ECCENTRIC MR. CLARK

All who knew Mr. Clark intimately, casually,

or by sight alone, smiled always, meeting

him, and thought, "What an odd man he is!" Not

that there was anything extremely or ridiculously

obtrusive in Mr. Clark's peculiarities either of

feature, dress, or deportment, by which a graded

estimate of his really quaint character might aptly be

given; but rather, perhaps, it was the curious

combination of all these things that had gained

for Mr. Clark the transient celebrity of being a

very eccentric man.

And Mr. Clark, of all the odd inhabitants of the

busy metropolis in which he lived, seemed least

conscious of the fact of his local prominence. True

it was that when familiarly addressed as "Clark,

old boy," by sportive individuals he never recollected

having seen before, he would oftentimes stare

blankly in return, and with evident embarrassment;

but as these actions may have been attributable to

weak eyes, or to the confusion consequent upon

being publicly recognized by the quondam associates

of bacchanalian hours, the suggestive facts only

served to throw his eccentricities in new relief.

And in the minds of many, that Mr. Clark was somewhat given to

dissipation, there was but little

doubt; for, although in no way, and at no time,

derelict in the rigid duties imposed upon him as

an accountant in a wholesale liquor house on South

John Street, a grand majority of friends had long

ago conceded that a certain puffiness of flesh and

a soiled-like pallor of complexion were in nowise

the legitimate result of over-application simply in

the counting-room of the establishment in which he

found employment; but as to the complicity of Mr.

Clark's direct associates in this belief, it is only

justice to the gentleman to state that by them

he was held above all such suspicion, from the

gray-haired senior of the firm, down to the pink-

nosed porter of the warerooms, who, upon every

available occasion, would point out the eccentric

Mr. Clark as "the on'y man in the biznez 'at never

sunk a 'thief' er drunk a drop o' 'goods' o' any

kind, under no consideration!"

And Mr. Clark himself, when playfully

approached on the subject, would quietly assert that

never, under any circumstances, had the taste of

intoxicating liquors passed his lips, though at such

asseverations it was a noticeable fact that Mr.

Clark's complexion invariably grew more sultry

than its wont, and that his eyes, forever moist, grew

dewier, and that his lips and tongue would seem

covertly entering upon some lush conspiracy, which

in its incipiency he would be forced to smother with

his hastily drawn handkerchief. Then the eccentric

Mr. Clark would laugh nervously, and pouncing

on some subject so vividly unlike the one just

preceding it as to daze the listener, he would ripple

ahead with a tide of eloquence that positively

overflowed and washed away all remembrance of the

opening topic.

In point of age Mr. Clark might have been thirty,

thirty-five, or even forty years, were one to venture

an opinion solely by outward appearance and under

certain circumstances and surroundings. As, for

example, when a dozen years ago the writer of this

sketch rode twenty miles in a freight-caboose with

Mr. Clark as the only other passenger, he seemed

in age at first not less than thirty-five; but on

opening a conversation with him, in which he joined

with wonderful vivacity, a nearer view, and a

prolonged and studious one as well, revealed the rather

curious fact that, at the very limit of all allowable

supposition, his age could not possibly have exceeded

twenty-five.

What it was in the man that struck me as

eccentric at that time I have never been wholly

able to define, but I recall accurately the most

trivial occurrences of our meeting and the very

subject-matter of our conversation. I even remember

the very words in which he declined a drink

from my traveling-flask--for "It's a raw day," I

said, by way of gratuitous excuse for offering it.

"Yes," he said, smilingly motioning the temptation

aside; "it is a raw day; but you're rather young in

years to be doctoring the weather--at least you'd

better change the treatment--they'll all be raw days

for you after a while!" I confess that I even

felt an inward pity for the man as I laughingly

drained his health and returned the flask to my

valise. But when I asked him, ten minutes later,

the nature of the business in which he was engaged,

and he handed me, in response and without comment,

the card of a wholesale liquor house, with

his own name in crimson letters struck diagonally

across the surface, I winked naively to myself and

thought "Ah-ha!" And as if reading my very

musings, he said: "Why, certainly, I carry a full

line of samples; but, my dear young friend, don't

imagine for a minute that I refuse your brand on

that account. You can rest assured that I have

nothing better in my cases. Whisky is whisky

wherever it is found, and there is no 'best'

whisky--not in all the world!"

