David Poindexter\'s Disappearance and Other Tales by Julian Hawthorne

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"Got it!" he exclaimed. "Say, John, old boy, I've got it! and it's the
most curious old thing ever you saw in your life!"

"Something in analytical geometry, isn't it?" said I, turning round on
my piano-stool.

"Analytical pudding's end! It's a plan of a house, my boy, and, what's
more, of this very house we're in! That's a find, and no mistake! These
are the descriptions and explanations--these bits of writing. It's a
perfect labyrinth of Crete! Udolpho was nothing to it!"

"Well, I suppose it isn't of much value except as a curiosity?"

"Don't be too sure of that, John, my boy! Who knows but there's a
treasure concealed somewhere in this house? or a skeleton in a secret
chamber! This old paper may make our fortune yet!"

"The treasure wouldn't belong to us if we found it; and, besides, we
can't make explorations beyond our own premises, and we know what's in
them already."

"Do we? Did we know what was behind the looking-glass? Did you never
hear of sliding panels, and private passages, and concealed staircases?
Where's your imagination, man? But you don't need imagination--here it
is in black and white!"

As he spoke, he pointed to a part of the plan; but, as I was stooping
to examine it, he seemed to change his mind.

"No matter," he exclaimed, suddenly folding up the paper and rising
from his chair. "You're not an architect, and you can't be expected to
go in for these things. No; there's no practical use in it, of course.
But secret passages were always a hobby of mine. Well, what are you
going to do this evening? Come over to the café and have a game of
billiards!"

"No; I shall go to bed early to-night."

"You sleep too much," said Paton. "Everybody does, if my father,
instead of inventing a way of promoting sleep, had invented a way of
doing without it, he'd have been the richest man in America to-day.
However, do as you like. I sha'n't be back till late."

He put on his hat and sallied forth with a cigar in his mouth. Paton
was of rather a convivial turn; he liked to have a good time, as he
called it; and, indeed, he seemed to think that the chief end of man
was to get money enough to have a good time continually, a sort of good
eternity. His head was strong, and he could stand a great deal of
liquor; and I have seen him sip and savor a glass of raw brandy or
whisky as another man would a glass of Madeira. In this, and the other
phases of his life about town, I had no participation, being
constitutionally as well as by training averse therefrom; and he, on
the other hand, would never have listened to my sage advice to modify
his loose habits. Our companionship was apart from these things; and,
as I have said, I found in him a good deal that I could sympathize
with, without approaching the moralities.

That night, after I had been for some time asleep, I awoke and found
myself listening to a scratching and shoving noise that seemed quite
unaccountable. By-and-by it made me uneasy. I got up and went toward
the parlor, from which the noise proceeded. On reaching the doorway, I
saw Paton on his knees before one of the pilasters in the narrow end of
the room; a candle was on the floor beside him, and he was busily at
work at something, though what it was I could not make out. The creak
of the threshold under my foot caused him to look round. He started
violently, and sprang to his feet.

"Oh! it's you, is it?" he said, after a moment. "Great Scott! how you
scared me! I was--I dropped a bit of money hereabouts, and I was
scraping about to find it. No matter--it wasn't much! Sorry I disturbed
you, old boy." And, laughing, he picked up his candle and went into his
own room.

From this time there was a change vaguely perceptible in our mutual
relations; we chatted together less than before, and did not see so
much of each other. Paton was apt to be out when I was at home, and
generally sat up after I was abed. He seemed to be busy about
something--something connected with his profession, I judged; but,
contrary to his former custom, he made no attempt to interest me in it.
To tell the truth, I had begun to realize that our different tastes and
pursuits must lead us further and further apart, and that our
separation could be only a question of time. Paton was a materialist,
and inclined to challenge all the laws and convictions that mankind has
instituted and adopted; there was no limit to his radicalism. For
example, on coming in one day, I found him with a curious antique
poniard in his hands, which he had probably bought in some old
curiosity shop. At first I fancied he meant to conceal it; but, if so,
he changed his mind.

"What do you think of that?" he said, holding it out to me. "There's a
solution of continuity for you! Mind you don't prick yourself! It's
poisoned up to the hilt!"

"What do you want of such a thing?" I asked.

"Well, killing began with Cain, and isn't likely to go out of fashion
in our day. I might find it convenient to give one of my friends--you,
for instance--a reminder of his mortality some time. You'll say murder
is immoral. Bless you, man, we never could do without it! No man dies
before his time, and some one dies every day that some one else may
live."

This was said in a jocose way, and, of course, Paton did not mean it.
But it affected me unpleasantly nevertheless.

