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A modest-looking, well-worn portmanteau had been just put up at a small opening bid, when Harry Flint joined the crowd. The young man had arrived a week before at San Francisco friendless and penniless, and had been forced to part with his own effects to procure necessary food and lodging while looking for an employment. In the irony of fate that morning the proprietors of a dry-goods store, struck with his good looks and manners, had offered him a situation, if he could make himself more presentable to their fair clients. Harry Flint was gazing half abstractedly, half hopelessly, at the portmanteau without noticing the auctioneer’s persuasive challenge. In his abstraction he was not aware that the auctioneer’s assistant was also looking at him curiously, and that possibly his dejected and half-clad appearance had excited the attention of one of the cynical bystanders, who was exchanging a few words with the assistant. He was, however, recalled to himself a moment later when the portmanteau was knocked down at fifteen dollars, and considerably startled when the assistant placed it at his feet with a grim smile. “That’s your property, Fowler, and I reckon you look as if you wanted it back bad.”
“But—there’s some mistake,” stammered Flint. “I didn’t bid.”
“No, but Tom Flynn did for you. You see, I spotted you from the first, and told Flynn I reckoned you were one of those chaps who came back from the mines dead broke. And he up and bought your things for you—like a square man. That’s Flynn’s style, if he is a gambler.”
“But,” persisted Flint, “this never was my property. My name isn’t Fowler, and I never left anything here.”
The assistant looked at him with a grim, half-credulous, half-scornful smile. “Have it your own way,” he said, “but I oughter tell ye, old man, that I’m the warehouse clerk, and I remember YOU. I’m here for that purpose. But as that thar valise is bought and paid for by somebody else and given to you, it’s nothing more to me. Take it or leave it.”
The ridiculousness of quarreling over the mere form of his good fortune here struck Flint, and, as his abrupt benefactor had as abruptly disappeared, he hurried off with his prize. Reaching his cheap lodging-house, he examined its contents. As he had surmised, it contained a full suit of clothing of the better sort, and suitable to his urban needs. There were a few articles of jewelry, which he put religiously aside. There were some letters, which seemed to be of a purely business character. There were a few daguerreotypes of pretty faces, one of which was singularly fascinating to him. But there was another, of a young man, which startled him with its marvelous resemblance to HIMSELF! In a flash of intelligence he understood it all now. It was the likeness of the former owner of the trunk, for whom the assistant had actually mistaken him! He glanced hurriedly at the envelopes of the letters. They were addressed to Shelby Fowler, the name by which the assistant had just called him. The mystery was plain now. And for the present he could fairly accept his good luck, and trust to later fortune to justify himself.
Transformed in his new garb, he left his lodgings to present himself once more to his possible employer. His way led past one of the large gambling saloons. It was yet too early to find the dry-goods trader disengaged; perhaps the consciousness of more decent, civilized garb emboldened him to mingle more freely with strangers, and he entered the saloon. He was scarcely abreast of one of the faro tables when a man suddenly leaped up with an oath and discharged a revolver full in his face. The shot missed. Before his unknown assailant could fire again the astonished Flint had closed with him, and instinctively clutched the weapon. A brief but violent struggle ensued. Flint felt his strength failing him, when suddenly a look of astonishment came into the furious eyes of his adversary, and the man’s grasp mechanically relaxed. The half-freed pistol, thrown upwards by this movement, was accidentally discharged point blank into his temples, and he fell dead. No one in the crowd had stirred or interfered.
“You’ve done for Australian Pete this time, Mr. Fowler,” said a voice at his elbow. He turned gaspingly and recognized his strange benefactor, Flynn. “I call you all to witness, gentlemen,” continued the gambler, turning dictatorially to the crowd, “that this man was FIRST attacked and was UNARMED.” He lifted Flint’s limp and empty hands and then pointed to the dead man, who was still grasping the weapon. “Come!” He caught the half-paralyzed arm of Flint and dragged him into the street.
“But,” stammered the horrified Flint, as he was borne along, “what does it all mean? What made that man attack me?”
“I reckon it was a case of shooting on sight, Mr. Fowler; but he missed it by not waiting to see if you were armed. It wasn’t the square thing, and you’re all right with the crowd now, whatever he might have had agin’ you.”
“But,” protested the unhappy Flint, “I never laid eyes on the man before, and my name isn’t Fowler.”
