CONGRATULATIONS.--RECONCILIATION.--TRUE LOVE TRIUMPHANT.--THE
WEDDING.--THE END.
One of the first of Mr. Cowdrick’s friends who called to congratulate
him upon the result of the painful ordeal to which he had been
subjected was Father Tunicle.
“It must have been,” said the faithful pastor, “a terrible strain upon
a man of delicate sensibility to sit there, uncertain what your fate
would be. I sympathize with you heartily, and rejoice that the end was
not worse.”
“You are very kind,” said Mr. Cowdrick, smiling. “Life is full of
sorrows and afflictions for all of us; and of course I cannot expect to
escape bearing my share of them.”
“No; and it is a comfort to reflect that these troubles are sent to us
for our good. I shall expect you now to be a more efficient worker than
ever at St. Cadmus’s.”
“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Cowdrick reflectively. “Possibly it might
be better, all things considered, if I should not resume my official
position in the church.”
“But, really, you must,” answered Father Tunicle. “You are still a
member of the vestry, and matters will move more smoothly now, for
Yetts has resigned. He was the thorn in my side.”
“Where has Yetts gone?”
“I believe he has taken a pew at St. Sepulchre’s, which, you know,
is extremely Low Church. Poor Yetts! He has fallen very far! Do you
know that the rector of St. Sepulchre’s positively will not use a red
altar-cloth on martyrs’ days; and that he walks to church with an
umbrella upon the Festival of St. Swithin,--a positive insult to the
memory of the saint.”
“Incredible!” exclaimed Mr. Cowdrick.
“I have it upon good authority. Such practices do much to hinder the
progress of the work of evangelization.”
“I should think so,” said Mr. Cowdrick.
“And speaking of that work,” continued Father Tunicle, “I want to
obtain a little pecuniary assistance from you. I have just prepared for
circulation among the depraved poor a little tract upon the sufferings
of St. Blasius of Cappadocia, but I have not money enough to print it.
Can you help me?”
“Certainly. How much do you want?”
“Fifty dollars are all that I ought to ask for. That sum, I think, will
enable me to increase the religious fervor of the poor in my parish to
a notable extent.”
Mr. Cowdrick handed the money to the devoted clergyman, who thereupon
withdrew.
Another early caller upon Mr. Cowdrick was an agent of the Widows’ and
Orphans’ Life Assurance Company, in which the banker held a policy.
This gentleman, representing a corporation which a week before was
preparing to take legal measures to contest Mrs. Cowdrick’s claim,
brought with him the Company’s last annual statement, and a formidable
array of other documents, with an intent to persuade Mr. Cowdrick to
have his life insured for an additional twenty thousand dollars.
Upon the second day after Mr. Cowdrick’s release, also, the De Flukes
sent to Mrs. Cowdrick an invitation to a kettle-drum, together with a
note explaining that a former unfortunate recall of an invitation was
due to the colossal stupidity of a servant who had since been dismissed.
This very considerate behavior on the part of the De Flukes had a
favorable effect upon Mrs. Cowdrick’s spirits. She brightened up in a
wonderful manner, and there seemed to be every reason for believing
that her load of sorrow was lifted at last.
Colonel Hoker, writing in the _Crab_ of the trial and its results,
explained to his readers that the verdict was rather technical than
indicative of intentional wrong-doing, and he congratulated the
community that one of its most enterprising and valuable citizens
had succeeded in escaping from the toils of complicated financial
transactions in which he had been enveloped by injudicious friends.
Colonel Hoker was disposed to criticise with some degree of severity
Coroner McSorley’s absurd, not to say wicked, performances with the
unearthed bones; but the violence of the indignation with which he
contemplated the phenomenal stupidity and the grasping avarice of the
coroner, with respect to the remains in question, was greatly tempered
by the consideration that Coroner McSorley’s brother was sheriff of
the county, with an advertising patronage estimated by good judges to
amount to not less than fifty thousand dollars a year.
When Mr. Cowdrick received the note addressed to him by Mr. Weems, he
replied briefly, asking the artist to call upon him at his residence;
and when Mr. Weems did so, Mr. Cowdrick received him with gravity, and
with some degree of coolness.
“Mr. Weems,” said the banker, “I sent for you because I wished to
discuss with you the matter referred to in your note. My first impulse
was to take no notice of the communication, for I will not conceal from
you that your treatment of my daughter had embittered me against you
to such an extent, that I felt as if I could never forgive you. But
my child’s happiness must be considered before my own feelings. It is
my duty and my privilege so to consider them; and, to be frank with
you, her sufferings have been so intense within the last few days, that
I have felt myself willing to make almost any sacrifice in order to
alleviate them.”
“Miss Leonie is not ill, I trust?” asked Mr. Weems, with an admirably
simulated look of alarm upon his countenance.
“Mr. Weems,” said Mr. Cowdrick, seriously, “it may be injudicious for
me to say so to you, because it will give you an unfair advantage at
the outset; but Leonie has been deeply distressed at your treatment
of her. If I were a sentimental man, I should say that her heart is
breaking. She refuses food, she is continually downcast and melancholy,
and in her broken sleep she babbles continually of you.”
“Poor thing!” said Mr. Weems, wiping his eyes.
“Mrs. Cowdrick and I have been much distressed because of her
condition; but we should have been at a loss for a remedy if your note
had not suggested one.”
“I have been equally unhappy myself,” said Mr. Weems. “I wrote because
I could find relief for my feelings in no other manner.”
“Now that you are here,” continued Mr. Cowdrick, “we might as well have
a complete understanding. Are you prepared to make a proposition of
any kind?”
“I should like to offer a suggestion, if I dared.”
“You have my permission to speak freely; and I would add, in order
to remove any misapprehension, that Leonie Cowdrick need not seek an
alliance unless she chooses to do so, for her parents are well able to
maintain her in luxury.”
“Well, Mr. Cowdrick,” replied Mr. Weems, “what I have to say is, that
if Leonie can forgive and forget the past, it will give me the greatest
happiness to renew my engagement with her, and to return to the
conditions that existed before that miserable quarrel occurred. Do you
think she will consent?”
“Under some pressure from me and from her mother, I think she will. For
my part, I am willing to overlook what has happened, and to receive you
once more into my family.”
Mr. Cowdrick extended his hand, and Mr. Weems shook it warmly.
“And now, Mr. Weems,” said Mr. Cowdrick, “there’s another matter, of
which I wish to speak. I refer to your art. Pardon me for asking you,
but although I shall make some provision for Leonie, you, of course,
must do something also. What is the condition of your art--in a
financial sense, I mean?”
“Well, business is a little dull just at this moment.”
“I thought so. The proportion of old masters in the market to the
purchasing population is too great. Can’t you take up something else?”
Mr. Weems reflected for a moment upon the painful lack of opportunities
to rob banks with impunity and profit, and then said,--
“No; I am afraid not. I am a painter and must live by painting.”
“Just so; but why not paint pictures that can be sold readily?”
“There is no money in landscapes, still-life, or figure-pieces, unless
a man has genius. A painter of ordinary powers has no chance.”
“But why not imitate genius, just as you imitate the old masters?”
“How do you mean?”
“Genius is apt to be eccentric. If you make a show of eccentricity,
most persons will accept that as a sure token of genius. You want to be
odd, novel, peculiar, altogether different from other people.”
“There may be something in that.”
“Paint a Venus with feet like a fishwoman, and with a cast in her
eye. Paint a Moses with a moustache and spectacles. Daub off a
jet-black night-scene, in which you can perceive nothing but absolute,
impenetrable gloom, and label it ‘A Meditation upon Darkness;’ cover a
canvas with blots of white paint, with nothing but the bowsprit of a
ship visible, and call it ‘A Misty Morning in the Harbor.’ That is the
way to provoke criticism and discussion, to acquire notoriety, and to
find purchasers.”
“It is a good idea,” replied Mr. Weems. “I am much obliged to you for
it; I will accept it, and act upon it.”
“Would you like to see Leonie before you go?” asked Mr. Cowdrick.
“If she is willing, I should very much.”
“I will speak to her about it, and prepare her for the interview,” said
Mr. Cowdrick, withdrawing from the room.
A moment later he returned with Leonie upon his arm. She had her
handkerchief to her eyes.
“Leonie,” said Mr. Cowdrick, “this is Julius. He asks you to forgive
him.”
[Illustration: “THEN SHE FLEW INTO HIS ARMS.”]
Leonie lifted up her head, and the lovers looked at each other for an
instant. Then she flew into his arms before a word had been spoken by
either of them, and as he clasped her closely, she nestled her head
upon his bosom.
Mr. Weems retained his self-possession so perfectly during this
touching scene that he was conscious of the fracture of some cigars in
his waistcoat pocket by the presence of Leonie’s shoulder; but he bore
the disaster bravely, without flinching.
Before he released his hold of her, Mrs. Cowdrick entered the room,
and was so much overcome by the intensity of her emotions when she
saw the lovers, that she dropped upon the sofa, and remained in a
hysterical condition for at least ten minutes, despite the efforts of
Mr. Cowdrick to soothe her.
