A TERRIBLE EVENING.
Harland Slack sat in the cafe of the Parker House carelessly sippingwhiskey and Apollinaris. He fondly cherished the thought that thiscombination was an excellent anti-intoxicant, a brain-quieter; on thesame principle that B & S is supposed to clarify an Englishman's head.Harland Slack was an attractively repulsive man. He was tall, andvigorously put together. Evening dress was becoming to him. He neverappeared after six o'clock without it: for it set off his long blondmustache, his fine artificially curled, blond hair, and his pale regularfeatures to their best advantage. Seen from the front there were timeswhen he was considered positively handsome, after the same fashion thatan aristocratic French doll is admired. When he turned his profile, thenthere appeared certain hard lines of the check and weak lines of theforehead and chin that grated on austere physiognomists. The giddy setof fashionable women, at whose five o'clock teas he still remained the_eprouvette positive_, thought him adorable: the matrons withmarriageable girls thought him debatable: if he chanced upon a spiritualwoman, she considered him dangerous. The club men privately thought himunreliable.
It was not so in college before his father died. Then the main featuresof his life were promising. If he indulged in occasional gayety he didnot lose all of his self-respect. His classmates noted in him a certainquality of strength or reserve that was supposed to emanate from himselfrather than from the hard fact that his paternal allowance was onlyseven hundred a year, and that he was threatened with disinheritance ifhe ran into debt.
But now he had inherited. He had changed. His hands trembled. His eyestwitched. The corners of his mouth danced the dance of St. Vitus. He hadterrible nightmares, and awoke with parched mouth and with disagreeableeyes, and with a rebellious head whose disorders required what he called"an eye-opener" to cause them to abate.
His best friends took him apart and said: "Now really, old fellow, thiswon't do. Its--playing the devil with you. Come now, knock off for abit. I'll bet you a hundred dollars you can't confine yourself to claretfor a month."
And Harland Slack would answer:
"Done! Have a cocktail?" He usually paid the bet before three hours wereup. The limitation, he said, was too strict.
"I'll give him two years," said his nearest intimate; "and then--" Hewhistled The Dead March in Saul, and the fellows wagged their headsominously over the sad case--and their ale.
In short, Harland was not only addicted to drink, but he was given overto it hand and soul. Yet he was very seldom drunk. He paused at thatexcessively polite stage which was the surveyor's line of inebriety. Aneminent bar-keeper pointed him out one day and said:
"It isn't the boys that get drunk and then get over it, that go to thedevil so fast: it's the fellows that take a little all day long and keepat it who can't be reformed."
So it naturally came about that while Harland Slack was in thisbenevolent mood, which usually lasted from ten in the morning till onein the morning, and which might aptly be described as betwixt Hell andEarth, he became the common prey of common humanity.
His was not to reason why; His was but to lend a fi'. Theirs was but to take and sigh: "I'll pay you sometime by and by."
He seemed to take it as a compliment that his purse was everybody'sbank, with a daily run on it. It was lucky for him that the enormousprincipal left by his economical father could not be touched. But atlast, as it once in a while happens to the repleted, the unqualifiedability to borrow, or rather, in this instance, to steal, led to a pall.Unlock every safe, unbar every vault, open up every store to pillage,and the robber, glutted with desire, will disappear. On the sameprinciple, at the time of our historiette, Harland's friends, even hisbar-room acquaintances, were overtaken by a sentiment of self-reproachor honor, and there was a general movement to swear off borrowing fromthis man who never refused a loan.
On the evening of which we speak Harland sat languidly waiting for afriend who had an appointment to accompany him to the club. It wasearly, scarcely eight, and he aimlessly fingered a loose roll of billsin his waistcoat pocket, smiled inanely at the man behind the desk, andthen, despairing of entertainment, began to spin a trade-dollar on thepolished table. The cafe was nearly empty, and he was to all purposesalone. This was a state which he dreaded above all others. LikeNapoleon, in the company of even one he felt an inspiring confidence andsecurity. When he was with people, he forgot that whiskey was aninsisting necessity: he only thought he drank because he was a goodfellow and "one of the boys."
