Part 14

Christopher fought like a fury, but in spite of it he was loaded into the wagon between two burly promoters of the peace and carried to the station, where he raved like a madman all night. The next morning they had him up for drunk and disorderly. In vain he protested that he had not touched liquor, and declared that his name was Christopher Hembold. No one believed him, so he got fifteen days, and the next morning saw him marched out with the chain gang to work on the street. He had quieted down by this time, and had determined what to do; he watched his opportunity until the overseer’s back was turned toward him; all the rest of the gang except his mate also faced the opposite way. He slipped a dollar into his mate’s willing palm. “You will not see me leave; look the other way.” He obeyed, and Christopher hurried down a side street, walked swiftly through a front gate into a private yard, out through a rear gate into an alley, and was lost to the chain gang.

He went direct to his lawyers. Mr. Hurd, the senior member of the firm, was seated at his desk when Christopher entered; he scarcely looked up at his salutation: “Good-morning Mr. Hurd.”

The lawyer barely nodded his head, and continued his writing; after several minutes, observing Christopher still standing: “Well, sir! Have you business with me?” evidently not favorably impressed by his visitor’s appearance.

“Don’t you know me, Mr. Hurd?”

The lawyer looked him over in cynical surprise: “Can’t say that I ever saw you before.”

“You ought to know Christopher Hembold?” interrogatively.

“Yes, sir; I knew him well; good fellow, but a little cracked in the upper story.”

He returned to his writing, evidently considering the matter disposed of; after a long time Christopher, still smarting from Mr. Hurd’s contemptuous remark, said: “Well?” in a questioning tone.

Mr. Hurd looked up in displeasure. “Please state your business; my time is limited,” he said.

Christopher flushed a sickly green over all his yellow face. “Mr. Hurd, I came to you to have you intercede for me with my wife; she will not allow me to speak to her, and caused the servants to throw me out of the house.”

The lawyer held up his hand: “First, if you wish me to take your case, I must receive a retainer; I do business in no other way.”

Christopher opened his lashless eyes in a grotesque stare. “Sir! You have all of my business in your hands, and have had it for years,” answered he angrily.

Mr. Hurd turned around in his office chair, and gave his caller an angry look; he touched the button at his side; a colored servant came instantly.

“James, show this man out.” Turning to Christopher he said:

“I have no time to be bothered with such nonsense. The idea of your trying to palm yourself off for Christopher Hembold!” he cried, with withering contempt.

Christopher stalked out of the office in a rage. He went direct to his room at the hotel; he threw himself into a chair, and buried his face in his hands; his attitude expressed the utmost dejection; after a time he arose and stood before the mirror:

“Is it possible that Maria did not know me?” he looked at himself scornfully: “Who would know you? You old, yellow-faced, putty baby, you!” he apostrophized, shaking his fist at his reflection. “Serves you right; serves you right, you old idiot! Fool with the ‘X’ ray, will you, trying to find out if you do know anything? I can tell you that you are a fool. Fool! fool!” he cried tragically.

After a time he calmed down, and taking out his purse counted the contents.

There is something akin to the ridiculous in the near association of pathos and money; they are very near neighbors, however. Christopher sighed deeply: “This is all I have left, and—when my lawyer will not acknowledge my identity, what am I to do?” He drummed impatiently upon the table with his fingers; finally he started up excitedly: “Of course! Good Lord! why didn’t I think of that!”

He hauled his gripsack into the middle of the room; shirts and socks flew right and left, until he found the cathodographs, also a photograph taken just previous to his experimenting; he took them out, and placed them in a row; taking the photograph, he walked to the mirror and compared it with the reflection.

“I don’t wonder that no one knew you, you old scarecrow, you!” glaring angrily at his double.

The next morning he again sought Mr. Hurd; the lawyer turned angrily upon his entrance: “I do not wish to be bothered, sir,” motioning toward the door.

Christopher was not to be put off in this manner; he walked up to the desk, and laid down the pictures he had brought.

“Will you be kind enough to look at these?” asked Christopher in a quivering voice.

