CHAPTER XIII.
"_A maximis ad minima._"
PHLOGISTON IS RESTORED.
And now, an awful silence brooded in that fateful chamber. The GreatLight had vanished. Darkness was there.
And then, as swiftly as came sleep, so now the awakening of BillVanderhook and his wife.
"Gee, I nearly slipped"--muttered the druggist "That infernal machinemust have made me dizzy for a second."
"And here she goes,"--repeated Bill, wholly unconscious of his lapse.His hand is again upon the lever. His eyes are again riveted upon theprivate exhibit.
But the voice of the gay Gnani is heard no more by man. He makes nomore appeals. His freshness is departing forever. His ethericcountenance is distorted by unspeakable anguish. Despair looks fromhis eyes. His delicate hands, unclasped, are fallen to his sides. Hishead is bowed upon his breast. The foolish wise man now faces himselfon all sides. He sees the past, the present, the future,--sin,suffering, and impenetrable silence.
"And here she goes,"--
Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.
Whizz-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.
And go she did,--and so did the Illuminat of Illinois.
Without so much as a farewell word to his Alter Ego, the gaseous andnow ghastly gentleman was violently lifted from the perpendicular andsuddenly bent in a curve corresponding to the arc of that electricalcircle in which he revolved.
He was shot like a ball from a cannon, in and out, up and down, andround and round the Vanderhook laboratory. He was projected withfearful speed along the fatal pathway of that deadly attraction.
Words can not exploit the possibilities of electricity when centeredupon a human organism, however attenuated. Up to this last moment thecaptive had been stirred only by his internal emotions of baffledlove, and of deadly fear. Now, however, to internal agony was addedoutward destruction. To the convulsions of the soul were added thecontortions of the body, and with every revolution of the fatalcylinder the reappearing envelope of the doomed soul was seen to beshrinking and shriveling out of all semblance to a man.
What at breakfast had been the lithe and debonnair Gnani of Gingalee,a transparent and elegant gentleman, was now but a thick, cloudyshape, an opaque, formless figure, an unhandsome thing resembling thebody of a bent, crooked and deformed child.
Bill Vanderhook was wildly elated.
He beamed upon the exhibit with satanic glee. He laughed for joy overthe pallid and lifeless thing whirling under his hand. He emitted alow whistle of profound satisfaction. He made notes in his book withexcited dots and dashes. At last his triumph broke all bounds. Heroared like a whole grandstand at the last touchdown.
"I say, Genesy, that's what you call a _Nee_go on the home run. Getonto the size of him. Looks like 'leven cents, don't he? Dollars todimes he hasn't enough mysticism left to illuminate a hollow punkin.The next Gooroo from Gingalee won't run up against an Edison plant. Ifhe does, he'll find he isn't the whole push. Just look at the shape ofhim. Now ain't you stuck on that? And isn't he just swinging round thecircle like a presidential candidate? Well, well, well, I say, Genesy,if this don't beat the tom-tom."
The transformation of the mystic was sustaining the hypothesis of thematerialist. The reduction of the astral man was a visible, tangibleand scientific fact.
And Imogene, the faithless,--what did she? She gazed and shuddered.That which she saw was not her ideal. It was no longer her lover. Norwas it a man. It was not even suitable bric-a-brac for a refined home.It was only a Spectacle.
She did not speak. There are times when even a woman feels theadvantages of silence. But she gazed upon her late admirer and thenupon Bill. She had to acknowledge to her inner consciousness that herown husband cut much the better figure of the two.
Round and round swept the cylinder, its fierce currents and theirfated victim.
The features of the mystic were no longer recognizable. Thecontortions and distortions of body, limbs and features were fearful.The external application of electricity and the internal throes ofpassion and pain have done their fatal work.
Again and again an increased current, regulated by the avenger,hastened in exact ratio the destruction of the astral man.
The victim first lost control, limb by limb, of his entire organism.Then his voice failed. When he would have called to his Lady-bird,speech was silenced--paralyzed. Nothing of sound but a gurgling,hissing whisper issued from that tiny hole--no longer a human mouth.Only the eyes lived. In that small, corrugated sphere, once a perfecthead, was left nothing now that was human, nothing of humanintelligence save the eyes--two gleaming sparks of light--and eventhese, receding and diminishing, gave evidence of the vanishing soul.So long, however, as these two glittering points shone through thevapor mask that had been a face, they sought and chilled the marrow ofthe disillusioned Imogene.
So long as these two points of intelligence burned in that misshapenball they rested only upon her, and then--finally as the soddencurtains of phlogisticated matter fell before those windows of thesoul and conscious love was swallowed up in vapor, she for whom thistragedy was enacted fell shrieking across the cask of copper wire.
