Part 6

Amos smiled and said something about not pretending to compete with professionals, and the conversation turned to other matters. After his departure, as they went upstairs, Molly lingered in her father’s chamber a moment and asked if he really thought Mr. Judd had seen from his buggy the little incident at the station which he thought had appeared to him in his vision.

“It seems safe to suppose so,” he answered. “And he could easily be misled by a little sequence of facts, fancies, and coincidences that happened to form a harmonious whole.”

“But in other matters he seems so sensible, and he certainly is not easily deceived.”

“Yes, I know, but those are often the very people who become the readiest victims. Now Amos, with all his practical common-sense, I know to be unusually romantic and imaginative. He loves the mystic and the fabulous. The other day while we were fishing together--thank you, Maggie does love a fresh place for my slippers every night--the other day I discovered, from several things he said, that he was an out-and-out fatalist. But I think we can weaken his faith in all that. He is too young and healthy and has too free a mind to remain a permanent dupe.”

VI

The next morning was clear and bright. Mr. Cabot, absorbed in his work, spent nearly the whole forenoon among his papers, and when he saw Molly in her little cart drive up to the door with a seamstress from the village, he knew the day was getting on. Seeing him still at his desk as she entered, she bent over him and put a hand before his eyes. “Oh, crazy man! You have no idea what a day it is, and to waste it over an ink-pot! Why, it is half-past eleven, and I believe you have been here ever since I left. Stop that work this minute and go out of doors.” A cool cheek was laid against his face and the pen removed from his fingers. “Now mind.”

“Well, you are right. Let us both take a walk.”

“I wish I could, but I _must_ start Mrs. Turner on her sewing. Please go yourself. It is a heavenly day.”

As he stepped off the piazza a few minutes later, she called out from her chamber window, “Which way are you going, papa?”

“To the village, and I will get the mail.”

“Be sure and not go to Mr. Farnum’s.”

“I promise,” and with a smile he walked away. Her enthusiasm over the quality of the day he found was not misplaced. The pure, fresh air brought a new life. Gigantic snowy clouds, like the floating mountains of fairy land, moved majestically across the heavens, and the distant hills stood clear and sharp against the dazzling blue. The road was muddy, but that was a detail to a lover of nature, and Mr. Cabot, as he strode rapidly toward the village, experienced an elasticity and exhilaration that recalled his younger days. He felt more like dancing or climbing trees than plodding sedately along a turnpike. With a quick, youthful step he ascended the gentle incline that led to the Common, and if a stranger had been called upon to guess at the gentleman’s age as he walked jauntily into the village with head erect, swinging his cane, he would more likely have said thirty years than sixty. And if the stranger had watched him for another three minutes he would have modified his guess, and not only have given him credit for his full age, but might have suspected either an excessive fatigue or a mild intemperance. For Mr. Cabot, during his short walk through Daleford Village, experienced a series of sensations so novel and so crushing that he never, in his inner self, recovered completely from the shock.

Instead of keeping along the sidewalk to the right and going to the post-office according to his custom, he crossed the muddy road and took the gravel walk that skirted the Common. It seemed a natural course, and he failed to realize, until he had done it, that he was going out of his way. Now he must cross the road again when opposite the store. When opposite the store, however, instead of crossing over he kept along as he had started. Then he stopped, as if to turn, but his hesitation was for a second only. Again he went ahead, along the same path, by the side of the Common. It was then that Mr. Cabot felt a mild but unpleasant thrill creep upward along his spine and through his hair. This was caused by a startling suspicion that his movements were not in obedience to his own will. A moment later it became a conviction. This consciousness brought the cold sweat to his brow, but he was too strong a man, too clear-headed and determined, to lose his bearings without a struggle or without a definite reason. With all the force of his nature he stopped once more to decide it, then and there: and again he started forward. An indefinable, all-pervading force, gentle but immeasurably stronger than himself, was exerting an intangible pressure, and never in his recollection had he felt so powerless, so weak, so completely at the mercy of something that was no part of himself; yet, while amazed and impressed beyond his own belief, he suffered no obscurity of intellect. The first surprise over, he was more puzzled than terrified, more irritated than resigned.

For nearly a hundred yards he walked on, impelled by he knew not what; then, with deliberate resolution, he stopped, clutched the wooden railing at his side, and held it with an iron grip. As he did so, the clock in the belfry of the Unitarian Church across the road began striking twelve. He raised his eyes, and, recalling the prophecy of Amos, he bit his lip, and his head reeled as in a dream. “To-morrow, as the clock strikes twelve, you will be standing in front of the Unitarian Church, looking up at it.” Each stroke of the bell--and no bell ever sounded so loud--vibrated through every nerve of his being. It was harsh, exultant, almost threatening, and his brain in a numb, dull way seemed to quiver beneath the blows. Yet, up there, about the white belfry, pigeons strutted along the moulding, cooing, quarrelsome, and important, like any other pigeons. And the sunlight was even brighter than usual; the sky bluer and more dazzling. The tall spire, from the moving clouds behind it, seemed like a huge ship, sailing forward and upward as if he and it were floating to a different world.