Harland had never been visited by the uttermost penalty of hiscondition. It cannot be said that he never feared that state whose uglyname we omit when we can, or reduce to its significant initials; as ifthat reduced the horror of the fact. But he feared it: he feared itgreatly. The possibility of delirium tremens unmanned him. Then he sweatdrops of apprehension, and with vague, shuffling remorse promisedhimself to improve. He possessed all the weakness of Sydney Carton withnone of that martyr's pathetic nobility or ability.
Harland Slack sat alone and began to scowl at the bottle of Apollinaris.His weak face looked haggard. Perhaps he felt that he had cast the keyof his tomb through the grated door after he had immured himself within.He glared at the whiskey, and his thoughts cursed it; then he smiled andtook another swallow. Even as he drank his mind wandered back to hiscollege days when he was unimplicated in high treason against himself.He could not help remembering, sometimes: he seldom thought of thefuture.
The door opened. He tossed the remainder of his glass off, and lookedaround, expecting his companion. Then he turned back, disappointed. Thenhe looked again.
A stalwart man entered with an air of vitality which is often mistakenfor authority. The vigorous development of his body gave a startlingimpression of height and power. He was dressed with elegant negligence.His dark beard was cut to a point, and he looked like a Parisian artist.Black eyes from under the brim of a silk hat compelled attention byreason of an imperious steadiness that indicated the possession ofunusual self-control. The waiters jumped to serve this man. Harland wasannoyed at this obsequiousness which he had never received. He tried tolook haughtily indifferent, but he could not take his eyes from thisperson. The stranger returned his glance. He advanced upon thefashionable inebriate, and paused at his table. Harland Slack arose asif he were accepting a challenge, and trembled. The two looked at eachother.
"I declare, old fellow. Is it you? Why, I haven't seen you since ClassDay. You know me, Slack, don't you?"
The speaker smiled and took off his hat. This action heightened theimpression of power which he had first made. His forehead was literallythe dome of his body. It was as if the Creator had determined ongranting this man an unusual supply of brains, and had then packed themin until the pressure had distended the frontal lobes. His brow was anoverhanging arch, massive, high, compelling. This was so marked that thehead gave almost a painful impression of superabundant intellectuality.Harland immediately recognized his classmate from that distinguishingfeature. It was the only recognizable one left.
"Randolph?"
"The same. Do you live in Boston now?"
"Oh yes, of course. Sit down--and you?"
"I? I am a practising physician, now: that's all. Am just back fromParis a while ago, and have taken an office. I was telephoned suddenlyto a patient out of town and ran in here for a chop before I went home."
The keen eyes of Dr. Alaric Randolph examined his vis-a-vis as he gavehis brief explanation. He ordered his chops, declined an offer todrink, and noticed with professional intelligence Harland's demand forsome more whiskey and the tremulous way with which it was taken. Nowords were necessary to tell this student of human miseries the natureof Harland Slack's disease.
Randolph was as much changed for the better as his classmate was for theworse. It was a wonder that they recognized each other at all. Harlandfelt the difference, but could not analyze it; while Randolph studied itmore than he felt it. The college student who did not room in "Beck,"and who was not a member of the Hasty Puddi
ng Club, who had no time forsociety and theatricals, who was never seen at Carl's, who was suspectedof being a little diffident, had suddenly become the patron; and theclassmate whose father's wealth had given him an unassailable socialrank, yielded with feeble will to his own unspoken instinct ofinferiority.
Harland's face had become weazened since he had left college. His manlyframe had shrunken. On the other hand, Alaric's features had expanded.His skull had filled out: even his frontal arch was rounded.
"What have you been doing in Paris, Randolph?" asked Harland with agood-natured laugh and a faint attempt at condescension.
Dr. Randolph looked across the table; his eyes twinkled over hisclassmate's tone, but he courteously answered:
"I've been experimenting there for five years. I went the usual round ofhospitals and studied with Pasteur, and have raised scores of coloniesof bacilli. Lately I have busied myself with investigations of toocomplex a nature to discuss. And you----"
"Oh,--I'm a--a member of the clubs, you know. I'm now engaged inbreeding beagles. That takes lots of time you know. My father died someyears ago, and I--eh--take care of the estate."
"So?" exclaimed Randolph with a German lengthening of the vowel sound.Then taking the opportunity while Harland was emptying his glass, heregarded him thoughtfully.
