does experience this dream-life and finds it real. The trouble is,
this dream part of you forgets; it is unable to report to the waking
personality what it has seen.
"But it is not only in sleep that this dream-personality takes the
place of that which we call the real self. The opium-eater inhabits a
world, opened to him by his drug, and closed, even to his memory, when
the effects of that drug wear off. Then, there is that curious phase
of dipsomania in which the victim, apparently possessed of all his
faculties, goes through actual experiences--travels, talks with people,
transacts business--and when he recovers from his fit of intoxication
finds it impossible to remember a single circumstance of the many known
to him while under the sway of alcohol. The phenomena of hypnotism give
instances of similar independent mental divisions in a single human
personality. All this is the familiar material of modern psychology, out
of which the scientists build strange and varied theories. I call these
divided, or lost, personalities 'ghosts.'"
"Ghosts of the living, not of the dead."
"More uncanny than the old-fashioned kind," mused Una. "Fancy meeting
one's own ghost!"
"Cases of such meetings are on record; Shelley's, for instance," said
Leighton drily.
"The thing is strange and worth investigating. But," added David
laughingly, "I am not an investigator."
"It is fascinating," declared Una emphatically. "Tell us more about it,
Uncle Harold. You spoke of an experiment----"
"The experiment, by all means," said David. "Just what is it?"
"Trapping a ghost," was the laconic answer.
"And if you succeed in trapping it----?"
"Ah, then--science generally leaves its ghosts to take care of
themselves. It's a good rule."
"You say you are going to trap a ghost: you don't really mean that,"
protested Una.
"Remember, there are two kinds of ghosts. As a scientist I am not
interested in the ghosts of the dead. If they exist outside of fairy
tales and theology let some one else hunt them. But I am interested in
the other and more profitable kind--the ghosts of the living."
"I don't understand," said David.
"It needs explanation. Remember what I said as to the phenomena
presented by the dreamer, the hypnotic subject, the dipsomaniac, the
narcomaniac. In each of these cases one human mind seems capable of
division into two independent halves. And each half seems to forget,
or to be ignorant of the doings of its mate. Now, I am hunting for this
Ghost of the Forgotten."
"Sounds romantic," remarked David. "According to your theory, don't
you need a hypnotized subject--or at least a dipsomaniac--for your
experiment?"
"No. The Ghost of the Forgotten lurks in all of us. The man or woman in
whom this Ghost is not to be found is exceptional. I doubt if such a
being exists--a being whose Book of the Past is as clear, as legible, as
his Book of the Present."
"But, your experiment, Uncle," demanded Una; "show it to us."
"I need help for a satisfactory trial. An experiment isn't a picture,
or a book, you know. It needs a victim of some kind. What do you say,
David?" he asked, turning abruptly to him.
"You want me for the victim?" laughed David. "I'm ready. Feel just like
my namesake before he tackled that husky Philistine. Tell me what I'm to
do."
They were standing at the fireplace, Una with one arm through her
lover's, the other resting on her uncle's shoulder. A scarcely
perceptible frown clouded Leighton's features before he accepted David's
offer.
"I merely want you to answer some questions," he said finally. "You
will think them trivial; but I want you to answer them under unusual
conditions. Let me show you my latest prize and explain things."
Leighton strode to the center of the room and thence down to that end of
it where the tools of his laboratory were kept. David and Una followed,
enjoying the momentary relief from the scrutiny of the old savant, who
was now, apparently, engrossed in his scientific apparatus. There was
not much of the latter in sight, and to the novice unfamiliar with the
interior of a physicist's laboratory, and who carries away a confused
impression of glass and metal jars, tubes, coils of wire, electric
batteries, revolving discs, and all the nameless paraphernalia of such a
place, the appointments of Harold Leighton's workshop would seem simple
enough. Yet, the machine before which Leighton paused comprised one
of the newest discoveries in this branch of science. Its sensational
purpose was to measure and probe the mind through the purely physical
operations of the body.