Still holding fast to the fence, he drew the other hand sharply across his eyes to rally his wavering senses. The big elms towered serenely above him, their leaves rustling like a countless chorus in the summer breeze. Opposite, the row of old-fashioned New England houses stood calmly in their places, self-possessed, with no signs of agitation. The world, to their knowledge, had undergone no sudden changes within the last five minutes. It must have been a delusion: a little collapse of his nerves, perhaps. So many things can affect the brain: any doctor could easily explain it. He would rest a minute, then return.

As he made this resolve his left hand, like a treacherous servant, quietly relaxed its hold and he started off, not toward his home, but forward, continuing his journey. He now realized that the force which impelled him, although gentle and seemingly not hostile in purpose, was so much stronger than himself that resistance was useless. During the next three minutes, as he walked mechanically along the sidewalk by the Common, his brain was nervously active in an effort to arrive at some solution of this erratic business; some sensible solution that was based either on science or on common-sense. But that solace was denied him. The more he thought the less he knew. No previous experience of his own, and no authenticated experience of anyone else, at least of which he had ever heard, could he summon to assist him. When opposite the house of Silas Farnum he turned and left the sidewalk, and noticed, with an irresponsible interest as he crossed the road, that with no care of his own he avoided the puddles and selected for his feet the drier places. This was another surprise, for he took no thought of his steps; and the discovery added to the overwhelming sense of helplessness that was taking possession of him. With no volition of his own he also avoided the wet grass between the road and the gravel walk. He next found himself in front of Silas Farnum’s gate and his hand reached forth to open it. It was another mild surprise when this hand, like a conscious thing, tried the wrong side of the little gate, then felt about for the latch. The legs over which he had ceased to have direction, carried him along the narrow brick walk, and one of them lifted him upon the granite doorstep.

Once more he resolved, calmly and with a serious determination, that this humiliating comedy should go no farther. He would turn about and go home without entering the house. It would be well for Amos to know that an old lawyer of sixty was composed of different material from the impressionable enthusiast of twenty-seven. While making this resolve the soles of his shoes were drawing themselves across the iron scraper; then he saw his hand rise slowly toward the old-fashioned knocker and, with three taps, announce his presence. A huge fly dozing on the knocker flew off and lit again upon the panel of the door. As it readjusted its wings and drew a pair of front legs over the top of its head Mr. Cabot wondered, if at the creation of the world, it was fore-ordained that this insect should occupy that identical spot at a specified moment of a certain day, and execute this trivial performance. If so, what a rôle humanity was playing! The door opened and Mrs. Farnum, with a smiling face, stood before him.

“How do you do, Mr. Cabot? Won’t you step in?”

As he opened his lips to decline, he entered the little hallway, was shown into the parlor and sat in a horse-hair rocking-chair, in which he waited for Mrs. Farnum to call her husband. When the husband came Mr. Cabot stated his business and found that he was once more dependent upon his own volition. He could rise, walk to the window, say what he wished, and sit down again when he desired.

Upon reaching home he went directly to his chamber, and was glad to enter it without meeting his daughter. His reflection in the mirror surprised him, as he expected to find a face thirty years older than when it started for the village. But there were no outward traces of the recent struggle. It was the same face, calm, firm, and as self-reliant as ever. This was reassuring and did much toward a return of confidence. He threw himself upon the bed, and as he lay there he heard through the open window the voices of Molly and Amos in the old-fashioned garden. They seemed very jolly and happy, and Molly’s laughter came like music to his ears; but her companion, although amusing and full of fun, seemed to do none of the laughing; and then it came upon him that in all his intercourse with Amos he had never heard him laugh. Ever ready to smile, and often irresistible in his high spirits, yet he never laughed aloud. And the deep melancholy of his face when in repose--was that a result of fulfilling prophecies? Were there solemn secrets behind that boyish face?

The perfume of the flowers stole in through the closed blinds, and he could hear the buzzing of a bee outside the window, mingling with the voices in the garden. These voices became lower, the subject of conversation having changed--perhaps to something more serious--and Mr. Cabot took a nap.

VII

“Did you go to Silas Farnum’s?” was Molly’s first question, and her father confessed having done precisely as Amos had predicted; but while giving a truthful account of his experience, he told the story in a half-jesting manner, attributing his compulsory visit to some hypnotic influence, and to a temporary irresponsibility of his own. His daughter, however, was not deceived. Her belief in a supernatural agency renewed its strength.