"Look here, Slack," said the young doctor after a moment's hesitation."What do you say to spending the evening with me? I am lonely and wantto talk over old days. You're done up and not fit to go to the clubto-night."
Now Harland, though considerably astonished by the invitation, was alsoflattered.
"But my appointment! I never missed an appointment in my life, youknow," wavered Harland unsteadily, while shifting his eyes to the door.
"Never mind that now. I'll leave word at the desk. Psst--garcon!"
The Doctor spoke masterfully; the gentleman obeyed him as readily as theservant. A pencil note, with strict injunctions for delivery solved theinebriate's sodden difficulty. Slack insisted upon adding that he wouldstill meet his friend between ten and eleven o'clock. Randolph smiledindulgently, and they passed out into the cool air arm in arm. Randolphhailed a coupe and got his friend into it with pardonable alacrity.
Harland was unusually communicative that evening with the man from whomhe would have hardly deigned to accept a cigarette in his college days.He could not understand the reason for what he considered this suddensocial degradation. He accepted it in a dazed way, for he had beendrinking steadily all day.
The cab stopped before one of the few stone houses less common in Bostonthan in New York, whose construction is at once singularly deceptive andhonest. It had a frontage of seventeen feet.
"A good sized dog-kennel!" observed Harland Slack, glancing at itsuperciliously as he got out.
"These are my offices," answered Dr. Randolph urbanely, paying noattention to the half-maudlin discourtesy.
Supposing that one of these houses with a frontage of seventeen feet,has a depth of two hundred feet, and is five stories high? Thedog-kennel assumes an area of nearly half an acre. There may be largerooms, almost a spacious salon in one of these insignificant homes.Seemingly unlimited space behind ridiculously narrow stone walls, is oneof the many mysteries of city life.
Harland Slack sank upon the sofa, and languidly watched the Doctor turnup the gas.
"You haven't a nip of brandy, have you? I feel so confoundedly thirsty."Dr. Randolph looked at the speaker, whose wavering eye vainly strove toelude his. The Doctor seemed to be balancing in his mind whether togrant the guest his wish or not.
"Look here, old boy," said Harland, almost with a whine, "it isn't fair,doncherno, to bring a fellow in here and stare at him that way. Mybeagles wouldn't treat me so. I'm burning up with thirst. Just a little.That's hospitable, you know." He finished with a sigh and a fuddled lookof entreaty. He had gone a half an hour without alcohol.
"I beg your pardon, Slack," said Randolph slowly, "of course you shallhave it. But I would rather give you some cordial of mine first. Itwill take your thirst away sooner than your infernal liquor."
Slack nodded wearily, while the Doctor unlocked a black cabinet and tookfrom thence a brittle flask and a liqueur glass. He held the flask up tothe light before Slack's face. The liquid flamed yellow in the gaslight.It seemed to have concentrated in its ebullient elements theexhilaration of life. Now, the yellow cordial, even as the inebriatelooked upon it, glowed and became incandescent. It seemed to be endowedwith its own principle of energy. Harland Slack started up, and lookedat this phenomenon more closely with intelligent astonishment.
"This," said Dr. Alaric Randolph observantly, "is the issue of manylaborious years abroad. This is the theriaca against all vital poisons.Watch it; for even as you look upon it, you absorb its virtue."
There was no melodrama in the Doctor's action or accent. He spoke quitenaturally. Harland was as much impressed by his friend's sincerity as bythe singular appearance of this _elixir vitae_. He did not need to beurged to look at the glass again. It was a fountain of boiling light.
At this moment, a knock was heard at that door of the reception roomwhich evidently led into the Doctor's inner office. Dr. Randolphstarted, quickly locked the door leading into the hall, and put thepriceless flask gently upon a high bookcase. It was on a level with hisface. The liquid shot bubbles of animation to the surface; and beforeSlack's eyes, as if gathering fire from the light or the heat, it slowlybegan to turn red. The languid debauchee now jumped nimbly to his feetand stood entranced before this beautiful, perplexing transformation.
"Keep your eyes on it for a moment, my friend," whispered Dr. Randolph:"watch it carefully for me. I wish to note its changes. It differs undervariable conditions. Tell me about it. Do not touch it. When I come backyou shall taste, and then--" Harland lost the last words as thephysician hurried out.