As I was washing my hands in my room, I happened to look out of my
window, which commanded a view of the garden at the back of the house.
It was an hour after sunset, and the garden was nearly dark; but I
caught a movement of something below, and, looking more closely, I
recognized the ugly figure of the portier. He seemed to be tying
something to the end of a long slender pole, like a gigantic fishing-
rod; and presently he advanced beneath my window, and raised the pole
as high as it would go against the wall of the house. The point he
touched was the sill of the window below mine--probably that of the
bedroom of Herr Kragendorf. At this juncture the portier seemed to be
startled at something--possibly he saw me at my window; at all events,
he lowered his pole and disappeared in the house.

The next day Paton made an announcement that took me by surprise. He
said he had made up his mind to quit Germany, and that very shortly. He
mentioned having received letters from home, and declared he had got,
or should soon have got, all he wanted out of this country. "I'm going
to stop paying money for instruction," he said, "and begin to earn it
by work. I shall stay another week, but then I'm off. Too slow here for
me! I want to be in the midst of things, using my time."

I did not attempt to dissuade him; in fact, my first feeling was rather
one of relief; and this Paton, with his quick preceptions, was probably
aware of.

"Own up, old boy!" he said, laughing; "you'll be able to endure my
absence. And yet you needn't think of me as worse than anybody else. If
everybody were musicians and moralists, it would be nice, no doubt; but
one might get tired of it in time, and then what would you do? You must
give the scamps and adventurers their innings, after all! They may not
do much good, but they give the other fellows occupation. I was born
without my leave being asked, and I may act as suits me without asking
anybody's leave."

This was said on a certain bright morning after our first fall of snow;
the tiled roofs of the houses were whitened with it, it cushioned the
window-sills, and spread a sparkling blankness over the garden. In the
streets it was already melting, and people were slipping and splashing
on the wet and glistening pavements. After gazing out at this scene for
a while, in a mood of unwonted thoughtfulness, Paton yawned, stretched
himself, and declared his intention of taking a stroll before dinner.
Accordingly he lit a cigar and went forth. I watched him go down the
street and turn the corner.

An hour afterward, just when dinner was on the table, I heard an
unusual noise and shuffling on the stairs, and a heavy knock on the
door. I opened it, and saw four men bearing on a pallet the form of my
friend Paton. A police officer accompanied them. They brought Paton in,
and laid him on his bed. The officer told me briefly what had happened,
gave me certain directions, and, saying that a surgeon would arrive
immediately, he departed with the four men tramping behind him.

Paton had slipped in going across the street, and a tramway car had run
over him. He was not dead, though almost speechless; but his injuries
were such that it was impossible that he should recover. He kept his
eyes upon me; they were as bright as ever, though his face was deadly
pale. He seemed to be trying to read my thoughts--to find out my
feeling about him, and my opinion of his condition. I was terribly
shocked and grieved, and my face no doubt showed it. By-and-by I saw
his lips move, and bent down to listen.

"Confounded nuisance!" he whispered faintly in my car. "It's all right,
though; I'm not going to die this time. I've got something to do, and
I'm going to do it--devil take me if I don't!"

He was unable to say more, and soon after the surgeon came in. He made
an examination, and it was evident that he had no hope. His shrug of
the shoulders was not lost upon Paton, who frowned, and made a defiant
movement of the lip. But presently he said to me, still in the same
whisper, "John, if that old fool should be right--he won't be, but in
case of accidents--you must take charge of my things--the papers, and
all. I'll make you heir of my expectations! Write out a declaration to
that effect: I can sign my name; and he'll be witness."

I did as he directed, and having explained to the surgeon the nature of
the document, I put the pen in Paton's hand; but was obliged to guide
his hand with my own in order to make an intelligible signature. The
surgeon signed below, and Paton seemed satisfied. He closed his eyes;
his sufferings appeared to be very slight. But, even while I was
looking at him, a change came over his face--a deadly change. His eyes
opened; they were no longer bright, but sunken and dull. He gave me a
dusky look--whether of rage, of fear, or of entreaty, I could not tell.
His lips parted, and a voice made itself audible; not like his own
voice, but husky and discordant. "I'm going," it said. "But look out
for me.... Do it yourself!"

"Der Herr ist todt" (the man is dead), said the surgeon the next
minute.

It was true. Paton had gone out of this life at an hour's warning. What
purpose or desire his last words indicated, there was nothing to show.
He was dead; and yet I could hardly believe that it was so. He had been
so much alive; so full of schemes and enterprises. Nothing now was left
but that crushed and haggard figure, stiffening on the bed; nothing, at
least, that mortal senses could take cognizance of. It was a strange
thought.

