From Whose Bourne - Robert Barr
FROM WHOSE BOURNE
BY ROBERT BARR (LUKE SHARP)
AUTHOR OF "IN A STEAMER CHAIR" ETC.
[Illustration: William Brenton.]
_WITH FORTY-SEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS
BY C.M.D. HAMMOND, G.D. HAMMOND, AND HAL HURST_
1893
TO
AN HONEST MAN
AND
A GOOD WOMAN
FROM WHOSE BOURNE
PRINCIPAL ILLUSTRATIONS:
Buel placed his portmanteau on the deck
William Brenton
"Do you think I shall be missed?"
He again sat in the rocking-chair
He saw standing beside him a stranger
A Venetian Cafe
Venice
In Venice
The Brenton Murder
Mrs. Brenton
Gold
Publicity
The Broken Toy
"She's pretty as a picture"
Raising the Veil
Jane
The Detective
Jane Morton
"Oh, why did I do it?"
"How much time do you give me?"
In the prisoner's dock
"I feel very grateful to you"
"Here's the detailed report"
"Guilty! Guilty of what?"
CHAPTER I.
"My dear," said William Brenton to his wife, "do you think I shall be
missed if I go upstairs for a while? I am not feeling at all well."
[Illustration: "Do you think I shall be missed?"]
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Will," replied Alice, looking concerned; "I will tell
them you are indisposed."
"No, don't do that," was the answer; "they are having a very good time,
and I suppose the dancing will begin shortly; so I don't think they will
miss me. If I feel better I will be down in an hour or two; if not, I
shall go to bed. Now, dear, don't worry; but have a good time with the
rest of them."
William Brenton went quietly upstairs to his room, and sat down in the
darkness in a rocking chair. Remaining there a few minutes, and not
feeling any better, he slowly undressed and went to bed. Faint echoes
reached him of laughter and song; finally, music began, and he felt,
rather than heard, the pulsation of dancing feet. Once, when the music
had ceased for a time, Alice tiptoed into the room, and said in a quiet
voice--
"How are you feeling, Will? any better?"
"A little," he answered drowsily. "Don't worry about me; I shall drop
off to sleep presently, and shall be all right in the morning. Good
night."
He still heard in a dreamy sort of way the music, the dancing, the
laughter; and gradually there came oblivion, which finally merged into
a dream, the most strange and vivid vision he had ever experienced.
It seemed to him that he sat again in the rocking chair near the bed.
Although he knew the room was dark, he had no difficulty in seeing
everything perfectly. He heard, now quite plainly, the music and dancing
downstairs, but what gave a ghastly significance to his dream was the
sight of his own person on the bed. The eyes were half open, and the
face was drawn and rigid. The colour of the face was the white, greyish
tint of death.
"This is a nightmare," said Brenton to himself; "I must try and wake
myself." But he seemed powerless to do this, and he sat there looking at
his own body while the night wore on. Once he rose and went to the side
of the bed. He seemed to have reached it merely by wishing himself
there, and he passed his hand over the face, but no feeling of touch was
communicated to him. He hoped his wife would come and rouse him from
this fearful semblance of a dream, and, wishing this, he found himself
standing at her side, amidst the throng downstairs, who were now merrily
saying good-bye. Brenton tried to speak to his wife, but although he
was conscious of speaking, she did not seem to hear him, or know he was
there.
[Illustration: He again sat in the rocking-chair.]
The party had been one given on Christmas Eve, and as it was now two
o'clock in the morning, the departing guests were wishing Mrs. Brenton a
merry Christmas. Finally, the door closed on the last of the revellers,
and Mrs. Brenton stood for a moment giving instructions to the sleepy
servants; then, with a tired sigh, she turned and went upstairs, Brenton
walking by her side until they came to the darkened room, which she
entered on tiptoe.
"Now," said Brenton to himself, "she will arouse me from this appalling
dream." It was not that there was anything dreadful in the dream itself,
but the clearness with which he saw everything, and the fact that his
mind was perfectly wide awake, gave him an uneasiness which he found
impossible to shake off.
