"'Arthur,' she said, and there was a tremor in the rich, deep voice.

'Arthur, my memory has come back. No, do not speak, but hear me. The

past all returned the night after that awful day when we buried those

dead bodies in the sea. I now remember and understand all that you and

the dear doctor said to me. I remember our parting in England; I

remember John Bruce; I remember why I set out for India so suddenly. I

heard that he was wounded. I thought duty called me. For I did not love

him, Arthur. How could I? I had not seen him since we were children, and

our fathers betrothed us. But, Arthur, a higher power than hate or love

has given us to each other, and I can tell you, dear, that I love you.

Oh, I love you! My darling; my noble, faithful darling! Oh, Arthur,

Arthur!'

"She threw herself upon my breast with burning face and streaming eyes.

The blood leaped through my veins. She raised her sweet face and our

lips met for the first time.

"There was an awful crash, and our freed spirits took their happy flight

together. We had drank from the can that had contained Uncle John's

explosive. A little of the powder had clung to the can, floated on the

water, and adhered to our lips when we drank. The impact of that first

ecstatic kiss had exploded the compound and our heads were blown from

our shoulders. That's all. Good-by."

THE BUSHWHACKER'S GRATITUDE.

BY KIRKE MUNROE.

As we sat over our after-dinner coffee and cigars in the major's cosy

library, one evening last winter, I discovered my host to be in a

reminiscent mood, and ventured to ask him a question that I had

frequently meditated. He smiled and was silent for a moment before

answering.

"Yes, I have, as you suggest, experienced a number of what may be termed

adventures since entering Uncle Sam's service. Of them all, however, I

have no difficulty in recalling one that stands out pre-eminently as the

most thrilling experience of my life;" and then he gave this narrative:

"Shortly after the close of the war, I was ordered to a remote section

of the South, not far from the Gulf coast, to investigate certain claims

against the Government that involved what, for that part of the country,

was a large sum of money. As, for several reasons, it was deemed

advisable that my real business there should be kept secret, I assumed

the role of a settler, took possession of a vacant tract of land, built

a two-pen log cabin, engaged a negro servant, and proceeded to explore

the country with a view to making the acquaintance of my neighbors.

"The place in which I was located was remote from railroads or regular

routes of travel, and was about as wild and lawless a district as could

well be found east of the Mississippi. It was a limestone country,

abounding in sink-holes, caverns, and underground rivers, and thickly

covered with a primeval growth of timber. A few clearings at long

intervals marked the fields and garden patches of its widely scattered

inhabitants, who were as primitive a set of people as I had ever

encountered. During the war it had been a very hot-bed of bushwhacking,

and its men had plundered and killed on both sides, with a slight

predilection in favor of Southerners and a bitter hatred of Yankees.

Although I carefully concealed my connection with the army, and was most

guarded in my remarks whenever forced to allude to the war, I could not

hide the fact that I was a Northern man. On that account alone I was

from the first an object of suspicion and close scrutiny to my

neighbors, by most of whom my friendly overtures were received with a

sullen unresponsiveness that was, to say the least, discouraging.

"My nearest neighbor was a giant of a man named Case Haffner, who, as I

learned before leaving Washington, was the acknowledged leader of the

district and foremost in all its deeds of deviltry. He, better than any

other, could furnish me with the information I wished to acquire. For

this reason I had taken up my abode as near to him as the unwritten law

of the country, which forbade neighbors to live within less than a mile

of each other, allowed. In vain did I strive to cultivate his

acquaintance. He would have nothing to do with me. Only by stratagem did

I succeed in meeting him, when he simply ignored my presence and walked

away without a word. He lived alone with his son Abner, a bright,

keen-witted lad of about fifteen, the pride of his father's life and the

sole object of his ambitions. With this boy I also tried to scrape an

acquaintance, hoping to win the father's confidence through him, but to

no purpose. He either eluded me or fled like a startled deer if by

chance we met. While others of the neighborhood sought my house with a

view to satisfy their curiosity, with Case Haffner and his son 'Ab,' I

could hold no intercourse.

"So matters stood at the end of a month, when, late one evening, on

returning from an all day's ride to a remote corner of the settlement I

was overtaken by a terrific thunder storm while still some distance from

home. I was accompanied by Caesar, my negro servant, and we were on

horseback. Bewildered by the storm we lost our way, and after a half

hour of hopeless wandering, floundering and general discomfort I was

more than thankful to discover a feeble light twinkling in the window of

a log cabin.

"Receiving no response to my repeated knockings at the door, I pushed it

open and entered. I had not recognized the cabin and did not know until

I saw Case Haffner sitting on a stool before the great mud-chinked

fire-place, that it was his. The man's face was buried in his hands, and

he did not look up at my entrance, nor in any way betray a consciousness

of my presence. As I glanced about the rudely-furnished room in search

of Abner, my eye fell upon a bed on which lay the motionless form of the

boy. The light was dim, and fancying him to be asleep, I called him by

name.

"At this the man by the fire sprang to his feet, and glaring at me like

a wild beast, cried out with a terrible oath that his son was dead, and

for me to be gone before he killed me for intruding on his misery.

Instead of obeying him I stepped to the bedside. The boy was to all

appearance lifeless, but disregarding the father's protest, and making a

careful examination of the body, I became convinced that the vital spark

had not yet fled. He had been stricken with one of the quick fevers of

that country and had apparently succumbed to it. With a slight medical

knowledge gained in the army, I saw that there was still a chance of

saving him. Caesar was at once dispatched to fetch my traveling medicine

case, while I heated a kettle of water. Case Haffner meantime regarding

my movements with an apathetic indifference. To make a long story short,

I succeeded before morning in restoring the boy to life and a healthful

sleep. At the end of a week, during which I visited him daily, his

recovery was assured.

"In all this time, though the father watched my every movement with a

catlike intentness, he never spoke to me if he could help it nor did he

express the slightest gratitude for the service I had rendered him.

Thus, when the boy was so far recovered that I had no longer an excuse

for visiting the Haffners' cabin, I was apparently as far from gaining

their friendship or confidence as I had been before the night of the

storm.

"This state of affairs continued unchanged when at the end of three

months from my arrival in that place I found my business there nearly

concluded. I had established the validity of the claims I had been sent

to investigate, had reported upon them, and had been ordered to settle

them with the money that would be forwarded to me for that purpose. At

the same time I imagined that all this business had been conducted with

such secrecy as to be unsuspected by a human being beside myself and my

principals in the matter. Thus thinking, I went alone, and without a

feeling of insecurity, to the nearest railway station, where I expected

to receive the money. It did not arrive on that day; but instead I found

a cipher dispatch stating that it would be sent a week later. Accepting

the situation with as good grace as possible, I purchased some

provisions, placed them in the canvas bag that I had provided for the

money and returned to my temporary forest home.

"Late that night I was awakened from a sound sleep by a knock at the

door of my room. In answer to my inquiry of 'Who's there?' came a

request in the voice of my negro man, that I would give him some

medicine to relieve 'de colic misery dat was like to kill him.' As he

had made similar requests, with which I had complied, several times

before, I unsuspiciously opened the door.

"The candle that I had just lighted gave me a glimpse of Caesar, with

ashen face and the muzzle of a revolver pressed against his head. At the

same moment a pistol was leveled at my own face and I was seized and

bound by two masked men. In vain did I demand the meaning of this

outrage. No answer was given, and I was led outside, while a hasty but

thorough search was made of every portion of the cabin. It was, of

course, a fruitless one, and after a while the two men who made it

rejoined the one who was guarding me.

"Now one of them spoke, and in a voice which in spite of its disguised

tone I at once recognized as that of Case Haffner said, 'You mought as

well give us that money, Major, fer we're bound to have it, and the

quicker you surrender it the easier we'll let you off.'

"I answered that I had no money; that it had not arrived. They replied

that they knew all about my business, and that being closely watched I

had been seen to bring that money, which they knew I expected to

receive, home from the railway station the evening before.

"Finally their leader said: 'Well, Major, ef you are bound not to own up

till we force you to, we'll have to try a dose of the Black Hole, and I

reckon that'll fetch you to terms quicker'n most anything.'

"I had heard of the Black Hole, and the suggestion thrilled me with

horror. It was a pit in the lime rock reputed to be of fabulous depth

and was located at some distance from my cabin in one of the most

impenetrable of the forest recesses. From it, so the negroes had told

me, issued uncanny moanings and groans which they attributed to the

ghosts of those who they declared had been flung into it by the

bushwhackers when they wished to effectually remove all traces of some

of their numerous deeds of blood.

"I protested and made promises, but to no purpose. My money or the Black

Hole was the only answer I received, as I was hurried away through the

forest. No other word was spoken, and, left to my own bitter

reflections, I took no note of the direction in which we were going, nor

of the distance traversed. When we at length halted I became conscious

of a hollow moaning sound that seemed to come from the earth at my feet.

"Once more the question was asked, 'Will you give in, Major, and tell us

where the money is, or shall we drop you into the back door of hell?'

"I answered, 'For God's sake, gentlemen, believe me when I say that I

have received no money. If I had I would gladly give it as the price of

my life.'

"A mocking laugh was their only reply. In another moment a slender rope

was knotted under my pinioned arms and a sudden push left me swinging

helplessly in the mouth of the awful pit beside which we had halted.

