Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

I worked round to a place where there was only grass growing, and catching by it drew close to its border. I could never have lifted father up but that he was sensible and could help himself somewhat. I got him on the ground, and from the ground into my boat. Then he fainted.

His head was terribly wounded. I knew I had no time to waste. I was afraid he would die in the coming hours before I could reach assistance. I rubbed his hands. I loosened and took off some of his wet clothing. I folded my cloak over him carefully and seized the oars. Inspired by my strange burden with a strength superhuman, my boat shot swiftly almost as if it had been propelled by steam. But the east was already brightening again with Indian colors when I reached the wharf at last, at last!

They raised him softly and carried him up to the house. I paid no attention to their thousand questions. I do not know what I said—I said it was an accident.

In the weeks of his long fever and delirium, I watched over him day and night. He did not die. He came back to life. How many times I had wondered would he be kind, would he be gentle to me now? Ah, poor father! He was never harsh to any one after that.

When the people came and spoke to him, he would laugh a gentle, meaningless laugh, and sometimes, holding to me tight, he would point to a button or color on their dress and say,—

“Pretty, pretty!”

He grew well and strong again, but it had shattered his mind forever.

How he had avoided the officers at the tower in carrying away the precious metal which he had secreted from time to time, I do not know, but they suspected nothing. I held utter silence about the incident, and if the people did connect the missing miner with his mysterious “accident,” what was there to do? They pitied me that he was simple. Shall I say it? Perhaps it was better so. A strange, new joy came to me, as every day I saw the pale eyes, innocent now as those of a child, follow me about with a grateful look. He was easily managed, and he seemed to cling to me with an affection that would atone for the long blank in the past.

I waited until the bitter Winter had gone by, and the first steamer came in the Summer.

What would become of us in the big, untried city? I had my youth, I had my health.

I stood upon the deck of the great vessel and saw this mere speck of land recede in the distance. Father, standing by my side, touched my arm, and holding out his open hand, said,—

“Pretty, pretty!”

There was a shell in it clean and white, and he looked up at me and smiled.

Yes, better so, it was better so!

He had gone there a man, strong and wicked. By the strange mysteries of Providence, he came from it a child, weak and innocent, with a soul white as the shell which for the moment he cherished in his simple delight.

When next I raised my eyes, only the cold waters of Lake Superior washed the horizon, and Silver Islet had vanished from my sight forever.

BOYDELL, THE STROLLER.

He was a strolling player. During the month of February, 1868, I was at Chicago, gathering up a theatrical troupe to do the provinces. I found no difficulty in getting my general utility people, but still lacked a “first old man.” Every person wanted leading business—that was exactly the trouble. When I was in the midst of my perplexity, I stumbled across Carey, whom I knew to be out of a job, and offered him the position.

Now I felt that this act was a real charity, for I knew poor Carey had never received such a chance in all his theatrical days—years, I should say; for he was well on the shady side of forty. I was amazed, dumb-founded, when Carey refused it, absolutely, positively refused it,—Carey? What could explain this astounding fact? There was an odd twinkle in his eye, and presently the truth leaked out. He had just married a pretty, young girl, and—and—well, he had promised to quit the stage; that was the whole of it. But Carey suited me exactly, and I did not give up. I told him it was all nonsense; his wife would be glad enough for him to accept the position. Carey evidently began to waver; the old love for his profession threatened to out-weigh that other love which had crept into his heart. However, it was finally determined that I should call upon his wife and submit the matter to her decision.

I found her really young and really pretty, but, also, really in earnest. Carey could not go, that was certain; at the very first mention of the subject, she burst into tears. There was nothing left for me except to retreat, which I did with many apologies.

Then, to soften my despair, Carey told me he knew of a person, one Boydell, whom he thought would be glad to fill the position. A few days after, Carey brought him up and gave me an introduction. A tall man he was, six feet-one or two, with a fine presence, heightened by a peculiar dignity of manner and voice. There was dramatic power stamped upon his English face, with its square, massive jaw, firm mouth, and deep-set eyes. I had no idea of Boydell’s age. I could not have guessed it by fifteen years one way or the other. He was one of those singular individuals who might be twenty-five, thirty-five, or fifty. There were a few wrinkles about his bronzed features, but they were surely not the wrinkles of time. His thick, brown hair was combed straight back, and hung down behind his ears. His dress was what might be called the shabby-genteel. Black from head to foot, nothing in it was new, and one would almost think nothing ever had been new. The garments had apparently existed in just their present condition of wear from time immemorial. The coat was shiny across the back, and a trifle small too, as though it had originally been cut for a man of less length both in body and arms. On his feet he wore queer, English shoes, with broad spreading soles, and the extra space at the toes turned up after the fashion of a rocker. A silk hat, bell-crowned, with curved rim, such as we see in pictures of Beau Brummel, was set well back upon his head.

But, notwithstanding these peculiarities, there was something in his bearing that gave Boydell the appearance of a finished gentleman, and his fine address added to the impression he created of eminent respectability. He accepted the position, and our business was speedily accomplished. I requested him to call on the following day, when I would be able to make the final arrangements for our departure, and he left with a dignified bow.