Truly, I thought, this is an odd source for the

emanation of temperance sentiments--then said

aloud: "And yet you engage in a business you

dislike! Traffic in an article that you yourself

condemn! Do I understand you?"

"Might there not be such a thing," he said

quietly, "as inheriting a business--the same as

inheriting an appetite? However, one advances by

gradations: I shall SELL no more. This is my last

trip on the road in that capacity: I am coming in

now to take charge of the firm's books. Would be

glad to have you call on me any time you're in the

city. Good-by." And, as he swung off the slowly

moving train, now entering the city, and I stood

watching him from the open door of the caboose

as he rapidly walked down a suburban street, I

was positive his gait was anything but steady--that

the step--the figure--the whole air of the man was

that of one then laboring under the effects of

partial intoxication.

I have always liked peculiar people; no matter

where I met them, no matter who they were; if

once impressed with an eccentricity of character

which I have reason to believe purely unaffected, I

never quite forget the person, name or place of

our first meeting, or where the interesting party

may be found again. And so it was in the customary

order of things that, during hasty visits to the

city, I often called on the eccentric Mr. Clark, and,

as he had promised on our first acquaintance, he

seemed always glad to see and welcome me in his

new office. The more I knew of him the more I

liked him, but I think I never fully understood him.

No one seemed to know him quite so well as that.

Once I had a little private talk regarding him with

the senior partner of the firm for which he worked.

Mr. Clark, just prior to my call, had gone to lunch--

would be back in half an hour. Would I wait there

in the office until his return? Certainly. And the

chatty senior entertained me:--Queer fellow--Mr.

Clark!--as his father was before him. Used to be

a member of the firm--his father; in fact, founded

the business--made a fortune at it--failed, for an

unfortunate reason, and went "up the flume." Paid

every dollar that he owed, however, sacrificing the

very home that sheltered his wife and children--

but never rallied. He had quite a family, then?

Oh, yes; had a family--not a large one, but a

bright one--only they all seemed more or less

unfortunate. The father was unfortunate--very; and

died so, leaving his wife and two boys--the older

son much like the father--splendid business

capacities, but lacked will--couldn't resist some things

--even weaker than the father in that regard, and

died at half his age.

But the younger brother--our Mr. Clark--

remained, and he was sterling--"straight goods" in

all respects. Lived with his mother--was her

sole support. A proud woman, Mrs. Clark--

a proud woman, with a broken spirit--withdrawn

entirely from the world, and had been

so for years and years. The Clarks, as had been

mentioned, were all peculiar--even the younger Mr.

Clark, our friend, I had doubtless noticed was an

odd genius, but he had stamina--something solid

about him, for all his eccentricities--could be relied

on. Had been with the house there since a boy

of twelve--took him for the father's sake; had never

missed a day's time in any line of work that ever

had been given in his charge--was weakly-looking,

too. Had worked his way from the cellar up--from

the least pay to the highest--had saved enough to

buy and pay for a comfortable house for his mother

and himself, and, still a lad, maintained the

expense of companion, attendant and maid servant for

the mother. Yet, with all this burden on his

shoulders, the boy had worried through some way, with

a jolly smile and a good word for every one. "A

boy, sir," the enthusiastic senior concluded--"a boy,

sir, that never was a boy, and never had a taste of

genuine boyhood in his life--no more than he ever

took a taste of whisky, and you couldn't get that

in him with a funnel!"

At this juncture Mr. Clark himself appeared, and

in a particularly happy frame of mind. For an

hour the delighted senior and myself sat laughing at

the fellow's quaint conceits and witty sayings, the

conversation at last breaking up with an abrupt

proposition from Mr. Clark that I remain in the

city overnight and accompany him to the theater,

an invitation I rather eagerly accepted. Mr. Clark,

thanking me, and pivoting himself around on his

high stool, with a mechanical "Good afternoon!"

was at once submerged in his books, while the senior,

following me out and stepping into a carriage that

stood waiting for him at the curb, waved me adieu,

and was driven away. I turned my steps up the

street, but remembering that my friend had fixed no

place to meet me in the evening, I stepped back into

the storeroom and again pushed open the glass door

of the office.

