Part 13

As Phil left the stagecoach on his return home, three months later, he at once sought Mollie; he had received no letter from her during his absence, although he had repeatedly written. He knocked, and Mollie herself opened the door. Phil reached out his hand in glad greeting; she drew back coldly.

“Is there anything you wish, sir?” as she would address a stranger.

Phil’s face flushed hotly, then went deadly pale. He looked at her reproachfully.

“I think not,” he replied sadly, as he turned away.

With natures such as these a tragedy may occur unobserved by the bystander.

To Phil the sun seemed to have set, all looked so dark and gloomy. As he swung off over the lonely mountain trail, the gurgling water in the brook below seemed to mock him; the scent of the springing vegetation caused a feeling of irritation, his heart was so full of bitter disappointment.

Lonely and more lonely grew the way; no life save himself, he just a dark speck upon that yellow trail crawling up the mountain side. Even his panting breath seemed to disturb the dead calm, as he paused—taking off his hat—to look up to his cabin. He shaded his eyes, and looked eagerly. Only a blackened spot marked where his home—humble, but still a home—had stood. He looked higher up the side of the mountain to where the Mollie Branscome lay; he drew his breath sharply; where he had left a windlass and bucket, a frame shafthouse arose. The sharp spurt of steam rising on the fast chilling air denoted a perfectly set valve; he saw hurrying forms of men at work; he shut his teeth hard together, a fiery red spot rising in either cheek. He felt neither fatigue nor depression now; he breathed stertoriously as he toiled up the steep trail.

Sam was the first person that he met.

Phil pointed to a name above the shafthouse door: “The New Discovery.” “What does that mean?” he demanded hoarsely.

“What’s it to you?” answered Sam derisively.

Poor Phil! His blood seemed on fire. The sneer; the taunting look; it was like letting a brilliant light shine into a dark place; he knew by that ‘sixth sense,’ intuition, all the treachery of this false friend. He knew who had sent him upon a fool’s errand; he knew who had stolen his first claim, and had some accomplice mark the stake in a false name; a memory of his systematic sponging for more than half a year goaded him to madness; many, very many acts, before unconsidered, came to his mind fraught with meaning. The veins on his forehead stood out like purple cord, and he made a wild lunge at Sam. Sam turned to run; he stepped on a rolling stone and went down helplessly; he lay there glaring up at Phil, fear and vindictive hatred strangely blent in his gaze.

Phil stood over him like an avenger:

“So! You thought to rob me of this claim as you did of the other, did you?” his voice quivering hoarsely.

“You’ve got me down, now strike me!” answered Sam, his eyes glaring wildly, his teeth showing like those of a wild animal. “Yes, I did jump your claim; and I’ve got the papers to show for the Mollie Branscome; the Mollie Branscome! You thought you were awful sly, but I jumped that claim too; your letters to her put me on. She thinks you went East to marry your old love; _we_ are going to be married to-morrow night!” he cried tauntingly; he seemed to have gone insane with rage.

As Phil listened to him the fierce anger died out of his face, and contempt took its place; but he only ejaculated:

“You contemptible cur!” as he stepped back and folded his arms.

The workmen had gathered about, and stood in silent amazement; their looks seemed to anger Sam still more, and he continued his insane taunting:

“Oh, you wanted me to take care of your things, didn’t you? I took care of them, oh, yes!” and he thrust his tongue in his cheek derisively.

He had risen to his feet by this time, and stood leaning his back against the shafthouse. Phil stood a minute without speaking, pity struggling with contempt in his heart; finally he said slowly, and without a trace of anger:

“Well! You’re slopping over pretty freely. If you burned my cabin thinking to destroy my papers, you got left; I took them with me, and you must have forgotten that they are recorded. As to the other affair which you have tangled with your dirty fingers, I think that I can straighten that out all right. You are too contemptible to whip, but I advise you to make yourself scarce.”

“I believe he did burn that cabin, because no one has ever been inside of _his_ shack since the fire; probably he has some things there that he’d rather not have seen. I always thought that things looked mighty queer,” said big Cal Wagner.

