in the least against you. I have no doubt that you will be able to explain everything." But so spoke not the eyes of the inventor.
"Well, then, to make a short story of this unpleasant affair, I have watched your promenades in front of Miss Pillbody's school three afternoons in succession. I will spare you the details, though, so clearly are your movements back and forth imprinted on my memory, that I could recount them all to you, if necessary. It is sufficient to say, that I am forced to believe that my daughter is the magnet which draws you to that neighborhood, and keeps your eyes riveted on that house. This is all I have to say on the first point in the letter."
This was Marcus Wilkeson's golden opportunity, and he manfully determined to seize it. But, as he was on the point of blurting out the stifled secret, that cold, pale face--which resembled marble in all but the drops of sweat upon the brow--chilled him again. At the same moment, the hopeless absurdity of love and marriage between a girl of seventeen and a man of thirty-six, occurred to him in all its force. Stupidly sensitive being that he was, he thought that this icy, intellectual Mr. Minford would laugh at him.
"I confess, sir, that these wanderings seem 'singular,' as you term them. But all the habits of old bachelors are regarded as singular, I believe. Now, it has been my daily habit, since I retired from business, to lay down my book at two o'clock, and take a little out-door exercise. Miss Pillbody's school is not far from my house; the street is pretty clean for New York, and the sidewalks are tolerably dry. Therefore I select that neighborhood for my daily walk--my--my 'constitutional,' as they call it. If, in so doing, I should occasionally cast my eyes--in fits of absent-mindedness, I may say--on Miss Pillbody's school, that is not strange, considering--considering the interest that I take in your daughter's education. It strikes me, my dear sir, that this seeming suspicion is easily cleared up." Marcus smiled to think how adroitly he had extricated himself.
But there was no smile on the shroud-colored face of the inventor.
"The explanation isplausible" (Mr. Minford emphasized the word), "and I will not attempt to set it aside. God alone knows all the motives of human action. Now, to the second, and more serious implication of the letter. I have visited your native village, and inquired into your early history. Though you moved to the city over fifteen years ago, and have returned to your birthplace but once since, so far as I could ascertain--"
"Allow me," said Marcus. "My absence from my old home may seem strange, but it is occasioned by no shame or disgrace. My father, mother, and twin brother died and were buried there. By my father's failure, shortly before his death, the old family mansion passed out of his hands, and was afterward torn down to make room for a railway depot. This extinction of my family--for I am now left without a relation in the world, excepting a half-sister--and this destruction of our old home, have made my native village horrible to me. When I visited the scene of desolation, ten years ago, the village seemed to me like a huge graveyard, in every part of which some happiness of my boyhood was entombed; and I vowed that I would never go near it again. In the matter of family recollections, I am exquisitely sensitive."
"I respect your feelings, sir," said the inventor, "and regret that I should be the means of reviving these painful recollections. But I have, a duty to perform."
"And I will no longer delay you in its performance. Now be kind enough to let me know the worst at once. I can stand it." Marcus unconsciously sat up more erect, as if to brace himself against a shock.
"On my arrival in the village, my first act was to seek out some of the oldest inhabitants. I found that most of them distinctly remembered you, and your brother--Aurelius, I think, was his name. You will pardon me for telling you the exact result of my inquiries, but I found that these old inhabitants, without a single exception, gave you a very bad name, and your brother a very good one."
Marcus was about to explain, that his brother and himself were images of each other; that the former was crafty, and full of mischief, and that he (Marcus) had been made, on fifty occasions, the innocent scapegoat of his brother's little offences. But he forbore. He had cheerfully received reprimands, and even chastisements, for his brother while living; and he would not blacken his memory when dead. He merely smiled a sad smile, and said, "Ah?"