Mr. Hurd glanced at them impatiently: “Well! What of them?”

“You know this one as representing Christopher Hembold?” he asked eagerly, with his finger on the photograph spoken of.

“Yes, of course; what of that? it does not resemble you,” curtly.

“But I sat for every one of those pictures,” despondently; the hope which he had cherished dying within his heart.

“Oh, stuff, nonsense!” scornfully ejaculated Mr. Hurd. Christopher’s head fell forward on his breast; he looked the picture of despair. His clothing hung loosely upon his long, gaunt limbs; his hands, much too large for the bony wrists, dropped nervelessly at his side; his lifeless eyes, his hollow cheeks, looked as though the great Conqueror had already claimed him, while still permitting him to roam the earth for some inscrutable purpose.

Mr. Hurd, having little sentiment, thought only of his annoyance. “Will you please remove that litter from the desk,” he said.

Christopher made one more appeal: “Will you write to Professor Blank, and find whether these pictures were taken from my sittings?” he asked supplicatingly.

“I will not be bothered with it, I tell you; write for yourself,” he answered roughly.

“I will,” said Christopher, with vexed decision, then occurred to him the thought; Professor Blank knew him as Smith only. He gathered the photographs up hastily, and rushed out of the house. “I’ve a notion to drown my fool self! Oh, what shall I do! Was ever any one in such a predicament!” he cried aloud. Everyone turned to look at him as he ran past them.

“Hello, Smith! Where are you going in such a rush? What is the matter with you?” cried a familiar voice in his very ear.

Christopher gave a great shout; then began to cry like a veritable baby, as he grasped the professor’s hands. “I was going to drown myself; you have saved my life,” and he fairly blubbered.

“Smith, you are as crazy as you are bald-headed,” laughingly said the professor.

“Don’t call me _Smith_! My name is Christopher Hembold,” he said excitedly.

“I only know that you called yourself Smith.”

“Yes; it’s surprising what a fool a man can make of himself,” dejectedly.

He took the photographs from his pocket, and said entreatingly: “Say, professor, do go with me to my lawyer, and tell him that you took these with the ‘X’ ray, and _don’t_ say anything about _Smith_;” this last in a tone of intense disgust.

They were just entering a park, and seated themselves on a bench, while Christopher told the whole story. The professor laughed, even as he said: “I’m sorry for you, and will help you all I can.”

Once more Christopher climbed the stairs to the lawyer’s office. Mr. Hurd arose to his feet wrathfully. “You are the most persistent annoyance that I ever met——”

Christopher interrupted him: “Mr. Hurd, allow me to introduce to you the eminent Professor Blank.”

The lawyer jerked his head slightly, attaching no importance to the name. The Professor bowed courteously, at the same time handing him his card.

As Mr. Hurd glanced at the bit of pasteboard, his manner underwent a great change: “Please be seated,” said he urbanely.

Professor Blank bowed again: “This gentleman requested me to accompany him to your office, to testify that I took these cathodographs of him with the ‘X’ ray. This represents him as he appeared when I first saw him,” laying the photograph on the desk: “After having the last of the cathodographs taken he was very ill for a long time; his hair had nearly all fallen before his illness, and during that illness he became emaciated as you see him.”

Mr. Hurd stood gazing from Christopher to the photograph, and back again in amazement.

“But what took his hair off?”

“Oh, the ‘X’ ray; it sometimes has that effect,” said the professor calmly.

Mr. Hurd turned to Christopher: “You don’t mean to tell me—” he paused eloquently.

“Yes, I was experimenting with the ‘X’ ray—having my brain cathodographed,” he answered humbly.

Maria had entered unperceived: “You mean that you had your skull pictured; you haven’t any brain, Christopher; the ‘X’ ray makes but a slight shadow of soft substances, and none of a vacuum,” said she sweetly.

Said Christopher, in an aside to the professor:

“I told you that you didn’t know my Maria! My! Won’t I catch it, though!”

AN AVERTED TRAGEDY.

Merna Wood stood leaning against the jamb in the open doorway.