Flynn halted, and dragged him in a door way. “Who the devil are you?” he asked roughly.
Briefly, passionately, almost hysterically, Flint told him his scant story. An odd expression came over the gambler’s face.
“Look here,” he said abruptly, “I have passed my word to the crowd yonder that you are a dead-broke miner called Fowler. I allowed that you might have had some row with that Sydney duck, Australian Pete, in the mines. That satisfied them. If I go back now, and say it’s a lie, that your name ain’t Fowler, and you never knew who Pete was, they’ll jest pass you over to the police to deal with you, and wash their hands of it altogether. You may prove to the police who you are, and how that d– clerk mistook you, but it will give you trouble. And who is there here who knows who you really are?”
“No one,” said Flint, with sudden hopelessness.
“And you say you’re an orphan, and ain’t got any relations livin’ that you’re beholden to?”
“No one.”
“Then, take my advice, and BE Fowler, and stick to it! Be Fowler until Fowler turns up, and thanks you for it; for you’ve saved Fowler’s life, as Pete would never have funked and lost his grit over Fowler as he did with you; and you’ve a right to his name.”
He stopped, and the same odd, superstitious look came into his dark eyes.
“Don’t you see what all that means? Well, I’ll tell you. You’re in the biggest streak of luck a man ever had. You’ve got the cards in your own hand! They spell ‘Fowler’! Play Fowler first, last, and all the time. Good-night, and good luck, MR. FOWLER.”
The next morning’s journal contained an account of the justifiable killing of the notorious desperado and ex-convict, Australian Pete, by a courageous young miner by the name of Fowler. “An act of firmness and daring,” said the “Pioneer,” “which will go far to counteract the terrorism produced by those lawless ruffians.”
In his new suit of clothes, and with this paper in his hand, Flint sought the dry-goods proprietor—the latter was satisfied and convinced. That morning Harry Flint began his career as salesman and as “Shelby Fowler.”
From that day Shelby Fowler’s career was one of uninterrupted prosperity. Within the year he became a partner. The same miraculous fortune followed other ventures later. He was mill owner, mine owner, bank director—a millionaire! He was popular, the reputation of his brief achievement over the desperado kept him secure from the attack of envy and rivalry. He never was confronted by the real Fowler. There was no danger of exposure by others—the one custodian of his secret, Tom Flynn, died in Nevada the year following. He had quite forgotten his youthful past, and even the more recent lucky portmanteau; remembered nothing, perhaps, but the pretty face of the daguerreotype that had fascinated him. There seemed to be no reason why he should not live and die as Shelby Fowler.
His business a year later took him to Europe. He was entering a train at one of the great railway stations of London, when the porter, who had just deposited his portmanteau in a compartment, reappeared at the window followed by a young lady in mourning.
“Beg pardon, sir, but I handed you the wrong portmanteau. That belongs to this young lady. This is yours.”
Flint glanced at the portmanteau on the seat before him. It certainly was not his, although it bore the initials “S. F.” He was mechanically handing it back to the porter, when his eyes fell on the young lady’s face. For an instant he stood petrified. It was the face of the daguerreotype. “I beg pardon,” he stammered, “but are these your initials?” She hesitated, perhaps it was the abruptness of the question, but he saw she looked confused.
“No. A friend’s.”
She disappeared into another carriage, but from that moment Harry Flint knew that he had no other aim in life but to follow this clue and the beautiful girl who had dropped it. He bribed the guard at the next station, and discovered that she was going to York. On their arrival, he was ready on the platform to respectfully assist her. A few words disclosed the fact that she was a fellow-countrywoman, although residing in England, and at present on her way to join some friends at Harrogate. Her name was West. At the mention of his, he again fancied she looked disturbed.
They met again and again; the informality of his introduction was overlooked by her friends, as his assumed name was already respectably and responsibly known beyond California. He thought no more of his future. He was in love. He even dared to think it might be returned; but he felt he had no right to seek that knowledge until he had told her his real name and how he came to assume another’s. He did so alone—scarcely a month after their first meeting. To his alarm, she burst into a flood of tears, and showed an agitation that seemed far beyond any apparent cause. When she had partly recovered, she said, in a low, frightened voice:—
“You are bearing MY BROTHER’S name. But it was a name that the unhappy boy had so shamefully disgraced in Australia that he abandoned it, and, as he lay upon his death-bed, the last act of his wasted life was to write an imploring letter begging me to change mine too. For the infamous companion of his crime who had first tempted, then betrayed him, had possession of all his papers and letters, many of them from ME, and was threatening to bring them to our Virginia home and expose him to our neighbors. Maddened by desperation, the miserable boy twice attempted the life of the scoundrel, and might have added that blood guiltiness to his other sins had he lived. I DID change my name to my mother’s maiden one, left the country, and have lived here to escape the revelations of that desperado, should he fulfill his threat.”