"Many of the offences charged against you by these old gossips, were petty and excusable. But there were others, committed by you when you were at or near manhood, exhibiting, if true--understand, I say,iftrue--a moral depravity for which no extenuation can be found. Some of the charges were not sustained by adequate proofs, and those I set down as idle rumors. But there was one of which the proof was abundant and most positive. No less than five persons gave me circumstantial accounts--all agreeing with each other--of your betrayal and ruin of Lucy Anserhoff."
"Lucy Anserhoff!" echoed Marcus, in real amazement. "I have a faint remembrance of an old lady by that name, and a pretty girl who was her daughter. But as God is my judge, I never wronged her." Still there was that expression of guilt, which did not escape the scrutinizing glance of the inventor.
Marcus could have hunted up evidence to transfer the burden of the imputed wrong to the memory of the dead Aurelius. But should he commit this profanation of the grave--as he regarded it? The voice of brotherly love--for he had tenderly loved his erring brother--said, "No." Would any amount of proof satisfy the nervous, doubting man before him? He feared not. Therefore Marcus Wilkeson did an act of awful solemnity, to prove his innocence. And, because the doing of it thrilled his sensitive soul, as if he had thrust himself into the terrible presence of the Infinite, he weakly supposed that the most suspicious of men would unhesitatingly believe him.
He stood up, turned his eyes to the ceiling, raised both hands, and said, in a deep, trembling voice:
"May God strike me dead, if I am guilty of this offence, or any like it, or of any thought of wrong toward your daughter."
Marc as sat down, pale, and caught his breath quickly. He was awestricken by his own act.
"That is a solemn adjuration," said the inventor, after a short pause, "and should not be lightly taken."
Marcus looked well at Mr. Minford. Unbelief was written in every hard line and wrinkle of that white, deathlike face. "Do you doubt me now?" he asked, sharply. His sensitiveness on the subject of personal honor and veracity was painfully acute. He had never told a lie in his life.
"Oh! no," replied Mr. Minford; "I do not say that I doubt you" (in a tone expressive of the greatest doubt). "I shall be truly glad to receive counter proofs from you."
"You have heard my solemn appeal to God, sir. Between gentlemen of honor that should be sufficient."
The inventor's thin lips (from which the last drops of blood had disappeared within the last half hour) curved in a satirical smile. Marcus interpreted it as a reiterated doubt and a sneer upon his honor. For the moment he lost control of his temper, and was about to make a remark that he would have regretted immediately after, when the door yielded to a gentle pressure, and Pet entered the room.
Her face was pale. Her eyes were dull, and the lids hung droopingly, weighed down by twenty-four hours of wakefulness by the bedside of her sick teacher. The faint blue crescents beneath--those strange shadows of the grave, which sometimes seem the deepest when the eyes above are giving the brightest light--imparted a frail, delicate beauty to her countenance. They were the last master-touches of Nature in working out that portraiture of weaned and sleepy loveliness.
As she put her foot in the room, Mr. Minford and his guest telegraphed a truce with their eyes, and assumed a cheerful look.
Little Pet timidly ran to her father, and kissed him, and then shook hands with Marcus. He observed a shrinking in her touch. She averted her eyes.
"Your clothes are damp, and your feet wet, my darling," said the father,
"Are they?" answered Pet, looking down at her saturated garments and glistening shoes. "I had not noticed them. Oh! I am so happy that she is well now. The doctor called at the house just before I left, and said she was out of all danger. He ordered me home."
"Very sensible of the doctor. Another hour of this watching might have killed my poor child."
"So I took a last look at my dear teacher--who was asleep--and kissed her, and came right away through the rain."
"It was foolish to do that without an umbrella and overshoes, my child. But, as you were always forgetful of yourself, your father will not be forgetful of you, at any rate." The inventor glanced significantly at Marcus. That glance, so full of distrust, entered his soul. He longed to say something--if only a word of common civility--to the young girl; but he felt that there was now an impassable barrier between them.