Gathering together a company of actors and actresses from nowhere in particular, and attempting to form them into something like an organized troupe, is not by any means the most encouraging work with which one might employ himself. Again and again my patience was exhausted, and again and again I resolved to persevere. Several times we had almost been ready for action, when somebody would “back out,” and throw us once more into confusion. Now, however, I determined to surmount every difficulty, no matter what, so that the next train might bear us _en route_ for the West.

In the midst of the morning’s turmoil, Boydell made his appearance. I informed him of our arrangements, inquired where he kept his baggage, and told him I would send for it immediately.

“That will be unnecessary, as I have it with me. This, Sir, is my baggage.”

While Boydell spoke, he put his hand back into his coat-tail pocket and quietly drew out a scratch wig. I looked at his face to find something which might belie the dignified voice, but there was not even the shadow of a smile breaking up its gravity. His countenance was as composed when he returned the wig to his pocket as though he had just shown to my admiring gaze a complete wardrobe of great magnificence. Indeed, I was so impressed by his aristocratic manner, that the ludicrous aspect of the interview hardly presented itself to me until it was over.

But I had no time to be amused, and, with the annoying trials that would turn up where I least expected them, no inclination. When I sent round for the luggage I found that two of the boys had “shoved up their trunks at their uncle’s,” and, as it was the last moment, I was compelled to redeem them. Then I hired a carriage, and went to conduct the _soubrette_, to the depot. When I arrived in front of the house, _Madame_, _la mere_, came out and informed me that her daughter could not go, would not go, unless I gave them fifteen dollars to get her front teeth away from the dentist’s! What could we do without a _soubrette_? With a groan I handed over the fifteen dollars.

Playing in the smaller towns along our route, we cleared our traveling expenses, and got into pretty good working order.

When we arrived at St. Joseph we gathered up all our strength, and came out in full glory as “The New York Star Company.” There we played for three weeks to crowded audiences. On “salary days” the money was forthcoming, a rare occurrence with strolling actors, and of course we were all greatly delighted.

Under such circumstances our spirits ran high, and each one began to tell of the particular _rôles_ in which he or she had, in days gone by, electrified an audience and won applause. Boydell caught the infection. It happened that we had been running plays in which the “first old man” was, at best, only a “stick” part, and Boydell fretted considerably at his ill-luck. One night he came into the green-room, and to his inexpressible joy found himself cast for the part of “Colonel Damas” in Bulwer’s comedy of the “Lady of Lyons.” Now this was his pet _rôle_, and at the intelligence he felt all his dramatic genius kindle into a fresh flame.

“Boys,” he said, straightening up his dignified form, “Boys, you will see me make a great hit to-night. The passage commencing, ‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman is a chameleon, and doth feed on air,’ has never been to my mind rightly given.”

Many of us had seen him do pretty well before, but now we looked forward to such an effort as the stage in St. Joseph had never witnessed.

The next evening I repaired to the theater half an hour earlier than usual, but found Boydell already dressed for the play. His shabby black coat looked more eminently respectable than ever, and was buttoned over smooth white linen, or what he made answer the purpose of linen,—half a yard of paper muslin folded into tucks, and pinned to his paper collar. In his hand ready for use he held his one valuable—the scratch wig. It still lacked a few minutes before he would be called, and he disappeared, as he said, to “steady his nerves.” Various winks and knowing looks passed among the boys; such disappearances on his part at this time of the evening were by no means rare or unaccountable.

Boydell came back and went directly on the stage. The excitement behind the scenes grew, for, although few of us would admit it, we all knew Boydell was a born actor, and we clustered eagerly around the wings in breathless expectation.

He started out with dramatic gesture,—

“‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman
Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air—
On air—air—’”

Suddenly his voice grew fainter, and his sentences incoherent. Those few moments he had spent in “steadying his nerves” had taken every line of the text from his memory. He could barely keep upon his feet and blunder through his part with thick voice and uncertain step. He was fully aware of his powerless condition, and came off with a moody, crestfallen countenance.

When the curtain finally dropped, as it was Monday night, they all assembled to receive their salary. Boydell stood a little apart from the others, leaning against a flat. One of the boys came forward and delivering a long, elaborate speech in the name of all the members, presented Boydell with a tin snuff-box to hold his wardrobe—“As a token of their appreciation of the great ‘hit’ he had made, and the glory it would reflect upon the troupe.”

That night Boydell, from some unknown source, had scraped up two shillings.

He could take twice the quantity of liquor that would intoxicate any other man, and beyond a redness of the nose and a flushed glistening appearance about the “gills,” he manifested no symptom of intemperance. He had a trick of using his hand as a shield around the glass and pouring in whisky to the very brim, so he always got a double drink for one price. When the boys asked him why he held the tumbler in that peculiar manner, “It was habit,” he said, “merely habit.” I remember at Lawrence, Kansas, they had unusually small glasses, and he went into a logical discussion with the bar-keeper to show the evil of the thing. It was wrong; it looked mean; it would ruin his custom. Not that he (Boydell) cared; it was nothing to him, it was only the _principle_ he objected to; it appeared penurious.

