steak and coffee are getting cold than I do for that nonsense.”
“You have no sympathy, Maria; the mysteries of science are beyond your
appreciation!” he exclaimed, as he folded the paper in dignified
displeasure.
“Appreciate fiddlesticks!” angrily retorted Maria, stirring her coffee
vigorously.
Said Christopher, the next morning at the breakfast table:
“Maria, I am going to Abbeyville on business, and shall in all
probability be detained a month.”
“What business have you in Abbeyville?” asked Maria in surprise.
“It is business of a private nature, which you wouldn’t understand,”
answered he loftily.
“Which is a polite way of telling me that it is none of my business,”
retorted Maria in a huff.
Christopher left the house in dignified anger; his portly figure and
handsome profile the admiration of his wrathful wife. The fact was, he
did not wish to talk; he had determined that he would investigate the
“X” ray to his own satisfaction. A certain idea haunted him by day, and
mingled with his dreams at night; it thrust itself between him and the
long columns in the ledger; until, with a finger on the figures, he
would fix his eyes on vacancy, and go off into a deep study.
At last Mr. Brown, his employer, said to him:
“What is the matter with you Christopher? Are you ill?”
“No—yes—not very,” answered Christopher confusedly.
“You had better take a layoff until you feel better,” said Brown; adding
mentally, “You are of no use here; you’ll mix those accounts until it
will take an expert a week to straighten them.”
Christopher packed his grip with a sigh of satisfaction, and left home
on the evening train.
Maria gave a little regretful sigh. “He might have kissed me; he didn’t
even say good-by.”
She presently began thinking how preoccupied he looked, and how strange
he had acted.
“I do wonder if he was in trouble! I ought not have been so cross, but
he should have told me; so there!” After a minute of troubled thought,
she added: “Perhaps he didn’t want to worry me.”
Whenever Christopher was present she must give him a dig as often as the
opportunity occurred; but no sooner was he away than all his good
qualities became apparent.
Instead of stopping at Abbeyville, Christopher hastened on to a city
more than a thousand miles away. “I’ll just call myself John Smith, and
I shall not be bothered while making my investigations,” said he
complacently.
The next morning after his arrival he sought out the noted Professor
Blank, and at some length explained his project; in conclusion he said:
“You understand that I wish to be cathodographed many times; the working
of the brain has always been a tantalizing puzzle to me. What I wish to
search out is, how the different emotions affect the gray matter; for
instance, it is claimed that this bump is combativeness;” placing his
hand on the region indicated. “It is also claimed that all qualities,
whether good or bad, are capable of being cultivated; that the bump
indicating that trait or quality grows perceptibly larger; well, then,
the substance known as gray matter must undergo a change; whenever that
emotion is unduly excited, the gray matter must quiver, vibrate; in fact
change position. Have you never felt as though your brain must burst
with the intensity of emotion? I have; and am eager to test it with the
‘X’ ray.” He paused as though for an answer, but receiving none,
continued: “Now in order to test this, I wish to subject myself to every
possible emotion, and in every change be photographed.”
The professor smiled incredulously.
“How are you to obtain these changes of mood? Such emotions usually come
without our choosing.”
“True! Well, I shall endeavor to create the emotion as I wish it.”
The professor laughed aloud. “I think under such conditions that the
emotion would be altogether too tame to have a visible effect on the
brain.”
Christopher resented the laughter: “Perhaps you are not willing to
assist me in making my experiments?” he questioned angrily.
“Oh, yes; perfectly willing,” was the smiling answer.
“Now, look here! I wish to investigate this carefully, and I’m willing
and able to pay your price; but I’ll not be ridiculed sir, I’m no boy,
I’ll have you understand!”
“No, of course not,” answered the professor soothingly, he thought him a
mild lunatic; really he seemed half insane; no matter what reply the
professor made, he grew more wroth, until he, out of all patience, said
angrily: “What is the matter with you? You act like a maniac!”
“Quick! Quick! Photograph me!” cried Christopher, with livid lips.
“Well, well!” exclaimed the professor in astonishment, as he hastily
complied with the request; after which Christopher sank back, pale and
trembling.
The professor looked at him admiringly: “How did you accomplish it?”
“Oh, I don’t know; I just let go of the strings;” smiling faintly.