"But what is the matter, Pet?" exclaimed the father. She had dropped into a chair, and her head fell on one side. He sprang to catch her. So did Marcus. But the inventor reached her first, and seized her in his arms, directing another of his speaking looks at Marcus.
Pet roused herself at the touch of her father's hands, sat erect, and opened her large blue eyes. "I am so sleepy," she said.
"Of course you are, my blessed; and to bed you must go at once. That is my prescription. But, first--always first--a cup of tea."
The inventor darted to the stove, snatched up the teapot, poured out a cup of the universal restorer, scalding his forefinger in the hurry, milked and sugared it just right, and bore it to his daughter, who was nodding again. She drank it dutifully, like medicine.
Children do not comprehend tea. We have to grow up to it. It is the appointed balm of fatigued and sorrowing middle age.
In its function of medicine, the strong draught revived her, giving a twist to her pretty features, and sending a lively shudder through her slender frame. Pet rose from her seat quite briskly.
"Now to bed. To bed at once. No delay. And mind you put on all the blankets, and your heavy shawl a-top of them."
"Yes, father."
Marcus blushed, twirled his hat, and made a motion toward the door.
"You need not go, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor. "I beg that you will not. I wish to settle up that little unfinished business with you to-night."
Marcus saw that the inventor was in earnest. He coughed, and hesitated what to say.
But, before he could say anything, Pet had kissed her father, and said "Good-night," in a faint voice, to the guest, and already had her hand on the knob of the door which led to her little sleeping room.
"Remember, darling--all the blankets, and your shawl. To-morrow morning you will wake up bright and happy, and ready to enjoy a little surprise that I shall have for you." He jerked his thumb toward the machine.
Pet understood him, and smiled sadly. "You need bed more than I, father," said she.
"Nonsense, child!" replied the old man, with a hollow laugh. "It is not for the patient to prescribe to the physician. There, good-night, now."
He kissed her again with more tenderness. "Remember," said he, "there is a little surprise in store for you to-morrow."
Pet said, "Heaven bless you, father," murmured another "Good-night," and disappeared within her sanctuary, closing the door after her.
"Now, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor, "we can finish our conversation."
His voice sounded like a voice from the tomb.
The rain had ceased, and the moon was out. The dark, massy clouds that floated between her and the earth were doing their ghostly, phantasmagoric work. At one moment, clear, white light, like a shroud; at another moment, darkness, like a pall. An owl, lighting on the spire of Grace Church in his flight over the city, might have seen the white edge of the shroud, or the black edge of the pall, advancing in well-defined lines over the housetops, and the parks, and the two rivers, swiftly succeeding each other.
It was as if the mighty invisible demons of the night were capriciously trying the effects of cerements on the sleeping city. It was as if they were perplexed between the soft beauty of the shroud and the sombre majesty of the pall. A woman could not have tried on two shawls more often and more indecisively, before making up her mind to buy.
Little Pet's sleeping room, like every room that faced the south, that night, was full of strange, spectral effects. The scrolls and the roses on the cheap yellow curtains that hung in the windows, were changed to hideous faces of variable size and ugliness. Their grotesque shadows on the floor mingled with other faces--horrible as antique masks--wrought by the magic of the moon from the gigantic flowers that adorned the narrow strip of carpet by the bedside. Her dresses, suspended from a row of hooks in the corner--and showing, in gentle swells and curves, the lithe, graceful form of the little wearer, like moulds,--would have looked to any open eye, that dreadful night, like women hanging against the wall. This startling idea would have been helped along by two or three shadowy bonnets depending from pegs above them. The white somethings carelessly tossed over a chair near the head of the bed, were no longer the garments of youth, beauty, and innocence, but graveclothes, cold, shining, shuddering, in that deathly light. The touch of the moon, like the presence of a sexton, suggested mortality.
