Now, be it understood at the first word that I have never believed
in astrology as an exact science, or even a working hypothesis to
explain the curious happenings of life which we ascribe to luck, fate,
Providence, the law of cause and effect, or, latterly, to mortal mind.
Nor do I offer this story with any intent to help the astrologers
in their difficult efforts to prove their science correct; for it
proves nothing beyond the scope of coincidence--unless, possibly, that
the laws, mathematical and other, beyond human soul life, are past
our present comprehension. This is merely the contribution of an
experienced old man, grown gray and tired in the effort to understand
his fellowman, and who has at last given up the problem, trusting that
it may aid some younger investigator.
My acquaintance with them began early, very early--in fact I was
present at, and assisted at, their birth, which occurred at the same
moment, their mothers lying side by side on the same narrow cot in the
crowded hospital. There had been a railroad accident, and these two
injured women had been carried to the nearby institution where I was
serving my apprenticeship in medicine. They recovered in time, went to
their separate homes unacquainted, and resumed their lives, one the
wife of a wealthy man, the other a scrubwoman. They never met again,
nor did their lives conflict; but their children, born at the same
moment, and at the same spot, lived out careers that were strangely
parallel, strangely consistent with what the astrologers teach.
In my later capacity of visiting physician to that hospital I often
met young Dunbar, the scrub-woman's boy, as he progressed through the
ailments and accidents of childhood; and as family physician to the
wealthy Lance family I as often met their pampered youngster. After a
few years I noticed that if anything was wrong with one, something--not
necessarily the same thing--happened to the other. For instance,
young Dunbar broke his arm at the time young Lance had the measles.
The latter sprained his wrist, and the former came to the free clinic
the same day with a black eye, acquired in a fight. I called this
coincidence for a while, until both mothers died at the same hour,
of the same disease. Then I recalled that I, who had been present
at that other momentous event in their widely divergent lives, was
now the useless physician to each. I began to take notes, but never
investigated the lives of the mothers; my studies and speculations were
concerned with the lives of the sons. And I first learned that since
birth they had never met.
Each in his own environment, these two boys grew up, as different in
physique, mentality, and morals as can be imagined. At sixteen their
characters were shaped, and at this age I invoiced their attributes.
Each was what the other was not. Dunbar was a tough, Lance a gentleman;
but Dunbar possessed physical courage of the highest order, while
Lance, up to this period in his life, had never voluntarily placed
himself in the way of pain or punishment. He would run from an angry
goose or girl playmate. On the other hand, he possessed moral courage,
while Dunbar was a moral coward. Lance proudly bore himself through a
storm of boyish ridicule when caught playing with dolls and toy-houses,
while Dunbar hid himself in shame because of defeat at the hands of a
larger, heavier boy. Lance was truthful, polite, and with a high sense
of honor and justice; Dunbar a liar, a bully, and a bad example. His
associates were the worst in the town, and when there came the time
that my safe was robbed, and the loot was found upon Dunbar, I could
not have saved him, even though I had believed him innocent. It was
simply a case of the People against Dunbar, and I was prosecuting
witness.
Others had robbed me, and Dunbar, unthinkingly, had held the goods
until arrested. I could not prove this at the time, and so Dunbar
was convicted. But, as an incident in this story, on the day that
he entered prison to begin a four-years' sentence, Lance, the most
effeminate boy I had known in my experience, entered the Naval Academy
at Annapolis, there to begin a four-year tutelage in a profession where
the most masculine attributes are required.
I saw him on his four vacations at home, each time more mature, more
certain of himself, more effeminate in speech and mannerisms, yet
graceful in bearing and possessed of what might be called masculine
beauty. He was tall, erect, with curly hair and a pink complexion,
untouched by the tan of sun and sea and wind; for he had not yet begun
his two years' sea cruise.
I visited Dunbar in prison as often as I saw Lance, for my own
vacations took me into his vicinity. On the first three occasions
he was sulky and resentful, but on the fourth and last was utterly
changed. He begged my forgiveness, was earnest and hopeful of the
future. He asked for books to read, and advice on his plans. I met
him more than half-way, and soon learned the cause of the change in
him--the warden's daughter. She had lent him her small store of books,
had sympathized with him as she dared or cared, and had become his
Goddess of Light and Hope. I talked with her before I left; she was a
tall, willowy sort of girl with a very sweet, spiritual face--not so
beautiful as compelling. She could exercise a strong influence on any
man of Dunbar's rugged type. Dunbar was tall, broad, and intensely
masculine. He was dark of complexion and dark of mood, for his
limitations bore heavily upon him; he knew that he must start life and
ambition handicapped by a term in prison. But the dogged, courageous
spirit of the man triumphed over this, and he had planned for a
seafaring career, in which not too much would be asked of a man's past,
and not too much would be required in the way of refinement to insure
success.
