than that we have very little knowledge of ourselves; many traits lie
dormant until circumstances call them out; hidden dogs that scenting
prey hurry forward in restless chase. Auntie had ever been trusting to a
singular degree; but now she had become suspicious of everyone, and when
Marjy went out two or three nights in succession, she regarded her
distrustingly. “I do wonder now, if Marjy goes out to meet that fellow!
Probably they are planning that they will have a good time with that
money. Oh, dear! I wish that miserable roll of bills had been burned, it
wouldn’t have given me half as much trouble; it is the uncertainty that
vexes me so!”
It is often quoted as an adage, “out of people’s mouths we must judge
them.” I shall certainly have to differ with the wise old proverb maker,
though as a rule he is right; sometimes people say the opposite of what
they mean; most certainly Aunt Hattie did, when she accused either Henry
or Marjy of using the money. The fact was that she was in a state of
aggravating uncertainty; she had no actual opinion, being in a condition
of endless surmise, and consequent irritability, which must have an
outlet.
That night her suspicions were so wrought up that she followed Marjy,
and witnessed the loving meeting of the two; she caught a sound of their
low-toned conversation, although she could not distinguish their words.
She was in precisely that frame of mind to imagine that everything was
intended as an injury to her; she rushed at them, crying and scolding
incoherently.
Marjy in an agony of shame tried to appease her, but in vain. Windows
were hastily thrown up all along the street: “Oh, auntie, do come home!
All the neighbors are listening; auntie! auntie! Just think of the
comments!”
Auntie gave a frightened glance at the many opened windows, and at a man
hurrying toward them; gossip over her affairs had been the great bugaboo
of her life; she regained command of herself instantly. The man was
rapidly approaching them, his face alive with curiosity; just as he was
on the point of speaking to them, auntie sank to the ground with a groan
and burst into loud weeping.
Marjy gave Henry a frightened glance, and turned to auntie in the
greatest distress. Auntie cried out shrilly: “Lift me up, Henry! Marjy,
do get hold on the other side. Oh, dear! Oh, dear. My poor ankle, I know
that it is broken!” and with much groaning and crying she allowed
herself to be carried into the house. No sooner had the street door
closed behind them than auntie straightened up and said laughingly:
“There, I think my ankle is all right now, and those old gossips have
missed a treat!”
She was so elated over the affair that she seemed more like herself than
for a long time; but as a sequence Marjy could go out no more,
unaccompanied by her aunt. Auntie gave Henry a frigid invitation, but he
seldom came to the house, and when he did so wore a preoccupied and
uncomfortable air; auntie was often disagreeable, and Marjy unhappy and
despondent.
About this time a cousin of Marjy’s, James Jordan, came to visit Auntie
Nelson; he was not long in discovering that things were in an unpleasant
condition. He formed a great liking for Henry, who on the contrary was
very jealous of James. Marjy went to places of amusement, and was
frequently out riding with him; cousin James was consulted upon all
occasions. Marjy had no wrong intention in so doing; she thought of him
merely as her cousin, and was glad of anything that eased the tension
under which they seemed to be living. Henry had become so hypersensitive
that he shrank from everything. He often answered James with absolute
incivility, to which he only returned some laughing answer; he
understood the situation very well, and heartily sympathized with the
lovers.
One evening they had gathered around the table in auntie’s room; several
new magazines lay scattered about, one of which James had been reading.
Henry was unusually silent and depressed; his business had steadily
decreased, and more than one taunt had been leveled at him; he had ever
been proud of his integrity, and scorned all things debasing—as all
dishonesty whether of word or deed must be—and the annoyance had
developed a nervous restlessness which prevented sleep, and left him
worn, haggard and miserable.
James looked up from the book which he had been reading and said, “What
do you think about hypnotism? I have been reading this article, and am
very much impressed, as well as interested by it.”
The question was addressed to no one in particular, but Henry took it
up, and answered roughly: “I think it is a lot of bosh!”
James replied pleasantly: “I don’t know that it is, though it may be so.
We know that there are subtleties of the mind which we do not
understand, and I do not see why there should not be the same amount of
force in the higher power of man as in the physical; great feats, either
of mind or muscle, are but the result of training; we think because we
do not understand that to which we have scarcely given a thought—much
less investigated—that it cannot be true; we have no right to cry ‘wolf’
until we—at least—uncover our eyes.”