Paton's funeral took place a few days afterward. I returned from the
graveyard weary in body and mind. At the door of the house stood the
portier, who nodded to me, and said,

"A very sad thing to happen, worthy sir; but so it is in the world. Of
all the occupants of this house, one would have said the one least
likely to be dead to-day was Herr Jeffries. Heh! if I had been the good
Providence, I would have made away with the old gentleman of the
_étage_ below, who is of no use to anybody."

This, for lack of a better, was Paton's funeral oration. I climbed the
three flights of stairs and let myself into our apartment--mine
exclusively now. The place was terribly lonely; much more so than if
Paton had been alive anywhere in the world. But he was dead; and, if
his own philosophy were true, he was annihilated. But it was not true!
How distinct and minute was my recollection of him--his look, his
gestures, the tones of his voice. I could almost see him before me; my
memory of him dead seemed clearer than when he was alive. In that
invisible world of the mind was he not living still, and perhaps not
far away.

I sat down at the table where he had been wont to work, and unlocked
the drawers in which he kept his papers. These, or some of them, I took
out and spread before me. But I found it impossible, as yet, to
concentrate my attention upon them; I pushed back my chair, and,
rising, went to the piano. Here I remained for perhaps a couple of
hours, striking the vague chords that echo wandering thoughts. I was
trying to banish this haunting image of Paton from my mind, and at
length I partly succeeded.

All at once, however, the impression of him (as I may call it) came
back with a force and vividness that startled me. I stopped playing,
and sat for a minute perfectly still. I felt that Paton was in the
room; that if I looked round I should see him. I however restrained
myself from looking round with all the strength of my will--wherefore I
know not. What I felt was not fear, but the conviction that I was on
the brink of a fearful and unprecedented experience--an experience
that would not leave me as it found me. This strange struggle with
myself taxed all my powers; the sweat started out on my forehead. At
last the moment came when I could struggle no longer. I laid my hand on
the keyboard, and pushed myself round on the stool. There was a
momentary dazzle before my eyes, and after that I saw plainly. My hand,
striking the keys, had produced a jarring discord; and while this was
yet tingling in my ears, Paton, who was sitting in his old place at the
table, with his back toward me, faced about in his chair, and his eyes
met mine. I thought he smiled.

My excitement was past, and was succeeded by a dead calm. I examined
him critically. His appearance was much the same as when in life; nay,
he was even more like himself than before. The subtle or crafty
expression which had always been discernible in his features was now
intensified, and there was something wild and covertly fierce in the
shining of his gray eyes, something that his smile was unable to
disguise. What was human and genial in my former friend had passed
away, and what remained was evil--the kind of evil that I now perceived
to have been at the base of his nature. It was a revelation of
character terrible in its naked completeness. I knew at a glance that
Paton must always have been a far more wicked man that I had ever
imagined; and in his present state all the remains of goodness had been
stripped away, and nothing but wickedness was left.

I felt impelled, by an impulse for which I could not account, to
approach the table and examine the papers once more; and now it entered
into my mind to perceive a certain method and meaning in them that had
been hidden from me before. It was as though I were looking at them
through Paton's intelligence, and with his memory. He had in some way
ceased to be visible to me; but I became aware that he wished me to sit
down in his chair, and I did so. Under his guidance, and in obedience
to a will that seemed to be my own, and yet was in direct opposition to
my real will, I began a systematic study of the papers. Paton,
meanwhile, remained close to me, though I could no longer see him; but
I felt the gaze of his fierce, shining eyes, and his crafty, evil
smile. I soon obtained a tolerable insight into what the papers meant,
and what was the scheme in which Paton had been so much absorbed at the
time of his death, and which he had been so loath to abandon.

It was a wicked and cruel scheme, worked out to the smallest
particular. But, though I understood its hideousness intellectually, it
aroused in mo no corresponding emotion; my sensitiveness to right arid
wrong seemed stupefied or inoperative. I could say, "This is wicked,"
but I could not awaken in myself a horror of committing the wickedness;
and, moreover, I knew that, if the influence Paton was able to exercise
over me continued, I must in due time commit it.