What appeared to be, at first glance, an ordinary galvanometer stood
by itself on a table. Its polished brass frame, its flawless glass
cylinder enclosing the coils of wire, recording discs and needle,
suggested nothing more than the instrument, familiar to the physicist,
by which an electric current is measured and tested. Connected with this
galvanometer, however, was a curious contrivance consisting of a mirror,
over the spotless surface of which, when the machine was in operation,
a ray of light, projected from an electrified metal index, or finger,
moved back and forth. The exact course of this ray of light, the twists
and turns made by it in traversing the mirror, was transferred by an
automatic pencil to a sheet of paper carried on a revolving cylinder.
This paper thus became a permanent record of whatever experiment had
been attempted.
That the subjects investigated by this unique galvanometer were human
and not inanimate was indicated by two electrodes, attached by wires
hanging from the machine, intended to be grasped by the hands of a
person undergoing the test. Its use, also, as a detector of human
thought and emotion, and not of mechanical force, was described by its
name--the Electric Psychometer.
IV
THE GHOST OF THE FORGOTTEN
"Modern rack and thumbscrew," exclaimed David, eyeing curiously the
machine whose gleaming surface of glass and polished metal was in
striking contrast with the somber oratory.
Harold Leighton paid no heed to the comment. He was apparently too
busied with some detail in the complicated mechanism before him to
attend to anything else. David and Una, on the other hand, were more
amused than impressed with the odd kind of entertainment chosen for
this memorable evening of their betrothal by the eccentric scientist,
although every now and then some unexpected bit of irony from him came
disconcertingly enough.
"Why should people, whose lives are blameless, think of racks and
thumbscrews when they see a simple machine like this?" he asked
suddenly, taking up David's apparently unnoted exclamation. Not waiting
for an answer, he went on, as if with a lecture to which they had been
invited to listen.
"So far as I know this machine is the first of its kind to reach this
country. It is an ingenious development of certain laws psychologists
have been using for some time in their experiments, and is based on a
theory that is, roughly, something like this:
"A thought is a part of the body that gives it birth. Thinking is not
confined to the brain. Like the assimilation of food, it involves
man's entire physical nature. In cases of exaggerated thought or
emotion--intense grief, fear, joy--the physical effects are obvious.
The scientist, however, claims that the physical result from a mental
cause is not confined to these extreme cases. A thought, the presence of
which is not perceptible in gesture, facial expression, or the slightest
visible emotion, is, nevertheless, communicated physically to every
part of the body. Throw a stone into a pool of water. If the stone is
large, the waves caused by it can be seen until they spend themselves on
the shore; if it is small, the resulting ripples become invisible long
before that. The point is, the ripple exists, whether we see it or not,
just as does the wave, until it has run its course.
"A thought, in its physical effect, is like the stone thrown into a
pool. If it is a big, exaggerated thought, the agitation produced is
outwardly visible. If it is small, more subtle, less sensational, its
physical effects are invisible, although, theoretically, reaching in
ripples to the extremities of the body. Hence, the psychologist's
problem is: to detect and measure these invisible, intangible ripples of
the mind.
"This machine, my 'ghost-hunter,' solves the problem. A Russian
scientist discovered that an electric current passing through the
body is affected by any abnormal physical, or nervous, activity there
encountered. Thought is a form of electric impulse and would, therefore,
modify any other electric force crossing its path. Hence, Tarchanoff's
law. Its practical application means, the literal measurement of our
mental ripples. And this is done by the psychometer."
"How?" asked David.
"It's very simple. You hold these electrodes in your hands. An electric
current is turned on and passes through you. While you are thus charged
with electricity, I throw the stone, the thought, into your mind. The
degree, or quality, of disturbance caused by this thought modifies the
electric current, the varying agitation of which is made visible by the
movements of an electric finger across this mirror. From there it is
recorded on the sheet of paper in this cylinder."
"What a horrible contrivance!" exclaimed Una.
"I see how it works," mused David, "except for one thing. How do you
introduce the thought you want to measure?"
"If I explain that the experiment wouldn't be possible," said Leighton
with a laugh. "The thought must come through unconscious suggestion, or
our Ghost of the Forgotten will refuse to appear. In a way, it is like
a game--and is more interesting than most games. Did you ever play the
game of twenty questions?"
