The Last Tenant

Bob's one room was by no means uncomfortable; it served at once for his living and bedroom, but the bed he occupied being a folding bed, and the washstand he used being inclosed, it did not present the appearance of a bedroom. There were shelves on the walls containing a large number of books; four or five of these were on the table.

"Now, sir or madam," said I to the cat, "what do you think of Bob's residence, and what can we do to make you comfortable?"

The cat glided to the hearthrug and stretched itself upon it; I wrested my attention from the unpleasant object.

"I am very well off here," said Bob; "the landlady cooks my meals for me, and allows me to have them downstairs. I am at the top of the house, and there is a fine view from the roof; I often smoke for an hour there. You see that door in the corner; it is a closet, with a fixed flight of steps leading to the roof; in case of fire I should be safe. Sit in the armchair, Ned, and let us reason out things. I have been thinking a great deal about you to-day, and talking about you, too."

"That was scarcely right, Bob."

"Don't be afraid; you were not mentioned by name, and the gentleman I conversed with is blind. That is the reason, very likely, why he believes in what he does not see."

"A friend of yours?"

"A dear friend; a poor gentleman who has suffered, and who bears his sufferings with a resignation which can only spring from faith. I told you yesterday that I had been married and that I lost my wife. The gentleman I speak of is the son of my dead wife's sister, who is herself a widow. My wife's family were gentlefolk, who had fallen from affluence, not exactly into poverty, but into very poor circumstances. Ronald Elsdale-the name of my nephew-is a tutor; he was not born blind; the affliction came upon him gradually, and was accelerated by over study in his boyish days. Four years ago he could see, and when blindness came upon him he was fortunately armed, and able to obtain a fair living for himself and his widowed mother by tutoring. He is an accomplished musician, and frequently obtains remunerative engagements to play. He speaks modern languages fluently, is well up in the sciences, has read deeply, and is altogether as noble and sweet a gentleman as moves upon the earth."

Bob spoke with enthusiasm, and it was easy to perceive that he had a sincere love for Mr. Ronald Elsdale.

"In every way so accomplished and admirable," I said, "and with such a misfortune hanging over him, he needs a wife to look after him."

"His mother does that," Bob replied, "with tender devotion, and Ronald will never marry unless-but thereby hangs a tale, as Shakspere says. He is not the only man who cherishes delusions."

"Ah! he has delusions. I hope they are more agreeable than mine. How is it, Bob, that you have had time for so much talk to-day with your nephew?"

"This is Thursday, and Mr. Gascoigne closes his office on Thursdays at two o'clock, so I have had a few hours at my disposal, which have been partly employed in talking with Ronald and partly in studying your case."

"Explain."

"I have been looking up apparitions," said Bob, pointing to the books upon the table.

I did not trouble myself to examine them; it did not seem to me that the books would be of much service in my case; the facts themselves were sufficiently strong and stern, and I mentally scouted the idea that printed matter would enable me to get rid of the apparition that haunted me.

"It is clear to me," I said, "that you think I am laboring under some hallucination, and that I see the specter, now lying on the hearthrug, with my mental and not my actual vision. Very well, Bob; a difference of opinion will not alter the facts."

"The awkward part of it is," said Bob, "that all evidence is against you."

I nodded toward the books on the table, and said, "All such evidence as that."

"Yes, but you must not forget that cleverer heads than ours have occupied years of their lives in sifting these matters to the bottom."

"In trying to sift them, Bob."

"Well, in trying to sift them; but they give reasons for the conclusions they arrive at which it would be difficult, if not impossible, for men like ourselves to argue away."

"There are two strong witnesses on my side," I remarked; "one is myself, the other is my wife. Bear in mind that we both saw the apparition of the girl; there was no collusion between us beforehand, and if, in our fright, our imaginations were already prepared to conjure up a phantom of the air, it is hardly possible that that phantom should, without previous concert, assume exactly the same form and shape; nor was there any after conspiracy between us as to the manner in which this phantom was to be dressed. Now, my wife has described to me the dress of the girl, the shreds of a cap sticking to her hair, the frock of faded pink, the carpet slippers, the black stockings, and I recognize the faithfulness of these details, which presented themselves to me exactly as they did to her. Granted that one mind may be laboring under a delusion, it is hardly possible that two minds can simultaneously be thus imposed upon. Answer that, Bob."