The narrow, single bed, with its four black posts, looked like the fatal trestle, or bier. The slender body which lay upon it was still as death. The head nestled motionless in a deep indentation of the pillow. A slanting ray of the moon, coming between one of the window curtains and the window, fell upon the face, and showed it white and waxen; the lips, still red, parted to the gleaming teeth; and the eyes not quite covered by the lids. One beautiful round arm curved above her head, and some of her soft brown hair rested in the little open palm. The other stretched down toward the centre of the bed, as if fearlessly to invite the touch of those weird things with which imagination peoples the solemn night--which the wakeful eye, in the still, small hours, sees moving in the darker corners, or passing swiftly by the bedside, or hovering in the air, wearing the semblance of one's dead friends, or filling large portions of the room with some formless presence of unutterable malignity and woe.
It was only sleep to which the moon thus gave the pale polish of death. The gentle murmur of a childish breath broke the silence. The heavy bedclothes slowly rose and fell with the mysterious pulsations of warm life beneath. At intervals, a shudder shook the little figure of the sleeper, her breath came louder and quicker, and her arms moved with sudden starts. Pet was dreaming, under the joint influences of an excess of blankets and a cup of strong tea.
She was alone in infinite space. Above, below, on all sides, was a leaden atmosphere. Neither sun, nor moon, nor stars illumined it, but only some dull, phosphorescent light, which seemed to be born of the murky, stagnant air. It was such a strange, sickly, wavering gleam as she had seen above decaying wood, fish, and other substances. All around was absolute stillness. Not a swallow waved his wing nor an insect hummed in that barren immensity. Nature was hushed by some deadly spell.
Yet the dread silence portended the near approach of HORRORS. She knew what they were, for she had been in this frightful region often before, and was familiar with its dread phenomena. They came. They were only two little black specks--like motes in the sunbeams--scarcely visible to her strained vision at first. She gazed upon them with the fascination of a charmed bird on the two small jet eyes of a serpent; but with this difference, that she knew the terrible peril that they brought. The moment that these two motes became visible to her in that dimly lighted mist, they commenced revolving around each other.
They revolved slowly, and increased in size as they rolled on. The slowness of the motion and the swelling of the motes were elements of horror. But she could not take her eyes from those two black objects revolving like binary stars, until her breath should cease to come and go, and her heart to beat. As the motes enlarged, their orbits widened. And they grew and-grew, performing greater and more awful circuits--still slowly, still noiselessly. The eternal, unbroken silence was another element of horror. The doomed spectatress of this solemn, maddening whirl would fain have shrieked, or even whispered, to break the silence, but she could not. Either her powers of articulation had disappeared in that region of universal dumbness, or the dead atmosphere was waveless, and could vibrate to no sound. She knew, by harrowing experience, the scene that was to come, and she prayed inwardly to God to strengthen her for it.
The two black objects swelled and swelled in even proportions, until they became as large as a full moon just seen above the horizon; then to the size of two full moons, and a dozen, and a hundred, and a thousand. Still black, still noiseless, still revolving slowly, like a tardy but certain doom. Then a quarter of the leaden space was filled with their gigantic bodies, and the lurid air was darker. Then a half of the heavens was blotted out; She grew faint and sick, as she moved her head to the right and left, and up and down, and watched the dizzy revolutions of those vast orbs, between which she knew that she was to be crushed at last, as by the nether and upper millstones. Her inarticulate cries to God were unheard. It seemed as if there were no God for that accursed part of the universe.
Majestically, slowly, silently ever, the orbs increased. Two strips of the sky could be seen constantly changing positions, but always opposite to each other. These were the gaps, fast narrowing, which were to be filled up by the swelling worlds before her destruction was accomplished. Her long familiarity with the movements of this stupendous enginery of death enabled her to calculate to a nicety when the crash would come. She lay like the bound victim under the guillotine, watching fer the axe to descend.
The blackness of darkness above and beneath and around her ... a suffocating compression of the stagnant air ... a thrilling consciousness of the close approach of the two cruel orbs.... a superlative stillness ... and then a mighty attrition, in which the mortal part of the poor girl was about to be ground to atoms, when she ... awoke.
