Short Fiction · The Facts In The Curious Case Of H Hyrtl Esq (5/8) (1/2)

V

“Well, sir,” said the little man, when Mr. Sisseton had closed the door. “What am I to learn to my advantage?”

At the moment Mr. Sisseton was enjoying the spectacle of that mental panorama in which the past unfolds and which is said to visit those about to drown. Ten years before, to a day, on a delightful June morning he had taken the express for Boston. Jenny was at school in a suburb of that city, and it was to see her that the excursion had been planned. He was not an accomplished traveler. Thus far his journeys⁠—save that terrible one which we call the War⁠—had been uneventful and few; as clerk in a wholesale grocery-shop his opportunities for travel had been slight; but a pension for which he had diligently petitioned to the Government had been granted, and to celebrate the occasion the firm he served had allowed him a holiday. On that morning he was therefore in the best of spirits, and as the train moved from the Grand Central Station he hummed very contendedly to himself. The distressing ugliness of the outlying districts were passed unmarked; it was the fragrance of Connecticut intervals that first attracted his attention; then he fell to musing about the possible existence of the people who dwelled in the roomy, white homesteads that appeared and vanished, the vocations of the loungers at the trim little stations that starred the route. A desire for life in the country beset him; he began to picture the pleasures he would enjoy on some little farm where Jenny could grow up in health and innocence, and presently his head nodded and he was asleep.

When he awoke, or perhaps it would be more exact to say when he recovered his senses, he was running like a deer across an empty field, fleeing from death and disaster. Then he had gone back, striving as best he could to aid the survivors of that collision, which, for its unparalleled horror, is cited still. There was a woman whom he had dragged from the burning wreck of a car; a child, for whose frail life he had struggled, and finally, by sheer strength, he had torn a man from a twisted seat that was holding him on a grill of flame.

The latter was dying, his face agonized, a leg broken, another charred to the bone, but even in his agony he retained his faculties.

“Take this,” he had said to his rescuer, “and give it yourself to my⁠—”

At that the light had passed from his eyes; he was dead, and in Rufus Sisseton’s hand was a leather pocketbook on which the name Humphery Anderson shone in letters of gold.

When the old clerk reached New York his employers did not recognize him. He not only looked twenty years older, he seemed smitten with palsy. He took what money was due him, resigned his position and moved from the rooms he had occupied in St. Mark’s place to the less expensive region of Tompkins Square. He had but his pension now, and that pocketbook which contained absolutely nothing save a few memoranda and eighty-seven banknotes of the value of one thousand dollars each.

The memoranda related to the sale of a mine, but by whom or to whom there was not a word to indicate, and apart from them there was merely the name in gilt letters to show the ownership of the notes. Who was Humphery Anderson? Where had he come from? Where was he going? To whom had he wished this money to be given? These questions, and dozens of others which trod on their heels, Rufus Sisseton put ceaselessly and unavailingly to himself. The pockets of the man who had died before his eyes had been searched; there was a coarse handkerchief, two cigars, a handful of silver, a roll of small bills, a ticket to Boston, but not a clue to the identity of the deceased. His name, presumably, was Humphery Anderson, and that name Rufus Sisseton had given to the coroner and seen it chronicled in the list of the dead; but when a week went by, and no one claimed the body, the old clerk became uneasy. He put an advertisement in the Herald; there was no reply. He inserted another; the result was the same. It was then he resigned his position and moved to Tompkins Square.

Meanwhile he lived in a state of terror bordering on lunacy; death in the most terrible form had approached so close, the escape had been so narrow, that his nerves, never too strong at their best, had become unstrung. This his employers noticed, and were glad to have him go. But the thing which frightened him most, and of which no one save himself was aware, was the fear of being robbed. Behind every door he divined a possible thief; on every passer he scented a footpad; for as yet, in his uncertainty, he kept the pocketbook by him, sleeping on it at night, clutching it convulsively by day. But in Tompkins Square he felt easier; the idea of removing a plank occurred to him, and beneath his bed, in an oilskin wrapper, he placed the pocketbook. Another would have simplified everything by depositing the money in a bank, but Rufus Sisseton had grown timorous⁠—banks had been known to fail. Therewith was the haunting memory of that agonized face and the words of the dying⁠—“Give this, yourself.”

That “yourself” which the moribund had uttered the old clerk construed as constituting a sacred trust, and, to observe it as best he might, the advertisements continued. As time passed, and no reply came, his timorousness, instead of declining, increased. The eighty-seven thousand dollars submerged his faculties, he became the prey of fancies which banished both appetite and sleep; he kept to his room as much as possible, and finally so arranged that nothing could disturb his voluntary captivity. Nothing, indeed, except Jenny, who fluttered to him every year for awhile, and then took wing to the Massachusettsian school. When she had gone, he locked the door again and waited the coming of the Anderson heirs.