In the dim light from the hall his wife prepared to retire. The horrible
thought struck Brenton that she imagined he was sleeping soundly,
and was anxious not to awaken him--for of course she could have no
realization of the nightmare he was in--so once again he tried to
communicate with her. He spoke her name over and over again, but she
proceeded quietly with her preparations for the night. At last she crept
in at the other side of the bed, and in a few moments was asleep. Once
more Brenton struggled to awake, but with no effect. He heard the clock
strike three, and then four, and then five, but there was no apparent
change in his dream. He feared that he might be in a trance, from which,
perhaps, he would not awake until it was too late. Grey daylight began
to brighten the window, and he noticed that snow was quietly falling
outside, the flakes noiselessly beating against the window pane. Every
one slept late that morning, but at last he heard the preparations for
breakfast going on downstairs--the light clatter of china on the table,
the rattle of the grate; and, as he thought of these things, he found
himself in the dining-room, and saw the trim little maid, who still
yawned every now and then, laying the plates in their places. He went
upstairs again, and stood watching the sleeping face of his wife. Once
she raised her hand above her head, and he thought she was going to
awake; ultimately her eyes opened, and she gazed for a time at the
ceiling, seemingly trying to recollect the events of the day before.
"Will," she said dreamily, "are you still asleep?"
There was no answer from the rigid figure at the front of the bed. After
a few moments she placed her hand quietly over the sleeper's face. As
she did so, her startled eyes showed that she had received a shock.
Instantly she sat upright in bed, and looked for one brief second on the
face of the sleeper beside her; then, with a shriek that pierced the
stillness of the room, she sprang to the floor.
"Will! Will!" she cried, "speak to me! What is the matter with you? Oh,
my God! my God!" she cried, staggering back from the bed. Then, with
shriek after shriek, she ran blindly through the hall to the stairway,
and there fell fainting on the floor.
CHAPTER II.
William Brenton knelt beside the fallen lady, and tried to soothe and
comfort her, but it was evident that she was insensible.
"It is useless," said a voice by his side.
Brenton looked up suddenly, and saw standing beside him a stranger.
Wondering for a moment how he got there, and thinking that after all it
was a dream, he said--
"What is useless? She is not dead."
"No," answered the stranger, "but _you_ are."
[Illustration: He saw standing beside him a stranger.]
"I am what?" cried Brenton.
"You are what the material world calls dead, although in reality you
have just begun to live."
"And who are you?" asked Brenton. "And how did you get in here?"
The other smiled.
"How did _you_ get in here?" he said, repeating Brenton's words.
"I? Why, this is my own house."
"Was, you mean."
"I mean that it is. I am in my own house. This lady is my wife."
"_Was,_" said the other.
"I do not understand you," cried Brenton, very much annoyed. "But, in
any case, your presence and your remarks are out of place here."
"My dear sir," said the other, "I merely wish to aid you and to explain
to you anything that you may desire to know about your new condition.
You are now free from the incumbrance of your body. You have already had
some experience of the additional powers which that riddance has given
you. You have also, I am afraid, had an inkling of the fact that the
spiritual condition has its limitations. If you desire to communicate
with those whom you have left, I would strongly advise you to postpone
the attempt, and to leave this place, where you will experience only
pain and anxiety. Come with me, and learn something of your changed
circumstances."
"I am in a dream," said Brenton, "and you are part of it. I went to
sleep last night, and am still dreaming. This is a nightmare and it will
soon be over."
"You are saying that," said the other, "merely to convince yourself.
It is now becoming apparent to you that this is not a dream. If dreams
exist, it was a dream which you left, but you have now become awake. If
you really think it is a dream, then do as I tell you--come with me and
leave it, because you must admit that this part of the dream is at least
very unpleasant."
"It is not very pleasant," assented Brenton. As he spoke the bewildered
servants came rushing up the stairs, picked up their fallen mistress,
and laid her on a sofa. They rubbed her hands and dashed water in her
face. She opened her eyes, and then closed them again with a shudder.
"Sarah," she cried, "have I been dreaming, or is your master dead?"
The two girls turned pale at this, and the elder of them went boldly
into the room which her mistress had just left. She was evidently
a young woman who had herself under good control, but she came out
sobbing, with her apron to her eyes.
"Come, come," said the man who stood beside Brenton, "haven't you had
enough of this? Come with me; you can return to this house if you wish;"
and together they passed out of the room into the crisp air of Christmas
morning. But, although Brenton knew it must be cold, he had no feeling
of either cold or warmth.
