"WHO SAYS THERE CAN BE A 'TOO LATE' FOR THE IMMORTAL MIND?"
Something like fear, a superstitious fear, arose in Edwards' heart as he
turned down the lid of the old-fashioned desk in the little room
upstairs and saw the few papers pigeon-holed there with lawyer-like
precision. On the top lay a long envelope sealed and bearing his name.
His hand shook as he held it and studied the chirography. The moment was
one to which he had looked forward for a lifetime and should contain the
explanation of the singular mystery that had environed him from infancy.
As he held the letter, hesitating over the final act, his life passed in
review as, it is said, do the lives of drowning persons. The thought
that Edward Morgan was dying came in that connection. The orphan, the
lonely college boy, the wandering youth, the bohemian of a dozen
continental capitals, the musician and half-way metaphysicist and
theosophist, the unformed man of an unformed age, new sphere, one of
quick, earnest, feverish action, the new man, was to spring armed, or
hampered by--what? At that moment, by a strange revulsion, the life that
he had worn so hardly, so bitterly, even its sadness seemed dear and
beautiful. After all it had been a life of ease and many scenes. It had
no responsibilities--now it would pass! He tore open the envelope
impatiently and read:
"Edward Morgan--Sir: When this letter comes to your knowledge
you will have been acquainted with the fact that my will has
made you heir to all my property, without legacy or
restriction. That document was made brief and simple, partly to
avoid complications, and partly to conceal facts with which the
public has no reasonable interest. I now, assured of your
character in every particular, desire that you retain during
the lifetime of Gerald Morgan the residence which has always
been his home, providing for his wants and pleasures freely as
I have done and leaving him undisturbed in the manner of his
life. I direct, further, that you extend the same care and
kindness to Rita Morgan, my housekeeper, seeing that she is not
disturbed in her home and the manner of her life. My object is
to guard the welfare of the only people intimately connected
with me by ties of friendship and association, whom I have not
already provided for. Carrying out this intention, you will as
soon as possible, after coming into possession, take
precautions looking to the future of Gerald Morgan and Rita
Morgan, my housekeeper, in the event of your own death; and the
plan to be selected in this connection I leave to your own good
sense and judgment, only suggesting as adviser for you Ellison
Eldridge, one of the few lawyers living whose heart is outside
of his pocketbook, and whose discretion is perfect.
"John Morgan."
That was all.
The young man, dumfounded, turned over the single sheet of paper that
contained the whole message, examined again the envelope, read and
reread the communication, and finally laid it aside. Not one word of
explanation of his own (Edward's) existence no claim of relationship, no
message of sympathy, only the curt voice of an eccentric old man,
echoing beyond the black wall of mystery and already sunk into eternal
silence. The old life no longer seemed dear or beautiful. It returned
upon him with the dull weight of oppression he had known so long. It was
a bitter ending, a crushing, overwhelming disappointment.
He smiled at length and lighted another cigar. His mind reverted to the
singular character whose final expression lay upon the desk. His last
act had been to guard against the curious, and that had included the
beneficiary. He had succeeded in living a mystery, in dying a mystery,
and in covering up his past with a mystery.
"It was well done." Such was Edward's reflection spoken aloud. He
recalled the lines: "I now, assured of your character in every
particular." Every word in that laconic letter, as also every word in
the few communications made to him in life by this man, meant something.
What did these mean? "Assured" by whom? Who had spied upon his actions
and kept watch over him to such an extent as would justify the sweeping
confidences? But he knew that the testator had read him right. A faint
wave of pleasure flushed his cheek and warmed his heart when he realized
the full significance of this tribute to his true character. He no
longer felt like an intruder.
And yet, "assured" by whom? And who was Gerald Morgan? Not a relative or
he would have said so; he would have said "my nephew, Gerald Morgan."
The same argument shut him (Edward) out. Why this suspicious absence of
relationship terms?--and they, both of them, Morgans and heirs to his
wealth?
Again he dragged the papers from the desk and ran them over. Manuscripts
all, they contained detached accounts of widely separated people and
incidents, and moreover they were clearly briefed. "A Dramatic Trail,"
"The Storm," "A Midnight Struggle," etc. They had no bearing upon his
life; they were the unpublished literary remains of John Morgan.