Conversation ceased in the death chamber. The cylinder continued towhirl--dizzily, madly, satanically. Sheets of crackling sparks, blueand wicked, streamed out from that insatiable monster. The fullcurrent was on. Every horse-power was let loose. The silent butresistless force of electricity was unchained. And the victim of thisawful experiment was no longer a man. It was now but a shape, a cloud,a vapor, a shadow.
There was now but a spinning mass of vapor, a shape no larger than aninfant that shot in and out of the laboratory, obedient to theavenger's hand. The rapid revolutions in that fearful orbit traced outa misty band of cloud. That central cylinder became the hub of a hugespokeless wheel.
With every pulse of time the whirr-r-r-r and the whizz-z-z-z-z of thatsoulless, bloodless executioner seemed to increase. The invisibleavenger flew on its tireless wings with vindictive glee. The air ofthe room was white-hot. There was an ominous snapping and crackling inand above and around.
There was now but a tiny, shapeless mass of cosmic matter flying inand out through floor and ceiling. There was but the faint, shadowyrim of a phantom wheel.
The heat increased.
The light was blinding. The crackling of the atmosphere was maddening.
Only a faint, misty line now marked the path of the departing soul.
During these supreme moments Bill Vanderhook stood like a statue,tense, rigid, implacable. And his wife, the erring Imogene, crumpledand unconscious, overspread the cask of wire.
The dire noises increased. They became more terrible than the ghastlyexhibit; and the heat--it was stifling, consuming; and the light--itwas paralyzing. What could it mean? The chemist himself was puzzled.He had not anticipated these very unusual phenomena. He did not,however, cease to press the button.
But that strange, unearthly noise, heat and glare increased. Theydeepened and widened until, as Bill said afterwards, it seemed like alegion of devils had come to escort the doomed to his final abode inchaos.
Now, everywhere, above, below, and roundabout, there was a twisting,grinding roar, like that within the cylinder of a cyclone. All in aninstant--to the man at the lever--his house, the world, the universe,seemed to have been swallowed up.
An explosion, long, loud and terrific, shook the Vanderhookhabitation, from the foundation stones to the mansard roof.
And after this was silence, thick, oppressive, damp, dead and awesome.
And phlogiston was restored.
* * * * *
AND BILL IS IT.
* * * * *
A tiny, black, glistening, motionless monster stood between a man anda woman. There were now but two people in the laboratory--theHonorable William K. Vanderhook and his beautiful wife. The one wasflushed with victory, the other was pallid with perplexity and fear.
In another instant
our hero was eagerly bending over the instrument ofhis revenge. In one hand he held a tiny spoon, in the other a smallvial upon which was a freshly printed label.
It was with infinite care that he scraped the spoon along the rim ofthe now stilled and silent cylinder. It was with unmeasured cautionand infinite pride that he scraped up three great drops of clear,shining water and transferred them to the yawning mouth of the vial.
This done, the druggist fitted a cork nicely into the vial, while awide smile of satisfaction illumined his countenance from brow to chinand from ear to ear.
When he turned and looked upon his wife the illumination increased.
And what of her? The woman for whom friendship had been sacrificed anda Mystic cut off in the height of his uselessness? Womanlike, as shewatched Mr. Leffingwell disappear into vapor she had sensed thepossibilities of the new dispensation. Alonzo had certainly lapsed.Bill had not. She had lost an admirer, but her husband was still inevidence. Alonzo was reduced to nothingness. Bill was yet asubstantial fact. The Mystic could no longer contribute to herentertainment. Bill could make things very disagreeable. Astraladvantages were gone. Material things remained.
Opinions to the contrary, women are philosophers--in accommodatingthemselves to the inevitable.
The lovely Imogene had almost dried her tears, even before theexplosion came. When it was over she shook herself into adjustment asto her draperies and ribbons and frills. She fluffed up her bangs,slicked her eyebrows and looked almost as fresh as she generally felt.
When it was all over the avenger turned and, tossing the vial to thelady, said in a loud, triumphant voice,--"Well, here we are, Mrs.Vanderhook; here's your essence of mysticism for your _mooshoir_, andhere"--laughing uproariously,--"is a soov'nir spoon for your next pinktea. And now, my dear girl"--as Imogene began to look mournfulagain--"if you'll give up this strenuous occultism and be contentedwith your old Billsey on the earth plane, I'll cry quits, and get youanything you want--that isn't astral."
Imogene wiped her eyes. She looked at him inquiringly. Then she lookedat the vial. Then she sidled up alongside her husband.