Henry lifted up his face, a strange eagerness in his voice as he said,
“Do you then believe that you could unconsciously to me force me to do
that which is against my will?”
“No, indeed! The hypnotic has no will; it is the will of the hypnotizer
working through him. I believe that the hypnotizer may not even be
positive as to a knowledge of his own power—merely a half-consciousness,
a way in which one’s thoughts at times move—like the shadow of a
fast-sailing summer cloud. Of course to be so easily influenced, the
subject must be of a yielding, plastic temperament; it is as though the
operator sent a portion of his own soul on a brief visit into the body
of the hypnotized.”
A half-frightened look flashed over Henry’s countenance—and was
instantly gone; he cried out roughly: “I don’t believe it! I don’t
believe it!” He wiped the perspiration from his face with a trembling
hand. James laughed at his vigorous protest, and affected not to see the
emotion which lay behind it, so he answered lightly: “No compulsion
about it, this is just a case of leave it, or take it, as you
please—which does not alter the fact that we have many forces within us
of which we are in ignorance,” he replied quietly.
“Well, all I have to say is this, I wish that I had the power to get one
good night’s rest. I think that hypnotism would be a blessing, if it
were the means of securing it to me; I lie awake half the night to think
and worry, and at last fall asleep and dream it all over again,
intensified a thousand times, and aggravated by something, which each
night persistently occurs, and which I try all day to recall to memory;
at times I just touch the border—it is like trying to grasp the luminous
tail of a comet—it is but empty air.” He suddenly paused, evidently
annoyed that he had been betrayed into an expression of his feelings.
James sat up, instantly interested: “Can you not concentrate your mind,
and thus trace the sequence of that which you do remember? Is it a
dream—or—or——”
“It is nothing! I tell you it is nothing!” said Henry testily.
James said no more, but he knew that there was something which Henry
either could not, or would not explain. Later, as Henry was starting for
home, James laid his hand on his shoulder and said, “I think I will go
home with you, and we will have a quiet smoke together, it will soothe
your nerves, and perhaps you will sleep better.”
At first Henry shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and made a movement
as though he would jerk away from his detaining hand; but as James
continued speaking he seemed to change his mind, and said slowly: “Very
well! I do not often smoke, but perhaps it would quiet my nerves.” Aunt
Hattie bade him a very crusty good-night; she had been very sarcastic,
and ill-natured all the evening; it seemed to make her angry if either
Marjy or Henry showed any enjoyment; she seemed equally angry if they
sat silent and unhappy.
“Oh, auntie, you ought not to be so ill-natured!” said Marjy after they
had gone.
“Oh, of course, I am the one to blame! If I lost everything I possess on
earth, I ought to keep right on smiling—I should like to know what James
went home with Henry for? some scheming, I suppose!” she harped upon
these two strings until it was very trying.
James locked his arm in Henry’s, talking pleasantly, Henry replying
absently as though he but half-comprehended.
As I have said his rooms were in the front part of the house; he pulled
down the blinds, and lighted a lamp with a soft, rose-colored shade, and
threw himself into an easy-chair with an air of great weariness. James
seated himself at his right side, but with his chair so turned that he
could watch Henry’s face. He led him gently on, until, before he
realized what he was doing, he was pouring all his distress and grief
into his companion’s ear, in a low, dreamy tone, an aggrieved quiver
running through his voice.
“Can you explain what it is that haunts your mind—you remember that you
spoke of it this evening?” questioned James.
The trouble deepened in his eyes, and his voice took on a more fretful
tone: “I do not know, I tell you the truth, I do not know—but it is
something about that combination, and—Aunt Hattie; sometimes I can
almost see it; but before I can quite grasp it, it is gone. I believe
that I shall go insane, if I cannot get the thing off my mind.”
James reached over and laid his hand on the other’s shoulder
affectionately: “Don’t worry, old fellow! It will all come out right!
Did you ever try to bring the vision before you by concentrating your
mind upon the fragment which you seem to catch—not at first trying to
get any further—and thus ascertain how much of the shadow you can make
real? When you have proved that the haunting remembrance is not wholly
illusory, you can then step by step trace back to that which evades you.
