Part 8

Old Mounse was a besotted beggar round town who had arrived at the state where the rims of his eyelids appeared to be turned inside out and resembled raw beefsteak. The landlady, who was somewhat more compassionate than her worser half, fearing that Boydell might die on her hands, had sent up old Mounse, an hour ago, with a little gruel which he had swallowed himself, and was then peacefully snoring in the corner.

We sent immediately for a physician, and employed ourselves in having Boydell removed to another apartment, where, at least, he might escape being broiled to death by the sun, or devoured by flies. When the doctor arrived, we had him fixed in quite comfortable quarters. Boydell’s disease, as we feared, was a severe form of the typhoid fever. From the lifeless stupor, he suddenly broke into the wild ravings of delirium, so that our combined strength could hardly avail to keep him upon the bed.

We reinstated old Mounse on his watch, only with strict orders that the granulated eyelids were to be kept wide open. Old Mounse was one of those rare persons with the _delirium tremens_, who had hovered on the verge of dissolution for thirty years, and still lived along. Palsied and feeble, and crippled and unshaven, and dirty and whiny, he just managed to keep himself on this side of the grave. The adjective “old,” which had become a prefix to his name, could not have been better applied, for his clothes, too, were ready at any moment to keep him company and return to their original element. Old Mounse’s one merit was, he had become so aged that he could just do what he was told and nothing more. The case had assumed altogether a new aspect to him, now that Boydell seemed to have friends.

Every day the doctor reported the condition of his patient, which grew more and more unfavorable, until one morning he came and told us he thought Boydell had not over twenty-four hours to live. We went immediately to the tavern with him. Boydell, for the first time since his illness, was perfectly conscious. Here, in the silence of this barren room, unhallowed by the presence of sorrowing ones, the wild, reckless life was drawing to a close. It seemed as if the specter hands of death were already stretched out to snap the last binding thread. The face on the pillow, haggard and ghastly with its hollow cheeks, very little resembled the one over which that weary, indefinable expression, the shadow, the forerunner of the fever, had crept but three weeks ago. Boydell recognized me, and motioned to a chair beside the bed. He made two or three efforts before he spoke.

“I am going to die—”

We could only answer by silence. It was something terrible to see this strong man, now weaker than an infant, lie calmly on the brink of eternity; even old Mounse dropped his beefy lids, and drew back with a subdued sniffle of awe. We asked if there was any thing that he wished done. After a little he turned his head that his voice might the better reach us.

“I have relatives—it will not matter to them that I am gone; they hold themselves up in the world; it will only be a disgrace wiped out; but—I would like them to know, and when I am dead, why—I wish you would please write to—to my brother. I have not heard from him for nearly fifteen years.”

He closed his eyes, and seemed to dream, but presently roused himself, and looked anxiously about the room.

“There was something else—oh, yes. Tell him that—I am gone. He is rector of St. Paul’s Church, S——, Lower Canada.” He paused and then said slowly, as though repeating his words for the first time, “It is no matter—but tell him I am—dead.”

He felt up and down the seam of the quilt feebly with his fingers, then closed his eyes again in unconsciousness.

All day the dread phantom hands seemed to hover closer to that quivering thread of life, until sometimes we almost thought it broken; but at nightfall they receded, and the shred strengthened. There was a change for the better, and Boydell fell into soft, natural slumber.

Several days after this it occurred to me that if Boydell had relatives in Canada who were well off, they ought to help him in his time of need. Without making him or any one else acquainted with my intention, I wrote a letter setting forth Boydell’s illness and utterly destitute condition among strangers. As they held no communication with Boydell, they would hardly be willing to send him the money. I was unknown, and to assure them it was no imposition, I wrote if they wished to send any assistance, direct “To the Pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, M——, Illinois.”