As for her father, he had never been more at sea in the solution of a problem. In his own mind the only explanation was by the dominance of another mind over his own, by a force presumably mesmeric. The fact that Amos himself was also a victim rendered that theory difficult to accept, unless both were dupes of some third person. If at the time of his visit to Silas Farnum he had been ill, or weak, or in a nervous condition, or had it occurred at night when the imagination might get the better of one’s judgment, there would have been the possibility of an explanation on physical grounds. But that he, James Cabot, of good health and strength, should, in the sunlight of a summer noon, be the powerless victim of such an influence, was a theory so mortifying and preposterous as to upset his usual processes of reason.

It was not until the next afternoon that an opportunity was given for a word with Amos. Out on the grass, beneath a huge elm at the easterly corner of the house, Mr. Cabot, in a bamboo chair, was reclining with his paper, when he noticed his young friend cantering briskly along the road on a chestnut horse. Amos saw him, turned his animal toward the low stone wall that separated the Cabots’ field from the highway, cleared it with an easy jump and came cantering over the grass.

“Is that old Betty? I didn’t know she was a jumper.”

“Oh, yes. She has a record.” Dismounting, he faced her about and, with a tap on the flank, told her to go home. She returned, however, and showed a desire to rub noses with him. “Well, have your way, old lady,” and leaving her to a feast of clover he threw himself on the ground at Mr. Cabot’s feet.

“You are a kind man to your animals, Amos, although you may be somewhat offensive as a prophet.”

“So you went, after all?”

“Went where?”

“To see Silas Farnum.”

“Did I say that?”

Amos looked up with a smile that could have a dozen meanings. His wily companion, from a sense of professional caution, wished to feel his way before committing himself.

“You think I went, after all?”

“Yes, sir, I know you did, from my own experience.”

“Which is that the events inevitably occur as foreseen?”

“Always.”

“Well, I will make a clean breast of it and tell you just what happened.”

“I know it already, Mr. Cabot, as well as if you had told me.”

“Do you know of my resolve not to do it? Of my ineffectual resistance and the sensations I experienced?”

“I think so. I have been through it all myself.”

For a minute or two neither spoke. Amos, resting upon an elbow, his cheek against the palm of one hand, was, with the other, deceiving a very small caterpillar into useless marches from one end of a blade of grass to the other. Mr. Cabot, in a more serious tone, continued: “Can you tell me, Amos, on your honor, that as far as you know there was no attempt on your part, or on the part of any other person, to influence me upon that occasion?”

Amos tossed aside the blade of grass and sat up. “I give you my word, sir, that so far as I know there is nothing in it of that nature. I am just as helpless as you when it comes to any attempt at resistance.”

“Then how do you account for it?”

Amos had plucked a longer blade of grass, and was winding it about his fingers. “My explanation may seem childish to you, but I have no better one to offer. It is simply that certain events are destined to occur at appointed times, and that my knowing it in advance is not allowed to interfere with the natural order of things.”

“The evidence may seem to point that way, judging from my own experience, but can you believe that the whole human race are carrying out such a cut-and-dried scheme? According to that theory we are merely mechanical dummies, irresponsible and helpless, like cogs in a wheel.”

“No, sir, we are at liberty to do just as we please. It was your own idea going to Silas Farnum’s. That you happened to be told of it in advance created an artificial condition, otherwise you would have gone there in peace and happiness. In other words, it was ordained that you should desire to do that thing, and you were to do as you desired.”

The lawyer remained silent a moment, his face giving no indication either of belief or denial.

“Have you never been able to prevent or even modify the fulfilment of an act after having seen it in advance?”

“No, sir; never.”

“Then these scenes as presented to you are invariably correct, without the slightest change?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Cabot looked down at his friend with a feeling that was not without a touch of awe. Of the young man’s honesty he had not the slightest doubt, and his own recent experience seemed but one more proof of the correctness of his facts. He looked with a curious interest upon this mysterious yet simple Oriental squatting idly on the grass, his straw hat tilted back on his head, the dark face bent forward, as with careful fingers he gathered a bunch of clover.

“If this faculty never fails you your knowledge of future events is simply without limit. You can tell about the weather, the crops, the stock market, the result of wars, marriages, births, and deaths, and who the next president is to be.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered quietly, without looking up.

Mr. Cabot straightened up in his chair and rubbed his chin. His credulity had reached its limit, yet, if he could judge by the evidence already presented, the young man was adhering strictly to the truth. There followed a silence during which Betty, who in nibbling about had approached within a few feet of them, held out her head, and took the clover from Amos. Mr. Cabot brought a pencil and piece of paper from his pockets. “I would like to try one more experiment, with your permission. Will you write on that paper what I am to do at--well, say ten o’clock to-night?”

