Part 11

“Of course! There was no one else knew the combination but you——”

“Oh, confound that combination! I’ve heard it until I’m sick of it! Your niece knew it as well as I—why not suspect her? She was in the house, I was not!”

“Yes, that’s so! Marjy did you take it?” fatuously.

Marjy gave Henry a withering look: “What nonsense!” she cried.

“Well, some one took it!” gloomily iterated auntie, as she continued to lift up books, and flutter open papers.

“You had best have a detective look into the matter,” said Marjy coldly.

“Oh, not for the world! I wouldn’t be so disgraced!” cried auntie excitedly.

“I do not see how you are to ascertain the truth otherwise,” remarked Henry.

“Oh, dear! I wouldn’t care so much for the money—though it’s too much to lose—but to have to suspect those in whom we have placed so much confidence, and one’s very own, is awful!” wailed Aunt Hattie, not very lucidly.

Henry frowned angrily, then Marjy shot him a disdainful glance, and Aunt Hattie glared reproachfully at both.

Henry turned abruptly, lifting his hat in a sudden access of politeness; “I bid you a very good day; if you wish to arrest me, you will find me in my room, two doors away; or in my office on Tremont Street,” saying which he strode angrily away.

Marjy ran up to her room and locked herself in, despite her aunt’s shrill cry: “Come here, Marjy, and help me to look for that money! Oh, I must find it, it cannot be lost!”

Notwithstanding her asseveration, it did seem to be lost. She one moment declared that she was positive that she had locked it in the safe—and scolded and reproached Marjy—then, she railed about Henry, and how impossible it was to trust any one; taking another turn, she doubted herself; she did not know whether or not she put it in the safe at all. “It might be that I took it out after I put it there, and thought it more secure in some other place; but of course I never once thought that Henry would rob me, and he pretended to love you,” she would grumble. Then she would fall to tearing things to pieces again.

Whenever her aunt accused her, Marjy only cried out impatiently: “Oh, nonsense, auntie! What would I do with it?”

“I do not know, I am sure!” weakly.

But when she assailed Henry, then Marjy flew into a tempest of passion. “You know that he could not have touched it; we were all in the room together until he left, and I went to the front door, and closed and locked it after him; he lives two doors away, he couldn’t very well come through the walls,” indignantly.

“That’s so! You must have taken it, then!” hysterically.

“Much more likely that you have hidden it away yourself. Oh, dear! My life is ruined on account of that miserable money! Henry scarcely speaks to me, and says that he will never step inside the house again!”

“I do not see why you should mourn over a thief!” answered Aunt Hattie.

“He isn’t a thief. I would as soon think that you took it yourself,” she cried wrathfully.

Aunt Hattie grew pale with anger: “Take care what you say, miss,” she retorted with quivering lips.

The whole household arrangement, mind, morals and manners, seemed demoralized. Never before had an ill-natured word been spoken between auntie and Marjy. Auntie had been like the placid autumn day, Marjy like the blithe spring sunshine. Now everything was like a draught of bitter water. Henry went about his work listlessly.

The days dragged along tiresomely, Marjy and Henry met occasionally, and although no word was spoken, by tacit consent the engagement was ended. Marjy went nowhere and would receive no company. Gossips commented—there must be something wrong; a bird of the air whispered—there always is a telltale bird—that Henry was a defaulter; then, rumor had it, a common thief. A kind friend? told him the report—there is also always the kind friend—he was raging. He declared that he would leave the place, that he would not stay here in disgrace; he surely thought that Marjy or her aunt had circulated the report, and he was furious over it.

A little reflection caused him to change his mind about leaving: “I have done no wrong, and I will not run! If they think to drive me away by that scheme, they will get left, that’s all!” said he grimly. Meanwhile some one told Marjy that _she_ heard that “Henry and Marjy had stolen money from her auntie, and had intended to elope; that Auntie Nelson had caught them before they could get out of the street door; she took the money from Henry, and forbid him the house. It isn’t true is it, dear?” concluded she.