"'We'll wait here just one hour, Major,' came to me in Case Haffner's

voice, 'and give you a chance to consider the situation. If you decide

to let us have the money inside of that time, jest holler, and we'll

pull you up. If you decide to go to hell and take the greenbacks with

you, why, we'll jest have ter bid you good-by, that's all.'

"Then I was slowly lowered down, down, down, through the blackness. So

slow was my descent that I seemed to be suspended for hours and to sink

miles into the heart of the earth. The pain of the slender cord cutting

into my flesh was well-nigh intolerable, and I bear livid evidences of

it to this day; with each moment the moaning, gurgling, and groaning

from the unknown depths into which I was sinking became more distinct

and horrible.

"Suddenly, those above let go of the rope and with a yell of despair I

dropped, I do not know how far, into water that closed above my head. As

I rose to the surface, choking and gasping for breath, I felt that I was

being swept forward by a powerful current, and as I again sank my feet

touched bottom. A moment later I stood in water up to my shoulders and

again breathed freely. For some time I was confused beyond the power of

thought by the hollow roar of the black waters rushing through those

awful caverns. All surrounding space seemed filled with snarling,

formless monsters, cautiously advancing and making ready to spring at

me. Even now I often awake at night with the horror of that moment

strong upon me. It was so unendurable that I resolved to end it. It was

with great difficulty that I maintained my footing. I could not do so

much longer. Why should I attempt to? There was absolutely no hope of

escape. I tried to pray 'Oh, Lord Jesus, receive my soul.' Then my

muscles relaxed and I was swept away by the rushing torrent.

"I have no idea how far I was carried before my feet again touched

bottom, this time in water that was not above my waist. I had closed my

eyes. Now I opened them. A bright light was swinging to and fro not a

hundred feet from me. I stared at it blankly and with little interest,

only wondering with a languid curiosity what sort of a subterranean

_ignis fatuus_ it might be, when suddenly my bewildered senses were

startled into renewed activity by the sound of a shout. It was a human

voice uttering a long-drawn 'Hello-o-o!' that echoed and reechoed

weirdly through the cavernous depths about me. I essayed to answer, but

could not. Then I slowly made my way through the shoaling water toward

the light.

"In another minute I stood beside a boy, the one whose life I had saved

two months before, and as he cut the thongs that bound my arms he said

cheerily:

"'It's all right, Major. Paw'lowed you'd be coming along this yere way

'bout this time o' night, en' telled me to shorely be on hand to meet up

with yer. Now, ef yo'll foller me, we'll be outen this direckly.'

"The boy was standing in the mouth of a narrow passage, that, free from

water, led away almost at right angles to the main channel of the

underground river. It ended at a well-like opening in which stood a rude

ladder, climbing this, we emerged through a well concealed trap door

into the very room where Abner Haffner had laid at the point of death

two months before."

"Is that all?" I asked, as the major paused and lighted a fresh cigar.

"Yes, it's all of that story. I could not cause the arrest of the gang,

even had I known who composed it, without causing that of their leader,

and from the moment that blessed light illumined the black waters of

that underground river I would not have harmed Case Haffner for anything

the world holds best worth having. No; by daylight I was well out of

that section of country, nor have I ever since set foot in it."

"Have you ever heard again from that boy?"

"Who, Abner? Well, I should say I had. I put him through college, and he

is in Congress to-day. If I should tell you his real name you would

instantly recognize it as that of one of the smartest men ever sent to

Washington from the far South."

THE END OF ALL.

BY NYM CRINKLE.

The difficulty that I experience in complying with your request, dear

spirit, springs from the terrestrial limitations of thought and

expression, from which, as you may well know, I have not been long

enough with you to free myself.

I shall, however, give you a plain narrative of the events attending the

extinction of life on our planet, asking you only to remember that I am

doing it just as I would have done it, were it possible, for a fellow

human being while on earth, using the phraseology and the terrestrial

time divisions with which I am most familiar.

The circumstance which at our last intercourse I was trying to explain

to you was simply this: In the early summer of the year 1892 a sudden

interruption of navigation occurred on the Pacific coast, which,

curiously enough, attracted very little attention outside of scientific

circles. I was living at the house of my wealthy friend, Judge Brisbane,

in Gramercy Park. To tell you the truth, I was in love with his

beautiful daughter, of whom I shall have to speak more fully to you, for

she was intimately associated with me in the appalling scenes which you

desire me to describe.

I was sitting in the Judge's library on the night of June 25. His

daughter was present, and I had been conversing with her in an undertone

while the Judge read the evening papers. He suddenly laid down the

paper, took off his spectacles, and, turning round in his chair, said to

me: "Did you see the brief dispatch in the morning papers two days ago

from San Francisco, saying that all the eastern-bound vessels were

overdue on that coast?"

I replied at once that I had not noticed it.

"It is astonishing," he said, "that in our present system of journalism

the most important events connected with the welfare of mankind receive

the slightest attention from the newspapers, and the trivialities of

life are most voluminously treated. A movement in the iron trade that

affects millions of homes gets a brief paragraph in small type, and the

quarrel of a ballet girl with her paramour receives illuminated

attention down whole columns. Here is something taking place in the

Pacific Ocean of surpassing interest to the race, and nobody pays the

slightest attention to it except, perhaps, the consignees and shipping

clerks."

"What is it?" we both asked, with the languid interest that young

people, having an overmastering personal affair on hand, would be apt to

take in matters of national or universal importance.

The Judge got up, and going to a side table, where he kept his papers

piled in chronological order, pulled out a recent issue of a morning

journal, and after looking it over searchingly a moment, said:

"Here. I should think you would notice such a paragraph as this." Then

he read, as I recollect, a telegraphic dispatch to this effect:

"SAN FRANCISCO, June 23.--Considerable anxiety is felt here in

commercial circles by the non-arrival of any eastward-bound vessels

for a week. The steamship _Cathay_ of the Occidental Line is

overdue four days. An unusual easterly wind has been blowing for

twenty-four hours. Weather mild.

"That dispatch, you will perceive," said the Judge, "was sent two days

ago. Now here, on the 25th, I read in the evening paper another dispatch

from San Francisco, hidden away at the bottom of a column of commercial

news. Listen to this:

"SAN FRANCISCO, June 25.--The entire suspension of travel from the

West continues to excite the gravest apprehensions. Nothing but

coastwise vessels have come in during the past eight days. The U.

S. cruiser _Mobile_ left Honolulu three weeks ago for this coast.

There is no official intimation of a storm in the Chinese seas."

The Judge laid the paper down, and regarded us both a moment in silence,

as if expecting to hear some remark that indicated our suddenly awakened

curiosity.

I don't think we responded with any adequate interest to the occasion.

Miss Brisbane did, indeed, stare at her father in her dreamy, abstracted

way a moment, and then got up, and, going to the open window, began to

arrange the curtains, as if relinquishing whatever problem there was to

the superior acumen of the masculine mind.

I think I said that it looked as if there had been a cyclone somewhere,

and if there had we should in all probability get the accounts of it

soon enough.

"But, young man," replied the Judge, with his majesterial emphasis,

"cyclones do not extend from the fiftieth degree of north latitude to

the fortieth degree of south latitude, and vessels are due at San

Francisco from Melbourne and Japan."

"What, then, other than a storm at sea could have caused a detention of

all these vessels?" I asked, and I must have unwittingly betrayed in the

tone of my voice, or the expression of my face, that considerate

superciliousness with which youth regards the serious notions of mature

philosophers, for the Judge, putting his gold spectacles upon his nose,

and regarding me over the top of them a moment, said rather severely:

"Other than the known and regular phenomena of this planet do not

interest young men. If I could answer your question there would be no

special interest in the matter."

I mention these trivial incidents because, insignificant as they may

seem, they were the first ripples of that disaster which was soon enough

to overwhelm us all, and to show you what were the only premonitions the

world had of the events which were to follow.

On June 26, the subject did not occur to me. A hundred other things of

far more immediate consequence to me occupied my attention. A young man

who is preparing to get married is not apt to take somber views of

anything. Nor is he very apt to allow the contumacy of age in his

prospective father-in-law to aggravate him. It was a pardonable freak, I

thought, in a man who had retired in most respects from the active

world, to dogmatize a little about that world now that he judged it

through his favorite evening paper. When, therefore, on the night of the

26th, while at the tea-table, the Judge broke out again about the

meteorological wave on the Pacific coast, his daughter Kate and I

exchanged a rapid but furtive glance which said, in the perfect

understanding of lovers, "There comes the old gentleman's new hobby

again, and we can well afford to treat it leniently."

The Judge had the damp evening paper in his hand, and he disregarded the

steaming cup of tea which his daughter had poured for him.

"Well," he said, with a toss of self-satisfied import. "Now the

newspapers are waking up to the significance of the California news." He

then read from the paper, as nearly as I can recollect, something like

the following:

SAN FRANCISCO, June 26.--There is an intense and growing anxiety on

this coast with respect to the non-appearance of any eastward-bound

vessels. The breeze from the east continues, and is unprecedented.

"Now, I should like to know," said the Judge, as he laid down the paper

and took up his tea-cup, "why a breeze from the east in California

should be unprecedented."