About a week later that minister came to me and showed a letter post-marked S——, which contained a check for three hundred dollars. It specified that the money was to be given to Boydell only on condition that he would promise to renounce the stage forever, and so soon as he was able to travel, come home to his relatives. I felt delighted at the success of my plan, for of course he would accept the money, and whether he fulfilled his promise afterwards by renouncing the stage and going home to Canada, which would be extremely doubtful, I considered was no business of mine.

When we entered his room, Boydell was propped up almost in a sitting posture by pillows. The window-shutter had been thrown partly open to admit the air, and a narrow streak of sunlight fell across the bed. We told him of the good news, and after we had made him understand how it had all come about, read the letter aloud. He listened in perfect silence, without changing position, and when it was finished, took the check and said,—

“Three hundred dollars?”

“Yes,” we said, “it is three hundred dollars.”

He held the slip of paper in his emaciated hands, that trembled with weakness, and repeated,—

“Three hundred dollars—”

He seemed trying to convince himself of its reality; but suddenly a bewildered expression broke over his face, and he looked from the check to the letter, which still laid open. We asked Boydell if he wished to hear it again, but at the second reading his bewilderment only seemed to increase. He looked at us with an inquiring gaze that wandered round the bare, desolate room, and settled on the strip of blue sky in the window. Then he said, as if asking himself the question,—

“Give up the stage? Renounce the stage?”

His eyes came back to the money in his hand. Presently he folded it up, pressing the creases with his thin fingers, and slowly holding it out, shook his head saying,—

“Send it back.”

The ribbon of sunlight had crept further and further round until it stretched itself across the broad, white forehead, and we stood in greater awe than when the angel of death had hovered there. Suddenly before us a dazzling ray had flashed out from the black waste of that sinful life. The unbroken check went back to Canada.

A month later I was riding in the country. A purple light overhung the shadowy prairie, which stretched away, broad, level and without bound. Occasionally a wild bird rose up and darted with swift wings, seeking a resting place, for already the September moon waited the coming night. Nearer, the tall weeds raised themselves from the great, soundless ocean of grass, like the masts of receding vessels. A single wagon, the only object on all the void prairie, stood out bold and sharp against the bright line of the horizon, and clearly defined above the driver, high up on top of the hay, the figure of a man cut the sky. Even at that distance I knew it was Boydell.

Some one had given him a little money, and with renewed health and spirits he was going out of M——. Whither?

THE DEATH-WATCH.

“Didn’t you hear it?”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“No.”

“They say it foretells death. Hush!”

The two men sat motionless. Not a sound broke the silence, not even a creak of the old boards in the floor, or a sigh of the wind, or a flapping shutter.

“They say it foretells death. I heard it last night and the night before. What’s that?”

“Nothing. It’s stiller than a graveyard.”

“I heard it last night, and the night before about this time, near one. ’Taint a very pleasant sound, and this old garret’s dismal enough any way.”

“Monk, you’re afeard. It’s nothing. Don’t waste no more time. I’m dead-tired and sleepy. You wouldn’t have been in this old hole now if it hadn’t been for Peters.”

“No, if it hadn’t been for Peters, the strike, like enough, would have took. But he won’t stand in nobody’s way again.”

While Monk spoke, he drew out a sharp, slender knife, and ran his finger along the blade.

“I tell you, Shiflet, we must do it the night after this blast’s done, and the men in the shed say the coal will run out on the 6th, that’s to-morrow. When Peters is fixed, the managers will have to give in or quit runnin’ the furnace.”

Both men sat with their arms leaning on the table, and the flickering light of the tallow candle between them showed two faces, rough, begrimed by smoke and soot, and disfigured by evil passions, that grew fiercer as they calmly plotted against the life of a fellow-being.

“We’ll meet at one, where the roads cross. It’ll be quiet then, and Peters’s house is alone.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Shiflet, with a grin that rendered his brute-like countenance doubly repulsive. “I’m confounded tired. Bring your candle and light me down them infernal stairs.”

The men stood up. Monk, small and slim, was dwarfed by the almost giant stature of his companion. With a few parting words as to secrecy and silence, they separated.