She threw back the heavy blankets that oppressed her chest, as iftheywere the crushing danger. She looked overhead, expecting to see a whirling globe within a foot of her face. But she saw only the ceiling, made visible by the pallid light of the room. Then she knew that she was in her own little room, and that this frightful adventure was only the old, old dream, that came to her two or three times a year, as far back as she could remember--the same always, without addition or curtailment.
Little Pet was not the least superstitious; because her father had taught her from infancy to pay no heed to dreams or signs; and because he had allowed no housemaid or fussy old woman to inoculate his young daughter with her own senseless and cowardly fears. Pet smiled at the momentary terror which the strange old dream had caused, closed her eyes, and addressed herself again to sleep. But, first, she drew up the weighty blankets over her little frame, as her father had told her to do. She had already found out by experience, that a hot application of blankets was the best remedy for a young cold.
A low murmur, as of conversation, came from the adjoining room. Then she remembered that Mr. Wilkeson was there when she had come to bed. She said to herself: "It cannot be late; for he never stops after ten o'clock." Then she began to think of some matters which had recently perplexed and distressed her greatly. But she was so sleepy, that the thoughts came into her little head confusedly, and, several times, merged into dreams, and then came out again. The low murmur of the talk outside, like the distant hum of a waterfall or a mill, was sedative. The act of listening to it--as she did for a few moments with natural curiosity--was provocative of sleep.
The conversation suddenly grew louder. The hollow voice of the inventor, and the deep bass of Marcus Wilkeson, could be heard alternating quickly. These words reached little Pet:
THE INVENTOR. "We have had along conversation, Mr. Wilkeson, and I will end it by saying that it is best for us to separate, now and forever."
MARCUS (bitterly). "As you please, sir; but it is hard that a man's reputation should be at the mercy of any scoundrel who knows how to write a libel, and has not courage enough to acknowledge it."
THE INVENTOR (pettishly). "I have told you a dozen times, that I despise anonymous letter writers. They are ever liars and cowards."
MARCUS. "But you respected this one enough to adopt his suggestions."
THE INVENTOR. "So the magistrate uses hints that may be furnished him by professional thieves, for the detection of crime. But he, none the less, loathes those who would inform upon their comrades."
MARCUS. "You believe, therefore, only what you have seen or heard for yourself."
THE INVENTOR. "Nothing further, I assure you. In all matters of proof, it is my nature to be suspicious."
MARCUS. "But none of these accusations against me have been proved."
THE INVENTOR. "Why protract this painful conversation? It is sufficient for me to say that we must part.--(Excitedly.) Good heavens, sir! am I not the guardian of my daughter, and warranted in accepting or rejecting acquaintances for her? Must I make long explanations to everybody that I don't see fit to admit into my house and my daughter's society? Is not this a free country, sir?"
MARCUS(with deep despair in his voice). "Perfectly free, sir. I admit your rights. And I hereby pledge myself not to intrude upon you or her--at least, until you are convinced of the great injustice of your conduct toward me, and invite me again to your house. But there is one thing more!"
THE INVENTOR (impatiently). "One thing more! will this dialogue never end? Well, sir. What the devil is it?" Then he added, as if aware of the coarseness and gross impropriety of that expression. "Excuse me, sir, but it is late, and my machine is waiting."
MARCUS (slowly and firmly). "One moment, sir. I have sworn my innocence before God, with the most solemn oath known to man. I may have misconstrued your remarks, but I thought you still doubted me. It is my misfortune to be extremely sensitive upon the point of honor. Having relinquished your acquaintance and that of--of--your daughter, it is now my duty to ask whether you presume to question my oath?"
THE INVENTOR (with increased impatience). "Why should I be bored with this cross-examination? I have never said I doubted your oath."
