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About The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936 | View Entire Issue (May 12, 1893)
Author op-'jr* isaaca*'©») CHAPTER X.—Continued. “What caused Satan’s fall? Pride. 'ien pride is his chief characteristic. i#1 I proud, Unorna? The question \absurd. I have nothing to be proud at—a little old man with a gray beard, of whom nobody ever heard anything remarkable. No one ever accused me of pride. How could I be proud of anything? Except of your acquaint ance, my dear lady,” he added, gal lantly, laying his hand on his heart and leaning toward her as he sat. Unorna laughed at the speech, and threw back her disheveled hair with a graceful gesture. Keyork paused. “Why should the evil one have a monopoly in the soul market? You remind me of my argument. You would have distracted Demosthenes in the heat of a peroration or Socrates in the midst of his defense, if you had Hashed that hair of yours before their old eyes. You have almost taken the life out of my argument. I was going to Buy that my peculiarity is not less exclusive than Lucifer’s, though it takes a different turn. I was going to confess, with the utmost frankness and the most sincere truth, that my only crime against heaven is a most perfect, unswerving, devotional love for my own particular self. In that attachment I have never wavered yet —but I really cannot say what may become of Keyork Arabian if he looks at you much longer.” ••You are betraying yourself, Ke york. You must control your feelings better or I shall find out the truth about you.” “xou have really no cause for nervousness now that it is all over,” remarked the sage, who had not de scended from his perch on the table. “He is very well. It is one of those cases which are interesting as being new, or at least only partially inves tigated. We may as well speak in confidence, Unorna, for we really un derstand each other. Do you not think so?” “That depends upon what you have to say.” “Not much—nothing that ought to offend you. You must consider, my dear,” he said, assuming an admira bly paternal tone, “that I might be your father and that I have your wel fare very much at heart, as well as your happiness. You love this man— no, do not be angry, do not interrupt me. You could not do better for yourself or for him.” ' ‘And yours is in reality a charit able nature, dear Unorna, though you are sometimes a little hasty with poor old Keyork. Good again. You, be ing moved by a desire for this man’s welfare, most kindly and mildly take steps to cure him of his madness. The delusion is strong, but your will is stronger. The delusion yields after a violent struggle, during which it has even impressed itself upon your own senses. The patient is brought home, properly cared for, and dis posed to rest. Then he wakes, ap parently of his own accord, and be hold he is completely cured. Every thing has been successful, everything is perfect, everything has followed the usual course of such mental cures by means of hypnosis. The only thing I do not understand is the wak ing. That is the only thing which makes me uneasy for the future until I can see it properly explained. He had no right to wake without your suggestion if he was still in the hyp notic state, and if he had already come out of the hypnotic state by a natural reaction it is to be feared that the cure may not be permanent.” Unorna had listened attentively, as she always did when Keyork delivered himself of a serious opinion upon a psychiatric case. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he finished. “If that is all that troubles you,” she said, “you may set your mind at rest. After lie had fallen, and while the watchman was getting the car riage, I repeated my suggestion and ordered him to wake without fail in an hour.” ‘•rerieci: spiencua. cneaiveyortc, clapping his hands loudly together. “I "did you an injustice, my dear Unor na. You are not so nervous as I thought, since you forgot nothing. | What a woman! Ghost-proof and able I to think connectedly even at sucn a moment. But tell me, did you not take the opportunity of suggesting something else?” His eyes twinkled merrily as he asked the question. -r “What do you mean?” inquired Unorna, with sudden coldness. “Oh, nothing so serious as you seem to think. I was only wondering whether a suggestion of reciprocation might not have been wise-” “If ignorance is unpardonable, as you always say, then your speech is past forgiveness,” said Unorna, re lenting by force of habit, but gather ing her fur around her. "If you know anything of women-” “Which I do not,” observed the gnome in a low-toned inturruption. “Which you do not—you would know how much such love as you advise me to manu facture by force of suggestion could be worth in a woman’s eyes. You would know that a woman will be *1^* r j m> j uj*i <°ry> ofa©&w|w CLAuJia3.