One made himself a name for skill to trace
To its last hiding-place,
Each secret Mother Earth engaged to save,
Of jungle, sea or cave.
No path so devious but he mastered it;
And, bit by bit,
From off the face of mystery, he tore
The veil she wore;
Then, turning inward all his skill in seeing,
To solve the knot of Being,
In the deep crypts of Self fordone he lay,
Quite cast away.
--_Adventures in Egoism_.
Every morning, now, a box of flowers went up to Elizabeth, at the house
with the white columns; and every evening Mr. Amidon bravely followed.
The terror he felt of women was overpowered by the greater terror of
losing this woman, and the fortitude and resolution he possessed in all
other fields of action were returning to him. His violets and
carnations she always wore for him, and all the roses except the red
ones, which she put in vases and kept near her, but did not wear. She
was ineffably kind and sweet, in a high and pure and far-off way fit
for Olympus, but all the intimate little coquetries and tricks of charm
with which she had at first received and disconcerted him were gone.
She talked to him in that low voice of hers, but oftener she sat
silent, and seemed to desire him to talk to her.
Since that first night, he could not bring himself to act a part,
further than to assume the name and place of Eugene Brassfield. He
stood afar off, looked at his divinity and worshiped. He read to her
her favorite books, and ventured somewhat, out of his exceptional
knowledge, to expound them--whereat she looked away and listened with
something of the astonishment with which she had received his
disquisitions on poetry and art on that first unlucky evening. For the
most part, however, he, too, was inclined to silences, in which he
looked at Elizabeth in the happiness of a lover's wretchedness. The
love she had given to Brassfield seemed to him based on the deceitful
pretensions of that wretch, and in any case it was not his, and he felt
repelled from accepting it. He yearned to show her the soul of Florian
Amidon, purified, adorned, and dedicated to her.
Once or twice she had hinted at something fateful which she wanted to
say to him; but he had begged her to wait. After a few days of this
slavish devotion of his, she seemed less aloof, not quite so much the
unattainable goddess.
She gave him her hand, as usual, one evening at parting.
"I shall not expect to see you to-morrow," said she, "until we meet at
the Pumphreys' reception. Until then, good-by."
"I thought," said he, "that if you would permit, I should like to call
in the afternoon--say at three or four. May I?"
He looked so pleadingly at her, holding the little hand in both of his,
that it is no wonder her color rose. It was like the worshipful
inception of a new courtship.
"I shall be invisible," said she, "all day--so you must wait. You
haven't any time to bother with me, anyhow. Haven't you your platform
to complete? A public man must attend to public matters first, and,
anyhow, I shall be denied to all my friends, and you must wait with the
rest!"
"It is hard to wait," he answered, "when you are so near."
"I shall try to make amends," said she, "by endeavoring to be as
beautiful as--as you used to describe me--at the reception. Good
night! Good night!"
He once more violated the Brassfield traditions; he simply raised her
hand to his lips and kissed it. To do more, he felt, would spoil all.
She went in, more nearly happy than at any time since his return, but
sorely puzzled. "I shall never understand him," she thought.
Mrs. Major Pumphrey, standing in line with Miss Scarlett and Mrs.
Pumphrey's sister from Wisconsin; a procession of people coming in by
twos and threes, and steered by attendants into rooms for doffing
wraps; a chain of de-wrapped human beings circulating past the
receiving line and listening to Mrs. Pumphrey's assurances that she was
delighted to welcome them that she might have the pleasure of
introducing them to her sister--and of course they knew Miss Scarlett;
an Italian harper who played ceaselessly among palms; a punch-bowl
presided over by Flossie Smith and Mrs. Alvord; a melange of black
coats, pretty frocks and white arms and shoulders; a glare of lights; a
hum like a hive's--in short, a reception. Such was the function to
which Florian made his way, waiting until he could arrive concomitantly
with the Waldron carriage so that he might hand the ladies therefrom,
and receive from his divinity a little, uncertain pressure of the hand.
Then came his respects to Mrs. Pumphrey. Amidon started as he
recognized in the bright-haired second person in line his fairy of the
balustrade.