Harland Slack, feeling a dull sense of scientific responsibility, fixedhis eyes upon the occult fluid, watching its strange manifestationseagerly. His brain throbbed with thoughts. If the mere sight of thiscurious elixir could clear the clots of alcohol from his blood and hiswill, what might come of a draught? He walked for the first few momentsabout the room briskly. He stood erect: but he did not take his gazefrom the flask, nor did he touch it. It now shot forth colors of theruby. Along the rim played the fires of the spinel. These gave way tothe glow of the garnet; which in turn vanished before gleams whoseindescribable radiance is only likened to the blood of the pigeon.Harland was eager not to lose the lightest stage of this marvellousmetamorphosis. With every new hue fresh streams of blood seemed to comeinto his heart. He felt so strangely that he soon began to doubt whetherhe were sober or not. He rubbed his eyes, and pinched his ears. Yes, hewas awake and sane. This was no delirium of a caked brain. His mind wasas clear as the waters of the Bermuda reefs. If he had been an opiumeater, he might have thought these the legitimate effects of the duskydrug.
As soon as he had thoroughly assured himself of the validity of hisreason he began to hear music. It came from the inner room whither theDoctor had gone. Without taking his eyes off of the blazing flask,Harland backed up to the door and listened. The strains sounded louderas he approached. There seemed to be a castanet, and a harp, andsinging. In surprise he touched the door. It opened lightly. Hiscuriosity proved stronger then the power of the elixir to restrain him,and he turned. A low cry of amazement leaped from his lips. He stoppedirresolute and looked back. The glittering alembic was extinguished. Theliquid shone but dully in the feeble jets of gas. What could there havebeen to fascinate, he mused, in that carafe of--water?
He forgot the Doctor. He abandoned the theriaca. He strode into the vasthall that opened up before him. As he advanced, his head whirled with anew intoxication. He wondered how so narrow a house could contain such asuperb apartment. Then he perceived, or he fancied that two or morebuildings had been thrown into one. It was the only explanation of thespacious area which his imagination afforded, and it satisfied him.
Before him extende
d a banquet-hall decorated with Oriental magnificence,and lighted with many lamps. In its centre was a sumptuous table. Blackservants flitted noiselessly about. Upon a yellow rug at one sidecrouched a dark dancing girl, clad in gauze, waving a gauze scarf. Shereminded him of something he had read about the celebrated dancers ofthe Maharajah of Mysore. This beautiful girl, with a bewitching effortat unconsciousness, arose and whirled down the long hall towards theyoung man, waving her bare arms to the accompaniment of stringedinstruments and the measured drone of the players. Suddenly the dancer,with a blinding pirouette, wound her veils modestly about her, salutedHarland with a profound, mocking courtesy, and then pointing to thetable wafted herself away. Harland was confounded. What strange orgy wasthis? What a scene from India dropped upon bleak, staid New England!
When he had accustomed his eyes to the blaze of light he saw thatanother woman was in the room. This one was reclining at the table. Herecognized her immediately. This fact pleased him; for it assured himthat he was still himself. It also troubled him, for he had solemnlyvowed never to allow his eyes to rest upon her again. She had hauntedhim with her beauty and her insolence since he had forsworn her. Thereflashed his sapphire bracelet on her slender arm, and the Alexandritefor which he had sent to Russia, took to itself at her white throatalternate virulent moods of red and green. She was entrancing, and heloved her. She was his evil genius, and he feared her. She had flatteredand despised him, and he hated her. How laughingly she had lured himwith her jewelled hand and iridescent eyes down the pleasant path thatbrought up at his fatal vice! He thought of her polite orgies, hertheatre suppers, her one o'clock germans, and her select parties atsuburban hotels. To his besotted brain she was a scarlet witch and hefled from her, and returned, and fled again.
But what manner of man was this Doctor? Why would they trap him?--weak,sodden thing that he was, and knew that he was.