When Mrs. Cowdrick’s emotion had at last been brought to some extent
under control, Mr. Cowdrick suggested that it might be as well to fix
at once upon a day for the wedding, so that the two lovers, after all
the sorrows and misunderstandings that had kept them apart, might enter
the perfect bliss and the sure serenity of wedlock.
Mr. Cowdrick pressed for an early date, and although Mrs. Cowdrick
betrayed new and alarming hysterical symptoms when her husband
expressed the opinion that all the arrangements might be made within a
week, she finally reconciled herself to the selection by Leonie of a
day exactly three weeks distant.
Upon the very next morning Mrs. Cowdrick and Leonie began the work
of preparation; and it is unnecessary to say that while the labor
continued, both of them were in a state of nearly perfect felicity.
If earth is ever to a woman a little heaven here below, it is when she
is called upon to go shopping upon a large scale with a long purse.
The female mind experiences the purest joy when there are bonnets to
be trimmed, fabrics to be matched, dresses to be made, underclothing
to be stitched and frilled, pillow-cases and sheets to be made up,
towels to be fringed and marked, furniture to be selected, crockery
to be purchased, and a general fitting-out to be undertaken. Mrs.
Cowdrick soon had a dozen sempstresses employed, and every day she and
Leonie, in a frame of exquisite happiness, made the round of the shops,
gathering huge heaps of parcels. One single touch of alloy came to
mitigate the intensity of their enjoyment. The diamond merchant and the
dealer in sealskin sacques, having learned from harsh experience the
peril of Mrs. Cowdrick’s enthusiasm for nice things, unkindly insisted
upon making their contributions to Leonie’s outfit upon a basis of cash
in hand before delivery of the goods. But then we must not expect to
have absolutely pure joy in this world.
Cards for the wedding were sent out at once to all of the friends
of the bride and groom, and of Mr. and Mrs. Cowdrick. Of course, it
can hardly be expected that the union of two lovers should excite
very tender sympathy among disinterested persons; but it is rather
melancholy to reflect that most of the individuals who received
cards from the Cowdricks did not accept the compliment with unmixed
satisfaction. The first thought that occurred to them upon reading the
invitation was that they would be compelled to expend something for
wedding presents, and many of them had a feeling, not clearly defined,
but still strong, that the marriage of Cowdrick’s daughter was somehow
a mean kind of an attempt on Cowdrick’s part to levy tribute upon them.
The presents, however, soon began to come in. Father Tunicle was heard
from among the first. He sent a sweet little volume of his sermons
(the lithographed discourse not being included among them). The book
had been published at the cost of a few of the reverend gentleman’s
admirers, whose expectations of the result were rather disappointed by
the sale of no more than thirty-four copies within two years. Father
Tunicle sent the book to Leonie, with a touching note, requesting
her especial attention to the sermon upon Auricular Confession, upon
page 75. Colonel Hoker, of the _Crab_, sent a handsome silver-plated
tea-set, whose value to Leonie was not in any manner decreased by the
circumstance, unknown to her, that the Colonel had taken it from a
former advertiser in payment for a bad debt. The De Flukes sent a pair
of elegant fish-knives quite large enough to have served at a dinner
where a moderate-sized whale should follow the soup, and certainly
utterly useless for the dissection and distribution of any fish of
smaller dimensions than a sturgeon. The Higginses, who were not in
very good circumstances, and who were trying hard to save up enough
money to pay for a fortnight’s visit to the seaside in the summer,
reluctantly sent a cake-basket, because Mr. Cowdrick had given one
to Maria Higgins the year before, upon the occasion of her union with
Dr. Turmeric. If Mr. Higgins had ventured, in the note he sent with
the gift, to express his true feelings, the vehemence of his utterance
would have made Leonie’s head swim; but, happily, he controlled himself.
A perfect outrage was, however, perpetrated by Mr. John Doubleday, who
had lost heavily by the failure of Mr. Cowdrick’s bank. He positively
had the impudence to enclose to Leonie, with his compliments, a cheque
for one hundred dollars upon the aforesaid late financial institution.
Mr. Cowdrick said that a man who was capable of doing a thing of that
kind was not fit to live in civilized society.
Mr. Weems’s artist friends all sent pictures, evidently with an intent
that Weems should begin his married life with the walls of his dwelling
covered with “pot-boilers,” whose unsalable qualities made them as
ineffective in that capacity as they were in their pretensions to be
regarded as works of art. Weems felt, as he surveyed the collection,
that there must have been among the brethren an organized conspiracy to
unload upon him the corners of the studios.
Among the other presents received were travelling-cases, which held
nothing that anybody ever wants upon a journey; cheap spoons put into a
case marked with the name of a first-class silversmith, with an intent
to create a wrong impression respecting the quality of the wares; and
a host of trifles, most of them completely useless, and all of them
accounted by the bride and groom as so much spoil collected under the
duress of a custom which is idiotic when it requires anything that is
not a genuine expression of affection or esteem.
At last, when every indignant friend had sent in a contribution, when
all the dresses were made, the bonnets constructed, and the frippery
and fiddle-faddle and frills arranged, the day of the wedding came.
It must be described, of course. But why should an unpractised hand
attempt to tell of it, when there is, within easy reach, the narrative
written by the expert and dexterous fashion reporter of the _Daily
Crab_? Far better would it be to transfer bodily to these pages that
faithful and complete description.
(_From the “Daily Crab.”_)
A WEDDING IN HIGH LIFE.
“St. Cadmus’s Church, Perkiomen Square, yesterday was the scene
of one of the most brilliant weddings of the season. For some
weeks past the approaching event has been an absorbing topic
of conversation in fashionable circles, the loveliness of the
bride-elect, the popularity of the fortunate groom, and the high
social standing of all the interested parties having invested
the matter with more than ordinary importance. The bride was Miss
Leonie Cowdrick, only daughter of the well-known ex-banker and
philanthropist, Henry G. Cowdrick, Esq., and herself one of the
leading belles of the _bon ton_. The groom was Julius Weems, Esq.,
the artist, a man whose skill as a wielder of the brush, not less
than his qualities of head and heart, have made him the idol of a
large circle of friends.
“The wedding ceremony was announced for half-past four in the
afternoon; and long before that hour the streets in the vicinity of
St. Cadmus’s were thronged with equipages belonging to the _élite_
of our society. None were admitted to the church but those who were
so happy as to possess cards; the edifice, however, was densely
thronged, with the exception of the pews which were reserved in
the front for the immediate family and near relatives of the high
contracting parties.
“The ushers, who officiated with rare delicacy and discrimination,
were Messrs. Peter B. Thomas, Arthur McGinn Dabney, G. G. Parker,
and Daniel O’Huff--all of them brother artists of the groom’s, and
men well known in cultivated circles.
“Professor Peddle presided at the organ, and previous to the
arrival of the bridal party he discoursed most delicious music.
“Among the distinguished persons who graced the occasion with
their presence, we noted the following:--
“Major-Gen. Bung, Colonel Growler, Professor Boodle, Rev. Dr.
Wattles, Judge Potthinkle, Captain Dingus, Major Doolittle, Hon.
John Gigg, M.C., Judge Snoozer, of the Supreme Court; Miss Delilah
Hopper (Minnie Myrtle), the famous authoress of ‘The Bride of
an Evening,’ ‘A Broken Heart,’ etc., etc., Professor Blizzard,
State Entomologist; Governor Tilby, Ex-Governor Raffles, Dr.
Borer, U.S.A.; Rear-Admiral Mizzen, U.S.N.; Senator Smoot, Signor
Portulacca, the Venezuelan Ambassador, General Curculio, Minister
from Nicaragua; General Whisker, the railroad magnate; Colonel and
Mrs. Grabeau, Dr. Hummer, Thos. G. Witt, Esq., Hon. John Grubb,
Captain Mahoney, of the State Militia; Professor Smith, of the
University; Galusha M. Budd, President of the Board of Trade; Hon.
P. R. Bixby, Mayor of the City; and many others.
“At precisely five o’clock, Rev. Mr. Tunicle entered the church in
full ecclesiastical vestments, accompanied by Rev. Dr. Pillsbury,
and by Rev. John A. Stapleton, an uncle of the bride’s. At this
juncture the organ sounded the first notes of the Coronation March
from ‘Il Prophete,’ and the bride entered upon the arm of her
father. Following her came the groom, with Miss Lillie Whackle, the
first bridesmaid, and these were succeeded by the remainder of the
bridal party.
“The bride was dressed with exquisite taste, in a white satin
costume, which had creamy lace in jabots down the waist and sides,
mingled with pearl trimmings; while the sleeves coming only to the
elbow, were made entirely of lace. The back was left quite plain,
with waist and skirt in one. Upon her head she wore a dainty wreath
of orange blossoms, and, of course, the usual veil.
“Among other costumes in the bridal party, we noticed a Lyons
tulle, made up over satin, with flowing rosettes, and ribbons of
white satin for trimming.