Henry obediently rested his head on the cushion, and drew a long breath
or two like a tired sigh.
“Well, what do you see?” asked James eagerly.
He answered in the tone of a child repeating its lesson: “I see a bright
light—” he started up excitedly: “I cannot see anything beyond except a
moving shadow—Oh! It is myself that I see!” his voice expressive of
intense surprise.
“Yes? What are you doing?” James asked, trembling with excitement.
“Standing in the middle of the room, repeating the combination
aloud—over and over again, making Aunt Hattie repeat it after me.”
“Where is Aunt Hattie?”
“In her sitting room.”
“How do you see this?”
“It is like a picture! This is that which has eluded me for days—I see
it plainly now.”
“Repeat the scene just as it has been enacted before.”
Henry slowly arose from his chair, and walked to the center of the room;
here he paused undecidedly.
“Well, what is wrong?”
Very slowly he answered, “I do not know—I—do—not—know.”
James looked puzzled; at last he asked: “Do you mean that you cannot do
again that which you have before accomplished—that some peculiar
condition is wanting?”
Henry merely repeated helplessly, “I—do—not—know; it is all dark! I
cannot find—Aunt—Hattie!” in tone of great distress.
James looked perplexed: “Sit down in your chair,” he said. Henry obeyed,
and presently James awoke him; he stretched out his arms, yawning
sleepily. “I feel awfully tired, suppose we go to bed!” Evidently he had
no remembrance of the hypnotic sleep.
They at once retired; Henry sank immediately into a profound slumber,
but James lay for a long time troubling over an idea which had taken
possession of his mind. He did not believe Henry guilty of stealing the
money, but he believed that he was shielding the person who did take it.
Could it be Marjy? The thought made the cold sweat start out on his
face; the next instant, when he remembered Marjy’s frank eyes as she
appealed to him to try his hypnotic power over Henry, he felt ashamed of
the thought; her idea was merely to tease Henry for his strenuous
opposition to it, if he could be made to succumb to the influence; but
James had an altogether different idea, which he did not mention; as I
have said, he believed that Henry knew more about the money than he
professed to know. Now, after his experiment, he was completely at a
loss; he could form no opinion. He was surprised that he found him so
easy a subject; it was perhaps owing to his mental depression, and
consequent relaxation of will power.
James had said to Marjy that afternoon, “Perhaps Henry did take the
money!”
“I know that he did not!” she answered hotly.
“How do you know that?”
“Just because I do know; I cannot explain how I know, but I know it!”
James, watching the flush in her cheek, was thinking how becoming a
touch of anger was to her, but he laughed gayly as he replied: “Woman’s
reason; logical of course; just because!”
This returned to him as he lay there too perplexed to sleep. “She is
right about it; he did not take the money, or else he would have
betrayed it; and this knocks my theory all to pieces, as well; he would
have told if he knew who did take it. Confound the whole business! What
is it to me, that I should worry over it?” He turned restlessly in the
bed, trying to get to sleep.
Presently Henry began to mutter. James grumbled at this fresh annoyance.
“I had best have stayed at home,” he said.
Henry lifted himself upon his elbow, whispering rapidly.
“That confounded combination!” exclaimed James in disgust, as he turned
over to look at Henry; he caught his breath in surprise.
Slowly, slowly Henry arose, his lips moving rapidly, as a child repeats
its lesson to impress it upon his mind. His eyes were widely opened, but
with a curious introverted look; he stepped slowly forward, a look of
concentration on his ghastly features; he walked to the center of the
room exactly where he had before stood; there he paused as though
listening: “Aunt Hattie! Aunt Hattie!” he called clearly and distinctly;
although the tone was very low, as one speaks who is desirous of being
heard by none save the person addressed.
James jumped out of bed, bringing his hands together softly. “I wonder
if it is possible!” he cried, quivering with excitement; he hurried on
his clothes and fairly flew down the stairs, and let himself into Aunt
Hattie’s house.
As he passed the sitting room he cautiously pushed aside the
_portières_. Aunt Hattie was on her knees before the safe, repeating the
combination in almost exactly the tone in which Henry had spoken. James
dashed up the stairs and knocked softly at Marjy’s door.
“Who’s there?” she called in a frightened tone.