"Sympathy," he replied.

"The word I used yesterday evening, when I was imagining what the doctors would say upon my case; it is an easy way to get out of it, but it does not satisfy me. I suppose you have come across some curious cases in looking up apparitions?"

"Some very curious cases. Here is one in which a door, not only locked but bolted, plays a part. A great Scotch physician relates how a person of high rank complains to him that he is in the habit of being visited by a hideous old woman at six o'clock every evening; that she rushes upon him with a crutch in her hand, and strikes him a blow so severe that he falls down in a swoon. The gentleman informs the physician that on the previous evening, at a quarter to six o'clock, he carefully locked and double bolted the door of the room, and that then he sat down in his chair and waited. Exactly as the clock strikes six the door flies wide open-as the door in Lamb's Terrace did, Ned-and the old woman rushes in and deals him a harder blow than she was in the habit of doing, and down he falls insensible. 'How many times has this occurred?' asks the physician. 'Several times,' is the reply. 'On any one of these occasions,' says the physician, 'have you had a companion with you?' 'No,' the gentleman replies, 'I have been quite alone.' The physician then inquires at what hour the gentleman dines, and he answers, five o'clock, and the physician proposes that they shall dine the next day in the room in which the old woman makes her appearance. The gentleman gladly consents; they dine together as agreed upon, and the physician-who is an agreeable talker-succeeds apparently in making his host forget all about the apparition. Suddenly, the clock on the mantelpiece is heard striking six. 'Here she is, here she is!' cries the gentleman, and a moment afterward falls down in a fit."

"Very curious," I said, "and how does the wise physician account for the delusion?"

"By the gentleman having a tendency to apoplexy."

"There is, generally," I observed, "a weak spot or two in this kind of story. Does it say in the account that the door was locked and bolted when the gentleman and the physician dined together, and that the door flew open upon the appearance of the old lady?"

"No, it does not say that."

"The omission of the precaution to lock the door," I said, "is fatal, for the absence of that visible and material manifestation deprives the physician of the one strong argument he could have brought forward. Had the door been locked and bolted, and had the old woman appeared without its flying open, the physician could have said to the gentleman, 'You see, the door remains fastened, as we fastened it before we sat down to dinner; you imagined that it flew open, and there it remains shut, a clear proof that the old woman and her crutch is but a fevered fancy.' That would have disposed of this gentleman at once."

"Quite so," said Bob.

"You will, I suppose, admit that if the locked door had opened in the physician's presence, it would have been a sign that some spiritual power had been exercised for which he could not so readily have accounted?"

"Yes, I should admit that."

"Admit, then, that as my wife and I-two witnesses, each uninfluenced by the other-saw the locked door in Lamb's Terrace fly open, that that is an evidence of the exercise of a spiritual power."

Bob laughed a little awkwardly. "You have made me give evidence against myself," he said.

Here there came a knock at the door, and Bob calling "Come in," the landlady of the house made her appearance.

"Mr. Elsdale is downstairs," she said, "and was coming up, when I told him you had a friend with you, and he sent me to ask whether he would be intruding."

Bob looked at me inquiringly.

"Not so far as I am concerned," I said; "I should very much like to make your nephew's acquaintance."

"Ask Mr. Elsdale to come up," said Bob; and the landlady departed.

"I have more than a passing fancy to see your nephew," I said; "you tell me he has delusions; what he says in our discussion, which I don't propose to drop when he joins us, may be of interest."

As I spoke Ronald Elsdale entered the room.

"My nephew, Ronald Elsdale," said Bob, introducing us. "My old friend, Mr. Emery."

As we shook hands my attention was diverted to an incident which, insignificant as it might appear, struck me as very singular; the skeleton cat had risen from the hearthrug and was now standing at Ronald Elsdale's feet, looking up into his face.

CHAPTER X.

RONALD ELSDALE GIVES OPINIONS

Something more singular than this next attracted my attention. Ronald Elsdale, blind as he was, inclined his head to the ground and seemed to be returning the gaze of the cat. "Can it be possible," I thought, "that this man, physically blind, and this cat, invisible to all eyes but mine, are conscious of each other's presence?" I put this to the test.

"You appear to be listening for something," I said.