“Let’s all quit work. I’ll not strike another stroke for the likes of ’im,” said Denny Colby.

“Say, aren’t you the fellow that took care of this skunk when he was hurt?” asked Cal.

“Yes,” tersely replied Phil.

“Well, you’d better git up and dust, you miserable apology for a man!” cried Cal, indignantly turning to Sam.

“And he made out that you had skipped the country, and that he bought the claim, so that you needn’t go dead broke. If he don’t leave it’s a necktie party we’ll be havin’!” added Denny Colby.

“Oh, let him alone, boys; he isn’t worth the rope it would take to hang him; upon my word I pity him, he is so _con_temptible that I don’t think he can enjoy his own company,” drawled Phil lazily.

Sam limped away unmolested, cursing wildly as far as they could hear him.

Phil turned from looking after him, and said to the men, “It makes me feel pretty sore, but I guess that he feels worse’n I do,” he added philosophically. After a few minutes he continued, “You might as well knock off for the rest of the day, I don’t suppose he will give me any trouble because he knows that I have the papers to prove my right. I’ll square whatever wages is coming to you as soon as I get things in good shape.”

A hearty grasp of the hand, and a ready acquiescence sealed the compact.

Phil swung himself down the mountain side in a much more joyous mood than when ascending.

He walked direct to Mollie’s house, and as before she opened the door; she started in surprise and anger; he did not wait for her to speak, but said in a determined tone, “You asked me this morning if there was anything that I wished, and not understanding the circumstances I said no; I have since learned some things which caused me to change my mind—Mollie, would you condemn me unheard?” reaching out both hands.

She, flushing and trembling, stood irresolute for one minute, then placed her hands in his.

“No, that would not be just; but why did you not write?”

“I did write several times, but could get no reply from you.”

“I wonder—” she commenced, but Phil cut the sentence short.

“Were you going to marry Sam, Mollie?”

“What an idea! That conceited thing!” answered Mollie indignantly.

They had entered the little parlor, and Phil caught her in his arms and said quizzically, “What about me?”

Just what Mollie answered I had best not repeat, but it seemed to be perfectly satisfactory, as he left the house an hour later, whistling as happily as a boy.

* * * * *

Just after dark Sam hurried into town, cursing his lameness and Phil, indiscriminately; he wanted to keep things square with Mollie, as he expressed it.

As he came near the house he observed that the little parlor was brilliantly lighted; his heart filled with exultation: “I’ll bet Mollie is expecting me! Let Phil keep his old claims; the girl is worth more than all of them; it will hurt him most to lose her, too. Of course it was all a lie about our going to be married; but I can get her all right, you bet there isn’t many women but that I could get!” with a ridiculous air of importance.

He knocked confidently, and was at once ushered into the midst of a number of guests. Coming as he did, from the darkness, the glare of the lights blinded him; but as he advanced into the room, Cal Wagner said, “We were waiting for you, sir. Please be seated.”

Turning to the group near the center of the room, he continued, “Reverend sir, this is the guest we were expecting; will you now proceed with the ceremony.”

Looking radiantly happy, Mollie and Phil took their places in front of the minister, and the solemn marriage service commenced.

Sam made a bolt for the door; but Cal’s great hand closed over his shoulder like a vise, and he was compelled to stand and see his last shred of revenge slip away from him, amid the happy smiles of those around him.

Then he crept out into the darkness, out of the ken of those who knew him, blaming everybody but himself, yet at war with himself and all the world, because he had not succeeded in ill-doing.

Phil said to his wife: “I am sorry for him; I wish he had been content to be my friend; I did like Sam.”

Of course there was not the slightest opposition to Phil’s assuming control of his own property, but his conscience troubled him because Sam had built the shafthouse: “I had much rather have paid him for it,” he remarked; but when later he learned that neither lumber nor labor were paid for, and all bought upon his credit, he had no more regrets.

A TALE OF THE X RAY.