“It’s I, James; open the door, Marjy; do not be frightened, but hurry!”
Marjy opened the door as requested.
“Oh, what is it?” her voice trembling.
“Nothing which need frighten you. I have found the thief, come!”
Marjy had not disrobed, but was lying on the bed reading, and
immediately followed him. He hastily whispered an explanation as they
hurried down the stairs; in conclusion he said: “Now, I want you to
watch auntie, and see just what she does; I will go back and watch
Henry’s movements; he appears like a sleep walker, and auntie seems to
be hypnotized. It’s a queer performance, take it as you will.”
Marjy was white and trembling; half afraid, and wholly excited. They
drew aside the draperies, auntie had all the papers contained in the
safe on the floor, and was now rummaging in every corner as though
searching for some missing thing; muttering, muttering to herself all
the time.
James hurried back to Henry’s rooms, and left Marjy breathlessly
watching Aunt Hattie, who was carefully gathering up the scattered
papers, and putting them back in their several places; she then closed
and locked the safe.
“Oh!” breathed Marjy, in keen disappointment; she had surely thought
that she should know where the money was, and her disappointment was
great. She was about to turn away and go to her room, she felt so vexed,
when her steps were arrested by hearing her aunt say—as though replying
to some person:
“Yes, I will! I forgot—Oh, yes! All right!” and with a quick decided
step she walked across the room to a great easy-chair; this she
carefully turned upon its side; removed one of the casters, and pulled
some bills out of the cavity; she appeared to count them carefully,
after which she replaced them, putting the caster in the socket as it
belonged. Each one was examined in turn, then with a sigh the chair was
placed in its proper position and she sank into its depths with the
audible words: “Yes, Henry; it is all right!”
Marjy shivered with superstitious awe; silence unbroken reigned save for
the ticking of the clock, and the breathing of Aunt Hattie, as she lay
back in the chair looking strangely cadaverous.
James quietly let himself into Henry’s room; he still stood like a
specter in the middle of the floor; the red glow of the lamp cast a
weird light over his pale features, his expression was fixed and intent;
his face was turned slightly sidewise, and he held up one hand as one
who listens intently: “Yes, that is right; place everything as you found
it, and go to your bed!” As he ceased speaking he turned toward his own
bed, rested a moment on its edge, then lay down, and drew the covers
over himself as though just retiring; he was soon breathing deeply, and
like one in natural slumber.
James threw himself into a chair, and slowly puffed a cigar and thought;
finally he arose and yawning stretched his limbs. “I’ll see if Marjy has
retired; I think I understand this queer tangle, but I’m blest if I
understand how to straighten it out!”
He quietly let himself out of the house, and as quietly entered auntie’s
front door; Marjy met him in the hall, and drew him into the sitting
room.
“Where is auntie?” he asked.
“Gone to her bed; do tell me what happened in Henry’s room!” she said
eagerly. She sat looking at him wide-eyed and wondering, while he
related all that had occurred.
“Well, tell me, what do you think of it?” she questioned.
He thoughtfully rolled his cigar in his fingers for a few minutes before
replying. “I do not quite know; Henry was certainly asleep. Now the
question is just this; could he hypnotize your aunt at such a distance,
himself being in a somnambulistic state?”
“I do not think that he is conscious of possessing hypnotic power,” said
Marjy.
“No, he would doubtless be indignant if one suggested such a thing; but
he certainly has that power, and really, I cannot see why he could not
use the force just as well in that state as though awake, so long as his
mind intelligently directed it; the will power is just as strong as at
any time.”
“It is all very strange! Now that we know where the money is, what are
we to do about it?”
“I suppose the proper thing to do would be to tell Aunt Hattie all about
to-night’s free show!” and he laughed at the recollection.
“I should really be afraid to tell Aunt Hattie; in her present mood
there is no saying what she would, or would not do,” said Marjy.
James replied thoughtfully: “That is true; we had best sleep over it; we
will talk it over again in the morning.”
James did not return to Henry’s room, he wished to be alone, that he
might better solve the problem which confronted him.
He arose the following morning tired, worn out with sleeplessness, and
no nearer a solution than when he retired.
Auntie was in a terrible ill humor, the atmosphere seemed surcharged
with discord; throughout the whole day everything seemed to go amiss.