"So delighted to see you here, Mr. Brassfield!" said Mrs. Pumphrey.
"It gives me the opportunity of presenting you to--why, Daisy, where's
your auntie gone? She was here just now!"
"She was called away for a few moments," said Miss Scarlett. "Yes, I
believe Mr. Brassfield and I have met"--this with an icy bow--"and
please, Mr. Cox, don't go, until I have told you the end of the story!"
And she went on vivaciously chatting to Billy Cox, who had moored
himself as close to her as the tide of guests sweeping by her would
permit. Which current swept Mr. Amidon onward as he was in the act of
assuring his hostess of his sense of loss in her sister's
absence--until an eddy left him in a quiet corner, where he found
absorbing occupation in trying to imagine again as vividly as possible
that pressure of the hand. Was it meant as an evidence of
affection?--or did her foot slip, so that she clung to his hand to
prevent a fall? This question seemed of the most transcendent
importance to him, and he debated it mentally all the evening, as he
talked the set conversation of such an occasion. He knew no one; but
every one knew him; yet he had no difficulty in getting on, because
there was no sense in any of the conversation. He could answer all the
remarks regarding his new role of political leader without committing
himself to anything serious. Bright eyes flashed meaning and soulful
glances into his, as sweet lips said things which he could answer quite
as well as if the context of the conversation had been as familiar to
him as it was supposed to be. Platitudes, generalities, inanities; and
inanities, platitudes and generalities in reply. Amidon looked the
part of Brassfield perfectly, and on occasions of this sort, to look
the part is quite enough.
He found Elizabeth again, surrounded by a circle of admirers--men and
women--an oasis of intelligence, it seemed to him as he listened, in a
desert of twaddle. She smiled at him with her eyes, as he looked at
her through the press, and just as he had won to a place by her side,
the tide was sent flooding into a large room where, it was announced,
Professor Blatherwick and Madame le Claire were doing feats of
occultism.
"Laties ant shentlemen,"--it was the professor who spoke, "you are at
liperty, of gourse, to adopt any t'eory vich seems to you goot to
eggsblain dese phenomena. Madame le Claire offers none. Ven she hass
broduced te phenomena, she iss--she iss all in! If dey seem to you to
be de vork of tisempodied spirits, fery well--goot! Somedimes it seems
so to her. If you rekard letchertemain as a sufficient vorking
hypot'esis, vy, letchertemain goes, and upon dat hypot'esis ve vill
gontinue to vork de miracles ant de public. Id iss kvite de same to
Madame le Claire. It iss only fair to say, howefer, dat she hass nefer
yet detected herself in any fraut. Bud she offers no eggsblanation;
she chust gifes dese tests for your gonsiteration."
A ripple of laughter and a buzz of interested comment ran through the
room.
"But how was it possible for her to get her hands loose?" said one.
"I assure you," said Mrs. Meyer, she of the _Parsifal_ impressions, and
the wife of the Hebrew leader of the Gentile mob who went "down the
line" for McCorkle the night before the caucuses, "I assure you that
what she told me was unknown not only to every one else, but to me
also; but it turned out true. It's uncanny!"
"It's humbug," said the bass voice of Doctor Brown, "and until you show
me the source of this 'occult' energy, I shall so contend. Animal
magnetism and sleight-of-hand! What do you think, Mrs. Hunter?"
Amidon looked across and saw--Mrs. Hunter, of Hazelhurst! It was she
and her daughter from whom he had bashfully flown to the buffet, just
before he alighted from the train at Elm Springs Junction. As he
looked at her all the old life returned to him! He saw himself sitting
with her and Minnie in the car, as she talked fashions to him and
chattered her anticipations of the lovely time Minnie was to have with
the family of Senator Fowler on the Maine coast. He saw Blodgett come
in, and himself seize the opportunity to escape with his lawyer to the
buffet. Then he saw the rural railway platform, the fading glory of
the west--and then the waking in the sleeping-car! Could it all be
possible?
"Do you know the lady talking with Doctor Brown?" he asked of Miss
Waldron.
