PANGS OF CONSCIENCE.
Having sipped a little of the absinthe, Du Boise began to smile in a
silly, satisfied manner. He surveyed his companions with a superior air
of knowledge, in which there was unmistakable pity.
“The psychology of the mind is a mysterious and perplexing thing,” he
observed. “As yet the phenomena of mental telepathy is but faintly
understood. Like electricity, we know it exists and we experiment with
it, but the real vital force and power is beyond the comprehension of
the human mind in its present state of development. I think, gentlemen,
we have this evening experienced a most remarkable case of mental
suggestion. I think we all have been deluded by our own overwrought
imaginations. There is no other reasonable explanation which we, as sane
and sensible men, can afford to accept.”
Lynch gazed at him blankly, while Ditson sharply demanded:
“What are you driving at now?”
“Perhaps I may not succeed in arousing your comprehension. Perhaps you
may not agree with me if you do catch my theory and fully comprehend its
significance.”
“Come down to earth and talk plain English.”
“I acknowledge that I was frightened by what I fancied I saw,” said Hal,
“but I’ve put that aside. I’m no longer alarmed in the least. I now
believe beyond question that I was deluded by a hallucination conjured
before my mental vision by my own unwitting efforts. I was in precisely
the proper psychological condition to deceive myself into believing that
I saw something which did not exist. We had been talking of supernatural
things. This, following the unfortunate tragedy which we lately
witnessed, was enough to place us all in a mental condition that made us
peculiarly susceptible to a certain delusion.
“We were speaking of ghosts. We had fancied while walking on the street
that something was following us, although we could discover nothing when
we looked round. I assure you that I was sincere when I stated a
willingness to conjure up the spirit of Dick Merriwell. At that moment I
longed for the ability to bring his ghost before me. I even fancied it
as appearing. With this powerful fancy overcoming me, I lifted my eyes
and looked toward yonder panel. The lights were turned off at that
moment. As they came on dimly my overwrought fancy made me believe I
beheld the pale and ghostly face of Merriwell peering in upon us. It was
nothing in the world but a hallucination.”
“That might be true were it not for the fact that Lynch and myself
beheld the same white, ghostly face,” said Ditson. “I’d like to think
you have hit on the real explanation of the affair, Du Boise, but I
can’t accept it. Had you been the only one to see that apparition, your
explanation would be received by us both; but how can you account for
the fact that we also saw what you believed you saw—and we saw it at
precisely the same time.”
“Telepathy,” said Du Boise, nodding his head. “Mental transmission of
thought. Did I not cry out that I saw it as I pointed toward the panel?”
“You did.”
“I thought so. Being thus firmly convinced that I really beheld such an
apparition, I transferred the conviction to both of you, and you, too,
were deluded into believing you saw it.”
Again Dunc shook his head.
“That’s too much for me to accept,” he said. “It’s barely possible such
a thing might have happened between two persons, but when three
individuals are involved, it’s wholly beyond acceptance.”
Harold shrugged his shoulders and sipped a little more of the cool
absinthe.
“Of course I cannot compel you to accept my explanation,” he said, “but
I am certain you will come to it in time. At present you are both
overcome by unreasoning fears. As time passes and you are not again
visited by such an apparition you will gradually be forced to confess
that my explanation of this strange phenomenon is the only one that can
be given. You still remain frightened, both of you. Lynch looks ten
years older than he did three hours ago. Your nerves are quivering in
your bodies. Look—look at my hand, it’s steady as a rock.”
He lifted his glass and held it unquivering above the table.
“That’s not you,” said Duncan. “You couldn’t do that yourself.”
“Not me?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“The absinthe. Only for the stuff you’ve drank, you’d be a pitiful,
cowering, cringing creature this very minute.”
“Then here’s to absinthe!” laughed Hal, with a wave of his glass.
“Here’s to absinthe, the magic potion which makes every man the
commander of his own soul!”
“Until the cursed stuff takes command and wrecks both soul and body,”
said Ditson. “I fear that time is not far away for you, Du Boise.”
Lynch now filled his lungs with a deep breath, betraying a sudden
restlessness and an eager desire to leave the place.
“Let’s get out of here,” he urged. “I’m going to my room. I’m going to
turn in. It’s a wonder we haven’t had newspaper reporters after us
already. Of course by this time they all know of Merriwell’s drowning.
We’ll have to tell the story until we’re sick of it in the morning.
We’ll have to face both reporters and police. I’ve got to rest in order
to do that.”
“Rest?” said Duncan. “I hope you can. I’m afraid I shall get very little
rest to-night.”
Nor was Lynch to experience any genuine refreshing rest. In his room,
with the door locked, he paced the floor for hours, pausing at intervals
to listen, with shuddering heart, to every faint sound of the night. His
face was drawn and lined like a graven mask. His eyes rolled restlessly
in their sockets. The passing footsteps of a night watchman caused him
to stand with quivering hand pressed to his bosom, his jaw drooping, his
breath suspended, waiting, waiting—for what?