Marjy astonished the gossip by such an outburst of temper as frightened her out of the house, after which she locked herself in her own chamber, to sob and cry for the rest of the day. Everything was as miserable as it was possible to be; Marjy would go out no more in daylight, but after nightfall, with a heavy veil over her face, she would steal out for a walk as though she were some guilty thing.

One night as she passed Henry’s room she paused and looked up at the window; he sat beside a small table on which was placed a lamp, his head bowed upon his arms in an attitude of despair; he raised his face, the change and melancholy look filled Marjy’s heart with grief. He arose wearily and began pacing to and fro. Marjy dropped her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly; the moon, which had been under a cloud, came out a flood of silver radiance; Marjy leaning against a low railing on the opposite side of the street, was, unconsciously to herself, in the full glow.

“Marjy! Marjy!” called a voice softly.

She started in affright; but Henry caught her hands, and held them fast.

“Marjy, Marjy, my pet, don’t cry!”

She made him no answer, but sobbed hysterically in his arms.

“What is it, Marjy, is there more trouble?” he asked, feeling—as most men do in the presence of a woman’s tears—perfectly helpless.

“No! no! There doesn’t need be more trouble! There isn’t any happiness left; auntie is so cross and suspicious—she suspects you, me, and even herself; for whole days at a time she doesn’t speak, and if I take a book to read she looks at me as reproachfully as though I were doing some wrong thing; if I look sad she says—she says—I am mourning over a thief, and that makes me mad, because I know it isn’t true!” she finished excitedly.

“God bless you, Marjy! That is the first bit of comfort I have received since that miserable night,” he answered.

“How could you imagine that I would think you guilty of such a thing?” reproachfully.

“How happens it that you are out so late at night?” he asked irrelevantly.

“I cannot go out in daytime, people say such awful things about us that it makes me ashamed;” sobbing hysterically. “When I saw you looking so despondent it just broke my heart.”

“Oh, my dear, don’t cry!” helplessly.

She smiled at him through her tears: “Well, I will not, you have enough to bear as it is; but why were you so sad to-night?”

He put his hand under her chin, lifting up her face: “First, and greatest; I thought I had lost that which was dearest to me of aught on earth; I thought that you believed me guilty of taking that money, as you both said repeatedly that I was the only one who knew that accursed combination—and do you know, Marjy, that I can no more get it out of my mind than I can fly. By day and night it haunts me until I am very near insane. I see it before me like sparks of fire; I heard it iterated, and reiterated, and nothing that I can do rids me of the torture; frightful or grotesque pictures are formed, from the midst of which your aunt’s face looks out at me with wide-open, reproachful eyes.”

A shudder swept over him at the remembrance; he drew her into closer embrace, and said, “Little comforter! It is sweet to know that you have faith in me, when friends and clients are deserting me; some one is busily reporting the whole affair, with numerous embellishments;” after a moment’s pause, he continued: “Do you think that auntie would spread the report?”

“Oh, no! No matter what she may say to me, she would not breathe a word of it to others. I must return to the house, or someone will see us talking, and there will be more reports,” added Marjy laughingly. They parted with many fond words, and Marjy went home happier than she had been in many a day. This was but one of many meetings.

Aunt Hattie’s whole mental attitude seemed changed; nothing is more true than that we have very little knowledge of ourselves; many traits lie dormant until circumstances call them out; hidden dogs that scenting prey hurry forward in restless chase. Auntie had ever been trusting to a singular degree; but now she had become suspicious of everyone, and when Marjy went out two or three nights in succession, she regarded her distrustingly. “I do wonder now, if Marjy goes out to meet that fellow! Probably they are planning that they will have a good time with that money. Oh, dear! I wish that miserable roll of bills had been burned, it wouldn’t have given me half as much trouble; it is the uncertainty that vexes me so!”

It is often quoted as an adage, “out of people’s mouths we must judge them.” I shall certainly have to differ with the wise old proverb maker, though as a rule he is right; sometimes people say the opposite of what they mean; most certainly Aunt Hattie did, when she accused either Henry or Marjy of using the money. The fact was that she was in a state of aggravating uncertainty; she had no actual opinion, being in a condition of endless surmise, and consequent irritability, which must have an outlet.