Mr. Clark still sat on the high stool at his desk,

his back toward the door, and his ledger spread out

before him.

"Mr. Clark!" I called.

He made no answer.

"Mr. Clark!" I called again, in an elevated key.

He did not stir.

I paused a moment, then went over to him, letting

my hand drop lightly on his arm.

Still no response. I only felt the shoulder heave,

as with a long-drawn quavering sigh, then heard the

regular though labored breathing of a weary man

that slept.

I had not the heart to waken him; but lifting the

still moistened pen from his unconscious fingers, I

wrote where I might be found at eight that evening,

folded and addressed the note, and laying it on

the open page before him, turned quietly away.

"Poor man!" I mused compassionately, with a

touch of youthful sentiment affecting me.--"Poor

man! Working himself into his very grave, and

with never a sign or murmur of complaint--worn

and weighed down with the burden of his work, and

yet with a nobleness of spirit and resolve that still

conceals behind glad smiles and laughing words

the cares that lie so heavily upon him!"

The long afternoon went by at last, and evening

came; and, as promptly as my note requested, the

jovial Mr. Clark appeared, laughing heartily, as

we walked off down the street, at my explanation

of the reason I had written my desires instead of

verbally addressing him; and laughing still louder

when I told him of my fears that he was overworking

himself.

"Oh, no, my friend," he answered gaily;

"there's no occasion for anxiety on that account.--

But the fact is, old man," he went on, half apologetically,

"the fact is, I haven't been so overworked,

of late, as over-wakeful. There's something in the

night I think, that does it. Do you know that the

night is a great mystery to me--a great mystery!

And it seems to be growing on me all the time.

There's the trouble. The night to me is like some

vast incomprehensible being. When I write the

name 'night' I instinctively write it with a capital.

And I like my night deep, and dark, and swarthy,

don't you know. Now some like clear and starry

nights, but they're too pale for me--too weak and

fragile altogether! They're popular with the

masses, of course, these blue-eyed, golden-haired,

'moonlight-on-the-lake' nights; but, somehow, I

don't 'stand in' with them. My favorite night is

the pronounced brunette--the darker the better. To-

night is one of my kind, and she's growing more

and more like it all the time. If it were not for

depriving you of the theater, I'd rather just drift

off now in the deepening gloom till swallowed up

in it--lost utterly. Come with me, anyhow!"

"Gladly," I answered, catching something of his

own enthusiasm; "I myself prefer it to the play."

"I heartily congratulate you on your taste," he

said, diving violently for my hand and wringing it.

"Oh, it's going to be grimly glorious!--a depth of

darkness one can wade out into, and knead in his

hands like dough!" And he laughed, himself, at

this grotesque conceit.

And so we walked--for hours. Our talk--or,

rather, my friend's talk--lulled and soothed at last

into a calmer flow, almost solemn in its tone, and

yet fretted with an occasional wildness of utterance

and expression.

Half consciously I had been led by my companion,

who for an hour had been drawing closer to me

as we walked. His arm, thrust through my own,

clung almost affectionately. We were now in some

strange suburb of the city, evidently, too, in a low

quarter, for from the windows of such business

rooms and shops as bore any evidence of respectability

the lights had been turned out and the doors

locked for the night. Only a gruesome green light

was blazing in a little drug-store just opposite,

while at our left, as we turned the corner, a tumble-

down saloon sent out on the night a mingled

sound of clicking billiard-balls, discordant voices,

the harsher rasping of a violin, together with the

sullen plunkings of a banjo.

"I must leave you here for a minute," said my

friend, abruptly breaking a long silence, and loosening

my arm. "The druggist over there is a patron

of our house, and I am reminded of a little business

I have with him. He is about closing, too, and

I'll see him now, as I may not be down this way

again soon. No; you wait here for me--right here,"

and he playfully but firmly pushed me back, ran

across the street, and entered the store. Through

the open door I saw him shake hands with the man

who stood behind the counter, and stand talking

in the same position for some minutes--both still

clasping hands, as it seemed; but as I mechanically

bent with closer scrutiny, the druggist seemed to be

examining the hand of Mr. Clark and working at

it, as though picking at a splinter in the palm--I

I could not quite determine what was being done,

for a glass show-case blurred an otherwise clear

view of the arms of both from the elbows down.