Christopher Hembold had a mania for experimenting.

He had tried everything from hypnotism to electricity, when the “X” ray was first talked about. He could think or talk of nothing else; he perused every magazine and paper with greedy avidity in search of articles concerning it.

“Christopher, do put that paper down and eat your breakfast,” said his wife.

Mrs. Hembold was a nervous little woman, and it annoyed her to hear the newspaper rattle, and she disliked to have it held so as to hide her Christopher from view.

“But, Maria, just listen, here’s more about that wonderful discovery—” he exclaimed excitedly.

“Christopher Hembold! Eat your breakfast! I care much more that the steak and coffee are getting cold than I do for that nonsense.”

“You have no sympathy, Maria; the mysteries of science are beyond your appreciation!” he exclaimed, as he folded the paper in dignified displeasure.

“Appreciate fiddlesticks!” angrily retorted Maria, stirring her coffee vigorously.

Said Christopher, the next morning at the breakfast table:

“Maria, I am going to Abbeyville on business, and shall in all probability be detained a month.”

“What business have you in Abbeyville?” asked Maria in surprise.

“It is business of a private nature, which you wouldn’t understand,” answered he loftily.

“Which is a polite way of telling me that it is none of my business,” retorted Maria in a huff.

Christopher left the house in dignified anger; his portly figure and handsome profile the admiration of his wrathful wife. The fact was, he did not wish to talk; he had determined that he would investigate the “X” ray to his own satisfaction. A certain idea haunted him by day, and mingled with his dreams at night; it thrust itself between him and the long columns in the ledger; until, with a finger on the figures, he would fix his eyes on vacancy, and go off into a deep study.

At last Mr. Brown, his employer, said to him:

“What is the matter with you Christopher? Are you ill?”

“No—yes—not very,” answered Christopher confusedly.

“You had better take a layoff until you feel better,” said Brown; adding mentally, “You are of no use here; you’ll mix those accounts until it will take an expert a week to straighten them.”

Christopher packed his grip with a sigh of satisfaction, and left home on the evening train.

Maria gave a little regretful sigh. “He might have kissed me; he didn’t even say good-by.”

She presently began thinking how preoccupied he looked, and how strange he had acted.

“I do wonder if he was in trouble! I ought not have been so cross, but he should have told me; so there!” After a minute of troubled thought, she added: “Perhaps he didn’t want to worry me.”

Whenever Christopher was present she must give him a dig as often as the opportunity occurred; but no sooner was he away than all his good qualities became apparent.

Instead of stopping at Abbeyville, Christopher hastened on to a city more than a thousand miles away. “I’ll just call myself John Smith, and I shall not be bothered while making my investigations,” said he complacently.

The next morning after his arrival he sought out the noted Professor Blank, and at some length explained his project; in conclusion he said:

“You understand that I wish to be cathodographed many times; the working of the brain has always been a tantalizing puzzle to me. What I wish to search out is, how the different emotions affect the gray matter; for instance, it is claimed that this bump is combativeness;” placing his hand on the region indicated. “It is also claimed that all qualities, whether good or bad, are capable of being cultivated; that the bump indicating that trait or quality grows perceptibly larger; well, then, the substance known as gray matter must undergo a change; whenever that emotion is unduly excited, the gray matter must quiver, vibrate; in fact change position. Have you never felt as though your brain must burst with the intensity of emotion? I have; and am eager to test it with the ‘X’ ray.” He paused as though for an answer, but receiving none, continued: “Now in order to test this, I wish to subject myself to every possible emotion, and in every change be photographed.”

The professor smiled incredulously.

“How are you to obtain these changes of mood? Such emotions usually come without our choosing.”

“True! Well, I shall endeavor to create the emotion as I wish it.”

The professor laughed aloud. “I think under such conditions that the emotion would be altogether too tame to have a visible effect on the brain.”

Christopher resented the laughter: “Perhaps you are not willing to assist me in making my experiments?” he questioned angrily.