Boxing, I found, was the one thing—aside from his acting—upon which Boydell prided himself. If he heard of a person about the neighborhood who made any pretentions in this respect, he would walk miles through rain or mud to vanquish the “presumptuous fool.” I could not keep from feeling interested in this singular man. Reared in the English colleges, with the polish of the classics upon him, destined and trained for the British army, he had given it all up for this worthless, roving, vagabond life. And yet—although degraded, intemperate, and often profane—there was still a natural reserve about Boydell that commanded respect.

Our expenses had been steadily increasing, and our finances did not prove equal to the demand; at least they would not justify a longer run. We played two weeks at Leavenworth City, and disbanded, scattering in all directions.

I went home to M—— with a feeling of unutterable relief. My theatrical experience had brought me to the determination of letting the stage alone for the present, or trying it in a different capacity. Devoting my whole time to a more lucrative business, I heard nothing about any of the old troupe, and I did not care to see one of them again, unless it was Boydell. I had little hope of ever meeting him; it would be mere chance if I did, and I knew he might just as likely now be in Europe or Australia as in this country. But we were destined once more to come in contact.

M—— was a flat, muddy, thriving little town in Western Illinois. It had built a theater, and was a focus for strolling actors and adventurers—a kind of center, where the remnant of theatrical troupes that had come to grief straggled in to recruit. The citizens did not consider this a very distinguishing characteristic to boast of, but in reality it was what raised the place out of oblivion; otherwise its few thousand inhabitants might, like their neighbors, have lived for ever in obscurity.

Early last Summer a business engagement took me to the suburbs of this town. The atmosphere was clear as crystal and glittering with sunshine. The cherries hung dead-ripe upon the trees; the blackbirds chattered about them to each other with red-stained bills, and the cats, stretched lazily in the sunshine, watched the winged robbers with no charitable feelings. The leaves, if they were thirsty, complained but gently, and in the dry and pleasant fields the grasshoppers, without flagging, held a jubilee, and from the level pastures farther off came the sound of distant bells, and sometimes, close by the roadside, the farmers whetted their scythes.

Coming towards me a man upon the turnpike was approaching the town on foot. As we neared each other, old recollections came back upon me. Yes, that tall erect figure seemed familiar—it was Boydell coming into M—— from parts unknown.

The same coat I had seen do such good service, only a little shinier now, was buttoned over the same—no, it was likely another piece of paper muslin. On his feet were a pair of shoes, a present undoubtedly, which lacked a size or more in length; but this trouble had been remedied by cutting out the counters, and strapping down his pantaloons to cover his naked heels. The fact that I knew his high silk hat, the one of olden times, had lost its crown, was owing entirely to the elevation I gained by being on horseback. Under other circumstances it would never have been discovered, for the edges were trimmed smoothly round, and Boydell, as I said, was tall.

And so I met him again, the same courtly vagabond, the same Boydell of former days. His bearing was majestic, almost regal; his dress was—a respectable shell. But there seemed to be a change, too. He did not look any older, although I noticed a little silver had sprinkled itself through his thick waving hair since we had parted, but there was something about his eyes that did not appear natural, and a tired, a weary expression sat upon his face—an expression I had never seen there before. Perhaps he had walked many miles.

I looked after him as he went on towards the town, thinking what an unsettled, wild, worthless life he led, this man with the divine gift of genius, this vagrant with the clinging air of gentility. Maybe fate was against him; maybe he really had higher aspirations; but without friends, without home, the cold, unsympathetic world had crushed them; and still watching, it suddenly entered my head how easily I could guess the contents of his coat-tail pocket!

Some little time after this meeting, when Boydell had almost passed out of my mind, a gentleman called at my office, and during our conversation told me about a case of destitution that had accidentally come to his knowledge. At first I listened with well-bred indifference, for the experience I had acquired thoroughly cured all my philanthropic symptoms with which I had once been afflicted, but when he related the circumstances my interest awakened.

A man, a stranger, had stopped at the tavern on the suburbs of the town and fallen sick. He had no money, no friends, indeed he had not even a shirt to his back, and the landlord threatened to turn him out, utterly helpless as he was. I suddenly thought of Boydell, and inquired the man’s name. My friend could not recall it, but said he represented himself as an actor; though the landlord did not place much reliance on this statement, for the fellow had no wardrobe of any description, and the only thing in his possession was a scratch wig, which a black-leg would be as likely to own as an actor. This dispelled what little doubt had remained in my mind. It was Boydell, and something must be done at once for his relief.

Generosity does not prevail in any profession to a greater extent, especially among the lower members, than it does in the dramatic. As it was the hour for rehearsal, we went up to the theater. We told of Boydell’s condition, and I related what I knew of his history. One appeal was sufficient; the contribution they made up would at least relieve his present wants.

There, at the tavern, we found him in a stupor. Neglected, without the barest necessities, he had had no medical attendance of any kind. In a room high up under the roof he was lying across a broken bedstead, on a worn-out husk mattress, with nothing to shade him from the fierce, blazing sun or the crawling flies that kept up a loud, incessant buzz. And he had been sick eight days. On the floor old Mounse had crammed himself into the one shady corner.