“Attention was directed also to a white tarletan trimmed with
Breton lace and insertions, and covered with bows and loops and
ends of satin ribbon.
“One of the ladies of the party wore a distinguished costume of
cream-colored satin, with paniers of Pekin grenadine, with stripes
of white alternating with stripes of cream-color; there was a satin
corsage, plain, like a basque; and across the front-breadths of the
skirt there were soft puffs of satin and grenadine.
“Mrs. Cowdrick, the mother of the bride, appeared in a regal
toilette of black velvet and diamonds.
“The ceremony was read in a deeply impressive manner by Rev. Mr.
Tunicle, the bride being given away, of course, by her father.
“Mrs. Cowdrick was so strongly affected by the consciousness that
her daughter was being taken from her, that at the conclusion of
the ceremony she displayed some slight hysterical symptoms, which
for a moment threatened to create confusion. She became calmer,
however, and was led out from the church by one of the ushers,
weeping.
“Professor Peddle then began Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, and the
proud and happy groom, with his lovely wife upon his arm, turned to
lead the bridal party down the aisle.
“We learn that a magnificent entertainment was given later in the
day at the residence of Mr. Cowdrick, to his friends, and that the
festivities were prolonged until a late hour. It is understood that
the newly-married couple will spend their honeymoon at Saratoga.”
The reporter was not admitted to the entertainment, and so there is
upon record no description of it. But we might, if we chose, safely
guess at hot rooms, so crowded that motion was nearly impossible; at
absurd attempts to dance within narrow spaces; at rows of wall-flowers
along the sides of the rooms; at inane attempts at conversation between
guests who were strangers to each other; of groups of uncomfortable
people trying to appear as if they felt very happy; of a supper-table
loaded with rich viands for which well-dressed men scrambled as if
they had been fasting for weeks; of ices spilled upon costly dresses,
and champagne glasses emptied upon fine coats; and, finally, of
departing guests in the gentlemen’s dressing-rooms, saying unhandsome
things to each other in sneering whispers of the man whose hospitality
they had accepted.
We can imagine these things; and perhaps if we could have looked into
the house at two o’clock in the morning when the last guest had said
farewell, we might have heard Mr. Cowdrick say, as he threw himself
weary and worn in an easy-chair,--
“Well, thank goodness, Louisa, Leonie is off of our hands at last!”
AN OLD FOGY.
“The good old times! And the old times _were_ good, my dear; better,
much better, than the times that you live in. I know I am an old fogy,
Nelly,” said Ephraim Batterby, refilling his pipe, and looking at his
granddaughter, who sat with him in front of the fire, with her head
bending over her sewing; “I know I am an old fogy, and I glory in it.”
“But you never will be for me, grandpa,” said Nelly, glancing at him
with a smile.
“Yes, my dear, I am for everybody. I am a man of the past. Everything
I ever cared for and ever loved, excepting you, belongs to the years
that have gone, and my affections belong to those years. I liked the
people of the old time better than I do those of the new. I loved their
simpler ways, the ways that I knew in my boyhood, threescore and more
years ago. I am sure the world is not so good as it was then. It is
smarter, perhaps; it knows more, but its wisdom vexes and disgusts me.
I am not certain, my dear, that, if I had my way, I would not sweep
away, at one stroke, all the so-called ‘modern conveniences,’ and
return to the ancient methods.”
“They were very slow, grandpa.”
“Yes, slow; and for that I liked them. We go too fast now; but our
speed, I am afraid, is hurrying us in the wrong direction. We were
satisfied in the old time with what we had. It was good enough. Are
men contented now? No; they are still improving and improving; still
reaching out for something that will be quicker, or easier, or cheaper
than the things that are. We appear to have gained much; but really we
have gained nothing. We are not a bit better off now than we were; not
so well off, in my opinion.”
“But, grandpa, you must remember that you were young then, and perhaps
looked at the world in a more hopeful way than you do now.”
“Yes, I allow for that, Nelly, I allow for that; I don’t deceive
myself. My youth does not seem so very far off that I cannot remember
it distinctly. I judge the time fairly, now in my old age, as I judge
the present time, and my assured opinion is that it was superior in its
ways, its life, and its people. Its people! Ah, Nelly, my dear, there
were three persons in that past who alone would consecrate it to me. I
am afraid there are not many women now like your mother and mine, and
like my dear wife, whom you never saw. It seems to me, my child, that
I would willingly live all my life over again, with its strifes and
sorrows, if I could clasp again the hand of one of those angelic women,
and hear a word from her sweet lips.”
As the old man wiped the gathering moisture from his eyes, Nelly
remained silent, choosing not to disturb the reverie into which he had
fallen. Presently Ephraim rose abruptly, and said, with a smile,--
“Come, Nelly dear, I guess it is time to go to bed. I must be up very
early to-morrow morning.”
“At what hour do you want breakfast, grandpa?”
“Why, too soon for you, you sleepy puss. I shall breakfast by myself
before you are up, or else I shall breakfast down town. I have a huge
cargo of wheat in from Chicago, and I must arrange to have it shipped
for Liverpool. There is one thing that remains to me from the old time,
and that is some of the hard work of my youth; but even that seems a
little harder than it used to. So, come now; to bed! to bed!”
While he was undressing, and long after he had crept beneath the
blankets, Ephraim’s thoughts wandered back and back through the spent
years; and, as the happiness he had known came freshly and strongly
into his mind, he felt drawn more and more towards it; until the new
and old mingled together in strange but placid confusion in his brain,
and he fell asleep.
When he awoke it was still dark, for the winter was just begun; but he
heard--or did he only dream that he heard?--a clock in some neighboring
steeple strike _six_. He knew that he must get up, for his business
upon that day demanded early attention.
He sat up in bed, yawned, stretched his arms once or twice, and then,
flinging the covering aside, he leaped to the floor. He fell, and
hurt his arm somewhat. Strange that he should have miscalculated the
distance! The bed seemed more than twice as high from the floor as it
should be. It was too dark to see distinctly, so he crept to the bed
with extended hands, and felt it. Yes, it was at least four feet from
the floor, and, very oddly, it had long, slim posts, such as bedsteads
used to have, instead of the low, carved footboard, and the high,
postless headboard, which belonged to the bedstead upon which he had
slept in recent years. Ephraim resolved to strike a light. He groped
his way to the table, and tried to find the match-box. It was not
there; he could not discover it upon the bureau either. But he found
something else, which he did not recognize at first, but which a more
careful examination with his fingers told him was a flint and steel. He
was vexed that any one should play such a trick upon him. How could he
ever succeed in lighting the gas with a flint and steel!
But he resolved to try, and he moved over towards the gas-bracket by
the bureau. It was not there! He passed his cold hand over a square
yard of the wall, where the bracket used to be, but it had vanished.
It actually seemed, too, as if there was no paper on the wall, for the
whitewash scaled off beneath his fingers.
Perplexed and angry, Ephraim was about to replace the flint and steel
upon the bureau, and to dress in the dark, when his hand encountered a
candlestick. It contained a candle. He determined to try to light it.
He struck the flint upon the steel at least a dozen times, in the way
he remembered doing so often when he was a boy, but the sparks refused
to catch the tinder. He struck again and again, until he became really
warm with effort and indignation, and at last he succeeded.
It was only a poor, slim tallow candle, and Ephraim thought the light
was not much better than the darkness, it was so dim and flickering
and dismal. He was conscious then that the room was chill, although
his body felt so warm; and, for fear he should catch cold, he thought
he would open the register, and let in some warm air. The register
had disappeared! There, right before him, was a vast old-fashioned
fireplace filled with wood. By what means the transformation had been
effected, he could not imagine. But he was not greatly displeased.
“I always did like an open wood fire,” he said, “and now I will have a
roaring one.”
So he touched the flame of the candle to the light kindling-wood, and
in a moment it was afire.
“I will wash while it is burning up,” said Ephraim.
He went to the place where he thought he should find the fixed
wash-stand, with hot and cold water running from the pipes, but he was
amazed to find that it had followed the strange fashion of the room,
and had gone also! There was an old hand-basin, with a cracked china
pitcher, standing upon a movable wash-stand, but the water in the
pitcher had been turned to solid ice.
With an exclamation of impatience and indignation, Ephraim placed the
pitcher between the andirons, close to the wood in the chimney-place;
and he did so with smarting eyes, for the flue was cold, and volumes of
smoke were pouring out into the room. In a few moments he felt that he
should suffocate unless he could get some fresh air, so he resolved to
open the upper sash of the window.
When he got to the window he perceived that the panes of glass were
only a few inches square, and that the woodwork inclosing them was
thrice thicker and heavier than it had been. He strove to pull down
the upper sash, but the effort was vain; it would not move. He tried
to lift the lower sash; it went up with difficulty; it seemed to
weigh a hundred pounds; and, when he got it up, it would not stay. He
succeeded, finally, in keeping it open by placing a chair beneath it.
When the ice in the pitcher was thawed, he finished his toilette, and
then he descended the stairs. As nobody seemed to be moving in the
house, he resolved to go out and get his breakfast at a restaurant. He
unlocked the front door, and emerged into the street just as daylight
fairly had begun.