Monk stood on the upper step until Shiflet disappeared, then closed the door and replaced the candle on the table.

The room, neither large nor small, was a mere hole, smoked, dirty, and unplastered, high up in a frame tenement-house. Two or three chairs, an old chest of drawers, a rickety bedstead, and pine table, composed its furniture. Some old boots and broken pieces of pig-iron lay scattered about. The small, box-shaped window was set just below where the ceiling or roof sloped to the wall. The only door led directly to the stairs that went down two, three flights to the ground. There were many such places in Agatha, where the furnace-hands lived.

Monk walked rapidly up and down the room, as if making an effort to wear off the excitement that the last few moments had brought upon him. His features had lost much of the malignant expression, which was by no means habitual. His countenance was not hardened or stamped with the impress of crime like Shiflet’s, who had just parted from him at the door—a countenance in which every trace of conscience had long ago been erased. Monk’s face was neither good nor bad, neither bright nor dull; but he was a man easily wrought into a passion, governed by impulse.

Crossing to the table, he slung his coat over a chair, and stretched out his hand to extinguish the light. Midway in the action he suddenly checked himself, looked hurriedly around the room for an instant, and stood motionless, with inclined head, listening intently. Not a sound disturbed the stillness. Pinching out the light, he threw himself on the bed, and in the darkness there soon came the heavy, regular respiration of sleep.

The house at Agatha nestled under the north cliff. A hundred feet above them the railroad lost itself in the black mouth of a tunnel and reappeared beyond, a high wall of trestlework stretching southward down the valley to Ely’s Mines. Hours ago, the toiling men and cattle had lain down to rest, and now the wild, rocky hills around slept in the moonlight. No sound broke upon the stillness but the muffled puff, puff, of the furnace, and a murmur of frogs that rose and fell interruptedly along the shrunken water-course. The cabins under the cliff shone white and sharp; the iron on the metal-switch flashed with a million gems; the rails upon the trestle, receding, turned to silver, and the foliage of early Summer glittered on the trees. A few passionless stars blinked feebly in the yellow light, where the hill-tops cut against the sky, and sank below the verge. Calmly, peacefully waned the night—calmly and peacefully, as though the spirit of evil had not stalked abroad plotting the death and ruin of men’s bodies and souls.

That narrow spot of ground, with the houses down in the valley, formed the world for four hundred people. The furnace-hands and their families saw nothing beyond the hills and rocks that hemmed in their village; knew nothing of the mad tumults outside. An untaught, sturdy race of men, they differed little one from another. Every day, when the sun rose, they went forth to toil, and every night, when the great furnace over the creek glimmered red, they lay down to sleep. But ignorance and superstition filled their hearts, and anger, and hate, and jealousy, were as rife among them as in the crowded cities.

Another day passed, and the night which followed it was dark and cloudy. Near midnight, the great bell signalled for the last run of iron. Occasionally blue flames leaped up from the furnace, lurid as the fiery tongues of a volcano. The long and narrow roof brooded over the sand-bed like the black wings of some monster bird hovering in the air. Under its shadow groups of men were but wavering, dusky figures. Suddenly, as an electric flash, a dazzling yellow glare broke out, and a fierce, scorching, withering blast swept from an opening that seemed the mouth of hell itself. Slowly out of the burning cavern a hissing stream of molten iron came creeping down. It crawled, and turned and crawled, rib after rib, until it lay like some huge skeleton stretched upon the ground. A thin vapor floated up in the sulphurous air and quivered with reflected splendor. The scarlet-shirted men looked weird in the unearthly brightness. The yellow glow faded to red, that deepened to a blood-colored spot in the night. The bell rang to discharge the hands, and squads of men broke up, scattering in the dark.

Monk went to his garret-room, hesitated a moment at the door, then passed in and shut it so violently that the floor shook. He struck a match. In the brimstone light a horrible demon countenance wavered, blue and ghastly; but, when the candle flamed, it grew into Monk’s face, covered by the black scowl of rage that had disfigured it once before—a rage that was freshly roused.