"Mrs. Hunter?" said Elizabeth questioningly. "Why, didn't you meet her
when you came in? She is Mrs. Pumphrey's sister, of Hazelhurst,
Wisconsin. She receives with Mrs. Pumphrey to-night."
"I thought it was Mrs. Hunter, as soon as I saw her," answered Amidon;
"she is an old acquaintance of mine."
And it was some little time, so far had he forgotten his peculiar
position, before the baleful possibilities of this innocent and
truthful remark occurred to him. When he thought of it, any observing
friend might well have inquired after his health, so gray with pallor
and moist with sweat had his face become. Not that he felt hanging
over him any such danger as he had feared when he found himself in the
shoes of another man, with that other man unaccounted for. He really
cared very little about _that_, now. The people of Bellevale, and
Hazelhurst, too, might think what they pleased about this mystery of
disappearance and reappearance: he was independent of them all, and
those he really cared about would understand.
But Elizabeth! Everything now revolved about her. Now that she had
grown so dear--that she had come to smile on him in his new
character--how could he let her know that this Eugene Brassfield whom
she so admired and loved, was no more for ever; and that Florian Amidon
had never seen her, never loved her, never wooed her until these past
few days! Would she ever see him again? Could she regard him as
anything else than an interloper and an impostor? His right to
Brassfield's clothes and Brassfield's fortune might be as clear as
Judge Blodgett said; but would not Elizabeth feel that as to her he had
attempted the very deed of which he had first suspected himself--fraud
and robbery? And her "perfect lover," whom Amidon habitually thought
of as "that fellow Brassfield"--all the perfections which Elizabeth had
learned to attribute to him, would no longer be credited to Amidon. It
was tragic!
As a matter of fact, beloved, any man would have been a perfect lover,
or none at all, to Elizabeth. A perfect lover is the noblest work of
woman.
"Te autience," went on the professor, "vill haf te eggstreme gourtesy
to assist in a temonstration of Madame le Claire's power as a
hypnotist. Not effery vun gan pe hypnoticed te fairst dime; bud ve
vill try. Vill te autience bleace suchest te name of a laty or
shentleman as a supchect?"
"Doctor Brown!" said many voices. "Alvord!" said others, but most of
the votes appeared to be for Brassfield--a name which the professor
hailed joyfully as insuring against failure. It is not often that the
audience will hit on the only practised sensitive in the room.
Madame le Claire started, as there was thus presented to her the
thought of bringing her power to bear on Amidon. The serious results
of her last exercise of it came vividly to her mind. Yet, here she was
openly hypnotizing him. Here she could keep him under control. She
could limit his Brassfield state as to time, or she could keep him in a
state of automatism.
"Mr. Brassfield vill greatly obliche by goming forvart," said the
professor; and, as he had learned to do, Amidon obeyed his request.
Elizabeth, standing near Mrs. Hunter, heard an agitated exclamation
from that lady as Mr. Amidon went forward.
"For heaven's sake," said she, "it's Florian Amidon!"
"Who?" inquired Mrs. Pumphrey, "that? Why, that's our chief citizen,
soon to be our chief magistrate, Mr. Eugene Brassfield."
Elizabeth heard no more, but in spite of perplexity at what she
regarded as Mrs. Hunter's recognition of her lover's face and
forgetfulness of his name, she could not help noticing her excited talk
to her sister, and the meaning glances finally directed toward her,
Elizabeth. Whereat, to hide a little rosy flush, Miss Waldron turned
more completely toward the place of the hypnotist.
Madame le Claire stood in the little curtained alcove, empty save for
the great tiger-skin rug, the dais, and a chair or two. She was gowned
once more in the yellow and black, and stood in tigrine splendor
cap-a-pie. Amidon felt her old power over him, as he approached her
and looked into those mysterious eyes, and knew that he should do her
bidding. She looked at his troubled countenance, and pitied him for
his long evening of mental strain. She had seen his devotion to
Elizabeth, and, be it confessed, was jealous in spite of herself. Pity
and jealousy inspired the resolution which now formed in her mind: she
would for an interval--an interval definitely limited--restore Eugene
Brassfield to this company in which he was so completely at home, and
lay the troubled ghost, Amidon. He would appear to better advantage
altogether and do himself more credit; he would, in fact, be more
convincingly Bellevale's "chief citizen."