And now Bill smiled--but it was under his breath. "What is it,Petsey"--and his arm closed around her. "How would you like one ofthose dandy little watches, or--"
"Oh, Billsey boy, I do believe after all that it's you that's _IT_. Ifeel this very minute as if we'd just vibrate together after thissplendidly. I bet anything, if you'd just practice a little, you couldbe up to me in no time."
The Honorable Mayor of Kankakee turned away to conceal his emotion.And when his expression was out of sight he winked--once--slowlyand--judiciously--at the now silent cylinder.
Then he said modestly,--"Yes, Honey, I mean to get even with you ifI'm spared. And if you want--"
"The watch? Oh, Billsey dear, I should think I did. If you hadn'tdissolved Lonnie he would have gotten me one soon. But, say, can't Ihave, too, one of those dear--dear--markee rings? They're just too,too, utterly--"
"'Course you can. You can have a whole tray full if you want 'em. Yousee, Leff saved me a lot of money; and now I'll spend it on you. Youcan have rings and pins and any other truck necessary to yourhappiness."
"Oh, Billsey, you don't mean that you will take me to Chicago thiswinter to the grand opera, and the charity ball, and the horse show,and all the big department stores,--and--and--"
"Yes, yes, old girl, I'll take you to all these and everything elsethat you can't think of now, and then to the Stock Yards; for itwon't be like going home without seeing the Yards."
"You're a dear, sweet, blessed--"
"But here, see here, Imogene, all this is _provided_--that there areno more Dudes from Devachan to deal with. D'ye hear me? Is it a go?"
"Here's my mitt,"--and Imogene laid her delicate little hand in Bill'sbig paw.
And thus, over the--no, not the ashes--but the essence of the lateAlonzo Leffingwell, Gnani of Gingalee, and Modern Mystic of LowDegree,--was enacted the full and complete reconciliation of Mr. andMrs. Vanderhook....
"I say, Genesy, girl, it's supper time, and I'm hungry as a wolf. Andsay, too, I'm as dry as a fish."
"Me, too"--murmured Imogene, and clutching up the back of her gown inone hand she laid the other tenderly and confidingly upon herhusband's arm.
And the husband and wife turned from the laboratory and paused in thelibrary. The untouched spread was still on the table.
"What do you say, my dear, to the removal of this cobweb? What wouldyou say to a little 'Mumm,' or a 'High-ball,' before we go to dinner?"
"Well, Billsey, I'd just say 'Let's,' for I really do feel nervous.But there--goodness gracious! I've gone and left that bottle of Lonniein the laboratory. Oh, well, never mind; I don't believe he's muchgood as essence, anyway. Patchouli's good enough. Don't you think so,Billsey?"
* * * * *
And close to the cask of copper wire had rolled a tiny vial, rolledand lost itself in the litter thereabouts, a vial on which the doublelabel read as follows:
"_Aqua Vitae_" ALONZO LEFFINGWELL, D. P.[2] "_Memoria in Aeterna_."
FINIS.
"_Tacks Vobiscum_."
[Footnote 2: Defunct Philosopher.]
POSTLUDE.
Literature is but a symbol.
A book is but an array of signs by which ideas are conveyed, factstransmitted, or truths revealed.
The office of literature is to instruct, inspire, entertain, ordemoralize the reader.
Varied as individuality itself are the literary devices of authors.
Innumerable are the expedients to which human intelligence resorts inits efforts to transmit knowledge, to impart ideas and ideals, or toillustrate and elucidate truths.
Born of individual aspirations, ambitions and convictions, andformulated by individual genius, are the poems, essays, dramas, songs,sermons, and even the satires of literature.
And none of these has excuse for being, except its creator hassomething of value to express, reveal or illustrate.
If the author's motive be pure, and if his cause be just and his artsufficient, we forgive the mere literary form or trick by which hecommands attention and awakens interest.
If, for example, a feathery skit be employed to illustrate asubstantial fact or lofty principle in nature, or some current socialor philosophic pretension, it should not offend the wise. It could innowise minimize Truth, nor belittle the great purpose in thebackground.
It is possible, however, that it may teach a valuable lesson byindirection. It may enlarge the understanding and remove the prejudiceof a few people.
To travesty a noble theme is easy, for in this great world of ours thesublime and the ridiculous forever march side by side, and oftentimestheir relation is one of great intimacy.
Side by side walk the noble and the ignoble, the wise and the foolish,the serious and the mirthful, the fine and the unrefined, the loftyand the trivial, the religious and the sacrilegious, the philosophicand the foolish.
The wise man and the faker hourly cross each other's paths, and theircontact and contrast often afford a laugh for the merry and a lessonfor the thoughtful.
F. H.
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