As Ephraim descended the steps in front of his house, he had a distinct
impression that something was wrong, and he was conscious of a feeling
of irritation; but it seemed to him that his mind, for some reason,
did not operate with its accustomed precision; and, while he realized
the fact of a partial and very unexpected change of the conditions of
his life, he found that when he tried, in a strangely feeble way, to
grapple with the problem, the solution eluded him and baffled him.
The force of habit, rather than a very clearly defined purpose, led
him to walk to the corner of the street, just below his dwelling, and
to pause there, as usual, to await the coming of the horse-car which
should carry him down town. Following a custom, too, he took from his
waistcoat pocket two or three pennies (which, to his surprise, had
swollen to the uncomfortable dimensions of the old copper cents), and
looked around for the news-boy from whom he bought, every morning, the
daily paper.
The lad, however, was not to be seen; and Ephraim was somewhat vexed at
his absence, because he was especially anxious upon that morning to
observe the quotations of the Chicago and Liverpool grain markets, and
to ascertain what steamers were loading at the wharves.
The horse-car was delayed much longer than he expected, and, while
he waited, a man passed by, dressed oddly, Ephraim noticed, in
knee-breeches and very old-fashioned coat and hat. Ephraim said to him,
politely,--
“Can you tell me, sir, where I can get a morning paper in this
neighborhood? The lad I buy from, commonly, is not at his post this
morning.”
The stranger, stopping, looked at Ephraim with a queer expression, and
presently said,--
“I don’t think I understand you; a _morning_ paper, did you say?”
“Yes, one of the morning papers; the _Argus_ or _Commercial_--any of
them.”
“Why, my dear sir, there is but one newspaper published in this city.
It is the _Gazette_. It comes out on Saturday, and this, you know, is
only Tuesday.”
“Do you mean to say that we have no daily papers?” exclaimed Ephraim,
somewhat angrily.
“_Daily_ papers! Papers published every day! Why, sir, there is not
such a newspaper in the world, and there never will be.”
“Pshaw!” said Ephraim, turning his back upon the man in disgust.
The stranger smiled, and, shaking his head as if he had serious doubts
of Ephraim’s sanity, passed onward.
“The man is cracked,” said Ephraim, looking after him. “No daily
papers! The fellow has just come from the interior of Africa, or else
he is an escaped lunatic. It is very queer that car does not come,” and
Ephraim glanced up the street anxiously. “There is not a car in sight.
A fire somewhere, I suppose. Too bad that I should have lost so much
time. I shall walk down.”
But, as Ephraim stepped into the highway, he was surprised to find that
there were no rails there. The cobblestone pavement was unbroken.
“Well, upon my word! This is the strangest thing of all. What on earth
has become of the street-cars? I must go afoot, I suppose, if the
distance _is_ great. I am afraid I shall be too late for business, as
it is.”
As he walked onward at a rapid pace, and his eyes fell upon the
buildings along the route, he was queerly sensible that the city had
undergone a certain process of transformation. It had a familiar
appearance, too. He seemed to know it in its present aspect, and
yet not to know it. The way was perfectly familiar to him, and he
recognized all the prominent landmarks easily, and still he had an
indefinable feeling that some other city had stood where this did; that
he had known this very route under other conditions, and that the
later conditions were those that had passed away, while those that he
now saw belonged to a much earlier period.
He felt, too, that the change, whatever it was, had brought a loss with
it. The buildings that lined the street now he thought very ugly. They
were old, misshapen, having pent-roofs with absurdly high gables, and
the shop-windows were small, dingy, and set with small panes of glass.
He had known it as a handsome street, edged with noble edifices, and
offering to the gaze of the pedestrian a succession of splendid windows
filled with merchandise of the most brilliant description.
But Ephraim pressed on with a determination to seek his favorite
restaurant, for he began to feel very hungry. In a little while he
reached the corner where the restaurant should have been, but to his
vexation he saw that the building there was a coffee-house of mean
appearance, in front of which swung a blurred and faded sign.
He resolved to enter, for he could get a breakfast here, at least. He
pushed through the low doorway and over the sanded floor into a narrow
sort of box, where a table was spread; and, as he did so, he had a hazy
feeling that this, too, was something that he was familiar with.
“It must be,” he said, “that my brain is producing a succession of
those sensations that I have had sometimes before, which persuade the
credulous that we move continually in a circle, and forever live our
lives over again.”
As he took his seat a waiter approached him.
“Give me a bill of fare,” said Ephraim.
“Bill of fare, sir? Have no bill of fare, sir. Never have them, sir; no
coffee-house has them, sir. Get you up a nice breakfast though, sir.”
“What have you got?”
“Ham, sir; steak, sir; boiled egg, sir; coffee, tea, muffins. Just in
from furrin countries, sir, are you?”
“Never mind where I am from,” said Ephraim, testily. “Bring me a
broiled steak, and egg, and some muffins and coffee, and bring them
quickly.”
“Yes, sir; half a minute, sir. Anything else, sir?”
“Bring me a newspaper.”
“Yes, sir; here it is, sir, the very latest, sir.”
Ephraim took the paper, and glanced at it. It was the _Weekly Gazette_,
four days old; a little sheet of yellow-brown paper, poorly printed,
containing some fragments of news, and nothing later from Europe than
November 6, although the _Gazette_ bore date December 19. So soon as
Ephraim comprehended its worthlessness, he tossed it contemptuously
upon the floor, and waited, almost sullenly, for his breakfast.
When it came in upon the tray, carried by the brisk waiter, it looked
dainty and tempting enough, and the fumes that rose from it were so
savory that he grew into better humor. As it was spread before him,
he perceived that the waiter had given him a very coarse, two-pronged
steel fork.
“Take that away,” said Ephraim, tossing it to the end of the table; “I
want a silver fork.”
“Silver fork, sir! Bless my soul, sir! We haven’t got any; never heard
of such a thing, sir.”
“Never heard of a silver fork, you idiot!” shouted Ephraim; “why,
everybody uses them.”
“No, sir; I think not, sir. I’ve lived with first quality people, sir,
and they all use this kind. Never saw any other kind, sir; didn’t know
there was any. Do they have ’em in furrin parts, sir?”
“Get out!” said Ephraim, savagely. He was becoming somewhat annoyed and
bewildered by the utter disappearance of so many familiar things.
But the breakfast was good, and he was hungry, so he fell to with
hearty zest, and, although he found the steel fork clumsy, it did him
good service. At the conclusion of the meal, Ephraim walked rapidly to
his office--the office that he had occupied for nearly sixty years. As
he opened the door, he expected to find his letters in the box wherein
the postman thrust them twice or thrice a day. They were not there. The
box itself was gone.
“Too bad! too bad!” exclaimed Ephraim. “Everything conspires to
delay me to-day. I suppose I must sit here and wait for that lazy
letter-carrier to come, and meantime my business must wait too.”
With the intent not to lose the time altogether, Ephraim resolved to
write a letter or two. He took from the drawer a sheet of rough white
paper, and opened his inkstand. He could not find his favorite steel
pen anywhere, and there were no other pens in the drawer, only a bundle
of quills. Ephraim determined to try to use one of these. He ruined
four, and lost ten minutes before he could make with his knife a pen
good enough to write with; but with this he finished his letter. Then
he had another hunt for an envelope, but he could find one nowhere, and
nothing was to be done but to fold the sheet in the fashion that he had
known in his boyhood, and to seal it with sealing-wax. He burned his
fingers badly while performing the last-named operation.
Still the postman had not arrived, and Ephraim, being very anxious to
mail his letter, resolved to go out and drop it into the letter-box at
the corner of the street. When he reached the corner, he found that
the letter-box had disappeared as so many other things had done; so he
resolved to push on to the post-office, where he could leave the letter
and get his morning’s mail. As he approached what he had supposed was
the post-office, he was dismayed to perceive that another building
occupied the site. The post-office had vanished.
He turned to a man standing with a crowd which was observing him, and
asked him where the post-office could be found. Obeying the direction,
he sought the place and found it. Rushing to the single window, behind
which a clerk stood, he asked,--
“Are there any letters for Ephraim Batterby?”
“I think not,” said the clerk; “there will be no mail in till
to-morrow.”
“Till to-morrow!” shouted Ephraim. “What is the matter?”
“The matter! nothing at all. What’s the matter with you?”
“I am expecting letters from New York and Chicago. Are both mails
delayed?”
“Chicago’s a place I never heard of, and the mail from New York comes
in only three times a week. It came yesterday, and it will come in
to-morrow.”
“Three times a week!” exclaimed Ephraim; “why, it comes four or five
times a day, unless I am very much mistaken.”
The clerk turned to a fellow-clerk behind him and said in a low tone
something at which both laughed.
“How do you suppose the mails get here four or five times a day?” asked
the clerk.
“Upon the mail trains, of course,” replied Ephraim, tartly; and then
the clerks laughed again.