"Because," I ventured to remark, "it usually blows from the sea at this

season."

"Nonsense," exclaimed the Judge with vigor. "A variation for a few days

in wind or weather is a common occurrence everywhere. Fancy a message

sent all over the world from the West Indies that the trade winds were

six days late, or a telegram from Minnesota that the winter frosts had

been interfered with for a week by pleasant sunshine. No, sir. The event

of importance to the Californian at this moment is the mysterious

something that has happened out at sea, and there is no excuse for his

associating a summer breeze from the east with it, except that there is

something peculiar about that breeze that associates it in the mind with

the predominant mystery."

I smiled. "You will pardon me, Judge, but it seems to me," I said, "that

you are trying to invest the whole affair with an occult significance

that is subjective. I suppose that in a few hours the matter will be

explained and forgotten."

In a moment we were in one of those foolish little wrangles in which, so

far as argument is concerned, the younger man is at a great

disadvantage, when the elder, however unreasonable his claims, enforces

them with the advantage of age and position. I remember that the desire

to convince Kate on the one hand that I was free from what I conceived

to be her father's unreasonableness, and sustain my independence of

views on the other hand, led me to say much more than was polite, for I

exasperated the old gentleman, and with a curt and not altogether

complimentary remark he got up and left the room.

The moment he was gone I turned to the daughter and laughingly said:

"Well, my dear, I am afraid I have offended your father without

intending it, but you at least understand me, and are free from his

superstition."

To my surprise she regarded me with a serious air, and replied: "I do

not know what you mean by superstition. My father believes that

something has happened, and I feel that he is right."

"You do not mean to tell me," I said, "that you believe anything has

happened that can concern us?"

She made no reply. I looked at her with some astonishment, and wondered

if I had offended her by opposing her father's childish views.

"Perhaps," I persisted, "you, too, think I am stupidly unreasonable

because I will not consent to be dishonestly chimerical."

I well remember the look of sad reproach with which she silently

regarded me, and I well remember, too, the thought that came into my

mind. I said to myself: "This is the same obduracy that her father has

shown. Odd it is that I never noticed the trait in her before." Then I

added, with an equal obduracy that I was not conscious of:

"Perhaps you, too, have discovered some peculiarity of good sense in me

that is offensive, and you are afraid that something will happen if

we----"

Here she interrupted me in her quiet, resolute, and reproachful way.

"Something has happened," she said.

I was amazed. If I had suddenly discovered that the woman I loved was

unfaithful to me it could not have produced, in my frame of mind at that

moment, a greater shock. It seemed to me then that the wooing of months,

the confidence and affection of a year, were to be sacrificed in a

moment of infatuated stubbornness. The very thought was so unnatural

that it produced a revulsion in my own feelings.

"My darling," I said, as I went toward her impulsively, "we are playing

the unworthy part of fools. Nothing can ever happen that will make us

love each other less, or prevent you from being my wife."

I put my arm around her in the old familiar way. She was passive and

irresponsive. She stood there, limply holding the curtain, with one

white arm upraised, her beautiful head bent over and her eyes cast down

so that I could not look into her face. This stony obduracy was so new

and unlike her that I withdrew my arm and stepped back a little to

regard her with astonishment, not unmingled with pique. At that moment

she lifted her head slowly, and as she looked at me with a dreamy and

far-away pathos I saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

"It seems to me," she said, with a voice that sounded as if it was

addressed to an invisible phantom way beyond me. "It seems to me that I

shall never be your wife!"

I must have stared at her several seconds in silence. Then I said:

"You are ill. You are not yourself. When you have recovered your normal

condition I will come back."

I snatched a kiss from her lips, that were strangely cold, and rushed

from the house.

It was not till the next morning, when I woke up after a short and

disturbed sleep, that my mind reverted to the cause of all this purely

sentimental disagreement, and I felt a strong desire to have events

prove that the Judge was slightly monomaniacal, and that I was right. I

went to Riccadonnas' for my breakfast and got all the morning papers, as

usual, but this time with a distinct confidence that the news would be

the best vindication of my good sense, and that I should yet have a good

laugh at the Judge.

I opened the paper as I sipped my coffee, and the first thing my eyes

fell on were the headlines of a dispatch from St. Louis. I read them

with an inexplicable sense of something sinking in me. As I recall them

they ran as follows:

"Strange news from the West. All communication west of Salt Lake City

ceases. Meteorological puzzle. What is the matter with the wires?"

Then followed the dispatch, which I have not forgotten:

ST. LOUIS, June 26, 8 P. M.--A dispatch received here from Yuma on

the Texas Pacific announces that no eastern-bound train has come in

since morning, and all attempts to open communication by telegraph

with points west of that place have failed. It is the opinion of

railroad men that a great storm is raging in California. Weather

here pleasant, with a steady, dry wind from the east blowing.

Immediately following this was another news item which I can quote from

memory:

DENVER, June 26, 9 P. M.--Intelligence from Cheyenne is to the

effect that railway travel and telegraphic communication west of

Pocatello on the Union Pacific and Ogden and on the Central Pacific

have been interrupted by a storm. The telegraph wires are believed

to be in good condition, but up to nine o'clock there has been no

return current.

I read these paragraphs over three or four times. Ordinarily I should

have passed them by and given my attention to other and more congenial

news. But now a dull fear that events were conspiring to widen the

breach between myself and the Brisbanes focussed my interest on them.

There was that easterly wind blowing again; was I, too, growing

superstitious? I turned over all the papers. The news was the same in

all, but there was not an editorial paragraph of comment in any of the

sheets, which, indeed, teamed with all the details of active commercial,

political, and social life.

I went down town after eating my breakfast and found that the

intelligence had not awakened any public attention that was observable.

The two or three persons to whom I spoke with regard to it treated it as

one of the passing sensations of the hour that would be explained sooner

or later. It was not till the evening papers of the 27th came out that

the matter began to be discussed. The dispatches in these papers were of

a nature to arouse widespread anxiety. It was very obvious from their

construction and import that the feeling west of the Mississippi was

more intense than had up to this time been suspected. The columns of the

papers were filled with brief but rather startling telegrams from

various points. Denver, El Paso, Salt Lake City, Cheyenne, St. Paul, St.

Louis, and Chicago sent anxious sentences which had a thrill of

trepidation in their broken phrases. And it was easy to see that this

feeling of deep concern increased with each dispatch from a point

further west.

Telegrams sent to St. Louis, Chicago, and St. Paul represented the

condition of anxiety in Ogden and Pocatello to be bordering on

excitement. Fears were entertained, the dispatches said, of a

"meteorological cataclysm," and thousands who had friends either on the

coast or in transit were besieging the telegraph offices in vain.

The hurried comments of the evening papers on the news were singularly

unsatisfactory and non-committal. "The unprecedented storm that is now

raging on the Pacific slope," I read, "and which has temporarily cut off

communications with the far West, will by its magnitude fill the country

with the most serious apprehensions." "The earliest news from

California, which shall give us the details of the storm," said another

paper, "will be looked for with eagerness, and will be promptly and

fully furnished to our readers."

As curious as anybody could be to know what kind of a storm it was that

had stopped railroad travel from Idaho to Mexico, and remarking with

surprise that the Signal Office utterly refused to recognize a great

storm anywhere, I dismissed the subject from my mind with the reflection

that there would in all probability be explanatory news in the morning,

and resolved to make my usual visit to the Brisbane family.

To my surprise, Kate received me cordially, and with no other allusion

to the unpleasantness of the night before than a demure remark that she

was afraid she had offended me.

"Let us not refer to it at all," I said, "and thus avoid making idiots

of ourselves."

"I am glad you came to-night," she remarked, after a moment's silence,

"for I wanted to tell you of the change we are going to make."

A little pang darted through me. It was said so seriously.

"What is it, my dear," I asked, trying to be as affectionate as if the

conditions had not changed.

"My father and I have determined to go to Europe."

"To Europe!" I repeated, aghast. "You surely do not mean it?"

"Yes," resolutely. "He wanted to consult you about it, but was afraid

you would disagree with his plans."

"And when did he make up his mind to take this sudden move?"

"This morning."

"And you intend to go with him?"

"Yes, and I was going to ask you to go, too."

"When do you propose to go?"

"Immediately."

It was evident to my mind now that this old man was a panic-stricken

monomaniac, and had infected his daughter with his fears.

"Kate," I said, as I took her by her hands and pulled her to the sofa

beside me, "you are running away from something; it is not from me, is

it?"

"I want you to go with us," she answered.

"But you knew when you asked me that I could not go so suddenly. You

expected me to refuse."

"No," she said, "I expect you to consent."

"Be careful. In a moment of bravado I may take you at your word, at any

cost!"

She caught hold of me. "Do," she said, tremulously, and I felt a little

shiver in her hand. "Do, do."

"I would rather go with you than lose you," I said at a hazard, "and if

you are determined to go, I believe I will accompany you if your father

will consent."

"We are determined," she calmly replied.

"But I must put my affairs in order," I suggested.

"How many hours will it take you?"

"Hours?" I repeated. "You would not like to start to-night, surely?"

"Yes," she answered, "I would gladly start to-night."

My patience was giving way very fast at this imperturbable obduracy.

