Can Such Things Be?

course, but first I should make a little experiment in psychology - nay, the experiment itself might be a step in his restoration.

“That is very frank and friendly of you, Bartine,” I said cordially, “and I’m rather proud of your confidence.  It is all very odd, certainly.  Do you mind showing me the watch?”

He detached it from his waistcoat, chain and all, and passed it to me without a word.  The case was of gold, very thick and strong, and singularly engraved.  After closely examining the dial and observing that it was nearly twelve o’clock, I opened it at the back and was interested to observe an inner case of ivory, upon which was painted a miniature portrait in that exquisite and delicate manner which was in vogue during the eighteenth century.

“Why, bless my soul!” I exclaimed, feeling a sharp artistic delight - “how under the sun did you get that done?  I thought miniature painting on ivory was a lost art.”

“That,” he replied, gravely smiling, “is not I; it is my excellent great-grandfather, the late Bramwell Olcott Bartine, Esquire, of Virginia.  He was younger then than later - about my age, in fact.  It is said to resemble me; do you think so?”

“Resemble you?  I should say so!  Barring the costume, which I supposed you to have assumed out of compliment to the art - or for vraisemblance, so to say - and the no mustache, that portrait is you in every feature, line, and expression.”

No more was said at that time.  Bartine took a book from the table and began reading.  I heard outside the incessant plash of the rain in the street.  There were occasional hurried footfalls on the sidewalks; and once a slower, heavier tread seemed to cease at my door - a policeman, I thought, seeking shelter in the doorway.  The boughs of the trees tapped significantly on the window panes, as if asking for admittance.  I remember it all through these years and years of a wiser, graver life.

Seeing myself unobserved, I took the old-fashioned key that dangled from the chain and quickly turned back the hands of the watch a full hour; then, closing the case, I handed Bartine his property and saw him replace it on his person.

“I think you said,” I began, with assumed carelessness, “that after eleven the sight of the dial no longer affects you.  As it is now nearly twelve” - looking at my own timepiece - “perhaps, if you don’t resent my pursuit of proof, you will look at it now.”

He smiled good-humoredly, pulled out the watch again, opened it, and instantly sprang to his feet with a cry that Heaven has not had the mercy to permit me to forget!  His eyes, their blackness strikingly intensified by the pallor of his face, were fixed upon the watch, which he clutched in both hands.  For some time he remained in that attitude without uttering another sound; then, in a voice that I should not have recognized as his, he said:

“Damn you! it is two minutes to eleven!”

I was not unprepared for some such outbreak, and without rising replied, calmly enough:

“I beg your pardon; I must have misread your watch in setting my own by it.”

He shut the case with a sharp snap and put the watch in his pocket.  He looked at me and made an attempt to smile, but his lower lip quivered and he seemed unable to close his mouth.  His hands, also, were shaking, and he thrust them, clenched, into the pockets of his sack-coat.  The courageous spirit was manifestly endeavoring to subdue the coward body.  The effort was too great; he began to sway from side to side, as from vertigo, and before I could spring from my chair to support him his knees gave way and he pitched awkwardly forward and fell upon his face.  I sprang to assist him to rise; but when John Bartine rises we shall all rise.

The post-mortem examination disclosed nothing; every organ was normal and sound.  But when the body had been prepared for burial a faint dark circle was seen to have developed around the neck; at least I was so assured by several persons who said they saw it, but of my own knowledge I cannot say if that was true.

Nor can I set limitations to the law of heredity.  I do not know that in the spiritual world a sentiment or emotion may not survive the heart that held it, and seek expression in a kindred life, ages removed.  Surely, if I were to guess at the fate of Bramwell Olcott Bartine, I should guess that he was hanged at eleven o’clock in the evening, and that he had been allowed several hours in which to prepare for the change.

As to John Bartine, my friend, my patient for five minutes, and - Heaven forgive me! - my victim for eternity, there is no more to say.  He is buried, and his watch with him - I saw to that.  May God rest his soul in Paradise, and the soul of his Virginian ancestor, if, indeed, they are two souls.

THE DAMNED THING

I - ONE DOES NOT ALWAYS EAT WHAT IS ON THE TABLE

By the light of a tallow candle which had been placed on one end of a rough table a man was reading something written in a book.  It was an old account book, greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently, very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light on it.  The shadow of the book would then throw into obscurity a half of the room, darkening a number of faces and figures; for besides the reader, eight other men were present.  Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent, motionless, and the room being small, not very far from the table.  By extending an arm any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides.  He was dead.

The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; all seemed to be waiting for something to occur; the dead man only was without expectation.  From the blank darkness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a window, all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness - the long nameless note of a distant coyote; the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects in trees; strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the birds of day; the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small sounds that seem always to have been but half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion.  But nothing of all this was noted in that company; its members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest in matters of no practical importance; that was obvious in every line of their rugged faces - obvious even in the dim light of the single candle.  They were evidently men of the vicinity - farmers and woodsmen.

The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of him that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his attire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment.  His coat would hardly have passed muster in San Francisco; his foot-gear was not of urban origin, and the hat that lay by him on the floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such that if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would have missed its meaning.  In countenance the man was rather prepossessing, with just a hint of sternness; though that he may have assumed or cultivated, as appropriate to one in authority.  For he was a coroner.  It was by virtue of his office that he had possession of the book in which he was reading; it had been found among the dead man’s effects - in his cabin, where the inquest was now taking place.

When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast pocket.  At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered.  He, clearly, was not of mountain birth and breeding: he was clad as those who dwell in cities.  His clothing was dusty, however, as from travel.  He had, in fact, been riding hard to attend the inquest.

The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.

“We have waited for you,” said the coroner.  “It is necessary to have done with this business to-night.”

The young man smiled.  “I am sorry to have kept you,” he said.  “I went away, not to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an account of what I suppose I am called back to relate.”

The coroner smiled.

“The account that you posted to your newspaper,” he said, “differs, probably, from that which you will give here under oath.”

“That,” replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, “is as you please.  I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent.  It was not written as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction.  It may go as a part of my