"There are a number of us," said the stranger to Brenton, "who take
turns at watching the sick-bed when a man is about to die, and when his
spirit leaves his body, we are there to explain, or comfort, or console.
Your death was so sudden that we had no warning of it. You did not feel
ill before last night, did you?"
"No," replied Brenton. "I felt perfectly well, until after dinner last
night."
"Did you leave your affairs in reasonably good order?"
"Yes," said Brenton, trying to recollect. "I think they will find
everything perfectly straight."
"Tell me a little of your history, if you do not mind," inquired the
other; "it will help me in trying to initiate you into our new order of
things here."
"Well," replied Brenton, and he wondered at himself for falling so
easily into the other's assumption that he was a dead man, "I was what
they call on the earth in reasonably good circumstances. My estate
should be worth $100,000. I had $75,000 insurance on my life, and if all
that is paid, it should net my widow not far from a couple of hundred
thousand."
"How long have you been married?" said the other.
[Illustration: A Venetian cafe.]
"Only about six months. I was married last July, and we went for a trip
abroad. We were married quietly, and left almost immediately afterwards,
so we thought, on our return, it would not be a bad plan to give a
Christmas Eve dinner, and invite some of our friends. That," he said,
hesitating a moment, "was last night. Shortly after dinner, I began to
feel rather ill, and went upstairs to rest for a while; and if what you
say is true, the first thing I knew I found myself dead."
"Alive," corrected the other.
"Well, alive, though at present I feel I belong more to the world I have
left than I do to the world I appear to be in. I must confess, although
you are a very plausible gentleman to talk to, that I expect at any
moment to wake and find this to have been one of the most horrible
nightmares that I ever had the ill luck to encounter."
The other smiled.
"There is very little danger of your waking up, as you call it. Now, I
will tell you the great trouble we have with people when they first come
to the spirit-land, and that is to induce them to forget entirely
the world they have relinquished. Men whose families are in poor
circumstances, or men whose affairs are in a disordered state, find it
very difficult to keep from trying to set things right again. They have
the feeling that they can console or comfort those whom they have left
behind them, and it is often a long time before they are convinced that
their efforts are entirely futile, as well as very distressing for
themselves."
"Is there, then," asked Brenton, "no communication between this world
and the one that I have given up?"
The other paused for a moment before he replied.
"I should hardly like to say," he answered, "that there is _no_
communication between one world and the other; but the communication
that exists is so slight and unsatisfactory, that if you are sensible
you will see things with the eyes of those who have very much more
experience in this world than you have. Of course, you can go back there
as much as you like; there will be no interference and no hindrance.
But when you see things going wrong, when you see a mistake about to
be made, it is an appalling thing to stand there helpless, unable to
influence those you love, or to point out a palpable error, and convince
them that your clearer sight sees it as such. Of course, I understand
that it must be very difficult for a man who is newly married, to
entirely abandon the one who has loved him, and whom he loves. But
I assure you that if you follow the life of one who is as young and
handsome as your wife, you will find some one else supplying the
consolations you are unable to bestow. Such a mission may lead you to a
church where she is married to her second husband. I regret to say that
even the most imperturbable spirits are ruffled when such an incident
occurs. The wise men are those who appreciate and understand that they
are in an entirely new world, with new powers and new limitations, and
who govern themselves accordingly from the first, as they will certainly
do later on."
"My dear sir," said Brenton, somewhat offended, "if what you say is
true, and I am really a dead man----"
"Alive," corrected the other.
"Well, alive, then. I may tell you that my wife's heart is broken. She
will never marry again."
"Of course, that is a subject of which you know a great deal more than I
do. I all the more strongly advise you never to see her again. It is
impossible for you to offer any consolation, and the sight of her grief
and misery will only result in unhappiness for yourself. Therefore, take
my advice. I have given it very often, and I assure you those who did
not take it expressed their regret afterwards. Hold entirely aloof from
anything relating to your former life."
Brenton was silent for some moments; finally he said--
"I presume your advice is well meant; but if things are as you state,
then I may as well say, first as last, that I do not intend to accept
it."
"Very well," said the other; "it is an experience that many prefer to go
through for themselves."