Then they came forward, Mr. Clark arranging his

cuffs, and the druggist wrapping up some minute

article he took from an upper show-case, and handing

it to my friend, who placed it in the pocket of

his vest and turned away. At this moment my

attention was withdrawn by an extra tumult of jeers

and harsh laughter in the saloon, from the door of

which, even as my friend turned from the door

opposite, a drunken woman reeled, and staggering

round the corner as my friend came up, fell

violently forward on the pavement, not ten steps in

our advance. Instinctively, we both sprang to her

aid, and bending over the senseless figure, peered

curiously at the bruised and bleeding features. My

friend was trembling with excitement. He clutched

wildly at the limp form, trying, but vainly, to lift the

woman to her feet. "Why don't you take hold of

her?" he whispered hoarsely. "Help me with her--

quick! quick! Lift her up!" I obeyed without a

word, though with a shudder of aversion as a drop

of hot red blood stung me on the hand.

"Now draw her arm about your shoulder--this

way--and hold it so! And now your other arm

around her waist--quick, man, quick, as you yourself

will want God's arm about you when you fail!

Now, come!" And with no other word we hurried

with our burden up the empty darkness of the

street.

I was utterly bewildered with it all, but something

kept me silent. And so we hurried on, and on, and

on, our course directed by my now wholly reticent

companion. Where he was going, what his purpose

was, I could not but vaguely surmise. I only recognized

that his intentions were humane, which fact

was emphasized by the extreme caution he took to

avoid the two or three late pedestrians that passed

us on our way as we stood crowded in concealment

--once behind a low shed, once in an entry-way;

and once, at the distant rattle of a police whistle,

we hurried through the blackness of a narrow alley

into the silent street beyond. And on up this we

passed, until at last we paused at the gateway of a

cottage on our left. On to the door of that we went,

my friend first violently jerking the bell, then opening

the door with a night-key, and with me lifting

the still senseless woman through the hall into a

dimly lighted room upon the right, and laying her

upon a clean white bed that glimmered in the corner.

He reached and turned the gas on in a flaring jet,

and as he did so, "This is my home," he whispered,

"and this woman is--my mother!" He flung himself

upon his knees beside her as he spoke. He laid

his quivering lips against the white hair and the

ruddy wound upon the brow; then dappled with his

kisses the pale face, and stroked and petted and

caressed the faded hands. "O God!" he moaned, "if

I might only weep!"

The steps of some one coming down the stairs

aroused him. He stepped quickly to the door, and

threw it open. It was a woman servant. He

simply pointed to the form upon the bed.

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the frightened woman,

"what has happened? What has happened to my

poor dear mistress?"

"Why did you let her leave the house?"

"She sent me away, sir. I never dreamed that

she was going out again. She told me she was very

sleepy and wanted to retire, and I helped her to

undress before I went. But she ain't bad hurt, is

she?" she continued, stooping over the still figure

and tenderly smoothing back the disheveled hair.

--"It's only the cheek bruised and the forehead cut

a little--it's the blood that makes it look like a bad

hurt. See, when I bathe it, it is not a bad hurt, sir.

She's just been--she's just worn out, poor thing--

and she's asleep--that's all."

He made no answer to the woman's speech, but

turned toward me. "Five doors from here," he

said, "and to your left as you go out, you will find

the residence of Dr. Worrel. Go to him for me, and

tell him he is wanted here at once. Tell him my

mother is much worse. He will understand. I

would go myself, but must see about arranging for

your comfort upon your return, for you will not

leave me till broad daylight--you must not!" I

bowed in silent acceptance of his wishes, and turned

upon my errand.