Every paper lay exposed; the mine was exhausted. He again read the
letter slowly, idly lifted each paper and returned all to the desk.
The cigar was out again; he tossed it from the window, locked the desk
and passed into the mother's room. The action was without forethought,
but his new philosophy had taught him the value of instinctive human
actions as index fingers. What cause then had drawn him into that
long-deserted room? As he reflected, his eyes rested upon the picture of
the girl in the little frame on the mantel. He started back, amazed and
overwhelmed. It was the face that had been turned to him in the
library--the face of Gerald Morgan!
Edward was surprised to find himself standing by the open window when he
had exhausted the train of thought that the recognition put in motion,
and counting his heart-beats, ninety to the minute. By that curious
power or weakness of certain minds his thoughts ran entirely from the
matter in hand along the lines of a lecture his friend Virdow as Jean
had delivered, the theory of which was that organic heart disease,
unless fastened to its victim by inheritance, is always a mental result.
If a mere thought or combination of thoughts could excite, a thought
could depress. It was plain; he would write to Virdow confirming his
theory.
Then he became conscious that the moon hung like a plate of silver in
the vast sky space of the east and that her light was flashed back by
many little points in the city beneath him--a gilt ball, a vane, a set
of window glasses, and the dew-wet slates of a modern roof. One white
spot was visible in the yard in front, white and pale as the moon when
the vapor had dispersed but set immovably. As he idly sought to unravel
its little secret, it simply became a part of the shadow and invisible,
but he felt that some one was looking up at him; and suddenly he saw the
slender figure of a man pass, cross the gravel walk and vanish in the
shrubbery on the left.
Edward did not cry out; he stood musing upon the fact, and lo, there
came a glitter of rosy light along the horizon; the moon had vanished
overhead, and sound arose in confused murmurs from the dull heaps of
houses in the valley. He saw again at the moment, over the eastern
hills, the face of a girl as she stood calling her pets, and felt her
eyes upon him.
When he awoke that day he found the sun far beyond the zenith and he lay
revolving in his mind the events of the night; to his surprise much of
the weight was gone and in its place was interest, the like of which he
had never before known. An object in life had suddenly been developed
and instinctively he felt that the study of this new mystery would lead
to a knowledge of himself and his past.
The first thing to be done was to again see the stranger who had invaded
his library, and carry his investigation as far as this person would
permit. This in mind, he dressed himself with care and descended into
the dining-room. In a few moments his breakfast was served. Upon hearing
his inquiry for Rita, Ben, the butler, retired and presently the woman,
grave, and after a few words quiet, took his place. Before speaking
Edward noticed her closely again. About fifty years of age, perhaps
less, she stood as erect and rigid as an Indian, her black hair without
a kink. There was an easy dignity in her attitude, hardly the pose of a
slave, or one who had been. But in her face was the sadness of personal
suffering, and in her voice a tone he had noticed at first, an echo of
some depressing experience, it seemed to him.
Where was Gerald's room? There! He had not noticed the door; it led out
from the dining-room. It was the wing intended for billiards, but now
the retreat of her poor young master and had been all his life. He did
not like to be disturbed, but perhaps the circumstances would make a
difference.
Edward knocked on the door. Receiving no answer, he opened it
hesitatingly and looked in. Then he entered. Gerald greeted him with an
encouraging smile and closing the door behind him, he viewed the
interior with interest. The walls were hung with pictures, swords, guns,
pistols and other weapons, and between them on every available spot were
books, books, books and periodicals. A broad center table held writing
materials and manuscripts, and upon a long table by two open windows
were bottles of many colors and all the queer paraphernalia of a
chemical laboratory. Against the opposite wall was a spacious divan, and
seated upon it, wrapped in a singular-looking dressing-gown, fez upon
his head and smoking a shibouk as he read, was the strange being for
whom Edward searched.
"I was expecting you," the young man said; "where have you been?" The
naturalness of the words confused the visitor for a moment. No seat had
been offered him, but he drew one near the divan.