Marjy was burning with a desire to tell her aunt, alternated with a
shivering fear of her disbelief, and consequent sarcastic remarks. James
made a vain endeavor to see Henry; no one knew his whereabouts all day;
late in the evening he came to the house, looking pale and dispirited.
Marjy clasped his hand in cordial greeting; this elicited an angry
ejaculation from Aunt Hattie, beyond which she gave no sign that she
knew of his presence.
James and Marjy sat looking over some stereoptic views to cover their
desire to watch the two, and both were trying to find a suitable
opportunity to bring up the subject of the lost money, so as to be able
to explain how they came by their knowledge of the hiding place. The
attitude of both Henry and auntie was such as to discourage a
commencement. At last James wrote on a card: “You will have to tell
them; I will corroborate your account.”
Marjy replied: “Oh, I cannot. It makes me shiver to think of it; they
both look so forbidding.”
Henry sat on the corner of a sofa, with his eyes fixed intently on Aunt
Hattie; they did not observe this until she arose and stood beside her
chair as though waiting; her lips were moving rapidly but inaudibly.
Henry, still looking fixedly at her, said slowly: “Speak aloud!” She
began repeating the combination, and step by step went through the
performance of the previous night, until she had taken the money from
its hiding place. Henry at that moment, pale and resolute—though
trembling with excitement—commanded her to awaken.
It was most pitiable to see her when she realized her situation; the
overturned chair; the casters lying on the floor; the bills grasped in
her shaking hands; Marjy and James silently regarding her; Henry, with a
look of exhaustion on his face, lay back among the dark cushions. At
first she was utterly bewildered; then, as she looked at the bills
grasped in her hands, a ray of joy, quickly succeeded by anger, gave her
voice: “You think you are awful smart, don’t you? Playing tricks on an
old woman! I should like to know what you have been doing to me!” she
stormed; then looking at the open safe, and the bills in her hand she
began to sob weakly.
“Don’t cry, auntie, it is all right!” said Marjy soothingly.
“No, no! It isn’t right! I remember now—of hiding that money; and to
think that I have accused Henry and you of taking it—Oh, dear! Oh,
dear!” sobbed she; “I did not remember it until now!” she wailed
disconsolately.
Henry came and laid his hand upon her shoulder: “Do not fret, auntie; I
think there is no one to blame, if so, it must be my fault. I have
always been a somnambulist, and always been ashamed of it—as though I
could help it; but I had no idea that I possessed any hypnotic power; in
fact I did not believe in the existence of such a force—at least I did
not wish to believe it—which in all probability is just what led to this
occurrence. You remember that we were speaking of hypnotism the night of
the disappearance of the money; Marjy defended the theory, and I opposed
it in order to draw her out; some assertions which she made struck me as
being very forcible, and I could not rid myself of the thoughts
engendered, any more than I could get rid of the repetition of that
combination. It has been like a nightmare to me, and each day there had
been a shadow of some occurrence of the past night which has
persistently evaded me. I have been haunted all this day by something
which occurred last night, which seemed like a vivid dream, and I
thought I would put it to the test. You cannot be more surprised at the
result than I am.”
James and Marjy now came forward: “I think that Marjy and I will also
have to make confession; I think that your being able to recall a
portion of last night’s events was due to the slight influence which I
gained over you; I tried to impress it upon your mind that you must
remember what occurred, but I thought that I had failed completely.” He
then made a complete explanation, which Marjy fully corroborated. Auntie
laughed and sobbed in the same breath: “I’ve been an old crank; but the
uncertainty worried me so that I could not help it—and my part of the
general confession is that a sense of knowledge—which I could not
grasp—tormented me continually, but I would not have confessed it for
twice that amount of money. However, “All’s well that ends well.” Marjy,
you may have the money to buy a wedding trousseau, and when Henry is my
nephew I trust that he will not hypnotize his old aunt, either when he
is sleeping or waking.”
HIS FRIEND.
The two log cabins stood on the grassy slopes of opposite mountains, the
dark piñons forming a picturesque background; a babbling brook ran
between the two, a boundary line of molten silver.
Sam Nesterwood’s door faced north, and Phil Boyd’s door looked south;
while they were building the cabins Phil remarked that it looked so much
more sociable that way.