"Do you have names in this spirit-land?" asked Brenton, seemingly
desirous of changing the subject.
"Yes," was the answer; "we are known by names that we have used in the
preparatory school below. My name is Ferris."
"And if I wish to find you here, how do I set about it?"
"The wish is sufficient," answered Ferris. "Merely wish to be with me,
and you _are_ with me."
"Good gracious!" cried Brenton, "is locomotion so easy as that?"
"Locomotion is very easy. I do not think anything could be easier
than it is, and I do not think there could be any improvement in that
matter."
"Are there matters here, then, that you think could be improved?"
"As to that I shall not say. Perhaps you will be able to give your own
opinion before you have lived here much longer."
"Taking it all in all," said Brenton, "do you think the spirit-land is
to be preferred to the one we have left?"
"I like it better," said Ferris, "although I presume there are some
who do not. There are many advantages; and then, again, there are
many--well, I would not say disadvantages, but still some people
consider them such. We are free from the pangs of hunger or cold, and
have therefore no need of money, and there is no necessity for the rush
and the worry of the world below."
"And how about heaven and hell?" said Brenton. "Are those localities all
a myth? Is there nothing of punishment and nothing of reward in this
spirit-land?"
There was no answer to this, and when Brenton looked around he found
that his companion had departed.
[Illustration: Venice.]
CHAPTER III.
William Brenton pondered long on the situation. He would have known
better how to act if he could have been perfectly certain that he was
not still the victim of a dream. However, of one thing there was no
doubt--namely, that it was particularly harrowing to see what he had
seen in his own house. If it were true that he was dead, he said to
himself, was not the plan outlined for him by Ferris very much the wiser
course to adopt? He stood now in one of the streets of the city so
familiar to him. People passed and repassed him--men and women whom
he had known in life--but nobody appeared to see him. He resolved, if
possible, to solve the problem uppermost in his mind, and learn whether
or not he could communicate with an inhabitant of the world he had left.
He paused for a moment to consider the best method of doing this. Then
he remembered one of his most confidential friends and advisers, and at
once wished himself at his office. He found the office closed, but went
in to wait for his friend. Occupying the time in thinking over his
strange situation, he waited long, and only when the bells began to ring
did he remember it was Christmas forenoon, and that his friend would
not be at the office that day. The next moment he wished himself at his
friend's house, but he was as unsuccessful as at the office; the friend
was not at home. The household, however, was in great commotion, and,
listening to what was said, he found that the subject of conversation
was his own death, and he learned that his friend had gone to the
Brenton residence as soon as he heard the startling news of Christmas
morning.
Once more Brenton paused, and did not know what to do. He went again
into the street. Everything seemed to lead him toward his own home.
Although he had told Ferris that he did not intend to take his advice,
yet as a sensible man he saw that the admonition was well worth
considering, and if he could once become convinced that there was no
communication possible between himself and those he had left; if he
could give them no comfort and no cheer; if he could see the things
which they did not see, and yet be unable to give them warning, he
realized that he would merely be adding to his own misery, without
alleviating the troubles of others.
He wished he knew where to find Ferris, so that he might have another
talk with him. The man impressed him as being exceedingly sensible. No
sooner, however, had he wished for the company of Mr. Ferris than he
found himself beside that gentleman.
"By George!" he said in astonishment, "you are just the man I wanted to
see."
"Exactly," said Ferris; "that is the reason you do see me."
"I have been thinking over what you said," continued the other, "and it
strikes me that after all your advice is sensible."
"Thank you," replied Ferris, with something like a smile on his face.
"But there is one thing I want to be perfectly certain about. I want to
know whether it is not possible for me to communicate with my friends.
Nothing will settle that doubt in my mind except actual experience."
"And have you not had experience enough?" asked Ferris.
"Well," replied the other, hesitating, "I have had some experience, but
it seems to me that, if I encounter an old friend, I could somehow make
myself felt by him."
"In that case," answered Ferris, "if nothing will convince you but an
actual experiment, why don't you go to some of your old friends and try
what you can do with them?"
"I have just been to the office and to the residence of one of my old
friends. I found at his residence that he had gone to my"--Brenton
paused for a moment--"former home. Everything seems to lead me there,
and yet, if I take your advice, I must avoid that place of all others."