Fortunately, the doctor was at home, and

returned at once with me to my friend, where, after a

careful examination of his patient, he assured the

anxious son that the wounds were only slight, and

that her unconscious condition was simply "the result

of over-stimulation, perhaps," as he delicately

put it. She would doubtless waken in her usual

rational state--an occurrence really more to be

feared than desired, since her peculiar sensitiveness

might feel too keenly the unfortunate happening.

"Anyway," he continued, "I will call early in the

morning, and, in the event of her awakening before

that time, I will leave a sedative with Mary, with

directions she will attend to. She will remain here

at her side. And as to yourself, Mr. Clark," the

doctor went on in an anxious tone, as he marked the

haggard face and hollow eyes, "I insist that you

retire. You must rest, sir--worrying for the past

week as you have been doing is telling on you

painfully. You need rest--and you must take it."

"And I will," said Mr. Clark submissively.

Stooping again, he clasped the sleeping face between

his hands and kissed it tenderly. "Good night!" I

heard him whisper--"good night-good night!" He

turned, and motioning for me to follow, opened the

door--"Doctor, good night! Good night, Mary!"

He led the way to his own room up-stairs. "And

now, my friend," he said, as he waved me to an easy

chair, "I have but two other favors to ask of you:

The first is, that you talk to me, or read to me, or

tell me fairy tales, or riddles--anything, so that you

keep it up incessantly, and never leave off till you

find me fast asleep. Then in the next room you

will find a comfortable bed. Leave me sleeping

here, and you sleep there. And the second favor,"

he continued, with a slow smile and an affected air

of great deliberation--"oh, well, I'll not ask the

second favor of you now. I'll keep it for you till

to-morrow." And as he turned laughingly away and

paced three or four times across the room, in his

step, his gait, the general carriage of the figure, I

was curiously reminded of the time, years before,

that I had watched him from the door of the caboose,

as he walked up the suburban street till the

movement of the train had hidden him from view.

"Well, what will you do?" he asked, as he wheeled

a cozy-cushioned lounge close beside my chair, and

removing his coat, flung himself languidly down.--

"Will you talk or read to me?"

"I will read," I said, as I picked up a book to

begin my vigil.

"Hold just a minute, then," he said, drawing a

card and pencil from his vest.--"I may want to

jot down a note or two.--Now, go ahead."

I had been reading in a low voice steadily for

perhaps an hour, my companion never stirring from

his first position, but although my eyes were never

lifted from the book, I knew by the occasional sound

of his pencil that he had not yet dropped asleep.

And so, without a pause, I read monotonously on.

At last he turned heavily. I paused. With his eyes

closed he groped his hand across my knees and

grasped my own. "Go on with the reading," he

said drowsily--"Guess I'm going to sleep now--but

you go right on with the story.--Good night!" His

hand fumbled lingeringly a moment, then was withdrawn

and folded with the other on his breast.

I read on in a lower tone an hour longer, then

paused again to look at my companion. He was

sleeping heavily, and although the features in their

repose appeared unusually pale, a wholesome perspiration,

as it seemed, pervaded all the face, while the

breathing, though labored, was regular. I bent

above him to lower the pillow for his head, and the

movement half aroused him, as I thought at first,

for he muttered something as though impatiently;

but listening to catch his mutterings, I knew that

he was dreaming. "It's what killed father," I heard

him say. "And it's what killed Tom," he went on,

in a smothered voice; "killed both--killed both! It

shan't kill me; I swear it. I could bottle it--case

after case--and never touch a drop. If you never

take the first drink, you'll never want it. Mother

taught me that. What made her ever take the first?

Mother! mother! When I get to be a man, I'll

buy her all the fine things she used to have when

father was alive. Maybe I can buy back the old

home, with the roses up the walk and the sunshine

slanting in the hall."

And so the sleeper murmured on. Sometimes

the voice was thick and discordant, sometimes low

and clear and tuneful as a child's. "Never touch

whisky!" he went on, almost harshly. "Never--

never! Drop in the street first. I did. The doctor

will come then, and he knows what you want. Not

whisky.--Medicine; the kind that makes you warm

again--makes you want to live; but don't ever dare

touch whisky. Let other people drink it if they

want it. Sell it to them; they'll get it anyhow; but

don't you touch it! It killed your father, it killed

Tom, and--oh!--mother! mother! mother!" Tears

actually teemed from underneath the sleeper's lids,

and glittered down the pallid and distorted features.