Thus he went through the whole scale of emotions; he was taken while
under the influence of anæsthetics; in a placid mood; in a moment of
most uproarious hilarity; in the depths of despondency; in languishing
amorousness; in fact, in all conceivable moods of the human mind. He
seemed to possess the strange faculty of producing any desired emotion
at will.
After he had exhausted all moods, he one day stood gazing meditatively,
and rather sadly at the plates.
“Are you not satisfied?” asked the professor.
Christopher sighed deeply: “No, I cannot say that I am; it is certainly
shown that there is a change, the exact nature of which is by no means
clearly defined. Some future discovery will, I am sure, enable the
scientist to see the action of the brain as plainly as we now know the
action of the heart.”
He nervously ran his fingers through his hair while speaking; he
withdrew his hand with an exclamation of horror: it was covered with
hairs and a cloud of the same enveloped him.
“Heaven! Is all my hair falling out?” he cried in dismay.
The professor calmly observed: “I have noticed it for some time; when
you first came your mustache and eyebrows were very thick and long, but
have been gradually thinning, I thought several times that I would speak
of it, but we have had so much else to talk about, and the most of your
moods have been so peculiar—” he smiled as he paused.
“Oh, it’s all right for you to laugh! You wouldn’t if you were in my
shoes! Whatever will Maria say?”
He stood ruefully looking at his reflection in the mirror. “I look like
a kid!” said he scornfully. “I have been so busy with this confounded
foolishness that I did not think of looking in a glass. Pshaw! I’m going
to drop this nonsense and go home; I know that my wife is worried about
me before this time. I haven’t written to her since I came here. I
didn’t want her to know what I was doing.”
“You ought to have told her, though,” said the professor.
“You don’t know Maria!” said Christopher sadly. “Confound it! How my
head aches! Now that I take time to think of it, I know that it has
ached for a week.”
The following morning Christopher was very ill, and was not able to
leave his room for weeks. When at last he arose, he giddily crossed the
room to the mirror, and looked at himself; he sank into a chair with a
groan; not a vestige of hair remained on head or face.
He covered his long, leathery face with his hands, and cried aloud: “I
look like a great big sole-leather baby! Whatever will Maria say! I’ll
never tell her that it is the effect of that confounded “X” ray; if I
did I should never hear the last of it; I’ve been sick, I am sick—sick
of the whole business.”
Meanwhile at home, Maria had at first reproached herself with her
irritability, and finished by writing Christopher a loving, and penitent
little note, which she sent to Abbeyville. Of course she received no
reply.
“He must have been very angry,” she sobbingly exclaimed.
She wrote again, a still more penitent and pleading letter; this not
being answered, she became very indignant.
“If he wants to be so awfully huffy, let him!” she said wrathfully; but
when a whole month passed, and no tidings came as to his whereabouts,
she became alarmed, and began to institute cautious inquiries.
Of course, all search proved unavailing, and Maria wept and mourned her
Christopher as dead.
Nearly five months from the day he left his home, Christopher wearily
climbed the front steps of his own residence, and rang the bell. His
clothing hung loosely on his gaunt limbs; his long, thin face was the
color of leather; his eyes, devoid of lashes, and without eyebrows,
looked perfectly lifeless.
Hannah, an old servant in the family, opened the door.
“If you want food go to the rear door,” she cried sharply, as she shut
him out unceremoniously.
He sat down on the upper step, pale and trembling.
“What does Hannah mean by insulting me thus? Can it be that Maria is so
angry that she has ordered the servants to refuse me admittance?”
He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, although the air was
frosty and nipping. Presently he muttered to himself: “I’ll just stay
around until Maria comes out, then I’ll persuade her to forgive me. I’ve
acted the fool, that’s sure.”
He walked up and down the street, and hung around corners, until the
whole neighborhood were watching him.
About three in the afternoon, Maria came out of the house dressed in the
deepest of mourning.
“I wonder who is dead; must be her father!” he shambled up to her, and
laid his hand on her arm. “Ma—” he began; she gave a frightened scream,
and started to run; he clutched her more frantically, and cried wildly:
“Listen to me! you shall listen to me!”
She screamed again at the top of her voice: “Help! Murder! Police!”
A gentleman coming toward them, rushed up, and gave Christopher a
stunning blow; Maria tore herself loose at the expense of much crape;
ran back into the house, and locked the door after herself.