‘ 'A ROMAN SlNGER'clT. lovod for herself, for her beauty, for her wit, for her virtues, for her faults, for her own love, if you will, and by a man conscious of all his actions and tree of his heart—not by a mere pa tient reduced to the proper state of sentiment by a trick of hypnotism, or psychiatry, or whatever you choose to call the effect of this power of mine, which neither you nor I nor any one can explain. I will be loved freely, for myself, or not at all.” “I see, I see,” said Keyork thoughtfully. ‘Something in the way Israel Kafka loves you.” , “Yes, as Israel Kafka loves me—I am not afraid to say it. As he loves me, of his own free will and to his own destruction—as I should have loved him had it been so fated.” “So you are a fatalist, Unorna,” observed her companion, still strok ing and twisting his beard. "It is strange that we should differ upon so many fundamental questions, you and I, and yet be such good friends—is it not?” “The strangest thing of all is that I should submit to your exasperating ways as I do-” “It does not strike me that it is I who am quarreling this time,” said Reyork. “I confess, I would almost prefer •that to your imperturabble coolness. What is this new phase? You used not to be like this. You are planning some wickedness. I am sure of it.” “And that is all the credit I get for keeping my temger! Did I not say awhile ago that I would never quarrel with you again?” “You said so, but-” “But you did not expect me to keep my word,” said Keyork, slipping from his seat on the table with considera ble agility and suddenly standing close before her. “And do you not yet kdow that when I say a thing I mean it.”" • oO iar as tne tatter point is con cerned I have nothing to say. But you need not be so terribly impress ive, and unless you are gonig to break your word, by which you seem to set such store, and quarrel with me, you need not look at m so fiercely.” Keyork suddenly let his voice drop to its deepest and most vibrating key. “I only want you to remember this. ” he said. “You are not an or dinary woman, as I am not an ordi nary man, and the experiment we are making together is an altogether ex traordinary one. I have told you the truth. I care for nothing but my in dividual self and I seek nothing but the prolongation of life. If you en danger the success of the great trial again, as you did to-day, and if it fails, I will never forgive you. You will make an enemy of me, and you will regret it while you live, and longer than that perhaps. So long as you keep the compact there is nothing I will not do to help you, nothing within the bounds of your imagina tion. And I can do much. Do you understand?” “I understand that you are afraid of loosing my help.” “That is it—of losing your help, I am not afraid of losing you—in the end.” Unorna smiled rather scornfully at first, as she looked down upon the little man's strange face and gazed fearlessly into his eyes. But as she looked the smile faded and the color slowly sunk from her face until she was very pale. And as she felt her self losing courage before something which she could not understand, Ke york’s eyes grew brighter and brighter till they glowed like drops of molten metal. A sound as of many voices wailing in agony rose and trembled and quavered in the air. With a wild cry Unorna pressed her hands to her ears and fled toward the entrance. “You are very nervous to-night,” observed Keyork, as he opened the door. Then he went silently down the stairs by her side and helped her into the carriage, which had been waiting since his return. CHAPTER XI. MONTH had passed since the day on which Unorna had first seen the Wan derer, and since the evening when she had sat so long in conversa tion with Key >rk Arabian, and in that time the love that had so sud denly taken root in Unorna's heart naa grown to great proportions, as love will, when, being strong and real, it is thwarted and repulsed at every turn. For she was not loved. She had destroyed the idol and rooted out the memory of it, but she could not take its place. She had spoken the truth when she told Keyork that she would be loved for herself or not at all, and that she would use neither her secret arts nor her rare gifts to man* ufaeture a semblance when she longed for a reality. Almost daily she saw him.* As in a dream he came to her and sat by her side, hour after hour, talking of many things, calm, apparently, and satisfied in her society, but strangely apathetic and indifferent. Today, they sat together, as they had so often sat, among the flowers and the trees in the vast conservatory, she in her tall, carved chair, and he upon a lower seat before her. There, was a long silence. He gazed at the plants, aad his gaze wan dered from one to the other, as though he did not see them, being lo.