Now, as he looked upon her there was a snap in his heart, and her powerupon him seemed to give away and break like a valve in the aorta. Howwas this possible? Could a man _not_ care for her? With suddensurprising disdain he approached the beautiful creature before whom hehad so often trembled. She did not look up at him, but threw herselfback further on the couch and motioned to a servant for some wine.Something about her super-human grace revolted him. The music redoubled.The Indian dancer fanned him as she sped past. He did not notice her. Hewas above intoxication of the senses. What was this woman? What herwine? In a kind of sacred, cold revolt, he stood aloof. He was in anecstasy of moral freedom. He advanced a step or two, looked down at herfrom his tall height and ejaculated brutally:
"_You_ here?"
She did not look up at this insult. Her cheek, neck, and ears flushedand then became deadly pale. A sneer now spread itself over her chinand mouth.
"And why not, you poor fool?" The opprobrious epithet seemed feebly toexpress the infinite contempt in which she--even she--had held him. Shehad called him this with equal scorn more than once before, in herdrawing-room, and he had never felt the shadow of resentment. He hadbeen accustomed to laugh feebly and to turn the unpleasant personalityaway as well as he could. But now, he became aware of the contumely forthe first time. He clenched his fists; he breathed heavily. He did nottrust himself to speak. He ground his teeth. His thoughts becamesingularly clear. He took another step nearer. She turned her haughtyhead and smiled mockingly at him, clicking the glass with herfinely-manicured finger.
"I did not know, sir, that _you_ were a friend of the great Doctor," shechirped in her falsetto voice, and her lip curled.
"Its a lie! I am not! He is a scoundrel!"
Harland spoke savagely. He could not understand this moral convulsionthat within the last few minutes, had dominated his nature. He couldonly express it. What was this house? For the first time the queryarose: What had he to do with a questionable evening?
"You are drunk, as usual," answered the woman with a pert upward motionof disgust.
At this, which he knew to be a libel for once, Harland's hand tore athis heart: a terrible rush of blood ran to his brain. The music hushed.The dark dancing-girl sank with exhaustion to her rug. The room wasstifling. The air was heavy with the perfume of roses, and attar, andwine. Yet the young man's head was poised, his eyes were sane, hissenses untouched. With a supreme effort he held his anger in check. Thebeauty, not realizing the extent to which she had tortured him, laughedaloud and contemptuously cried:
"Harland Slack, you are a coward. You dare not call your soul your own;for you are always drunk. Bah!" She made as if to draw herself frombeyond his touch. He did not stir, but a frightful whiteness extendedover his hands and face.
"Go on," he said metallically.
With a refinement of insolence difficult to describe, ignoring hisperson, she looked _through_ him, and with a gesture ordered the musicto begin again.
Harland stood motionless for a moment. Immovable, he fixed his gray eyesupon a little black square of court-plaster under the lobe of her leftear. The music crashed through the banquet-hall. The dancing-girl triedto distract the man of stone. He looked at that little black patch. Itswearer shrugged her shoulders significantly; then, as if wearied of thethought of him, she moved her white arm to the table and took up a glassflaming with champagne; waving it towards him she said malevolently:
"There! That's what you are waiting for. Drink and go!--Sot!" Theviciousness of the act and word served as the key to the situation. Likerusting steel, Harland became unlocked. Oddly enough, at this crisis itoccurred to him to question whether this were his old friend at all.Then who? Then what? Was the woman an embodiment of all the past evil ofhis own soul? By some horrible law of metempsychosis had his old spiritpassed into this too fashionable married flirt at his side? Thatoutstretched, mocking hand--was it what the abstainers called the "demonof drink?" How often he had laughed at the phrase, lighting hiscigarette with their tracts!
At the fearful import of these thoughts, he felt himself endowed by abidding higher than fate. Justice arose and compelled him. His eyesbrightened before he did the deed. With a sweep, he shattered the handthat held the slender glass, and snatching up a silver knife from thetable he poised it for an instant: then buried it to the hilt.
It struck just below her left ear. It obliterated the little blackpatch. With a sound more like a hiss than a cry the woman drooped to herdivan. The music stopped with a frightened crash. The dancing-girl fledwith a shriek; but Harland stood immovable, exultant, holding his handsready to strangle if the wound did not kill. His face, but now so weak,had acquired an inexorable strength. Strange! At this moment he felthimself not a murderer, but a man.
He watched his victim dying, without a word; and when her curse wasspent, he turned and walked triumphantly back through the wastedmagnificence to the room from whence he had come.