She bowed deeply and waved him to the chair. Then she performed the
charm of "woven paces and of waving arms," and he slept, "lost to life
and use and name and fame."
"When he opens his eyes," said she, "he will know nothing, think
nothing, do nothing, except what I suggest."
"Make him dance with the broom," suggested Cox.
"Let's have his inaugural address," petitioned Edgington.
"Give him this," said Alvord, offering a coin, "and make him think it's
hot. People in this neighborhood would go farther to see Brassfield
drop a piece of money, than to interview a live dinosaur!"
The laughter at this sally was lost on Madame le Claire. She was
looking down on the unconscious Amidon, and wondering how any one could
think of making him the instrument of buffoonery.
"I will perform only one simple, yet very difficult, lest," said she.
"This gentleman will soon wake as Mr. Brassfield, and will be his old
and usual self among you until a certain hour, which I will write on
this card, and seal up in this envelope, so that no one will know, and
inform Mr. Brassfield by suggestion. When that particular moment
arrives, wherever he may be, whatever he may be doing, he will enter
the cataleptic state. The test is regarded as a severe and perfect
one. The card will remain in the possession of Major Pumphrey until it
succeeds or fails, and the envelope will then be opened."
Kneeling on the dais, she seemed whispering in the subject's ear.
Then, tapping his wrist, she said, decisively, "Wake!"
It was Eugene Brassfield who opened his eyes on a circle of his
friends, associates and cronies. He rose lightly and confidently, and
laughed at the chaffing of his friends. He bowed to Madame le Claire,
and moved across the room to Elizabeth's side, with an air of incipient
proprietorship.
"No true lover of carnations," he confided to her, "could wish you to
wear them as you do to-night."
"Really? I suppose I ought to ask why?"
"It isn't fair to the flowers," said he. "Flowers have rights, you
know, and to be outdone in sweetness---- Ah, Jim! Go away, and don't
bother me! Don't you see I'm very busy?"
"Old man," said Alvord, answering to the name of "Jim," "it's good to
see you as you are to-night--your old self. You'll make a hit, my boy.
This will make it more than ever a cinch!"
Self-possessed, masterful, Mr. Brassfield moved through the assembly
like a conqueror. Those who, a short time ago, found him dull and
moody, rejoiced now in his confident persiflage pitched safely in the
restful key of mediocrity, but possessed withal of a species of
brilliancy, like the skilful playing of scales. Elizabeth noted the
return of that dash and abandon which she had lately so missed--but for
the first time the Brassfield music had a hollow ring in her ears. The
subtler melody of last night--after all, it was best!
Madame le Claire, immensely popular, gave readings in palmistry. Miss
Smith was to have a husband with dark eyes. Mr. Brassfield offered to
cross her palm with any gold coin she might name, if she would promise
him a sweetheart with party-colored eyes, who would meet him for a long
talk next day. Madame le Claire blushed and dropped the hand.
Mr. Brassfield adroitly overtook Miss Scarlett, who seemed endeavoring
to retreat. He stood by her, chatting lightly, using two voices, a
distinct and conversational tone, and one so low as to be for her ear
alone.
"Oh, isn't it a crush?" said he. "(_Daise, what's the matter?_) A
perfect evening, though. (_Are you running away from me?_) And such
delightful people! (_The east room in ten minutes; is it yes?_)"
Miss Scarlett nodded, and Brassfield moved on. Mrs. Pumphrey, Mrs.
Hunter and Elizabeth Waldron were sipping punch.
"May I have some?" said he. "And, please, Mrs. Pumphrey, may I be
presented to the guest of the evening?"
Mrs. Hunter received the introduction with a gasp.
"Is it possible," said she, "that you don't know me? Can the possessor
of that voice and face be any one but Florian Amidon?"
"Amidon, Amidon?" he repeated. "Pardon me, but some one else spoke
that name to me lately, and I was trying to recall the circumstances.