Old Mounse was a besotted beggar round town who had arrived at the state where the rims of his eyelids appeared to be turned inside out and resembled raw beefsteak. The landlady, who was somewhat more compassionate than her worser half, fearing that Boydell might die on her hands, had sent up old Mounse, an hour ago, with a little gruel which he had swallowed himself, and was then peacefully snoring in the corner.

We sent immediately for a physician, and employed ourselves in having Boydell removed to another apartment, where, at least, he might escape being broiled to death by the sun, or devoured by flies. When the doctor arrived, we had him fixed in quite comfortable quarters. Boydell’s disease, as we feared, was a severe form of the typhoid fever. From the lifeless stupor, he suddenly broke into the wild ravings of delirium, so that our combined strength could hardly avail to keep him upon the bed.

We reinstated old Mounse on his watch, only with strict orders that the granulated eyelids were to be kept wide open. Old Mounse was one of those rare persons with the _delirium tremens_, who had hovered on the verge of dissolution for thirty years, and still lived along. Palsied and feeble, and crippled and unshaven, and dirty and whiny, he just managed to keep himself on this side of the grave. The adjective “old,” which had become a prefix to his name, could not have been better applied, for his clothes, too, were ready at any moment to keep him company and return to their original element. Old Mounse’s one merit was, he had become so aged that he could just do what he was told and nothing more. The case had assumed altogether a new aspect to him, now that Boydell seemed to have friends.

Every day the doctor reported the condition of his patient, which grew more and more unfavorable, until one morning he came and told us he thought Boydell had not over twenty-four hours to live. We went immediately to the tavern with him. Boydell, for the first time since his illness, was perfectly conscious. Here, in the silence of this barren room, unhallowed by the presence of sorrowing ones, the wild, reckless life was drawing to a close. It seemed as if the specter hands of death were already stretched out to snap the last binding thread. The face on the pillow, haggard and ghastly with its hollow cheeks, very little resembled the one over which that weary, indefinable expression, the shadow, the forerunner of the fever, had crept but three weeks ago. Boydell recognized me, and motioned to a chair beside the bed. He made two or three efforts before he spoke.

“I am going to die—”

We could only answer by silence. It was something terrible to see this strong man, now weaker than an infant, lie calmly on the brink of eternity; even old Mounse dropped his beefy lids, and drew back with a subdued sniffle of awe. We asked if there was any thing that he wished done. After a little he turned his head that his voice might the better reach us.

“I have relatives—it will not matter to them that I am gone; they hold themselves up in the world; it will only be a disgrace wiped out; but—I would like them to know, and when I am dead, why—I wish you would please write to—to my brother. I have not heard from him for nearly fifteen years.”

He closed his eyes, and seemed to dream, but presently roused himself, and looked anxiously about the room.

“There was something else—oh, yes. Tell him that—I am gone. He is rector of St. Paul’s Church, S——, Lower Canada.” He paused and then said slowly, as though repeating his words for the first time, “It is no matter—but tell him I am—dead.”

He felt up and down the seam of the quilt feebly with his fingers, then closed his eyes again in unconsciousness.

All day the dread phantom hands seemed to hover closer to that quivering thread of life, until sometimes we almost thought it broken; but at nightfall they receded, and the shred strengthened. There was a change for the better, and Boydell fell into soft, natural slumber.

Several days after this it occurred to me that if Boydell had relatives in Canada who were well off, they ought to help him in his time of need. Without making him or any one else acquainted with my intention, I wrote a letter setting forth Boydell’s illness and utterly destitute condition among strangers. As they held no communication with Boydell, they would hardly be willing to send him the money. I was unknown, and to assure them it was no imposition, I wrote if they wished to send any assistance, direct “To the Pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, M——, Illinois.”

About a week later that minister came to me and showed a letter post-marked S——, which contained a check for three hundred dollars. It specified that the money was to be given to Boydell only on condition that he would promise to renounce the stage forever, and so soon as he was able to travel, come home to his relatives. I felt delighted at the success of my plan, for of course he would accept the money, and whether he fulfilled his promise afterwards by renouncing the stage and going home to Canada, which would be extremely doubtful, I considered was no business of mine.

When we entered his room, Boydell was propped up almost in a sitting posture by pillows. The window-shutter had been thrown partly open to admit the air, and a narrow streak of sunlight fell across the bed. We told him of the good news, and after we had made him understand how it had all come about, read the letter aloud. He listened in perfect silence, without changing position, and when it was finished, took the check and said,—

“Three hundred dollars?”

“Yes,” we said, “it is three hundred dollars.”

He held the slip of paper in his emaciated hands, that trembled with weakness, and repeated,—

“Three hundred dollars—”

He seemed trying to convince himself of its reality; but suddenly a bewildered expression broke over his face, and he looked from the check to the letter, which still laid open. We asked Boydell if he wished to hear it again, but at the second reading his bewilderment only seemed to increase. He looked at us with an inquiring gaze that wandered round the bare, desolate room, and settled on the strip of blue sky in the window. Then he said, as if asking himself the question,—

“Give up the stage? Renounce the stage?”