He did not hurry. At first, he did not apprehend arrest. He felt as ifhe had accomplished a great deed. Without looking back he closed thedoor and sought for his hat. He put it on and made for the outerentrance. He tried it and found it locked.
Now at last he began to comprehend his situation. Terror fell upon him.Cold drops bathed him. The enormity of his act flashed upon hisconscience. _Kill!_ Kill a _woman_? He struggled at the window and thedoor. Both were impervious. He dared not go back. How could he look ather? Escape was cut off. His head became clotted with the oldsensations. Fear, such as makes a man's heart stand still, assailed him.He looked in vain for the flask. It was gone. With a loud cry, he flunghimself upon the sofa and fainted dead away.
How long he lay there of course he did not know. Soon, vaguecerebrations began to torture his mind. It burned as if it were beingrecalled to life from a frozen state. Then, soaring upward from deepsbeyond the deeps, supported through irremediable turmoil by anoverwhelming power, he felt himself gently laid upon a couch. There wasa moment when the brain, recovering its equilibrium, swam and spun. Thensuddenly he found consciousness and emerged through the mist of pain. Hetried to use his limbs, but could not rise. Wi
th an effort he strove toloosen his tongue, but could not speak. With desperate will heendeavored to open his eyes. Their lids were riveted together. This wasno hallucination. He was never more alert nor more helpless.
He knew that some one was bending over him.
He felt two eyes examining his soul. He had the consciousness that therewas nothing hid from this intense gaze. Then a commanding voice spoketo him, and a hand of unutterable persuasion touched his forehead.
"Harland Slack!" said the ringing voice. Beginning a little above awhisper it seemed to increase to oratorical tones: then it reverberatedthroughout his nature, and burst upon him like the rattle of thunder."Harland Slack, you have had a terrible lesson. Harland Slack, you willnot drink again!" Then after a pause in a different voice, "Now, Slackget up! You're all right now. Come!"
With a mighty wrench Harland, at his bidding, cast off the numbness fromhis body, the incubus from his will, and staggering to his feet openedhis eyes.
Before him stood Dr. Alaric Randolph holding his hand and lookingsearchingly into his face.
This fact recalled to him his awful deed. He understood perfectly thathe had committed a murder. He knew not how, or why, or where. With atremulous look about him he burst into tears and clung for protection tohis enigmatical host.
As tenderly as a hospital nurse Dr. Randolph led the criminal to a deepchair and placed him in it.
"There, there, old fellow. It's all right. You will come out of it allstraight. I'll see you through. Trust me. There, take my hand. That willhelp you, see?"
The broken man, shuddering from weakness, clasped the sympathetic handand wrung it. Harland sat still a long while with closed eyes. Thedoctor watched him professionally, even tenderly, at times anxiously.
"Now," he said, "I'll go and bring you a _demitasse_. It will set you onyour feet."
"No, no!" cried Harland in terror, "don't leave me. I can't be leftalone."
"But only to the next room."
The patient's hands relaxed, and he assented wearily. When the coffeecame, he drank a little obediently.
"Now, my boy," said the Doctor, with what under the circumstances seemedto Harland a ghastly cheerfulness, "this will get you up entirely. Whenyou finish it, I am going to send you to the Club!" At the mention ofthe Club Harland began to tremble.
"My God, Randolph! I can't go there. I'll be arrested." He glancedapprehensively at the outer door as if expecting a policeman. "Don't youknow," he added in a whisper, "what I've done in your infernal place?"
"Nonsense!" replied Randolph lightly, "not a soul shall know you've beenhere. She deserved it. I'll take all the blame. Now brace up and be aman. Don't be nervous. You're feverish. You need a tonic before youstart. What'll you drink?"
Harland looked at his host in a state divided between dementia and moralnausea. What manner of man was this American Doctor with his accursedParisian education?
"I am horribly thirsty," he admitted: "I will take a glass of water,thank you."
He said this without surprise at himself, naturally and quite sincerely.He longed for it. It was the first request of the kind he had made foryears. Randolph handed the water to him and watched him narrowly.Harland held up the glass to the light with a connoisseur's eye, smiledwith satisfaction, and took the clear draught down at one swallow.
"Ah!" he said: "that is good. I feel better now. Now swear that you willsave me. Don't give me up. Hide me somehow. It happened in your house,you know."