It is in every way on my part to be regretted, as the fact has deprived
me of the happiness of knowing you, that I am not Mr. Amidon. Am I so
like him?"
"Oh, it isn't a matter of resemblance, but of identity!" replied Mrs.
Hunter. "Were you never in Hazelhurst, Wisconsin?"
"Never," said Mr. Brassfield; "but I am beginning to see its beauties
as a place of residence. And I hope to know more of this other Dromio
before the evening is past."
Mrs. Hunter bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, and Mr.
Brassfield took himself gracefully from their presence. In the fashion
of one pressed for time, he moved on.
Elizabeth had grown suddenly very grave. What did this conduct of her
lover mean? A little while ago he had recognized Mrs. Hunter, at a
distance, as an old acquaintance. Now he had audaciously outfaced her,
and denied that he ever knew her. Could this be the man she had
trusted with her all? Again her doubts and fears and scruples
rose--rose instantly in full strength. The new impressions she had
lately received of him vanished, and all the subtle suggestions of
sordid lightness which the diplomacy of Brassfield, even, had not
entirely kept from her mind, came back with multiplied distinctness.
These transformations of character, these curious duplicities, and now
this lie. She must think it over: it impressed her, and she must act.
"Auntie," said she, "let us go."
As down the stairway they came, robed for departure, they were
conscious of a hum of excitement running through the assembly.
"Where is he? The envelope has been opened and the time is up! Where
is he?" were the cries. "It's eleven: it's a minute past eleven!
Where's Mr. Brassfield?"
At this moment, a scream, a soprano scream, high, long-drawn and
piercing, the scream of a woman in terror, came echoing from the
deserted east room. A body of guests rushed through the portieres,
Madame le Claire, pale with fright, at their head, and Elizabeth borne
with them, all looking to see what violence had provoked that scream.
They saw Mr. Brassfield, seated on a sofa in a shadowy corner, holding
both Miss Scarlett's hands in his; saw the girl frantically, but in
vain, trying to take them from his grasp. He sat like a statue, with
his eyes set wide and unwinking like a corpse's, every limb and muscle
rigid, his body tense and immovable as a stone image. The sight was
terrible. It was as if the living man had been transformed in an
instant into a ghastly trap, to catch those soft, warm, pretty hands!
She ceased her efforts to break away, but stood white and almost
fainting, and begging hysterically for help.
Madame le Claire leaped forward like a tigress, so light was her step,
and passed her hand over his eyes, so as to close them. Then, bending
her gaze one moment piercingly on his face, she sharply tapped his
wrist and uttered the single word, "Wake!"
Florian Amidon opened his eyes. He saw that something extraordinary
was taking place, for, in the act of opening his eyes, he had seen Miss
Scarlett fall back into the arms of Mr. Cox, and knew that she was
being conveyed rapidly away.
"It iss now," said the professor, "vun minute past eleven. Te test,
you vill atmit, hass peen a gomplete success. Dis sairgumsdance vill
pe noted as exdablishing to a sairtain eggstent an important brinciple,
ant hass peen in effery vay bleasant ant a success: not?"
A laugh or two was heard, then more laughter, then a little hum of
reviving talk, and one could observe that the affair was to be passed
off as one of the mysteries of occultism.
"Well," said Mr. Amidon, "if I have contributed my share to the gaiety
of the occasion, I shall beg now to be permitted to depart."
The Waldrons were waiting for their carriage as he came down.
"There will be plenty of assistance," said the aunty "and we shall not
need to detain you."
"Oh, auntie, auntie!" wept Elizabeth, when they were safely alone,
"there was a spell upon him, as you say, there in the east room, but
the spell that took him there was none of the hypnotist's working! I
am shamed, and humiliated, and robbed of all I have to live for! He
went there, auntie, of his own accord, _and left me_!"
Mr. Alvord passed the thing off more lightly.
"Confound it!" said he, "I wish they were in Hades with their mesmeric
stunts! I shan't tell Brass what happened, for it won't do any good;
and the less notice there's taken of it the better. But carrying
things before him as he was--it was hard luck to have that occur. Puts
him in an undignified position, to say the least. I wish I could think
there was nothing more to it!"