"Perhaps," I said, "you will give me some adequate reason for a haste

that I cannot comprehend."

She did not answer. She was listening, with her head averted, and she

held up her hand for me to listen also, as if that were her answer. Then

there came through the open window the hoarse cry of a distant newsboy

who was bellowing an "extra."

There was something weird in her attitude and action, connecting, as

they did, her motives with that discordant, ominous cry.

"It's an extra," I said, as unconcernedly as possible. "I'll get a copy.

There may be some good news for you," and I made a move toward the

window.

"Don't," she said, quietly. "We were talking about going to Europe. Pa

is not familiar with the business of securing passages, and you are. You

could relieve him of a great deal of worry, and if you would go with

us----"

"Kate," I said, "do you want me to go?"

"Yes, I do," she replied. "I do not want to leave you here."

"Then," I said, "I will go. I will see your father in the morning and

tell him that I will attend to the whole business of securing passages.

I will set about arranging my affairs at once."

She then let me plague her a little about her timidity, and after a half

hour of playful badinage on my part I came away, with a parting promise

on my lips to lose no delay in making the arrangements for our

departure.

Such, however, was not my intention. I felt sure that the Judge and his

daughter would change their minds if I could only manage to delay

matters a few days. To go running off to Europe at a moment's notice

would be utter folly for me.

As I left the house I heard the voices of the newsboys in various keys

still calling the extras. I bought a paper and read it under the

gaslight of the church on Twentieth Street. "Display" headlines

announced, "As Silent as the Grave; Nothing Heard from the Pacific.

Great Excitement in Chicago and St. Louis." I must have stood there ten

minutes poring over the strange news. An expedition in a special train

had been sent west from Yuma that day, with railroad men and doctors. It

had left at 3 P. M. The train reached Mesquite in less than an hour, and

word was sent back from that station, "All right here; track clear; will

reach the springs at 9 P. M." A dispatch from Yuma sent at 10 o'clock

and received at St. Louis said, "Nothing further heard from the

special." News from Chicago, where the excitement appeared to be

momentarily growing, reflected intelligence from Denver, St. Paul, and

Kansas City, and it was vain to ignore the fact that the entire West was

in an alarming condition of anxiety. A special train was fitting out at

Cheyenne under Government orders to start in the morning with a corps of

Signal Service men, army officers, and electricians. It was to go

provided with every scientific appliance, and to carry an insulated

cable to be paid out from the car. The accounts said that the people

were all on the streets in Cheyenne, and an enormous mob surrounded the

station where the preparations were making.

For the first time I felt, as I threw the paper away, what I can only

call a sense of misgiving. As I walked up the deserted avenue this

feeling grew upon me, and when I reached Twenty-third Street, on my way

to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a sudden and entirely new reflection made me

stop unconsciously as I turned it over in my mind. "If this strange news

has affected Judge Brisbane and his daughter so seriously, why may it

not be affecting millions of other people similarly? If there is at this

moment a panic in the West, how long will it take the reflex wave to

reach New York?"

The next morning events, or at least the publication of them, had

reached that condition which arrests public attention everywhere. The

news from the West swamped all else in the morning journals. The

editors, by their work, now acknowledged that the mysterious silence on

the Pacific Slope was by far the most important subject for

consideration before the world. The moment I glanced at the sheets I saw

that there was but one theme in the journalistic mind.

Two days had passed, and the silence was unbroken. Never before in the

history of the world had the absence of news become such important news.

Public attention was now mainly centered on the attempt to get a train

of observation through from Cheyenne.

There was a hopeful spirit to most of the accounts, as if it was

believed that science would unravel the mystery. But there was nothing

from any quarter of the globe that as yet afforded the feeblest gleam of

comfort. The Government train was to start early on this, the morning of

the 28th, and the papers were only able to furnish details of the

preparation and reports of the public excitement in Cheyenne and Denver.

The officers on the train were to send dispatches from every station

west of Pocatello. They were sagacious, experienced men, and the

expedition was under the direction of the well-known engineer, General

Albert Carrall.

I felt as I read the accounts that these men would probably clear up the

mystery, and I resolved to delay engaging the passages on the ocean

steamer until the next day. So I wrote a carefully worded note to Judge

Brisbane, informing him that I would attend to the matter immediately.

Had I then had the slightest knowledge of the cumulative rapidity with

which a panic moves I would not have taken this risk. But my whole

object was to gain time, with the hope that something would occur to

change the minds of my two timid friends.

On the night of the 28th I avoided the Brisbane establishment, although

my desire drew me in that direction. I resolved to wait until the

morrow, and if nothing happened to change the determination of the Judge

to go to Europe, to then make my arrangements to go with him and Kate.

That night there was a visible change in the metropolis. The theaters

were deserted, men and women were congregated at the corners and were

walking in the roadways--a sure indication in a great city of some

popular disturbance. The bulletins and news centers were crowded, and

the mystery of the great silence was being discussed by everybody. One

thing struck everybody with a vague terror, and it was the accounts of

the strange wind that was now blowing at Cheyenne and Denver. One

special correspondent at Cheyenne said "that it seemed to him that the

atmosphere of the earth, influenced by some incomprehensible suction,

was all rushing to an unseen vortex. It was not in any sense a

disturbance of the atmosphere that we usually call a wind, but a steady,

silent draught. And the spectacle of trees bent over and held all day by

the pressure, but unfluttered and unrelieved by fluctuant variations,

filled them with wonder and dread."

I got up early on the morning of the 29th, for I had slept lightly and

fitfully. To my surprise I found that almost everybody else was up. It

made me realize, as I had not done before, the feverish tension of

public expectation. The news, if news it can be called, was startling.

Let me try and repeat it to you just as it was presented to my sense.

The special train, upon which the eyes of the whole country were fixed,

had been heard from. It had gone west from Cheyenne and passed through

Pocatello without interruption. Then followed the dispatches received

from it at Cheyenne as it passed the stations beyond Pocatello. They

were in this order and to this effect:

MICHANO, 10 A. M.--All right. Instruments working well. Track

clear. Inhabitants appear to be moving east. No intelligence of a

definite character obtained. Shoshone 108 miles west. Expect to

make it in four hours.

BANNOCK, 2:30 P. M.--Conditions unchanged. Passed moving settlers

all the way. They are going east with chattels. Wind from the east

has the pressure without the violence of a gale. Party in good

spirits.

SUNSHINE, 3:15.--Vast herds of wild cattle now impeding progress.

Wind increasing. Road otherwise clear.

AMERICAN FALLS, 4:40.--Signs of the exodus decreasing. Country

strewn with household goods. Reports here that all the teams that

went out on the roads west have not returned. Expect to hear

something definite from Minidoka.

MINIDOKA, 6:10.--Electrical and barometrical indications unchanged.

Signs of life disappearing. Party in excellent spirits, and eager

to reach the facts.

The next dispatch was from Cheyenne, and was sent at eight o'clock. It

simply said, "Nothing further heard from Government party. Wire in good

order."

Then followed two telegrams of gruesome brevity and significance:

POCATELLO, 9 P. M.--Nothing here.

CHEYENNE, 10 P. M.--Nothing has come over the special wire up to

this hour. Microphonic tests at Pocatello indicate that the train

is still moving. Electrical tests indicate that the current is

unbroken.

Finally there was a special message from the New York _Star's_

correspondent at Cheyenne, dated 11 P. M. It was about to this effect:

The current on the Government wire was broken at 10:40. Delicate

tests show that the wire is now grounded. The dire conclusion of

experts here is that the train ran from some point west of Minidoka

from about 6:15 to 10:40 without human control, and then met with

an accident. At the rate at which it was moving the train must have

reached Shoshone. Terrible excitement here.

My keen sense detected in the newspaper itself certain infallible little

signs that the news had disturbed the precision and routine of the

office. Lines of type were in the wrong place, and typographical errors

made it difficult to get the exact sense. Dispatch after dispatch, all

bearing the same import of panic, was huddled into the column. From St.

Louis the announcement was:

An unprecedented excitement here over the news from Cheyenne. The

authorities appear to have lost their heads, and are unable to

preserve order. Eastward-bound trains are carrying away people at a

mob rate. We are in the midst of chaos.

From Chicago the intelligence was similarly appalling. "A panic prevails

here," said the dispatch. "Impelled by a senseless apprehension of

disaster, people have lost their reason. The Mayor has just issued a

call upon the best citizens to assist him in preserving order."

It required no news expert to see that all the issues of life were

temporarily suspended by the tremendous and growing interest in this

stupendous mystery. Channels of news worn smooth by the placid streams

of everyday platitudes began to show the roll of this new freshet. A

dispatch from Washington was unintentionally significant. It read like

this: "The only explanation forwarded by Colonel Sandford of the

abandonment of the Pike's Peak signal station by himself and party is

that of a coward. He says the wind pressure indicated that the place

would speedily become untenable."