Christopher arose from the sidewalk and shuffled off down the street,
muttering maledictions as he went. “It’s all a conspiracy! She has got
another lover, and thinks to get rid of me; she’ll find that she can’t
do it so easily. I’ll wait until dark, and then let myself in with my
latchkey; we’ll see whether I am master in my own house or not.”
He paced the street angrily until nightfall; stationing himself
opposite, he then watched the house until all was dark and silent. Still
another hour he waited: “I’ll be sure that the servants are asleep,
evidently they have orders to put me out, or Hannah would not have
ordered me off as she did. I’ll show them that they will not get the
best of Christopher Hembold yet.”
About eleven o’clock he cautiously crept up the steps, and as cautiously
let himself in; just within he removed his boots; then carefully groped
his way to Maria’s room. Her door was unlocked, and by the dim light of
the night lamp he saw her round white arm thrown above her head, thus
framing her delicate face; the lace on her night robe rising and falling
with every breath.
A rush of love and tenderness came over him; this was his Maria—the
dainty bride whom he had transplanted from her father’s home; he knelt
beside the bed, enfolding her in his arms, and pressed a passionate kiss
upon her half-parted lips. She opened wide her affrighted eyes; she
struggled wildly, letting out one piercing shriek, then fainted. The
half-clad servants came running into the room, finding Christopher on
his knees beside the bed, chafing Maria’s hands, kissing her pale face,
and fondly calling her: “My love! My little one!”
Thomas, the coachman, seized him by the shoulders; Maria regaining
consciousness, began screaming again; Hannah added to the confusion by
crying excitedly, “Throw him out! Call the police! The man is crazy!”
Thomas obeyed the first command; he dragged Christopher down the stairs,
opened the door, and kicked him out, and down the steps.
He lay there a few minutes, completely bewildered. Just as he was
struggling to his feet, a policeman came along, and seeing his
bewildered condition, his shoeless feet, and battered appearance, laid
his hand roughly on his shoulder, and said to him: “What are you doing
here?”
“This is my home. I am Christopher Hembold!” answered he.
The policeman laughed: “Oh, come off! This is the home of the Widow
Hembold, all right; but you look about as much like the defunct
Christopher as a yellow cur resembles a King Charles spaniel.”
Christopher tried to jerk away. “Let me alone!” he cried angrily.
“Will I?” said the burly policeman. “Where are your boots?” continued
he.
“In the house, if it is any of your business,” was the surly reply.
The tumult within the house still continued; lights were carried from
room to room, and flashed weirdly up and down the stairs. Thomas came
hurriedly out of the door, kicking Christopher’s boots into the street
as he ran down the steps.
“Hello!” says the policeman: “What’s the matter in there?”
“Some burglar, or lunatic let himself into the house, and into Mrs.
Hembold’s room; and she’s gone into hysterics; I’m going after Dr.
Philbrick.”
“Let me go! Let go of me! I’m going into the house—to my wife!” said
Christopher, struggling wildly.
“You are going to the station, and if you don’t go decently, I’ll call
the patrol;” and call the patrol he did.
Christopher fought like a fury, but in spite of it he was loaded into
the wagon between two burly promoters of the peace and carried to the
station, where he raved like a madman all night. The next morning they
had him up for drunk and disorderly. In vain he protested that he had
not touched liquor, and declared that his name was Christopher Hembold.
No one believed him, so he got fifteen days, and the next morning saw
him marched out with the chain gang to work on the street. He had
quieted down by this time, and had determined what to do; he watched his
opportunity until the overseer’s back was turned toward him; all the
rest of the gang except his mate also faced the opposite way. He slipped
a dollar into his mate’s willing palm. “You will not see me leave; look
the other way.” He obeyed, and Christopher hurried down a side street,
walked swiftly through a front gate into a private yard, out through a
rear gate into an alley, and was lost to the chain gang.
He went direct to his lawyers. Mr. Hurd, the senior member of the firm,
was seated at his desk when Christopher entered; he scarcely looked up
at his salutation: “Good-morning Mr. Hurd.”
The lawyer barely nodded his head, and continued his writing; after
several minutes, observing Christopher still standing: “Well, sir! Have
you business with me?” evidently not favorably impressed by his
visitor’s appearance.
“Don’t you know me, Mr. Hurd?”