“Well, sir,” said the man at the window, “we don’t appear to understand
each other; but it may straighten things out if I tell you that the New
York mails come here upon a stage-coach, which takes twenty-four hours
to make the journey, and which reaches here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays.”
Ephraim was about to make an angry reply, but the clerk shut the window
and made further discussion impossible. For a moment Ephraim was
puzzled. He stopped to think what he should do next, and while he was
standing there, he noticed a curious crowd gathering about him, a crowd
which seemed to regard him with peculiar interest. And now and then
a rude fellow would make facetious comments upon Ephraim’s dress, at
which some of the vulgar would laugh. Ephraim was somewhat bewildered,
and his confusion became greater when he observed that all of the
bystanders wore knee-breeches and very ugly high collars and cravats,
in which their chins were completely buried. Ephraim perceived near to
him a gentleman who held in his hand a newspaper. Encouraged by his
friendly countenance, Ephraim said to him,--
“I am rather confused, sir, by some unexpected changes that I have
found about here this morning, will you be good enough to give me a
little information?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“I have missed some important letters that I looked for from New York
and the West. I wish to communicate with my correspondents at once.
Will you please tell me where I can find the telegraph office?”
“The telegraph office! I don’t understand you, sir.”
“I wish to send messages to my friends at those points.”
“Well, sir, I know of no other way to send them than through the
post-office here.”
“Do you mean to say that there is no telegraph line from here to New
York?”
“My dear sir, what do you mean by a telegraph line?”
“A telegraph line--a line of wire on which I can send messages by
electricity.”
“I fear something is wrong with you, sir,” said the gentleman gravely.
“No such thing exists. No such thing can exist.”
“Nonsense!” said Ephraim, waxing indignant. “How do you suppose the
afternoon papers to-day will get the quotations of the Liverpool
markets of to-day? How will the brokers learn to-day the price of
securities at the meeting of the London Stock Exchange this morning?”
“You are speaking very wildly, sir,” said the gentleman, stepping close
to Ephraim and using a low tone, while the crowd laughed. “You must be
more careful, or persons will regard you as insane.”
“Insane! Why? Because I tell you, what everybody knows, that we get
cable news from Europe every day.”
“Cable news! cable news! What does the old fool mean?” shouted the
crowd.
“What do I mean!” exclaimed Ephraim, in a passion; “I mean that you are
a pack of idiots for pretending to believe that there is no such thing
as a telegraph, and no such thing as a telegraph cable to Europe.”
The crowd sent up a shout of derisive laughter and rushed at him as if
to hustle him and use him roughly. The gentleman to whom he had spoken
seized him by the arm and hurried him away. When they had turned the
corner, the man stopped and said to Ephraim,--
“You appear to be a sane man, although you speak so strangely. Let me
warn you to be more careful in the future. If you should be taken up
as a madman and consigned to a madhouse, you would endure terrible
suffering, and find it very difficult to secure release.”
“I _am_ perfectly sane,” said Ephraim, “and I cannot comprehend why
you think what I have said strange. I wanted my letters, and I wished
in their absence to correspond by telegraph, because I am expecting a
cargo of wheat to-day, which I am to ship to Liverpool by steamer.”
“By steamer! There you go again. Nobody can know what you mean by
‘steamer.’”
“Steamer! Steamship! A ship that crosses the ocean by steam, without
sails. You know what that is, certainly?”
“I have heard some talk about a rattle-trap invention which used steam
to make a little boat paddle about on the river here; but as for
crossing the ocean--well, my dear sir, that is a little too ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous! Why--”
“Pardon me,” said the man, “I see you are incorrigible; I must bid you
good morning;” and he bowed politely and walked quickly away.
“Well, well!” said Ephraim, standing still and looking after him
helplessly. “It’s queer, very queer. I don’t begin to understand it at
all, I am half inclined to believe that the world has conspired to make
game of me, or else that my poor wits really are astray. I don’t feel
as certain of them as a clear-headed man should.”
While he spoke, the bells of the city rang out an alarm of fire with
furious clangor, and in a few moments he saw, dashing past him, an
old-fashioned hand-engine, pulled by a score or two of men who held
a rope. The burning building was not many hundred yards distant from
Ephraim, and he felt an inclination to see it. When he reached the
scene, men with leathern buckets were pouring water into the engine,
while other men were forcing the handles up and down, with the result
that a thin stream fell upon the mass of flame.
He had an impulse to ask somebody why the steam fire-engines were not
used, but every one seemed to be excited and busy, and he remembered
what his friend had said to him about steamers.
So he expressed his disgust for the stupidity of these people in a
few muttered ejaculations; and then, suddenly, bethought him of his
business.
He resolved to go down to the wharf where he had expected to ship his
cargo, and to ascertain what the situation was there.
As he came near to the place, he saw that it had changed since he last
saw it, but a handsome ship lay in the dock, and men were carrying bags
of grain aboard of her.
“That must be my cargo,” he said; “but what on earth do they mean by
loading it in that manner, and upon a sailing vessel?”
He approached the man who seemed to be superintending the work, and
said,--
“Is this Ephraim Batterby’s wheat?”
The man looked at him in surprise for a moment, and then, smiling,
said,--
“No, sir; it is Brown and Martin’s.”
“When did it arrive?”
“Yesterday.”
“By rail?”
“By rail! What do you mean by that?”
“I say, did it come by rail?”
“Well, old man, I haven’t the least idea what you mean by ‘rail,’ but
if you want to know, I’ll tell you the grain came by canal-boat.”
“From Chicago?”
“Never heard of Chicago. The wheat came from Pittsburg. What are you
asking for, any way?”
“Why, I’m expecting some myself, by rail from Chicago, and I intend
to ship it to Liverpool in a steamer--that is,” added Ephraim,
hesitatingly, “if I can find one.”
“Chicago! rail! steamer! Old chap, I’m afraid you’re a little weak in
the top story. What do you mean by Chicago?”
“Chicago! Why, it’s a city three or four hundred miles west of
Pittsburg; a great centre for the western grain traffic. Certainly you
must have heard of it.”
“Oh, come now, old man, you’re trying to guy me! I know well enough
that the country is a howling wilderness, three hundred miles beyond
Pittsburg. Grain market! That’s good!”
“I don’t know,” said Ephraim, somewhat feebly. “It used to be there.
And I expected a cargo of wheat from Chicago to be here this morning,
by railroad.”
“What kind of a railroad?”
“A railroad: iron rails, with cars propelled with steam! I expected to
find an elevator here to put the grain on board of an iron vessel; to
load the whole twenty thousand bushels to-day; but things have gone
wrong somehow, and I don’t understand precisely why!”
“Bill,” said the man, turning to a young fellow, one of his assistants,
near him, “trot this poor old chap up to the mayor’s office, so that
he’ll be taken care of. He’s talking to me about bringing twenty
thousand bushels of wheat on a rail, and loading it in an iron
vessel--an iron vessel, mind you--in one day! It’s a shame for the old
fellow’s relations to let him wander about alone.”
Before “Bill” had a chance to offer his assistance, Ephraim, alarmed,
and more than ever bewildered, walked quickly away.
As he gained the street, a man of about middle age suddenly stopped in
front of him, and said,--
“Good morning, Mr. Batterby.”
Ephraim had gotten into such a frame of mind, that he was almost
startled at the sound of his own name.
He looked hard at the stranger, but, although the features were
somewhat familiar, he could not really recognize the man.
“Don’t know me, Batterby? Impossible! Don’t know Tony Miller!”
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Ephraim; “Tony Miller! so it is! Tony
Miller! Not Tony Miller? Why--why--why, Miller, I thought you died
thirty years ago!”
“Died! ha, ha! Not a bit of it, man. Why, it’s absurd! I saw you only
two or three weeks since!”
“Strange, strange!” said Ephraim, almost sadly, in his mind trying to
recall some fragments of the past. “I could have sworn that you were
dead!”
“No, sir; just as hearty and lively as I ever was. By the way, Mr.
Batterby, what has become of Ephraim? I don’t see him about any more.”
“Ephraim? Ephraim Batterby? Why, who do you think I am?”
“Joshua Batterby, of course; who else? You don’t seem very well to-day,
I think.”
“He mistakes me for my father,” said Ephraim to himself. “When will all
this wild, puzzling mystery end?” Then, addressing Miller, he said, “I
would like to have some conversation with you, Miller; I am strangely
confused and upset to-day.”
“Certainly; be glad to have a chat with you. I say, suppose you come
home and dine with me? I am on my way to dinner now. Will you go?”
“Gladly,” replied Ephraim.
As they walked on, Miller, with intent to break the silence, said,--
“I think we shall have rain to-day, Mr. Batterby.”
“Perhaps; it looks like it. What does the signal service say?”
“What does the _what_ say?”
“The signal service. What are the indications?”
“I haven’t the least idea what you mean, Mr. Batterby.”
“Why,” said Ephraim, timidly, “were you not aware that a bureau in
the War Department collects information which enables it to indicate
approaching conditions of the weather, and that it gives this
information to the newspapers?”
