THIS is a story told by the late Benson Foley of San Francisco:
“In the summer of 1881 I met a man named James H. Conway, a resident of
Franklin, Tennessee. He was visiting San Francisco for his health,
deluded man, and brought me a note of introduction from Mr. Lawrence
Barting. I had known Barting as a captain in the Federal army during the
civil war. At its close he had settled in Franklin, and in time became,
I had reason to think, somewhat prominent as a lawyer. Barting had
always seemed to me an honorable and truthful man, and the warm
friendship which he expressed in his note for Mr. Conway was to me
sufficient evidence that the latter was in every way worthy of my
confidence and esteem. At dinner one day Conway told me that it had been
solemnly agreed between him and Barting that the one who died first
should, if possible, communicate with the other from beyond the grave, in
some unmistakable way—just how, they had left (wisely, it seemed to me)
to be decided by the deceased, according to the opportunities that his
altered circumstances might present.
“A few weeks after the conversation in which Mr. Conway spoke of this
agreement, I met him one day, walking slowly down Montgomery street,
apparently, from his abstracted air, in deep thought. He greeted me
coldly with merely a movement of the head and passed on, leaving me
standing on the walk, with half-proffered hand, surprised and naturally
somewhat piqued. The next day I met him again in the office of the
Palace Hotel, and seeing him about to repeat the disagreeable performance
of the day before, intercepted him in a doorway, with a friendly
salutation, and bluntly requested an explanation of his altered manner.
He hesitated a moment; then, looking me frankly in the eyes, said:
“‘I do not think, Mr. Foley, that I have any longer a claim to your
friendship, since Mr. Barting appears to have withdrawn his own from
me—for what reason, I protest I do not know. If he has not already
informed you he probably will do so.’
“‘But,’ I replied, ‘I have not heard from Mr. Barting.’
“‘Heard from him!’ he repeated, with apparent surprise. ‘Why, he is
here. I met him yesterday ten minutes before meeting you. I gave you
exactly the same greeting that he gave me. I met him again not a quarter
of an hour ago, and his manner was precisely the same: he merely bowed
and passed on. I shall not soon forget your civility to me. Good
morning, or—as it may please you—farewell.’
“All this seemed to me singularly considerate and delicate behavior on
the part of Mr. Conway.
“As dramatic situations and literary effects are foreign to my purpose I
will explain at once that Mr. Barting was dead. He had died in Nashville
four days before this conversation. Calling on Mr. Conway, I apprised
him of our friend’s death, showing him the letters announcing it. He was
visibly affected in a way that forbade me to entertain a doubt of his
sincerity.
“‘It seems incredible,’ he said, after a period of reflection. ‘I
suppose I must have mistaken another man for Barting, and that man’s cold
greeting was merely a stranger’s civil acknowledgment of my own. I
remember, indeed, that he lacked Barting’s mustache.’
“‘Doubtless it was another man,’ I assented; and the subject was never
afterward mentioned between us. But I had in my pocket a photograph of
Barting, which had been inclosed in the letter from his widow. It had
been taken a week before his death, and was without a mustache.”