"Give yourself no concern," said the Doctor easily.
"Why, man," blazed Harland Slack, "don't you know that I've murderedsomebody? It was a woman. I've murdered that woman you keep here. I ama murderer."
"Your Club is only two blocks off," answered the physician withastonishing indifference; "It will do you good to walk there. Trust me.Don't worry over it. Let me feel your hand. It's moist and soft. Nofever; that's good. When you step foot into the Club you will neverthink of the affair again."
The Doctor quietly gave the criminal his hat and coat, put a cane intohis hand, and conducted him to the door.
"Go!" he said, "go directly to your Club as usual. As a physician Iorder it. It is the best thing you can do."
Mutely the trembling man obeyed, and thus the two actors in this awfulevening parted; so, perhaps, criminal and accomplice are wont to part inthe extremity of great emergencies, as if nothing had happened out ofthe moral order of things.
Harland Slack walked into his fashionable Club slowly. As he did so,whether by reason of the familiar atmosphere, or the contrast to thescene from which he had escaped, he did not stop to consider, his crimedropped from his memory like the burden from Christian's back. He handedhis outer garments to the liveried boy, and, as was his wont, turnedtowards the poker and billiard rooms. There were the usual number ofuseless gambling and playing men uselessly drinking. Harland Slack wasgreeted in the usual boisterous manner.
"Hilloa! What'll you take? Here, boy, bring the same old stuff to Mr.Slack."
The gossip proceeded, the chips rattled, the balls clicked, the smokemounted, the liquors gurgled, and the regular Club life proceeded.
The friend of his appointment now joined him.
"By ----! You look as white as that foam there. You need a nerverestorer. You haven't been idiot enough to buck the tiger again, haveyou? What will you take?"
"No," said Harland slowly. "I have not gambled." He shook his head witha strange expression. He did not understand. The Club seemed differentto him. It was not as entrancing or as necessary as usual. The odor ofstale liquor and of staler tobacco nauseated him. Still, it did notoccur to him that this was an unusual state of mind for him to be in.
The attendant placed the chased tray upon the table. His friend took thedecanter from the boy and poured out the brown liquid into the delicateglasses. He then offered one to Harland and held up his own in token ofcourtesy.
"Well, here's to luck," he said, and nodded to Harland. Harland noddedin return. His nerves twitched him. What was this new sensation ofrepugnance? He lifted his glass higher to his mouth. He tried to put itto his lips. It would not go. He tried again. His arm refused himservice. But the fumes of this familiar liquor mounted to his nostrils,which dilated with horror. What was this terrible thing which he wasasked to drink? Never had he felt such physical repulsion. A shudder ofdisgust shook him. With a curse he dashed the glass to the floor, andglared suspiciously upon his companion.
"How dare you ask me to drink this stuff?" His voice rang with passion."I loathe it! I cannot stand it. Let me go. This is an infernal den, andI will get out!"
The men around jumped up and held him. They thought that D. T. had comeat last.
"Somebody send for the nearest expert," said his nearest friend.
This inebriate's first resistance to his dipsomania was interpreteddarkly, with sundry shrugs and winks and gestures.
"It is too devilish bad," said his companion, "but I knew it wouldhappen some day."
They called a cab and put him in and sent him home. But he gave nofurther evidence of insanity. His case became a seven days' gossip andwarning behind the bulging windows of the great Club.
Harland Slack went straightway to Colorado, and came back a man. He wentinto law, and succeeded. It is well known that he does not drink. Thecommittee elected a new heir to damnation in Harland's place at theClub.
* * * * *
At the end of an address delivered a year afterward before a closemedical meeting Dr. Alaric Randolph said:
"A bit of bright, cut glass, and a healthy will, and the proportionaltraining did this thing. I have not given the man's name, not only onaccount of his high social standing and marked mental ability, but alsobecause he himself is still ignorant of the facts. I have no fear of arelapse. He has forgotten that he ever believed himself to have murdereda woman who never existed. But he has not forgotten that he no longerdrinks. This case is now a tested cure. My first successful experimentin this great, unknown field, r
ests upon its facts. Alcoholism isprobably as serious an illustration as we could present. The hypnotictherapeutics have come to stay."