"For I know I'm a bad investment, Doc," he said, "because I didn't go
to school when I could, and I traveled with the worst playmates I could
find. But I think I can make it up. I'll have that girl ahead of me, to
reach for and work for if I get her. She understands about my kind of
men. There are a lot of us here."
I wished him good luck, and when his time had expired--he served the
full term with no commutation--I secured him a berth with a relative of
mine who commanded a ship, and he went to sea. The ship sailed on the
day that Lance's leave expired, and, on that day, Lance, too, went to
sea on his practice cruise.
Astrologers say that, given the date, place, and exact minute of a
person's birth, a calculation can be made that will prophesy the
happenings for good or evil in that person's life, and fix the dates
or the periods of time; and, conversely, if given the dates of the
happenings and departures, the exact minute and place of birth can be
determined. If this is true, it would equally apply to the case of two
persons born side by side, giving them similar experiences varying only
by the pressure of environment and the initial distance apart when
born. And Lance and Dunbar seemed to be proving it true.
Shortly after they left, the jail warden was elected sheriff, and moved
his goods and family to the county seat, the small town where we lived.
The daughter, now about seventeen, was welcomed in the best society of
the place. I saw her often; and the more I learned of her beautiful
mind, the more I deplored Dunbar's unfortunate infatuation, and felt
that a lesser girl would have answered the purpose. But now I know that
a lesser girl could not have reached him. He needed a star of the first
magnitude.
In two years Lance was back, a passed midshipman, waiting for his
commission as ensign and an assignment to a ship. Dunbar did not
appear, and I wondered if the connection was broken; but was relieved
on this point by a letter from my relative, which apprised me that
Dunbar had quit him to ship second mate with another skipper; and on
comparing dates I found that this was simultaneous with the return
of Lance, though Dunbar was in San Francisco at the time. But there
seemed to be other influences entering into the environment of Lance.
He met Miss Ella Madison, the daughter of the Sheriff. Now, while the
best society of the small town had welcomed this splendid girl, Lance,
invested with wealth and the aroma of a commission, was not affected
by the general estimate. To him she was a find, a pretty girl to flirt
with. I saw them together very often, but never arrived at a conception
of his attitude until he expounded his philosophy of life in answer to
a query of mine--a quest born of my interest in Dunbar.
"Are you to be married?" I asked.
"Married? No. I don't believe in marriage. I consider marriage, the
linking of two human beings together, to be a crime worse than the
tying of a dog and cat together by a rope and turning them adrift to
fight it out. Marriage, Doctor? Why, marriage is an institution of
human society worse than slavery--responsible for more crime, sin,
sorrow, suffering, and murder than anything that ever afflicted the
human race."
"Well," I answered, somewhat amazed, "what will you substitute for
marriage, admitting that what you say may be true?"
"Association of two who love, until each is tired of the association,
then separation."
"And do you apply such a code to your interest in Miss Madison?"
"Of course; but she's old-fashioned in her notions. Likes to be loved,
but wants to be married. She resists my philosophy."
"She's right, you young scoundrel," I said. "Get out of my office."
My anger, of course, has no place in this story, and I soon forgot
it, trusting in the girl's nobility of soul; and a letter from Dunbar,
the first he had written, roused my hopes that there might soon be
an antidote for Lance. It was a long communication, written from
Liverpool, which apprised me that he had obtained a first mate's
license and was in a fair way soon to obtain command; but the diction
and style of that letter surprised me. With all my acquirements, coming
of a university education and a daily correspondence with educated
people, I could not have edited that letter. It was a masterpiece of
English, and I answered it, giving him the news of Miss Madison that he
asked for, and advising him to appear.