"I suppose I may smoke?" he said, smiling, ignoring the query, but the
intent look of Gerald caused him to add: "I slept late; how did you
rest?"
"Do you know," said Gerald, his expression changing, "strange as it may
seem, I have seen you before, but where, where----" The long lashes
dropped above the eyes; he shook his head sadly, "but where, no man may
say."
"It hardly seems possible," said Edward, gravely. "I have never been
here before, and you, I believe, have never been absent."
"So they say; so they say. Mere old-nurse talk! I have been to many
places." Edward turned his head in sadness. Man or woman the person was
crazy. He looked again; it was the face of the girl in the picture
frame, grown older, with time and suffering.
"It is an odd room," he said, presently; "do you sleep here?"
Gerald nodded to the other door.
"Would you like to see? Enter."
To Edward's amazement he found himself in a conservatory, a glass house
about forty by twenty feet, arranged for sliding curtains at sides and
top. There was little to be seen besides a small bed and necessary
furniture. But an easel stood near the center and on it a canvas ready
for painting. In a corner was a large portfolio for drawings, closed.
"I cannot sleep unless I see the stars," said Gerald, joining him. "And
there is an entrance to the grounds!" He threw open a glass door,
exposing an oleander avenue. "This is my favorite walk." The scene
seemed to strike him anew. He stood there lost in thought a moment and
returned to his divan. Edward found him absorbed in a volume. He had
studied him there long and keenly and reached a conclusion that would,
he felt, be of value in his future associations with this eccentric
mind; it was a mind reversed, living in abstract thought. Its visions of
real life were only glimpses. Therefore, he reasoned, to keep company
with such a mind, one must be prepared for its eccentricities and avoid
discord.
It was a keen diagnosis and he acted upon it. He went about noiselessly
examining the furnishings of the room without further speech. The young
man was writing as he passed him. Looking over his shoulder, Edward read
a few lines of what was evidently a thesis;
"The mind can therefore have no conscious memory. Memory being
a function of the brain and physical structure, and mind being
endowed with a capacity for wandering, it follows that it can
bring back no record of its experience since no memory function
went with it. It may, indeed, be true that the mind can itself
be shaped and biased anew by its detached experiences, but who
can ever read its history backwards? Unless somewhere arises a
mind brilliant enough to find the alphabet, to connect the
mind's hidden storehouse with consciousness, the mystery of
mind--life (that is, higher dream life)--must remain forever
unread."
"It has been found," said Edward, as though Gerald had stated a
proposition aloud.
"How? Where?" Gerald did not look up, but merely ceased writing a
moment.
"Music is the connecting link. Music is the language of the mind.
Vibration is the secret of creation and along its lines will all secrets
be revealed." The book closed slowly in the reader's hands, his thesis
slipped to the floor. He sat in deep thought. Then a light gleamed in
his face and eyes.
"It is true," he said, with agitation, as he arose. "It is a great
thought; a great discovery. I must learn once" and Rita stood waiting.
"Bring me musical instruments--what?" He turned impatiently to Edward.
The latter shook his head.
"'Tis a lifetime study," he said, sadly, "and then--failure. No man has
yet reached the end."
"I will reach it."
"It calls for labor day and night--for talent--for teachers."
"I will have all."
"It calls for youth, for a mind young and fresh and responsive. You are
old in mind. It is too late."
"Too late. Too late. Never, never, never too late. Who says there can be
a 'too late' for the immortal mind? I will begin. I will labor! I will
succeed! If not in this life, then in the next, or the next; aye, at the
foot of Buddha, if need be, I will press to read all to the strains of
music. Oh, blind! Blind! Blind!" He strode about the room in an ecstasy
of excitement.
"Prove to me it is too late here," shrieked the unhappy being, "and I
will end this existence; will go back a thousand cycles, if necessary,
carrying with me the impression of this truth, and begin, an infant, to
lisp in numbers."
He had snatched a poniard from the wall and was gesticulating
frantically. Edward was about to speak when he saw the enthusiast's eyes
lose their frenzy and fix upon the woman's. He dropped the weapon and
plunged face downward in despair among the pillows. Like a statue the
woman stood gazing upon him.
"My violin," said Edward. She disappeared noiselessly.