I turned over the sheet in which these disheartening facts were

presented and looked at the editorial page. There was a double-leaded

leader, evidently written late at night, and its conclusions were more

gruesome than the facts, for while the facts could be interpreted in

various ways according to the reader's condition of mind, there was no

mistaking the official tone of the editor whose business it was to weigh

and estimate the public value of news. It seemed to me that this umpire

to whom we instinctively looked for opinions had thrown up the sponge,

so to speak. Let me recall his words as they were impressed upon me that

morning:

That a grave crisis has arrived in the conditions of life on this

planet, it would be folly and is impossible any longer to deny. It

is not our province nor is it within our power to offer any

solution of the stupendous mystery that is now enveloping a part of

our continent. It is only imperative upon us, as brave agents in

the dispensing of truth, to say, with all the candor that we can

summon, that the effort of the Government to open communication

with the vast region west of what must now be known as the Meridian

of Silence has dismally failed, and it is the conviction of the

maturest judgment, based upon all the facts of the attempt that are

obtainable, that it failed because the explorers themselves ceased

to exist when they had passed a certain pretty well-defined line

which we now know extends north and south from Helena in Montana to

Yuma on the borders of Mexico.

I found myself standing by my breakfast table reading this. I had risen

unconsciously. My breakfast was unheeded. An ungovernable impulse to go

anywhere seized me. To sit still with this crushing uncertainty was

impossible. I found myself in a coupe. Where I got it I do not

distinctly remember. But I do remember that it was by means of an

extraordinary offer to the driver, who, like all his fellows, was

dashing through the streets at a headlong pace. And I also have a very

clear recollection of the strange nervous effect produced upon me by

seeing the people along the curbs on Broadway watching the flying

vehicles with a mute terror, as if the very recklessness of the drivers

afforded them a palpable distraction from the unintelligible weight of

their own fears. I speedily noticed that the stream of humanity on the

streets was tending down town, and almost immediately I understood that

it was heading, like myself, for the news centers. I could get no

farther than Chambers Street, owing to the block of people and vehicles,

and the driver rudely refused to take the risk of a jam. I looked at the

City Hall clock. It was only eight. My heart was beating rapidly, and I

knew enough of the effect of emotion on the cardiac system to understand

that it was caused by suspense. A thousand new terrors were in the air

of which the experience and the sagacity of man were ignorant. I forced

my way with the greatest difficulty across the park, which was full of

restless but strangely mute people, and got near enough to the newspaper

bulletins to read the painted lines. They were feverishly indicative of

the cross currents of excitement in the country, and were in short,

decisive sentences like this: "The President asked to appoint a day of

humiliation and prayer immediately. The Governor of Colorado, crazed by

the excitement, commits suicide. Mob rule in Chicago. Rioting in Denver.

Breakdown of the Alton & Chicago road. Unparalleled scenes at El Paso.

Fanaticism in New Orleans. The Christian pastors of this city will meet

at Cooper Union at ten o'clock, irrespective of sect. Panic in

Milwaukee."

Held by a numbing sort of fascination, I read these sentences over and

over. Across Printing House Square, on another bulletin, in big black

letters I saw the line, "It baffles the world. Has annihilation set in!"

There was something weird in the use of the pronoun IT. It seemed to be

man's last effort in language to express a mystery that was specific and

yet incomprehensible, and I found that by the common consent of

ignorance men were referring to the phenomenon as IT. I looked at the

strained, anxious faces of the mob, and a great fear fell upon me. With

it came an awful reproach. I would go instantly and redeem my word to

Kate by securing passages to Europe. I had to fight my way by inches out

of the stolid and frightened crowd to the steamship office on lower

Broadway, and there I found another jam. The street was full of private

carriages, and it was impossible to get anywhere near the entrance to

the office. I saw a policeman who was on the outside of the press, and

who was walking up and down in a restless and unofficial manner. "What

is the matter here?" I asked him. He looked me all over, as if he

suspected that I had fallen out of the clouds. Then he said: "Tryin' to

get tickets for Europe! Where d' you come frum?" and then, after a

restless turn or two he added as he passed me, "But it ain't no use,

'cause there ain't steamships enough in the world!"

Then it was, I think, that the whole terrible truth first lit my

consciousness like the sudden upflaring of a bale fire. The inhabitants

were fleeing from the country. They were all affected as had been the

Brisbanes. I was the only dolt and idiot and liar who had no instincts

of danger, and who had failed to rescue the woman I loved when she had

appealed to me.

Then I plunged wildly out into the street with a feeling of desperation

and that sinking of the spirits that comes only in the worst crises and

when one begins to comprehend how helpless man is. I saw that in the

brief time that had elapsed a change had taken place in the aspect of

the crowds. When I got to Broadway again it was with the utmost

difficulty that I could make my way at all against the surging mass of

people that seemed momentarily to swell. It was utterly unlike any crowd

in numbers and disposition that I had ever encountered. It was made up

of all classes. It had lost that American characteristic of good-humor,

which had been swallowed up in a dire personal and selfish instinct of

self-preservation. It was animated by a vague terror, and disregarded

every consideration but that of personal safety. A horrible conviction

seized me that the ordinary restraints of society were breaking down,

and that speedily panic would mount to chaos. I saw that this dread was

adding to the terror of everybody, aside from the fear of IT. Like an

assemblage in a burning building, the fear of each other was more

subtile and operative than the fear of the elements. By indefatigable

labor I got off the main thoroughfare and reached Hudson Street, and

here in the crowd I learned the latest news and discovered the cause of

the rapidly increasing excitement. I had run against an intimate friend

and associate, by accident. His first words were, as he wiped the

perspiration out of his eyes, "Well, this is awful, eh?"

"What's the news?" I asked.

"The latest is that The Death Line has moved. The Thurbers have a

private wire, and I just heard that Denver is cut off now! It looks as

if it was every man for himself."

So terrible was this announcement, and so engrossed was I with the

despairing thoughts that it gave rise to, that I took little heed of

what was going on about me until I reached Canal Street. The one dull

conviction that it was useless to fight against now was that

annihilation had set in; that some destroying wave had started out to

encircle the globe and that the race was doomed. Something, God alone

knew what, had happened to our planet, and humanity was to be swept away

in one of those cataclysms with which soulless Nature prepares for a new

order of existence.

I was rudely awakened from this reverie of wretchedness by the crowd

which surged against me with a blind, unvindictive violence. My one

desire was to get uptown to the woman I loved and had neglected, and I

saw that every minute was adding to the difficulty.

How I reached the Brevoort House I do not know. But there I found a

number of citizens who had not utterly lost their heads, and who had

come together for counsel. There was a private wire in the house, and

they were receiving intelligence from several central points in the

city. The looks of these men, who were huddled into the parlor, were

enough to dismay the most resolute observer. Their pale faces and

painfully set mouths indicated the sense of an awful crisis which wisdom

did not know how to meet or avoid. A well-known citizen read the

dispatches to them as they were received, and torn as I was by

impatience, my curiosity held me there to hear. It was now about

half-past eleven in the morning. The rapidity with which events had

moved since I got up was made startlingly apparent by the information

here furnished. The authorities, together with a number of influential

citizens, had come together as if by a common instinct at the Fifth

Avenue Hotel. The Mayor, the Police and Fire Commissioners, several

wealthy bankers, and a number of prominent clergymen were holding some

kind of council and sending out appeals for co-operation and addresses

to the public, which latter were entirely unheeded. As I forced myself

into the room I saw and heard a venerable and majestic gentleman,

evidently a clergyman, addressing those present in an impassioned

manner. There were tears in his eyes and an awful sadness in his voice.

"Men and brethren," he said, "it is appointed unto all men once to die.

If it be appointed unto us who remain to die together, let us die like

Christians who still retain our faith in eternal justice and eternal

mercy, and not like wild beasts that devour each other."

A report came that the fatal east wind was blowing. And at this there

was a general movement of those present, as if the time were too short

to waste in longer listening. I came up Lafayette Place to Astor Place

with the intention of reaching Fourth Avenue. Both spaces were choked

with people, and on Eighth Street I saw a woman on the steps of a

private residence, wildly calling on the mob, which paid no attention to

her, to repent, for the day of judgment was at hand. Her white hair was

blown over her face and her arms were frantically gesticulating. Into

the great hall of the Cooper Union a mass of religious people had

flocked, and a number of speakers were making addresses and offering up

prayers. When I passed the woman who was exhorting the crowd I had

noticed the manner in which her hair, which was of soft, flossy white,

streamed out straight in front of her, but it did not occur to me until

I reached the square in front of the Cooper Union that this was caused

by the peculiar and ominous draft of wind from the east of which I had

heard so much, for it was there that I saw a crowd pointing up to the

roof of the vast building known as the Bible House, which appeared to be

covered with people. Some of them were holding flags and drapery, and

the material floated out westward without any of the undulating motion

which always marks a flag in a disturbed current. These extemporized

pennants stood out as if they were starched. I could see that this sign

produced a dumb sort of terror in the crowd. It seemed to me then that

all emotion of which I was capable was centered in the one desire to get

to the woman I loved and die with her. A crushing and at the same time

an animating remorse, as if somehow I had been responsible for her death

at least, in disregarding her warnings, and somehow doubly guilty in

mistrusting her motives, unmanned me and inflamed me. It was with

something of the same disregard of everybody but oneself that I had seen

in others that I fought my way to Twenty-first Street. What brutalities

I committed need not be recounted. That hour remains with me an acute

and jangled memory of frenzy. I reached the steps of Judge Brisbane's

house torn and bleeding. The terrible scenes were in my eyes, and the

dreadful, monotonous tumult of human desperation--that vast sigh of

doomed humanity, pierced here and there by the wails and shrieks of

despair and the cries of innocence for help, was in my ears. The

celerity with which it had all come on left no chance for cool reason.