“Never heard of such a thing, Mr. Batterby, and I don’t believe it.
Somebody has been joking with you. The only weather indications we have
are in the almanacs, and they are not at all reliable.”
The two walked along in silence for a time, and then Ephraim said,--
“Miller!”
“Well?”
“I am going to ask you a good many queer questions to-day, for a
private purpose of my own; will you agree to answer them candidly?”
“If I can.”
“And not to think me insane, or absurd, or stupid?”
“Of course I should not think so.”
“Very well,” said Ephraim; “and when we are done, I may explain why I
asked them, and perhaps you can solve a mystery for me.”
They reached the house and entered it. The first thing Miller did
was to proceed to the side-board, fill two glasses with wine from a
decanter, and ask Ephraim to drink.
“Thank you,” said Ephraim, “I never touch it.”
Miller looked at him for a moment in amazement. He concluded that this
must be one of the phases of Batterby’s newly-developed queerness. So
he emptied his own glass and put it down.
They entered the parlor to wait for dinner. Ephraim’s eye was caught by
a very pretty miniature on the wall.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“Mrs. Miller; my wife.”
“Is it a photograph?”
“I don’t know what a photograph is.”
“Ah!” sighed Ephraim, “I remember. Let me ask you something else. Did
you ever hear of a place named Chicago?”
“Never! there is no such place.”
“You know nothing of railroads, or steamships, or telegraphs?”
“You are talking Greek to me.”
“Did you ever hear of a telegraph cable to Europe?”
“Well, you _are_ asking queer questions, sure enough. No, I never did.”
“Is there, or is there not, a railway line across the continent to the
Pacific?”
“What a funny kind of an idea! No, there isn’t.”
“Are there any such things as daily papers?”
“No, sir.”
“One question more: I see you have a wood fire. Do you never burn coal?”
“Charcoal, sometimes, for some purposes.”
“I mean hard coal--stone coal?”
“There is no such thing in existence, so far as I know. What are you up
to, anyhow? Going to invent something?”
“I will tell you after awhile, may be,” replied Ephraim; and then to
himself he said, “I am beginning to catch the meaning of all this
experience. How strange it is!”
A lady entered from the front door, and passed the parlor. Ephraim saw
that she had on a very narrow dress, with a high waist almost beneath
her armpits, that she wore upon her head an enormous and hideous green
“calash” which bore some resemblance to a gig-top.
He had not seen one of those wonderful bits of head-gear for fifty
years.
In a few moments the lady entered the parlor. As Mr. Miller presented
Batterby to his wife, Ephraim was shocked to perceive that she seemed
to have on but a single, thin, white garment, and that even this
appeared to be in immediate danger of slipping downward. He thought it
shockingly immodest, but he remembered the figures of women he had
seen in the remote past, and thought he knew what this meant. So he
gave no indication of surprise.
They went to the dining-room. Ephraim was very careful in conducting
his share of the conversation. Mrs. Miller, unlike her husband, had not
been forewarned. However, once, when she was lamenting the absence of
fruits and vegetables from the markets in winter, Ephraim incautiously
asked her why she did not use canned goods; and this opened the way
to some vexatious questions. A little later, Miller began talking
about the Warners, people whom Ephraim in his soul knew had been dead
forty years; and Miller had mentioned that two of them were down with
smallpox. Thereupon Ephraim asked if the malady was prevalent, and
if Miller had been vaccinated. And thus again he got into trouble,
for neither his host nor hostess knew his meaning. He was tripped up
again by a reference to sewing-machines; and, finally, by remarking,
innocently, when Miller observed that it had just begun to rain, that
he was sorry he had not his rubbers with him.
But he would not try to explain his meaning when they pressed him. He
had, indeed, an increasing tendency to taciturnity. He shrank more
and more from the thought of attempting a discussion of the situation
in which some wondrous mischance had placed him. As Miller waxed
boisterous and lively in his talk, Ephraim was strongly impelled to
complete reserve.
For he had creeping over him, gradually, a horrible feeling that these
people, in whose company he was lingering, were not real people; that
they were dead, and that by some awful jugglery they had been summoned
forth and compelled to play over, before him, a travesty of their
former lives.
He became gloomy and wretched beneath the oppression of the thoughts
that crowded his brain. As the hour slipped away, his distress was made
more intense by the conduct of Miller, who, warmed with wine, mingled
oaths with his conversation. Ephraim felt as if that blasphemy came to
him clothed with a new horror from the region of mystery beyond the
grave. Finally, after Mrs. Miller had left the room, her husband’s
utterance became thick and harsh, and presently he slipped, drunken and
helpless, beneath the table.
Ephraim sat alone at the board. The room grew darker, for the rain was
now swirling without, against the window-panes. There was something
ghastly and fearful in the appearance of the apartment. The outlines
of the furniture, seen through the dusk, were distorted and misshapen.
Ephraim felt as if he were in the presence of phantoms. He had the
sensations of one who sits in a charnel-house, and knows that he is the
only living thing among the dead.
His good sense half revolted against the fear that overspread him;
but it seemed not strong enough to quell the tremulous terror in his
soul; for that grew and grew until it filled him with a kind of panic.
He had such a meaningless dread as the bravest know when they find
themselves amid darkness and loneliness in a dwelling wherein, of late,
have been pleasant company and merriment and laughter; wherein has been
joyousness that has suddenly been quenched by utter, dismal silence.
He was seized by a sudden impulse to fly. He pushed away his chair,
and glanced timorously around him. Then he trod swiftly, and with a
fiercely-beating heart, to the hall-way. Grasping his hat from the
table, he opened the door, and fled out into the tempest.
As he sped away through the gloomy street, now wet and slippery, and
covered with pools of rain, it smote his heart with a new fear to think
that even the city about him, with its high walls and impending roofs,
its bricks and stones and uplifting spires, was unreal to ghastliness.
But even his great dread did not forbid his mind to recall the
mysteries of the day.
“I know,” he said, as he rushed onward, “what it all means. This
is the Past. Some mighty hand has swept away the barrier of years,
and plunged me once more into the midst of the life that I knew in
my youth, long ago. And I have loved and worshipped that past. Blind
and foolish man! I loved it! Ah, how I hate it now! What a miserable,
miserable time it was! How poor and insufficient life seems under its
conditions! How meanly men crawled about, content with their littleness
and folly, and unconscious of the wisdom that lay within their reach,
ignorant of the vast and wonderful possibilities that human ingenuity
might compass!”
“There was nothing in that dreary past that I could love,
excepting”--and Ephraim was almost ready to weep as he thought that the
one longing of his soul could not be realized--“excepting those who
were torn from my arms, my heart, my home, by the cruel hand of death.”
The excitement, the distress, the anguish, the wild terror of the
day, came back to him with accumulated force as he hurried along the
footway; and when he reached his own home he was distracted, unnerved,
hysterical.
With eager but uncertain fingers he pushed open the front door, and
went into his sitting-room. There a fresh shock came to him, for he
saw his wife in the chair she had occupied in the old time, long, long
ago. She arose to greet him, and he saw that her dear face wore the
kindly smile he had known so well, and that had added much to his sum
of happiness in the years that were gone. He leaped to clasp her in his
arms when he heard the sweet tones of her voice welcoming him; his eyes
filled with tears, and the sobs came, as he said,--
“Ah, my dearest, my dearest! have you, too, come up from the dead past
to meet me? It was you alone that hallowed it to me. I loved--loved
you--I--”
He felt his utterance choked, the room swam before him, there was
a ringing noise in his ears, he felt himself falling; then he lost
consciousness.
He knew nothing more until he realized that there was a gentle knocking
near to him, as of some one who demanded admittance at the door. He
roused himself with an effort, and almost mechanically said,--
“Come in.”
He heard a light step, and he opened his eyes. He was in his own
bed-room, the room of the present, not of the past, and in his own bed.
It was Nelly who knocked at the door; she stood beside him.
“It is time to get up, grandpa,” she said.
“Wh--where am I? What has happened?” Then, as his mind realized the
truth, he said, “Oh, Nelly, Nelly, how I have suffered.”
“How, grandpa?”
“I--I--but never mind now, my dear; I will tell you after awhile. Run
down-stairs while I prepare for breakfast. But, Nelly, let me tell you
not to believe what I said to you about the glories of the past; it was
not true, my child, not true. I have learned better; I talked to you
like a foolish old man. Thank God, my dear, that you live late in the
world’s history. No man is more unwise or more ungrateful than he who
finds delight in playing the part of An Old Fogy.”
MAJOR DUNWOODY’S LEG,
AND THE GREAT POTTAWATOMIE CLAIM.
At Gettysburg, on the afternoon of the third day of July, 1863, Major
Henry G. Dunwoody, of the 483d Regiment of Pennsylvania Volunteers,
while leading his men into action, was struck by a shell from a
Confederate battery. A moment later he was lying upon the ground
unconscious, and beside him lay his left leg, severed from his body
several inches above the knee.
