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Page 73
The nephew dropped the dial-plate, and it was shattered on the granite
floor. He was badly frightened. There was no delusion about the
face,--it was a sufficiently peculiar one; and the miniature portrait,
though doing the Doctor's beauty at least justice, was accurate enough
to identify him by. This was no unsubstantial apparition,--no brain
phantom, to waver and vanish, leaving only an uncomfortable doubt
whether it had been at all. Stolid, undeniable matter was, peering
phlegmatically between its wrinkled eyelids.
But admitting that now, at last, we have lighted upon the genuine and
authentic Doctor Glyphic, why should the sight of him so oddly affect
Balder Helwyse, whose avowed object in pulling off the dial-plate had
been to justify a suspicion that Uncle Hiero was behind it? Why,
moreover, did the young man not address his relative, congratulating
himself upon their meeting, and rallying the old gentleman on his
attempt to escape his nephew's affectionate solicitude? There had,
indeed, been a misunderstanding at their last encounter, and Balder
had so far forgotten himself as to throw Hiero into the sea; but it
was the part of good-breeding, as well as of Christianity, to forget
such errors, and heal the bruise with an extra application of balsamic
verbiage.
Why so speechless, Balder? Do you wait for your host to speak first?
Nay, never stand on ceremony. He is an eccentric recluse, unused to
the ways of society, while a man of the world like you has at his
tongue's tip a score of phrases just suited to the occasion. Speak up,
therefore, in your most genial tone, and tell the Doctor how glad you
are to find him in such wonderful preservation! Put him at his ease by
feigning that his position appears to you the most natural in the
world,--just what befits a gentleman of his years and honors! Flatter
him, if only from self-interest, for he has a deep pocket, and may be
induced to let you put a hand in it.
Not a word in response to all this eloquence, Balder? Positively your
behavior appears rather curmudgeonly than heroic! You stand gazing at
your relative with almost as much fixedness as he returns your stare
withal. There is something odd about this.
What is that pungent odor? Is the Doctor a dandy, that he should use
perfumes? And where did he get so peculiar a scent as this? It is
commonly in vogue only at that particular toilet which no man ever
performed for himself, but which never needs to be done twice,--a kind
of toilet, by the way, especially prevalent amongst the ancient
Egyptians. Since, then, Doctor Glyphic is so ardent an Egyptologist,
perhaps we have hit upon the secret of his remarkable odoriferousness.
But to shut one's self up in a box that looks so uncommonly like a
coffin,--is not that carrying the antiquarian whim a trifle too far?
This face of his,--one fancies there is a curiously dry look about it!
The unnaturally yellow skin resembles a piece of good-for-nothing
wrinkled parchment. The lips partake of the prevailing sallow tint,
and the mouth hangs a little awry. From the cloth in which the head is
so elaborately bandaged up strays forth, here and there, an arid lock
of hair. The lack of united expression in his features produces an
effect seldom observable in a living face. The eyes are lustreless,
and densely black; or possibly (the suspicion is a startling one) we
are looking into empty eye-sockets! No eyes, no expression, parchment
skin, swathed head, odor of myrrh and cassia, and, dominating all,
this ghastly immobility! Has Doctor Glyphic even now escaped, leaving
us to waste time and sentiment over some worn-out disguise of his?
Nay, if he be not here, we need not seek him further. Having forsaken
this, he can attain no other earthly hiding-place. We must pause here,
and believe either that this dry time-husk is the very last of poor
Hiero, or that a living being which once bore his name has vanished
inward from our reach, and now treads a more real earth than any that
time and space are sovereign over.
Balder (whose perceptions were unlimited by artistic requirements)
probably needed no second glance to assure him that his uncle was a
mummy of many years' standing. But no effort of mental gymnastics
could explain him the fact. Were this real, then was his steamboat
adventure a dream, the revelation of the ring a delusion, and his
water-stained haversack a phantom. He wandered clewless in a maze of
mystery. Nor was this the first paradox he had encountered since
overleaping the brick wall. He began to question whether
supernaturalism had not teen too hastily dismissed by lovers of
wisdom!
Thus do the actors in the play of life plod from one to another
scene, nor once rise to a height whence a glance might survey past and
future. Memory and prophecy are twin sisters,--nay, they are
essentially one muse, whom mankind worships on this side and slights
on that. This is well, for had she but one aspect, the world would be
either too confident or too helpless. But in reviewing a life, one is
apt to make less than due allowance for the helplessness. Thus it is
no prejudice to Balder's intellectual acumen that he failed for a
moment to penetrate the thin disguises of events, and to perceive
relations obvious to the comprehensive view of history. We will take
advantage of his bewildered pause to draw attention to some matters
heretofore neglected.
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