An invisible phantom was at the heels of the community and we were part

of a mighty stampede. After fumbling for an instant at the bell and

pushing back several ghastly creatures who were on the steps, I must

have applied my shoulder to the door and pushed it in. Some one appeared

to be resisting on the other side, but it gave way and I half fell into

Judge Brisbane's vestibule. An instant later we were looking into each

other's faces, I, bloody and soiled and ragged and wild with the frenzy

of fear and impatience; he, pale as death, but resolute, and holding an

enormous bar over me.

"Quick!" he said. "Help me fasten this door!"

That sudden call of duty struck something habitual in me, and, without

knowing exactly what I was doing, I found myself assisting him in

barricading the door. The endeavor somewhat changed the current of my

thoughts from the danger that was unseen to the danger that was storming

under our windows. I must have muttered some kind of excuse for my

conduct to the Judge, for he said: "No time for apologies or

recriminations now. The house is full of my neighbors, who have come

here for protection. Go upstairs and look after the women. The best and

only thing we can do is to preserve a quiet place to die in, and not be

trampled to pieces. Are you armed?"

I dashed up the broad staircase, and found the upper rooms occupied by

women, some of whom, in morning attire hastily thrown on, were sitting

around with their heads in their hands, while others were huddled at the

windows, staring with strained looks of terror at the crowds on the

street. Walking up and down the room, wringing his hands, a middle-aged

man was giving expression to the most terrible irony and cowardice,

without reference to his listeners.

I ran my eye over the huddled groups of frightened women. The one I

sought was not there. I flew through the groaning figures on the

stairway up to her chamber. I knocked loudly, and called her by name

passionately. Then I listened. I heard nothing but the dull sounds of

the human tumult that came through the open casement, and the sighing

tones of the telegraph wires as the steady draft from the east swept

through them. I shook the door, and abjured her to come to me. Then in

my madness I burst it in. She was on her knees at the bed, with her

hands on her ears, and her head buried in the bedclothes. I fell down on

my knees beside her, and put my arm around her. "Kate," I said, "we will

die together. Look up. Love at least is eternal." She was cold. I caught

her head between my hands, and turned her beautiful face toward me. My

God, she was dead! Dead, with her staring eyes full of terror, and her

beautiful mouth set in hard and ghastly lines. Then it was that I felt

rise up within me for the first time the rebellious bitterness of the

natural man. Need I tell you that at such moments man is little better

than an animal, save in his free agency that enables him to defy? I

passed hours there--moaning, cursing, bewailing. When at last the force

of the paroxysm had expended itself, I shook my fist in the face of

heaven, with the obduracy of Pagan Greek, and said: "Come on now, you

envious Fates, and do your worst speedily, or I will be too quick for

you!"

Judge Brisbane found me there, raving.

"Do you know?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered, "and I am grateful. She is spared much that we must

endure."

"And so," I said, "life, love, and the vaunted future of the race end in

mockery."

"It seems so," he replied. "But we cannot be sure. Come with me."

We ascended to the roof. The spectacle that greeted us was

indescribable. The tops of all the houses were black with people, who

were staring mutely and with childish terror into the West. The steady,

subdued organ tone of the rushing atmosphere could now be heard above

all else. We stood there in silence a few moments, and then I said,

"It's terrible. What do you suppose is taking place?"

"I suppose," replied the Judge, "that we are losing our atmosphere.

Reeling it off, so to speak, slowly, as we revolve. Our planet has

entered some portion of the ethereal space where the conditions are

sucking us dry of oxygen. As it recedes from the earth the water

disappears, and we shall be left to revolve like the moon, without air

and without liquid, and consequently without life."

He said this meditatively, less as if he were answering my question than

if he were formulating his own fears.

"Then," I remarked, "if this takes place gradually, the millions have

got to struggle and writhe and fight together in suffocation. We can at

least blow our brains out and cheat such a fate."

"I should hate," said the Judge, "to think that the man who was to marry

Kate had not the bravery to face his destiny."

That was all that was said. We came down, and some ripples of

intelligence reached us during the afternoon from one or two persons who

made their way into the house. We learned that in the frenzy of fear the

populace were committing the most extraordinary excesses. The shore line

of the Atlantic was crowded with people, many of whom plunged into the

ocean in the vain attempt to get away. The scenes in the city were too

revolting to narrate, for a large class of the community, released from

all restraint of moral and civil law, were bent on securing all the

lawless pleasures that force could command, during the few hours that

was left to them. And the line was steadily coming East. Chicago was cut

off at twelve o'clock. And at four intelligence had ceased coming from

Buffalo. At this time the sound of the winds was like the roar of the

sea. I had torn myself away from the window where I had been staring at

the now packed and struggling masses of people, and had locked myself in

the room with the dead body of Kate. There was a vial of opium on her

table that had been used for neuralgia; I swallowed it, and sat down by

the bedside. I know not how long I remained there. But a loud report, as

of a discharged cannon, roused me. I remember staggering and panting in

the dark, with a semi-consciousness that the end had come, and I now

know that report was occasioned by the bursting of the drums of my ears.

I remember nothing more. I have given you a plain statement of my

experiences in that crisis, and I dare say they are uneventful enough by

the side of the experiences of millions.

SHALL HE MARRY HER?

BY ANNA KATHERINE GREEN.

CHAPTER I.

When I met Taylor at the club the other night, he looked so cheerful I

scarcely knew him.

"What is it?" cried I, advancing with outstretched hand.

"I am going to be married," was his gay reply. "This is my last night at

the club."

I was glad, and showed it. Taylor is a man for whom domestic life is a

necessity. He has never been at home with us, though we all liked him

and he, in his way, liked us.

"And who is the fortunate lady?" I inquired; for I had been out of town

for some time and had not as yet been made acquainted with the latest

society news.

"My intended bride is Mrs. Walworth, the young widow----"

He must have seen a change take place in my expression, for he stopped.

"You know her, of course," he added, after a short study of my face.

I had by this time regained my self-possession.

"Of course," I repeated, "and I have always thought her one of the most

attractive women in town. Another shake upon it, old man?"

But my heart was heavy and my mind perplexed, notwithstanding the forced

cordiality of my tones, and I took an early opportunity to withdraw by

myself and think over the situation.

Mrs. Walworth! She was a pretty woman, and what was more, she was, to

all appearance, a woman whose winning manners bespoke a kindly heart.

"Just the person," I contemplated, "whom I would pick out for the

helpmate of my somewhat exacting friend, if----" I paused on that if. It

was a formidable one, and grew none the smaller or less important under

my broodings. Indeed, it seemed to dilate until it assumed gigantic

proportions, worrying me and weighing so heavily upon my conscience that

I at last rose from the newspaper at which I had been hopelessly

staring, and looking up Taylor again, asked him how soon he expected to

become a Benedict.

His answer startled me. "In a week," he replied, "and if I have not

asked you to the ceremony, it is because Helen is not in a position

to----"

I supposed he finished the sentence, but I did not hear him. If the

marriage was so near, of course it would be folly on my part to attempt

to hinder it. I drew off for the second time.

But I could not remain easy. Taylor is a good fellow, and it would be a

shame to allow him to marry a woman with whom he could never be happy.

He would feel any such disappointment so keenly, so much more keenly

than most men. A lack of principle or even of sensibility on her part,

would make him miserable. Anticipating heaven, it would not take a hell

to make him wretched, a purgatory would do it. Was I right, then, in

letting him proceed in his intentions regarding Mrs. Walworth, when she

possibly was the woman who----I paused and tried to call up her

countenance before me. It was a sweet one and possibly a true one. I

might have trusted her for myself, but I do not look for perfection and

Taylor does, and will certainly go to the bad if he is deceived in his

expectations. But in a week! It is too late for interference--only it is

never too late till the knot is tied. As I thought of this, I decided

impulsively, and perhaps you may say unwisely, to give him a hint of his

danger, and I did it in this wise.

"Taylor," said I, when I had him safely in my own rooms, "I am going to

tell you a bit of personal history, curious enough I think to interest

you even upon the eve of your marriage. I do not know when I shall see

you again, and I should like you to know how a lawyer and a man of the

world can sometimes be taken in."

He nodded, accepting the situation good-humoredly, though I saw by the

abstraction with which he gazed into the fire, that I should have to be

very interesting to lure him from the thoughts that engrossed him. As I

meant to be very interesting, this did not greatly concern me.