The morning-glory vines made a very effective draping for a very pretty picture; the attitude was the acme of indolence, which an indescribable expression of alertness belied.

Ned Glover was standing below, his face just on a level with hers; he was looking at her laughingly—in fact he was nearly always laughing—and Merna was never certain that he meant one-half that he was saying, which at this moment was: “Yes; I am going to buy a nice little home, and I want a housekeeper; will you come?”

Merna tossed her head saucily: “I do not intend to go out to service this summer,” she replied.

“If I must do so, I will hire some one to do the work, and have my wife oversee it. Will you come as my wife, Merna?”

Merna flushed rosily, she was not yet sure that he was in earnest, so she replied lightly, “Oh, you are just funning, as the children say.”

He tried to draw his face into lines of seriousness, but his bright blue eyes would twinkle, he was so jolly that it was impossible for him to assume an expression of severe gravity.

He caught her face in both his large palms, and kissed her fondly: “Say yes! Say yes, I tell you!” he whispered forcefully.

“Yes! Yes! Let me go, Ned, mother is looking!”

“Well, mother has a perfect right to look; we do not care!” his face one broad laugh.

Ned was from this time—of course—a privileged visitor; always pleasant, and in a manner affectionate, yet no more loverlike than before their engagement. The tender nonsense that helps to make courtship so sweet; the airs of possession on one side, and of loving subjection on the other, the happy planning by both for the future, seemed to be entirely forgotten.

Love is a magician who fits the eyes with a deceptive lens; but not even through love’s magnifying could Merna find tangible ground for rosy dreams; she was not exactly unhappy, neither was she quite satisfied. She took herself to task for being so foolish—just because of the lack of definite words—but he seemed to have forgotten the engagement altogether, as he made not the slightest allusion to it. It made Merna’s face burn whenever she thought of it: “I do wonder if he was just making game of me, trying to ascertain what answer I would give him! Oh, I wish that I had have said no—Oh, I do not know what I do wish!” angry tears filling her eyes as she thought.

Ned came as usual one evening, and remained until very late; once, as she was passing him, she rested her hand upon the table, and leaned toward him in the act of speaking; he covered the hand with his warm palm, and his breath swept her cheek as he whispered: “I wish that I had you all to myself in a nice little home of our own!”

Her radiant eyes answered him, and she bent her head until her cheek touched his caressing lips.

As he was bidding her good-night, he caught her in his arms, saying over and over again, “I do love you, Merna! You are the sweetest little woman on the face of the earth!”

Her face was filled with happiness, and her eyes glowed with tender light; but she laughingly put her hand over his lips: “I imagine that is what you call ‘taffy’!”

He held her closely for a moment, his voice growing low and earnest: “Little one, I mean every word that I say! I do love you—and if only circumstances—well, never mind that talk, but believe that I truly love you!”

She sat in the moonlight thinking for a long time after he left; what was there in that closing speech which sent a chill over her? Only this—love is said to be blind—as to worldly judgment this is true; but love’s intuition of love grows keen with the development of the passion. She felt that she ought to be happy, but she was not—that is—not so very happy; little thrilling thoughts ran through her mind deliciously, then a cold wave of doubt, casting a chill over her spirits. A woman is flattered and pleased if a man makes her a sharer of his secrets, whether of business or otherwise; she thus knows that he fully trusts her love and judgment, and she holds it a sacred charge. She thought uneasily that she could have no fond anticipations with any certainty of their proving a reality. Whatever she built must be the very airiest kind of an air castle, its only foundation an engagement which seemed like a burlesque. Vague allusions, or even words of endearment do not form a very tangible ground upon which to build.

A restless sigh escaped her lips: “I wish——” The unfinished sentence ended with another sigh.

The next evening she waited for Ned in a state of impatient restlessness, she had determined to have a nice long talk with him, although she was not in anywise certain as to what she would say; she thought she would lead him to talk of the future, and the home of which he had spoken; she wondered if he would talk of it frankly, or would he evade her questions as he so often had done, as though he did not comprehend her remark.