"Did you bring a dog with you?" he asked. "My uncle, I know, keeps neither cat nor dog."

"No," I replied, "I brought no dog."

"Then I must be mistaken," he said, and he felt his way to the seat he was in the habit of occupying in Bob's room. The cat lay at his feet.

I was prepossessed in the young man's favor the moment I set eyes upon him. He was tall and fair, a true Saxon in feature and complexion. There was an engaging frankness in his manner, and his bearing was that of a gentleman. He aroused my curiosity by a habit he had of closing his eyes when any earnest subject occupied his mind. He closed them now as he sat upon his chair, and when he opened them he said, in a singularly gentle voice, "My uncle has told you I am blind, Mr. Emery?"

"Yes," I replied; "I sincerely sympathize with you.

"Thank you. It is a great misfortune; but there are compensations. There are always compensations, Mr. Emery, even for the worst that can happen to a man."

"It is good if one can think so," I remarked. “As a rule men are not patient when things are not as they wish."

"It is not only useless to repine," was his reply, "it is foolish, and morally weak. For, admitting that there is such a principle as divine justice, we must also admit a divine interposition even in the small matters of human life. I should not speak so freely if my uncle had not told me of his early association with you, and of the friendly and affectionate greeting he received from you after a separation of nearly forty years. I look upon you already as a friend."

"I am glad to hear you say so; we will seal the compact."

I pressed his hand once more, and he responded as I would have wished him to respond.

"I knew you would like each other," said Bob.

"When I closed my eyes just now," resumed Ronald Elsdale, "it was because of the impression I had that there was some other living creature in the room beside ourselves."

Bob and I exchanged glances, and Bob said:

"We three are the only living creatures within these four walls of mine."

"Of course, of course. Mr. Emery said so, and it is not likely he would deceive me. Blind people, Mr. Emery, are generally very suspicious; it follows naturally upon their affliction. Seeing nothing, they doubt much, and are ever in fear that they are being imposed upon and deceived. I am happy to say this is not the case with me; where I have not a fixed opinion I generally believe what is told me."

A pang of self-reproach shot through me as he spoke. Here was I, in my very first interview with this frank and ingenuous young gentleman, deliberately deceiving him. Bob, also, did not seem quite at his ease. He was playing with his lower lip, always an indication in him of mental disturbance.

"You said something just now," I observed, with a wish to change the subject, "about compensations for misfortune, and I infer that you have compensations for yours. But it must cause you regret?"

"It does, but I do not fret, I do not take it to heart; I accept the inevitable. The proper use of the higher intelligence with which we are gifted is to reason calmly upon all human and worldly matters which touch us nearly. Those who can thus reason have cause for gratitude; and I have cause. Compensations? Yes, I have them. Difficult to describe, perhaps, because they are spiritual; inspired by faith or self-delusion, which stern materialists declare are one and the same thing."

"Your uncle and I," I said, "were having a discussion upon delusions when you entered."

"In continuation" – he turned to Bob; he seemed to know always where the person he was addressing was standing or sitting-"in continuation of the discussion we were having this afternoon?"

"Yes," said Bob, "and we do not quite agree."

"My uncle is a skeptic," said Ronald, "he does not believe in miracles."

"You do?" I inquired.

"Undoubtedly. It will be a fatal day for the world when faith in miracles is dead. Do not do my uncle an injustice, Mr. Emery; I never heard him speak as he spoke this afternoon when we were discussing this subject, and it almost seemed to me as if he were desirous of arguing against himself. Do you require absolute visible proof before you believe?"

"Not always," I replied, with my eyes on the spectral cat. "I am forced to believe in some things which are not visible to other eyes than mine."

"I do not quite understand you," said Ronald thoughtfully. "It is, at the best, but a half-hearted admission, and, regarding you in the light of a friend, as I do Uncle Bob, I would like to break down the barrier."

"Try," I said anxiously.

He was silent for a moment or two, considering.

"My uncle, this afternoon, in the attempt to support his argument, brought forward some instances of spectral illusions such as that of a man who was in the habit of seeing in his drawing room a band of figures, dressed in green, who entertained him with singular dances; and he instanced other illusions of a like nature. These are waking fancies, produced either by a disordered mind or a disordered body; they are of the same order as dreams.