"I have," interjected Una. "It's this way. Something--a book, a piece
of furniture, anything at all--is chosen by one set of players to be
guessed by the other set. Then the set who know the secret have to
answer twenty questions about it, asked by the other side. The questions
sound silly, but they usually discover the secret."
"Is your experiment like Una's game?" asked David.
"Not exactly. Sit down in this chair and you'll see."
Seated as directed, the psychometer stood a little back and at one side
of him.
"Now," said Leighton, giving him the electrodes, "hold these, one in
each hand."
"It's like an electrocution!" exclaimed Una. "Are you very
uncomfortable?"
"Oh, quite the contrary! Now, Mr. Leighton----"
"Ready? Here goes the current. You will scarcely feel it."
Leighton pulled out a small lever. A faint humming sound was heard. The
electric finger on the mirror in the machine became suddenly illuminated.
"Do you feel it?" asked Una.
"Yes; it's rather nice. This hero business is all right, especially when
you preside at the performance, Una."
"Now for your game of twenty questions, Uncle Harold. Of course, you are
going to let me into the secret?"
"How can I?" he retorted. "David has the secret."
"I have it?" repeated the other, perplexed.
"Certainly. But this isn't exactly a game. You'll find it tedious, Una.
Why not stay with Mrs. Quayle in the library until it's over?"
"Nonsense! Of course I'll stay here," she replied firmly.
"What am I to do?" asked David. "Holding these handles is easy
enough--but nothing happens."
"Let me explain," said Leighton. "I am going to give you, one at a
time, a number of disconnected words. As you hear each word, you must
reply with the first word that suggests itself to your mind. For
instance, suppose I say 'black.' The word gives rise, instantly, to
some answering mental picture, and that picture will suggest a word with
which your experience has associated it. Thus, when I say 'black,' you
may think of 'night'; or, if your thought goes by contraries, the word
'white' may occur to you. In any case, tell me the first word that comes
into your mind upon hearing my word--and remember that the promptness of
your reply is an important factor in the experiment."
"It sounds easy," remarked David. "Let's begin."
On a small table at which he was standing, Leighton placed his watch,
a writing-pad and pencil. Seating himself, he commenced the experiment
in the way he had proposed, noting each word as he gave it on the pad
before him, and marking the number of seconds elapsing before each of
David's answers. Una, ensconced in a large armchair, watched the scene
intently.
"Theater," was Leighton's first word.
"Music," came the prompt reply.
"Noise."
"Sleep."
"Lion."
"Teeth."
"Sound."
"Desert."
"Ocean."
"Blue."
A long series of similar question and answer-words followed, apparently
chosen at random and not indicating any sequence of ideas. Leighton
spoke with exaggerated monotony, his eyes fixed on David, his hand
moving with mechanical precision as he jotted down the words and the
time taken for each reply. Scarcely any agitation was noticeable in
the finger of light upon the mirror, and this part of the experiment
seemed--at least to Una--a failure.
"I don't see what the machine has to do with it," she said, somewhat
puzzled. "David could just as well answer your words without holding
those things in his hands."
"Una," said Leighton, giving this as the next question-word and ignoring
the interruption.
David smiled, hesitated a moment before replying, while the electric
finger trembled slightly and then moved, slowly and evenly, back and
forth across the mirror.
"Light," he answered softly.
More question-words followed, most of them receiving prompt answers and
producing no appreciable effect in the psychometer. It was noticeable,
however, that words having to do with places gave a different result--a
vibration of the electric finger, indicating, according to the theory,
that they awakened a deeper interest than other words in David's mind.
In experiments of this kind the operator's choice of words is carefully
made, as a rule, and not left to chance. They usually have a certain
continuity of meaning. Theoretically, also, the operator's personality
is kept in the background, so that the subject is freed from any
emotional impulse save that created in him by the question-words. But
there is always the possibility that this personality will unconsciously
influence the subject's mind, which is thus impelled in directions it
might not otherwise take. Hypnotism may thus, unintentionally, play a
part in an experiment of this kind, and the subject made to follow, in
the words uttered and the degree of emotion displayed, his inquisitor's
suggestions.