In this fashion seven years limped by, and Jenny, having received all the education which the school was competent to provide, returned definitely to her father. And it was as well, perhaps, that she did; for the latter, in his self-imposed seclusion, was becoming what Lombroso has recently christened a “mattoid”⁠—a crank on the road to an asylum. Such signs of aberration as he was beginning to manifest the girl’s blithesomeness and beauty banished. She filled the little apartment with laughter, with song, sunshine and life; her winsomeness and beguiling ways awoke and entranced the old man, and in considering her future and its possibilities, the hour came in which he caught himself thinking of the advantages which would accrue if no heir of Humphery Anderson should appear.

That idea once in his head, declined to be dislodged. It was only an hypothesis, it is true; but an hypothesis that became a hope, and in that hope, little by little, the form of his timidity altered; he ceased to fear that the heir might not appear; he began to fear that he would; and abruptly the advertisements ceased.

At the expiration of nine years the old clerk commenced to regard the money as his own. There were little surprises that he planned⁠—the purchase of a country home, trips with Jenny abroad. But the very first time that he counted the banknotes with the idea of appropriating a portion of them, they fell from his hand; he trembled from head to foot, and mentally he denounced himself as a thief. It may be that that same scrupulousness would forever have inhibited him from touching a penny of that trust, had he not discovered that Jenny was head over heels in love with a young artist to whom she had not addressed a single word. The discovery put an end to his hesitations. He made inquiries concerning Hugh, of which the result has been already conveyed; and, half in sorrow, half in joy, determined to give him Jenny, and the money, too.

It was these things that returned to him when the little man exclaimed:

“Well, sir, what am I to learn to my advantage?”

As he spoke, his eyes had the glitter of gems, and he tugged at his beard ferociously.

“I am Humphery Anderson’s next of kin, and in advertising for me I suppose it is because you had property of his in your possession.”

Mr. Sisseton hesitated. He thought of Jenny, of the happiness he had promised and of what must now ensue; but, to save the nation, he could not help being honest.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, dejectedly.

“Ha! ha!” laughed the little man. “I thought so. Well, fire ahead, I’m listening.”

“It is for you to go on, I think. What relation are you to Humphery Anderson?”

At this question the little man turned the color of brick; for a second he lowered his eyes, but immediately he recovered his customary aplomb.

“Thundering guns! why, I am his brother, his last surviving relative!”

“How is it, then, that for ten years you have given no sign of existence?”

“For the best reason in the world⁠—I have not been here. I have been in Mongolia, in Africa, in Peru; anywhere and everywhere except in the States. It is only six weeks ago that I landed. Even then I did not know of my brother’s death. I learned it only this moment.”

“How?”

“Through your advertisement, of course.”

“But I haven’t inserted one for over three years.”

“Then all I can say is that the paper in which I read it was over three years old and not very big for its age. But that is a side issue; how much did he leave?”

“Have you no idea?”

“H’m, let me see. My brother and I were owners of an Arizona claim. We sold out on the 15th of May, 1880. If he died on the 10th of June of that year he must have had somewhere between eighty and ninety thousand concealed on his person.”

“What became of you?”

“We parted at Tucson. I went to San Francisco, where I took ship for Hong Kong, without, of course, suspecting that Humphery was to turn in his chips in Boston.”

“Why do you speak of Boston?”

“It was there he intended to go.”

“Mr. Anderson, I must admit that your answers coincide with the papers in my possession. At the same time I must exact some tangible evidence of your identity.”

“Thundering guns!” the little man shouted, “so you shall. There,” he continued, drawing from his pocket a wallet similar to the one with which Mr. Sisseton had been entrusted. “Here is a Cuban passport, and here are two of Humphery’s letters. Do you know his writing?”

The old clerk glanced at the letters. They began “My dear Brother,” and were signed Humphery Anderson. The handwriting was identical with that on the memoranda. Incontestibly the heir had appeared.

“You have established your identity without a doubt,” he replied. “There remains to me now but one thing to do, and that is⁠—”

“To fork over.”

“To tell you how your brother died⁠—”

“What’s the use? I don’t care a rap. Whether it was paresis or the grip, what difference does it make? He’s dead, isn’t he? Well, that’s the end of it.”

“But,” protested Mr. Sisseton, a trifle scandalized at this manifestation of fraternal indifference. “I must explain how the money came in my possession.”

“All right, but cut it short.”

“He died in my arms,” said Mr. Sisseton, very gravely. “He was killed in a railway accident.”