"I would at present, if I were you," said Ferris. "Still, why not try it
with any of the passers-by?"
Brenton looked around him. People were passing and repassing where the
two stood talking with each other. "Merry Christmas" was the word on all
lips. Finally Brenton said, with a look of uncertainty on his face--
"My dear fellow, I can't talk to any of these people. I don't know
them."
Ferris laughed at this, and replied--
"I don't think you will shock them very much; just try it."
"Ah, here's a friend of mine. You wait a moment, and I will accost him."
Approaching him, Brenton held out his hand and spoke, but the traveller
paid no attention. He passed by as one who had seen or heard nothing.
"I assure you," said Ferris, as he noticed the look of disappointment on
the other's face, "you will meet with a similar experience, however much
you try. You know the old saying about one not being able to have his
cake and eat it too. You can't have the privileges of this world and
those of the world you left as well. I think, taking it all in all, you
should rest content, although it always hurts those who have left the
other world not to be able to communicate with their friends, and at
least assure them of their present welfare."
"It does seem to me," replied Brenton, "that would be a great
consolation, both for those who are here and those who are left."
"Well, I don't know about that," answered the other. "After all, what
does life in the other world amount to? It is merely a preparation for
this. It is of so short a space, as compared with the life we live here,
that it is hardly worth while to interfere with it one way or another.
By the time you are as long here as I have been, you will realize the
truth of this."
"Perhaps I shall," said Brenton, with a sigh; "but, meanwhile, what am
I to do with myself? I feel like the man who has been all his life
in active business, and who suddenly resolves to enjoy himself doing
nothing. That sort of thing seems to kill a great number of men,
especially if they put off taking a rest until too late, as most of us
do."
"Well," said Ferris, "there is no necessity of your being idle here, I
assure you. But before you lay out any work for yourself, let me ask you
if there is not some interesting part of the world that you would like
to visit?"
"Certainly; I have seen very little of the world. That is one of my
regrets at leaving it."
"Bless me," said the other, "you haven't left it."
"Why, I thought you said I was a dead man?"
"On the contrary," replied his companion, "I have several times insisted
that you have just begun to live. Now where shall we spend the day?"
"How would London do?"
"I don't think it would do; London is apt to be a little gloomy at this
time of the year. But what do you say to Naples, or Japan, or, if you
don't wish to go out of the United States, Yellowstone Park?"
"Can we reach any of those places before the day is over?" asked
Brenton, dubiously.
"Well, I will soon show you how we manage all that. Just wish to
accompany me, and I will take you the rest of the way."
"How would Venice do?" said Brenton. "I didn't see half as much of that
city as I wanted to."
"Very well," replied his companion, "Venice it is;" and the American
city in which they stood faded away from them, and before Brenton could
make up his mind exactly what was happening, he found himself walking
with his comrade in St. Mark's Square.
"Well, for rapid transit," said Brenton, "this beats anything I've ever
had any idea of; but it increases the feeling that I am in a dream."
"You'll soon get used to it," answered Ferris; "and, when you do, the
cumbersome methods of travel in the world itself will show themselves in
their right light. Hello!" he cried, "here's a man whom I should
like you to meet. By the way, I either don't know your name or I have
forgotten it."
"William Brenton," answered the other.
"Mr. Speed, I want to introduce you to Mr. Brenton."
"Ah," said Speed, cordially, "a new-comer. One of your victims, Ferris?"
"Say one of his pupils, rather," answered Brenton.
[Illustration: In Venice.]
"Well, it is pretty much the same thing," said Speed. "How long have you
been with us, and how do you like the country?"
"You see, Mr. Brenton," interrupted Ferris, "John Speed was a newspaper
man, and he must ask strangers how they like the country. He has
inquired so often while interviewing foreigners for his paper that now
he cannot abandon his old phrase. Mr. Brenton has been with us but a
short time," continued Ferris, "and so you know, Speed, you can hardly
expect him to answer your inevitable question."
"What part of the country are you from?" asked Speed.
"Cincinnati," answered Brenton, feeling almost as if he were an American
tourist doing the continent of Europe.
"Cincinnati, eh? Well, I congratulate you. I do not know any place in
America that I would sooner die in, as they call it, than Cincinnati.
You see, I am a Chicago man myself."