It would be hard to tell whether hypnotism gradually came into
Leighton's experiment with David. Certain it is that as the trial went
on a change came over the two men. Their features grew tense, they were
as vigilant to thrust and parry in this game of words as two fencers
fighting on a wager whose loss would mean much to either of them. In
David anxiety was more marked. The electric finger in the psychometer,
unconsciously controlled by him, moved more rapidly and with greater
irregularity over the face of the mirror. At times it remained fixed in
one place; then, with Leighton's utterance of some new word, it would
leap spasmodically forward, in a jagged line of light which would be
recorded automatically on the cylinder at the back of the machine.
David could not see what was happening in the psychometer. Outwardly he
showed no emotion, except the anxiety to hold his own in this word duel
with Leighton. Nevertheless, the electric current passing through him
registered a series of impressions that grew in variety and intensity.
Theoretically, these impressions were David's thoughts and feelings
acting upon the electric finger; and thus the line of light traced upon
the mirror was really a picture of his own mind.
For Una the affair had lost its first element of comedy. The meaningless
words, the monotonous seriousness with which they were uttered, seemed,
in the beginning, a delicious bit of fooling improvised for her benefit.
She delighted in the original, the unexpected, and nothing, certainly,
could be more foreign to the customary betrothal night entertainment
than this ponderous pairing of words between her lover and her uncle.
The real purpose of the experiment had not impressed her. The talk
about ghosts gave an amusing background to it; but this was afterwards
spoiled, it is true, by the tedious discussion of psychological
problems. Of course, Una assured herself, this experiment--or this
game--was a psychological problem, and she felt certain David would
solve it, whatever it might be, in the cleverest fashion.
Had Una understood from the first just what Leighton intended by his
proposed "ghost-hunt" she would have followed more keenly the details
of this novel pastime. As it was, these details appeared to have no
intelligible object in view and failed to arouse her interest until some
little time had elapsed. Then she began speculating on the meaning of
her uncle's disconnected words and wondering why they drew from David
just the replies they did. More to amuse herself than anything else she
compared the images which these words evidently aroused in David's mind
with the images suggested to her.
For "ship," he gave "sky"; she thought of "water." "Mountain" produced
"tired"; she would have said "view." Her word for "river" was "rowing";
his "sunshine." He said "mystery" for "Africa"; she, "negroes."
His words were never the same as hers, a fact indicating the wide
differences in their individual experiences. More singular still,
David's words were always remote, in meaning or association, from the
question-words to which they were the answer; hers were quite the
opposite. Why, she asked herself, did he say "anger" in response to
"India"; "misery" to "temple"; "joy" to "ocean"; "lost" to "guide";
"slave" to "friend"?
As the experiment progressed most of her uncle's words were bound
together, Una noticed, by a similarity in character. She even fancied
she could detect in them the disjointed bones of a story. Most of these
words had to do with foreign travel, and as David was known to have
visited many countries it was natural that the test should follow this
line, especially as this was a quest for the Ghost of the Forgotten.
In this connection it was noticeable that the series of words chosen
by Leighton reversed the itinerary which Una was certain David had
followed. Thus, the first question-words indicated the English Lake
region, where David had ended his travels. Then came various European
countries, and after these Morocco, Egypt, Arabia, India, China, the
Islands of the Pacific and the western coast of America. Supposing that
Leighton had David's actual itinerary in mind, he was going over it by
a series of backward steps, and had now reached a point at which, as
Una remembered, the long journey began. With each backward step, also,
she noted that the agitation of the electric finger in the psychometer
increased. David could not see what was happening in the machine behind
him, although it was his own emotions that were being recorded there.
Why was he so agitated? Why did he try to hide his feelings? Why did
these simple words from Leighton have such power over him? As Una asked
herself these questions her sympathy for him increased, and she awaited
the end of the experiment with anxiety.