MARCUS (quickly). "That is not an answer. Do you believe me, or disbelieve me? Am I a liar and perjurer, or not? In one word; yes, or no!"
THE INVENTOR (laughing nervously). "Will you bully me in my own house, sir? There is the door. Out of it!"
There was a noise like the opening of a door.
MARCUS (between his teeth). "Never, sir. Never, until you retract your imputation upon my honor."
THE INVENTOR (losing all control of himself). "Curse your honor. If you had been more careful of it in your native village--where you are best known--it would not trouble you now. Come, there are the stairs."
MARCUS. "Once more. Do you believe my oath, or not?"
THE INVENTOR (shouting). "No! no! a million times, no! since you drive me to it. I believe you to be a crafty scoundrel, who has been trying to ruin my daughter. Out, sir, now--out!"
Then was a sound of two men clenching, and struggling toward the door. A noise followed like that caused by the sharp closing of the door; but the two men were still in the room, for their scuffling and their short, quick grunts of exertion could be heard with increased distinctness. The noise indicated that one was pushing the other toward the centre of the room. Then followed the dull, nauseating sound of blows, apparently struck with fists upon heads and chests, mingled with noisier but still partly suppressed groans, and defiances.
The conversation which preceded this struggle, had come to Pet's ears with such distinctness, and made such a terrifying impression upon her mind, that it seemed as if she could see the combatants.
At the time when the clenching commenced, the vision was faint, as if she were looking into a dark room. But, as the struggle proceeded, the room seemed to be gradually lighted up for her; and every grapple, every blow, every facial contortion of this horrible contest, were plainly visible. And yet she was not in the room, but lying in her little bed, bound as in the awful dream of the clashing orbs. She knew she was there, and yet she felt that her eyes, all her faculties of observation, had been somehow transferred to her father's room, and that she was actually seeing and hearing the commission of a murder there.
She tried to cry aloud, but her jaws were closed. She would have risen, entered the room, and thrown herself between the frenzied men, but neither hand nor foot could she move. Her body was fastened to the bed as if with adamantine chains, while her mind and soul were the voiceless spectators of a tragedy of which she knew that she was the cause. She could not even open her eyes. If she could have loosed but a muscle from the rigidity of the trance, she knew that her whole frame would be relaxed in an instant. Then she would have bounded--oh! with what speed--into the other room, where her immortal part was helplessly watching the conflict, and interceded at the risk of her life. Alas! Prometheus was tied to the rock not more firmly than she to that bed of anguish!
The struggle went on. The inventor, though past the prime of life, and worn down by excessive thought, had some strength left. Its duration was brief; but it was not to be despised while it lasted. He grasped the tall figure of Marcus Wilkeson by the neck with one arm, and with the other struck dozens of blows upon his face and chest. The comparative youth and freshness of Marcus were unable to free him from the strong hold of this vigorous old man. Pangs of terror shot through the heart of the poor girl as she saw that her father was about to become a murderer. Then the tide of fortune changed. Marcus, bruised and black in the face, and panting with exertion, released himself from the inventor's clutch, and, in turn, caught him by the throat. With his long arm he held the furious old man at a safe distance. The unhappy girl was now agonized with fears for her father's life.
"This is madness. Let us stop it." Thus Pet heard Marcus Wilkeson say, in panting accents.
What demoniac spell was it that prevented her from shrieking--"Stop it. In God's name, father, stop?"
"Never!" said the undaunted old man. "Never, till I have thrown you headlong down stairs! Liar! Villain!"
With that, Pet saw her father hurl himself, with the ferocity of a tiger, on Marcus Wilkeson. Such was the suddenness and impetuosity of the movement, that Marcus was pushed back several feet toward the door, from the centre of the room, where the most obstinate part of the struggle had taken place.