"One morning last spring," I began, "I received in my morning mail a

letter, the delicate penmanship of which at once attracted my attention

and awakened my curiosity. Turning to the signature, I read the name of

a young lady friend of mine, and, somewhat startled at the thought that

this was the first time I had ever seen the handwriting of one I knew so

well, I perused the letter with an interest that presently became

painful as I realized the tenor of its contents. I will not quote the

letter, though I could, but confine myself to saying that after a modest

recognition of my friendship for her--quite a fatherly friendship, I

assure you, as she is only eighteen and I, as you know, am well on

toward fifty--she proceeded to ask, in an humble and confiding spirit,

for the loan--do not start--of fifty dollars. Such a request coming from

a young girl, well connected, and with every visible sign of being

generously provided for by her father, was certainly startling to an old

bachelor of settled ways and strict notions, but remembering her youth

and the childish innocence of her manner, I turned over the page and

read as her reason for proffering such a request, that her heart was set

upon aiding a certain poor family that stood in immediate need of food,

clothes, and medicines, but that she could not do what she wished

because she had already spent all the money allowed her by her father

for such purposes, and dared not go to him for more, as she had once

before offended him by doing this, and feared if she repeated her fault

he would carry out the threat he had then made of stopping her allowance

altogether. But the family was a deserving one and she could not see any

member of it starve, so she came to me, of whose goodness she was

assured, convinced I would understand her perplexity and excuse her--and

so forth and so forth, in language quite childlike and entreating,

which, if it did not satisfy my ideas of propriety, at least touched my

heart, and made any action which I could take in the matter extremely

difficult.

"To refuse her request would be at once to mortify and aggrieve her; to

accede to it and give her the fifty dollars she asked--a sum, by the

way, I could not well spare--would be to encourage an action, easily

pardoned once, but which if repeated would lead to unpleasant

complications, to say the least. The third course of informing her

father of what she needed I did not even consider, for I knew him well

enough to be sure that nothing but pain to her would be the result. I

therefore compromised the affair by enclosing the money in a letter in

which I told her that I comprehended her difficulty and sent with

pleasure the amount she needed, but that as a friend I must add that

while in the present instance she had run no risk of being misunderstood

or unkindly censured, that such a request made to another man and under

other circumstances might provoke a surprise capable of leading to the

most unpleasant consequences, and advised her if she ever again found

herself in such a strait to appeal directly to her father, or else to

deny herself a charity which she was in no position to bestow.

"This letter I undertook to deliver myself, for one of the curious

points of her communication had been the entreaty that I would not delay

the help she needed by trusting the money to any hand but my own, but

would bring it to a certain hotel down town, and place it at the

beginning of the book of Isaiah in the large Bible I would find lying on

a side table in the small parlor off the main one. She would seek it

there before the morning was over, and so, without the intervention of a

third party, acquire the means she desired for helping a poor and

deserving family.

"I knew the hotel she mentioned, and I remembered the room, but I did

not remember the Bible. However, it was sure to be in the place she

indicated, and though I was not in much sympathy with my errand, I

respected her whim, and carried the letter down town. I had reached Main

Street, and was in sight of the hotel designated, when suddenly, on an

opposite corner of the street, I saw the young girl herself. She looked

as fresh as the morning, and smiled so gayly I felt somewhat repaid for

the annoyance she had caused me; and, gratified that I could cut matters

short by putting the letter directly in her hand, I crossed the street

to her side. As soon as we were face to face, I said:

"'How fortunate I am to meet you. Here is the amount you need sealed up

in this letter. You see I had it all ready.'

"The face she lifted to mine wore so blank a look that I paused

astonished.

"'What do you mean?' she asked, her eyes looking straight into mine with

such innocence in their clear blue depths I was at once convinced she

knew nothing of the matter with which my thoughts were busy. 'I am very

glad to see you, but I do not in the least understand what you mean by

the amount I need,' and she glanced at the letter I held out with an air

of distrust mingled with curiosity.

"I could not explain myself. If she had been made the victim of a

conspiracy to procure money from me, it would not help to preserve that

sweet innocence of hers to know it. So, with a laugh, I put the letter

in my pocket, saying:

"'You cut me short in my efforts to do a charitable action. I heard, no

matter how, that you were interested just now in a destitute family, and

took this way of assisting you in their behalf.'

"Her blue eyes opened wider. 'The poor are always with us,' she replied;

'but I know of no special family just now that requires any such help as

you intimate. If I did, papa would give me what assistance I needed.'

"I was greatly pleased to hear her say this, for I am very fond of my

young friend, but I was deeply indignant also against the unknown person

who had taken advantage of my regard for this young girl to force money

from me. I, therefore, did not linger at her side, but, after due

apologies, hastened immediately here, where there is a man employed who,

to my knowledge, had once been a trusted member of the police.

"Telling him no more of the story than was necessary to insure his

co-operation in the plan I had formed to discover the author of this

fraud, I extracted the bank-notes from the letter I had written, and put

in their place stiff pieces of manilla paper. Taking the envelope so

filled to the hotel already alluded to, I placed it at the opening

chapters of Isaiah in the Bible as described. There was no one in either

of the rooms when I went in, and I encountered only a bell-boy as I came

out; but at the door I ran against a young man whom I strictly forbore

to recognize, but whom I knew to be my improvised detective coming to

take his stand in some place where he could watch the parlor, and note

who went into it.

"At noon I returned to the hotel, passed immediately to the small

parlor, and looked into the Bible. The letter was gone. Coming out of

the room, I was at once joined by my detective.

"'Has the letter been taken?' he eagerly inquired.

"I nodded.

"His brows wrinkled and he looked both troubled and perplexed.

"'I don't understand it,' he remarked, 'I've seen every one who has gone

into that room since you left it, but I do not know now any more than

before who took the letter. You see,' he continued, as I looked at him

sharply, 'I had to remain out here. If I had gone even into the large

room the Bible would not have been disturbed nor the letter either, so

in the hope of knowing the rogue at sight, I strolled about this hall

and kept my eye constantly on that door, but----'

"He looked embarrassed and stopped.

"'You say the letter is gone?' he suggested, after a moment.

"'Yes,' I returned.

"He shook his head. 'Nobody went into that room or came out of it,' he

went on, 'whom you would have wished me to follow. I should have thought

myself losing time if I had taken one step after any one of them.'

"'But who did go into that room?' I urged, impatient at his perplexity.

"'Only three persons this morning,' he returned. 'You know them all.'

And he mentioned first Mrs. Couldock."

Taylor, who was lending me the superficial attention of a pre-occupied

man, smiled frankly at the utterance of this name. "Of course she had

nothing to do with such a debasing piece of business," he observed.

"Of course not," I repeated. "Nor does it seem likely that Miss Dawes

could have been concerned in it either. Yet my detective told me that

she was the next person who went into the parlor."

"I do not know Miss Dawes so well," remarked Taylor carelessly.

"But I do," said I, "and I would as soon suspect my sister of a

dishonorable act as this noble, self-sacrificing woman."

"The third person?" suggested Taylor.

I got up and crossed the floor. When my back was to him I said quietly:

"Was Mrs. Walworth."

The silence that followed was very painful. I did not dare to break it,

and he doubtless found himself unable to do so. It must have been five

minutes before either of us spoke, then he suddenly cried:

"Where is that detective, as you call him? I want to see him."

"Let me see him for you," said I. "I should hardly wish Sudley, discreet

as I consider him, to know you had any interest in this affair."

Taylor rose and came to where I stood.

"You believe," said he, "that she, the woman I am about to marry, is the

one who wrote you that infamous letter?"

I faced him quite frankly. "I do not feel ready to acknowledge that," I

replied. "One of those three women took my letter from out the Bible

where I placed it; which of them wrote the lines that provoked it, I do

not dare conjecture. You say it was not Mrs. Couldock. I say it was not

Miss Dawes, but----"

He broke in upon me impetuously.

"Have you the letter?" he asked.

I had and showed it to him.

"It is not Helen's handwriting," he said.

"Nor is it that of Mrs. Couldock or Miss Dawes."

He looked at me for a moment in a wild sort of way.

"You think she got some one to write it for her?" he cried. "Helen! my

Helen! But it is not so; it cannot be so. Why, Huntley, to have sent

such a letter as that over the name of an innocent young girl, who but

for the happy chance of your meeting her as you did, might never have

had the opportunity of righting herself in your estimation, argues a

cold and calculating selfishness closely allied to depravity. And my

Helen is an angel--or so I have always thought her."

The depth to which his voice sank in the last sentence showed that for

all his seeming confidence he was not without his doubts. I began to

feel very uncomfortable, and not knowing what consolation to offer, I

ventured upon the suggestion that he should see Mrs. Walworth and

frankly ask her whether she had been to the hotel on Main Street on such

a day, and if so, if she had seen a letter addressed to Miss N. lying on

the table of the small parlor. His answer showed how much his confidence

in her had been shaken.

"A woman who, for the sake of paying some unworthy debt, or of

gratifying some whim of feminine vanity, could make use of a young

girl's signature to obtain money, would not hesitate at any denial. She

would not even blanch at my questions."

He was right.

"I must be convinced in some other way," he went on. "Mrs. Couldock or

Miss Dawes do not either of them possess any more truthful or ingenuous

countenance than she does, and though it seems madness to suspect such

women----"

"Wait," I broke in, "let us be sure of all the facts before we go on.

You lie down here and close your eyes; now pull the rug up so. I will

have Sudley in and question him. If you do not turn toward the light he

will not know who you are."

Taylor followed my suggestion and in a few moments Sudley stood before

me. I opened upon him quite carelessly.

"Sudley," said I, throwing down the newspaper I had been ostensibly

reading. "You remember that little business you did for me in Main

Street last month? Something I've been reading made me think of it

again."

"Yes, sir."

"Have you never had a conviction yourself as to which of the three

ladies you saw go into the parlor took the letter I left hid in the

Bible?"