Leighton paused after David matched his question-word, "California,"
with "home." The electric finger threw a tremulous line of light upon
the recording mirror, and in both men the indifference shown when they
began this strange game was lacking. The expectancy in David's face
changed to defiance as "California" was followed by the question-word
"ship." The electric finger gave a swift upward flash, and there was
a longer pause than usual before the answer came--"storm." "Pacific"
was met by "palm trees"; and these were followed by "land," "Indians";
"hotel," "strangers"; "natives," "lost"; "clew," "wealth."
With the last pair of words the agitation recorded in the psychometer
reached its highest point. David's face was pale, his features drawn,
his grasp on the electrodes tense. Una could not bear to witness his
struggle. Although ignorant of the cause, his suffering was all too
evident, and she determined to rescue him at once from her uncle's
cruelty. Leighton met her appeal with characteristic coolness, ignoring
her demand to bring the experiment to an end. But he changed the
sequence of words he had been using.
"Homer" was the next question-word given.
The effect was immediate. David looked at the old man with astonishment.
The jerky motion of the electric finger ceased, while instead an even
line of light was traced over the mirror. The answer-word came promptly
this time: "Iliad."
A series of similar words followed, and as the experiment took this
new direction David's nervousness vanished. Then, without warning, the
travel series was taken up again; and this time each word came like the
blow of a hammer upon a nail that is swiftly and surely driven to its
mark.
There was no mistaking the result. David's limbs stiffened, as if to
ward off a blow. His look of relief gave place to a hopeless sort of
misery; the telltale electric finger jumped forward in exaggerated lines
as if to escape from some merciless pursuer.
"South America," demanded Leighton.
"Spaniards," after a pause, was David's answering word.
"Mountains."
"Muleback."
"Lake."
"Gold."
The answers were hesitatingly given, almost inaudible. Again Una
protested.
"Stop!" she commanded. "You have no right----"
Leighton waved her imperiously aside.
"Dynamite," he continued, addressing David.
"Darkness," came the hesitating answer.
"Raoul Arthur."
Silence. A weird dance, as of some mocking spirit, seized the electric
finger pointing at the mirror. Una knelt at David's side, her hands upon
his shoulders. His lips quivered as he looked despairingly at her.
"Guatavita," said Leighton harshly.
No answer. The electrodes slipped from David's grasp. The finger of
light became suddenly motionless.
David had fallen, unconscious, in Una's arms.
V
THE SEARCH FOR EL DORADO
"Leave him with me," said Leighton. "Wait for us with Mrs. Quayle."
"No! No!" answered the girl passionately, kneeling beside David, who was
lying on the couch. "You have killed him!"
"Don't talk nonsense," he said coldly, yet with sympathy in his keen
gray eyes. "This had to be, and I took my own way about it. Now, go. He
is all right. He is safe with me."
David drew a long breath. He looked vacantly at Leighton, then turned to
Una.
"Do as he says," he whispered.
"David, I will stay with you."
"Not now; I must speak to your uncle."
"David!"
She looked into his eyes, trying to read there the mystery that was
parting them.
"It will be better for all of us," said Leighton gruffly.
Unable to hide her fears, Una rose and moved away from them. The boards
of the well worn floor creaked harshly as she walked to the far end of
the room. Pausing at the door, she looked back.
"I will wait for you," she said.
When the sound of her footsteps died away, David turned to the old man,
who was busied with his scientific apparatus.
"Well, how do you feel?" asked Leighton, gathering up the notes which
were strewn on the little table.
"Curiously here," replied David, drawing his hand across his forehead.
Then he asked: "How did you know?"
"That's easily answered. About two years ago I read, in the Journal
of Psychology, a paper by your friend, Raoul Arthur, describing the
strange mental effect produced on a young man by a dynamite explosion in
a South American mine. Arthur is something of an authority in abnormal
psychology, and his report of the accident interested me. The name of
the young man was not given. I made inquiries long before our chance
meeting with you in England. I learned, among other things, who the
young man was. Before we met on the Derwentwater, I had watched you at
the hotel."
"You wrote to Raoul Arthur?"