He had closed his window and drawn the shade so that not even a crack
remained at the bottom. Even though every light in the room was at full
blast, he whirled now and then to peer nervously into the corners and
behind the morris chair. The sudden scampering of a mouse somewhere in
the wall dropped him nerveless upon the couch, where he sat mopping the
beads of cold perspiration from his face. Once as he walked the length
of the room he caught a glimpse of a phantomlike figure which gave him a
sidelong leap and brought a gasping “Ah!” from his lips. Half crouching
and staring across his shoulder, he realized that the thing he had seen
was his own reflection in a mirror.
“Fool! fool!” he huskily whispered. “Why don’t you go to bed? Are you
trying to wear your own nerves to a frazzle? What a coward you are, Mike
Lynch! If your friends knew, they’d be disgusted with you. You didn’t
mean to drown the poor devil when you suggested that Berger should run
down that cockle shell of a rowboat. It was an accident—I say it was an
accident. You can’t make anything else of it. No one can make anything
else of it. Even if they prove we smashed the boat intentionally, we can
swear we meant it for a joke. What if they do say it was a crazy,
foolhardy joke? We’ll stick to it that there was no malice in it. That
ought to save us. Perhaps we may have to leave college, but I don’t see
how anything worse is going to happen.
“But Merriwell’s friends will know it was not meant for a joke. They’ll
swear it was malicious. They’ll swear it isn’t the first time I’ve tried
to injure him. The fact that there was bad blood between us is going to
make it rather unpleasant for me. But I’m not alone in this. Ditson is
as deep in the mud as I am in the mire. Du Boise—I’m sorry we had him
with us. He’s the fellow I fear. Unsupported by either drink or drug, Du
Boise is a shivering, weak-kneed, spineless creature. There’s no
reliance to be placed upon him. But I don’t believe even he is fool
enough to think we intended to drown Merriwell. I’m going to bed now.
I’ve got to go to bed. Why, I’ll be a wreck in the morning if I don’t
get a little sleep.”
But there was no sleep for Mike. He dared not turn off his lights, and
when he attempted to woo slumber with them blazing at full blast he soon
found his efforts vain. Groaning and cursing, he tossed to and fro upon
the bed. Gradually the ticking of his little clock beat in his ears
louder and louder until it sounded like hammer-strokes upon an anvil.
Whenever he closed his eyes a ghastly white face seemed to rise before
him, and he fancied he beheld an outstretched accusing finger pointing
at him.
Finally in despair he rose, drew his bathrobe about him, and sat down
near the study table. Seizing a novel, he tried to read. The sentences
ran into a meaningless jumble before his eyes, and his tortured mind
continued to wander to the thing he longed to forget. Repeatedly he
started up and turned to look behind him, shuddering and cold with the
conviction that some ghostly thing was hovering at the back of his
chair.
And thus the long night passed. Between three and four o’clock in the
morning Lynch opened his window and waited for dawn. He joyously hailed
the first faint streaks of gray in the eastern sky.
“It’s morning,” he said. “Now perhaps I can sleep.”
But no, even daylight could not bring him rest. The sun was tinting the
east with a delicate blush when Mike slipped downstairs and hurried
away, filling his lungs with long, deep breaths. The streets were silent
and deserted. Not even a policeman seemed stirring at this hour, for
which he was sincerely thankful. Without knowing whither he was bound,
he turned his face toward the outskirts of the city and with long
strides made for the open country.
An hour later Lynch was lying exhausted by the roadside in the midst of
a strip of woods. All around him the young day was fresh and beautiful
and joyous. In the thickets the birds were singing happily. The air was
clean and sweet with the fragrance of springtime.
Mike had been there before. He remembered the very cluster of bushes
beside which he now lay. At one time, with two companions, he had hidden
himself there to await the appearance of Rob Claxton, against whom he
entertained a feeling of hatred and whom he was determined to thrash in
a fist fight. With some bitterness he recalled the fact that Claxton had
whipped him in that fight which took place not far from this spot.
“And Merriwell was responsible for it!” he snarled. “For a long time he
had been secretly training that haughty Virginian in order that the
fellow might do me up in a scrap. No wonder I hated Merriwell! I had
good reasons to hate him! I had good reasons to wish him dead! I’m a
fool to be upset like this! I’m a fool to run away from investigation
and questioning! Wait, after I’ve rested a while I’m going back. Never
anything took hold of me the way this business has. On my word, I’m done
up!”
He rolled over upon his back and lay there, with his hat covering his
eyes, until a faint far-away sound led him to lift his head and listen.
“Runners!” he said. “They’re coming this way. Great Scott! are they
after me?”
Jerking himself to his feet, he cautiously peered over the cluster of
bushes.
Far along the road where it wound through the woods some lightly clad
figures came into view. His relief was intense, for he saw at a glance
that they were college lads out for an early morning run. Their white
clothes, swinging bare arms, and churning legs cut moving silhouettes
against the dark background of the woods.
“I mustn’t be seen,” muttered Lynch, sinking down and creeping close
behind the bushes. “I’ll lie here and watch them as they pass. They
won’t notice me.”
The runners were Mike’s classmates. First came Claxton, the Virginian,
and Sam Kates almost shoulder to shoulder. A short distance behind them
Brad Buckhart appeared.
Then came another, at sight of whom Lynch uttered a hoarse, choking cry,
sought to rise and then fell back, his head swimming, his senses
deserting him, completely overcome by the fearful strain and the second
appearance of the “apparition.”
For he had again seen Dick Merriwell.