She watched the clock anxiously; she walked down the path to the gate a dozen times; she took up her embroidery, set a half-dozen stitches, and laid it down in disgust; she took a book instead, turned a page or two without comprehending a word and tossed it aside with an exclamation of impatience, to restlessly drum on the window.

“Merna, what ails you?” asked her mother querulously.

“Oh, my head aches,” was the evasive reply.

“You had best go to bed; you make me nervous, fidgeting around so!”

“It is too early to go to bed! I’ll go out in the air a little while—perhaps that will help my head,” answered Merna.

“Merna Wood, you have been down to that gate about a dozen times; why don’t you be honest, and say that you are looking for Ned!” half in derision, and a trifle crossly, retorted her mother.

Merna answered with mock humility: “Yes’m, I’ll confess, if you will not be cross. Oh, mamsy, I wish he would come; there is something I wish to say to him!” she kneeled down with her head on her mother’s knee, like a little child.

Her mother replied laughingly: “It appears to me that you do usually have something to say to him,” but her hand wandered caressingly through the soft, bright hair; thus evidencing her sympathy.

He did not come that night nor the next, and for three almost unending months Merna neither heard from nor of him; then incidentally, she heard that he was gone, but where her informant did not know.

Gone without so much as a word to her!

She shut her grief within her heart and went about her duties but with the subtle essence of hope and faith taken out of her life—she thought forever—she had little idea how elastic is hope; faith is more ethereal, hope has tough fibre.

When her mother would have sympathized with her, she made light of it: “I don’t care! If he wants to stay away, he can; don’t you fret about me, mamsy!” But mamsy was not in the least deceived.

A year swept by, and Merna had become less restless, more submissive to that which she deemed the inevitable; it is a mercy that time casts so tender a haze over all things.

Ned had written no letter to her; at first she grieved, but latterly she had grown indignant.

“Why do you not accept other company?” said her mother.

“Oh, I don’t care for them; they are not nice, mamsy.”

“You are a very foolish little girl to waste your affections upon one who cares so little,” said her mother.

“Now, mamsy, I am not wasting a particle of anything. As for Ned Glover, I hate him!”

Her mother laughed, but said no more, trusting to time to effect a cure.

* * * * *

It was a lovely evening in June; the wind softly fluttered the thin curtains at the open window bringing in the odor of the roses which grew just outside. Merna sat in a low rocker just within, her arms thrown above her head, her book lying unheeded upon her lap; she was so absorbed in reverie that she heard no sound, and a sudden darkening of the window startled her.

Resting his arms on the window ledge, Ned stood regarding her quizzically: “Are you too sleepy to say ‘how do you do?’ How I do wish for a kodak!” precisely as though he had not been gone a day.

Merna started up with a subdued exclamation, and before she realized it she was smiling up into his laughing face.

How often she had thought of this meeting—_if_ he should return—and pictured to herself the cool, indifferent air with which she would greet him; instead, she was laughing and chatting as merrily as though there had been no break in their intercourse.

He resumed precisely his former position; he made just the same vague, intangible allusions, without one word upon which to place a hope securely. Merna seemed plastic in his hands—and what was there to resist, or to resent? Nothing—perhaps; yet Merna lost her healthful calm, and grew restless and irritable; one cannot successfully resist the intangible, or do battle with the wind. His alternate tenderness, and good-natured indifference filled her with restless longing; she wished that he would be more explicit, or go away and leave her alone; she thought resentfully that it was unjust that because of her sex she must utter no word to further her own happiness; and because custom ordered it, she must take the crumbs offered to her, or go altogether hungry; she must have no voice in shaping her future beyond an assent or denial. Oh, yes; to be sure! There are a thousand ways in which a woman may signify her preference, but it would be very shocking if she should put it into words, unless the man asked her to do so! It looks for all the world like putting a premium upon intrigue.

Her girlish friends exchanging confidences, rallied her about her beau: “Oh, Merna, when are you going to be married?”

“Just as soon as I can find a man who will marry me,” retorted she, but she flushed painfully.

“Oh don’t cheat! Tell us all about it!”

“There is nothing to tell,” replied Merna looking distressed.