That night her suspicions were so wrought up that she followed Marjy, and witnessed the loving meeting of the two; she caught a sound of their low-toned conversation, although she could not distinguish their words. She was in precisely that frame of mind to imagine that everything was intended as an injury to her; she rushed at them, crying and scolding incoherently.

Marjy in an agony of shame tried to appease her, but in vain. Windows were hastily thrown up all along the street: “Oh, auntie, do come home! All the neighbors are listening; auntie! auntie! Just think of the comments!”

Auntie gave a frightened glance at the many opened windows, and at a man hurrying toward them; gossip over her affairs had been the great bugaboo of her life; she regained command of herself instantly. The man was rapidly approaching them, his face alive with curiosity; just as he was on the point of speaking to them, auntie sank to the ground with a groan and burst into loud weeping.

Marjy gave Henry a frightened glance, and turned to auntie in the greatest distress. Auntie cried out shrilly: “Lift me up, Henry! Marjy, do get hold on the other side. Oh, dear! Oh, dear. My poor ankle, I know that it is broken!” and with much groaning and crying she allowed herself to be carried into the house. No sooner had the street door closed behind them than auntie straightened up and said laughingly: “There, I think my ankle is all right now, and those old gossips have missed a treat!”

She was so elated over the affair that she seemed more like herself than for a long time; but as a sequence Marjy could go out no more, unaccompanied by her aunt. Auntie gave Henry a frigid invitation, but he seldom came to the house, and when he did so wore a preoccupied and uncomfortable air; auntie was often disagreeable, and Marjy unhappy and despondent.

About this time a cousin of Marjy’s, James Jordan, came to visit Auntie Nelson; he was not long in discovering that things were in an unpleasant condition. He formed a great liking for Henry, who on the contrary was very jealous of James. Marjy went to places of amusement, and was frequently out riding with him; cousin James was consulted upon all occasions. Marjy had no wrong intention in so doing; she thought of him merely as her cousin, and was glad of anything that eased the tension under which they seemed to be living. Henry had become so hypersensitive that he shrank from everything. He often answered James with absolute incivility, to which he only returned some laughing answer; he understood the situation very well, and heartily sympathized with the lovers.

One evening they had gathered around the table in auntie’s room; several new magazines lay scattered about, one of which James had been reading. Henry was unusually silent and depressed; his business had steadily decreased, and more than one taunt had been leveled at him; he had ever been proud of his integrity, and scorned all things debasing—as all dishonesty whether of word or deed must be—and the annoyance had developed a nervous restlessness which prevented sleep, and left him worn, haggard and miserable.

James looked up from the book which he had been reading and said, “What do you think about hypnotism? I have been reading this article, and am very much impressed, as well as interested by it.”

The question was addressed to no one in particular, but Henry took it up, and answered roughly: “I think it is a lot of bosh!”

James replied pleasantly: “I don’t know that it is, though it may be so. We know that there are subtleties of the mind which we do not understand, and I do not see why there should not be the same amount of force in the higher power of man as in the physical; great feats, either of mind or muscle, are but the result of training; we think because we do not understand that to which we have scarcely given a thought—much less investigated—that it cannot be true; we have no right to cry ‘wolf’ until we—at least—uncover our eyes.”

Henry lifted up his face, a strange eagerness in his voice as he said, “Do you then believe that you could unconsciously to me force me to do that which is against my will?”

“No, indeed! The hypnotic has no will; it is the will of the hypnotizer working through him. I believe that the hypnotizer may not even be positive as to a knowledge of his own power—merely a half-consciousness, a way in which one’s thoughts at times move—like the shadow of a fast-sailing summer cloud. Of course to be so easily influenced, the subject must be of a yielding, plastic temperament; it is as though the operator sent a portion of his own soul on a brief visit into the body of the hypnotized.”