“If I’d had my knife, I’d have done it just now, when I stumbled against him. But he dies to-morrow night at—”

The words froze on his lips, and his black scowling face was suddenly overspread by a strange pallor. He stood motionless, as if chained to the floor, his eyes darted quickly about, and he seemed to suspend his very breath.

A clear, distinct, ticking sound occurred at regular intervals for a minute, and left profound silence.

Monk raised his head.

“It’s a sign of coming death. That’s for Peters. There it is again!”

The strange sound, like a faint metallic click, repeated itself several times.

“D—n it! I don’t like to hear the thing. But there _will_ be a sudden death.”

Time after time Monk heard at intervals the same faint sound, like the ticking of a watch for a minute, and it made his blood run cold. He found himself listening to it with terror, and in the long silence, always straining his ears to catch it, always expecting, dreading its repetition, until the thing grew more horrible to him than a nightmare. Sometimes he would fall into a doze, and, wakening with a start, hear it, while cold perspiration broke in drops on his forehead.

It grew intolerable. He swore he would find the thing and kill it, but it mocked him in his search. The sound seemed to come from the table, but when he stood beside the table it ticked so distinctly at the window that he thought he could put his finger on the spot; but when he tried to, it had changed again, and sounded at the head of his bed. Sometimes it seemed close at his right, and he turned only to hear it on the other side, then in front, then behind. Again and again he searched, and swore in his exasperation and disappointment.

The sound became exaggerated by his distempered imagination, till he trembled lest some one else should hear this omen which so plainly foretold his anticipated crime. Once an hour dragged by, and his unseen tormentor was silent. His eyes, that had glittered with deathly hatred, now wore a startled look, and wandered restlessly about the room.

An owl, that perched on the topmost branch of a high tree near by, screamed loud and long. A bat flew in at the open window, banged against the ceiling, and darted out.

Monk shivered. Leaning his head between his arms, he drummed nervously on the table with his fingers. Instantly the clear metallic click sounded again. He looked up, and a strange light broke into his face, a mixed expression of amazement and fright. For a moment he seemed stupefied, then raising his hand he tapped lightly against the wood with his finger-nail. The last tap had not died until it was answered by what seemed like a fainter repetition of itself.

Uttering a fearful oath, Monk recoiled from the table, but, as if drawn back and held by a weird fascination, he sat an hour striking the hard surface with his nails, and pausing for the response that each time came clear and distinct.

Gray streaks crept along the east, and quivered like a faded fringe bordering the black canopy. Still he sat tapping, but no answer came. He waited, listened vainly; no echo, no sound, and the dull, hueless light of the cloudy morning glimmered at his window. Then he threw himself on his bed, and fell into restless slumbers.

A damp thick fog enveloped the houses in its slimy embrace. At nightfall its reeking folds gathered themselves from the ground, and a noiseless drizzle came sullenly down.

Monk had not stirred from his room all day. The feverish sleep into which he had fallen fled from him before noon, and now he stood at his window looking out into the blackness. A clammy air blew against his face. He stretched out his hand and drew it back suddenly, as if he had touched the dead. It was cold and moist. He rubbed it violently against his clothes, as though he could not wipe off the dampness. A tremor seized upon him. Hark! was that the dripping of water? No. A sickly smile played over his countenance. He went to the table and tapped lightly with his fingers, as he had done before. In another moment the taps were answered, and he involuntarily counted as they came, one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—then all was silent. He made the call a second time, he tried it over and over, and at each response it ticked seven times, never more, never less, but seven times clearly, distinctly. Suddenly he sprang up, and through shut teeth hissed,—

“The seventh day, by Heaven! But I’ll cheat you—I’ll not kill him!”

He darted noiselessly down the stairs, and struck out through the woods. In half an hour he emerged on the edge of a clearing, a dozen yards from a chopper’s cabin. Creeping stealthily to the door he shook it, then after a moment’s irresolution cried out,—

“Peters! Peters! look out for Shiflet. He has sworn to murder you to-night.”