-t in meditation. His voice had been calm and clear as ever, but it was the first time he had ever said so much and Unorna’s heart stood still, half fire and half ice. She could not speak. •‘You are very mean to me,” he said again, at last. “Since I have been in this place a change has come over me. I seem to myself to be a man without an object, without so much as a real thought. Keyork tells me that there is something wanting, that the something Is a woman, and that I ought to love. I cannot tell. I do not know what love is, and I never knew. Perhaps it is the absence of it that makes me what I am—a body and an intelligence without a soul. But I have realized the worthlessness of my life since I have been here. Per haps you have shown it to me, or helped me to see it. I cannot tell. I ask myself again and again what it was all . for, and I ask in vain. I am lonely, indeed, in the world, but it has been my own choice. I remember that I had friends once, when I was younger, but I can not ftll what has become of one of them. They wearied me, perhaps, in those days, and the weariness drove me from my own home. Meanwhile, I may have 30 years, or 40, or even more, to live. Shall I go on living this wandering, aimless life? And, if not, what shall I do? Love, says Key ork Arabian—who never loved any thing but himself, but to whom that suffices, for it passes the love of wo man.” “That is true, indeed,” said Unorna in a low voice. “Ah! I see! You despise me for ray apathy. Yes, you are quite right. Man is not made to turn idleness into a fine art nor to manufacture content ment out of his own culpable indiffer ence! It is despicable—and yet here I am.” “I never meant that! cried Unorna with sudden heat. “Even if I had, what right have I to make myself the judge of your life?” “The right of friendship,” answered the wanderer very quietly. “You are my best friend, Unorna.” Unorna’s anger rose within her. She remembered how in that very place, and but a montti earlier, she had offered Israel Kafka her friend ship, and it was as though a heavy retribution were now meted out to her for her cruelty on that day. “I never knew what friendship was before,” he went on. “Of course, as I said, I had friends when I was little more than a boy. But in those days there seemed to be nothing between that and love—and love I never un derstood, that I can remember. But friendship like ours, Unorna, was never dreamed of among us. Such friendship as this, when I often think that I receive all and give nothing in return.” Again Unorna laughed, so strangely that the sound of her own voice start led her. “Unorna. do you believe in the mi gration of the soul throughout ages, from one body to another?” “Sometimes, ”|she succeeded in say ing. “I do not believe it,” he continued. “But I see well enough how men may since I have known you. We have grown so intimate in these few weeks; we seem to understand each other so wholly, with so little effort; we spend such happy, peaceful hours together every day, that I can almost fancy our two selves having been together through a whole lifetime in some form er state, living together, thinking to gether, inseparable from birth, and full of an instinctive, mutual under standing, I do not know whether that seems an exaggeration to you or not. Has the same idea ever crossed your mind?” “Perhaps, I am so fond of you al ready,” said Unorna, looking away, lest her eyes should betray what was so far beyond fondness. “They say that the most enduring passions are either born in a single instant, or are the result of a treacherously increas ing liking. Take the latter case. Why is it impossible, for you or for me? We are slipping from mere lik into f.iendship, and for all I know we may some day fall headlong from friendship into love. It would be very, very foolish, no doubt, but it seems to me quite possible. Do you not see it?” The Wanderer laughed lightly. It was years since he had laughed, until this friendship had begun. “What can I say?” he asked. “11 you, the woman, acknowledge your self vulnerable, how can I, the man, be so discourteous as to assure yod that I am proof? And yet, I feel thab there is no danger for either of us.” “You are still sure?” “And if there were, what harm would be done?” he laughed again. “We have no plighted word to break, and I, at least, am singularly heart free. The world would not come to an untimely end if we loved each other. Indeed, the world would have nothing to say about it.” “To me it would not,” said Unorna, looking down at her oiasped hands. “But to you—what would the wOrld say if it learned that you were in love with Unprna, that you were married to the Witch?” “The world? What is the world tc me. or what am I to it? What is mj • world? I am not afraid of its judg ments, in the very improbable case of my falling in love with you.” Unorna shook her head. There was a momentary relief in discussing the consequences of a love not yet born In him. “Why are you so silent?” Unorna asked after a time. “I was thinking of you,” he an swered, with a smile. “And since you forbade me to speak of you, I said nothing.” “How