His eyes came back to the money in his hand. Presently he folded it up, pressing the creases with his thin fingers, and slowly holding it out, shook his head saying,—

“Send it back.”

The ribbon of sunlight had crept further and further round until it stretched itself across the broad, white forehead, and we stood in greater awe than when the angel of death had hovered there. Suddenly before us a dazzling ray had flashed out from the black waste of that sinful life. The unbroken check went back to Canada.

A month later I was riding in the country. A purple light overhung the shadowy prairie, which stretched away, broad, level and without bound. Occasionally a wild bird rose up and darted with swift wings, seeking a resting place, for already the September moon waited the coming night. Nearer, the tall weeds raised themselves from the great, soundless ocean of grass, like the masts of receding vessels. A single wagon, the only object on all the void prairie, stood out bold and sharp against the bright line of the horizon, and clearly defined above the driver, high up on top of the hay, the figure of a man cut the sky. Even at that distance I knew it was Boydell.

Some one had given him a little money, and with renewed health and spirits he was going out of M——. Whither?

THE DEATH-WATCH.

“Didn’t you hear it?”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“No.”

“They say it foretells death. Hush!”

The two men sat motionless. Not a sound broke the silence, not even a creak of the old boards in the floor, or a sigh of the wind, or a flapping shutter.

“They say it foretells death. I heard it last night and the night before. What’s that?”

“Nothing. It’s stiller than a graveyard.”

“I heard it last night, and the night before about this time, near one. ’Taint a very pleasant sound, and this old garret’s dismal enough any way.”

“Monk, you’re afeard. It’s nothing. Don’t waste no more time. I’m dead-tired and sleepy. You wouldn’t have been in this old hole now if it hadn’t been for Peters.”

“No, if it hadn’t been for Peters, the strike, like enough, would have took. But he won’t stand in nobody’s way again.”

While Monk spoke, he drew out a sharp, slender knife, and ran his finger along the blade.

“I tell you, Shiflet, we must do it the night after this blast’s done, and the men in the shed say the coal will run out on the 6th, that’s to-morrow. When Peters is fixed, the managers will have to give in or quit runnin’ the furnace.”

Both men sat with their arms leaning on the table, and the flickering light of the tallow candle between them showed two faces, rough, begrimed by smoke and soot, and disfigured by evil passions, that grew fiercer as they calmly plotted against the life of a fellow-being.

“We’ll meet at one, where the roads cross. It’ll be quiet then, and Peters’s house is alone.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Shiflet, with a grin that rendered his brute-like countenance doubly repulsive. “I’m confounded tired. Bring your candle and light me down them infernal stairs.”

The men stood up. Monk, small and slim, was dwarfed by the almost giant stature of his companion. With a few parting words as to secrecy and silence, they separated.

Monk stood on the upper step until Shiflet disappeared, then closed the door and replaced the candle on the table.

The room, neither large nor small, was a mere hole, smoked, dirty, and unplastered, high up in a frame tenement-house. Two or three chairs, an old chest of drawers, a rickety bedstead, and pine table, composed its furniture. Some old boots and broken pieces of pig-iron lay scattered about. The small, box-shaped window was set just below where the ceiling or roof sloped to the wall. The only door led directly to the stairs that went down two, three flights to the ground. There were many such places in Agatha, where the furnace-hands lived.

Monk walked rapidly up and down the room, as if making an effort to wear off the excitement that the last few moments had brought upon him. His features had lost much of the malignant expression, which was by no means habitual. His countenance was not hardened or stamped with the impress of crime like Shiflet’s, who had just parted from him at the door—a countenance in which every trace of conscience had long ago been erased. Monk’s face was neither good nor bad, neither bright nor dull; but he was a man easily wrought into a passion, governed by impulse.

Crossing to the table, he slung his coat over a chair, and stretched out his hand to extinguish the light. Midway in the action he suddenly checked himself, looked hurriedly around the room for an instant, and stood motionless, with inclined head, listening intently. Not a sound disturbed the stillness. Pinching out the light, he threw himself on the bed, and in the darkness there soon came the heavy, regular respiration of sleep.

The house at Agatha nestled under the north cliff. A hundred feet above them the railroad lost itself in the black mouth of a tunnel and reappeared beyond, a high wall of trestlework stretching southward down the valley to Ely’s Mines. Hours ago, the toiling men and cattle had lain down to rest, and now the wild, rocky hills around slept in the moonlight. No sound broke upon the stillness but the muffled puff, puff, of the furnace, and a murmur of frogs that rose and fell interruptedly along the shrunken water-course. The cabins under the cliff shone white and sharp; the iron on the metal-switch flashed with a million gems; the rails upon the trestle, receding, turned to silver, and the foliage of early Summer glittered on the trees. A few passionless stars blinked feebly in the yellow light, where the hill-tops cut against the sky, and sank below the verge. Calmly, peacefully waned the night—calmly and peacefully, as though the spirit of evil had not stalked abroad plotting the death and ruin of men’s bodies and souls.