Without waiting for a reply he sprang away, and was quickly lost among the trees.

A moment afterward a tall form arose out of the shadow of a stump near the cabin, and passed rapidly in an opposite direction.

At the summit of the hill east of Agatha, a steep precipice is formed by a great, bare, projecting rock. From the valley, its outline resembles an enormous face in profile, and they call it “The Devil’s Head.” The full moon rendered the unbroken mass of cloud translucent, producing a peculiar sinister effect. The mist still blew through the air, but in the zenith there was a dull ashen hue, and the surrounding cloud was the color of earth. The far-off hills loomed up majestic, terrible, against the gloom; nearer objects were strangely magnified in the tawny light. At the foot of this phantom crag, on a terrace, is the ore-bank and blackened coal-shed. Below rose the metal-stack, from whose stone hearth a waste of sand sloped gently to the creek. The furnace squatted grim and black. Its blood-shot eye was shut; its gaping throat uttered no sigh, no groan; its throbbing pulse was stilled—the fierce, struggling monster was dead. The only bright spot in all the valley was the yellow circle made by the watchman’s lantern in the coal-shed.

After leaving the “choppings,” Monk threaded his way through the forest, coming out at last on the open road. This road led directly over the “Devil’s Head,” and entered the valley by a steep descent half a mile to the south. At the precipice Monk paused. The wind eddied with a mournful wail, and the constant motion of tall trees gave the scene almost the wavering, unsubstantial appearance of a vision. There was something oppressive in this strange midnight twilight, but Monk did not feel it. He only felt relief, inexpressible relief; he only stopped there to breathe, to breathe freely once more with the heavy weight thrown from him.

After a moment he ran carelessly down the hill, passed under the ore-cars and into the coal-shed. He hailed Patterson, the watchman, and the lantern threw gigantic shadows of the two men over the ground. Then he walked along the narrow cinder-road leading to the bridge over the creek. Sometimes the willows, that grew on either side, swept their damp hair against his face. An hour ago he would have started convulsively, now he heeded not, for he was free and light of heart.

Monk reached the stairs, and ascended to his room. As he passed in, the powerful figure of Shiflet sprang upon him from behind. There was a scuffle, some muttered oaths, then a heavy fall. Monk lay stretched upon the floor motionless, lifeless, and the echo of fleeing steps died away, leaving the place still as the now silent death-watch.

THE MAN AT THE CRIB.[1]

One morning in the Spring of 1867—whether in April or May I am now unable certainly to determine, but think it was in the latter month—I was sitting at the breakfast-table, leisurely reading the morning paper, and enjoying my last cup of coffee, when my eye accidentally fell upon the following advertisement:—

“WANTED—A reliable man to take charge of the Crib. An unmarried German preferred. One who can come well recommended, and give bond for faithful performance of duty, will receive a liberal salary. Apply immediately to the Board of Public Works, Pumping Department, Nos. 15 and 17 South Wells Street.”

Footnote 1:

The Crib is the name given to the isolated structure at the opening of the Chicago Water Works tunnel, in the lake, two miles from the shore.

My attention was arrested by the thought of so strange an occupation, and whether any one would be found willing to accept the situation and live alone in the crib two miles from the shore. There all companionship would be cut off, and I wondered what effect the utter solitude and confinement in the small round building rising out of the water, with little in the scenery to relieve the eye, and nothing to rest the ear from the continual dashing of the waves against the frame sides—I wondered what effect it would have upon the occupant.

It happened I had been lecturing before a class of medical students in one of our colleges upon the relation of mind to body, and it occurred to me that this crib-tender might prove an illustration of my theory. His mind would have afforded it an opportunity to prey upon itself, and might become perverted. Under certain circumstances the mental exerts an influence over the physical system, aside from the voluntary volition of the will, and it frequently transpires that what is mere illusion in the spiritual nature appears a reality to the material, so closely are the two linked together.