A half-frightened look flashed over Henry’s countenance—and was instantly gone; he cried out roughly: “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” He wiped the perspiration from his face with a trembling hand. James laughed at his vigorous protest, and affected not to see the emotion which lay behind it, so he answered lightly: “No compulsion about it, this is just a case of leave it, or take it, as you please—which does not alter the fact that we have many forces within us of which we are in ignorance,” he replied quietly.

“Well, all I have to say is this, I wish that I had the power to get one good night’s rest. I think that hypnotism would be a blessing, if it were the means of securing it to me; I lie awake half the night to think and worry, and at last fall asleep and dream it all over again, intensified a thousand times, and aggravated by something, which each night persistently occurs, and which I try all day to recall to memory; at times I just touch the border—it is like trying to grasp the luminous tail of a comet—it is but empty air.” He suddenly paused, evidently annoyed that he had been betrayed into an expression of his feelings. James sat up, instantly interested: “Can you not concentrate your mind, and thus trace the sequence of that which you do remember? Is it a dream—or—or——”

“It is nothing! I tell you it is nothing!” said Henry testily.

James said no more, but he knew that there was something which Henry either could not, or would not explain. Later, as Henry was starting for home, James laid his hand on his shoulder and said, “I think I will go home with you, and we will have a quiet smoke together, it will soothe your nerves, and perhaps you will sleep better.”

At first Henry shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and made a movement as though he would jerk away from his detaining hand; but as James continued speaking he seemed to change his mind, and said slowly: “Very well! I do not often smoke, but perhaps it would quiet my nerves.” Aunt Hattie bade him a very crusty good-night; she had been very sarcastic, and ill-natured all the evening; it seemed to make her angry if either Marjy or Henry showed any enjoyment; she seemed equally angry if they sat silent and unhappy.

“Oh, auntie, you ought not to be so ill-natured!” said Marjy after they had gone.

“Oh, of course, I am the one to blame! If I lost everything I possess on earth, I ought to keep right on smiling—I should like to know what James went home with Henry for? some scheming, I suppose!” she harped upon these two strings until it was very trying.

James locked his arm in Henry’s, talking pleasantly, Henry replying absently as though he but half-comprehended.

As I have said his rooms were in the front part of the house; he pulled down the blinds, and lighted a lamp with a soft, rose-colored shade, and threw himself into an easy-chair with an air of great weariness. James seated himself at his right side, but with his chair so turned that he could watch Henry’s face. He led him gently on, until, before he realized what he was doing, he was pouring all his distress and grief into his companion’s ear, in a low, dreamy tone, an aggrieved quiver running through his voice.

“Can you explain what it is that haunts your mind—you remember that you spoke of it this evening?” questioned James.

The trouble deepened in his eyes, and his voice took on a more fretful tone: “I do not know, I tell you the truth, I do not know—but it is something about that combination, and—Aunt Hattie; sometimes I can almost see it; but before I can quite grasp it, it is gone. I believe that I shall go insane, if I cannot get the thing off my mind.”

James reached over and laid his hand on the other’s shoulder affectionately: “Don’t worry, old fellow! It will all come out right! Did you ever try to bring the vision before you by concentrating your mind upon the fragment which you seem to catch—not at first trying to get any further—and thus ascertain how much of the shadow you can make real? When you have proved that the haunting remembrance is not wholly illusory, you can then step by step trace back to that which evades you. Henry obediently rested his head on the cushion, and drew a long breath or two like a tired sigh.

“Well, what do you see?” asked James eagerly.

He answered in the tone of a child repeating its lesson: “I see a bright light—” he started up excitedly: “I cannot see anything beyond except a moving shadow—Oh! It is myself that I see!” his voice expressive of intense surprise.

“Yes? What are you doing?” James asked, trembling with excitement.

“Standing in the middle of the room, repeating the combination aloud—over and over again, making Aunt Hattie repeat it after me.”

“Where is Aunt Hattie?”

“In her sitting room.”

“How do you see this?”

“It is like a picture! This is that which has eluded me for days—I see it plainly now.”

“Repeat the scene just as it has been enacted before.”

Henry slowly arose from his chair, and walked to the center of the room; here he paused undecidedly.