That narrow spot of ground, with the houses down in the valley, formed the world for four hundred people. The furnace-hands and their families saw nothing beyond the hills and rocks that hemmed in their village; knew nothing of the mad tumults outside. An untaught, sturdy race of men, they differed little one from another. Every day, when the sun rose, they went forth to toil, and every night, when the great furnace over the creek glimmered red, they lay down to sleep. But ignorance and superstition filled their hearts, and anger, and hate, and jealousy, were as rife among them as in the crowded cities.

Another day passed, and the night which followed it was dark and cloudy. Near midnight, the great bell signalled for the last run of iron. Occasionally blue flames leaped up from the furnace, lurid as the fiery tongues of a volcano. The long and narrow roof brooded over the sand-bed like the black wings of some monster bird hovering in the air. Under its shadow groups of men were but wavering, dusky figures. Suddenly, as an electric flash, a dazzling yellow glare broke out, and a fierce, scorching, withering blast swept from an opening that seemed the mouth of hell itself. Slowly out of the burning cavern a hissing stream of molten iron came creeping down. It crawled, and turned and crawled, rib after rib, until it lay like some huge skeleton stretched upon the ground. A thin vapor floated up in the sulphurous air and quivered with reflected splendor. The scarlet-shirted men looked weird in the unearthly brightness. The yellow glow faded to red, that deepened to a blood-colored spot in the night. The bell rang to discharge the hands, and squads of men broke up, scattering in the dark.

Monk went to his garret-room, hesitated a moment at the door, then passed in and shut it so violently that the floor shook. He struck a match. In the brimstone light a horrible demon countenance wavered, blue and ghastly; but, when the candle flamed, it grew into Monk’s face, covered by the black scowl of rage that had disfigured it once before—a rage that was freshly roused.

“If I’d had my knife, I’d have done it just now, when I stumbled against him. But he dies to-morrow night at—”

The words froze on his lips, and his black scowling face was suddenly overspread by a strange pallor. He stood motionless, as if chained to the floor, his eyes darted quickly about, and he seemed to suspend his very breath.

A clear, distinct, ticking sound occurred at regular intervals for a minute, and left profound silence.

Monk raised his head.

“It’s a sign of coming death. That’s for Peters. There it is again!”

The strange sound, like a faint metallic click, repeated itself several times.

“D—n it! I don’t like to hear the thing. But there _will_ be a sudden death.”

Time after time Monk heard at intervals the same faint sound, like the ticking of a watch for a minute, and it made his blood run cold. He found himself listening to it with terror, and in the long silence, always straining his ears to catch it, always expecting, dreading its repetition, until the thing grew more horrible to him than a nightmare. Sometimes he would fall into a doze, and, wakening with a start, hear it, while cold perspiration broke in drops on his forehead.

It grew intolerable. He swore he would find the thing and kill it, but it mocked him in his search. The sound seemed to come from the table, but when he stood beside the table it ticked so distinctly at the window that he thought he could put his finger on the spot; but when he tried to, it had changed again, and sounded at the head of his bed. Sometimes it seemed close at his right, and he turned only to hear it on the other side, then in front, then behind. Again and again he searched, and swore in his exasperation and disappointment.

The sound became exaggerated by his distempered imagination, till he trembled lest some one else should hear this omen which so plainly foretold his anticipated crime. Once an hour dragged by, and his unseen tormentor was silent. His eyes, that had glittered with deathly hatred, now wore a startled look, and wandered restlessly about the room.

An owl, that perched on the topmost branch of a high tree near by, screamed loud and long. A bat flew in at the open window, banged against the ceiling, and darted out.

Monk shivered. Leaning his head between his arms, he drummed nervously on the table with his fingers. Instantly the clear metallic click sounded again. He looked up, and a strange light broke into his face, a mixed expression of amazement and fright. For a moment he seemed stupefied, then raising his hand he tapped lightly against the wood with his finger-nail. The last tap had not died until it was answered by what seemed like a fainter repetition of itself.

Uttering a fearful oath, Monk recoiled from the table, but, as if drawn back and held by a weird fascination, he sat an hour striking the hard surface with his nails, and pausing for the response that each time came clear and distinct.

Gray streaks crept along the east, and quivered like a faded fringe bordering the black canopy. Still he sat tapping, but no answer came. He waited, listened vainly; no echo, no sound, and the dull, hueless light of the cloudy morning glimmered at his window. Then he threw himself on his bed, and fell into restless slumbers.

A damp thick fog enveloped the houses in its slimy embrace. At nightfall its reeking folds gathered themselves from the ground, and a noiseless drizzle came sullenly down.

Monk had not stirred from his room all day. The feverish sleep into which he had fallen fled from him before noon, and now he stood at his window looking out into the blackness. A clammy air blew against his face. He stretched out his hand and drew it back suddenly, as if he had touched the dead. It was cold and moist. He rubbed it violently against his clothes, as though he could not wipe off the dampness. A tremor seized upon him. Hark! was that the dripping of water? No. A sickly smile played over his countenance. He went to the table and tapped lightly with his fingers, as he had done before. In another moment the taps were answered, and he involuntarily counted as they came, one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—then all was silent. He made the call a second time, he tried it over and over, and at each response it ticked seven times, never more, never less, but seven times clearly, distinctly. Suddenly he sprang up, and through shut teeth hissed,—

“The seventh day, by Heaven! But I’ll cheat you—I’ll not kill him!”