Presently I became aware, or, to speak more accurately, I seemed to
remember, that there was something in Paton's room which it was
incumbent on me to procure. I went thither, lifted up a corner of the
rag between the bed and the stove, and beheld, in an aperture in the
floor, of the existence of which I had till now known nothing, the
antique poisoned dagger that Paton had showed me a few weeks before,
and which I had not seen since then. I brought it back to the sitting-
room, put it in a drawer of the table, and locked the drawer, at the
same time making a mental note to the effect that I should reopen the
drawer at a certain hour of the night and take the dagger out. All this
while Paton was close at hand, though not visible to sight; but I had a
sort of inner perception of his presence and movements. All at once, at
about the hour of sunset, I saw him again; he moved toward the looking-
glass at the narrow end of the room, laid his hand upon one of the
pilasters, glanced at me over his shoulder, and immediately seemed to
stoop down. As I sat, the edge of the table hid him from sight. I stood
up and looked across. He was not there; and a kind of reaction of my
nerves informed me that he was gone absolutely, for the time.

This reaction produced a lassitude impossible to describe; it was
overpowering, and I had no choice but to yield to it. I dropped back in
my chair, leaned forward on the table, and instantly fell into a heavy
sleep, or stupor.

I awoke abruptly, with a sensation as if a hand had been laid on my
shoulder. It was night, and I knew that the hour I had noted in my mind
was at hand. I opened the drawer and took out the dagger, which I put
in my pocket. The house was quite silent. A shiver passed through me. I
was aware that Paton was standing at the narrow end of the room,
waiting for me: Yes--there he was, or the impression of him in my
brain--what did it matter? I arose mechanically and walked toward him.
He had no need to direct me: I knew all there was to do, and how to do
it. I knelt on the floor, laid my shoulder against the pilaster, and
pushed it laterally. It moved aside on a pivot, disclosing an iron ring
let into the floor. I laid hold of this ring, and lifted. A section of
the floor came up, and I saw a sort of ladder descending
perpendicularly into darkness. Down the ladder Paton went, and I
followed him. Arrived at the bottom, I turned to the left, led by an
instinct or a fascination; passed along a passage barely wide enough to
admit me, until I came against a smooth, hard surface. I passed my hand
over it until I touched a knob or catch, which I pressed, and the
surface gave way before me like a door. I stumbled forward, and found
myself in a room of what was doubtless Herr Kragendorf's apartment. A
keen, cold air smote against my face; and with it came a sudden influx
of strength and self-possession. I felt that, for a moment at least,
the fatal influence of Paton upon me was broken. But what was that
sound of a struggle--those cries and gasps, that seemed to come from an
adjoining room?

I sprang forward, opened a door, and beheld a tall old man, with white
hair and beard, in the grasp of a ruffian whom I at once recognized as
the portier. A broken window showed how he had effected his entrance.
One hand held the old man by the throat; in the other was a knife,
which he was prevented from using by a young woman, who had flung
herself upon him in such a way as to trammel his movements. In another
moment, however, he would have shaken her off.

But that moment was not allowed him. I seized him with a strength that
amazed myself--a strength which never came upon me before or since. The
conflict lasted but a breath or two; I hurled him to the floor, and, as
he fell, his right arm was doubled under him, and the knife which he
held entered his back beneath the left shoulder-blade. When I rose up
from the whirl and fury of the struggle, I saw the old man reclining
exhausted on the bosom of the girl. I knew him, despite his white hair
and beard. And the face that bent so lovingly above him was the face
that had looked into mine that night on the street--the face of the
blue-eyed maiden--of a younger and a lovelier Juliet! As I gazed, there
came a thundering summons at the door, and the police entered.

* * * * *

My poor uncle Körner had not prospered after his great stroke of
roguery. His wife had died of a broken heart, after giving birth to a
daughter, and his stolen riches had vanished almost as rapidly as they
were acquired. He had at last settled down with his daughter in this
old house. The treasure in the leathern bag, though a treasure to him,
was not of a nature to excite general cupidity. It consisted, not of
precious stones, but of relics of his dead wife--her rings, a lock of
her hair, her letters, a miniature of her in a gold case. These poor
keepsakes, and his daughter, had been the only solace of his lonely and
remorseful life.

It was uncertain whether Paton and the portier had planned the robbery
together, or separately, and in ignorance of each other's purpose. Nor
can I tell whether my disembodied visitor came to me with good or with
evil intent. Wicked spirits, even when they seem to have power to carry
out their purposes, are perhaps only permitted to do so, so far as is
consistent with an overruling good of which they know nothing.
Certainly, if I had not descended the secret passage, Körner would have
been killed, and perhaps my Juliet likewise--the mother of my children.
But should I have been led on to stab him myself, with the poisoned
dagger, had the portier not been there? Juliet smiles and says No, and
I am glad to agree with her. But I have never since then found that
anniversary upon me, without a shudder of awe, and a dark thought of
Paton Jeffries.

THE END.

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