The Fourth Ghost Story MEGAPACK ®. Sarah Orne Jewett

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СКАЧАТЬ His lips were rigid. “You have failed in your chosen art—failed miserably. What more natural than you should be jealous of your brother Harmon’s success, and resenting his most valuable work—”

      “Just so!” I exclaimed, shifting easily into the thread of the argument. “Why shouldn’t Harmon divide with me? He has fame and money and I’m a—a nobody!”

      “That’s exactly the motive!” was the quiet answer. “Are you ready to make your confession?”

      “I have no confession!” I told him fiercely. “I deny the charge. I know you believe me insane—you believe my story of the real criminal in the mirror a fabrication. Of course the strange mark on my head is damning evidence, but—”

      Robesart smiled whimsically. My teeth began chattering and my shoulders shook.

      “Lunston,” he called to one of the men, “Go to the coat-closet and bring Mr. Vaughan’s wraps!”

      I grasped his sleeve and he turned toward me expectantly.

      “You must find that man in the mirror!” I chattered. “There is a man and you must be convinced of it! You must insist upon his being found!”

      The detective nodded earnestly. As the servant stepped forward with my belongings, Robesart took the long, full, sculptor’s apron in his hand. “This is yours, Mr. Vaughan?”

      “It is mine!” I answered, ramming my arms in the sleeves.

      “And this?” He held a brown rembrandt in his hand which I recognized at once by the shabby black velvet stretched around its band.

      “Yes, mine!” I exclaimed.

      I put on the cap and apron, not that I felt the need of them, but because I firmly believed I could convince him of my innocence and make him my friend for life—if only we might find the man—

      Suddenly a subtle change swept over his stern face and manner.

      “I have news for you, Vaughan,” his great voice boomed. “Our investigation is now ended! We have found the criminal—the man of the mirror! Come inside! We need you for identification!” I tried to cry out my relief, my joy. But I couldn’t.

      “Come inside with us,” Robesart whispered. “Show us the man in the mirror!”

      I could only babble incoherent words of delight. But even before I reached the threshold the wound on my forehead seethed and agonies unspeakable crashed through my brain.

      The columns of the veranda spun about me and I clung to both men for support. But through it all I was conscious only that my innocence and veracity were proved at last beyond all question, and that I was about to see my brother’s enemy again face to face.

      “Your story is a plausible one, after all!” Robesart was saying in a cool, monotonous tone as we stumbled into the vestibule.

      The electrolier had been turned out, the reception-hall was shaded save for the twin clusters of light twinkling over the great gilt mirror at the far end. As Robesart walked beside me, his face showed a perceptible triumph, his eyes glittered suspiciously.

      We traversed the hallway in silence, and then I paused directly in front of the mirror, and my heart ceased its beat.

      I simply stared straight ahead, and there he stood—the vandal—the same haunted face, the same bulging eyes, heavy cap, black band, tawny hair, and apron with its stains of modeling clay, the brand in the center of the forehead.

      “Yes, yes, it’s he!” I screamed. “It’s he! It’s he!”

      The torments of the inferno fairly riddled me. I threw out my arms and sprang forward to throttle him. Before the men could interfere, I had crashed into the mirror, reeled, and fallen with the unwieldy mass of it upon me.

      And then—at last—I knew—it was I—I—

      But I can say no more.

HIS DAY BACK, by Jack Brant

      There was a knock at the door. At my request, it opened and in walked, or rather glided, my man, Mullbury. A strange thing about Mullbury is that he whenever he knocks, I realize instantly that I have something to say to him.

      “Mullbury, pack my suitcase for a week of travel. I’m going West.”

      Mullbury immediately withdrew. He is a most remarkable man, and save for the one time when he asked for an increase in wages because of the court’s decision that he should pay alimony, his sole object in knocking has been to take my expected command.

      Why I should start for the West I could not understand. I knew no one in New Mexico. I had seen it on the map when a small boy—a square of pink, I think, though I am not sure now of the color—and learned that it was one of those lawless places called territories.

      Beyond that, being what is known as a narrow man, which means that more vital interests absorb my attentions, I have never taken the slightest interest in New Mexico until startled by Mullbury’s knock. Then, moved by some unexplainable impulse, I threw away my cigar, telephoned for accommodations to Las Cruces, and started on the midnight express.

      During the three days’ journey, I had ample time to reflect on the folly of this move. I realized perfectly that I should not have left my business at this time. That I had always intended, when able to take a vacation, to visit my brother in Cuba.

      Cuba would do me good, and I would have the opportunity to gratify an abnormal craving to see a cockfight. Yet I found it absolutely impossible to turn back.

      On the afternoon of the third day, I arrived in Las Cruces on a train I would not have caught but for the fortunate fact that it was twelve hours late. I took passage in what might have been the original overland stage, slightly modified, and was conveyed safely through the dust, to the taste of which I had become accustomed on the sleeper, to a one-story mud fort bearing the name “hotel” in red and black over its door.

      I engaged a narrow but surprisingly cool room. Then I ventured forth on the one long business street, still compelled by the unaccountable impulse, and purchased a complete costume more in accord with my surroundings than the one suit which I had brought with me, and which was already attracting more attention than was pleasing to a man of my retiring nature.

      I also purchased an elaborate prospecting outfit, provisions to last several days, and a sleeping-bag. This last was forced upon me by an attractive Mexican maiden with perfect teeth who thrust it laughingly into my arms, repeating what appeared to be the only English she knew, “You buy! You buy!” as if it all was a huge joke.

      And it was a joke. That bag would have been all right for a trip to the north pole, but was slightly unnecessary for the burning sands of New Mexico.

      As a final act of folly I engaged transportation with a mule-team which would start in the morning for Organ. Organ is a small mining settlement at the base of the Organ Mountains, which rise very much like the pipe-stems of an organ above the level desert in the east.

      Rugged and steep the mountains look, like the edge of the world. I felt somewhere that they were my destination, and watched them—gorgeously lighted with purple and gold by the brilliant sunset— СКАЧАТЬ