literal you are!” she ex claimed, impatiently. < “I could see no figurative applica tion of your words,” ho retorted, be ginning to be annoyed at her prolonged 111-humor. “Perhaps there was none.” “In that case—” “Oh, do not argue! I detest argu ment in all shapes, s and most of all when I am expacted to answer it. You cannot understand me— you never will—” She broke off, suddenly and looked at him. She was angry with him, with her self, with everything, and in her anger she loved him tenfold better than before. Had he not been blinded by his own absolute coldness, he must have read her heart in the look she pave him, for his eyes met hers. But he saw nothing. “What is the matter?” asked the Wanderer, watching her in surprise. She did net answer. He rose and stood before her, and lightly touched her hand. “Are you ill?” he asked again. “No,” she answered shortly. Then all at once, as though repent ing of her gesture, her hand sought his again, pressed it hard for a mo ment, and let it fall. He took her hand and then left her, wondering exceedingly over a-matter which was of the simplest. It was some time before Unorna realized that he was gone. She grew calmer when she found herself alone, but in a manner she grew also more desperate. A resolu tion began to form itself in her mind which she would have despised and driven out of her thoughts a few hours earlier; a resolution destined to lead to strange results. She began to think of resorting once more to a means other than natural in order to Influence the man she loved. “What does it matter how, if only he is mine!” she exclaimed, fiercely, as she rose from her carved chair an hour after he had left her. CHAPTER XII. SRAEL KAFKA found himself seated in the cor ner of a comforta ble carriage with Keyork Arabian at his side. By a mere exer cise of superior will this man, in the very prime of youth and strength, had been deprived of a month of life. Thirty days were gone as in the flash of a second, and with them was gone also something less easily replaced, or, at least, more cer tainly missed. In Kafka'a Mind the passage of time was accounted for in a way which would have seemed su pernatural twenty years ago, but which at tho ptosenl. day is under stood in practice, ll not in theory. For thirty days he had been stationary in ouo place, almost motionle^, an Instrument in Keyork's skfllfui nands, * WWS. resorroJr of vitality upon j had ruthlessly drawn oatent of its capacities. jSt-* "-" n leu and tended in his un '^SaaiQhJpess, he had, unknown to “"ened his eyes at regular inieirrala md had absorbed through his ears a series of vivid impressions destined to disarm his suspicions when he was at last allowed to wake and move about the world again. With unfailing forethought Keyork had planned the details of a whole series of artificial reminiscences, and at the moment when Kafka came to himself in the carriage the machinery of memory began to work as Ke york had intended that it should. Israel Kafka leaned back against the cushions and reviewed his life during the past month. He remembered very well the afternoon when, after a stormy interview withUnorna, he had been persuaded by Keyork to accom pany the latter upon a rapid south ward journey. He remembered how he had hastily packed together a few necessaries for the expedition, while Keyork stood at his elbow advising him what to take and what to leave, with the sound good sense of an ex perienced traveller, and he could al most repeat the words of the message he had scrawled on a sheet of paper at the last minute to explain his sud den absence from his lodging—for the people of the house had all been away when he was packing his belongings. Then the hurry of the departure re called itself to him, the crowds of peo ple at the Franz Josef station, the sense of rest in finding himself alone with Keyork in a compartment of the express train; after that he had slept during most of the journey, waking to find himself in a city of the snow driven Tyrol. But Keyork and Unorna understood their art and knew how much more easy it is to produce a fiction of con tinuity where an element of confusion is introduced by the multitude and variety of the quickly succeeding im pressions. Very skillfully had the whole story been put together, in all its minutest details, carefully thought out and written down ip the form of a journal before it had been impressed upon his sleeping mind with all the tyrannic force of Unorna’s strong will. And there was but little probability that Israel Kafka would ever learn what had actually been happening to him, while he fancied that he had been traveling swiftly from place to place. He could still wonder, indeed, that he should have yielded so easily to Key ork’s pressing invitation to accompany the latter upon such an extraordinary flight, but he remembered then his last interview with Unorna, and it seemed almost natural that in his despair