When the fight was over for the day, the wounded Major was placed in
an ambulance and taken to the hospital. A day or two later, the fever
having left him, he lay in bed feeling tolerably comfortable. His mind
not unnaturally turned to consideration of his wound. He began to think
how very inconvenient it would be to have to hop about on one leg
during the remainder of his life, and he couldn’t help wondering where
his leg was and what would be its fate. He suspected they would bury
it; and the notion seemed an unpleasant one.
“I don’t like the idea of being partially interred,” he said; “and
while I am alive, too. I am too young a man by half a century to have
one foot in the grave.”
The latter suggestion struck the Major as being rather a good joke. He
resolved to remember it so that he could tell the surgeon.
The Major could hardly persuade himself, at times, as he reflected,
that he had really lost his leg. He had a corn upon a certain toe which
he could distinctly feel; there were strong sensations which indicated
that the leg was still there, and he could hardly resist the impulse to
try to lift it in such a vigorous manner as to kick off the covering
of the bed. But he knew that this was absurd. While he was thinking
about it he suddenly gave a little start, and a shiver ran through his
nerves. He felt as if his leg had been plunged into some intensely
cold liquid, and before he had quite recovered from the shock he was
conscious of a faint suggestion of alcohol. Whether the perfume of the
substance had actually greeted his nostrils, or the alcoholic flavor
had been conveyed to his senses in some other way, he could not exactly
define. He did not try very hard to solve the problem. This was only
one of the many odd experiences of the first forty-eight hours, and he
was too feeble to make such a vigorous mental effort as was necessary
to their proper solution.
The Major recovered, and was enrolled in the Invalid Corps. During the
succeeding three or four years he drew his pay, lived an easy life,
and devoted much of his time to experimenting upon artificial legs of
various patterns. He never succeeded in finding one that suited him
exactly, and in the course of time he collected quite a curious lot
of wooden and cork legs, which he kept standing about in the corners
of his room at his boarding-house in Washington, and which were
perpetually a source of nervous dread to the chambermaid, who lived
in expectation that some day they would fly out at her and kick her
downstairs.
One day the Major, while strolling along the street, passed the door of
the Army Medical Museum, an institution into which has been gathered by
the government a very large number of medical and surgical curiosities
taken from the various battle-fields of the rebellion. It is the most
horribly interesting place in the city of Washington--that is, to the
ordinary lay observer. The surgeons and doctors, of course, regard its
trophies with gleeful enthusiasm. To others it serves perhaps a good
purpose in suggesting some distinct notion of the fearful suffering
which was the price paid for the salvation of the Government, and it
may perform a useful office in the future by indicating to persons who
are burning with a desire for war and glory, that glory is one of the
least obvious fruits of murderous strife.
It occurred to the Major to enter the building; and for half an hour
he wandered about among the glass cases, studying curiously the
strangely distorted fragments of the poor human body which are there
preserved. As he turned the corner of one large case, he saw something
that induced him to halt. A brief distance in front of him sat a woman
intently engaged in drawing upon a piece of pasteboard which stood
upon a small easel. It was so unexpected a sight that the Major could
not resist the impulse to observe her for a moment. She seemed young
and fair; a mass of bright golden hair fell upon her shoulders, and as
she turned her head to look at something in one of the cases that she
seemed to be sketching, the Major saw that her profile was exceedingly
pretty.
He came a step or two closer, and noticed by means of a hurried glance
that she had a strange figure of some kind upon the board; and then he
passed on.
Just as he got close to her his artificial leg--a leg that he had
received a few days before by steamer from France--suddenly launched
out sideways. It encountered the foot of the easel, and the next
instant Major Dunwoody lay sprawling upon the floor, with the easel
across his back and the pasteboard picture lying upon his head. He
recovered himself promptly, and turning to the fair artist, who stood
above him with a look of mingled vexation and amusement upon her face,
said,--
“I--I--really I am very sorry. It is shocking, but I assure you I
couldn’t help it. I am suffering from a wound, and--and” (the Major did
not like to confess so openly to his dismemberment); “and in fact I had
not complete control of myself.”
The Major was a handsome man, and either his appearance, his pleading
look, the pathetic tone of his voice, or all combined, touched the
artist’s heart with sympathy.
“Oh, never mind,” she said, smiling, as the Major thought, more sweetly
than woman ever smiled before. “No harm is done. I hope you didn’t hurt
yourself.”
“You are very kind. No, I am not hurt; but I am greatly mortified at
the trouble I have caused you. I hardly know how to express my disgust
for my clumsiness.”
“Pray do not distress yourself about it,” said the artist, laughing;
“the easel is not broken and the sketch is wholly uninjured. I should
not have mourned if it had been destroyed. It is a mere study, and very
incomplete.”
“You are too generous,” replied the Major; “but I will take good care
not to disturb you again, if I can find my way out of here. Would
you--would you--be--be--would you be good enough to call the janitor,
or somebody, to help to get me upon my feet again? I cannot rise
without--in fact, my wound is--is--”
“I shall be more than glad to assist you,” said the artist, with a
glance of pity in her blue eyes, “if you will take my hand.”
The Major looked at the hand for a moment. It was extremely pretty; he
had an impulse to kiss it, but he restrained himself. He merely clasped
it in his own. The artist braced herself firmly, and the next instant
the Major stood upright.
“I do not know how I can thank you for your kindness,” he said, “but
permit me to offer you my card. I have some influence, and if I can
ever serve you in any way I shall greatly rejoice.”
“Major Dunwoody! Indeed!” exclaimed the artist, as she read the name.
“You are not one of the Dunwoodys of Clarion County, Pennsylvania, are
you?”
“I was born there,” replied the Major with not a little eagerness. He
thought he saw a chance to acquire better acquaintance with this lovely
and gifted woman. “Do you know any of our folks?”
“Oh, yes,” said the artist, with a bright smile. “My mother came from
Clarion County. She was a Hunsicker, a daughter of Hon. John Hunsicker,
who represented the district in the forty-first Congress. I have often
heard her speak of the Dunwoodys.”
“Indeed,” replied the Major. “I knew your grandfather well when I was a
boy.”
The conversation need not be given in detail. The artist and the
Major developed at some length how a Hunsicker married a Dunwoody;
how a Dunwoody eloped with a Moyer, a cousin of the Hunsickers; how
a Dunwoody fought a duel with another Hunsicker over a political
dispute, and shook hands afterwards; and how the loves and hates, and
bargains and enterprises, and contests and schemes of the Dunwoodys and
Hunsickers had filled the history of Clarion County for a quarter of a
century past.
At last the Major said,--
“But you haven’t given me _your_ name yet.”
“Pandora M’Duffy is my name. My mother, you know, married Senator
M’Duffy, state senator. Poor father died many years ago, and we are now
living in Washington.”
“Studying art, I presume?” asked the Major, glancing at the easel.
“Yes,” replied Pandora; “I am an artist.”
“Is not this rather--rather a--a queer place to come to for sketches?”
“Oh, no,” said Pandora, laughing; “I came here to study anatomy for a
great picture I am going to paint. You see what that is?” said she,
lifting the cardboard, and showing the sketch to the Major.
“That is a--a--I should say that was a picture of--well, of the elbow
of a stove-pipe. Isn’t it?”
“You are not very complimentary,” said Pandora. “I know it is very raw
and unfinished; but it is at least a fair likeness of that human leg in
the jar of alcohol over there.”
“Oh, of course! So it is, so it is; astonishing likeness! How stupid I
am! To be sure. The very image of it.”
“Come now, I know you don’t think so! You are flattering me!”
“No, indeed. It is wonderful! But--why, bless my soul, what on earth do
you want a picture of such a thing as that for?”
“For my great painting,” said Pandora, with a pretty little laugh. “I
am preparing a picture, thirty-eight feet by twenty-seven feet, of
George Washington cutting down his father’s cherry-tree with his little
hatchet.”
“What for?”
“I expect to sell it to the Government, and to have it placed among the
other historical pictures in the rotunda of the Capitol.”
“But you are not going to put this leg in the picture?”
“Yes; I represent George as being barefooted, and having one
trouser-leg rolled up.”
“But then, I don’t exactly see how--well, but George was a boy, and
this is a man’s leg.”
“I know, but I am drawing all the figures on a heroic scale.”
“Ah!” said the Major. Then he added, “But I must bid you good morning.”
“I shall be very glad to have you come to see me,” said Pandora.
“I assure you it will give me much pleasure to do so,” answered the
Major, with a feeling of exultation.
Then he bowed politely, and withdrew.
When Pandora reached home, she showed Major Dunwoody’s card to her
mother, and told her of the adventure at the Museum.
Mrs. M’Duffy sat upon the sofa and listened. She was a woman of
distinguished appearance; of large frame, not corpulent, but rounded
rather more than positive beauty seemed to require. Having the carriage
of a queen, with a finely-shaped head, a strongly-defined chin, held
well up, an aquiline nose, and piercing black eyes, Mrs. M’Duffy
impressed the observer with a sense of power. The mother of the Gracchi
might have been such a woman. If Mrs. M’Duffy had been born to a
throne, she would have left her impress distinctly upon the history of
nations.