“Oh, yes; perfectly willing,” was the smiling answer.

“Now, look here! I wish to investigate this carefully, and I’m willing and able to pay your price; but I’ll not be ridiculed sir, I’m no boy, I’ll have you understand!”

“No, of course not,” answered the professor soothingly, he thought him a mild lunatic; really he seemed half insane; no matter what reply the professor made, he grew more wroth, until he, out of all patience, said angrily: “What is the matter with you? You act like a maniac!”

“Quick! Quick! Photograph me!” cried Christopher, with livid lips.

“Well, well!” exclaimed the professor in astonishment, as he hastily complied with the request; after which Christopher sank back, pale and trembling.

The professor looked at him admiringly: “How did you accomplish it?”

“Oh, I don’t know; I just let go of the strings;” smiling faintly.

Thus he went through the whole scale of emotions; he was taken while under the influence of anæsthetics; in a placid mood; in a moment of most uproarious hilarity; in the depths of despondency; in languishing amorousness; in fact, in all conceivable moods of the human mind. He seemed to possess the strange faculty of producing any desired emotion at will.

After he had exhausted all moods, he one day stood gazing meditatively, and rather sadly at the plates.

“Are you not satisfied?” asked the professor.

Christopher sighed deeply: “No, I cannot say that I am; it is certainly shown that there is a change, the exact nature of which is by no means clearly defined. Some future discovery will, I am sure, enable the scientist to see the action of the brain as plainly as we now know the action of the heart.”

He nervously ran his fingers through his hair while speaking; he withdrew his hand with an exclamation of horror: it was covered with hairs and a cloud of the same enveloped him.

“Heaven! Is all my hair falling out?” he cried in dismay.

The professor calmly observed: “I have noticed it for some time; when you first came your mustache and eyebrows were very thick and long, but have been gradually thinning, I thought several times that I would speak of it, but we have had so much else to talk about, and the most of your moods have been so peculiar—” he smiled as he paused.

“Oh, it’s all right for you to laugh! You wouldn’t if you were in my shoes! Whatever will Maria say?”

He stood ruefully looking at his reflection in the mirror. “I look like a kid!” said he scornfully. “I have been so busy with this confounded foolishness that I did not think of looking in a glass. Pshaw! I’m going to drop this nonsense and go home; I know that my wife is worried about me before this time. I haven’t written to her since I came here. I didn’t want her to know what I was doing.”

“You ought to have told her, though,” said the professor.

“You don’t know Maria!” said Christopher sadly. “Confound it! How my head aches! Now that I take time to think of it, I know that it has ached for a week.”

The following morning Christopher was very ill, and was not able to leave his room for weeks. When at last he arose, he giddily crossed the room to the mirror, and looked at himself; he sank into a chair with a groan; not a vestige of hair remained on head or face.

He covered his long, leathery face with his hands, and cried aloud: “I look like a great big sole-leather baby! Whatever will Maria say! I’ll never tell her that it is the effect of that confounded “X” ray; if I did I should never hear the last of it; I’ve been sick, I am sick—sick of the whole business.”

Meanwhile at home, Maria had at first reproached herself with her irritability, and finished by writing Christopher a loving, and penitent little note, which she sent to Abbeyville. Of course she received no reply.

“He must have been very angry,” she sobbingly exclaimed.

She wrote again, a still more penitent and pleading letter; this not being answered, she became very indignant.

“If he wants to be so awfully huffy, let him!” she said wrathfully; but when a whole month passed, and no tidings came as to his whereabouts, she became alarmed, and began to institute cautious inquiries.

Of course, all search proved unavailing, and Maria wept and mourned her Christopher as dead.

Nearly five months from the day he left his home, Christopher wearily climbed the front steps of his own residence, and rang the bell. His clothing hung loosely on his gaunt limbs; his long, thin face was the color of leather; his eyes, devoid of lashes, and without eyebrows, looked perfectly lifeless.

Hannah, an old servant in the family, opened the door.

“If you want food go to the rear door,” she cried sharply, as she shut him out unceremoniously.