The lawyer looked him over in cynical surprise: “Can’t say that I ever
saw you before.”
“You ought to know Christopher Hembold?” interrogatively.
“Yes, sir; I knew him well; good fellow, but a little cracked in the
upper story.”
He returned to his writing, evidently considering the matter disposed
of; after a long time Christopher, still smarting from Mr. Hurd’s
contemptuous remark, said: “Well?” in a questioning tone.
Mr. Hurd looked up in displeasure. “Please state your business; my time
is limited,” he said.
Christopher flushed a sickly green over all his yellow face. “Mr. Hurd,
I came to you to have you intercede for me with my wife; she will not
allow me to speak to her, and caused the servants to throw me out of the
house.”
The lawyer held up his hand: “First, if you wish me to take your case, I
must receive a retainer; I do business in no other way.”
Christopher opened his lashless eyes in a grotesque stare. “Sir! You
have all of my business in your hands, and have had it for years,”
answered he angrily.
Mr. Hurd turned around in his office chair, and gave his caller an angry
look; he touched the button at his side; a colored servant came
instantly.
“James, show this man out.” Turning to Christopher he said:
“I have no time to be bothered with such nonsense. The idea of your
trying to palm yourself off for Christopher Hembold!” he cried, with
withering contempt.
Christopher stalked out of the office in a rage. He went direct to his
room at the hotel; he threw himself into a chair, and buried his face in
his hands; his attitude expressed the utmost dejection; after a time he
arose and stood before the mirror:
“Is it possible that Maria did not know me?” he looked at himself
scornfully: “Who would know you? You old, yellow-faced, putty baby,
you!” he apostrophized, shaking his fist at his reflection. “Serves you
right; serves you right, you old idiot! Fool with the ‘X’ ray, will you,
trying to find out if you do know anything? I can tell you that you are
a fool. Fool! fool!” he cried tragically.
After a time he calmed down, and taking out his purse counted the
contents.
There is something akin to the ridiculous in the near association of
pathos and money; they are very near neighbors, however. Christopher
sighed deeply: “This is all I have left, and—when my lawyer will not
acknowledge my identity, what am I to do?” He drummed impatiently upon
the table with his fingers; finally he started up excitedly: “Of course!
Good Lord! why didn’t I think of that!”
He hauled his gripsack into the middle of the room; shirts and socks
flew right and left, until he found the cathodographs, also a photograph
taken just previous to his experimenting; he took them out, and placed
them in a row; taking the photograph, he walked to the mirror and
compared it with the reflection.
“I don’t wonder that no one knew you, you old scarecrow, you!” glaring
angrily at his double.
The next morning he again sought Mr. Hurd; the lawyer turned angrily
upon his entrance: “I do not wish to be bothered, sir,” motioning toward
the door.
Christopher was not to be put off in this manner; he walked up to the
desk, and laid down the pictures he had brought.
“Will you be kind enough to look at these?” asked Christopher in a
quivering voice.
Mr. Hurd glanced at them impatiently: “Well! What of them?”
“You know this one as representing Christopher Hembold?” he asked
eagerly, with his finger on the photograph spoken of.
“Yes, of course; what of that? it does not resemble you,” curtly.
“But I sat for every one of those pictures,” despondently; the hope
which he had cherished dying within his heart.
“Oh, stuff, nonsense!” scornfully ejaculated Mr. Hurd. Christopher’s
head fell forward on his breast; he looked the picture of despair. His
clothing hung loosely upon his long, gaunt limbs; his hands, much too
large for the bony wrists, dropped nervelessly at his side; his lifeless
eyes, his hollow cheeks, looked as though the great Conqueror had
already claimed him, while still permitting him to roam the earth for
some inscrutable purpose.
Mr. Hurd, having little sentiment, thought only of his annoyance. “Will
you please remove that litter from the desk,” he said.
Christopher made one more appeal: “Will you write to Professor Blank,
and find whether these pictures were taken from my sittings?” he asked
supplicatingly.
“I will not be bothered with it, I tell you; write for yourself,” he
answered roughly.
“I will,” said Christopher, with vexed decision, then occurred to him
the thought; Professor Blank knew him as Smith only. He gathered the
photographs up hastily, and rushed out of the house. “I’ve a notion to
drown my fool self! Oh, what shall I do! Was ever any one in such a
predicament!” he cried aloud. Everyone turned to look at him as he ran
past them.