He darted noiselessly down the stairs, and struck out through the woods. In half an hour he emerged on the edge of a clearing, a dozen yards from a chopper’s cabin. Creeping stealthily to the door he shook it, then after a moment’s irresolution cried out,—

“Peters! Peters! look out for Shiflet. He has sworn to murder you to-night.”

Without waiting for a reply he sprang away, and was quickly lost among the trees.

A moment afterward a tall form arose out of the shadow of a stump near the cabin, and passed rapidly in an opposite direction.

At the summit of the hill east of Agatha, a steep precipice is formed by a great, bare, projecting rock. From the valley, its outline resembles an enormous face in profile, and they call it “The Devil’s Head.” The full moon rendered the unbroken mass of cloud translucent, producing a peculiar sinister effect. The mist still blew through the air, but in the zenith there was a dull ashen hue, and the surrounding cloud was the color of earth. The far-off hills loomed up majestic, terrible, against the gloom; nearer objects were strangely magnified in the tawny light. At the foot of this phantom crag, on a terrace, is the ore-bank and blackened coal-shed. Below rose the metal-stack, from whose stone hearth a waste of sand sloped gently to the creek. The furnace squatted grim and black. Its blood-shot eye was shut; its gaping throat uttered no sigh, no groan; its throbbing pulse was stilled—the fierce, struggling monster was dead. The only bright spot in all the valley was the yellow circle made by the watchman’s lantern in the coal-shed.

After leaving the “choppings,” Monk threaded his way through the forest, coming out at last on the open road. This road led directly over the “Devil’s Head,” and entered the valley by a steep descent half a mile to the south. At the precipice Monk paused. The wind eddied with a mournful wail, and the constant motion of tall trees gave the scene almost the wavering, unsubstantial appearance of a vision. There was something oppressive in this strange midnight twilight, but Monk did not feel it. He only felt relief, inexpressible relief; he only stopped there to breathe, to breathe freely once more with the heavy weight thrown from him.

After a moment he ran carelessly down the hill, passed under the ore-cars and into the coal-shed. He hailed Patterson, the watchman, and the lantern threw gigantic shadows of the two men over the ground. Then he walked along the narrow cinder-road leading to the bridge over the creek. Sometimes the willows, that grew on either side, swept their damp hair against his face. An hour ago he would have started convulsively, now he heeded not, for he was free and light of heart.

Monk reached the stairs, and ascended to his room. As he passed in, the powerful figure of Shiflet sprang upon him from behind. There was a scuffle, some muttered oaths, then a heavy fall. Monk lay stretched upon the floor motionless, lifeless, and the echo of fleeing steps died away, leaving the place still as the now silent death-watch.

THE MAN AT THE CRIB.[1]

One morning in the Spring of 1867—whether in April or May I am now unable certainly to determine, but think it was in the latter month—I was sitting at the breakfast-table, leisurely reading the morning paper, and enjoying my last cup of coffee, when my eye accidentally fell upon the following advertisement:—

“WANTED—A reliable man to take charge of the Crib. An unmarried German
preferred. One who can come well recommended, and give bond for
faithful performance of duty, will receive a liberal salary. Apply
immediately to the Board of Public Works, Pumping Department, Nos. 15
and 17 South Wells Street.”

Footnote 1:

The Crib is the name given to the isolated structure at the opening of
the Chicago Water Works tunnel, in the lake, two miles from the shore.

My attention was arrested by the thought of so strange an occupation, and whether any one would be found willing to accept the situation and live alone in the crib two miles from the shore. There all companionship would be cut off, and I wondered what effect the utter solitude and confinement in the small round building rising out of the water, with little in the scenery to relieve the eye, and nothing to rest the ear from the continual dashing of the waves against the frame sides—I wondered what effect it would have upon the occupant.

It happened I had been lecturing before a class of medical students in one of our colleges upon the relation of mind to body, and it occurred to me that this crib-tender might prove an illustration of my theory. His mind would have afforded it an opportunity to prey upon itself, and might become perverted. Under certain circumstances the mental exerts an influence over the physical system, aside from the voluntary volition of the will, and it frequently transpires that what is mere illusion in the spiritual nature appears a reality to the material, so closely are the two linked together.

My interest being awakened, I secretly determined that I would try to discover who accepted this situation, and notice, if possible, what effect it would produce upon the keeper. Some time later I learned that the above advertisement had been answered the same day (the exact date I can not remember) by a German, one Gustav Stahlmann, who presented himself at the address indicated, and applied for the situation. After a slight examination he proved satisfactory in every respect. His recommendations were of the highest kind and bore testimony to his strict integrity and upright character.