At dead of night imperial Reason sleeps,And Fancy, with her train, her revel keeps.

So by day, when the mind is disturbed by such fancies, does imperial reason sleep. For my own part I make no attempt to dispute the facts of these cases. They have been brought forward by physicians in proof of certain functional and scientific facts, and by wise treatment suffering mortals have been won from madness. In this respect they have served a good purpose; but materialists, and persons who now fashionably call themselves agnostics, seize upon these illustrations in proof that mortal life is of no more value, and means no more, than the life of a flower or the growth of a stone, and that when we die we are blotted out spiritually and materially forever. In their eyes we are so many pounds of flesh and blood; there is nothing divine, nothing spiritual in us; we are surrounded by no mystery. 'Miracles!' they cry. 'Stories for children; fables to tickle, amuse, and delude!' What we see and feel is, what we do not see and feel is not and cannot be. If this view were universal what would become of religion? The high priests of God, under whichever banner they preach, insist upon our accepting miracles, and they are right in thus insisting. You laugh at faith and destroy it, and in its destruction you destroy comfort and consolation; you destroy salvation. God is a miracle. Because we do not see him are we not to believe in him? Are we not to believe in the resurrection? Then farewell to the sublime solace that lies in the immortality of the soul. There is a road to Calvary called the Via Dolorosa, and there pilgrims kneel and see a miracle in every stone; there, hearts that are crushed with sorrow tarry, and go away blessed and comforted for the struggle of years that yet lies before them."

His voice was deep and earnest, his handsome face glowed with enthusiasm. I touched his hand, and a sweet, pathetic smile came to his lips.

"Mr. Elsdale," I said, "I thank you from my heart. May I venture to ask if you believe in spiritual visitations?"

"Believing what I believe," he replied, "I must believe in them."

"You have spoken," I continued, "of receiving comfort and consolation from such belief. Do you think that a man who is not, to his own knowledge, interested or involved in something which, for the sake of argument, I will call a crime, may receive a spiritual visitation which compels him to take an active part in it?"

"Not in the crime," asked Ronald, "in the discovery of it, I suppose you mean?"

"Yes. In the discovery of it."

"I think," said Ronald, "that a man who is not in any way connected with it may be made an agent in its discovery."

We had some further conversation on the subject, and at the expiration of an hour or so Ronald Elsdale took his departure, and expressed the hope that we should meet again, to which hope I cordially responded.

As he stood with his hand on the handle of the door, the cat, which had risen when he rose, stood at his feet.

"Are you going with him?" I mentally asked. "You are quite welcome."

A troubled expression crossed Ronald's face, and he made a motion with his hand as if to dispel it. Then he left the room, but the cat remained.

CHAPTER XI.

BOB RELATES TO ME SOME PARTICULARS OF RONALD ELSDALE'S DELUSION

I listened to the blind gentleman's footsteps as he slowly descended the stairs, and I asked Bob if he considered it safe to allow his nephew to go home unaccompanied.

"Quite safe," replied Bob. "When a man loses the sense of sight he acquires other senses which have not been precisely defined; he seems to have eyes at his fingers' ends. And Ronald prefers to be alone."

"Can you account," I inquired, approaching a subject which I knew was in Bob's mind, and to which he was unwilling to be the first to refer, "for his impression that there was another presence in the room beside ourselves?"

"I cannot," said Bob curtly; "nor can you."

"I do not pretend that I can; but it has set me thinking. Would you object to let me into the secret of the delusion under which he labors?"

"There can be no harm in my doing so," he replied, after a pause. "In a certain way it is a love story, of which I believe Ronald has seen the end, a belief which is not shared by him. The incidents are few, and he sets store upon them, as most young men do who have been in love. It commenced about six years ago, when Ronald, fagged with overwork, went for a summer ramble on the Continent. He spent a few days in Paris, and then took the morning train to Geneva. It is a long travel from Paris to Geneva, and to anyone not cheerfully inclined a wearisome one. A happy spirit is required to enjoy a dozen hours boxed up in a railway carriage, but probably this day was to Ronald the happiest, as it was certainly the most eventful, in his life. For traveling in that train were a young lady and her father, a widower, I believe, though upon this point I cannot speak with certainty, nor can I tell you the gentleman's name, for the reason that Ronald has never mentioned it to me. The lady's was Beatrice, and that is all I know. In the course of that eventful day Ronald found opportunity to make himself of service to the young lady, but his attentions did not appear to be as agreeable to the father as they were to the daughter. It could not be doubted that she accepted them very readily, and that Ronald was as attractive to her as she was to him. From what I have gathered I should say that it was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Ronald, as you have seen, is a handsome young fellow, who would be likely to win favor with ladies all the world over, and at the time I am speaking of he was not oppressed by the fear of losing his sight.