“Hello, Smith! Where are you going in such a rush? What is the matter
with you?” cried a familiar voice in his very ear.
Christopher gave a great shout; then began to cry like a veritable baby,
as he grasped the professor’s hands. “I was going to drown myself; you
have saved my life,” and he fairly blubbered.
“Smith, you are as crazy as you are bald-headed,” laughingly said the
professor.
“Don’t call me _Smith_! My name is Christopher Hembold,” he said
excitedly.
“I only know that you called yourself Smith.”
“Yes; it’s surprising what a fool a man can make of himself,”
dejectedly.
He took the photographs from his pocket, and said entreatingly: “Say,
professor, do go with me to my lawyer, and tell him that you took these
with the ‘X’ ray, and _don’t_ say anything about _Smith_;” this last in
a tone of intense disgust.
They were just entering a park, and seated themselves on a bench, while
Christopher told the whole story. The professor laughed, even as he
said: “I’m sorry for you, and will help you all I can.”
Once more Christopher climbed the stairs to the lawyer’s office. Mr.
Hurd arose to his feet wrathfully. “You are the most persistent
annoyance that I ever met——”
Christopher interrupted him: “Mr. Hurd, allow me to introduce to you the
eminent Professor Blank.”
The lawyer jerked his head slightly, attaching no importance to the
name. The Professor bowed courteously, at the same time handing him his
card.
As Mr. Hurd glanced at the bit of pasteboard, his manner underwent a
great change: “Please be seated,” said he urbanely.
Professor Blank bowed again: “This gentleman requested me to accompany
him to your office, to testify that I took these cathodographs of him
with the ‘X’ ray. This represents him as he appeared when I first saw
him,” laying the photograph on the desk: “After having the last of the
cathodographs taken he was very ill for a long time; his hair had nearly
all fallen before his illness, and during that illness he became
emaciated as you see him.”
Mr. Hurd stood gazing from Christopher to the photograph, and back again
in amazement.
“But what took his hair off?”
“Oh, the ‘X’ ray; it sometimes has that effect,” said the professor
calmly.
Mr. Hurd turned to Christopher: “You don’t mean to tell me—” he paused
eloquently.
“Yes, I was experimenting with the ‘X’ ray—having my brain
cathodographed,” he answered humbly.
Maria had entered unperceived: “You mean that you had your skull
pictured; you haven’t any brain, Christopher; the ‘X’ ray makes but a
slight shadow of soft substances, and none of a vacuum,” said she
sweetly.
Said Christopher, in an aside to the professor:
“I told you that you didn’t know my Maria! My! Won’t I catch it,
though!”
AN AVERTED TRAGEDY.
Merna Wood stood leaning against the jamb in the open doorway.
The morning-glory vines made a very effective draping for a very pretty
picture; the attitude was the acme of indolence, which an indescribable
expression of alertness belied.
Ned Glover was standing below, his face just on a level with hers; he
was looking at her laughingly—in fact he was nearly always laughing—and
Merna was never certain that he meant one-half that he was saying, which
at this moment was: “Yes; I am going to buy a nice little home, and I
want a housekeeper; will you come?”
Merna tossed her head saucily: “I do not intend to go out to service
this summer,” she replied.
“If I must do so, I will hire some one to do the work, and have my wife
oversee it. Will you come as my wife, Merna?”
Merna flushed rosily, she was not yet sure that he was in earnest, so
she replied lightly, “Oh, you are just funning, as the children say.”
He tried to draw his face into lines of seriousness, but his bright blue
eyes would twinkle, he was so jolly that it was impossible for him to
assume an expression of severe gravity.
He caught her face in both his large palms, and kissed her fondly: “Say
yes! Say yes, I tell you!” he whispered forcefully.
“Yes! Yes! Let me go, Ned, mother is looking!”
“Well, mother has a perfect right to look; we do not care!” his face one
broad laugh.
Ned was from this time—of course—a privileged visitor; always pleasant,
and in a manner affectionate, yet no more loverlike than before their
engagement. The tender nonsense that helps to make courtship so sweet;
the airs of possession on one side, and of loving subjection on the
other, the happy planning by both for the future, seemed to be entirely
forgotten.