The position was accordingly offered to him, provided he would be willing to comply with certain conditions. First, that in accepting it he would bind himself to remain in the situation at least two years; and, secondly, that during that period, he would upon no occasion or pretense whatever, leave the crib. He manifested little hesitation in assenting to these requirements, as the salary was good, and an opportunity afforded for resting from the severe labor to which he had been accustomed.

All necessary arrangements were completed, and upon the following day, with his dog for the sole companion of his future home, he had been taken out and instructed in the duties of his office. These were few and light, consisting mainly of attention to the water-gates of the tunnel, opening and closing them as required, and removing any obstructions which might clog their action. At night he was to trim and light the lamp which had been placed on the apex of the roof as a warning to passing vessels. This was all; the remainder of the time lay at his own disposal. A boy might readily have accomplished this labor, and he congratulated himself upon his good luck in securing so easy a berth—one, too, which yielded a good income.

The first time I saw Stahlmann myself was soon after he had accepted the situation. If I recollect rightly, he told me he had been a month on the Crib. I had rowed myself out from the foot of Twelfth Street in a small boat.

At this early period in its history the Crib was not so well finished and comfortable as now, but was bare and barn-like, being in fact nothing more than a round unplastered house, rising out of the lake. The wooden floor, which was some fifteen feet above the water, contained in its center a well about six feet in diameter, around which arose the iron rods of the water-gates. A small room, the only apartment, had been partitioned off by three plank walls from the southeastern part of the circular interior, and furnished for the abode of the keeper. If it were rough, there was all present that he could reasonably desire for his comfort. A sufficient supply of provisions were delivered to him once a month by a tug-boat from the city.

I found Stahlmann to be a man rather above the medium height, with a broad muscular frame, but there were no evidences of sluggishness in his movements; on the contrary, his elasticity and gracefulness betokened great powers of endurance, and indicated to me activity both of body and mind. He was perhaps thirty-five years of age, and his frank, open countenance was marked by regular features of a somewhat intellectual cast; honesty and principle were plainly visible in his face, and a ready command of language betrayed considerable education. He impressed me as superior to the majority of men in his rank of life, and from this conclusion I was none the less driven by the appearance of his coarse and soiled clothing. I engaged him in conversation, into which he was easily drawn, and I was surprised by the native love of the beautiful which he evidently possessed. He seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out the beauties in the scene that laid before our view.

The sun was scarcely an hour high, and we could hardly turn our eyes eastward for the splendor of his rays reflected on the water. To the north the sea-like horizon was flecked by the white sails of retreating vessels, some hull-down in the distance, others uncertain specks vanishing from our range of vision. Stretching along the shore to the westward, Chicago shot a hundred spires, glistening and glorified, into the morning sunlight, while just opposite us stood the grim lighthouse, a motionless sentinel keeping watch over the harbor.

I admitted the attraction of the scene, and made an effort to turn the conversation to his private life. He was easily led to talk of himself, although he did it in a natural and unaffected manner. I gathered that he was born in Bavaria, and that when he had attained his sixteenth year, some difficulty had driven his parents to this country. They were well educated, but misfortune compelled them, on their arrival, to put their son to labor. The instruction he had received in the Fatherland had evidently strengthened his powers of observation and quickened his understanding.

I asked him if he did not find his life at the Crib very tiresome, and what he did to pass away the time. I remarked that I believed, if I were in his place, I would be smitten most fearfully with the blues. He laughed good humoredly, and said he had never been troubled in that manner, that there were daily a great number of visitors, curiosity-seekers, which the Crib attracted, as it was altogether novel, and had but just been completed. Then he said he had his dog for companionship, and that they lived very pleasantly together. He was evidently much attached to this animal, whom he called Caspar, for he frequently interrupted the conversation to stroke it on the head. I was astonished to find him well acquainted with the current news of the day, but he readily explained this, for usually some one who came out carried a paper, which was willingly given to him, and having nothing else to occupy his time he read it much more carefully than we do who are in the turmoil of the city.

Towards the middle of the day I left him, almost envying his peaceful life and happy contentment, yet doubting if this would last long, for, after the novelty wore away, I could not help thinking that he might find his solitary existence less pleasing. I had become wonderfully interested in this man, and determined to pay him another visit when I could again find half a day to devote to pleasure.

It was not, however, until the following September that I could spare time for another trip to the Crib. This visit, as I said, had been prompted out of curiosity to watch the effects of this solitary life upon Stahlmann. Although four months had elapsed, I found him situated just as I had left him, and by the appearance of the surroundings, I might have almost believed it was but yesterday I had looked upon him. When I remarked this to him, I noticed a peculiar smile play across his features, and it struck me that his face had not the same happy expression which had so pleased me before. I observed, too, that he carried himself in a listless manner, very unlike his former erect bearing. I found him, however, just as readily drawn into conversation, although some of his old enthusiasm was gone, and he manifested an evident disinclination to speak of himself, for when I made an effort to bring up the subject, he displayed considerable skill in evading it. This was repeated again and again until I found that he would not be forced to it, but I saw full well by his actions that he had already grown tired of his monotonous life. All my jokes about the solitude, which he had laughed at before, were now received in silence and with furtive glances. Evidently it had become a serious matter, and I dropped the disagreeable subject.