"When they were within a short distance of Geneva he asked Beatrice at which hotel they were going to put up, and she replied that she did not know. He inquired of her father, and that gentleman said he had not made up his mind.

"'I hope we shall meet again,' said Ronald to Beatrice. 'Where do you go from Geneva?'

"'To Chamounix, of course,' she replied. 'I have never been in Switzerland before. Have you?'

"'Oh, yes,' he said. And then he described to her some of the most beautiful spots in Switzerland, and you may be sure that those beautiful spots were the places he intended to visit, and for which he had taken a circular ticket.

"'Perhaps I shall see you in Chamounix,' he said. 'Do you remain long in Geneva?'

"She could not inform him, and he had perforce to live on hope; for, to a fishing inquiry he put to Beatrice's father as to their probable length of stay in Geneva, the reply he received was that no definite plan of travel had been laid out. They might remain in Geneva a week or a fortnight, or they might leave it the next day. Even at this early stage of his acquaintanceship with Beatrice, Ronald discovered that her father did not wish to be intruded upon by strangers. It was dark when the train stopped at the Geneva station, and all Ronald's offers of assistance with the luggage were refused. However, he had the satisfaction, when he shook hands with Beatrice and wished her goodnight, of receiving from her something more than a careless pressure, and he marched to his hotel with the determination not to lose sight of her.

"It was his intention to go to Cluses by rail, and thence by diligence to Chamounix. 'They will take a carriage, of course,' he thought, 'but we shall travel on the same day and arrive in Chamounix the same evening.'

"I have no doubt that he dreamt of Beatrice that night, and that, in his fancy, he saw her fair face in the depths of the beautiful lake the next morning. But that is all he saw of her in Geneva, for though he made diligent search and most industrious inquiries he could not discover the hotel at which Beatrice and her father were staying.

"I know," continued Bob, "that you have formed a favorable opinion of Ronald, but still you can have no idea of the stability of his character and of certain traits in it which distinguish him from most men. Once let an idea take firm possession of him and it is next to impossible to dislodge it. He dwells upon it, strengthens it by self-argument, and begets a strong faith in it. He is not easily discouraged and he seldom gives way to despair; he is, in a word, extraordinarily tenacious, and he was tenacious in this, the first serious love affair in his life. As he has expressed it to me, he felt that fate had brought him and Beatrice together, and that fate would not separate them. These are comfortable convictions; they rob life of many small miseries. Thus strengthened and fortified, Ronald continued his search for Beatrice in Geneva, and was not dashed because of the non-success that attended it. On the third day he determined to go on to Chamounix, and if they were not there to wait for their arrival. In so small a village as Chamounix Beatrice's father could scarcely hope to conceal his daughter from Ronald's eyes. On he went, and discovered that he was before them. There is but one road from Cluses to Chamounix, and from three to six o'clock on the afternoon of every successive day there was no more indefatigable pedestrian on that road than Ronald Elsdale. At length his patience was rewarded. An hour before the diligence was due he saw on the road which crosses the Arve a carriage, in which were seated Beatrice and her father. He did not wish to be seen by them so early on their arrival and he stepped out briskly before them to the Chamounix village. Their carriage drew up at the Hotel d'Angleterre and in the course of half an hour they left the hotel for a stroll. The moment they were out of sight he entered and engaged a room, and maneuvered to have his seat at the dinner table placed next to theirs. They were greatly surprised to see him, and I need scarcely say that of the two Beatrice was by far the better pleased. Such chance meetings, however, as these between tourists on the Continent are common enough, and, as Ronald is unmistakably a gentleman, Beatrice's father could not but receive him politely. In the course of conversation over the dinner table Beatrice informed Ronald that they intended to remain in Chamounix for at least a week.