"There's a medicine that's good for you when you

want whisky," he went on.--"When you are weak,

and everybody else is strong--and always when the

flagstones give way beneath your feet, and the long

street undulates and wavers as you walk; why,

that's a sign for you to take that medicine--and

take it quick! Oh, it will warm you till the little

pale blue streaks in your white hands will bulge out

again with tingling blood, and it will start up from

its stagnant pools and leap from vein to vein till it

reaches your being's furthest height and droops and

falls and folds down over icy brow and face like a

soft veil moistened with pure warmth. Ah! it is

so deliriously sweet and restful!"

I heard a moaning in the room below, and then

steps on the stairs, and a tapping at the door. It

was Mary. Mrs. Clark had awakened and was

crying for her son. "But we must not waken him," I

said. "Give Mrs. Clark the medicine the doctor left

for her--that will quiet her."

"But she won't take it, sir. She won't do

anything at all for me--and if Mr. Clark could only

come to her, for just a minute, she would--"

The woman's speech was broken by a shrill cry

in the hall, and then the thud of naked feet on the

stairway. "I want my boy--my boy!" wailed the

hysterical woman from without.

"Go to your mistress--quick," I said sternly,

pushing the maid from the room.--"Take her back;

I will come down to your assistance in a moment."

Then I turned hastily to see if the sleeper had been

disturbed by the woman's cries; but all was peaceful

with him yet; and so, throwing a coverlet over

him, I drew the door to silently and went below.

I found the wretched mother in an almost frenzied

state, and her increasing violence alarmed

me so that I thought it best to summon the physician

again; and bidding the servant not to leave

her for an instant, I hurried for the help so badly

needed. This time the doctor was long delayed,

although he joined me with all possible haste, and

with all speed accompanied me back to the unhappy

home. Entering the door, our ears were greeted

with a shriek that came piercing down the hall till

the very echoes shuddered as with fear. It was the

patient's voice shrilling from the sleeper's room up

stairs:--"O God! My boy! my boy! I want my

boy, and he will not waken for me!" An instant

later we were both upon the scene.

The woman in her frenzy had broken from the

servant to find her son. And she had found him.

She had wound her arms about him, and had

dragged his still sleeping form upon the floor. He

would not waken, even though she gripped him to

her heart and shrieked her very soul out in his ears.

He would not waken. The face, though whiter

than her own, betokened only utter rest and peace.

We drew her, limp and voiceless, from his side.

"We are too late," the doctor whispered, lifting with

his finger one of the closed lids, and letting it drop

to again.--"See here!" He had been feeling at the

wrist; and, as he spoke, he slipped the sleeve up,

bared the sleeper's arm. From the wrist to elbow it

was livid purple, and pitted and scarred with minute

wounds--some scarcely scaled as yet with clotted

blood.

"In heaven's name, what does it all mean?" I

asked.

"Morphine," said the doctor, "and the

hypodermic. And here," he exclaimed, lifting the other

hand--"here is a folded card with your name at the

top."

I snatched it from him, and I read, written in

faint but rounded characters:

"I like to hear your voice. It sounds kind. It is

like a far-off tune. To drop asleep, though, as I

am doing now, is sweeter music--but read on.--I

have taken something to make me sleep, and by

mistake I have taken too much; but you will read

right on. Now, mind you, this is not suicide, as

God listens to the whisper of this pencil as I write!

I did it by mistake. For years and years I have

taken the same thing. This time I took too much--

much more than I meant to--but I am glad. This

is the second favor I would ask: Go to my employers

to-morrow, show them this handwriting, and

say I know for my sake they will take charge of

my affairs and administer all my estate in the best

way suited to my mother's needs. Good-by, my

friend--I can only say 'good night' to you when I

shall take your hand an instant later and turn away

forever."

Through tears I read it all, and ending with his

name in full, I turned and looked down on the face

of this man that I had learned to love, and the

full measure of his needed rest was with him; and

the rainy day that glowered and drabbled at the

eastern window of the room was as drearily stared

back at by a hopeless woman's dull demented eyes.