A wild chorus of dissent greeted this reply; as soon as possible Merna slipped away to cry out her grief and mortification. She thought that every one of them was laughing at her because of her uncertainty regarding her lover.

Ned certainly had no such feelings; he took everything for granted in a laughing, off-hand way, not to be resisted; he came continually, he monopolized her completely; he spoke to her, and of her as belonging to him, but always in that laughing way which left the impression of a joke; he did not say, such a day we will be married; such a place will be our home; he said instead: “You belong to me; you could not get away from me if you tried; I should find you, I shall always know where you are.”

This was all very sweet, but—very unsatisfying. He was strong, masterful, laughingly dominant; but he was also either very thoughtless, or very secretive.

He made no allusion to the time of his absence except once; he had that evening been unusually demonstrative, and Merna—from some remark made by him—felt emboldened to ask: “Where were you while so long absent?”

“Oh, a dozen places. I can’t tell you—things get so mixed up sometimes that I don’t know what I’m about myself,” he replied evasively.

“You might have written,” said Merna quietly, it almost seemed indifferently.

“Yes, I know—in fact I meant to, but—I hate to write letters, and there was nothing that you would care to know—” he broke off abruptly, as though he did not wish to betray himself.

“No, of course not,” answered Merna, with quiet sarcasm; she felt hurt and indignant, but was altogether too proud to show it.

Although Merna made no further mention of it, he seemed to feel ashamed of his neglect, and repeatedly said: “I will never leave again, without telling you that I am going;” so that in this respect she felt a greater assurance; but he spent the evening with her as usual, and in the usual manner bid her good-night, and she saw him no more for three years.

Sad changes came to Merna during this interval; her mother, long a widow, sickened and died. Merna’s grief was beyond words—beyond thought even; it benumbed all her senses. The home which she had thought her own was taken from her—unjustly—but what did that matter? She was alone, and as ignorant of law as a babe. Poor child! She thought that it did not matter, that nothing mattered, now that the gentle face of her mother had faded out of life; she felt that she could no longer live within those memory-haunted walls. During all these sad days she heard nothing from Ned, and her heart cried out piteously: “Oh, if he truly loved me he would not leave me to bear my burdens alone.” These hard realities took away all the lingering grace of girlhood, but added the charm and poise of sweet, self-reliant womanhood.

In these old towns, where people are born, live, and die in the same old house, generation after generation; where the ways are peaceful and narrow; where people drift along, content with no innovations of knowledge, or new ways brought from the bustling, outside world, there develops an aristocracy peculiarly its own, and those not within its old-fashioned circle can scarcely obtain a living. Not to own the home which their ancestors owned is looked upon as a disgrace; and owning it, to part with it, though the misfortune is not through fault of the owner—is considered a greater disgrace, for which there could be no extenuation. Merna very keenly realized that she was under the ban of social ostracism. She left this, her native place, for a town, newer and busier, where work was to be had for such unskilled hands as hers.

Being wholly inexperienced in the ways of the world, as well as in labor, Merna found it hard to obtain the means of subsistence; she was a woman fair to look upon, and alone, therefore her path was beset with peril; but she was able to retain her own self-respect—that most truthful of all commendation—she was possessed of too much native refinement to be led into the vulgarity of evil ways, or seduced from right by fluent sophistries.

* * * * *

One blustering day, when the wind shrieked around the street corners, and carried onward clouds of fine, penetrating dust, intermingled with the falling snow, whirling both into every opened doorway with malicious violence, a man wrapped in a great, shaggy overcoat, opened the door of the little store kept by Merna. There had been no customers all the morning; unless otherwise compelled, all were glad to remain within doors.

Merna came from the sitting room in the rear, and walked behind the counter awaiting her customer’s pleasure; with his back toward her, he had taken off his fur cap, and was knocking out the snow against the door. Something familiar in the movements and attitude gave her a start, but it was not until he had unbuttoned his coat, and turned toward her, that she really recognized him; he walked to the counter, reaching out both hands, his blond face one broad smile. It was Ned—stalwart, hearty, and as usual—laughing.