“The deuce you say. Thundering guns! I thought you were going to tell me he was lynched. Though he was my brother, I am free to admit he was a confounded bad lot.”

“And now,” the old clerk continued, “I will give you what he entrusted to me.”

Therewith he handed out the roll of bills, which the heir carefully counted.

“Eighty-seven thousand!” he exclaimed. “In six months I’m a millionaire. As for you, I won’t insult you with any recompense, particularly as the interest would satisfy anyone.”

“The interest, sir? What do you mean by that? Those bills are the very same ones I received from your brother.”

“And you want me to believe that you kept them all this time in a cubbyhole! Stuff and nonsense!”

“Sir,” Mr. Sisseton, with great dignity, retorted, “Sir, you forget there was nothing to prevent me from keeping them always.”

“By George, that’s true enough! Here, help yourself.”

“I will take one of them, for you owe it me. It’s a trifle less than the amount I paid for advertising. But not another penny.”

“You won’t?”

“No, sir, not a cent.”

In unfeigned astonishment the little man stared at his brother’s executor.

“You are an honest man,” he cried; “no, but hang me if you are not. I won’t forget you. I am going now to take a hack at the Street before the Board closes; but I won’t forget you, mind that.”

Followed by Mr. Sisseton, he opened the door and passed into the other room. Near the window Hugh and Jenny stood locked in each other’s arms. The little man turned and smiled.

“Makes one feel twenty years younger, doesn’t it?”

Already the lovers had separated. Hugh was scowling and the girl’s fair face was wet with tears.

“Mr. Hyrtl,” the old clerk began, “didn’t I tell you that everything was at an end. Didn’t⁠—”

John Anderson, who had been tugging at his beard and grinning like a Cheshire cat, suddenly sprang back as though he trod on a serpent, his entire expression changed, and he grabbed Mr. Sisseton by the arm.

“What did you call that young man? Here,” he cried at Hugh, “is your name Hyrtl?”

“Certainly,” Hugh answered.

“Were you born near Richmond? Was your father a sailor? Was he lost at sea? Why don’t you answer? Thundering guns! are you dumb?”

“Not a bit; but I don’t understand your interest in my private affairs, nor yet your acquaintance with them. However, as I have no cause to make a mystery of my antecedents; I may say that I was born near Richmond, and that my father was lost at sea.”

“Torpedoes and dynamite! And whatever became of your mother? Did she⁠—didn’t she⁠—I mean⁠—I mean what became of her?”

“She is dead,” Hugh answered. “Did you know her?”

“I? I never saw her in my life.”

“Well, then, what do you mean by⁠—”

“What do I mean? What do I mean? I don’t know what I mean. I mean that in my travels I met a man named Hyrtl, and the name was so odd I never forgot it. That’s what I mean and nothing else, except that it’s infernally hot in here and I’m in a hurry.”

“No one is detaining you,” murmured Mr. Sisseton.

“I know that; but⁠—but⁠—see here, young man,” he continued, drawing from his pocket the roll of bills; “I have come into some money today that I didn’t expect, and, as you are going to be married, if three or four thousand are of any use to you, here they are.”

Hugh looked him from head to foot.

“Why do you make this offer?”

“Because I am your friend.”

“I have seen you but twice in my life.”

“Because I knew your father, then; because you did me a kindness; because⁠—because⁠—oh! hang it all, because I want to.”

“Thanks,” Hugh answered. “I am too poor to borrow and too proud to accept a gift. But I wish you would tell me why you spoke of my mother.”

“Will you take three or four thousand? Will you take five?”

“I will not.”

“Goodbye, then; I’m off to my broker.”

With a bound, the little man shot through the door and disappeared as he had come⁠—like the wind⁠—leaving behind him the ruins of a castle in Spain and three people buried beneath them.

Mr. Sisseton was ashen; Jenny pale as a ghost re-arisen; Hugh alone a trifle flushed.

“That man,” he declared, “knew my people, I am convinced.”

“Perhaps so,” Mr. Sisseton muttered; “he appears to have been a great traveler.”

Then at once, without preamble, he told the whole story. Hugh and Jenny listened without interruption. The preceding incidents had made it all quite clear, and when the tale was ended, there was silence in that little room.

Hugh was the first to speak.

“How shall it matter after all? You have returned the money; it was your duty to do so, no one expected you to do anything else, and I am sure you must be convinced that had Jenny and I been married, and the money in our possession, we would have returned it as you have done.”

“I am sure of it,” Mr. Sisseton answered. “I know you to be honest as the day, and I wish, even now, you could be, as I had hoped, my son-in-law.”

“But I shall be.”