Amos took the paper and closed his eyes, but in a moment looked up and said, “You are in the dark and I can see nothing.”

“Then you have no knowledge of what goes on in the dark?”

“No, sir; only of things that I can see. If there is any light at all I can see as if I were there in person, but no better. To-night at ten o’clock you are in your own chamber, and it is absolutely black.”

“Then change the hour to six o’clock.”

As Mr. Cabot, a moment later, turned a sidelong glance toward his friend, sitting with closed eyes before him, he thought the little mark upon his forehead had never been so distinct. He regarded it with a mild surprise as it seemed almost aglow; but the sky was becoming rosy in the west, and there might be a reflection from the setting sun. Amos wrote something on a slip of paper, folded it up and returned it to Mr. Cabot, who carefully tucked it away in a pocket saying, “I shall not read it until six-thirty. I will tell you to-morrow if you are correct.”

“Oh, that is correct, sir! You need have no anxiety on that point.”

As he spoke there passed slowly along the road a cart containing two men, and behind the cart, securely fastened, walked a heavy, vicious-looking bull.

“That is an ugly brute,” he said.

“So I was just thinking. Does he belong in the town?”

“Yes; it is Barnard’s bull. Yesterday he got loose and so mutilated a horse that it had to be shot; and within an hour he tried his best to kill old Barnard himself, which was a good undertaking and showed public spirit. He is sure to have a victim sooner or later, and it certainly ought to be old Barnard if anybody.”

“Who is Barnard?”

“He is the oyster-eyed, malignant old liar and skinflint who lives in that red house about a mile below here.”

“You seem to like him.”

“I hate him.”

“What has he done to you?”

“Nothing; but he bullies his wife, starves his cattle, and cheats his neighbors. Even as a small boy I knew enough to dislike him, and whenever he went by the house I used to stone him.”

“What a pleasant little neighbor you must have been!”

Amos tried to smile, but his anger was evidently too serious a matter to be treated with disrespect. Mr. Cabot, after regarding for a moment the wrathful eyes that still followed the bull, continued:

“You are more than half barbarian, my war-like farmer. Must you do physical damage to everyone you dislike?”

“No, sir; but as a rule I should like to. As for loving your enemies--count me out. I love my friends. The man who pretends to love his enemies is either a hypocrite or a poor hater.”

The older man smiled at the earnestness with which this sentence was uttered. “I am afraid, Mr. Amos Judd, you are not a Christian. Take my advice and join a bible-class before the devil gets his other hand upon you.”

After a few words on other matters, Amos called his mare, and departed.

As the hour of six drew near, Mr. Cabot made a point of realizing that he was a free agent and could do whatever he wished, and he resolved that no guess, based on a probability, should prove correct. To assure himself that there was no compulsion or outside influence of any nature, he started first for the barn to execute a fantastic resolve, then as an additional proof that he was absolutely his own master, suddenly changed his mind, turned about, and went upstairs.

Going along a back passage with no definite intention, he paused at a half-open door, looked in, and entered. The blinds were closed, but between the slats came bars of light from the western sun, illumining the little room, an unused chamber, now serving as a storehouse for such trunks and sundry relics as had failed to reach the attic. Mr. Cabot noticed a rocking-horse in one corner and his eyes sparkled with a new idea. After closing the door he dragged the steed from its resting-place, planted it in the middle of the floor, and looked at his watch. It lacked four minutes of six. As he prepared to mount he saw the legs of a rag-baby projecting over a shelf, and pulling her down, could not restrain a smile as he held her in his arms. A large, round, flat, and very pale but dirty face was emphasized by fiery cheeks, whose color, from a want of harmony with the coarse material of her visage, had only lingered in erratic blotches. With this lady in his arms he mounted the horse, and, while gently rocking with both feet on the ground, he again took out his watch and found he was just on the minute of six o’clock. But he kept his seat for a moment longer, judging the situation too good to be trifled with, and too unusual for any ordinary guess. Carelessly he rocked a little faster, when a front foot of his overladen steed slipped from its rocker and Mr. Cabot nearly lost his balance. The damage, however, he easily repaired; the rag-baby was replaced upon her shelf, and when he left the little room and returned to his own chamber there was an expression upon his face that seemed indicative of an amiable triumph. Some minutes later, with a similar expression, he took from his pocket the slip of paper on which Amos had written, read it once with some haste, then a second time and more carefully.

_The Hon. James Cabot, one of the most respected residents of Daleford, attempted at six o’clock to elope with an obscure maiden of the village. But his horse, an animal with one glass eye and no tail, broke down before they had fairly started and went lame in his off front foot._

For several minutes he stood looking down at the paper between his fingers, occasionally drawing a hand across his forehead. Then he refolded the paper and placing it in his pocket, took his hat and went out into the orchard, to think, and to be alone.