In a flash of recollection Flint remembered the startled look that had come into his assailant’s eye after they had clinched. It was the same man who had too late realized that his antagonist was not Fowler. “Thank God! you are forever safe from any exposure from that man,” he said, gravely, “and the name of Fowler has never been known in San Francisco save in all respect and honor. It is for you to take back—fearlessly and alone!”
She did—but not alone, for she shared it with her husband.
THE GHOSTS OF STUKELEY CASTLE
There should have been snow on the ground to make the picture seasonable and complete, but the Western Barbarian had lived long enough in England to know that, except in the pages of a holiday supplement, this was rarely the accompaniment of a Christmas landscape, and he cheerfully accepted, on the 24th of December, the background of a low, brooding sky, on which the delicate tracery of leafless sprays and blacker chevaux de frise of pine was faintly etched, as a consistent setting to the turrets and peacefully stacked chimneys of Stukeley Castle. Yet, even in this disastrous eclipse of color and distance, the harmonious outlines of the long, gray, irregular pile seemed to him as wonderful as ever. It still dominated the whole landscape, and, as he had often fancied, carried this subjection even to the human beings who had created it, lived in it, but which it seemed to have in some dull, senile way dozed over and forgotten. He vividly recalled the previous sunshine of an autumnal house party within its walls, where some descendants of its old castellans, encountered in long galleries or at the very door of their bedrooms, looked as alien to the house as the Barbarian himself.
For the rest it may be found described in the local guide-books, with a view of its “South Front,” “West Front,” and “Great Quadrangle.” It was alleged to be based on an encampment of the Romans—that highly apocryphal race who seemed to have spent their time in getting up picnics on tessellated pavements, where, after hilariously emptying their pockets of their loose coin and throwing round their dishes, they instantly built a road to escape by, leaving no other record of their existence. Stow and Dugdale had recorded the date when a Norman favorite obtained the royal license to “embattle it;” it had done duty on Christmas cards with the questionable snow already referred to laid on thickly in crystal; it had been lovingly portrayed by a fair countrywoman—the vivacious correspondent of the “East Machias Sentinel”—in a combination of the most delightful feminine disregard of facts with the highest feminine respect for titles. It was rich in a real and spiritual estate of tapestries, paintings, armor, legends, and ghosts. Everything the poet could wish for, and indeed some things that decent prose might have possibly wished out of it, were there.
Yet, from the day that it had been forcibly seized by a Parliamentary General, until more recently, when it had passed by the no less desperate conveyance of marriage into the hands of a Friendly Nobleman known to the Western Barbarian, it had been supposed to suggest something or other more remarkable than itself. “Few spectators,” said the guide-book, “even the most unimpassioned, can stand in the courtyard and gaze upon those historic walls without feeling a thrill of awe,” etc. The Western Barbarian had stood there, gazed, and felt no thrill. “The privileged guest,” said the grave historian, “passing in review the lineaments of the illustrious owners of Stukeley, as he slowly paces the sombre gallery, must be conscious of emotions of no ordinary character,” etc., etc. The Barbarian had been conscious of no such emotions. And it was for this reason, and believing he MIGHT experience them if left there in solitude, with no distracting or extraneous humanity around him, it had been agreed between him and the Friendly Nobleman, who had fine Barbarian instincts, that as he—the Friendly Nobleman—and his family were to spend their holidays abroad, the Barbarian should be allowed, on the eve and day of Christmas, to stay at Stukeley alone. “But,” added his host, “you’ll find it beastly lonely, and although I’ve told the housekeeper to look after you—you’d better go over to dine at Audley Friars, where there’s a big party, and they know you, and it will be a deuced deal more amusing. And—er—I say—you know—you’re really NOT looking out for ghosts, and that sort of thing, are you? You know you fellows don’t believe in them—over there.” And the Barbarian, assuring him that this was a part of his deficient emotions, it was settled then and there that he should come. And that was why, on the 24th of December, the Barbarian found himself gazing hopefully on the landscape with his portmanteau at his feet, as he drove up the avenue.