he should have chosen to go away. Not that his passion for the woman was dead. Intentionally, or by an over sight, Unorna had not touched upon the question of his love for her. in the course of her other w ise well-considered suggestions. The carriage stood before the door of Kafka's dwelling. Keyork got out with him and stood upon the pave ment while the porter took the slender luggage into the house. “And now,’ he said, taking Kafka s band, “I would advise you to rest as long as you can. I suppose that it must have been a fatiguing trip for you, though I myself am as fresh as a May morning. There is nothing wrong with you, but you are tired. Repose, roy dear boy. repose, and plenty of it. That infernal Sicilian doctor! I shall never forgive him for bleeding you as he did. There is nothing so weakening. Good-by—I shall hardly see you again today, I fancy. ” “I cannot tell,” answered the young man, absently. “But let me thank you,” he added, with a sudden con sciousness of obligation, “for your pleasant company, and for making me go with you. I dare say it has done me good, though I feel unaccountably tired—I feel almost old.” His tired eyes and haggard face showed that this, at least, was no il lusion. The fancied journey had added ten years to his age in thirty days, and those who knew him best would have found it hard to recog. nize the brilliantly vital personality of Israel Kafka in the paleand exhausted youth who painfully climbed the stairs with unsteady steps, panting for breath and clutching at the handrail for support. “He will not die this time,” re marked Keyork Arabian to himself, as he sent the carriage away and began to walk toward his own home. "Not this time. But it was a sharp strain, and it would not be safe to try it again.” In the duel with death, however, the life of one man was of small con sequence, and Keyork would have sac rificed thousands to his purpose with equal indifference to their intrinsic value and with a proportionately greater interest in the result to be attained: In Unorna he had found the instru ment he had sought throughout a life time. With her he had tried the great experiment and pushed it to the very end; and when he conducted Israel Kafka to his home, he already knew that the experiment had suc ceeded. His plan was a simple one. He would wait a few months longer for the final result; he would select his victim, and with Unorna’s help he would grow young again. Then he wrapped his furs around him and went out again. Scarce a hundred paces from Unorna’s door he met the Wanderer. He looked up into the cold, calm face, and put out his hand, with a greeting. “You look as though you were in a very peaceful frame of mind,” ob served Keyork. “Exactly,” answered the sage, with a deep rolling laugh. By-the-by, have you been with our friend Unor na?" “Yes, I have just left her. It is like a breath of a spring morning to go there in these days.” “Do you know Israel Kafka?” he asked suddenly. “Israel Kafka?” repeated the Wan derer, thoughtfully, as though search ing in his memory. “Then you do not, 1 said Keyork. “You could only have seen him since you have been here. He is one of Unorna’s most interesting patients, and mine as well. Ho is a little odd.” keyork tapped his ivory forehead significantly with one finger. “Mad,” suggested the Wanderer. "Mad, if you prefer the term. He has fixed ideas. In the first place, he imagines that he has just been travel ing with me in Italy, and is always talking of our experiences. Humor him if you meet him. He is in danger of being worse if contradicted. ‘‘But you will see foryourself before long. Good-by. I will go in and see what is the matter with Unorna. ” They parted, the Wanderer con tinuing on his way along the street with the same calm, cold, peaceful ex pression which had elicited Keyork’s admiration, and Keyork himself going forward to Unorna’s door. Every thing was as he had left it. and he was glad to be certified that Unorna had not disturbed the aged sleeper in his absence. She started slightly when he entered, and her brow contracted, but she immediately guessed from his expression that he was not in one of his aggressive moods. “I have just rectified a mistake which might have had rather serious consequences,” he said, stopping be fore her and speaking earnestly and quietly. “A mistake?” “We remembered everything, ex cept that our wandering friend and Kafka were very likely to meet, and that Kafka would in all probability refer to his delightful journey to the south in my country.” ‘•That is true!” exclaimed Unorna with an anxious glance. “Well, what have you done?” “I met the Wanderer in the street. What could I do? I told him that Israel Kafka was a little mad, and that this harmless delusion referred to a journey he was supposed to have made with me, and to an equally Im aginary passion which he fancies ha feels for you.” “That was wise,” said Unorna, still pale. How came wo to bo so im prudout! One word, and ho might have suspected—" “He could not have suspected all,” answered Keyork. “No man could suspect that.” “Nevertheless—I suppose what wa have done is not exactly—justifiable.’’ “Hardly, it is true that criminal law has not yet adjusted itself to meet questions of suggestion and p<yehic influence—but it draws the line, most certainly, somewhere between theBO questions and the extremity to which we have gone.” “I do not like to think that wo have been near to such trouble." said Unorna. “Nor I. It was fortunate I met the Wanderer when I did.” “And the other? Did he wake as I ordered him to do? Is he all right? Is there no danger of his suspecting any thing?” It seemed as though Unorna had momentarily forgotttn that such a contingency might bo possible, and her anxiety returned with the recol lection. Keyork’s rolling laughter reverberated among the plauts, and filled the whole wide hall with echoes. “No danger there,” he answered. “Your witchcraft is above criticism. Nothing of the kind that you have ever undertaken has failed.” “Except against you,” said Unorna, thoughtfully. “Except against me, of course. How could you ever expect anything of the kind to succeed against me, my dear lady.” “And why not? After all, in spite of our jesting, you are not a super natural being.” “That depends entirely qn the in terpretation you give to tho word supernatural. Your influence is a direct one, chiefly exercised by means of your words and through the Im pression of power which you kno,w how to convey in them. It is marvel ous, I admit. But the very definition puts me beyond your power.” “Why?” “Because there is not a human being alive, and I do not believe that a human being ever lived, who had the sense of independence individu ally that I have. Let a man have the very smallest doubt concerning his own independence—let that doubt be ever so transitory and produced by any accident whatsoever—and ho is at your mercy. “And you aro sure that no accident could shake your faith in yourself—” “lly consciousness of myself, you mean. No. I am not sure. But, my dear Unorna, 1 am very careful in guarding against accidents of all sorts, for I have attempted to resusci tate a great many dead people, and I never have succeeded, and I know that a false step on a slippery stair case may be quite as fatal as a tea spoonful of prussic acid—or an unre quited passion. I avoid all these things and many others. If 1 did not. and if you had any object in getting me under your influence, you would succeed sooner or later. Perhaps the day is not far distant when I will vol untarily sleep under your hand.’' Unorna glanced quickly at him. “And in that case,” he added, “I am sure you could make me believe anything you pleased.” “What are you trying to make me understand?” she asked suspiciously, for h'e had never before spoken of such a possibility. “I will not weary you. I was only going to say that if I were under your influence—you might easily make mo believe that you were not yourself, but another woman—for the rest of my life.” They stood looking at each other in silence during several seconds. Then Unorua seemed to understand what he meant. “Do you really believe that is pos sible?” she asked, earnestly. “I know it. I know of a case in which it succeeded very well.” “Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully. “Let us go and look at him.” She moved in the direction of the aged sleeper’s room, and then both left the hall together. [TO BE CONTINUED.] A Good Record, Leo GrollemonU, Co. E. 17th 111. Cav., Burlington, 111., says his regi ment was mustered into the United States service Jan. 22, 1864; ordered to Jefferson Barracks May 2, 1864; thence to Alton. 111., to guard prison ers of war, and July 8 were ordered to St. Louis. They then went to Glas gow, Mo., and were engaged in rid ding that portion of the State ol guerrillas until Sept 18, when ordered to Rolla, Mo. Nov. 2 they marched to Leesburg and reinforced the army under Gen. Ewing, which was then retreating from Pilot Knob, close ly pursued by Sterling Price. During November the regiment helped defend Jefferson City: was on the memorable Price raid, and in the engagements at Independence anc Ornage, returning to Rolla Nov. 15, after being in the saddle 43 days and marching over 1,200 miles. For this service the regiment received the thanks of the Missouri legislature. The regiment was present in May, 1865, at Chalk Bluff, Ark., at the sur render of the rebel army under Jeff Thompson. It was transferred to the District of Kansas, where it served on the frontier until Septenber. 1865, when they were ordered to Foft Leavenworth, and served with part Of the garrison of that place until Nov. 23. It was discharged Nov. 27, 1§65, at Camp Butler.—Nat. Trikune. Spring Styles. The opera and theater hats will b8 a trifle larger, but a window will be in serted for the benefit of the public.