He sat down on the upper step, pale and trembling.

“What does Hannah mean by insulting me thus? Can it be that Maria is so angry that she has ordered the servants to refuse me admittance?”

He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, although the air was frosty and nipping. Presently he muttered to himself: “I’ll just stay around until Maria comes out, then I’ll persuade her to forgive me. I’ve acted the fool, that’s sure.”

He walked up and down the street, and hung around corners, until the whole neighborhood were watching him.

About three in the afternoon, Maria came out of the house dressed in the deepest of mourning.

“I wonder who is dead; must be her father!” he shambled up to her, and laid his hand on her arm. “Ma—” he began; she gave a frightened scream, and started to run; he clutched her more frantically, and cried wildly: “Listen to me! you shall listen to me!”

She screamed again at the top of her voice: “Help! Murder! Police!”

A gentleman coming toward them, rushed up, and gave Christopher a stunning blow; Maria tore herself loose at the expense of much crape; ran back into the house, and locked the door after herself.

Christopher arose from the sidewalk and shuffled off down the street, muttering maledictions as he went. “It’s all a conspiracy! She has got another lover, and thinks to get rid of me; she’ll find that she can’t do it so easily. I’ll wait until dark, and then let myself in with my latchkey; we’ll see whether I am master in my own house or not.”

He paced the street angrily until nightfall; stationing himself opposite, he then watched the house until all was dark and silent. Still another hour he waited: “I’ll be sure that the servants are asleep, evidently they have orders to put me out, or Hannah would not have ordered me off as she did. I’ll show them that they will not get the best of Christopher Hembold yet.”

About eleven o’clock he cautiously crept up the steps, and as cautiously let himself in; just within he removed his boots; then carefully groped his way to Maria’s room. Her door was unlocked, and by the dim light of the night lamp he saw her round white arm thrown above her head, thus framing her delicate face; the lace on her night robe rising and falling with every breath.

A rush of love and tenderness came over him; this was his Maria—the dainty bride whom he had transplanted from her father’s home; he knelt beside the bed, enfolding her in his arms, and pressed a passionate kiss upon her half-parted lips. She opened wide her affrighted eyes; she struggled wildly, letting out one piercing shriek, then fainted. The half-clad servants came running into the room, finding Christopher on his knees beside the bed, chafing Maria’s hands, kissing her pale face, and fondly calling her: “My love! My little one!”

Thomas, the coachman, seized him by the shoulders; Maria regaining consciousness, began screaming again; Hannah added to the confusion by crying excitedly, “Throw him out! Call the police! The man is crazy!” Thomas obeyed the first command; he dragged Christopher down the stairs, opened the door, and kicked him out, and down the steps.

He lay there a few minutes, completely bewildered. Just as he was struggling to his feet, a policeman came along, and seeing his bewildered condition, his shoeless feet, and battered appearance, laid his hand roughly on his shoulder, and said to him: “What are you doing here?”

“This is my home. I am Christopher Hembold!” answered he.

The policeman laughed: “Oh, come off! This is the home of the Widow Hembold, all right; but you look about as much like the defunct Christopher as a yellow cur resembles a King Charles spaniel.”

Christopher tried to jerk away. “Let me alone!” he cried angrily.

“Will I?” said the burly policeman. “Where are your boots?” continued he.

“In the house, if it is any of your business,” was the surly reply.

The tumult within the house still continued; lights were carried from room to room, and flashed weirdly up and down the stairs. Thomas came hurriedly out of the door, kicking Christopher’s boots into the street as he ran down the steps.

“Hello!” says the policeman: “What’s the matter in there?”

“Some burglar, or lunatic let himself into the house, and into Mrs. Hembold’s room; and she’s gone into hysterics; I’m going after Dr. Philbrick.”

“Let me go! Let go of me! I’m going into the house—to my wife!” said Christopher, struggling wildly.

“You are going to the station, and if you don’t go decently, I’ll call the patrol;” and call the patrol he did.