The ravens did NOT croak ominously from the battlements as he entered. And the housekeeper, although neither “stately” nor “tall,” nor full of reminiscences of “his late lordship, the present Earl’s father,” was very sensible and practical. The Barbarian could, of course, have his choice of rooms—but—she had thought—remembering his tastes the last time, that the long blue room? Exactly! The long, low-arched room, with the faded blue tapestry, looking upon the gallery—capital! He had always liked that room. From purely negative evidence he had every reason to believe that it was the one formidable-looking room in England that Queen Elizabeth had not slept in.
When the footman had laid out his clothes, and his step grew fainter along the passage, until it was suddenly swallowed up with the closing of a red baize door in the turret staircase, like a trap in an oubliette, the whole building seemed to sink back into repose. Quiet it certainly was, but not more so, he remembered, than when the chambers on either side were filled with guests, and floating voices in the corridor were lost in those all-absorbing walls. So far, certainly, this was no new experience. It was past four. He waited for the shadows to gather. Light thickened beyond his windows; gradually the outflanking wall and part of a projecting terrace crumbled away in the darkness, as if Night were slowly reducing the castle. The figures on the tapestry in his room stood out faintly. The gallery, seen through his open door, barred with black spaces between the mullioned windows, presently became obliterated, as if invaded by a dull smoke from without. But nothing moved, nothing glimmered. Really this might become in time very stupid.
He was startled, however, while dressing, to see from his windows that the great banqueting hall was illuminated, but on coming down was amused to find his dinner served on a small table in its oaken solitude lit by the large electric chandelier—for Stukeley Castle under its present lord had all the modern improvements—shining on the tattered banners and glancing mail above him. It was evidently the housekeeper’s reading of some written suggestion of her noble master. The Barbarian, in a flash of instinct, imagined the passage:—
“Humor him as a harmless lunatic; the plate is quite safe.”
Declining the further offer of an illumination of the picture gallery, grand drawing-room, ball-room, and chapel, a few hours later he found himself wandering in the corridor with a single candle and a growing conviction of the hopelessness of his experiment. The castle had as yet yielded to him nothing that he had not seen before in the distraction of company and the garishness of day. It was becoming a trifle monotonous. Yet fine—exceedingly; and now that a change of wind had lifted the fog, and the full moon shone on the lower half of the pictures of the gallery, starting into the most artificial simulation of life a number of Van Dyke legs, farthingales, and fingers that would have deceived nobody, it seemed gracious, gentle, and innocent beyond expression. Wandering down the gallery, conscious of being more like a ghost than any of the painted figures, and that they might reasonably object to him, he wished he could meet the original of one of those pictured gallants and secretly compare his fingers with the copy. He remembered an embroidered pair of gloves in a cabinet and a suit of armor on the wall that, in measurement, did not seem to bear out the delicacy of the one nor the majesty of the other. It occurred to him also to satisfy a yearning he had once felt to try on a certain breastplate and steel cap that hung over an oaken settle. It will be perceived that he was getting a good deal bored. For thus caparisoned he listlessly, and, as will be seen, imprudently, allowed himself to sink back into a very modern chair, and give way to a dreamy cogitation.
What possible interest could the dead have in anything that was here? Admitting that they had any, and that it was not the LIVING, whom the Barbarian had always found most inclined to haunt the past, would not a ghost of any decided convictions object to such a collection as his descendant had gathered in this gallery? Yonder idiot in silk and steel had blunderingly and cruelly persecuted his kinsman in leather and steel only a few panels distant. Would they care to meet here? And if their human weaknesses had died with them, what would bring them here at all? And if not THEM—who then? He stopped short. The door at the lower end of the gallery had opened! Not stealthily, not noiselessly, but in an ordinary fashion, and a number of figures, dressed in the habiliments of a bygone age, came trooping in. They did not glide in nor float in, but trampled in awkwardly, clumsily, and unfamiliarly, gaping about them as they walked. At the head was apparently a steward in a kind of livery, who stopped once or twice and seemed to be pointing out and explaining certain objects in the room. A flash of indignant intelligence filled the brain of the Barbarian! It seemed absurd!—impossible!—but it was true! It was a holiday excursion party of ghosts, being shown over Stukeley Castle by a ghostly Cicerone! And as his measured, monotonous voice rose on the Christmas morning air, it could be heard that he was actually showing off, not the antiquities of the Castle, but the MODERN IMPROVEMENTS!