“Well, what is wrong?”

Very slowly he answered, “I do not know—I—do—not—know.”

James looked puzzled; at last he asked: “Do you mean that you cannot do again that which you have before accomplished—that some peculiar condition is wanting?”

Henry merely repeated helplessly, “I—do—not—know; it is all dark! I cannot find—Aunt—Hattie!” in tone of great distress.

James looked perplexed: “Sit down in your chair,” he said. Henry obeyed, and presently James awoke him; he stretched out his arms, yawning sleepily. “I feel awfully tired, suppose we go to bed!” Evidently he had no remembrance of the hypnotic sleep.

They at once retired; Henry sank immediately into a profound slumber, but James lay for a long time troubling over an idea which had taken possession of his mind. He did not believe Henry guilty of stealing the money, but he believed that he was shielding the person who did take it. Could it be Marjy? The thought made the cold sweat start out on his face; the next instant, when he remembered Marjy’s frank eyes as she appealed to him to try his hypnotic power over Henry, he felt ashamed of the thought; her idea was merely to tease Henry for his strenuous opposition to it, if he could be made to succumb to the influence; but James had an altogether different idea, which he did not mention; as I have said, he believed that Henry knew more about the money than he professed to know. Now, after his experiment, he was completely at a loss; he could form no opinion. He was surprised that he found him so easy a subject; it was perhaps owing to his mental depression, and consequent relaxation of will power.

James had said to Marjy that afternoon, “Perhaps Henry did take the money!”

“I know that he did not!” she answered hotly.

“How do you know that?”

“Just because I do know; I cannot explain how I know, but I know it!”

James, watching the flush in her cheek, was thinking how becoming a touch of anger was to her, but he laughed gayly as he replied: “Woman’s reason; logical of course; just because!”

This returned to him as he lay there too perplexed to sleep. “She is right about it; he did not take the money, or else he would have betrayed it; and this knocks my theory all to pieces, as well; he would have told if he knew who did take it. Confound the whole business! What is it to me, that I should worry over it?” He turned restlessly in the bed, trying to get to sleep.

Presently Henry began to mutter. James grumbled at this fresh annoyance. “I had best have stayed at home,” he said.

Henry lifted himself upon his elbow, whispering rapidly.

“That confounded combination!” exclaimed James in disgust, as he turned over to look at Henry; he caught his breath in surprise.

Slowly, slowly Henry arose, his lips moving rapidly, as a child repeats its lesson to impress it upon his mind. His eyes were widely opened, but with a curious introverted look; he stepped slowly forward, a look of concentration on his ghastly features; he walked to the center of the room exactly where he had before stood; there he paused as though listening: “Aunt Hattie! Aunt Hattie!” he called clearly and distinctly; although the tone was very low, as one speaks who is desirous of being heard by none save the person addressed.

James jumped out of bed, bringing his hands together softly. “I wonder if it is possible!” he cried, quivering with excitement; he hurried on his clothes and fairly flew down the stairs, and let himself into Aunt Hattie’s house.

As he passed the sitting room he cautiously pushed aside the _portières_. Aunt Hattie was on her knees before the safe, repeating the combination in almost exactly the tone in which Henry had spoken. James dashed up the stairs and knocked softly at Marjy’s door.

“Who’s there?” she called in a frightened tone.

“It’s I, James; open the door, Marjy; do not be frightened, but hurry!” Marjy opened the door as requested.

“Oh, what is it?” her voice trembling.

“Nothing which need frighten you. I have found the thief, come!”

Marjy had not disrobed, but was lying on the bed reading, and immediately followed him. He hastily whispered an explanation as they hurried down the stairs; in conclusion he said: “Now, I want you to watch auntie, and see just what she does; I will go back and watch Henry’s movements; he appears like a sleep walker, and auntie seems to be hypnotized. It’s a queer performance, take it as you will.”

Marjy was white and trembling; half afraid, and wholly excited. They drew aside the draperies, auntie had all the papers contained in the safe on the floor, and was now rummaging in every corner as though searching for some missing thing; muttering, muttering to herself all the time.