But he did not appear; and four years went on--years of fruitless suit
on the part of Lance, and fruitful pursuit on the part of Dunbar, as
evidenced by his letters. Miss Madison remained invulnerable; Lance
steadily disintegrated, becoming more masculine, more dissipated, more
fixed in his reactionary philosophy of life. He resigned from the navy
two months after his return and remained in the small town, except
for occasional visits to New York. His father died, and with all the
property in his control, he bought a schooner yacht, and invited me to
a trip--which invitation I declined. Dunbar had become a first mate,
and later a captain of a small bark which, in a letter, he said would
sail from Honolulu for New York. I hoped he would come home, for in
every letter he had written was the request for news of Ella Madison,
and his assurance of a soul-born worship of her. I knew something of
feminine psychology. I felt that here was the need of a strong man;
for in my few talks with the girl I had not impressed her with Lance's
unworthiness.
Lance continued in his reversion to type. His dissipated habits
brought him into contact with men who expounded only the physical.
He had a fight, in the small town, with a bartender, and actually
thrashed the man--a feat I would not have accredited to him. Again he
stopped a runaway horse and saved from certain death the occupants
of the carriage. He bore these honors modestly, but I could not help
speculating upon the question as to whether or not he was drawing upon
his affinity, Dunbar, a sailor who risked his life daily in the earning
of his daily bread. Dunbar's increasing refinement, as evidenced by
his letters, bore out such a speculation, and it seemed that each,
without knowing the other, was benefiting by the psychic association.
But Miss Madison the link between the two, who was lifting Dunbar up
and dragging Lance down, remained normal, uninfluenced by Lance and
unremembering of Dunbar; for, in a short talk with her, I found that
she had forgotten him.
Now Sheriff Madison died, and as the girl was without friends or
relatives, I took her into my home as a member of the family, satisfied
to have such a rare and beauteous creature under my care, and glad of
my vested power to keep Lance at a distance. But it came too late; I
noticed her abstraction, then saw tears in her eyes, and, long before
my professional knowledge told me, I guessed that Lance had won.
There was a stormy scene when I met him, upbraided him, and appealed
to his manhood, and was met by flippant philosophy, ridicule, and
defiance. In that talk I caught him by the throat and only relinquished
my grip as I realized that his death would not avail. He must marry
her, I thought, and that thought saved his miserable life. He went out,
angry at me and insistent that his position was justified by human
experience.
He went on a yachting trip soon after, and before he came back I read
in the New York papers of a rescue at sea. The yacht _Sylph_, cruising,
with owner on board, had come upon the dismantled wreck of the bark
_Holyoke_, Captain John Dunbar, and rescued all hands at the moment of
sinking. A feature of the rescue was the plunging into the sea of Mr.
George Lance, owner of the yacht, and his saving the life of Captain
Dunbar, who had remained until the last, and who, hampered by his
oilskins would have drowned in the turmoil caused by the sinking hull,
but for the heroic action of Mr. Lance.
I read this to Miss Madison. She was pleased at Lance's heroism, but
expressed no interest in Captain Dunbar, the last to leave his sinking
ship.
Shortly after, Dunbar came home and his first visit was to me. With all
my predilection to think well of him I was more than surprised, and
agreeably so. I had last seen him in a cell, a convict, a jail-bird,
with the prison pallor on his face and the prison flavor in his soul.
He stood before me now a big, broad-shouldered, handsome fellow of
twenty-eight, with dark, curly hair, a dark, sunburned face, a cheery,
optimistic smile, and a voice that rang with suppressed laughter. His
diction was faultless; he had read and studied deeply. He used words
and phrases only at the command of educated men. Had I not known his
antecedents I would have pronounced him a university graduate; yet I
knew that he was John Dunbar, a self-made man, and I approved of his
handiwork. I introduced him to Miss Madison. His attitude toward her
was that of a religious devotee in the presence of an idol. Hers was
that of a woman wearied of life and life's ideals. She did not know
him--did not realize that this big, splendid man was a product of her
own creation--a failure, inspired by her beautiful face and a few kind
words toward effort, struggle, and victory. Dunbar was a success; he
had made it so, and nothing could take it from him. But she did not
know, and I could not tell her now.
In his talk with me he outlined his plans. "I'll get another ship,
soon," he said, "for the owners don't count it against me that a leaky
old tub started a butt in a Hatteras gale and went down. Besides, she
was well insured. But, meanwhile, I've accepted command of Mr. Lance's
yacht. I'll have to study up a little on yacht etiquette, and I'm all
right. Say, isn't he a fine fellow?"