“This ‘ere, gossips,”—the Barbarian instantly detected the fallacy of all the so-called mediaeval jargon he had read,—“is the Helectric Bell, which does away with our hold, hordinary ‘orn blowin’, and the hattendant waitin’ in the ‘all for the usual ‘Without there, who waits?’ which all of us was accustomed to in mortal flesh. You hobserve this button. I press it so, and it instantly rings a bell in the kitchen ‘all, and shows in fair letters the name of this ‘ere gallery—as we will see later. Will hany good dame or gaffer press the button? Will YOU, mistress?” said the Cicerone to a giggling, kerchief-coifed lass.
“Oi soy, Maudlin!—look out—will yer!—It’s the soime old gag as them bloomin’ knobs you ketched hold of when yer was ‘ere las’ Whitsuntide,” called out the mediaeval ‘Arry of the party.
“It is NOT the Galvanic-Magnetic machine in ‘is lordship’s library,” said the Cicerone, severely, “which is a mere toy for infants, and hold-fashioned. And we have ‘ere a much later invention. I open this little door, I turn this ‘andle—called a switch—and, has you perceive, the gallery is hinstantly hilluminated.”
There was a hoarse cry of astonishment from the assemblage. The Barbarian felt an awful thrill as this searching, insufferable light of the nineteenth century streamed suddenly upon the up-turned, vacant-eyed, and dull faces of those sightseers of the past. But there was no responsive gleam in their eyes.
“It be the sun,” gasped an old woman in a gray cloak.
“Toime to rouse out, Myryan, and make the foire,” said the mediaeval ‘Arry. The custodian smiled with superior toleration.
“But what do ‘ee want o’ my old lanthorne,” asked a yellow-jerkined stable boy, pointing to an old-fashioned horned lantern, tempus Edward III., “with this brave loight?”
“You know,” said the custodian, with condescending familiarity, “these mortals worship what they call ‘curios’ and the ‘antique,’ and ‘is lordship gave a matter of fifty pounds for that same lanthern. That’s what the modern folk come ‘ere to see—like as ye.”
“Oi’ve an old three-legged stool in Whitechapel oi’ll let his lordship ‘ave cheap—for five quid,” suggested the humorist.
“The ‘prentice wight knows not that he speaks truly. For ‘ere is a braver jest than ‘is. Good folks, wilt please ye to examine yon coffer?” pointing to an oaken chest.
“‘Tis but poor stuff, marry,” said Maudlin.
“‘Tis a coffer—the same being made in Wardour Street last year—‘is lordship gave one hundred pounds for it. Look at these would-be worm-holes,—but they were made with an AUGER. Marry, WE know what worm-holes are!”
A ghastly grin spread over the faces of the spectral assembly as they gathered around the chest with silent laughter.
“Wilt walk ‘ere and see the phonograph in the libry, made by Hedison, an Hamerican, which bottles up the voice and preserves it fresh for a hundred years? ‘Tis a rare new fancy.”
“Rot,” said ‘Arry. Then turning to the giggling Maudlin, he whispered: “Saw it las’ toime. ‘Is lordship got a piece o’ moy moind that oi reeled off into it about this ‘ere swindle. Fawney that old bloke there charging a tanner apiece to us for chaffin’ a bit of a barrel.”
“Have you no last new braveries to show us of the gallants and their mistresses, as you were wont?” said Maudlin to the Cicerone. “‘Twas a rare show last time—the modish silk gowns and farthingales in the closets.”
“But there be no company this Christmas,” said the custodian, “and ‘is lordship does not entertain, unless it be the new fool ‘is lordship sent down ‘ere to-day, who has been mopin’ and moonin’ in the corridors, as is ever the way of these wittol creatures when they are not heeded. He was ‘ere in a rare motley of his own choosing, with which he thinks to raise a laugh, a moment ago. Ye see him not—not ‘avin’ the gift that belongs by right to my dread office. ‘Tis a weird privilege I have—and may not be imparted to others—save”—