"No, sir. You see, I could not. All of them are well known in society

here and all of them belong to the most respectable families. I wouldn't

dare to choose between them, sir."

"Certainly not," I rejoined, "unless you had some good reason for doing

so, such as having been able to account for the visits of two of the

ladies to the hotel and not of the third."

"They all had good pretexts for being there. Mrs. Couldock gave her card

to the boy before going into the parlor and left as soon as he returned

with word that the lady she called to see was not in. Miss Dawes gave no

card but asked for a Miss Terhune, I think, and did not remain a moment

after she was informed that that lady had left the hotel."

"And Mrs. Walworth?"

"She came in from the street adjusting her veil, and upon looking around

for a mirror, was directed to the parlor, into which she at once

stepped. She remained there but a moment and when she came out passed

directly into the street."

These words disconcerted me; the mirror was just over the table in the

small room, but I managed to remark nonchalantly:

"Could you not tell whether any of these ladies opened the Bible?"

"Not without seeming intrusive."

I sighed and dismissed the man. When he was gone I approached Taylor.

"He can give us no assistance," I cried.

My friend was already on his feet, looking very miserable.

"I know of but one thing to do," he remarked. "To-morrow I shall call

upon Mrs. Couldock and Miss Dawes and entreat them to tell me if for any

reason they undertook to deliver a letter mysteriously left in the Bible

of the ---- Hotel one day last month. They may have been deputed to do

so, and be quite willing to acknowledge it."

"And Mrs. Walworth? Will you not ask her the same question?"

He shook his head and turned away.

"Very well," said I to myself, "then I will."

CHAPTER II.

Accordingly, the next day I called upon Mrs. Walworth. She lived, as I

already knew, in a small and unpretentious house just on the verge of

our most fashionable quarter. But there was great taste displayed in the

furnishing of that house, and I was not at all surprised to see

evidences here and there of a poverty which the general effect tended to

make you forget. I was fortunate enough to find her in, and still more

fortunate to find her alone, but my courage fell as I confronted her,

for she has one of those appealing faces that equally interest and

baffle you, making you feel that unless your errand be one of peace and

comfort, you had better not confront so tremulous a mouth and so tender

a hazel eye. But I had steeled myself against too much sympathy when I

entered her presence, so barely pausing to make my most ingratiating

bow, I took her by the hand, and gently forcing her to stand for a

moment where the light from the one window fell full upon her face, I

said:

"You must pardon my intrusion upon you at a time when you are naturally

busy, but there is something you can do for me that will rid me of a

great anxiety. You remember being in ---- Hotel one morning last month?"

She was looking quietly up at me, her lips parted, her eyes smiling and

expectant, but at the mention of that hotel I thought--and yet I may

have been mistaken--that a slight change took place in her expression,

if it was only that the glance grew more gentle and the smile more

marked.

But her voice when she answered was the same as that with which she had

uttered her greeting.

"I do not remember," she replied, "yet I may have been there; I go to so

many places. Why do you ask?" she inquired.

"Because if you were there on that morning--and I have been told you

were--you may be able to solve a question that is greatly perplexing

me."

Still the same gentle inquiring look on her face, only now there was a

little furrow of wonder or interest between the eyes.

"I had business in that hotel on that morning," I continued. "I had left

a letter for a young friend of mine in the Bible that lies on the small

table of the inner parlor, and as she never received it, I have been

driven into making all kinds of inquiries, in hope of finding some

explanation of the fact. As you were there at the time, you may have

seen something that would aid me. Is it not possible, Mrs. Walworth?"

Her smile, which had faded, reappeared on the lips which Taylor so much

admired, a little pout became visible and she looked quite enchanting.

"I do not even remember being at that hotel at all," she protested. "Did

Mr. Taylor say I was there?" she inquired, with just that added look of

exquisite naivete which the utterance of a lover's name should call up

on the face of a prospective bride.

"No," I answered gravely, "Mr. Taylor, unhappily, was not with you that

morning."

She looked startled.

"Unhappily," she repeated. "What do you mean by that word?" And she drew

back looking very much displeased.

I had expected this and so was not thrown off my guard.

"I mean," I proceeded calmly, "that if you had had such a companion with

you on that morning I should now be able to put my question to him,

instead of taking up your time and interrupting your affairs by my

importunities."

She lost her look of anger and acquired one of doubt. Did she survey me

so closely because she was anxious to know if I had compromised her in

the eyes of her intended husband? Or was her expression merely that

natural to innocence equally startled and perplexed? I could not

determine.

"You will tell me just what you mean?" said she earnestly.

I was equally emphatic in my reply. "That is only just. You ought to

know why I trouble you with this matter. It is because this letter of

which I speak was taken from its hiding place by some one who went into

the hotel parlor between the hours of half past ten and twelve, and to

my certain knowledge only three persons crossed its threshold on that

especial morning at that especial time. I naturally appeal to each of

them in turn for an answer to the problem that is troubling me. You know

Miss N. Seeing by accident a letter addressed to her lying in a Bible in

a strange hotel, you might think it your duty to take it out and carry

it to her. If you did and if you lost it----"

"But I didn't," she interrupted warmly. "I know nothing about any such

letter, and if you had not declared so positively that I was in that

hotel on that especial day, I should be tempted to deny that, too, for I

have no recollection of going there last month."

"Not for the purpose of rearranging a veil that had been blown off?"

"Oh!" she said, but as one who recalls a forgotten fact, not as one who

is tripped up in an evasion.

I began to think her innocent and lost some of the gloom which had been

oppressing me.

"You remember now," said I.

"Oh, yes, I remember that."

Her manner so completely declared that her acknowledgments stopped

there, I saw it would be useless to venture further. If she were

innocent she could not tell more, if she were guilty she would not; so

feeling that the inclination of my belief was in favor of the former

hypothesis, I again took her hand and said:

"I see that you can give me no help. I am sorry, for the whole happiness

of a man, and perhaps that of a woman also, depends upon the discovery

as to who took the letter from out the Bible where I had hidden it on

that unfortunate morning." And making her another low bow, I was about

to take my departure when she grasped me impulsively by the arm.

"What man?" she whispered, and in a lower tone still, "What woman?"

I turned and looked at her. "Great heaven!" thought I, "can such a face

hide a selfish and intriguing heart?" and in a flash I summoned up in

comparison before me the plain, honest, and reliable countenance of Mrs.

Couldock and that of the comely and unpretending Miss Dawes, and knew

not what to think.

"You do not mean yourself?" she continued as she met my look of

distress.

"No," I returned; "happily for me, my welfare is not bound up in the

honor of any woman," and leaving that shaft to work its way into her

heart if that heart was vulnerable, I took my leave, more troubled and

less decided than when I entered.

For her manner had been absolutely that of a woman surprised by

insinuations she was too innocent to rate at their real importance; and

yet if she did not take away that letter who did? Mrs. Couldock?

Impossible. Miss Dawes? The thought was untenable even for an instant. I

waited in great depression of spirits for the call which I knew Taylor

would not fail to make me that evening.

When he came I saw what the result of my revelations was likely to be as

plainly as I see it now. He had conversed frankly with Mrs. Couldock and

with Miss Dawes and was perfectly convinced as to the utter ignorance of

them both in regard to the whole affair. In consequence, Mrs. Walworth

was guilty in his estimation, and being held guilty could be no wife for

him, much as he had loved her and urgent as may have been the causes for

her act.

"But," said I, in some horror of the consequences of an interference for

which I was almost ready to blame myself now, "Mrs. Couldock and Miss

Dawes could have done no more than deny all knowledge of this letter.

Now Mrs. Walworth does that, and----"

"You have seen her? You have asked her----"

"Yes, I have seen her and I have asked her, and not an eyelash drooped

as she affirmed a complete ignorance of the whole affair."

Taylor's head fell.

"I told you how that would be," he murmured at last. "I cannot feel that

it is any proof of her innocence. Or rather," he added, "I should always

have my doubts."

"And Mrs. Couldock and Miss Dawes?"

"Ah!" he cried, rising and turning away. "There is no question of

marriage between either of them and myself."

I was therefore not astonished when the week went by and no announcement

of his wedding appeared. But I was troubled and I am troubled still, for

if mistakes are made in criminal courts and the innocent sometimes

through the sheer force of circumstantial evidence are made to suffer

for the guilty, might it not be that in this letter question of morals,

Mrs. Walworth has been wronged, and that when I played the part of

arbitrator in her fate, I only succeeded in separating two hearts whose

right it was to be made happy? It is impossible to tell. Nor is time

likely to solve the riddle. Must I then forever blame myself, or did I

only do in this matter what any honest man would have done in my place?

Answer me, some one, for I do not find my lonely bachelor life in any

wise brightened by the doubt, and would be grateful to any one who would

relieve me of it.

THE END.

_Uniform with this Work._

Noughts and Crosses. By Q, Author of "Dead Man's Rock," &c.

Fourteen to One, and other Stories. By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.

Otto the Knight, and other Stories. By OCTAVE THANET.

Eleven Possible Cases. By FRANK STOCKTON, JOAQUIN MILLER, Q, and others.

A Singer's Wife. By FANNY N. D. MURFREE.

The Poet's Audience, and Delilah. By CLARE SAVILE CLARKE.