Mrs. M’Duffy was familiar with the world. She was a woman who quickly
comprehended possibilities. She clearly foresaw that Major Dunwoody
might have an influence upon the future of Pandora, and the prospect
was not pleasing to her.
“Pandora,” she said, “I trust you did not ask this man to call?”
“Yes, I did, mother.”
“I am sorry to hear it. I never liked _his_ branch of the Dunwoodys.
His father was mixed up with some very suspicious land speculations,
and he died insolvent. Major Dunwoody has nothing but his pay. You must
treat him with coolness when he comes.”
“Why?”
“Why! Why, because it is very necessary that you should give him
no encouragement of any kind. He is not a desirable match for you.
Besides, you owe it to your family now to offer every opportunity to
Achilles Smith. Mr. Smith worships you!”
“And I hate him,” said Pandora, vigorously.
“Hate him, my child? Why, how absurd! Mr. Smith is a very charming man,
and when he gets his Pottawatomie claim through Congress, he will be
rich.”
“He will never get it through; and I won’t have him, if he does!”
“Never get it through, Pandora! Didn’t General Belcher, the member
for the ninety-sixth Kansas district, and his bosom friend, assure me
positively that it would be approved during the present session?”
“His claim is ridiculous. Congress will never allow it.”
“My dear! Pray don’t be absurd! His claim is quite as reasonable as
thousands of similar claims. The Pottawatomie Indians scalped him in
1862, and he very properly asks the legislature of his country to
compel the savages to make reparation by surrendering two million acres
of their reservation. I cannot see anything ridiculous about that. If
he succeeds, he will be the largest individual land-owner in the West.”
“If he succeeds!”
“But General Belcher, who is pushing his case in Congress, and who
is to share the property with him, positively declares that he will
succeed. The General, also, makes your acceptance of Achilles the
condition of his championship of your picture. He says that Congress
shall buy that picture upon the day that you marry Achilles Smith!”
“General Belcher is simply disgusting, mother. I would never think of
accepting a favor from him.”
“Not when his exertions can lift you and your mother out of poverty,
Pandora? You talk most unreasonably.”
“I mean what I say,” said Pandora firmly.
“Very well, Miss, we shall see,” replied Mrs. M’Duffy, rising and
sweeping majestically from the room.
Major Dunwoody called upon that very evening. He called again the next
evening. He called frequently upon following evenings; and although
Mrs. M’Duffy treated him with coldness which bordered upon disdain,
the Major’s infatuation for Pandora was so strong that he forgot Mrs.
M’Duffy’s incivility in rejoicing over the exceeding graciousness of
her daughter.
The Major was convinced that Pandora loved him, but he hesitated to
take practical measures to ascertain the fact, because he could not
summon up a sufficient amount of resolution to tell her the truth about
the loss of his leg. He was far too honorable to deceive her respecting
his misfortune until she had committed herself to him, and he was
haunted by apprehension that she might reject him when she knew the
actual state of the case. A catastrophe brought matters to a crisis.
One Sunday evening the Major escorted Pandora to church. During the
worship the Major felt his French leg give several very strange
twitches, and he could hear a clicking sound in the knee as if some
of the springs were loose and moving about in an independent manner.
Pandora noticed the noise too, and leaned over to ask the Major, in a
whisper, if there was not a mouse running about upon the floor of the
pew. The Major said he did not think there was.
Pandora whispered that it sounded rather more like machinery.
The Major faintly intimated that it might proceed from the gas meter in
the cellar, or perhaps the people in the gallery were fixing something
about the organ.
The Major had always rather doubted the springs in the knee-joint of
the French leg. They impressed him as being far more complicated and
ingenious than was necessary for simple purposes of locomotion. He was
thinking about them tremulously when the sermon began. The preacher had
hardly announced his text when the Major’s leg suddenly flew up, kicked
the bonnet upon the head of the lady in front of him over the wearer’s
eyes, and finally the leg fell upon the top of the back of the pew,
where it kicked away vigorously. The Major, blushing crimson, grasped
it and pulled it down by a severe effort. The wearer of the bonnet
looked at him with indignation. Pandora seemed ready to faint.
When the Major let go his hold of the leg it bounced up again, and
performed the most eccentric movements upon the back of the pew.
Pandora could not suppress a faint scream; and the entire congregation
stared at the miserable Major as he seized the leg and thrust it down
into the pew. He held it down firmly, but the springs were strong, and
they forced the toes to beat a wild tattoo upon the wooden partition
in front of them.
In an agony of mortification, the Major rose, with the intention to
leave the building. The sexton, who had approached him to ascertain
the cause of the disturbance, gave him his arm, and the Major hopped
down the aisle with his horrible leg flying out behind and before in a
convulsive manner, kicking the sexton, banging pew-doors, and behaving
generally in a most sensational and exciting manner.
Pandora followed her lover at a short distance. When the porch of
the church was reached, the leg was still in a condition of violent
agitation, and the Major, wild with shame and rage, said to the
sexton,--
“Take it off! Unbuckle it! Take it off quick!”
The sexton bravely approached, fumbled about for a moment in search
of the strap, and an instant later the Major’s imported leg lay upon
the carpet squirming about, kicking viciously, and leaping hither and
thither like a wounded and desperate animal.
“Call a carriage,” gasped the Major, as he leaned against the wall.
The sexton dispatched a boy for a vehicle, and when it came he placed
the Major within, helped Pandora to a seat, and the party moved toward
home.
For a little while neither the Major nor Pandora spoke. The situation
seemed too awful for words. The silence was becoming embarrassing, when
suddenly Pandora said,--
“Poor man!”
“What, are you sorry for me?” asked the Major eagerly.
“Indeed I am. How you must have suffered!”
“I thought you would hate me for subjecting you to such mortification.”
“But you couldn’t help it. I would be very unjust to blame you.”
“And you do not dislike me because I am so crippled?”
“How could I? You are a soldier. You lost your leg honorably, did you
not?”
“It was shot away at Gettysburg.”
“You lost it to save my country, and you think I would not honor you
for such a sacrifice?”
“Your kind words make me brave. If I might dare--”
“Such a hero as you may dare anything,” she said.
“May I dare to ask if, while you honor me, you can also love me?”
“You may; and if you do, I will answer ‘Yes.’”
“You are an angel!” exclaimed the Major.
They expressed their emotion in a very usual manner, which need not be
described. When the carriage turned into the street upon which Pandora
lived, she said,--
“Henry dear,--I may call you _Henry_, mayn’t I?--where _is_ your leg?”
“I left it squirming about in the church porch.”
“No; I mean your real one, dear. The leg that was shot off.”
“I haven’t the least idea. Buried, I suppose.”
Pandora was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Then she said,--
“Isn’t it barely possible that one of those legs preserved at the
Medical Museum is yours?”
“Well, I declare I never thought of that! Perhaps mine _is_ there.”
“The one I was sketching on the day I first met you was
labelled--‘Gettysburg, July 3rd, 1863.’ Maybe that was it.”
“I will go around to-morrow and examine it. It would be very odd,
Pandora dearest, if it should be mine. Wouldn’t it?”
“Very. But I want you to make me a promise. If it should be yours, will
you get it and give it to me?”
“If I can I will. But what on earth do you want it for?”
“For two reasons I want it: first, because if I am to marry you I have
a legal right to all of you; and, second, because my George Washington
has been standing upon one leg beside the cherry-tree for three weeks
now, for the reason that I can’t make a satisfactory study of his other
leg.”
“Pandora, I will gratify you if human energy is equal to the task. The
impulses of an undying affection, not less than a fervid regard for the
interests of high art, shall nerve me to the work.”
“Thank you, darling!” she said.
Then the carriage stopped at the M’Duffy front door. Pandora alighted,
rang the bell, kissed her hand and disappeared, while the Major drove
home in ecstasy to brood upon his unexpected happiness, and to fit
himself with a Government leg that was numbered among the best in his
collection.
The next morning he went around to the Medical Museum and examined
Exhibit 1307 in Case 25, being the leg which Pandora had proposed to
pass on to immortality by attaching a representation of it to her
picture of George Washington.
The Major could not say with positiveness that the leg was his, but his
impression that it belonged to him was strengthened by certain scars
that seemed to be familiar, among them one which called up memories of
a dog-bite obtained in a Clarion County orchard away back in the years
of his boyhood.
A thought struck him. He called the janitor, and slipping a coin
into his hand, he explained the case to that officer. At the Major’s
suggestion the janitor removed the specimen from the alcohol, and trod
heavily upon the excrescence upon the toe. The Major yelled with pain.
The identity of the limb was definitely ascertained.
“I will recover possession of that leg,” said the Major as he left the
building, “if I have to buy the entire collection!”
CHAPTER II.
General William Henry Harrison Belcher, member of Congress from the
ninety-sixth Kansas district, sat in his room at his hotel one evening,
with his feet upon the table, a cigar in his mouth, and a glass
containing a mysterious liquid preparation beside him.