But the old man's supremacy was short lived. The younger and stronger man suddenly stooped, caught the inventor with both hands under the arms, and thrust him toward the corner occupied by the mysterious machine. The inventor would have fallen on it, and perhaps have been instantly killed by contact with some portion of the brass or iron work, but for the interposition of the screen. This broke his fall. He scrambled to his feet, full of rage, and foaming at the mouth.
Marcus stepped back, and said, "Now let it cease."
Pet saw her father snatch something that looked like a club, from some part of the machine.
"This is my answer," he said, and precipitated himself with fresh fury upon Marcus.
The younger man had expected the attack, and braced himself for it. He caught the inventor by the arm that held the club, or other weapon. They wrestled for its possession--the inventor with frenzy in every feature, Marcus with fixed determination, and silently.
The weapon was now aloft--now below--now shifted in the twinkling of an eye to the right, and now to the left. At one time the inventor seemed to be on the point of securing it; at another, Marcus. Suddenly Pet saw it whirl like a shillelah above her father's head, with a strange noise like the quick winding of a clock. Then she heard a dull sound, as of striking a board with a brick, and--she saw her father fall to the floor. At the same moment, the light in the room went out, and all was darkness.
The pent-up agony at last found utterance. She shrieked, and, instantly, her eyes were open, and her limbs free. She jumped out of bed, and was about to rush into the chamber of horrors, when she saw the bright light of the gas yet shining through the crack beneath her door. She listened. The house was still as the grave. Not a sound from all the world outside, except the striking of a fire alarm for the seventh district. The deep notes vibrated upon her quickened hearing like a knell.
Then she remembered that, in the vision, the light had disappeared. Here it was gleaming under her door as brightly as ever. "Pshaw! what a silly girl I am!" said she. "It was a nightmare. That's all." She raised her hands to her face. It was hot and dripping.
"Father prescribed too large a dose of blankets. No wonder I had this horrid dream."
But, notwithstanding the presence of the light, and the absence of all noise, such as would be caused by the murderer in leaving the room and going down stairs, the impression of this tragic vision upon her mind was not to be dismissed with a "Pshaw!"
Pet would have derived much relief from opening the door and looking in, and seeing, with her own waking eyes, that her father was alive, at his usual seat in the corner. She placed her hand upon the latch.
But then she remembered how her father had laughed at her, two or three times before, when she was a younger girl, and not so wise as now, and had rushed into his room screaming with fright from a nightmare. She prided herself on having outgrown childish fears.
She also remembered that her father had told her, two days before, that he was engaged in the most difficult mathematical calculations, day and night, and, kissing her, had playfully said that she must not disturb him.
"He is thinking over his problems now," thought little Pet. "Dear father! Idowish he would give up that hateful machine. It will be the death of him. But he said I must not disturb him, and I will not. Mr. Wilkeson must have gone home a long time ago; and dear father is thinking, as he calls it, with his hand on his forehead, in the old corner. Let me take one little peep through the keyhole, and go to bed again."
Pet stooped, and looked through the keyhole. Within her range were the chair where Marcus Wilkeson had sat that evening, and the nail where--with bachelor-like precision--he always hung his hat. Neither Marcus Wilkeson nor his hat were in their accustomed, places. "What silly things these dreams are!" thought little Pet. The keyhole did not command the corner of the room where the machine stood, and where the inventor pondered and toiled; but Pet felt as certain that he was there, coaxing thoughts out of his pale brow with that habitual caress of the hand, as if she had seen him.
"Good night, dear father," she whispered, softly. "May Heaven watch over your labors, and keep you from all harm."
With this pious prayer, she slid into her warm nest. But, before adjusting her limbs for sleep, she threw off a portion of the heavy blankets which had weighed upon her, and was soon sound asleep, and dreaming of a garden in which all the roses were beautiful new bonnets.
Still the moon played her ghastly metamorphoses in the little chamber. And the figures on the carpet and the figures on the curtain writhed in horrible contortions of glee, as if they rejoiced over a calamity which had befallen that house.